Swan Song | Page 4

the
shop, his progress at school became remarkable. At seventeen he wrote
a long tragedy, which was afterward destroyed, and he already showed
flashes of the wit that was soon to blaze into genius.

He graduated from the high school at Taganrog with every honour,
entered the University of Moscow as a student of medicine, and threw
himself headlong into a double life of student and author, in the attempt
to help his struggling family.
His first story appeared in a Moscow paper in 1880, and after some
difficulty he secured a position connected with several of the smaller
periodicals, for which, during his student years, he poured forth a
succession of short stories and sketches of Russian life with incredible
rapidity. He wrote, he tells us, during every spare minute, in crowded
rooms where there was "no light and less air," and never spent more
than a day on any one story. He also wrote at this time a very stirring
blood-and-thunder play which was suppressed by the censor, and the
fate of which is not known.
His audience demanded laughter above all things, and, with his deep
sense of the ridiculous, Tchekoff asked nothing better. His stories,
though often based on themes profoundly tragic, are penetrated by the
light and subtle satire that has won him his reputation as a great
humourist. But though there was always a smile on his lips, it was a
tender one, and his sympathy with suffering often brought his laughter
near to tears.
This delicate and original genius was at first subjected to harsh
criticism, which Tchekoff felt keenly, and Trigorin's description in
"The Sea-Gull" of the trials of a young author is a cry from Tchekoff's
own soul. A passionate enemy of all lies and oppression, he already
foreshadows in these early writings the protest against conventions and
rules, which he afterward put into Treplieff's reply to Sorin in "The
Sea-Gull": "Let us have new forms, or else nothing at all."
In 1884 he took his degree as doctor of medicine, and decided to
practise, although his writing had by now taken on a professional
character. He always gave his calling a high place, and the doctors in
his works are drawn with affection and understanding. If any one spoke
slightingly of doctors in his presence, he would exclaim: "Stop! You
don't know what country doctors do for the people!"

Tchekoff fully realised later the influence which his profession had
exercised on his literary work, and sometimes regretted the too vivid
insight it gave him, but, on the other hand, he was able to write: "Only
a doctor can know what value my knowledge of science has been to
me," and "It seems to me that as a doctor I have described the
sicknesses of the soul correctly." For instance, Trigorin's analysis in
"The Sea-Gull" of the state of mind of an author has well been called
"artistic diagnosis."
The young doctor-writer is described at this time as modest and grave,
with flashes of brilliant gaiety. A son of the people, there was in his
face an expression that recalled the simple-hearted village lad; his eyes
were blue, his glance full of intelligence and kindness, and his manners
unaffected and simple. He was an untiring worker, and between his
patients and his desk he led a life of ceaseless activity. His restless
mind was dominated by a passion of energy and he thought continually
and vividly. Often, while jesting and talking, he would seem suddenly
to plunge into himself, and his look would grow fixed and deep, as if he
were contemplating something important and strange. Then he would
ask some unexpected question, which showed how far his mind had
roamed.
Success was now rapidly overtaking the young author; his first
collection of stories appeared in 1887, another one in the same year had
immediate success, and both went through many editions; but, at the
same time, the shadows that darkened his later works began to creep
over his light-hearted humour.
His impressionable mind began to take on the grey tinge of his time,
but much of his sadness may also be attributed to his ever-increasing ill
health.
Weary and with an obstinate cough, he went south in 1888, took a little
cottage on the banks of a little river "abounding in fish and crabs," and
surrendered himself to his touching love for nature, happy in his
passion for fishing, in the quiet of the country, and in the music and
gaiety of the peasants. "One would gladly sell one's soul," he writes,
"for the pleasure of seeing the warm evening sky, and the streams and

pools reflecting the darkly mournful sunset." He described visits to his
country neighbours and long drives in gay company, during which, he
says, "we ate every half hour,