Letters of Anton Chekhov to His Family and Friends. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

vividly brought it to my memory – especially the first half of page five, where you speak of the cold and loneliness of the grave.

      I think that had I been born in Petersburg and constantly lived there, I should always dream of the banks of the Neva, the Senate Square, the massive monuments.

      When I feel cold in my sleep I dream of people… I happened to have read a criticism in which the reviewer blames you for introducing a man who is “almost a minister,” and thus spoiling the generally dignified tone of the story. I don’t agree with him. What spoils the tone is not the people but your characterization of them, which in some places interrupts the picture of the dream. One does dream of people, and always of unpleasant ones… I, for instance, when I feel cold, always dream of my teacher of scripture, a learned priest of imposing appearance, who insulted my mother when I was a little boy; I dream of vindictive, implacable, intriguing people, smiling with spiteful glee – such as one can never see in waking life. The laughter at the carriage window is a characteristic symptom of Karelin’s nightmare. When in dreams one feels the presence of some evil will, the inevitable ruin brought about by some outside force, one always hears something like such laughter… One dreams of people one loves, too, but they generally appear to suffer together with the dreamer.

      But when my body gets accustomed to the cold, or one of my family covers me up, the sensation of cold, of loneliness, and of an oppressive evil will, gradually disappears… With the returning warmth I begin to feel that I walk on soft carpets or on grass, I see sunshine, women, children… The pictures change gradually, but more rapidly than they do in waking life, so that on awaking it is difficult to remember the transitions from one scene to another… This abruptness is well brought out in your story, and increases the impression of the dream.

      Another natural fact you have noticed is also extremely striking: dreamers express their moods in outbursts of an acute kind, with childish genuineness, like Karelin. Everyone knows that people weep and cry out in their sleep much more often than they do in waking life. This is probably due to the lack of inhibition in sleep and of the impulses which make us conceal things.

      Forgive me, I so like your story that I am ready to write you a dozen sheets, though I know I can tell you nothing new or good… I restrain myself and am silent, fearing to bore you and to say something silly.

      I will say once more that your story is magnificent. The public finds it “vague,” but to a writer who gloats over every line such vagueness is more transparent than holy water… Hard as I tried I could detect only two small blots, even those are rather farfetched!

      (1) I think that at the beginning of the story the feeling of cold is soon blunted in the reader and becomes habitual, owing to the frequent repetition of the word “cold,” and (2), the word “glossy” is repeated too often.

      There is nothing else I could find, and I feel that as one is always feeling the need of refreshing models, “Karelin’s Dream” is a splendid event in my existence as an author. This is why I could not contain myself and ventured to put before you some of my thoughts and impressions.

      There is little good I can say about myself. I write not what I want to be writing, and I have not enough energy or solitude to write as you advised me… There are many good subjects jostling in my head – and that is all. I am sustained by hopes of the future, and watch the present slip fruitlessly away.

      Forgive this long letter, and accept the sincere good wishes of your devoted

A. CHEKHOV.

      TO V. G. KOROLENKO

      MOSCOW, January 9, 1888.

      Following your friendly advice I began writing a story [Footnote: “The Steppe”] for the Syeverny Vyestnik. To begin with I have attempted to describe the steppe, the people who live there, and what I have experienced in the steppe. It is a good subject, and I enjoy writing about it, but unfortunately from lack of practice in writing long things, and from fear of making it too rambling, I fall into the opposite extreme: each page turns out a compact whole like a short story, the pictures accumulate, are crowded, and, getting in each other’s way, spoil the impression as a whole. As a result one gets, not a picture in which all the details are merged into one whole like stars in the heavens, but a mere diagram, a dry record of impressions. A writer – you, for instance – will understand me, but the reader will be bored and curse.

      … Your “Sokolinets” is, I think, the most remarkable novel that has appeared of late. It is written like a good musical composition, in accordance with all the rules which an artist instinctively divines. Altogether in the whole of your book you are such a great artist, such a force, that even your worst failings, which would have been the ruin of any other writer, pass unnoticed. For instance, in the whole of your book there is an obstinate exclusion of women, and I have only just noticed it.

      TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV

      MOSCOW, February 5, 1888.

      … I am longing to read Korolenko’s story. He is my favourite of contemporary writers. His colours are rich and vivid, his style is irreproachable, though in places rather elaborate, his images are noble. Leontyev [Footnote: I. L. Shtcheglov.] is good too. He is not so mature and picturesque, but he is warmer than Korolenko, more peaceful and feminine… But, Allah kerim, why do they both specialize? The first will not part with his convicts, and the second feeds his readers with nothing but officers… I understand specialization in art such as genre, landscape, history, but I cannot admit of such specialties as convicts, officers, priests… This is not specialization but partiality. In Petersburg you do not care for Korolenko, and here in Moscow we do not read Shtcheglov, but I fully believe in the future of both of them. Ah, if only we had decent critics!

      February 9

      … You say you liked Dymov [Translator’s Note: One of the characters in “The Steppe.”] as a subject. Life creates such characters as the dare-devil Dymov not to be dissenters nor tramps, but downright revolutionaries… There never will be a revolution in Russia, and Dymov will end by taking to drink or getting into prison. He is a superfluous man.

      March 6

      It is devilishly cold, but the poor birds are already flying to Russia! They are driven by homesickness and love for their native land. If poets knew how many millions of birds fall victims to their longing and love for their homes, how many of them freeze on the way, what agonies they endure on getting home in March and at the beginning of April, they would have sung their praises long ago! … Put yourself in the place of a corncrake who does not fly but walks all the way, or of a wild goose who gives himself up to man to escape being frozen… Life is hard in this world!

      TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV

      MOSCOW, April 18, 1888.

      … In any case I am more often merry than sad, though if one comes to think of it I am bound hand and foot… You, my dear man, have a flat, but I have a whole house which, though a poor specimen, is still a house, and one of two storeys, too! You have a wife who will forgive your having no money, and I have a whole organization which will collapse if I don’t earn a sufficient number of roubles a month – collapse and fall on my shoulders like a heavy stone.

      May 3

      … I have just sent a story [Footnote: “The Lights.”] to the Syeverny Vyestnik. I feel a little ashamed of it. It is frightfully dull, and there is so much discussion and preaching in it that it is mawkish. I didn’t like to send it, but had to, for I need money as I do air…

      I have had a letter from Leman. He tells me that “we” (that is all of you Petersburg people) “have agreed to print advertisements about each other’s work on our books,” invites me to join, and warns me that among the elect may be included only such persons as have a “certain degree of solidarity with us.” I wrote to say that I agreed, and asked him how does he know with whom I have solidarity and with whom I have not? How fond of stuffiness you are in Petersburg! Don’t you feel stifled with such words as “solidarity,” “unity of young writers,” “common interests,” and so on? Solidarity and all the rest of it I admit on the stock-exchange,