utochthon
plant, nourished by his natal sap. His humor is completely Russian;
we hear Tolstoyan notes in his democracy; the "failures" of his
stories are distantly related to the "superficial characters" of
Turgenev; finally, the theory of the redemption of the past by
suffering which he puts in the heart of the hero of the "Cherry
Garden" makes us think of Dostoyevsky. The qualities which call to
mind all these great names in Russian literature are found in the
works of Tchekoff along with characteristics which show a very
original talent. If one wishes to look for foreign influence, one
can relate Tchekoff to de Maupassant and Ibsen, of whom he reminds
one in snatches, although still in a very vague way. And that is
indeed fortunate, for, in general, Scandinavian symbolism hardly
goes hand in hand with the Russian spirit, which likes to make
_direct_ answers to "cursed questions," and whose ideal, elaborated
since 1840 in the realm of strict realism, is so definite that it
does not necessitate going back to the circumlocutions of metaphors
and allegories.

While Tchekoff lived his literary aspect was enigmatical. Some
judged him to be indifferent, because they did not find in his
writings that revolutionary spirit which is felt in almost all
modern writers. Others thought of him as a pessimist who saw nothing
good in Russian life, because he described principally resigned
suffering or useless striving for a better life. Since the death of
Tchekoff, which made it necessary for the critics to study his works
as a whole, and especially since the publication of his
correspondence, his character has come to the fore, as it really is:
he is a writer, who, by the very nature of his talent, was
irresistibly forced to study the inner life of man impartially, and
who, consequently, remains the enemy of all religious or
philosophical dogmas which may hinder the task of the observer.

The division of men into good and bad, according to the point of
view of this or that doctrine, angered him:

"I fear," he says in one of his letters, "those who look for hidden
meanings between the lines, and those who look upon me as a
liberator or as a guardian. I am neither a liberal nor a
conservative, neither a monk nor an indifferent person. I despise
lies and violence everywhere and under any form.... I only want to
be an artist, and that's all."

One realized that this unfettered artist, with his hatred of lies
and violence, although