IN his stories and plays, to which I shall merely allude, Chekhov presents the Russian people drunk and sober, mad and sane, in squalor and in wealth; and one may like them or not, these Russian people, according to one's national affinities. In his letters, on the other hand, Chekhov presents himself with his family and friends, and, in the second volume, with the talented actress who for his last three years became his wife. He presents freely and abundantly the rich spontaneous personality which it was a matter of principle with him to exclude from his works. And I defy any intelligent reader to resist the fascination of his high spirits, his delicious humor, his artistic alertness, his critical penetration, his steady good sense, and his sensitiveness to the ideas of his time. Popularization of the letters[1] should create for him a much better informed public than he has yet had in this country. He is worth wide attention, and, in a sense, he deserves the sort of attention given to a contemporary writer who is still unfolding himself, and who has, therefore, still fresh sources of stimulation in store for us.
Had not God put a bacillus in Chekhov which terminated the career of his body in 1904 he might be alive to-day and, according to Metchnikovian standards, yet
- ↑ The Life and Letters of Anton Tchekhov. Translated by S. S. Koteliansky and Philip Tomlinson, New York, n.d.
The Letters of Tchekhov to Olga Knipper. Translated by Constance Garnett, New York, 1924.
