"swnsg10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chekhov Anton)

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 also be attributed to his
ever-increasing ill health.

Weary and with an obstinate cough, he went south in 1888, took a
little cottage on the banks of a little river "abounding in fish
and crabs," and surrendered himself to his touching love for
nature, happy in his passion for fishing, in the quiet of the
country, and in the music and gaiety of the peasants. "One would
gladly sell one's soul," he writes, "for the pleasure of seeing
the warm evening sky, and the streams and pools reflecting the
darkly mournful sunset." He described visits to his country
neighbours and long drives in gay company, during which, he says,
"we ate every half hour, and laughed to the verge of colic."