THE last years of the nineteenth century were for Russia tinged with doubt and gloom.
The high-tide of vitality that had risen during the Turkish war ebbed in the early eighties,
leaving behind it a dead level of apathy which lasted until life was again quickened by the
high interests of the Revolution. During these grey years the lonely country and stagnant
provincial towns of Russia buried a peasantry which was enslaved by want and toil, and
an educated upper class which was enslaved by idleness and tedium. Most of the
"Intellectuals," with no outlet for their energies, were content to forget their ennui in
vodka and card-playing; only the more idealistic gasped for air in the stifling atmosphere,
crying out in despair against life as they saw it, and looking forward with a pathetic hope
to happiness for humanity in "two or three hundred years." It is the inevitable tragedy of
their existence, and the pitiful humour of their surroundings, that are portrayed with such
insight and sympathy by Anton Tchekoff who is, perhaps, of modern writers, the dearest
to the Russian people.
Anton Tchekoff was born in the old Black Sea port of Taganrog on January 17, 1860. His
grandfather had been a serf; his father married a merchant's daughter and settled in
Taganrog, where, during Anton's boyhood, he carried on a small and unsuccessful trade
in provisions. The young Tchekoff was soon impressed into the services of the large,
poverty-stricken family, and he spoke regretfully in after years of his hard-worked
childhood. But he was obedient and good-natured, and worked cheerfully in his father's
shop, closely observing the idlers that assembled there, and gathering the drollest stories,
which he would afterward whisper in class to his laughing schoolfellows. Many were the
punishments which he incurred by this habit, which was incorrigible.
His grandfather had now become manager of an estate near Taganrog, in the wild steppe
country of the Don Cossacks, and here the boy spent his summers, fishing in the river,
and roving about the countryside as brown as a gipsy, sowing the seeds of that love for
nature which he retained all his life. His evenings he liked best to spend in the kitchen of
the master's house among the work people and peasants who gathered there, taking part
in their games, and setting them all laughing by his witty and telling observations.
When Tchekoff was about fourteen, his father moved the family to Moscow, leaving
Anton in Taganrog, and now, relieved of work in the shop, his progress at school became
remarkable. At seventeen he wrote a long tragedy, which was afterward destroyed, and he
already showed flashes of the wit that was soon to blaze into genius.