LETTERS ABOUT WRITING
379
like Denis Davidov; others have remote aims-God, life beyond the
grave, the happiness of mankind and so on. The best of them are
realistic and paint life as it is, but because every line is saturated with
juice, with the sense of life, you feel, in addition to life as it is, life
as it should be, and you are entranced. Now what about us? Yes,
us! We paint life such as it is-that's
all,
there isn't any more....
Beat us up,
if
you like, but that's as far as we'll go. We have neither
immediate nor distant aims, and you can rattle around in our souls.
We have no politics, we don't believe in revolution, we don't believe
in
God, we aren't afraid of ghosts, and personally I don't even fear
death or blindness. He who doesn't desire anything, doesn't hope for
anything and isn't afraid of anything cannot be an artist. It doesn't
matter whether we call it a disease or not, the name doesn't matter,
but we do have to admit that our situation is worse than a governor's.
I don't know how it will be with us 10 or 20 years hence, perhaps
circumstances may change by then, but for the time being it would
be rash to expect anything really good from us, regardless of whether
or not we are gifted. We write mechanically, in submission to the
old established order whereby some people are in government service,
others in business and still others write. . . . You and Grigorovich
hold that I am intelligent. Yes, I am intelligent in that at least I
don't conceal my illness from myself, don't lie to myself and don't
cover my own emptiness with other people's intellectual rags, like
the ideas of the '60s and so on. I won't throw myself down a flight
of stairs, like Garshin, but neither will I attempt to flatter myself
with hopes of a better future. I am not to blame for my disease, and
it is not for me to cure myself, as I have to assume this illness has
good aims which are obscure to us and not inflicted without good
reason. . . . "It wasn't just the weather that brought them to–
gether...."
Well sir, now as to the intellect. Grigorovich believes the mind
can triumph over talent. Byron was as brilliant as a hundred devils,
but it was his talent that made him immortal.
If
you tell me that X
spoke nonsense because his intellect triumphed over his talent, or vice
versa, I will reply that X had neither intellect nor talent.
. . . The Heavens guard you!
Yours,
A.
CHEKHOV
