Teleshov, Nikolai Dmitrievich. Modest writer and famous philanthropist Nikolai Teleshov Entry into literature

Nikolay Dmitrievich Teleshov (1867-1957). 1916
Source: Half a century for the book 1866-1916, - M.: Printing house of I.D. Sytin Printing House, 1916
author unknown

Russian writer Nikolai Dmitrievich Teleshov was born into a Moscow merchant family in 1867. His ancestors were serfs of the Vladimir province, who bought their freedom on their own. Nikolai was introduced to reading and literature early. As a twelve-year-old teenager in 1880, he witnessed the grandiose Pushkin celebrations in Moscow: the grand opening of a monument to the poet, speeches by Dostoevsky, Turgenev and others. A little earlier, at the age of ten, in the printing house of I. D. Sytin, Nikolai became acquainted with the process of the emergence of a book. Over time, the need arose to join the literary process. Business connections and friendship with Sytin will accompany Nikolai throughout his life. He later received a good education at the Moscow Practical Commercial Academy, from which he graduated in 1884.

Entry into literature

In the same year, he published his first poem, “Abandoned,” in the Rainbow magazine. In 1886, Teleshov took an active part in the preparation of the collection of young poets “Sincere Word”. His first poems bore traces of the influence of Nadson, Fet, Nikitin, and Pleshcheev. This collection did not attract any attention, but was the first experience of entering the literary environment. A deep interest in literary and creative communication will help Teleshov subsequently create the literary association “Sreda”, but for now he is published in the unknown magazines “Family”, “Russia”, in “Citizen”, Prince Meshchersky, “Children’s Reading”, D. I. Tikhomirov . Main theme early stories- merchant and bourgeois life (“Rooster”, “Pittish Bourgeois Drama”, “Duel”, “Name Day”). Early stories made up the first collection “On Troikas” (1895). Contemporaries found some imitation of Chekhov in the problems of Teleshov’s early works; Teleshov’s acquaintance with Chekhov in 1888 was natural. The title of the collection was given by an essay published in 1893 in the conservative magazine Russian Review. The essay was dedicated to the Irbit fair and was written based on the impressions of his relative M. A. Kornilov. Interest in the outskirts of Russia was awakened in Teleshov by the works of Korolenko and Mamin-Sibiryak. On the advice of Chekhov, in 1894 Teleshov undertook his own long journey to Siberia, the result of which was a series of stories dedicated to the life of settlers (the cycles “For the Urals” (1897), “Across Siberia” and “Displacers”, the stories “Need”, “On the Move” ", "Self-propelled", "Home", etc.). His stories were distinguished by the everydayness of the plot, devoid of unexpected turns in the narrative, and by his outwardly dispassionate (“Chekhovian”) style of writing. However, in his legend stories, the writer does not skimp on using fantasy, allegory, and symbolism of images.

At the turn of the century

The period from 1898 to 1903 in the writer’s biography was difficult: it was difficult to write, and I did not want to publish “trifle” and “dull stuff,” to use his own words. By the end of the 90s, Teleshov’s cooperation with the conservative press ceased. He publishes his new works in the liberal magazines “World of God”, “Russian Thought”, “Magazine for Everyone”, numerous collections and almanacs. In addition to A. P. Chekhov, V. A. Gilyarovsky, I. A. Belousov, the writer’s circle of acquaintances includes brothers Yuli and Ivan Bunin, N. N. Zlatovratsky, K. M. Stanyukovich, D. N. Mamin-Sibiryak, editors and employees of Moscow magazines. In 1899, Teleshov and Maxim Gorky met in Nizhny Novgorod. Gorky becomes interested in Teleshov's writing circle and recommends Leonid Andreev, the Wanderer, there. They are joined by Chirikov, Veresaev, Kuprin, Serafimovich and some other writers. Since writers’ meetings were held at Teleshov’s apartment on Wednesdays, it was decided to call the new literary association Teleshov’s Wednesdays. "Wednesdays" lasted from 1899 to 1916. Gorky read his play “At the Lower Depths” for the first time here. The collections “Knowledge”, “Word” and “Nizhny Novgorod Collection” were subsequently compiled from the works of the circle’s writers.

Teleshova Elena Andreevna(1869-1943). 1890s
Source: N.D. Teleshov, “Notes of a Writer”, Goslitizdat, 1948.
author unknown

The writer's wife is Elena Andreevna Karzinkina (1869-1943), a representative of a famous merchant dynasty. Thanks to her, artists come to “Wednesdays” A. Ya. Golovin, K. K. Pervukhin, A. M. Vasnetsov, I. I. Levitan- Elena Andreevna graduated from the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, was a student of Polenov, and had a wide circle of acquaintances among artists. She subsequently became an illustrator of her husband's works. The writer dedicated his “Notes of a Writer” to her.

On the ancient Pokrovsky Boulevard, that part of it that runs sideways towards the Yauza, at number 18 stands a two-story stone house amazing fate. It is a good 200 years old and has withstood the upheavals of 1812, 1917, and 1941.

It was purchased by the famous merchant Andrei Karzinkin back in 1815. The co-owner of the Great Yaroslavl Manufactory was a representative of a family of Russian philanthropists. At their own expense, the Karzinkins erected the Church of Peter and Paul in Yaroslavl, and in Belokamennaya they built the “Big Moscow Hotel”, which became part of the integral part into the new building of the Moscow Hotel, and is now dismantled brick by brick.

Where did Stanislavski come from?

A solid, beautiful house on Pokrovsky Boulevard has been known to the capital’s literary and theatrical community for more than a hundred years as "Teleshov's House", writer-commoner, organizer of the famous literary circle of the early 20th century. - “Wednesday”.

The famous “Teleshov Wednesdays” took place here, the participants of which were the entire flower of literary Moscow at the beginning of the 20th century: L.N.Andreev, K.D.Balmont, V.Ya.Bryusov, I.A.Bunin, A.S.Serafimovich, V.V.Veresaev, A.M.Gorky, A.I.Kuprin and others. Attended meetings A.P.Chekhov, F.I.Shalyapin, S.V.Rachmaninov and many other writers, artists, actors, playwrights.

Nikolai Dmitrievich Teleshov himself was in charge of the Moscow Art Theater Museum from the early twenties to the mid-fifties. N. Teleshov's wife, Elena Andreevna, was the daughter of Andrei Aleksandrovich Karzinkin and was born in this house.

All the children of the merchant A. Karzinkin followed the path of art and science. Elena Andreevna graduated from the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, was a favorite student of the famous artist Polenov, her works are kept in the Tretyakov Gallery. Sophia, the second daughter of A. Karzinkin, was seriously involved in natural science. Son Alexander, senior researcher at the Historical Museum, a major numismatist, was a member of the Council of the Tretyakov Gallery...

But the tradition of musical and theatrical evenings in this house originated on the initiative of Karzinkin Sr., an amateur violinist. His guests were Alexander Ostrovsky and Mikhail Shchepkin. Unknown to anyone merchant Konstantin Alekseev - the future Stanislavsky– first achieved success here, on the stage of the amateur stage in Gogol’s “Marriage”.

N. D. Teleshov and I. A. Bunin. 1910 ~ Leonid Andreev and Vikenty Veresaev. 1912

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin (1870-1953) ~ Anton Pavlovich Chekhov (1860-1904)

Balmont Konstantin Dmitrievich (1867-1942) ~ Mamin-Sibiryak Dmitry Narkisovich (1852-1912)

Leonid Andreev (1871-1919) ~ Konstantin Sergeevich Stanislavsky (Alekseev) (1863-1938)

Literary “Wednesdays” in Teleshov’s house. 1902
Top row from left to right: Stepan Skitalets, Fyodor Chaliapin, Evgeny Chirikov
Bottom row from left to right: Maxim Gorky, Leonid Andreev, Ivan Bunin, Nikolai Teleshov
Just don’t wash the dirty linen!

The heyday of the circle of writers in the house on Pokrovsky occurred during the period when N.D. and E.A. Teleshov got married and settled here permanently. Who did not participate in the work of “Sreda”: the Bunin brothers, Andreev, Skitalets, Chirikov, Serafimovich, Gorky, Zaitsev, Shmelev, Gilyarovsky, Belousov, Garin-Mikhailovsky... The older generation attended the meetings Chekhov, Mamin-Sibiryak, Boborykin, Zlatovratsky. Were there Sobinov, Luzhsky, Nemirovich-Danchenko brothers. Maksim Gorky Here I read my play “At the Depths”. When the play “Vanyushin’s Children” (1901) was staged at the Korsh Theater and all of Moscow started talking about it, naturally its author himself, the humble Sergei Aleksandrovich Naydenov (real name – Alekseev), appeared at the “Wednesdays”. And similar visits prominent representatives cultures were regular here. Many writers read their works here, which were heatedly discussed by members of the circle. At the same time, the rule was strictly observed: say whatever you think, don’t be offended by criticism, but don’t wash dirty linen in public. Adherents of different political views and literary tastes were united by the desire to serve the cause of progress and the dissemination of literature. “Sreda” organized several editions of friendly collections, the proceeds of which went to public needs. Here, on Pokrovsky Boulevard, Gorky’s “Knowledge” partnership was born.

Gorky (Peshkov) Alexey Maksimovich (1868-1936) ~ Kuprin Alexander Ivanovich (1870-1938)

A.M. Gorky and S.G. Skitalets (Petrov) with gusli
Two mischievous giants

Often on “Wednesdays” together Fyodor Chaliapin came with Gorky. After literary conversations and dinner, he sat down at the piano and, accompanying himself, sang. Sometimes Chaliapin was accompanied by Sergei Rachmaninov. “Chaliapin set fire to Rachmaninov, and Rachmaninov enraged Chaliapin. And these two giants, captivating each other, literally worked miracles. It was no longer singing or music in the generally accepted sense - it was some kind of fit of inspiration of two major artists,” N. Teleshov noted in his “Notes of a Writer.” The significance of the literary “Wednesdays” that took place over many years lay not only in the search for new names, new works and their popularization; priceless manuscripts, letters, photographs, and correspondence were unwittingly accumulated and stored in this house. The walls of the halls of this mansion are hung with paintings, drawings, and watercolors by major Russian artists. There are also Levitan's sketches here - the artist often visited this house in last years life: he lived next door, was sick, he was forbidden to walk much, and the path to Teleshov’s house was the only one surmountable.

Apartment-museum of N. D. Teleshov (c) a_dedushkin . 31.05.2009
Another interesting place visited on Museum Day.

The tour of the museum was led by a nice lady - the great-granddaughter of Nikolai Dmitrievich.
I finally figured out how to correctly put emphasis on a writer’s last name. TeleshOv. But his son (for a reason unknown to the family) and, accordingly, subsequent generations are the TELeshevs. So I was right after all: TeleshOv’s house!
The apartment is not just a museum - it is a residential apartment. Teleshov's descendants live here. Some of the furniture is, of course, modern (mainly sofas).

Apartment-museum of N. D. Teleshov
After my recent trip to and subsequently finding information about the Teleshov estate “Lake” that was once located there, I also discovered in our home library, which was collected by my dad, a printed copy of Nikolai Teleshov’s “Notes of a Writer.” State Publishing House of Fiction. Moscow. 1953. Price 8 rubles. 35 k.

With this epigraph: "Dedicated to the memory of Elena Andreevna Teleshova, true friend throughout my long life. N. Teleshov. February 28, 1943."

The memoirs are illustrated with photographic portraits of Russian writers, each of them actually contains a personal dedicatory autograph to Teleshov. He managed to obtain dedicatory inscriptions on portraits from Leo Tolstoy, Chekhov, Korolenko, Gorky, Kuprin, Bunin, Serafimovich, Veresaev, Belousov, Skitalets, Leonid Andreev, Mamin-Sibiryak, Zlatovratsky, Spiridon Drozhzhin, Chaliapin and many others.

Since the Notes were not found online, here are some excerpts reprinted from there:

Memories and stories about the past
Artists and writers. Chaliapin

Gorky (1868-1936) and Chaliapin (1873-1938) ~ Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninov (1873-1943)
“... I remember one autumn evening in 1904, absolutely exceptional in its impression. I was suddenly informed that this evening I would have guests, and many guests: Gorky had arrived in Moscow, Chaliapin promised to come, there would be St. Petersburg residents and many comrades, who had all already been notified and would come. Indeed, by the evening a lot of people had gathered. And Chaliapin, as soon as he entered, immediately told us half-jokingly:
- Brothers, I want to sing until I die!

He immediately called on the phone and called Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninov and also told him:
- Seryozha! Quickly take a reckless driver and ride to “Sreda”. I want to sing until I die. We'll sing all night!

Rachmaninov arrived soon. Chaliapin did not even let him drink tea. I sat him down at the piano and something amazing began. This was at the very height of Chaliapin's fame and power. He was in an extraordinary state of mind and sang truly endlessly. There were no readings that evening, and there could not have been. Never and nowhere was he as charming and beautiful as he was that evening. He even told us several times:
- Listen to me here, not in the theater!

Chaliapin set fire to Rachmaninov, and Rachmaninov enraged Chaliapin. And these two giants, captivating each other, literally worked miracles. This was no longer singing or music in the generally accepted sense - it was some kind of fit of inspiration of two major artists.

Rachmaninov was also an outstanding and beloved composer at this time. From a young age, approved of by Tchaikovsky and having learned a lot from communicating with Rimsky-Korsakov, he believed that during the period of friendship and closeness with Chaliapin, he experienced the most powerful, deep and subtle impressions that brought him great benefit.

Rachmaninov knew how to improvise perfectly, and when Chaliapin rested, he continued his wonderful impromptu performances, and when Rachmaninov rested, Chaliapin sat down at the keyboard himself and began to sing Russian folk songs. And then they connected again, and the extraordinary concert continued long after midnight. There were the most famous arias, and excerpts from operas that glorified the name of Chaliapin, and lyrical romances, and musical jokes, and an inspired, fascinating Marseillaise...”

F.I. Chaliapin and S.V. Rachmaninov, early 1890s ~ S.V. Rachmaninov at the piano, early 1900s
“...Like now I see this large room, illuminated only by one hanging lamp above the table, at which our comrades are sitting and everyone is looking in one direction - to where Rachmaninov’s black back and his smooth, cropped head are visible behind the piano. His elbows move quickly, thin long fingers hit the keys. And against the wall, facing us, is the tall, slender figure of Chaliapin. He is in high boots and in a light black undershirt, superbly made from thin tights. With one hand he leaned lightly on the piano; an inspired, stern face; there is no trace of the joke just told; complete transformation. Waiting for the moment of entry. He has transformed into someone whose soul he will now reveal to us, and will make everyone feel what he himself feels, and understand as he himself understands...”

Apartment-museum of N. D. Teleshov. I. Bunin’s cane lies on the table.
“...We have never heard such a Chaliapin concert as this, impromptu. I listened to him, it seems, in all the operas where he sang, I attended numerous of his concerts, but I don’t remember such inspired singing. Unfortunately, the words are true and full of deep sadness that no story about how the artist performed will ever restore his enchanting images, just as no story about the sun of the fiery south will raise the temperature of a frosty day...” N. D. Teleshov “Notes of a Writer”

Apartment-museum of N. D. Teleshov

Apartment-museum of N. D. Teleshov. Collection of feathers by Nikolai Dmitrievich.

N. Teleshov, "Notes of a Writer", M., Goslitizdat, 1948. Price 8 rubles. 35 k.

N. Teleshov. "Notes of a Writer", M., Soviet Writer, 1952. Price in USD: 25.54
From the publisher:
Lifetime edition. Moscow, 1952. Publishing house "Soviet Writer". Publisher's binding. The condition is good. With a portrait of the author.
"Notes of a Writer" is a unique historical and literary document that truthfully tells about life national culture on turn of the 19th century- XX centuries.

Bibliographic curiosity

N.D. Teleshov entered the history of Russian literature primarily as the initiator of the “Teleshov Wednesdays” and the author of the memoir book “Notes of a Writer.” “Notes” by Teleshov were reprinted several times in Soviet times and, during copyright reprints, were supplemented and corrected by the writer. The memoirs are illustrated with photographic portraits of Russian writers. The portraits were notable for the fact that each of them contained a personal dedicatory autograph to Teleshov. Since collecting these portraits was Teleshov’s passion, he managed to obtain dedicatory inscriptions on portraits from Leo Tolstoy, Chekhov, Korolenko, Gorky, Kuprin, Bunin, Serafimovich, Veresaev, Belousov, Skitalets, Leonid Andreev, Mamin-Sibiryak, Zlatovratsky, Spiridon Drozhzhin, Chaliapin and many others. In the 1948 edition of “Notes of a Writer,” among other portraits, there was an illustration that reproduced the famous 1902 group portrait of the Sreda writers. Its difference from the original portrait was that the image of E. N. Chirikov behind I. A. Bunin was carefully retouched. In some way, the emigrant Chirikov was guilty of Stalin’s censorship more than other emigrants - after all, Bunin and Chaliapin were present in the same photo. Of course, the fame and significance of the last two could not be compared with the fame of Yevgeny Chirikov. Many pages of the Notes are devoted to both of them. In addition, in the first years after the war, through the mediation of N.D. Teleshov, the Soviet government hoped for some time to return Nobel laureate in literature - I. A. Bunin - back to the Soviet Union. Chaliapin had long since died by this time. Chirikov also did not exist for 16 years, and although in the Notes Chirikov’s name is mentioned in passing several times, even in this case his face was darkened Soviet literature.

From left to right: S. G. Skitalets, L. N. Andreev, M. Gorky, N. D. Teleshov, F. I. Shalyapin, I. A. Bunin, E. N. Chirikov, 1902

Group of participants of “Sred” Teleshov
From left to right: S. G. Skitalets, L. N. Andreev, M. Gorky, N. D. Teleshov, F. I. Shalyapin, I. A. Bunin, (without E. N. Chirikov), 1902
The caption explains that E.N. Chirikov really does not exist.

Nikolay Teleshov

Dedicated to the memory of Elena Andreevna Teleshova, a faithful friend throughout my long life

When I was still a teenager, I was lucky enough to witness an event and celebration unprecedented before that time. In the center of Moscow, at the head Tverskoy Boulevard, in front of the wide Strastnaya, now Pushkinskaya, square, in 1880, on June 6, a monument to Pushkin was opened - the first monument to the writer.

Usually, monuments were erected on the streets of Moscow only to tsars. And this was noted by Ostrovsky, who was present at the celebration. Proclaiming a toast to Russian literature, he aptly said:

Today there is a holiday on our street!

I remember well beautiful head the venerable writer Turgenev with lush gray hair, standing at the foot of the monument, from which the gray veil had just been solemnly torn off. I remember the delight of the entire huge crowd of people, in the midst of which I was, a thirteen-year-old youth, an enthusiastic admirer of the poet. I remember the writers who were there at the festival - Maikov, Polonsky, Pisemsky, Ostrovsky. I also remember the lean, stooped figure of Dostoevsky and the extraordinary impression of the speech he delivered, which the whole of Moscow was talking about the next day.

This speech was made not here, on the square, near the monument, but in the Hall of Columns of the current House of Unions. Proclaiming a toast to Russian literature, he said:

Pushkin revealed to us the Russian heart and showed us that it irresistibly strives for universality and pan-humanity... He was the first to give us insight into our significance in the family of European peoples...

In the evening, in a gala concert held with the participation of a huge orchestra and famous artists, Dostoevsky, coming out onto the stage, stooping and somehow standing slightly sideways to the audience, read Pushkin’s “Prophet” sharply and passionately:

Arise, prophet!..

And he finished with an unusually high level of nervousness:

Burn the hearts of people with your verb!..

I believe that no one has ever read these inspired lines as they were spoken not by an actor, not by a professional reader, but by a writer imbued with a sincere and enthusiastic attitude towards the memory of the greatest Russian poet.

The creator of the monument, one of the best in simplicity, beauty and expressiveness, Alexander Mikhailovich Opekushin, came from common people, from a serf peasant family, first a self-taught person, then a recognized artist and, finally, an academician.

I also remember fascinating conversations and stories about a crowded banquet in connection with the celebrations, where I, of course, could not be present then as an outside youth, where Katkov, who was once close to Belinsky, but then sharply changed his ways Political Views, extended his glass to Turgenev to clink. But he turned away.

Turgenev said at this celebration:

Let's hope that every descendant of ours, who stops with love in front of the statue of Pushkin and understands the meaning of this love, will thereby prove that he, like Pushkin, has become a more Russian and more educated, freer person.

On the granite pedestal of the monument were placed in a large bas-relief the words of Pushkin, distorted by censorship. As far as I remember, it was written like this:

And for a long time I will be kind to those people,

That the charm of poetry was useful to me...

And only now, in Soviet times, this inscription was replaced with the poet’s original words:

And for a long time I will be so kind to the people,

That I awakened good feelings with my lyre,

That in my cruel age I glorified freedom

And he called for mercy for the fallen.

The difference in the inscription is quite significant.

I don’t know if any of the witnesses to this great triumph and celebration of literature, this first celebration of the memory of the Russian writer, who “in his cruel age glorified freedom” and believed that “Russia would rise from sleep and write on the ruins of autocracy” remained alive the names of those who fought and died for the future happiness of the people.

These days of the opening of the monument to Pushkin remain for me one of the most joyful and bright days, although all this happened seventy-five years ago.

First steps and acquaintances. - Tikhomirovsky circle and "Children's reading". - Literary and artistic circle. - N. V. Davydov.

I was not yet seventeen years old when my first poem was published in the magazine “Rainbow” in 1884 in Artistic and Literary. The first was followed by the second and third, then my prose essays began to appear in the same “Rainbow” and other small magazines. I was then far from the literary world and had never met any writer in person. I sent my manuscripts to the editorial office by mail; They didn’t pay me any money for printing them, and I didn’t even ask. The first person who wanted to see me was Skripitsyn, editor of the Rossiya magazine, where my story was published.

“Why don’t you come to receive your fee?” - he wrote to me in a postcard, scheduling the next day and hour for a date.

In the editorial office I found the only person sitting gloomily at an empty table - tall, bony, overgrown with hair.

The affairs of our publication are very sad,” Skripitsyn told me, offering his hand. - Get paid for your story before it's too late. I hope you continue to write, and I hope to see your name in print. You just need to work on yourself. In the meantime, here's your money. Don't ask for too little. I can not anymore.

He handed me fifteen rubles, took a receipt from me and wished me success.

How much do you get paid in other places?

I admitted that no one paid me anything anywhere.

So this is the first fee? I'm very glad if that's the case. When you receive a lot, remember that the first fee, a penny, was paid to you by Skripitsyn.

And in two days we are closing... Forever.

The first fee is something special and significant in the life of a writer, especially if this writer is only seventeen to eighteen years old. The first fee is, to some extent, recognition, it is already some kind of assessment, no matter how insignificant it may be. Receiving a fee was a real holiday for me. Returning home, to celebrate, I bought a flower for my mother, shoes for my father, and cigarettes for my brother. The first fee disappeared, but I was still very happy.

Of course, Skripitsyn was right: it was necessary to work and develop a style. The works of Lermontov and Turgenev were at that time my favorite examples of style, which I read, pondered and admired. Of the contemporary writers of that time, I was influenced by the strong, vivid stories of Garshin and the poems of Nadson, and since 1885 I suddenly had a new favorite: in the March book of “Russian Thought” I read a story by an author unknown to me, Vl. Korolenko "Makar's Dream". He made such a strong impression on me with his artistic simplicity, subtle humor, pictures of the Far North and the unknown life of the taiga with its hopeless peasant life, full of burdens and persecution! According to Korolenko, Makar was chased all his life by the elders and elders, assessors and police officers, demanding taxes, and the priests, demanding rugs; he was driven by need and hunger, rains and droughts, driven by the evil taiga... I re-read the entire story, then individual pieces from it and thought: “This writer will certainly become big man!” And little by little, this soon began to come true. His “The Forest is Noisy” and “The Blind Musician” strengthened his reputation as a major talent in fiction. Later, his significant appearances began in public life.

Memoirs of contemporaries about A.P. Chekhov Chekhov Anton Pavlovich

N. D. TELESHOV - A. P. CHEKHOV

N. D. TELESHOV - A. P. CHEKHOV

I had many meetings with Chekhov, many conversations and conversations, but with the name of Anton Pavlovich I always remember with particular clarity two of our meetings: the very first and the very last, and two images of him: young, blooming, full of life - and then hopelessly ill , dying, on the eve of his departure abroad, from where he never returned alive.

I was still a young man, about twenty years old, when I first met him, at that time also still a young man and a writer who had just been noticed. That autumn of 1887, his book of stories “At Twilight” was published - the first signed “Anton Chekhov”, and not “Chekhonte”, as before. He had just embarked on a real literary path. The criticism of that time was arrogantly silent; even the “new time” scoffer Burenin, an employee of the same publishing house that published this book, noted its appearance with the following quatrain:

Fiction - oh, alas!

The Minskys and Chekhovs write,

Barantsevichi and Albov;

If you read it, you will feel sorry for Bova!

Despite the silence of criticism, readers were keenly interested in the young writer and were able to correctly understand and evaluate Chekhov themselves, without outside help.

I got to know Chekhov’s stories, the so-called “Motley Stories” quite early, almost at the very beginning of Anton Pavlovich’s literary performances, when he wrote under various funny pseudonyms in “Dragonfly”, in “Fragments”, in “Alarm Clock”. Then, in my memory, before my eyes, so to speak, he began to move from humorous little things to serious ones. works of art. At that time he was still known as Chekhonte, the author of short funny stories. And what we heard about him was not anything significant and serious, but more trifles and anecdotes, such as, for example, that Chekhov, constantly in need of funny plots and various funny situations for the heroes, of which he always needed a lot, announced at home that he would become pay for each invention of a funny situation ten kopecks, and for a complete plot for a story twenty kopecks, or two kopecks, as they said then. And one of the brothers allegedly became his zealous supplier. Or the following story was told: in the house where the Chekhovs lived, the mezzanine was given over to balls and weddings, so often the sounds of a waltz, quadrille with a gallop, and polka-mazurkas with an annoying stomp were heard through the ceiling into the apartment on the lower floor. Chekhov's youth, if they were all in good spirits, began noisily posing as invited guests and joyfully dancing to someone else's music, at someone else's feast. Wasn’t it from here that he came out later? famous story“Wedding” and then a vaudeville on the same theme?..

It was not immediately recognized by influential critics. Mikhailovsky spoke about him coldly and carelessly, and for some reason Skabichevsky prophesied that Chekhov would certainly become drunk and die under the fence.

Subsequently, already in the nine hundred years, in his memoirs about Chekhov, the writer A. I. Kuprin, by the way, cites the following words of Anton Pavlovich himself about me: “You ask Teleshov yourself: he will tell you how we walked with him at Belousov’s wedding "

And indeed, we were just walking. The wedding was cheerful, noisy, in a spacious rented house, somewhere on the Kanava embankment, there were a lot of young people; had fun and danced almost without rest all night. And then we had dinner - almost until the morning.

At that time I was a complete stranger in literary world. Not only did I not know anyone, but I had never even met a single real writer. I knew them only from books.

And so, in the midst of the wedding noise, Belousov led me to a high young man With beautiful face, with a light brown beard and clear, slightly amused eyes, as if smiling:

I already knew, read and loved his stories, just collected in the first book. I also heard that Grigorovich, a venerable old man and a major writer of that time, once himself came to Chekhov - to get acquainted with him as with a young brother for whom he prophesied a great and glorious future, welcoming in him a new literary talent, a real talent that would push him far from circle of writers of the new generation.

And this attention from Grigorovich, and the personal impression from the stories I read, and the first meeting in my life with a real writer made me enthusiastic. I wanted to immediately talk to him about his book, about the new things in literature that he gives, but Chekhov warned me with another, completely unexpected question:

Don't you play cards? In the little box?

And Gilyarovsky came with me. He longs to play toy, but doesn’t know with whom. Do you know Gilyarovsky? Uncle Gilay?.. Yes, here he is! - as actors say in the most mediocre vaudevilles.

Gilyarovsky came up and got to know each other. He was in a tailcoat, with St. George's ribbon in the buttonhole. In one hand he held an open silver snuffbox, with the other hand he was sending greetings to someone across the room, he was absentmindedly saying something rhyming and funny to Chekhov and looking at me at the same time, but he didn’t seem to notice me, being busy with something else. . Before we had time to say two words for the first acquaintance, the music began to thunder again, and I, like a young man, was dragged off to dance.

Go, go. Otherwise the young ladies will be offended by us because of you,” Anton Pavlovich said after me.

This, perhaps, would have been the end of our acquaintance if Anton Pavlovich at the end of the night, after a gala wedding dinner with ice cream and champagne, had not come up to me and invited me with him.

“It’s soon morning,” he said. - The guests are leaving. It's time for us to leave. Gilyai and I decided to go and have tea... at a tavern. Do you want to join us? Soon the taverns will open now - for cab drivers.

And off we went.

There were four of us: Chekhov’s younger brother, Mikhail Pavlovich, a student at that time, joined us. We hired two cab drivers and went to look for the nearest tavern. Somewhere nearby, in one of the alleys near the Chugunny Bridge, the windows of a small tavern lit up. The frosty winter morning was just beginning. It was still dark.

The tavern turned out to be dirty, cheap, and opened early in the morning, really for night cab drivers.

This is good,” said Anton Pavlovich. - If we do good books write, we’ll still have enough time in good restaurants. In the meantime, according to our merits, it’s very wonderful here.

It was rightly said about Chekhov’s appearance at that time: “with an undeniably intelligent face, with features reminiscent of a simple-minded village guy, with wonderful smiling eyes.” Perhaps such an expression as “smiling eyes” will seem too figurative, but, except for Chekhov, I have not met anyone with eyes that would give the impression of smiling.

Thanks to the fact that we were all dressed in tailcoats, we were taken here for wedding waiters who had finished night work, - and this amused Chekhov very much.

They sat down at a table covered with a gray tablecloth that had not dried out since the evening. They served us tea with lemon and a pot-bellied teapot with boiling water. But the sliced ​​lemon slices smelled strongly of onions.

Perfect! - Anton Pavlovich rejoiced. - And you’re complaining that there aren’t enough stories. Isn't that the plot? There's a whole story of material here.

Before our eyes, I remember, there was a dirty empty wall, once painted oil paint. There was nothing on it except old soot and, at some level, wide, dark and greasy spots: it was the cab drivers, during tea drinking, who leaned against it in these places with their heads, greased with wood oil for chic, as was the custom of that time, and left marks on the wall for many years. From this wall the conversation about writing began.

How come there are no stories? - Anton Pavlovich insisted. - Yes, everything is a plot, there is a plot everywhere. Look at this wall. There seems to be nothing interesting about it. But you take a closer look at it, find something of your own in it that no one else has found in it, and describe it. I assure you, a good story can turn out. And you can write well about the moon, but what a threadbare topic. And it will be interesting. But you still need to see something of your own in the moon, and not alien or hackneyed.

But isn’t this the plot? - He pointed out the window onto the street, where it was already getting light. - Look: a monk is coming with a mug to collect the bell... Don’t you feel how it’s getting tied up? good topic?.. There is something tragic here - in the black monk at the pale dawn...

Over tea, which, thanks to the lemon, also tasted a little like onions, the conversation spread from literature to life, from serious to funny. By the way, Chekhov assured us that there was no “children’s” literature.

Everywhere they write only about Sharikov and Barbosov. What kind of “children’s” is this? This is some kind of “dog” literature! - Anton Pavlovich joked, trying to speak as seriously as possible.

And he himself soon wrote “Kashtanka” and “White-fronted” - about dogs.

Gilyarovsky joked a lot, threw in biting impromptu remarks, and time flew by.

It was already quite light. The street came alive. I felt good and happy. How I see youth now, cute face Chekhov, his smiling eyes. I have never seen Anton Pavlovich as cheerful as at this first meeting in my entire life.

Chekhov always treated young writers favorably and very cordially towards many. I always said that a writer cannot sit within four walls and draw his works out of himself, that it is necessary to see life and people, hear genuine human words and thoughts and process them, and not invent them.

“Go to Japan,” he told one. “Go to Australia,” he advised another.

I remember how we met once in a carriage. The meeting was completely random. He was going to his place in Lopasnya, where he lived on a farm, and I was going to the dacha area of ​​Tsaritsyno near Moscow to rent a dacha for the summer.

“Don’t go to the dacha, you won’t find anything interesting there,” Chekhov said when he found out my goal. - Go somewhere far away, a thousand, two, three miles. Well, at least to Asia, or something like Baikal. The water on Baikal is turquoise and transparent: beauty! If you are short on time, go to the Urals: the nature there is wonderful. Be sure to step over the border of Europe in order to feel the real Asian soil under your feet and to have the right to say to yourself: “Well, here I am in Asia!” And then you can go home. And even to the dacha. But the job will already be done. How many things you will learn, how many stories you will bring back! You will see people's life, you will spend the night at remote post stations and in huts, just like in Pushkin's times; and the bugs will eat you. But it's good. You'll thank me later. Only by railways You must definitely travel in third class, among the common people, otherwise you won’t hear anything interesting. If you want to be a writer, buy a ticket to Nizhny tomorrow. From there - along the Volga, along the Kama...

He began to give practical advice, as if the issue of my trip had already been decided. At the Tsaritsyno station, when I got out of the car, Anton Pavlovich said goodbye again:

Listen to good advice, buy a ticket to Nizhny tomorrow.

I obeyed and a few days later I was already sailing along the Kama River, without a goal or destination, heading for Perm for now. This was in 1894. Beyond the Urals, I saw the terrible life of our settlers, the incredible hardships and burdens of people's, peasant life. And when I returned I was ready whole line Siberian stories, which then opened the pages of our best magazines to me for the first time.

Chekhov often spoke about the revolution that would inevitably and soon happen in Russia. But he did not live to see 1905.

Believe me, in a few years, and soon, we will not have an autocracy, you will see.

It’s not for nothing that his play “Three Sisters” says: “The time has come, a huge force is approaching all of us, a healthy, strong storm is preparing, which is coming, is already close and will soon blow away laziness, indifference, prejudice towards work, rotten boredom from our society.” And in the future he foresaw an extraordinary flourishing folk life and a happy, joyful future for humanity. And he believed in all this firmly.

Many years have passed since our first meeting. We saw each other in Moscow - either at the publisher I. D. Sytin's, or at the Doctor's Club, or at his house, where he liked to treat him to hot potatoes baked over coals and old Crimean “Gubonin” claret. Anton Pavlovich also visited me at our literary “Wednesday”, in which he was always interested and always asked about it. We also saw each other in the Crimea, at his dacha in Outka, where he was already seriously ill and where, among the beauties of southern nature, among evergreen cypresses and blooming peaches, he loved to dream about the Moscow September rain, about birches and willows, about a muddy pond with crucian carp, about how to think well about your stories and plays while looking at the float and holding a fishing rod in your hand. In his Crimean garden, in memory of Moscow, he tried to plant young birch trees and other northern trees, but I don’t know if they started - and if they are still intact... I remember how in this Yalta office I was given a prescription for powders to the Yalta pharmacy for cough, signed “Dr. A. Chekhov.” I still have the pharmacy signature.

Despite his illness, Chekhov loved all sorts of jokes, trifles, friendly nicknames, and was generally a keen laugher.

I remember how he laughed in his Yalta office at one of his old stories.

One spring evening, two years before his death, Anton Pavlovich called us to his place. There were Gorky, Bunin, Elpatievsky... After dinner, in the office, Bunin, or “Bukishon”, as Chekhov affectionately called him, suggested reading aloud one of Chekhonte’s old stories, which A.P. had long forgotten. Bunin, it must be said, masterfully read Chekhov's stories. And he began to read.

It was touching to see how Anton Pavlovich first frowned - it seemed awkward to him to listen to his own composition - then he began to involuntarily smile, and then, as the story developed, he literally shook with laughter in his soft chair, but silently, trying to restrain himself.

It’s good for you, today’s writers,” he often said, half jokingly, half seriously. - You are now praised for short stories. And I used to get scolded for it. Yes, how they scolded me! It used to be that if you want to be called a writer, then write a novel, otherwise they won’t even talk or listen to you, and they won’t let you into a good magazine. I was the one who knocked all of you through the wall for little stories.

His affectionate attitude towards writers younger than himself was reflected in everything. Here, for example, is his letter to me dated February 1903 from Yalta: “In the Dictionary of the Russian Language, ed. Academy of Sciences, in the sixth issue of the second volume, which I received today, you also appeared. So, on page 1626, after the word “sink”: “Cold tears flowed from the eyes and fell in large drops onto the tired chest.” Teleshov. "Fantastic sketches." Here’s more, on page 1814, after the word “push”: “The carts set off again along the road covered in fresh snow.” Teleshov. "On threes." And again on page 1849, after the word “glow”: “Many candles burn in front of the image, casting a soft glow on the priest’s vestments.” Teleshov. "Name Day". Therefore, from the point of view of the compilers of the dictionary. You are an exemplary writer, and you will remain so now forever and ever... I firmly shake your hand and wish you all the best.”...

“He was a charming man: modest, sweet.” This is how L.N. Tolstoy spoke about Chekhov. And indeed, he was certainly a nice man, very modest and reserved, even strict with himself. So, for example, when he was very sick and the tobacco smoke in his room was poison for him, he could not and did not dare say to anyone who smoked a cigarette in his room: “Quit. Don't poison me. Don't make me suffer." He limited himself to hanging a note on the wall, in a visible place: “They ask you not to smoke.” And he was patiently silent when some visitors did smoke.

In turn, Anton Pavlovich always treated Tolstoy with particular respect and love.

“I’m afraid of Tolstoy’s death,” he admitted in 1900, when Lev Nikolaevich became dangerously ill. “If he had died, there would have been a big empty space in my life.” First of all, I don’t love a single person as much as he does; secondly, when there is Tolstoy in literature, it is easy and pleasant to be a writer; Even realizing that you haven’t done anything and won’t do anything is not so scary, since Tolstoy does for everyone. Thirdly, Tolstoy stands strong, his authority is enormous, and as long as he lives, bad tastes in literature, all vulgarity, all embittered pride will be far and deep in the shadows. Only his moral authority is capable of keeping the so-called literary moods and trends at a certain height...

Elected to honorary academician, Chekhov wrote, as we know, a sharp refusal of this honorary title when he learned that Gorky, also elected to honorary academician, was not approved for this title by the tsarist government on the orders of Tsar Nicholas himself. Only Chekhov and Korolenko had the courage to do so and resign from their honorary title in the form of protest.

I remember a chance conversation with an old man, a peasant from Lopasnya, where Anton Pavlovich did not refuse medical care to anyone. The old man was a handicraftsman, a silk reeler, and apparently a wealthy man. We sat next to each other in a carriage on the Kursk Railway, in third class, on a hard bench, and started talking like neighbors because we had nothing to do. Having learned that he was from Lopasnya, I said that I had an acquaintance there.

Who it?

Doctor Chekhov.

And... Anton Pavlych! - The old man smiled cheerfully, as if he was happy about something. But now he frowned and said: “Weird man!” - And he added completely sternly and disapprovingly: - Clueless!

Who's clueless?

Yes Anton Pavlych! Well, tell me, is it good: I went and went to treat my wife, an old woman, and cured her. Then I fell ill - and he treated me. I give him money, but he doesn’t take it. I say: “Anton Pavlych, dear, why are you doing this? How will you live? You are not a stupid person, you understand your business, but you don’t take money - how do you live?..” I say: “Think about yourself, where will you go if, at an uneven hour, you are refused service? This can happen to anyone. You can't trade; Well, tell me, where will you go, empty-handed?..” He laughs - and nothing more. “If,” he says, “they drive me away from this place, then I will go and marry the merchant’s wife.” - “Who, I say, who will go for you if you find yourself without a place?” He laughs again, it’s definitely not about him.

The old man talked, and he turned his head and sighed, or smiled in a good way. It was clear that he sincerely respects his “stupid” doctor, but does not approve of his behavior.

Yes. He is a good man, Anton Pavlych. It will only be difficult for him in his old age. He does not understand what it means to live without calculation.

This life “without calculation” was shown, by the way, by one significant incident from life.

A.P. Chekhov concluded an agreement with the publisher of Niva, Marx, according to which, for 75 thousand rubles, all of Chekhov’s works came into the eternal possession of the publisher - not only the previous ones, but also all future ones, immediately after their publication in the magazine, and Chekhov did not have the right to transfer to anyone and never a reprint of his works, even for charitable publications. When it became known that in the very first year, from the supplements to Niva and from the separately published collected works in 12 volumes, Marx not only covered the entire amount he gave to Chekhov, but also made hundreds of thousands of rubles. Gorky wrote a letter to Anton Pavlovich with a proposal to break the agreement with Marx:

“Send this swindler Marx to hell... I, on behalf of “Znania” and on my own behalf, offer you this: break the contract with Marx, give back the money, as much as you took from him, and even with interest, if necessary. We will get you as much as you want. Then give your books to us to print, that is, enter “Knowledge” as a comrade and publish it yourself. You receive all the profits and do not incur the hassle of publishing, while remaining at the same time the complete owner of your books... You could make the books cheaper by publishing them in larger quantities; You are now read in the villages, read by the urban poor, and 1 rub. 75 k. per book is expensive for this reader. Darling! to hell with the German! By God, he's robbing you! He steals shamelessly!.. “Knowledge” can directly guarantee you a known annual income determined by you, even 25,000. Think about it, dear Anton Pavlovich...”

They say that unsent letters are often more interesting and significant than sent ones. If this is not entirely true or not always so, then, in any case, the letter signed by the group famous writers, even if not sent to the address due to special reasons, may represent a document not devoid of interest. One of these unsent letters, the contents of which are connected with the memory of Chekhov, was in my possession for several years, and only very few people knew about it. The letter dates back to that distant time when literary friends Chekhov were preparing for his twenty-fifth anniversary. Leonid Andreev and Maxim Gorky worked a lot on drafting the letter. According to the initiators, this text was supposed to collect signatures from all the literary and artistic people of Moscow, then transfer it to St. Petersburg and collect further signatures there. The paper, signed by major representatives of science, literature, arts, music, theater, as well as public figures, was authorized to submit to the publisher of Niva, A.F. Marx, writers Garin-Mikhailovsky and Asheshov and to obtain a definite answer from him by the time of the anniversary celebration .

Here is the original text of this letter to Marx:

"IN currently, when all of Russia is preparing to celebrate the quarter-century anniversary of A.P. Chekhov, the question that Lately Russian society and Anton Pavlovich’s comrades are painfully interested. The point is a striking and unacceptable discrepancy between Anton Pavlovich’s activities and services to his native country, on the one hand, and the insecurity of his financial situation, on the other.

A.P. Chekhov has been working for twenty-five years; for twenty-five years he has been tirelessly awakening the conscience and thought of the reader with his beautiful works, doused living blood his loving heart, and he must use everything that is given to honest workers - he must, otherwise we will all be ashamed. Having created a number of large values ​​that in the West would have given the creator their wealth and complete independence, Anton Pavlovich is not only not rich - the Russian writer does not dare to think about this - he simply does not have that average income at which a hard-working and tired person can calmly relax without thinking about tomorrow. In other words, he must live on what he earns now - a sad and undeserved fate for a man to whom the enthusiastic gaze of all thinking Russia is turned, behind whom, like a formidable reproach, stand twenty-five years of exceptional work, placing him in the forefront of world literature . Quite recently, before our eyes, a small country, Poland, managed to show the spirit of great humanity by generously gifting Henryk Sienkiewicz in his anniversary year; Will Anton Pavlovich really be left to the whim of fate in vast Russia, depriving him of his most legitimate rights?..

We know your agreement with A.P. Chekhov, according to which all his works come into your full ownership for 75,000 rubles, and his future works are not free: as they appear, they come into your ownership for a small fee not exceeding his usual royalties in magazines - with the only huge difference that in magazines they are published once, but they come to you forever. We know that in the year that has elapsed since the agreement, you managed to cover several times the amount you paid to A.P. Chekhov for his works: in addition to individual publications, Chekhov’s stories as a supplement to the Niva magazine should have sold hundreds of thousands copies and abundantly compensate you for all costs incurred by you. Further, taking into account that for many decades you will have to enjoy income from Chekhov’s works, we come to the undoubted and sad conclusion that A.P. Chekhov received an extremely insignificant part of what he actually earned. Undoubtedly violating the property rights of your counterparty, this agreement also has another negative side- no less important for general characteristics sad situation of Anton Pavlovich: the obligation to give all his new things to you, even if other publishing houses offered an immeasurably larger payment, should fall with a heavy sense of dependence on A.P. Chekhov and, undoubtedly, affect the productivity of his work. According to one of the clauses of the agreement, Chekhov pays a penalty of 5,000 rubles for each printed sheet, which he gave to another publishing house. Thus, he is deprived of the opportunity to give his works even to cheap popular publishing houses. And among the penny books that go to the people and on their covers bear the names of almost all modern writers, there is no book with only one thing - the dear name of A.P. Chekhov.

And we ask you, in this anniversary year, to correct the involuntary, as we are sure, injustice that still weighs on A.P. Chekhov. Admitting that at the time of concluding the contract, you, like Anton Pavlovich, might not have foreseen all the consequences of the transaction, we appeal to your sense of justice and believe that formal grounds cannot in this case be of decisive importance. There have already been cases of termination of contracts under similar circumstances - just remember Zola and his publisher Feskel. Having concluded an agreement with Zola at a time when the latter had not yet fully identified himself as a major writer who could count on a huge audience, Feskel himself terminated this agreement and entered into a new one when Zola took his rightful place in French literature. And the new agreement gave the late writer freedom and security.

To actually resolve the issue, we ask you to accept our representatives: N. G. Garin-Mikhailovsky and N. P. Asheshov.

The paper was signed by: Fyodor Shalyapin, Leonid Andreev, Yu. Bunin, I. Belousov, A. Serafimovich, E. Goslavsky, Sergei Glagol, P. Kozhevnikov, V. Veresaev, A. Arkhipov, N. Teleshov, Iv. Bunin, Victor Goltsev, S. Naydenov, Evgeny Chirikov, [M. Bitter]".

I don’t remember now exactly how all this happened: whether they showed Chekhov a copy of the letter, or even conveyed to him about the supposed appeal to Marx regarding his release, but it soon became clear that there was no need to collect further signatures, because Anton Pavlovich, having learned about the letter , asked not to contact Marx with him. I can’t vouch for the authenticity, but I remember what was said then about the following words of Anton Pavlovich himself upon refusal:

I signed the agreement with Marx with my own hand, and it is inconvenient for me to renounce it. If I underpriced, then it’s all my fault: I did something stupid. And Marx is not responsible for other people’s stupidities. Next time I'll be more careful.

That was the end of the matter. The original letter with the writer's autographs was delayed and remained with me, along with a list of whom to go to for further signatures. Among these intended persons were: V. O. Klyuchevsky, S. A. Muromtsev, F. N. Plevako, V. I. Safonov, A. P. Lensky and many of those popular people of art and science at that time, who are now no longer in the world for a long time. And of those who signed the paper, no more than two or three people remained alive.

I gave the original of this letter with all the autographs at one time to the Chekhov room at Public library- now State Library USSR named after Lenin, where it is now located.

At the Moscow Art Theater, Chekhov's play "Uncle Vanya" was a tremendous success. No one, however, could recreate the stage images through stories, or convey to the author the actual impression of the performance and staging of the play. It was necessary to show this performance to him so that he could appreciate and feel it. And the Art Theater chooses Crimea as the place for its tour and goes to Sevastopol with the intention of showing “Uncle Vanya” to its favorite writer.

Personally, I did not witness this Sevastopol performance, since I lived in Yalta at that time, but I soon heard from Anton Pavlovich himself that he was very pleased and touched, although, out of his inherent modesty as an author, he did not express this openly.

After the tour, the artists moved to Yalta on vacation, where many writers gathered and lived at that time. I remember there was Gorky with his family, Elpatievsky, Mamin-Sibiryak, Kuprin, Naydenov, Bunin, Skitalets.

The next day, after the troupe’s arrival, a friendly dinner was held in the city garden, at which artists and writers took part. Everyone became acquainted, and this was the beginning of a strong rapprochement between the theater and Gorky, who was then maturing the plan for the play “At the Lower Depths.” In the fall, the play was completed and read at Wednesday, and then staged at the Art Theater. At first it was called “At the Bottom of Life” and was published abroad under this title.

Chekhov and the Art Theater have always been close to each other. From the very beginning of the theater until the death of the writer, this closeness and friendship grew, and mutual understanding and respect grew stronger. As a playwright, Chekhov was guessed, understood and explained only by the Art Theater. His plays “Ivanov” and the prototype of “Uncle Vanya” - “The Leshy” were staged at one time on the stages of Moscow: at Korsh’s, at Abramova’s, but a chill among the audience and bewilderment accompanied these productions, and after the famous St. Petersburg failure of “The Seagull”, the fate of Chekhov the playwright's problem seemed to be decided irrevocably.

But the Art Theater in 1898, in the first year of its life, decided to show - in its own way - “The Seagull”. He firmly believed in the new things that no one understood Chekhov's play, believed in what the author himself wanted to say with this play. The victory was complete, amazing, enthusiastic.

The whole of Chekhov as a playwright was shown and revealed by the Art Theater: “The Seagull”, “Uncle Vanya”, “Ivanov”, “Three Sisters”, “ The Cherry Orchard"and even dramatizations of some stories, in the form of miniatures, were staged on the stage of the Moscow Art Theater.

It is known that L. N. Tolstoy, loving and respecting A. P. Chekhov as a writer and as a person, had a negative attitude towards his plays, although he came to watch them.

In 1900, on January 24, Lev Nikolaevich saw A. P. Chekhov’s play “Uncle Vanya” at the Art Theater. At the end of the performance, he was backstage, where he signed the book of honored visitors, and, by the way, turning to the artist Vishnevsky, he told him jokingly:

Well, you play Uncle Vanya. But why are you pestering someone else’s wife? You should get your own cowgirl.

This incident was not invented, but certified by the theater. It is very characteristic here that L.N., even in a joke, remained true to his then views and did not use the word “cowgirl” in vain.

How the Art Theater treated Chekhov’s work is clearly evident from Stanislavsky’s speech at the theater’s tenth anniversary. He said: “The Seagull flew to us from Yalta from Chekhov; she brought us happiness and showed us new paths in our art.” And in Nemirovich-Danchenko’s speech addressed to Chekhov at the premiere of “The Cherry Orchard” in 1904, this attitude was expressed even more clearly.

Just now I see Anton Pavlovich standing embarrassedly on the stage of the Moscow Art Theater with the curtain open under thunder and a storm of applause at the premiere of his latest play. They bring him flowers, wreaths, addresses, they make speeches, but he is embarrassedly silent and does not know where to look. And Nemirovich-Danchenko tells him on behalf of the entire Moscow Art Theater:

Our theater owes so much to your talent, your tender heart, yours pure soul that you can rightfully say: “This is my theater.”

There is no doubt about how Chekhov himself treated the Art Theater. One of his letters states: “The Art Theater is the best pages of the book that will ever be written about modern Russian theater.”

Our last meeting was in Moscow, on the eve of Chekhov’s departure abroad. It so happened that I went to see him during the day, when there was no one in the apartment except the servants. Before leaving there were a lot of worries, and all his family worked tirelessly.

I already knew that Chekhov was very ill, or rather, very ill, and I decided to bring him only a farewell note, so as not to disturb him. But he ordered me to catch up with me and turned me back down the stairs.

Although I was prepared for what I would see, what I saw exceeded all my expectations, the darkest. On the sofa, covered with pillows, either in a coat or a robe, with a rug on his legs, sat a thin, seemingly small man with narrow shoulders, with a narrow, bloodless face - Anton Pavlovich was so thin, emaciated and unrecognizable. I would never have believed that it was possible to change so much.

And he stretches out a weak waxen hand, which is scary to look at, looks with his gentle, but no longer smiling eyes and says:

I'm leaving tomorrow. Farewell. I'm going to die.

He said another word, not this one, more harsh than “die,” which I would not like to repeat now.

“I’m going to die,” he insisted. - For me, bow to your comrades on Wednesday. Good people you got it. Tell them that I remember them and love some of them very much... Wish them happiness and success from me. We won't meet again.

Quiet, conscious submission was reflected in his eyes.

Tell Bunin to write and write. He will make a great writer. So tell him this from me. Do not forget.

There was no doubt that we would see each other for the last time. It was so clear. I was afraid to speak at these moments in a full voice, was afraid to make noise with his boots. I needed some kind of gentle silence, I needed to accept with an open soul those few words that were undoubtedly the last for me and came from a pure and beautiful Chekhov’s heart.

The next day he left.

And a month later, in Badenweiler, on the night of July 2, when all means of struggle had already been exhausted, the doctor ordered the patient to be given champagne. But the patient was the doctor himself and understood the significance of this measure. He sat down and somehow significantly and loudly said to the doctor in German: “Ich sterbe.” Then he took the glass, turned to face his wife and said with a smile last words in life: - I haven’t drunk champagne for a long time... According to his wife, he calmly drank it all down in sips, quietly lay down on his left side and soon fell silent forever. The ensuing eerie silence of the night was broken only by a large black moth bursting into the window, painfully beating against the burning electric light bulbs and darting around the room.

When the doctor left, in the complete silence and stuffiness of the summer night, a cork from an unfinished bottle of champagne suddenly popped out with a terrible noise...

It was beginning to get light. Soon the morning birds began to sing...

And then - the solemn farewell of foreigners and the official acceptance of the coffin at the border by the Russian authorities, unfamiliar even with the name of Chekhov... The unforgivable, rude and wild purpose of the “oyster car”, in which, with this very inscription, barbaric for the present occasion, the body arrived in St. Petersburg writer, almost without any meeting thanks to mixed up telegrams. And only the next day, already in Moscow, huge crowds of people thronging the entire station square, the station platforms crowded with deputations with wreaths and flowers, impressively emphasized the significance of the loss.

We greeted Chekhov as if we were close, as loved and dear, throughout Moscow and escorted Chekhov to his grave in the Novodevichy Convent.

And now the sixth decade has begun since the day of his death, and the name of Chekhov is becoming more and more famous, and not only in his homeland, among us, but throughout cultural world. Our Soviet youth loves, respects and reads Chekhov a lot.

His creativity is multifaceted, his lyrics are poetic, his humor is inexhaustible, and his faith in a better future for humanity is unshakable.

“The chapter about Chekhov is not over yet,” Stanislavsky wrote at one time. - They have not yet read it properly, have not delved into its essence and closed the book prematurely. Let it be opened again, studied and read to the end.”

And the time has come. The whole country honors the memory of its great writer, and his beloved Moscow is preparing a worthy monument to him on one of its best squares.

For exactly thirty years, a zinc coffin that arrived from the German border lay in a grave in the cemetery of the Novodevichy Convent. During the funeral, they first covered him with fresh earth, and on top of the earth with a great variety of flowers, greenery and laurels. Then, after some time, a monument was erected.

And then, thirty years later, a few months later, on November 16, 1933, at one o’clock in the afternoon, several people gathered near the grave. There were a few artists of the Art Theater - Knipper-Chekhova, Moskvin, Vishnevsky, there were members of the presidium of the Chekhov Society, a photographer, several relatives and acquaintances. The day turned out to be very cold, completely wintry, with prickly snow and an icy wind.

It took almost three hours to beat off the frozen earth and throw it into the snow. The crowd stood patiently and silently for a long time. Some kind of creepy mood made it difficult to talk. And everyone dug and dug under the blows of a dry, burning wind. The early winter twilight had already begun to fall when they finally dug through to the zinc lid and began to bring in the ropes, and then, with considerable difficulty, pulled them out of the pit to the surface, onto White snow, a heavily dented gray coffin and placed it on a wood skid, somehow knocked together from plank remains. But Moskvin objected:

No, comrades! Let's carry it in our arms.

And the first one took hold of the metal bracket of the coffin.

So from the old, abolished cemetery, in solemn silence, we carried the writer’s ashes in our arms to the new cemetery of the same former monastery, to where the Art Theater has a large area planted with cherry trees that bloom in spring.

In this “cherry orchard” a new grave had already been prepared, near the alleys with the graves of artists, as well as writers who had died in recent years; was recently moved here from former Danilov monastery the ashes of Gogol.

Silently we approached the new - second - Chekhov's grave. The coffin was already on the platform, and a minute later they began to lower it. They quickly and silently filled up the hole, over which a small earthen mound rose. Several minutes passed in solemn silence at this new mound. It quickly began to become covered with hard snow pellets, like a white veil. Then everyone silently went about their business, to their homes. Early winter twilight hung over the city outskirts like a gray haze.

Returning from the cemetery, I got off the tram at the monument to Pushkin. I stopped in front of him and involuntarily took my hat off my head for a minute. I thought: “From one great writer to another great writer...”

Chekhov Twenty-five years ago, in Taganrog, in Chekhov’s days, Maria Pavlovna, Chekhov’s sister, told me about how Anton Pavlovich worked. This story is forever etched in my memory. - Antosha! She doesn’t hear. - Antoshenka! Look at your watch. It's already half an hour