At any rate, don't be angry with me and forgive me if in my last letters there was really anything stiff or disagreeable. I did not mean to cause you distress and if my letters don't please you, it is not intentional on my part, quite the contrary.
I cordially clasp your hand and wish you all the best. My address is Yalta. Nothing else is necessary. Just Yalta.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV
October 26, 1898, Yalta
Dear Michel,
I had hardly mailed my postcard when I got yours. My heart ached when I found out what you had gone through at Father's funeral. I learned of Father's death from Sinani only on the evening of the thirteenth, as for some reason nobody had tele- graphed me and if I hadn't dropped into Sinani's shop quite by accident I would have remained in thc dark a long time.
I am buying a plot of ground in Yalta and intend building, so as to havc a place to spend the winters. The prospect of a nomadic life with its hotel rooms, doormcn, hit-or-miss cookery and so on alarms me. Mother could spend thc winters with mc. Yalta has no winter; here it is the end of October and roses and other flowers are blooming with all their might, the trees are green and the weather is mild. There is lots of water. The house by itself will take care of all my needs, without outbuild- ings, and everything under one roof.
The basement provides space for coal, wood, porter's quar- ters and everything. Hens lay all the year round and don't need special coops, as an enclosure is enough. The bakery and market are nearby. So life will be warm and very convenient for Mother. Incidentally, people pick various types of mushrooms all autumn in the outlying woods—and our mother would find this diverting. I am not going to undertake the building opera- tions by myself but will let the architect take care of every- thing. By April the house will be ready. It is a sizeable plot for the city, with enough ground for orchard, flower bed and veg- etable garden. Next year Yalta is to have a railway. . . .
As for your insistence on marriage—how can I explain it to you? Getting married is interesting only when one is in love; marrying a girl simply because she is attractive is like buying something you don't need just because it is nice. The most im- portant thing that holds family life together is love, sexual attraction, "and they two shall be one flesh"—all the rest is dreary and unreliable, no matter how cleverly we may have calculated the factors. Accordingly it is not a question of an attractive girl but of a dearly loved one; so you see, delaying the matter doesn't make any difference. . . .
My "Uncle Vanya" is playing everywhere in the provinces with universal success. So you never can tell where you are going to find something good or where you may lose it. I cer- tainly was not counting on that play. Keep well and write.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
It was a very good idea to have Father buried in Novodevichi Monastery. I wanted to telegraph about burying him there but thought I was too late; you anticipated my wishes.
To MAXIM GORKI
December 1898, Yalta
Dear Alexei Maximovich,
Your last lettcr afforded me great pleasure. Thank you with all my heart. "Uncle Vanya" was written long ago, a very long time ago; I have never seen it on the stage. During these past few years it has been presented often on provincial stages—per- haps because a collection of my plays has been published. On the whole I react coolly toward my plays, have long ago lost touch with the theatre and don't feel like writing for it any more.
You ask for my opinion of your stories. My opinion? You have undoubted talent, truly a genuine, immense talent. In your story "On the Steppe," for example, your talent is shown as extraordinarily powerful, and I even experienced a moment of envy that it was not I who had written it. You are an artist and a brilliant man. You feel things magnificently; you are plastic, i.e., when you depict a thing, you see it and touch it with your hands. That is true art. There you have my opinion, and I am very glad that I can come out with it. I repeat, I am very glad, and if we could meet and chat for an hour or two, you would be convinced how highly I value you and what hope I have in your gifts.
Now shall I speak of your defects? This is not so easy, though. Referring to shortcomings in the way of talent is like talking of the defccts of a fine tree in an orchard; in the main it is certainly not a question of the trce itself but of the tastes of those who look at it. Isn't that so?
I will bcgin by pointing out that in my opinion you have no restraint. You are like a spectator in a theatre who expresses his rapturc so unrestrainedly that he prevents himself and others from hearing. This lack of restraint is especially evident in your descriptions of nature, which break up the continuity of your dialogues; one would like these descriptions to be more compact and concise, just two or three lines or so. The frequent references to voluptuousness, whispering, velvet softness and so on lend a certain rhetorical quality and monotony to these de- scriptions, and they dampen one's enthusiasm and almost fatigue the reader. This lack of restraint is also evident in your characterizations of women ("Malva," "On the Rafts") and in love scenes. The effect you create is not of expansiveness nor of a broad sweep of your brush, but merely lack of restraint. Then, you make frequent use of words entirely unsuited to your kind of story. Accompaniment, disk, harmony—these words stand in the way of the narrative. You speak often of waves. There is a strained, circumspect effect in your portrayals of people of culture; it is not because you haven't observed them closely enough, for you do know them; it is that you don't exactly know how to tackle them.
How old are you? I don't know you or where you come from or who you are, but it seems to me that you should quit Nizhni while you are still young and really live for two or three years, lose yourself, so to speak, among literature and literary people; it would not be in order to learn to crow like the rest of our cocks or to acquire even more sharpness, but rather to plunge head over heels into literature and fall in love with it; in addi- tion, the provinces cause one to age early. Korolenko, Potap- enko, Mamin and Ertel are all excellent people; at the outset, perhaps, their company may seem somewhat dull, but after a year or two you will get used to them and esteem them accord- ing to their merits; their society will pay you back with interest for the unpleasantness and inconvenience of life in the capital.
I am hurrying to the post office. Keep well and happy, and let me clasp your hand cordially. I thank you again for your letter.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To MAXIM GORKI
january j, 1899, Ya/<a
My dear A1exei Maximovich,
I am answering both your letters right away. To begin with, I wish you a Happy New Year with all my heart and offer a friendly wish for your happiness, old or new—just as you would have it.
Apparently you misunderstood me somewhat. I didn't refer to crudity of style, but merely to the incongruity of foreign, not truly Russian or rarely used words. In other authors words like "fatalistically," for instance, pass unnoticed, but your things are musical and well proportioned, so that every rough spot stands out like a sore thumb. Of course we are here concerned with a matter of taste and perhaps I am only expressing the excessive fastidiousness or conservatism of a man who has long been rooted in definite habits. . . .