ly, 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