“It is very difficult to describe the sea. Do you know the description that a school-boy gave in an exercise? ‘The sea is vast.’ Only that. Wonderful, I think.”
Some people might think him affected in saying this. But Chekhov—affected!
“I grant,” said one who knew Chekhov well, “that I have met men as sincere as Chekhov. But any one so simple, and so free from pose and affectation I have never known!”
And that is true. He loved all that was sincere, vital, and gay, so long as it was neither coarse nor dull, and could not endure pedants, or book-worms who have got so much into the habit of making phrases that they can talk in no other way. In his writings he scarcely ever spoke of himself or of his views, and this led people to think him a man without principles or sense of duty to his kind. In life, too, he was no egotist, and seldom spoke of his likings and dislikings. But both were very strong and lasting, and simplicity was one of the things he liked best. “The sea is vast.” … To him, with his passion for simplicity and his loathing of the strained and affected, that was “wonderful.” His words about the officer and the music showed another characteristic of his: his reserve. The transition from the sea to the officer was no doubt inspired by his secret craving for youth and health. The sea is lonely…. And Chekhov loved life and joy. During his last years his desire for happiness, even of the simplest kind, would constantly show itself in his conversation. It would be hinted at, not expressed.
In Moscow, in the year 1895, I saw a middle-aged man (Chekhov was then 35) wearing pince-nez, quietly dressed, rather tall, and light and graceful in his movements. He welcomed me, but so quietly that I, then a boy, took his quietness for coldness…. In Yalta, in the year 1899, I found him already much changed; he had grown thin; his face was sadder; his distinction was as great as ever but it was the distinction of an elderly man, who has gone through much, and been ennobled by his suffering. His voice was gentler…. In other respects he was much as he had been in Moscow; cordial, speaking with animation, but even more simply and shortly, and, while he talked, he went on with his own thoughts. He let me grasp the connections between his thoughts as well as I could, while he looked through his glasses at the sea, his face slightly raised. Next morning after meeting him on the quay I went to his house. I well remember the bright sunny morning that I spent with Chekhov in his garden. He was very lively, and laughed and read me the only poem, so he said, that he had ever written, “Horses, Hares and Chinamen, a fable for children.” (Chekhov wrote it for the children of a friend. See Letters.)
Once walked over a bridge
Fat Chinamen,
In front of them, with their tails up,
Hares ran quickly.
Suddenly the Chinamen shouted: