unity is so singular and compelling that it leaves room for few
hesitations. The majority of writers, however excellent in their
peculiar virtues, are not concerned with it: at one moment they
represent, at another they may philosophise, but the two activities have
no organic connection, and their work, if it displays any evolution at
all, displays it only in the minor accidents of the craft, such as style
in the narrower and technical sense, or the obvious economy of
construction. There is no danger of mistaking these for great writers.
Nor, in the more peculiar case of writers who attempt to impose the
illusion of unity, is the danger serious. The apparatus is always
visible; they cannot afford to do without the paraphernalia of argument
which supplies the place of what is lacking in their presentation. The
obvious instance of this legerdemain is Zola; a less obvious, and
therefore more interesting example is Balzac.

To attempt the more difficult problem. What is most peculiar to
Tchehov's unity is that it is far more nakedly æsthetic than that of
most of the great writers before him. Other writers of a rank equal to
his--and there are not so very many--have felt the need to shift their
angle of vision until they could perceive an all-embracing unity; but
they were not satisfied with this. They felt, and obeyed, the further
need of taking an attitude towards the unity they saw They approved or
disapproved, accepted or rejected it. It would be perhaps more accurate
to say that they gave or refused their endorsement. They appealed to
some other element than their own sense of beauty for the final verdict
on their discovery; they asked whether it was just or good.

The distinguishing mark of Tchehov is that he is satisfied with the
unity he discovers. Its uniqueness is sufficient for him. It does not
occur to him to demand that it should be otherwise or better. The act of