When I read To the Lighthouse, I felt, Heavens, what is this? I was so excited by the experience I couldnвЂ™t sleep or eat. Anyway, I took a temperamental delight in Chekhov, and gradually the connection was borne in upon me. That kind of responsiveness to the world, to whatever happens, out of their own deeps of character seems very southern to me. Like in The Three Sisters, when the fire is going on, how they talk right on through their exhaustion, and Vershinin says, вЂњI feel a strange excitement in the air,вЂќ and laughs and sings and talks about the future. Yet thereвЂ™s a great love and understanding that prevails through it, and a knowledge and acceptance of each otherвЂ™s idiosyncrasies, a tolerance of them, and also an acute enjoyment of the dramatic.

You know, in Uncle Vanya and The Cherry Orchard, how people are always gathered together and talking and talking, no oneвЂ™s really listening. ItвЂ™s the kind that lies mostly in character. He had the sense of fate overtaking a way of life, and his Russian humor seems to me kin to the humor of a Southerner. He loved the singularity in people, the individuality. Chekhov is one of us-so close to todayвЂ™s world, to my mind, and very close to the South-which Stark Young pointed out a long time ago. He did offer me either Jane Austen or Chekhov, and Chekhov I do dare to think is more вЂњkindred.вЂќ I feel closer to him in spirit, but I couldnвЂ™t read Russian, which I felt whoever wrote about him should be able to do.

Tolerate? I should just think so! I love and admire all she does, and profoundly, but I donвЂ™t read her or anyone else for вЂњkindredness.вЂќ The piece youвЂ™re referring to was written on assignment for Brief Lives, an anthology Louis Kronenberger was editing. You wrote somewhere that we should still tolerate Jane AustenвЂ™s kind of family novel. She is extremely private and wonвЂ™t reveal anything personal about herself. As she herself might say, she was вЂњnot unforthcoming.вЂќ She speaks deliberately with a deep Southern drawl, measuring her words. Once the interview got underway, she grew more at ease. After describing her train ride-she wonвЂ™t fly-she braced herself and asked if I wouldnвЂ™t begin the questioning. She was admittedly nervous about being interviewed, particularly on a tape recorder. A tall, large-boned, gray-haired woman greeted me apologetically. She had given me the wrong room number, so I first saw her peering out of her door as the elevator opened. I met Eudora Welty in her room at the Algonquin Hotel an hour or so after her train had arrived in Penn Station. Interviewed by Linda Kuehl Issue 55, Fall 1972

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