Chapter XLVII: Part XVI: An Afterword, by Tolstoy, to Chekhov’s Story, “darling”

There is profound meaning in the story in the Book of Numbers, which tells how Balak, king of the Moabites, sent for Balaam to curse the people of Israel who had come to his borders. Balak promised Balaam many gifts for his service; and Balaam, being tempted, went to Balak, but was stopped on the way by an angel who was seen by his ass but whom Balaam did not see. In spite of this Balaam went on to Balak and went with him up a mountain, where an altar had been prepared with calves and lambs slaughtered in readiness for the imprecation. Balak waited for the curse to be pronounced, but instead of cursing them Balaam blessed the people of Israel.

_Ch. XXIII, v. 11._ “And Balak said unto Balaam, What hast thou done unto me? I took thee to curse mine enemies, and, behold, thou hast blessed them altogether.

_v. 12._ “And he answered and said, Must I not take heed to speak that which the Lord putteth in my mouth?

_v. 13._ “And Balak said unto him, Come with me unto another place ... and curse me them from thence.”

And he took him to another place, where also altars had been prepared.

But again Balaam, instead of cursing, blessed them.

And so it was a third time.

_Chapter XXIV, v. 10._ “And Balak’s anger was kindled against Balaam, and he smote his hands together; and Balak said unto Balaam, I called thee to curse mine enemies, and thou hast blessed them these three times. Therefore now flee thou to thy place: I thought to promote thee unto great honour; and, lo, the Lord hath kept thee back from honour.” And so Balaam departed without receiving the gifts, because instead of cursing Balak’s enemies he had blessed them.

What happened to Balaam very often happens to true poets and artists. Tempted by Balak’s promises of popularity, or by false views suggested to them, the poet does not even see the angel that bars his way whom the ass sees, and he wishes to curse but yet he blesses.

This is just what happened with the true poet and artist Chékhov when he wrote his charming story, _Darling_.

The author evidently wanted to laugh at this pitiful creature--as he judged her with his intellect, not with his heart--this “Darling,” who, after sharing Kúkin’s troubles about his theatre, and then immersing herself in the interests of the timber business, under the influence of the veterinary surgeon considers the struggle against bovine tuberculosis to be the most important matter in the world, and is finally absorbed in questions of grammar and the interests of the little school-boy in the big cap. Kúkin’s name is ridiculous, and so even is his illness and the telegram announcing his death. The timber-dealer with his sedateness is ridiculous, and the veterinary surgeon and the boy are ridiculous; but the soul of “Darling,” with her capacity to devote herself with her whole being to the one she loves, is not ridiculous but wonderful and holy.

I think that in the mind though not in the heart of the author when he wrote _Darling_, there was a dim idea of the new woman, of her equality of rights with man; of woman, developed, learned, working independently, as well as man if not better, for the benefit of society; of the woman who has raised and insists upon the woman question; and in beginning to write _Darling_ he wanted to show what woman ought not to be. The Balak of public opinion invited Chékhov to curse the weak, submissive, undeveloped woman, devoted to man, and Chékhov ascended the mountain, and the calves and sheep were laid upon the altar, but when he began to speak, the author blessed what he had meant to curse. I, at any rate, despite the wonderful gay humour of the whole work, cannot read without tears some passages of this beautiful story. I am touched by the description of the complete devotion with which she loved Kúkin and all that he cared for, and also the timber-dealer, and also the veterinary surgeon, and yet more by her sufferings when she was left alone and had no one to love, and by the account of how finally with all the strength of her womanly and motherly feeling (which she had never had the opportunity to expend on children of her own) she devoted her unbounded love to the future man, the school-boy in the big cap.

The author makes her love the ridiculous Kúkin, the insignificant timber-dealer, and the unpleasant veterinary surgeon; but love is not less sacred whether its object be a Kúkin or a Spinoza, a Pascal or a Schiller, whether its object changes as rapidly as in the case of _Darling_, or remains the same for a whole lifetime.

I happened long ago to read in the _Nóvoe Vrémya_ an excellent feuilleton by M. Ata about women. In this feuilleton the author expressed a remarkably wise and profound thought. “Women,” he says, “try to prove to us that they can do everything we men can do. I not only do not dispute this, but am ready to agree that women can do all that men do and perhaps even do it better, but the trouble is that men cannot do anything even approximately approaching what women can accomplish.”

Yes, that is certainly so, and it is true not only of the bearing, nursing, and early education of children, but men cannot do what is loftiest, best, and brings man nearest to God--the work of loving, of complete devotion to the beloved, which has been so well and naturally done, and is done, and will be done, by good women. What would become of the world, what would become of us men, if women had not that faculty and did not exercise it? Without women doctors, women telegraphists, women lawyers and scientists and authoresses, we might get on, but without mothers, helpers, friends, comforters, who love in man all that is best in him--without such women it would be hard to live in the world. Christ would be without Mary or Magdalene, Francis of Assisi would have lacked Claire, there would have been no wives of the Decembrists in their exile, nor would the Doukhobors have had their wives, who did not restrain their husbands but supported them in their martyrdom for truth. There would not have been those thousands and thousands of unknown women--the very best (as the unknown generally are)--comforters of the drunken, the weak, and the dissolute, who more than anyone else need the consolation of love. In that love, whether directed to Kúkin or to Christ, is the chief, grand strength of women, irreplaceable by anything else.

What a wonderful misconception is the whole so-called woman’s question, which has obsessed (as is natural with every empty idea) the majority of women and even of men!

“Woman wants to improve herself!” What can be more legitimate or more just than that?

But the business of a woman by her very vocation is different from a man’s. And therefore the ideal of perfection for a woman cannot be the same as the ideal for a man. Let us grant that we do not know in what that ideal consists, but in any case it is certainly not the ideal of perfection for a man. And yet to the attainment of that masculine ideal all the absurd and unwholesome activity of the fashionable woman’s movement, which now so confuses women, is directed.

I am afraid that Chékhov when writing _Darling_ was under the influence of this misunderstanding.

He, like Balaam, intended to curse, but the God of poetry forbade him to do so and commanded him to bless, and he blessed, and involuntarily clothed that sweet creature in such a wonderful radiance that she will always remain a type of what woman can be in order to be happy herself and to cause the happiness of those with whom her fate is united.

This story is so excellent because its effect was unintentional.

I learned to ride a bicycle in the great Moscow riding-school, in which army-divisions are reviewed. At the other end of the riding-school a lady was learning to ride. I thought of how to avoid incommoding that lady and began looking at her. And, looking at her, I began involuntarily to draw nearer and nearer to her, and although she, noticing the danger, hastened to get out of the way, I rode against her and upset her, that is to say, I did exactly the opposite of what I wished to do, simply because I had concentrated my attention upon her.

The same thing has happened with Chékhov, but in an inverse sense: he wanted to knock down “Darling,” and directing the close attention of a poet upon her, he has exalted her.