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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:27:29 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:27:29 -0700 |
| commit | 550087ae99aa5d5128a9f95b7b525b5ded500522 (patch) | |
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diff --git a/6408-h/6408-h.htm b/6408-h/6408-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b0abee5 --- /dev/null +++ b/6408-h/6408-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16612 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Letters of Anton Chekhov to his Family and Friends, by Anton Chekhov + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Letters of Anton Chekhov, by Anton Chekhov + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Letters of Anton Chekhov + +Author: Anton Chekhov + +Translator: Constance Garnett + + +Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6408] +This file was first posted on December 8, 2002 +Last Updated: September 10, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF ANTON CHEKHOV *** + + + + +Produced by Tom Allen, Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + LETTERS OF ANTON CHEKHOV TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS + </h1> + <h4> + With Biographical Sketch + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Anton Chekhov + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated By Constance Garnett + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TRANSLATOR’S NOTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>LETTERS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> TO HIS COUSIN, MIHAIL CHEKHOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> TO N. A. LEIKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> TO D. V. GRIGOROVITCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> TO N. A. LEIKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> September 29. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> December 3. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> December 13. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> TO HIS BROTHER NIKOLAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> April 6. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> April 8, 9, and 10. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> April 25. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> RAGOZINA BALKA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> TAGANROG, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> TO V. G. KOROLENKO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> November 24. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> TO D. V. GRIGOROVITCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> TO V. G. KOROLENKO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> February 9. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> March 6. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> May 3. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> July 22. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO N. A. LEIKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> November, 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> November 11, 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> November 15, 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> (No date), 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> December 23, 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> December 26, 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> December 30, 1888. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> January 7, 1889. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> March 5, 1889. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> SUMY, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> May 4, 1889. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> May 7. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> May 14, 1889. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> May 15, 1889. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> October, 1889. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> February 28. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> March 4. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> TO N. M. LINTVARYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> March 29. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> April 1. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> April 11. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> April 15. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> FROM THE STEAMER, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> April 29, 1890. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> TO MADAME KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> TOMSK, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> TOMSK, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> TO N. A. LEIKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> IRKUTSK, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> STATION LISTVENITCHNAYA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> TO HIS MOTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> TO N. A. LEIKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> POKROVSKAYA STANITSA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> June 26. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> TELEGRAM TO HIS MOTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> TELEGRAM TO HIS MOTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> TO HIS MOTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> January, later. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> January, later. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> January 16, 1891. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> TO A. F. KONI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> February 23. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> March 5. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> TO MADAME KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> VIENNA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> TO HIS BROTHER IVAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> TO MADAME KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> TO HIS SISTER, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> VENICE, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> BOLOGNA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> FLORENCE, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> FLORENCE, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> TO MADAME KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> NAPLES, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> NAPLES, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> MONTE CARLO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> PARIS, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> ALEXIN, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> ALEXIN, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> TO L. S. MIZINOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> BOGIMOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> BOGIMOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> BOGIMOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> TO L. S. MIZINOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> TO L. S. MIZINOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> TO THE SAME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> TO MADAME KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> July 29. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> August 6. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> August 18. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> August 18. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> August 28. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> August 28. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> TO E. M. S. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> TO MADAME LINTVARYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> TO E. M. S. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0158"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0159"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0160"> TO N. A. LEIKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0161"> TO E. P. YEGOROV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0162"> TO A. I. SMAGIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0163"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0164"> December 13, 1891. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0165"> TO A. I. SMAGIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0166"> TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0167"> TO V. A. TIHONOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0168"> TO A. S. KISELYOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0169"> TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0170"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0171"> TO MADAME AVILOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0172"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0173"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0174"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0175"> TO MADAME AVILOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0176"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0177"> May 28, 1892. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0178"> June 16. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0179"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0180"> August 16. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0181"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0182"> November 22, 1892. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0183"> November 25, 1892. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0184"> February, 1893. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0185"> April 26, 1893. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0186"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0187"> YALTA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0188"> TO L. S. MIZINOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0189"> TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0190"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0191"> May 9. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0192"> TO MADAME AVILOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0193"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0194"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0195"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0196"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0197"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0198"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0199"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0200"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0201"> MELIHOVO, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0202"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0203"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0204"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0205"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0206"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0207"> TO E. M. S. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0208"> TO A. F. KONI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0209"> TO V. I. NEMIROVITCH-DANTCHENKO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0210"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0211"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0212"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0213"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0214"> TO A. I. ERTEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0215"> TO SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0216"> TO MADAME AVILOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0217"> TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0218"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0219"> TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0220"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0221"> TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0222"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0223"> TO GORKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0224"> YALTA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0225"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0226"> TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0227"> TO I. I. ORLOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0228"> TO MADAME AVILOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0229"> TO GORKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0230"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0231"> TO G. I. ROSSOLIMO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0232"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0233"> YALTA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0234"> TO GORKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0235"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0236"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0237"> TO P. I. KURKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0238"> TO V. M. SOBOLEVSKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0239"> TO G. I. ROSSOLIMO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0240"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0241"> TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0242"> TO M. O. MENSHIKOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0243"> TO L. S. MIZINOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0244"> TO GORKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0245"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0246"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0247"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0248"> TO GORKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0249"> TO V. A. POSSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0250"> YALTA, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0251"> TO A. S. SUVORIN, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0252"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0253"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0254"> TO O. L. KNIPPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0255"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0256"> TO GORKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0257"> MOSCOW, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0258"> July 29, 1902. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0259"> TO S. P. DYAGILEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0260"> TO A. S. SUVORIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0261"> July 1, 1903. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0262"> TO S. P. DYAGILEV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0263"> TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0264"> TO MADAME STANISLAVSKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0265"> TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0266"> TO V. I. NEMIROVITCH DANTCHENKO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0267"> TO A. L. VISHNEVSKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0268"> TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0269"> TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0270"> TO MADAME AVILOV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0271"> TO FATHER SERGEY SHTCHUKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0272"> TO HIS SISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0273"> BERLIN, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0274"> BADENWEILER, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0275"> June 16. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0276"> June 21. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0277"> June 28. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0278"> THE END </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0279"> [Transcriber’s Note: In the Biographical Sketch, + “Chekhov was </a> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRANSLATOR’S NOTE + </h2> + <p> + Of the eighteen hundred and ninety letters published by Chekhov’s family I + have chosen for translation these letters and passages from letters which + best to illustrate Chekhov’s life, character and opinions. The brief + memoir is abridged and adapted from the biographical sketch by his brother + Mihail. Chekhov’s letters to his wife after his marriage have not as yet + been published. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH + </h2> + <p> + In 1841 a serf belonging to a Russian nobleman purchased his freedom and + the freedom of his family for 3,500 roubles, being at the rate of 700 + roubles a soul, with one daughter, Alexandra, thrown in for nothing. The + grandson of this serf was Anton Chekhov, the author; the son of the + nobleman was Tchertkov, the Tolstoyan and friend of Tolstoy. + </p> + <p> + There is in this nothing striking to a Russian, but to the English student + it is sufficiently significant for several reasons. It illustrates how + recent a growth was the educated middle-class in pre-revolutionary Russia, + and it shows, what is perhaps more significant, the homogeneity of the + Russian people, and their capacity for completely changing their whole way + of life. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov’s father started life as a slave, but the son of this slave was + even more sensitive to the Arts, more innately civilized and in love with + the things of the mind than the son of the slaveowner. Chekhov’s father, + Pavel Yegorovitch, had a passion for music and singing; while he was still + a serf boy he learned to read music at sight and to play the violin. A few + years after his freedom had been purchased he settled at Taganrog, a town + on the Sea of Azov, where he afterwards opened a “Colonial Stores.” + </p> + <p> + This business did well until the construction of the railway to + Vladikavkaz, which greatly diminished the importance of Taganrog as a port + and a trading centre. But Pavel Yegorovitch was always inclined to neglect + his business. He took an active part in all the affairs of the town, + devoted himself to church singing, conducted the choir, played on the + violin, and painted ikons. + </p> + <p> + In 1854 he married Yevgenia Yakovlevna Morozov, the daughter of a cloth + merchant of fairly good education who had settled down at Taganrog after a + life spent in travelling about Russia in the course of his business. + </p> + <p> + There were six children, five of whom were boys, Anton being the third + son. The family was an ordinary patriarchal household of the kind common + at that time. The father was severe, and in exceptional cases even went so + far as to chastise his children, but they all lived on warm and + affectionate terms. Everyone got up early, the boys went to the high + school, and when they returned learned their lessons. All of them had + their hobbies. The eldest, Alexandr, would construct an electric battery, + Nikolay used to draw, Ivan to bind books, while Anton was always writing + stories. In the evening, when their father came home from the shop, there + was choral singing or a duet. + </p> + <p> + Pavel Yegorovitch trained his children into a regular choir, taught them + to sing music at sight, and play on the violin, while at one time they had + a music teacher for the piano too. There was also a French governess who + came to teach the children languages. Every Saturday the whole family went + to the evening service, and on their return sang hymns and burned incense. + On Sunday morning they went to early mass, after which they all sang hymns + in chorus at home. Anton had to learn the whole church service by heart + and sing it over with his brothers. + </p> + <p> + The chief characteristic distinguishing the Chekhov family from their + neighbours was their habit of singing and having religious services at + home. + </p> + <p> + Though the boys had often to take their father’s place in the shop, they + had leisure enough to enjoy themselves. They sometimes went for whole days + to the sea fishing, played Russian tennis, and went for excursions to + their grandfather’s in the country. Anton was a sturdy, lively boy, + extremely intelligent, and inexhaustible in jokes and enterprises of all + kinds. He used to get up lectures and performances, and was always acting + and mimicking. As children, the brothers got up a performance of Gogol’s + “Inspector General,” in which Anton took the part of Gorodnitchy. One of + Anton’s favourite improvisations was a scene in which the Governor of the + town attended church parade at a festival and stood in the centre of the + church, on a rug surrounded by foreign consuls. Anton, dressed in his + high-school uniform, with his grandfather’s old sabre coming to his + shoulder, used to act the part of the Governor with extraordinary subtlety + and carry out a review of imaginary Cossacks. Often the children would + gather round their mother or their old nurse to hear stories. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov’s story “Happiness” was written under the influence of one of his + nurse’s tales, which were always of the mysterious, of the extraordinary, + of the terrible, and poetical. + </p> + <p> + Their mother, on the other hand, told the children stories of real life, + describing how she had travelled all over Russia as a little girl, how the + Allies had bombarded Taganrog during the Crimean War, and how hard life + had been for the peasants in the days of serfdom. She instilled into her + children a hatred of brutality and a feeling of regard for all who were in + an inferior position, and for birds and animals. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov in later years used to say: “Our talents we got from our father, + but our soul from our mother.” + </p> + <p> + In 1875 the two elder boys went to Moscow. + </p> + <p> + After their departure the business went from bad to worse, and the family + sank into poverty. + </p> + <p> + In 1876 Pavel Yegorovitch closed his shop, and went to join his sons in + Moscow. While earning their own living, one was a student at the + University, and the other a student at the School of Sculpture and + Painting. The house was sold by auction, one of the creditors took all the + furniture, and Chekhov’s mother was left with nothing. Some months + afterwards she went to rejoin her husband in Moscow, taking the younger + children with her, while Anton, who was then sixteen, lived on in solitude + at Taganrog for three whole years, earning his own living, and paying for + his education at the high school. + </p> + <p> + He lived in the house that had been his father’s, in the family of one + Selivanov, the creditor who had bought it, and gave lessons to the + latter’s nephew, a Cossack. He went with his pupil to the latter’s house + in the country, and learned to ride and shoot. During the last two years + he was very fond of the society of the high-school girls, and used to tell + his brothers that he had had the most delightful flirtations. + </p> + <p> + At the same time he went frequently to the theatre and was very fond of + French melodramas, so that he was by no means crushed by his early + struggle for existence. In 1879 he went to Moscow to enter the University, + bringing with him two school-fellows who boarded with his family. He found + his father had just succeeded in getting work away from home, so that from + the first day of his arrival he found himself head of the family, every + member of which had to work for their common livelihood. Even little + Mihail used to copy out lectures for students, and so made a little money. + It was the absolute necessity of earning money to pay for his fees at the + University and to help in supporting the household that forced Anton to + write. That winter he wrote his first published story, “A Letter to a + Learned Neighbour.” All the members of the family were closely bound + together round one common centre—Anton. “What will Anton say?” was + always their uppermost thought on every occasion. + </p> + <p> + Ivan soon became the master of the parish school at Voskresensk, a little + town in the Moscow province. Living was cheap there, so the other members + of the family spent the summer there; they were joined by Anton when he + had taken his degree, and the Chekhovs soon had a large circle of friends + in the neighbourhood. Every day the company met, went long walks, played + croquet, discussed politics, read aloud, and went into raptures over + Shtchedrin. Here Chekhov gained an insight into military society which he + afterwards turned to account in his play “The Three Sisters.” + </p> + <p> + One day a young doctor called Uspensky came in from Zvenigorod, a small + town fourteen miles away. “Look here,” he said to Chekhov, “I am going + away for a holiday and can’t find anyone to take my place.... You take the + job on. My Pelageya will cook for you, and there is a guitar there....” + </p> + <p> + Voskresensk and Zvenigorod played an important part in Chekhov’s life as a + writer; a whole series of his tales is founded on his experiences there, + besides which it was his first introduction to the society of literary and + artistic people. Three or four miles from Voskresensk was the estate of a + landowner, A. S. Kiselyov, whose wife was the daughter of Begitchev, the + director of the Moscow Imperial Theatre. The Chekhovs made the + acquaintance of the Kiselyovs, and spent three summers in succession on + their estate, Babkino. + </p> + <p> + The Kiselyovs were musical and cultivated people, and intimate friends of + Dargomyzhsky, Tchaykovsky the composer, and the Italian actor Salvini. + Madame Kiselyov was passionately fond of fishing, and would spend hours at + a time sitting on the river bank with Anton, fishing and talking about + literature. She was herself a writer. Chekhov was always playing with the + Kiselyov children and running about the old park with them. The people he + met, the huntsman, the gardener, the carpenters, the sick women who came + to him for treatment, and the place itself, river, forests, nightingales—all + provided Chekhov with subjects to write about and put him in the mood for + writing. He always got up early and began writing by seven o’clock in the + morning. After lunch the whole party set off to look for mushrooms in the + woods. Anton was fond of looking for mushrooms, and said it stimulated the + imagination. At this time he was always talking nonsense. + </p> + <p> + Levitan, the painter, lived in the neighbourhood, and Chekhov and he + dressed up, blacked their faces and put on turbans. Levitan then rode off + on a donkey through the fields, where Anton suddenly sprang out of the + bushes with a gun and began firing blank cartridges at him. + </p> + <p> + In 1886 Chekhov suffered for the second time from an attack of spitting + blood. There is no doubt that consumption was developing, but apparently + he refused to believe this himself. He went on being as gay as ever, + though he slept badly and often had terrible dreams. It was one of these + dreams that suggested the subject of his story “The Black Monk.” + </p> + <p> + That year he began to write for the <i>Novoye Vremya</i>, which made a + special feature of his work. Under the influence of letters from + Grigorovitch, who was the first person to appreciate his talent, Chekhov + began to take his writing more seriously. + </p> + <p> + In 1887 he visited the south of Russia and stayed at the Holy Mountains, + which gave him the subjects of two of his stories, “Easter Eve” and + “Uprooted.” In the autumn of that year he was asked by Korsh, a theatrical + manager who knew him as a humorous writer, to write something for his + theatre. Chekhov sat down and wrote “Ivanov” in a fortnight, sending off + every act for rehearsal as it was completed. + </p> + <p> + By this time he had won a certain amount of recognition, everyone was + talking of him, and there was consequently great curiosity about his new + play. The performance was, however, only partially a success; the + audience, divided into two parties, hissed vigorously and clapped noisily. + For a long time afterwards the newspapers were full of discussions of the + character and personality of the hero, while the novelty of the dramatic + method attracted great attention. + </p> + <p> + In January, 1889, the play was performed at the Alexandrinsky Theatre in + Petersburg and the controversy broke out again. + </p> + <p> + “Ivanov” was the turning-point in Chekhov’s mental development, and + literary career. He took up his position definitely as a writer, though + his brass plate continued to hang on the door. Shortly after writing + “Ivanov,” he wrote a one-act play called “The Bear.” The following season + Solovtsev, who had taken the chief character in “The Bear,” opened a + theatre of his own in Moscow, which was not at first a success. He + appealed to Chekhov to save him with a play for Christmas, which was only + ten days off. Chekhov set to work and wrote an act every day. The play was + produced in time, but the author was never satisfied with it, and after a + short, very successful run took it off the stage. Several years later he + completely remodelled it and produced it as “Uncle Vanya” at the Art + Theatre in Moscow. At this time he was writing a long novel, of which he + often dreamed aloud, and which he liked to talk about. He was for several + years writing at this novel, but no doubt finally destroyed it, as no + trace of it could be found after his death. He wanted it to embody his + views on life, opinions which he expressed in a letter to Plestcheyev in + these words: + </p> + <p> + “I am not a Liberal, not a Conservative.... I should have liked to have + been a free artist and nothing more—and I regret that God has not + given me the strength to be one. I hate lying and violence in all their + forms—the most absolute freedom, freedom from force and fraud in + whatever form the two latter may be expressed, that is the programme I + would hold to if I were a great artist.” + </p> + <p> + At this time he was always gay and insisted on having people round him + while he worked. His little house in Moscow, which “looked like a chest of + drawers,” was a centre to which people, and especially young people, + flocked in swarms. Upstairs they played the piano, a hired one, while + downstairs he sat writing through it all. “I positively can’t live without + visitors,” he wrote to Suvorin; “when I am alone, for some reason I am + frightened.” This gay life which seemed so full of promise was, however, + interrupted by violent fits of coughing. He tried to persuade other + people, and perhaps himself, that it was not serious, and he would not + consent to be properly examined. He was sometimes so weak from haemorrhage + that he could see no one, but as soon as the attack was over his mood + changed, the doors were thrown open, visitors arrived, there was music + again, and Chekhov was once more in the wildest spirits. + </p> + <p> + The summers of those two years, 1888 and 1889, he spent with his family in + a summer villa at Luka, in the province of Harkov. He was in ecstasies + beforehand over the deep, broad river, full of fish and crayfish, the pond + full of carp, the woods, the old garden, and the abundance of young + ladies. His expectations were fulfilled in every particular, and he had + all the fishing and musical society he could wish for. Soon after his + arrival Plestcheyev came to stay with him on a month’s visit. + </p> + <p> + He was an old man in feeble health, but attractive to everyone. Young + ladies in particular were immediately fascinated by him. He used to + compose his works aloud, sometimes shouting at the top of his voice, so + that Chekhov would run in and ask him if he wanted anything. Then the old + man would give a sweet and guilty smile and go on with his work. Chekhov + was in constant anxiety about the old man’s health, as he was very fond of + cakes and pastry, and Chekhov’s mother used to regale him on them to such + an extent that Anton was constantly having to give him medicine. + Afterwards Suvorin, the editor of <i>Novoye Vremya</i>, came to stay. + Chekhov and he used to paddle in a canoe, hollowed out of a tree, to an + old mill, where they would spend hours fishing and talking about + literature. + </p> + <p> + Both the grandsons of serfs, both cultivated and talented men, they were + greatly attracted by each other. Their friendship lasted for several + years, and on account of Suvorin’s reactionary opinions, exposed Chekhov + to a great deal of criticism in Russia. Chekhov’s feelings for Suvorin + began to change at the time of the Dreyfus case, but he never broke + entirely with him. Suvorin’s feelings for Chekhov remained unchanged. + </p> + <p> + In the spring of 1889 his brother Nikolay, the artist, fell ill with + consumption, and his illness occupied Anton entirely, and completely + prevented his working. That summer Nikolay died, and it was under the + influence of this, his first great sorrow, that Chekhov wrote “A Dreary + Story.” For several months after the death of his brother he was extremely + restless and depressed. + </p> + <p> + In 1890 his younger brother Mihail was taking his degree in law at Moscow, + and studying treatises on the management of prisons. Chekhov got hold of + them, became intensely interested in prisons, and resolved to visit the + penal settlement of Sahalin. He made up his mind to go to the Far East so + unexpectedly that it was difficult for his family to believe that he was + in earnest. + </p> + <p> + He was afraid that after Kennan’s revelations about the penal system in + Siberia, he would, as a writer, be refused permission to visit the prisons + in Sahalin, and therefore tried to get a free pass from the head of the + prison administration, Galkin-Vrasskoy. When this proved fruitless he set + off in April, 1890, with no credentials but his card as a newspaper + correspondent. + </p> + <p> + The Siberian railway did not then exist, and only after great hardships, + being held up by floods and by the impassable state of the roads, Chekhov + succeeded in reaching Sahalin on the 11th of July, having driven nearly + 3,000 miles. He stayed three months on the island, traversed it from north + to south, made a census of the population, talked to every one of the ten + thousand convicts, and made a careful study of the convict system. + Apparently the chief reason for all this was the consciousness that “We + have destroyed millions of men in prisons.... It is not the + superintendents of the prisons who are to blame, but all of us.” In Russia + it was not possible to be a “free artist and nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + Chekhov left Sahalin in October and returned to Europe by way of India and + the Suez Canal. He wanted to visit Japan, but the steamer was not allowed + to put in at the port on account of cholera. + </p> + <p> + In the Indian Ocean he used to bathe by diving off the forecastle deck + when the steamer was going at full speed, and catching a rope which was + let down from the stern. Once while he was doing this he saw a shark and a + shoal of pilot fish close to him in the water, as he describes in his + story “Gusev.” + </p> + <p> + The fruits of this journey were a series of articles in <i>Russkaya Myssl</i> + on the island of Sahalin, and two short stories, “Gusev” and “In Exile.” + His articles on Sahalin were looked on with a favourable eye in + Petersburg, and, who knows, it is possible that the reforms which followed + in regard to penal servitude and exile would not have taken place but for + their influence. + </p> + <p> + After about a month in Moscow, Chekhov went to Petersburg to see Suvorin. + The majority of his Petersburg friends and admirers met him with feelings + of envy and ill-will. People gave dinners in his honour and praised him to + the skies, but at the same time they were ready to “tear him to pieces.” + Even in Moscow such people did not give him a moment for work or rest. He + was so prostrated by the feeling of hostility surrounding him that he + accepted an invitation from Suvorin to go abroad with him. When Chekhov + had completed arrangements for equipping the Sahalin schools with the + necessary books, they set off for the South of Europe. Vienna delighted + him, and Venice surpassed all his expectations and threw him into a state + of childlike ecstasy. + </p> + <p> + Everything fascinated him—and then there was a change in the weather + and a steady downpour of rain. Chekhov’s spirits drooped. Venice was damp + and seemed horrible, and he longed to escape from it. + </p> + <p> + He had had just such a change of mood in Singapore, which interested him + immensely and suddenly filled him with such misery that he wanted to cry. + </p> + <p> + After Venice Chekhov did not get the pleasure he expected from any Italian + town. Florence did not attract him; the sun was not shining. Rome gave him + the impression of a provincial town. He was feeling exhausted, and to add + to his depression he had got into debt, and had the prospect of spending + the summer without any money at all. + </p> + <p> + Travelling with Suvorin, who did not stint himself, drew him into spending + more than he intended, and he owed Suvorin a sum which was further + increased at Monte Carlo by Chekhov’s losing nine hundred roubles at + roulette. But this loss was a blessing to him in so far as, for some + reason, it made him feel satisfied with himself. At the end of April, + 1891, after a stay in Paris, Chekhov returned to Moscow. Except at Vienna + and for the first days in Venice and at Nice, it had rained the whole + time. On his return he had to work extremely hard to pay for his two + tours. His brother Mihail was at this time inspector of taxes at Alexino, + and Chekhov and his household spent the summer not far from that town in + the province of Kaluga, so as to be near him. They took a house dating + from the days of Catherine. Chekhov’s mother had to sit down and rest + halfway when she crossed the hall, the rooms were so large. He liked the + place with its endless avenues of lime-trees and poetical river, while + fishing and gathering mushrooms soothed him and put him in the mood for + work. Here he went on with his story “The Duel,” which he had begun before + going abroad. From the windows there was the view of an old house which + Chekhov described in “An Artist’s Story,” and which he was very eager to + buy. Indeed from this time he began thinking of buying a country place of + his own, not in Little Russia, but in Central Russia. Petersburg seemed to + him more and more idle, cold and egoistic, and he had lost all faith in + his Petersburg acquaintances. On the other hand, Moscow no longer seemed + to him as before “like a cook,” and he grew to love it. He grew fond of + its climate, its people and its bells. He always delighted in bells. + Sometimes in earlier days he had gathered together a party of friends and + gone with them to Kamenny Bridge to listen to the Easter bells. After + eagerly listening to them he would set off to wander from church to + church, and with his legs giving way under him from fatigue would, only + when Easter night was over, make his way homewards. Meanwhile his father, + who was fond of staying till the end of the service, would return from the + parish church, and all the brothers would sing “Christ is risen” in + chorus, and then they all sat down to break their fast. Chekhov never + spent an Easter night in bed. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile in the spring of 1892 there began to be fears about the crops. + These apprehensions were soon confirmed. An unfortunate summer was + followed by a hard autumn and winter, in which many districts were + famine-stricken. Side by side with the Government relief of the starving + population there was a widespread movement for organizing relief, in which + various societies and private persons took part. Chekhov naturally was + drawn into this movement. The provinces of Nizhni-Novogorod and Voronezh + were in the greatest distress, and in the former of these two provinces, + Yegorov, an old friend of Chekhov’s Voskresensk days, was a district + captain (Zemsky Natchalnik). Chekhov wrote to Yegorov, got up a + subscription fund among his acquaintance, and finally set off himself for + Nizhni-Novogorod. As the starving peasants were selling their horses and + cattle for next to nothing, or even slaughtering them for food, it was + feared that as spring came on there would be no beasts to plough with, so + that the coming year threatened to be one of famine also. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov organized a scheme for buying up the horses and feeding them till + the spring at the expense of a relief fund, and then, as soon as field + labour was possible, distributing them among the peasants who were without + horses. + </p> + <p> + After visiting the province of Nizhni-Novogorod, Chekhov went with Suvorin + to Voronezh. But this expedition was not a successful one. He was revolted + by the ceremonious dinners with which he was welcomed as an author, while + the whole province was suffering from famine. Moreover travelling with + Suvorin tied him down and hindered his independent action. Chekhov longed + for intense personal activity such as he displayed later in his campaign + against the cholera. + </p> + <p> + In the winter of the same year his long-cherished dream was realized: he + bought himself an estate. It was in the province of Moscow, near the + hamlet of Melihovo. As an estate it had nothing to recommend it but an + old, badly laid out homestead, wastes of land, and a forest that had been + felled. It had been bought on the spur of the moment, simply because it + had happened to turn up. Chekhov had never been to the place before he + bought it, and only visited it when all the formalities had been + completed. One could hardly turn round near the house for the mass of + hurdles and fences. Moreover the Chekhovs moved into it in the winter when + it was under snow, and all boundaries being obliterated, it was impossible + to tell what was theirs and what was not. But in spite of all that, + Chekhov’s first impression was favourable, and he never showed a sign of + being disappointed. He was delighted by the approach of spring and the + fresh surprises that were continually being revealed by the melting snow. + Suddenly it would appear that a whole haystack belonged to him which he + had supposed to be a neighbour’s, then an avenue of lime-trees came to + light which they had not distinguished before under the snow. Everything + that was amiss in the place, everything he did not like, was at once + abolished or altered. But in spite of all the defects of the house and its + surroundings, and the appalling road from the station (nearly nine miles) + and the lack of rooms, so many visitors came that there was nowhere to put + them, and beds had sometimes to be made up in the passages. Chekhov’s + household at this time consisted of his father and mother, his sister, and + his younger brother Mihail. These were all permanent inmates of Melihovo. + </p> + <p> + As soon as the snow had disappeared the various duties in the house and on + the land were assigned: Chekhov’s sister undertook the flower-beds and the + kitchen garden, his younger brother undertook the field work. Chekhov + himself planted the trees and looked after them. His father worked from + morning till night weeding the paths in the garden and making new ones. + </p> + <p> + Everything attracted the new landowner: planting the bulbs and watching + the flight of rooks and starlings, sowing the clover, and the goose + hatching out her goslings. By four o’clock in the morning Chekhov was up + and about. After drinking his coffee he would go out into the garden and + would spend a long time scrutinizing every fruit-tree and every rose-bush, + now cutting off a branch, now training a shoot, or he would squat on his + heels by a stump and gaze at something on the ground. It turned out that + there was more land than they needed (639 acres), and they farmed it + themselves, with no bailiff or steward, assisted only by two labourers, + Frol and Ivan. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o’clock Chekhov, who got through a good deal of writing in the + morning, would go into the dining-room and look significantly at the + clock. His mother would jump up from her seat and her sewing-machine and + begin to bustle about, crying: “Oh dear! Antosha wants his dinner!” + </p> + <p> + When the table was laid there were so many homemade and other dainties + prepared by his mother that there would hardly be space on the table for + them. There was not room to sit at the table either. Besides the five + permanent members of the family there were invariably outsiders as well. + After dinner Chekhov used to go off to his bedroom and lock himself in to + “read.” Between his after-dinner nap and tea-time he wrote again. The time + between tea and supper (at seven o’clock in the evening) was devoted to + walks and outdoor work. At ten o’clock they went to bed. Lights were put + out and all was stillness in the house; the only sound was a subdued + singing and monotonous recitation. This was Pavel Yegorovitch repeating + the evening service in his room: he was religious and liked to say his + prayers aloud. + </p> + <p> + From the first day that Chekhov moved to Melihovo the sick began flocking + to him from twenty miles around. They came on foot or were brought in + carts, and often he was fetched to patients at a distance. Sometimes from + early in the morning peasant women and children were standing before his + door waiting. He would go out, listen to them and sound them, and would + never let one go away without advice and medicine. His expenditure on + drugs was considerable, as he had to keep a regular store of them. Once + some wayfarers brought Chekhov a man they had picked up by the roadside in + the middle of the night, stabbed in the stomach with a pitchfork. The + peasant was carried into his study and put down in the middle of the + floor, and Chekhov spent a long time looking after him, examining his + wounds and bandaging them up. But what was hardest for Chekhov was + visiting the sick at their own homes: sometimes there was a journey of + several hours, and in this way the time essential for writing was wasted. + </p> + <p> + The first winter at Melihovo was cold; it lasted late and food was short. + Easter came in the snow. There was a church at Melihovo in which a service + was held only once a year, at Easter. Visitors from Moscow were staying + with Chekhov. The family got up a choir among themselves and sang all the + Easter matins and mass. Pavel Yegorovitch conducted as usual. It was out + of the ordinary and touching, and the peasants were delighted: it warmed + their hearts to their new neighbours. + </p> + <p> + Then the thaw came. The roads became appalling. There were only three + broken-down horses on the estate and not a wisp of hay. The horses had to + be fed on rye straw chopped up with an axe and sprinkled with flour. One + of the horses was vicious and there was no getting it out of the yard. + Another was stolen in the fields and a dead horse left in its place. And + so for a long time there was only one poor spiritless beast to drive which + was nicknamed Anna Petrovna. This Anna Petrovna contrived to trot to the + station, to take Chekhov to his patients, to haul logs and to eat nothing + but straw sprinkled with flour. But Chekhov and his family did not lose + heart. Always affectionate, gay and plucky, he cheered the others, work + went ahead, and in less than three months everything in the place was + changed: the house was furnished with crockery; there was the ring of + carpenters’ axes; six horses were bought, and all the field work for the + spring had been completed in good time and in accordance with the rules of + agricultural science. They had no experience at all, but bought masses of + books on the management of the land, and every question, however small, + was debated in common. + </p> + <p> + Their first successes delighted Chekhov. He had thirty acres under rye, + thirty under oats, and fully thirty under hay. Marvels were being done in + the kitchen garden: tomatoes and artichokes did well in the open air. A + dry spring and summer ruined the oats and the rye; the peasants cut the + hay in return for half the crop, and Chekhov’s half seemed a small stack; + only in the kitchen garden things went well. + </p> + <p> + The position of Melihovo on the highroad and the news that Chekhov the + author had settled there inevitably led to new acquaintances. Doctors and + members of the local Zemstvos began visiting Chekhov; acquaintance was + made with the officials of the district, and Chekhov was elected a member + of the Serpuhov Sanitary Council. + </p> + <p> + At that time cholera was raging in the South of Russia. Every day it came + nearer and nearer to the province of Moscow, and everywhere it found + favourable conditions among the population weakened by the famine of + autumn and winter. It was essential to take immediate measures for meeting + the cholera, and the Zemstvo of Serpuhov worked its hardest. Chekhov as a + doctor and a member of the Sanitary Council was asked to take charge of a + section. He immediately gave his services for nothing. He had to drive + about among the manufacturers of the district persuading them to take + adequate measures to combat the cholera. Owing to his efforts the whole + section containing twenty-five villages and hamlets was covered with a + network of the necessary institutions. For several months Chekhov scarcely + got out of his chaise. During that time he had to drive all over his + section, receive patients at home, and do his literary work. He returned + home shattered and exhausted, but always behaved as though he were doing + something trivial; he cracked little jokes and made everyone laugh as + before, and carried on conversations with his dachshund, Quinine, about + her supposed sufferings. + </p> + <p> + By early autumn the place had become unrecognizable. The outhouses had + been rebuilt, unnecessary fences had been removed, rose-trees had been + planted, a flower-bed had been laid out; in the fields before the gates + Chekhov was planning to dig a big new pond. With what interest he watched + each day the progress of the work upon it! He planted trees round it and + dropped into it tiny carp and perch which he brought with him in a jar + from Moscow. The pond became later on more like an ichthyological station + than a pond, as there was no kind of fish in Russia, except the pike, of + which Chekhov had not representatives in this pond. He liked sitting on + the dam on its bank and watching with ecstasy shoals of little fish coming + suddenly to the surface and then hiding in its depths. An excellent well + had been dug in Melihovo before this. Chekhov had been very anxious that + it should be in Little Russian style with a crane. But the position did + not allow of this, and it was made with a big wheel painted yellow like + the wells at Russian railway stations. The question where to dig this well + and whether the water in it would be good greatly interested Chekhov. He + wanted exact information and a theory based on good grounds, seeing that + nine-tenths of Russia uses water out of wells, and has done so since time + immemorial; but whenever he questioned the well-sinkers who came to him, + he received the same vague answer: “Who can tell? It’s in God’s hands. Can + you find out beforehand what the water will be like?” + </p> + <p> + But the well, like the pond, was a great success, and the water turned out + to be excellent. + </p> + <p> + He began seriously planning to build a new house and farm buildings. + Creative activity was his passion. He was never satisfied with what he had + ready-made; he longed to make something new. He planted little trees, + raised pines and fir-trees from seed, looked after them as though they + were his children, and, like Colonel Vershinin in his “Three Sisters,” + dreamed as he looked at them of what they would be like in three or four + hundred years. + </p> + <p> + The winter of 1893 was a severe one with a great deal of snow. The snow + was so high under the windows that the hares who ran into the garden stood + on their hind-legs and looked into the window of Chekhov’s study. The + swept paths in the garden were like deep trenches. By then Chekhov had + finished his work in connection with the cholera and he began to live the + life of a hermit. His sister found employment in Moscow; only his father + and mother were left with him in the house, and the hours seemed very + long. They went to bed even earlier than in the summer, but Chekhov would + wake up at one in the morning, sit down to his work and then go back to + bed and sleep again. At six o’clock in the morning all the household was + up. Chekhov wrote a great deal that winter. But as soon as visitors + arrived, life was completely transformed. There was singing, playing on + the piano, laughter. Chekhov’s mother did her utmost to load the tables + with dainties; his father with a mysterious air would produce various + specially prepared cordials and liqueurs from some hidden recess; and then + it seemed that Melihovo had something of its own, peculiar to it, which + could be found in no other country estate. Chekhov was always particularly + pleased at the visits of Miss Mizinov and of Potapenko. He was + particularly fond of them, and his whole family rejoiced at their arrival. + They stayed up long after midnight on such days, and Chekhov wrote only by + snatches. And every time he wrote five or six lines, he would get up again + and go back to his visitors. + </p> + <p> + “I have written sixty kopecks’ worth,” he would say with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Braga’s “Serenade” was the fashion at that time, and Chekhov was fond of + hearing Potapenko play it on the violin while Miss Mizinov sang it. + </p> + <p> + Having been a student at the Moscow University, Chekhov liked to celebrate + St. Tatyana’s Day. He never missed making a holiday of it when he lived in + Moscow. That winter, for the first time, he chanced to be in Petersburg on + the 12th of January. He did not forget “St. Tatyana,” and assembled all + his literary friends on that day in a Petersburg restaurant. They made + speeches and kept the holiday, and this festivity initiated by him was so + successful that the authors went on meeting regularly afterwards. + </p> + <p> + Though Melihovo was his permanent home, Chekhov often paid visits to + Moscow and Petersburg. He frequently stayed at hotels, and there he + sometimes had difficulties over his passport. As a landowner he had no + need of credentials from the police in the Serpuhov district, and found + his University diploma sufficient. In Petersburg and Moscow, under the old + passport regulations they would not give him a passport because he resided + permanently in the provinces. Misunderstandings arose, sometimes + developing into disagreeable incidents and compelling Chekhov to return + home earlier than he had intended. Someone suggested to Chekhov that he + should enter the Government service and immediately retire from it, as + retired officials used at that time to receive a permanent passport from + the department in which they had served. Chekhov sent a petition to the + Department of Medicine for a post to be assigned to him, and received an + appointment as an extra junior medical clerk in that Department, and soon + afterwards sent in his resignation, after which he had no more trouble. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov spent the whole spring of 1893 at Melihovo, planted roses, looked + after his fruit-trees, and was enthusiastic over country life. That summer + Melihovo was especially crowded with visitors. Chekhov was visited not + only by his friends, but also by people whose acquaintance he neither + sought nor desired. People were sleeping on sofas and several in a room; + some even spent the night in the passage. Young ladies, authors, local + doctors, members of the Zemstvo, distant relations with their sons—all + these people flitted through Melihovo. Life was a continual whirl, + everyone was gay; this rush of visitors and the everlasting readiness of + Chekhov’s mother to regale them with food and drink seemed like a return + to the good old times of country life in the past. Chekhov was the centre + on which all attention was concentrated. Everyone sought him, lived in + him, and caught up every word he uttered. When he was with friends he + liked taking walks or making expeditions to the neighbouring monastery. + The chaise, the cart, and the racing droshky were brought out. Chekhov put + on his white tunic, buckled a strap round his waist, and got on the racing + droshky. A young lady would sit sideways behind him, holding on to the + strap. The white tunic and strap used to make Chekhov call himself an + Hussar. The party would set off; the “Hussar” in the racing droshky would + lead the way, and then came the cart and the chaise full of visitors. + </p> + <p> + The numbers of guests necessitated more building, as the house would not + contain them all. Instead of a farm, new buildings close to the house + itself were begun. Some of the farm buildings were pulled down, others + were put up after Chekhov’s own plans. A new cattle yard made its + appearance, and by it a hut with a well and a hurdle fence in the Little + Russian style, a bathhouse, a barn, and finally Chekhov’s dream—a + lodge. It was a little house with three tiny rooms, in one of which a + bedstead was put with difficulty, and in another a writing-table. At first + this lodge was intended only for visitors, but afterwards Chekhov moved + into it and there he wrote his “Seagull.” This little lodge was built + among the fruit-bushes, and to reach it one had to pass through the + orchard. In spring, when the apples and cherries were in blossom, it was + pleasant to live in this lodge, but in winter it was so buried in the snow + that pathways had to be cut to it through drifts as high as a man. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov suffered terribly about this time from his cough. It troubled him + particularly in the morning. But he made light of it. He was afraid of + worrying his family. His younger brother once saw his handkerchief + spattered with blood, and asked what it meant. Chekhov seemed disconcerted + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing; it is no matter.... Don’t tell Masha and Mother.” + </p> + <p> + The cough was the reason for Chekhov’s going in 1894 to the Crimea. He + stayed in Yalta, though he evidently did not like it and longed to be + home. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov’s activity in the campaign against the cholera resulted in his + being elected a member of the Zemstvo. He was keenly interested in + everything to do with the new roads to be constructed, and the new + hospitals and schools it was intended to open. Besides this public work + the neighbourhood was indebted to him for the making of a highroad from + the station of Lopasnya to Melihovo, and for the building of schools at + Talezh, Novoselka, and Melihovo. He made the plans for these schools + himself, bought the material, and superintended the building of them. When + he talked about them his eyes kindled, and it was evident that if he had + had the means he would have built, not three, but a multitude. + </p> + <p> + At the opening of the school at Novoselka, the peasants brought him the + ikon and offered him bread and salt. Chekhov was much embarrassed in + responding to their gratitude, but his face and his shining eyes showed + that he was pleased. Besides the schools he built a fire-station for the + village and a belfry for the church, and ordered a cross made of + looking-glass for the cupola, the flash of which in the sun or moonlight + was visible more than eight miles away. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov spent the year 1894 at Melihovo, began writing “The Seagull,” and + did a great deal of work. He paid a visit to Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana, + and returned enchanted with the old man and his family. Chekhov was + already changing; he looked haggard, older, sallower. He coughed, he was + tortured by intestinal trouble. Evidently he was now aware of the gravity + of his illness, but, as before, made no complaint and tried to hide it + from others. + </p> + <p> + In 1896 “The Seagull” was performed at the Alexandrinsky Theatre in + Petersburg. It was a fiasco. The actors did not know their parts; in the + theatre there was “a strained condition of boredom and bewilderment.” The + notices in the press were prejudiced and stupid. Not wishing to see or + meet anyone, Chekhov kept out of sight after the performance, and by next + morning was in the train on his way back to Melihovo. The subsequent + performances of “The Seagull,” when the actors understood it, were + successful. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov had collected a large number of books, and in 1896 he resolved to + present them to the public library in his native town of Taganrog. Whole + bales of books were sent by Chekhov from Petersburg and Moscow, and + Iordanov, the mayor of Taganrog, sent him lists of the books needed. At + the same time, at Chekhov’s suggestion, something like an Information + Bureau was instituted in connection with the Taganrog Library. There were + to be catalogues of all the important commercial firms, all the existing + regulations and government enactments on all current questions, + everything, in fact, which might be of immediate service to a reader in + any practical difficulty. The library at Taganrog has now developed into a + fine educational institution, and is lodged in a special building designed + and equipped for it and dedicated to the memory of Chekhov. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov took an active interest in the census of the people in 1896. It + will be remembered that he had made a census of the whole convict + population of the island of Sahalin on his own initiative and at his own + expense in 1890. Now he was taking part in a census again. He studied + peasant life in all its aspects; he was on intimate terms with his peasant + neighbours, to whom he was now indispensable as a doctor and a friend + always ready to give them good counsel. + </p> + <p> + Just before the census was completed Chekhov was taken ill with influenza, + but that did not prevent his carrying out his duties. In spite of + headache, he went from hut to hut and village to village, and then had to + work at putting together his materials. He was absolutely alone in his + work. The Zemsky Natchalniks, upon whom the government relied principally + to carry out the census, were inert, and for the most part the work was + left to private initiative. + </p> + <p> + In February, 1897, Chekhov was completely engrossed by a project of + building a “People’s Palace” in Moscow. “People’s Palaces” had not been + thought of; the common people spent their leisure in drink-shops. The + “People’s Palace” in Moscow was designed on broad principles; there was to + be a library, a reading-room, lecture-rooms, a museum, a theatre. It was + proposed to run it by a company of shareholders with a capital of half a + million roubles. Owing to various causes in no way connected with Chekhov, + this scheme came to nothing. + </p> + <p> + In March he paid a visit to Moscow, where Suvorin was expecting him. He + had hardly sat down to dinner at The Hermitage when he had a sudden + haemorrhage from the lungs. He was taken to a private hospital, where he + remained till the 10th of April. When his sister, who knew nothing of his + illness, arrived in Moscow, she was met by her brother Ivany who gave her + a card of admission to visit the invalid at the hospital. On the card were + the words: “Please don’t tell father or mother.” His sister went to the + hospital. There casting a casual glance at a little table, she saw on it a + diagram of the lungs, in which the upper part of the left lung was marked + with a red pencil. She guessed at once that this was what was affected in + Chekhov’s case. This and the sight of her brother alarmed her. Chekhov, + who had always been so gay, so full of spirits and vitality, looked + terribly ill; he was forbidden to move or to talk, and had hardly the + strength to do so. + </p> + <p> + He was declared to be suffering from tuberculosis of the lungs, and it was + essential to try and ward it off at all costs, and to escape the + unwholesome northern spring. He recognized himself that this was + essential. + </p> + <p> + When he left the hospital he returned to Melihovo and prepared to go + abroad. He went first to Biarritz, but there he was met by bad weather. A + fashionable, extravagant way of living did not suit his tastes, and + although he was delighted with the sea and the life led (especially by the + children) on the beach, he soon moved on to Nice. Here he stayed for a + considerable time at the Pension Russe in the Rue Gounod. He seemed to be + fully satisfied with the life there. He liked the warmth and the people he + met, M. Kovalevsky, V. M. Sobolesky, V. T. Nemirovitch-Dantchenko, the + artist V. T. Yakobi and I. N. Potapenko. Prince A. I. Sumbatov arrived at + Nice too, and Chekhov used sometimes to go with him to Monte Carlo to + roulette. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov followed all that he had left behind in Russia with keen + attention: he was anxious about the <i>Chronicle of Surgery</i>, which he + had more than once saved from ruin, made arrangements about Melihovo, and + so on. + </p> + <p> + He spent the autumn and winter in Nice, and in February, 1898, meant to go + to Africa. He wanted to visit Algiers and Tunis, but Kovalevsky, with whom + he meant to travel, fell ill, and he had to give up the project. He + contemplated a visit to Corsica, but did not carry out that plan either, + as he was taken seriously ill himself. A wretched dentist used + contaminated forceps in extracting a tooth, and Chekhov was attacked by + periostitis in a malignant form. In his own words, “he was in such pain + that he climbed up the wall.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as the spring had come he felt an irresistible yearning for + Russia. He was weary of enforced idleness; he missed the snow and the + Russian country, and at the same time he was depressed at having gained no + weight in spite of the climate, good nourishment, and idleness. + </p> + <p> + While he was at Nice France was in the throes of the Dreyfus affair. + Chekhov began studying the Dreyfus and Zola cases from shorthand notes, + and becoming convinced of the innocence of both, wrote a heated letter to + Suvorin, which led to a coolness between them. + </p> + <p> + He spent March, 1898, in Paris. He sent three hundred and nineteen volumes + of French literature from Paris to the public library at Taganrog. + </p> + <p> + The lateness of the spring in Russia forced Chekhov to remain in Paris + till May, when he returned to Melihovo. Melihovo became gay and lively on + his arrival. Visitors began coming again; he was as hospitable as ever, + but he was quieter, no longer jested as in the past, and perhaps owing to + his illness talked little. But he still took as much pleasure in his + roses. + </p> + <p> + After a comparatively good summer there came days of continual rain, and + on the 14th of September Chekhov went away to Yalta. He had to choose + between Nice and Yalta. He did not want to go abroad, and preferred the + Crimea, reckoning that he might possibly seize an opportunity to pay a + brief visit to Moscow, where his plays were to appear at the Art Theatre. + His choice did not disappoint him. That autumn in Yalta was splendid; he + felt well there, and the progress of his disease led him to settle in + Yalta permanently. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov obtained a piece of land at Autka, and the same autumn began + building. He spent whole days superintending the building. Stone and + plaster was brought, Turks and Tatars dug the ground and laid the + foundation, while he planted little trees and watched with fatherly + anxiety every new shoot on them. Every stone, every tree there is eloquent + of Chekhov’s creative energy. That same autumn he bought the little + property of Kutchuka. It was twenty-four miles from Yalta, and attracted + him by its wildness and primitive beauty. To reach it one had to drive + along the road at a giddy height. He began once more dreaming and drawing + plans. The possible future began to take a different shape to him now, and + he was already dreaming of moving from Melihovo, farming and gardening and + living there as in the country. He wanted to have hens, cows, a horse and + donkeys, and, of course, all of this would have been quite possible and + might have been realized if he had not been slowly dying. His dreams + remained dreams, and Kutchuka stands uninhabited to this day. + </p> + <p> + The winter of 1898 was extremely severe in the Crimea. The cold, the snow, + the stormy sea, and the complete lack of people akin to him in spirit and + of “interesting women” wearied Chekhov; he began to be depressed. He was + irresistibly drawn to the north, and began to fancy that if he moved for + the winter to Moscow, where his plays were being acted with such success + and where everything was so full of interest for him, it would be no worse + for his health than staying in Yalta, and he began dreaming of buying a + house in Moscow. He wanted at one moment to get something small and snug + in the neighbourhood of Kursk Station, where it might be possible to stay + the three winter months in every comfort; but when such a house was found + his mood changed and he resigned himself to life at Yalta. + </p> + <p> + The January and February of 1899 were particularly irksome to Chekhov: he + suffered from an intestinal trouble which poisoned his existence. Moreover + consumptive patients from all over Russia began appealing to him to assist + them to come to Yalta. These invalids were almost always poor, and on + reaching Yalta mostly ended their lives in miserable conditions, pining + for their native place. Chekhov exerted himself on behalf of everyone, + printed appeals in the papers, collected money, and did his utmost to + alleviate their condition. + </p> + <p> + After the unfavourable winter came an exquisite warm spring, and on the + 12th of April Chekhov was in Moscow and by May in Melihovo. His father had + died the previous October, and with his death a great link with the place + was broken. The consciousness of having to go away early in the autumn + gradually brought Chekhov to decide to sell the place. + </p> + <p> + On the 25th of August he went back to his own villa at Yalta, and soon + afterwards Melihovo was sold, and his mother and sister joined him. During + the last four and a half years of his life Chekhov’s health grew rapidly + worse. His chief interest was centred in Moscow, in the Art Theatre, which + had just been started, and the greater part of his dramatic work was done + during this period. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov was ill all the winter of 1900, and only felt better towards the + spring. During those long winter months he wrote “In the Ravine.” The + detestable spring of that year affected his mood and his health even more. + Snow fell on the 5th of March, and this had a shattering effect on him. In + April he was again very ill. An attack of intestinal trouble prevented him + from eating, drinking, or working. As soon as it was over Chekhov, + homesick for the north, set off for Moscow, but there he was met by severe + weather. Returning in August to Yalta, he wrote “The Three Sisters.” + </p> + <p> + He spent the autumn in Moscow, and at the beginning of December went to + the French Riviera, settled in Nice, and dreamed again of a visit to + Africa, but went instead to Rome. Here, as usual, he met with severe + weather. Early in February he returned to Yalta. That year there was a + soft, sunny spring. Chekhov spent whole days in the open air, engaged in + his favourite occupations; he planted and pruned trees, looked after his + garden, ordered all sorts of seeds, and watched them coming up. At the + same time he was working on behalf of the invalids coming to Yalta, who + appealed to him for help, and also completing the library he had founded + at Taganrog, and planning to open a picture gallery there. + </p> + <p> + In May, 1901, Chekhov went to Moscow and was thoroughly examined by a + physician, who urged him to go at once to Switzerland or to take a koumiss + cure. Chekhov preferred the latter. + </p> + <p> + On the 25th of May he married Olga Knipper, one of the leading actresses + at the Art Theatre, and with her went off to the province of Ufa for the + koumiss cure. On the way they had to wait twenty-four hours for a steamer, + in very unpleasant surroundings, at a place called Pyany Bor (“Drunken + Market”), in the province of Vyatka. + </p> + <p> + In the autumn of 1901 Tolstoy was staying, for the sake of his health, at + Gaspra. Chekhov was very fond of him and frequently visited him. + Altogether that autumn was an eventful one for him: Kuprin, Bunin and + Gorky visited the Crimea; the writer Elpatyevsky settled there also, and + Chekhov felt fairly well. Tolstoy’s illness was the centre of general + attention, and Chekhov was very uneasy about him. + </p> + <p> + In 1902 there was suddenly a change for the worse: violent haemorrhage + exhausted him till the beginning of February; he was for over a month + confined to his study. It was at this time that the incident of Gorky’s + election to the Academy and subsequent expulsion from it led Chekhov to + write a letter to the Royal President of the Academy asking that his own + name should be struck off the list of Academicians. + </p> + <p> + Chekhov had hardly recovered when his wife was taken seriously ill. When + she was a little better he made a tour by the Volga and the Kama as far as + Perm. On his return he settled with his wife in a summer villa not far + from Moscow; he spent July there and returned home to Yalta in August. But + the longing for a life of movement and culture, the desire to be nearer to + the theatre, drew him to the north again, and in September he was back in + Moscow. Here he was not left in peace for one minute; swarms of visitors + jostled each other from morning till night. Such a life exhausted him; he + ran away from it to Yalta in December, but did not escape it there. His + cough was worse; every day he had a high temperature, and these symptoms + were followed by an attack of pleurisy. He did not get up all through the + Christmas holidays; he still had an agonizing cough, and it was in this + enforced idleness that he thought out his play “The Cherry Orchard.” + </p> + <p> + It is quite possible that if Chekhov had taken care of himself his disease + would not have developed so rapidly or proved fatal. The feverish energy + of his temperament, his readiness to respond to every impression, and his + thirst for activity, drove him from south to north and hack again, + regardless of his health and of the climate. Like all invalids, he ought + to have gone on living in the same place, at Nice or at Yalta, until he + was better, but he lived exactly as though he had been in good health. + When he arrived in the north he was always excited and absorbed by what + was going on, and this exhilaration he mistook for an improvement in his + health; but he had only to return to Yalta for the reaction to set in, and + it would seem to him at once that his case was hopeless, that the Crimea + had no beneficial effect on consumptives, and that the climate was + wretched. + </p> + <p> + The spring of 1903 passed fairly favourably. He recovered sufficiently to + go to Moscow and even to Petersburg. On returning from Petersburg he began + preparing to go to Switzerland. But his state of health was such that his + doctor in Moscow advised him to give up the idea of Switzerland and even + of Yalta, and to stay somewhere not very far from Moscow. He followed this + advice and settled at Nar. Now that it was proposed that he should stay + the winter in the north, all that he had created in Yalta—his house + and his garden—seemed unnecessary and objectless. In the end he + returned to Yalta and set to work on “The Cherry Orchard.” + </p> + <p> + In October, 1903, the play was finished and he set off to produce it + himself in Moscow. He spent days at a time in the Art Theatre, producing + his “Cherry Orchard,” and incidentally supervising the setting and + performance of the plays of other authors. He gave advice and criticized, + was excited and enthusiastic. + </p> + <p> + On the 17th of January, 1904, “The Cherry Orchard” was produced for the + first time. The first performance was the occasion of the celebration of + the twenty-fifth anniversary of Chekhov’s literary activity. A great + number of addresses were read and speeches were made. Chekhov was many + times called before the curtain, and this expression of universal sympathy + exhausted him to such a degree that the very day after the performance he + began to think with relief of going back to Yalta, where he spent the + following spring. + </p> + <p> + His health was completely shattered, and everyone who saw him secretly + thought the end was not far off; but the nearer Chekhov was to the end, + the less he seemed to realize it. Ill as he was, at the beginning of May + he set off for Moscow. He was terribly ill all the way on the journey, and + on arrival took to his bed at once. He was laid up till June. + </p> + <p> + On the 3rd of June he set off with his wife for a cure abroad to the Black + Forest, and settled in a little spa called Badenweiler. He was dying, + although he wrote to everyone that he had almost recovered, and that + health was coming back to him not by ounces but by hundredweights. He was + dying, but he spent the time dreaming of going to the Italian lakes and + returning to Yalta by sea from Trieste, and was already making inquiries + about the steamers and the times they stopped at Odessa. + </p> + <p> + He died on the 2nd of July. + </p> + <p> + His body was taken to Moscow and buried in the Novodyevitchy Monastery, + beside his father’s tomb. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LETTERS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <p> + TAGANROG, July 1, 1876. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR BROTHER MISHA, + </h3> + <p> + I got your letter when I was fearfully bored and was sitting at the gate + yawning, and so you can judge how welcome that immense letter was. Your + writing is good, and in the whole letter I have not found one mistake in + spelling. But one thing I don’t like: why do you style yourself “your + worthless and insignificant brother”? You recognize your insignificance? + ... Recognize it before God; perhaps, too, in the presence of beauty, + intelligence, nature, but not before men. Among men you must be conscious + of your dignity. Why, you are not a rascal, you are an honest man, aren’t + you? Well, respect yourself as an honest man and know that an honest man + is not something worthless. Don’t confound “being humble” with + “recognizing one’s worthlessness.” ... + </p> + <p> + It is a good thing that you read. Acquire the habit of doing so. In time + you will come to value that habit. Madame Beecher-Stowe has wrung tears + from your eyes? I read her once, and six months ago read her again with + the object of studying her—and after reading I had an unpleasant + sensation which mortals feel after eating too many raisins or currants.... + Read “Don Quixote.” It is a fine thing. It is by Cervantes, who is said to + be almost on a level with Shakespeare. I advise my brothers to read—if + they haven’t already done so—Turgenev’s “Hamlet and Don Quixote.” + You won’t understand it, my dear. If you want to read a book of travel + that won’t bore you, read Gontcharov’s “The Frigate Pallada.” + </p> + <p> + ... I am going to bring with me a boarder who will pay twenty roubles a + month and live under our general supervision. Though even twenty roubles + is not enough if one considers the price of food in Moscow and mother’s + weakness for feeding boarders with righteous zeal. [Footnote: This letter + was written by Chekhov when he was in the fifth class of the Taganrog high + school.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS COUSIN, MIHAIL CHEKHOV. + </h2> + <p> + TAGANROG, May 10, 1877. + </p> + <p> + ... If I send letters to my mother, care of you, please give them to her + when you are alone with her; there are things in life which one can + confide in one person only, whom one trusts. It is because of this that I + write to my mother without the knowledge of the others, for whom my + secrets are quite uninteresting, or, rather, unnecessary.... My second + request is of more importance. Please go on comforting my mother, who is + both physically and morally broken. She has found in you not merely a + nephew but a great deal more and better than a nephew. My mother’s + character is such that the moral support of others is a great help to her. + It is a silly request, isn’t it? But you will understand, especially as I + have said “moral,” i.e., spiritual support. There is no one in this wicked + world dearer to us than our mother, and so you will greatly oblige your + humble servant by comforting his worn-out and weary mother.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, 1885. + </p> + <p> + ... I could not come to see you last summer because I took the place of a + district doctor friend of mine who went away for his holiday, but this + year I hope to travel and therefore to see you. Last December I had an + attack of spitting blood, and decided to take some money from the Literary + Fund and go abroad for my health. I am a little better now, but I still + think that I shall have to go away. And whenever I go abroad, or to the + Crimea, or to the Caucasus, I will go through Taganrog. + </p> + <p> + ... I am sorry I cannot join you in being of service to my native + Taganrog.... I am sure that if my work had been there I should have been + calmer, more cheerful, in better health, but evidently it is my fate to + remain in Moscow. My home and my career are here. I have work of two + sorts. As a doctor I should have grown slack in Taganrog and forgotten my + medicine, but in Moscow a doctor has no time to go to the club and play + cards. As a writer I am no use except in Moscow or Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + My medical work is progressing little by little. I go on steadily treating + patients. Every day I have to spend more than a rouble on cabs. I have a + lot of friends and therefore many patients. Half of them I have to treat + for nothing, but the other half pay me three or five roubles a visit.... I + need hardly say I have not made a fortune yet, and it will be a long time + before I do, but I live tolerably and need nothing. So long as I am alive + and well the position of the family is secure. I have bought new + furniture, hired a good piano, keep two servants, give little evening + parties with music and singing. I have no debts and do not want to borrow. + Till quite recently we used to run an account at the butcher’s and + grocer’s, but now I have stopped even that, and we pay cash for + everything. What will come later, there is no knowing; as it is we have + nothing to complain of.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. A. LEIKIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, October, 1885. + </p> + <p> + ... You advise me to go to Petersburg, and say that Petersburg is not + China. I know it is not, and as you are aware, I have long realized the + necessity of going there; but what am I to do? Owing to the fact that we + are a large family, I never have a ten-rouble note to spare, and to go + there, even if I did it in the most uncomfortable and beggarly way, would + cost at least fifty roubles. How am I to get the money? I can’t squeeze it + out of my family and don’t think I ought to. If I were to cut down our two + courses at dinner to one, I should begin to pine away from pangs of + conscience.... Allah only knows how difficult it is for me to keep my + balance, and how easy it would be for me to slip and lose my equilibrium. + I fancy that if next month I should earn twenty or thirty roubles less, my + balance would be gone, and I should be in difficulties. I am awfully + apprehensive about money matters and, owing to this quite uncommercial + cowardice in pecuniary affairs, I avoid loans and payments on account. I + am not difficult to move. If I had money I should fly from one city to + another endlessly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, February 21, 1886. + </p> + <p> + ... Thank you for the flattering things you say about my work and for + having published my story so soon. You can judge yourself how refreshing, + even inspiring, the kind attention of an experienced and gifted writer + like yourself has been to me. + </p> + <p> + I agree with what you say about the end of my story which you have cut + out; thank you for the helpful advice. I have been writing for the last + six years, but you are the first person who has taken the trouble to + advise and explain. + </p> + <p> + ... I do not write very much—not more than two or three short + stories weekly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO D. V. GRIGOROVITCH. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, March 28, 1886. + </p> + <p> + Your letter, my kind, fervently beloved bringer of good tidings, struck me + like a flash of lightning. I almost burst into tears, I was overwhelmed, + and now I feel it has left a deep trace in my soul! May God show the same + tender kindness to you in your age as you have shown me in my youth! I can + find neither words nor deeds to thank you. You know with what eyes + ordinary people look at the elect such as you, and so you can judge what + your letter means for my self-esteem. It is better than any diploma, and + for a writer who is just beginning it is payment both for the present and + the future. I am almost dazed. I have no power to judge whether I deserve + this high reward. I only repeat that it has overwhelmed me. + </p> + <p> + If I have a gift which one ought to respect, I confess before the pure + candour of your heart that hitherto I have not respected it. I felt that I + had a gift, but I had got into the habit of thinking that it was + insignificant. Purely external causes are sufficient to make one unjust to + oneself, suspicious, and morbidly sensitive. And as I realize now I have + always had plenty of such causes. All my friends and relatives have always + taken a condescending tone to my writing, and never ceased urging me in a + friendly way not to give up real work for the sake of scribbling. I have + hundreds of friends in Moscow, and among them a dozen or two writers, but + I cannot recall a single one who reads me or considers me an artist. In + Moscow there is a so-called Literary Circle: talented people and + mediocrities of all ages and colours gather once a week in a private room + of a restaurant and exercise their tongues. If I went there and read them + a single passage of your letter, they would laugh in my face. In the + course of the five years that I have been knocking about from one + newspaper office to another I have had time to assimilate the general view + of my literary insignificance. I soon got used to looking down upon my + work, and so it has gone from bad to worse. That is the first reason. The + second is that I am a doctor, and am up to my ears in medical work, so + that the proverb about trying to catch two hares has given to no one more + sleepless nights than me. + </p> + <p> + I am writing all this to you in order to excuse this grievous sin a little + before you. Hitherto my attitude to my literary work has been frivolous, + heedless, casual. I don’t remember a <i>single</i> story over which I have + spent more than twenty-four hours, and “The Huntsman,” which you liked, I + wrote in the bathing-shed! I wrote my stories as reporters write their + notes about fires, mechanically, half-unconsciously, taking no thought of + the reader or myself.... I wrote and did all I could not to waste upon the + story the scenes and images dear to me which—God knows why—I + have treasured and kept carefully hidden. + </p> + <p> + The first impulse to self-criticism was given me by a very kind and, to + the best of my belief, sincere letter from Suvorin. I began to think of + writing something decent, but I still had no faith in my being any good as + a writer. And then, unexpected and undreamed of, came your letter. Forgive + the comparison: it had on me the effect of a Governor’s order to clear out + of the town within twenty-four hours—i.e., I suddenly felt an + imperative need to hurry, to make haste and get out of where I have + stuck.... + </p> + <p> + I agree with you in everything. When I saw “The Witch” in print I felt + myself the cynicism of the points to which you call my attention. They + would not have been there had I written this story in three or four days + instead of in one. + </p> + <p> + I shall put an end to working against time, but cannot do so just yet.... + It is impossible to get out of the rut I have got into. I have nothing + against going hungry, as I have done in the past, but it is not a question + of myself.... I give to literature my spare time, two or three hours a day + and a bit of the night, that is, time which is of no use except for short + things. In the summer, when I have more time and have fewer expenses, I + will start on some serious work. + </p> + <p> + I cannot put my real name on the book because it is too late: the design + for the cover is ready and the book printed. [Footnote: “Motley Tales” is + meant.] Many of my Petersburg friends advised me, even before you did, not + to spoil the book by a pseudonym, but I did not listen to them, probably + out of vanity. I dislike my book very much. It’s a hotch-potch, a + disorderly medley of the poor stuff I wrote as a student, plucked by the + censor and by the editors of comic papers. I am sure that many people will + be disappointed when they read it. Had I known that I had readers and that + you were watching me, I would not have published this book. + </p> + <p> + I rest all my hopes on the future. I am only twenty-six. Perhaps I shall + succeed in doing something, though time flies fast. + </p> + <p> + Forgive my long letter and do not blame a man because, for the first time + in his life, he has made bold to treat himself to the pleasure of writing + to Grigorovitch. + </p> + <p> + Send me your photograph, if possible. I am so overwhelmed with your + kindness that I feel as though I should like to write a whole ream to you. + God grant you health and happiness, and believe in the sincerity of your + deeply respectful and grateful + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. A. LEIKIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, April 6, 1886. + </p> + <p> + ... I am ill. Spitting of blood and weakness. I am not writing + anything.... If I don’t sit down to write to-morrow, you must forgive me—I + shall not send you a story for the Easter number. I ought to go to the + South but I have no money.... I am afraid to submit myself to be sounded + by my colleagues. I am inclined to think it is not so much my lungs as my + throat that is at fault.... I have no fever. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + BABKINO, June, 1886. + </p> + <p> + LOVE UNRIPPLED [Footnote: Parody of a feminine novel.] + </p> + <p> + (A NOVEL) Part I. + </p> + <p> + It was noon.... The setting sun with its crimson, fiery rays gilded the + tops of pines, oaks, and fir-trees.... It was still; only in the air the + birds were singing, and in the distance a hungry wolf howled + mournfully.... The driver turned round and said: + </p> + <p> + “More snow has fallen, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I say, more snow has fallen.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + Vladimir Sergeitch Tabatchin, who is the hero of our story, looked for the + last time at the sun and expired. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A week passed.... Birds and corncrakes hovered, whistling, over a + newly-made grave. The sun was shining. A young widow, bathed in tears, was + standing by, and in her grief sopping her whole handkerchief.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + September 21, 1886. + </p> + <p> + ... It is not much fun to be a great writer. To begin with, it’s a dreary + life. Work from morning till night and not much to show for it. Money is + as scarce as cats’ tears. I don’t know how it is with Zola and Shtchedrin, + but in my flat it is cold and smoky.... They give me cigarettes, as + before, on holidays only. Impossible cigarettes! Hard, damp, sausage-like. + Before I begin to smoke I light the lamp, dry the cigarette over it, and + only then I begin on it; the lamp smokes, the cigarette splutters and + turns brown, I burn my fingers ... it is enough to make one shoot oneself! + </p> + <p> + ... I am more or less ill, and am gradually turning into a dried + dragon-fly. + </p> + <p> + ... I go about as festive as though it were my birthday, but to judge from + the critical glances of the lady cashier at the <i>Budilnik</i>, I am not + dressed in the height of fashion, and my clothes are not brand-new. I go + in buses, not in cabs. + </p> + <p> + But being a writer has its good points. In the first place, my book, I + hear, is going rather well; secondly, in October I shall have money; + thirdly, I am beginning to reap laurels: at the refreshment bars people + point at me with their fingers, they pay me little attentions and treat me + to sandwiches. Korsh caught me in his theatre and straight away presented + me with a free pass.... My medical colleagues sigh when they meet me, + begin to talk of literature and assure me that they are sick of medicine. + And so on.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + September 29. + </h2> + <p> + ... Life is grey, there are no happy people to be seen.... Life is a nasty + business for everyone. When I am serious I begin to think that people who + have an aversion for death are illogical. So far as I understand the order + of things, life consists of nothing but horrors, squabbles, and + trivialities mixed together or alternating! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + December 3. + </h2> + <p> + This morning an individual sent by Prince Urusov turned up and asked me + for a short story for a sporting magazine edited by the said Prince. I + refused, of course, as I now refuse all who come with supplications to the + foot of my pedestal. In Russia there are now two unattainable heights: + Mount Elborus and myself. + </p> + <p> + The Prince’s envoy was deeply disappointed by my refusal, nearly died of + grief, and finally begged me to recommend him some writers who are versed + in sport. I thought a little, and very opportunely remembered a lady + writer who dreams of glory and has for the last year been ill with envy of + my literary fame. In short, I gave him your address.... You might write a + story “The Wounded Doe”—you remember, how the huntsmen wound a doe; + she looks at them with human eyes, and no one can bring himself to kill + her. It’s not a bad subject, but dangerous because it is difficult to + avoid sentimentality—you must write it like a report, without + pathetic phrases, and begin like this: “On such and such a date the + huntsmen in the Daraganov forest wounded a young doe....” And if you drop + a tear you will strip the subject of its severity and of everything worth + attention in it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + December 13. + </h2> + <p> + ... With your permission I steal out of your last two letters to my sister + two descriptions of nature for my stories. It is curious that you have + quite a masculine way of writing. In every line (except when dealing with + children) you are a man! This, of course, ought to flatter your vanity, + for speaking generally, men are a thousand times better than women, and + superior to them. + </p> + <p> + In Petersburg I was resting—i.e., for days together I was rushing + about town paying calls and listening to compliments which my soul abhors. + Alas and alack! In Petersburg I am becoming fashionable like Nana. While + Korolenko, who is serious, is hardly known to the editors, my twaddle is + being read by all Petersburg. Even the senator G. reads me.... It is + gratifying, but my literary feeling is wounded. I feel ashamed of the + public which runs after lap-dogs simply because it fails to notice + elephants, and I am deeply convinced that not a soul will know me when I + begin to work in earnest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER NIKOLAY. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, 1886. + </p> + <p> + ... You have often complained to me that people “don’t understand you”! + Goethe and Newton did not complain of that.... Only Christ complained of + it, but He was speaking of His doctrine and not of Himself.... People + understand you perfectly well. And if you do not understand yourself, it + is not their fault. + </p> + <p> + I assure you as a brother and as a friend I understand you and feel for + you with all my heart. I know your good qualities as I know my five + fingers; I value and deeply respect them. If you like, to prove that I + understand you, I can enumerate those qualities. I think you are kind to + the point of softness, magnanimous, unselfish, ready to share your last + farthing; you have no envy nor hatred; you are simple-hearted, you pity + men and beasts; you are trustful, without spite or guile, and do not + remember evil.... You have a gift from above such as other people have + not: you have talent. This talent places you above millions of men, for on + earth only one out of two millions is an artist. Your talent sets you + apart: if you were a toad or a tarantula, even then, people would respect + you, for to talent all things are forgiven. + </p> + <p> + You have only one failing, and the falseness of your position, and your + unhappiness and your catarrh of the bowels are all due to it. That is your + utter lack of culture. Forgive me, please, but <i>veritas magis + amicitiae....</i> You see, life has its conditions. In order to feel + comfortable among educated people, to be at home and happy with them, one + must be cultured to a certain extent. Talent has brought you into such a + circle, you belong to it, but ... you are drawn away from it, and you + vacillate between cultured people and the lodgers <i>vis-a-vis.</i> + </p> + <p> + Cultured people must, in my opinion, satisfy the following conditions: + </p> + <p> + 1. They respect human personality, and therefore they are always kind, + gentle, polite, and ready to give in to others. They do not make a row + because of a hammer or a lost piece of india-rubber; if they live with + anyone they do not regard it as a favour and, going away, they do not say + “nobody can live with you.” They forgive noise and cold and dried-up meat + and witticisms and the presence of strangers in their homes. + </p> + <p> + 2. They have sympathy not for beggars and cats alone. Their heart aches + for what the eye does not see.... They sit up at night in order to help + P...., to pay for brothers at the University, and to buy clothes for their + mother. + </p> + <p> + 3. They respect the property of others, and therefor pay their debts. + </p> + <p> + 4. They are sincere, and dread lying like fire. They don’t lie even in + small things. A lie is insulting to the listener and puts him in a lower + position in the eyes of the speaker. They do not pose, they behave in the + street as they do at home, they do not show off before their humbler + comrades. They are not given to babbling and forcing their uninvited + confidences on others. Out of respect for other people’s ears they more + often keep silent than talk. + </p> + <p> + 5. They do not disparage themselves to rouse compassion. They do not play + on the strings of other people’s hearts so that they may sigh and make + much of them. They do not say “I am misunderstood,” or “I have become + second-rate,” because all this is striving after cheap effect, is vulgar, + stale, false.... + </p> + <p> + 6. They have no shallow vanity. They do not care for such false diamonds + as knowing celebrities, shaking hands with the drunken P., [Translator’s + Note: Probably Palmin, a minor poet.] listening to the raptures of a stray + spectator in a picture show, being renowned in the taverns.... If they do + a pennyworth they do not strut about as though they had done a hundred + roubles’ worth, and do not brag of having the entry where others are not + admitted.... The truly talented always keep in obscurity among the crowd, + as far as possible from advertisement.... Even Krylov has said that an + empty barrel echoes more loudly than a full one. + </p> + <p> + 7. If they have a talent they respect it. They sacrifice to it rest, + women, wine, vanity.... They are proud of their talent.... Besides, they + are fastidious. + </p> + <p> + 8. They develop the aesthetic feeling in themselves. They cannot go to + sleep in their clothes, see cracks full of bugs on the walls, breathe bad + air, walk on a floor that has been spat upon, cook their meals over an oil + stove. They seek as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexual + instinct.... What they want in a woman is not a bed-fellow ... They do not + ask for the cleverness which shows itself in continual lying. They want + especially, if they are artists, freshness, elegance, humanity, the + capacity for motherhood.... They do not swill vodka at all hours of the + day and night, do not sniff at cupboards, for they are not pigs and know + they are not. They drink only when they are free, on occasion.... For they + want <i>mens sana in corpore sano.</i> + </p> + <p> + And so on. This is what cultured people are like. In order to be cultured + and not to stand below the level of your surroundings it is not enough to + have read “The Pickwick Papers” and learnt a monologue from “Faust.” ... + </p> + <p> + What is needed is constant work, day and night, constant reading, study, + will.... Every hour is precious for it.... Come to us, smash the vodka + bottle, lie down and read.... Turgenev, if you like, whom you have not + read. + </p> + <p> + You must drop your vanity, you are not a child ... you will soon be + thirty. It is time! + </p> + <p> + I expect you.... We all expect you. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, January 14, 1887. + </p> + <p> + ... Even your praise of “On the Road” has not softened my anger as an + author, and I hasten to avenge myself for “Mire.” Be on your guard, and + catch hold of the back of a chair that you may not faint. Well, I begin. + </p> + <p> + One meets every critical article with a silent bow even if it is abusive + and unjust—such is the literary etiquette. It is not the thing to + answer, and all who do answer are justly blamed for excessive vanity. But + since your criticism has the nature of “an evening conversation on the + steps of the Babkino lodge” ... and as, without touching on the literary + aspects of the story, it raises general questions of principle, I shall + not be sinning against the etiquette if I allow myself to continue our + conversation. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, I, like you, do not like literature of the kind we are + discussing. As a reader and “a private resident” I am glad to avoid it, + but if you ask my honest and sincere opinion about it, I shall say that it + is still an open question whether it has a right to exist, and no one has + yet settled it.... Neither you nor I, nor all the critics in the world, + have any trustworthy data that would give them the right to reject such + literature. I do not know which are right: Homer, Shakespeare, Lopez da + Vega, and, speaking generally, the ancients who were not afraid to rummage + in the “muck heap,” but were morally far more stable than we are, or the + modern writers, priggish on paper but coldly cynical in their souls and in + life. I do not know which has bad taste—the Greeks who were not + ashamed to describe love as it really is in beautiful nature, or the + readers of Gaboriau, Marlitz, Pierre Bobo. [Footnote: P. D. Boborykin.] + Like the problems of non-resistance to evil, of free will, etc., this + question can only be settled in the future. We can only refer to it, but + are not competent to decide it. Reference to Turgenev and Tolstoy—who + avoided the “muck heap”—does not throw light on the question. Their + fastidiousness does not prove anything; why, before them there was a + generation of writers who regarded as dirty not only accounts of “the + dregs and scum,” but even descriptions of peasants and of officials below + the rank of titular councillor. Besides, one period, however brilliant, + does not entitle us to draw conclusions in favour of this or that literary + tendency. Reference to the demoralizing effects of the literary tendency + we are discussing does not decide the question either. Everything in this + world is relative and approximate. There are people who can be demoralized + even by children’s books, and who read with particular pleasure the + piquant passages in the Psalms and in Solomon’s Proverbs, while there are + others who become only the purer from closer knowledge of the filthy side + of life. Political and social writers, lawyers, and doctors who are + initiated into all the mysteries of human sinfulness are not reputed to be + immoral; realistic writers are often more moral than archimandrites. And, + finally, no literature can outdo real life in its cynicism, a wineglassful + won’t make a man drunk when he has already emptied a barrel. + </p> + <p> + 2. That the world swarms with “dregs and scum” is perfectly true. Human + nature is imperfect, and it would therefore be strange to see none but + righteous ones on earth. But to think that the duty of literature is to + unearth the pearl from the refuse heap means to reject literature itself. + “Artistic” literature is only “art” in so far as it paints life as it + really is. Its vocation is to be absolutely true and honest. To narrow + down its function to the particular task of finding “pearls” is as deadly + for it as it would be to make Levitan draw a tree without including the + dirty bark and the yellow leaves. I agree that “pearls” are a good thing, + but then a writer is not a confectioner, not a provider of cosmetics, not + an entertainer; he is a man bound, under contract, by his sense of duty + and his conscience; having put his hand to the plough he mustn’t turn + back, and, however distasteful, he must conquer his squeamishness and soil + his imagination with the dirt of life. He is just like any ordinary + reporter. What would you say if a newspaper correspondent out of a feeling + of fastidiousness or from a wish to please his readers would describe only + honest mayors, high-minded ladies, and virtuous railway contractors? + </p> + <p> + To a chemist nothing on earth is unclean. A writer must be as objective as + a chemist, he must lay aside his personal subjective standpoint and must + understand that muck heaps play a very respectable part in a landscape, + and that the evil passions are as inherent in life as the good ones. + </p> + <p> + 3. Writers are the children of their age, and therefore, like everybody + else, must submit to the external conditions of the life of the community. + Thus, they must be perfectly decent. This is the only thing we have a + right to ask of realistic writers. But you say nothing against the form + and executions of “Mire.” ... And so I suppose I have been decent. + </p> + <p> + 4. I confess I seldom commune with my conscience when I write. This is due + to habit and the brevity of my work. And so when I express this or that + opinion about literature, I do not take myself into account. + </p> + <p> + 5. You write: “If I were the editor I would have returned this feuilleton + to you for your own good.” Why not go further? Why not muzzle the editors + themselves who publish such stories? Why not send a reprimand to the + Headquarters of the Press Department for not suppressing immoral + newspapers? + </p> + <p> + The fate of literature would be sad indeed if it were at the mercy of + individual views. That is the first thing. Secondly, there is no police + which could consider itself competent in literary matters. I agree that + one can’t dispense with the reins and the whip altogether, for knaves find + their way even into literature, but no thinking will discover a better + police for literature than the critics and the author’s own conscience. + People have been trying to discover such a police since the creation of + the world, but they have found nothing better. + </p> + <p> + Here you would like me to lose one hundred and fifteen roubles and be put + to shame by the editor; others, your father among them, are delighted with + the story. Some send insulting letters to Suvorin, pouring abuse on the + paper and on me, etc. Who, then, is right? Who is the true judge? + </p> + <p> + 6. Further you write, “Leave such writing to spiritless and unlucky + scribblers such as Okrects, Pince-Nez, [Footnote: The pseudonym of Madame + Kisselyov.] or Aloe.” [Footnote: The pseudonym of Chekhov’s brother + Alexandr.] + </p> + <p> + Allah forgive you if you were sincere when you wrote those words! A + condescending and contemptuous tone towards humble people simply because + they are humble does no credit to the heart. In literature the lower ranks + are as necessary as in the army—this is what the head says, and the + heart ought to say still more. + </p> + <p> + Ough! I have wearied you with my drawn-out reflections. Had I known my + criticism would turn out so long I would not have written it. Please + forgive me! ... + </p> + <p> + You have read my “On the Road.” Well, how do you like my courage? I write + of “intellectual” subjects and am not afraid. In Petersburg I excite a + regular furore. A short time ago I discoursed upon non-resistance to evil, + and also surprised the public. On New Year’s Day all the papers presented + me with a compliment, and in the December number of the <i>Russkoye + Bogatstvo</i>, in which Tolstoy writes, there is an article thirty-two + pages long by Obolensky entitled “Chekhov and Korolenko.” The fellow goes + into raptures over me and proves that I am more of an artist than + Korolenko. He is probably talking rot, but, anyway, I am beginning to be + conscious of one merit of mine: I am the only writer who, without ever + publishing anything in the thick monthlies, has merely on the strength of + writing newspaper rubbish won the attention of the lop-eared critics—there + has been no instance of this before.... At the end of 1886 I felt as + though I were a bone thrown to the dogs. + </p> + <p> + ... I have written a play [Footnote: “Calchas,” later called “Swansong.”] + on four sheets of paper. It will take fifteen to twenty minutes to act.... + It is much better to write small things than big ones: they are + unpretentious and successful.... What more would you have? I wrote my play + in an hour and five minutes. I began another, but have not finished it, + for I have no time. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, January 18, 1887. + </p> + <p> + ... During the holidays I was so overwhelmed with work that on Mother’s + name-day I was almost dropping with exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + I must tell you that in Petersburg I am now the most fashionable writer. + One can see that from papers and magazines, which at the end of 1886 were + taken up with me, bandied my name about, and praised me beyond my deserts. + The result of this growth of my literary reputation is that I get a number + of orders and invitations—and this is followed by work at high + pressure and exhaustion. My work is nervous, disturbing, and involving + strain. It is public and responsible, which makes it doubly hard. Every + newspaper report about me agitates both me and my family.... My stories + are read at public recitations, wherever I go people point at me, I am + overwhelmed with acquaintances, and so on, and so on. I have not a day of + peace, and feel as though I were on thorns every moment. + </p> + <p> + ... Volodya [Translator’s Note: He had apparently criticized the name + Vladimir, which means “lord of the world.”] is right.... It is true that a + man cannot possess the world, but a man can be called “the lord of the + world.” Tell Volodya that out of gratitude, reverence, or admiration of + the virtues of the best men—those qualities which make a man + exceptional and akin to the Deity—peoples and historians have a + right to call their elect as they like, without being afraid of insulting + God’s greatness or of raising a man to God. The fact is we exalt, not a + man as such, but his good qualities, just that divine principle which he + has succeeded in developing in himself to a high degree. Thus remarkable + kings are called “great,” though bodily they may not be taller than I. I. + Loboda; the Pope is called “Holiness,” the patriarch used to be called + “Ecumenical,” although he was not in relations with any planet but the + earth; Prince Vladimir was called “the lord of the world,” though he ruled + only a small strip of ground, princes are called “serene” and + “illustrious,” though a Swedish match is a thousand times brighter than + they are—and so on. In using these expressions we do not lie or + exaggerate, but simply express our delight, just as a mother does not lie + when she calls her child “my golden one.” It is the feeling of beauty that + speaks in us, and beauty cannot endure what is commonplace and trivial; it + induces us to make comparisons which Volodya may, with his intellect, pull + to pieces, but which he will understand with his heart. For instance, it + is usual to compare black eyes with the night, blue with the azure of the + sky, curls with waves, etc., and even the Bible likes these comparisons; + for instance, “Thy womb is more spacious than heaven,” or “The Sun of + righteousness arises,” “The rock of faith,” etc. The feeling of beauty in + man knows no limits or bounds. This is why a Russian prince may be called + “the lord of the world”; and my friend Volodya may have the same name, for + names are given to people, not for their merits, but in honour and + commemoration of remarkable men of the past.... If your young scholar does + not agree with me, I have one more argument which will be sure to appeal + to him: in exalting people even to God we do not sin against love, but, on + the contrary, we express it. One must not humiliate people—that is + the chief thing. Better say to man “My angel” than hurl “Fool” at his head—though + men are more like fools than they are like angels. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + TAGANROG, April 2, 1887. + </p> + <p> + The journey from Moscow to Serpuhov was dull. My fellow-travellers were + practical persons of strong character who did nothing but talk of the + prices of flour.... + </p> + <p> + ... At twelve o’clock we were at Kursk. An hour of waiting, a glass of + vodka, a tidy-up and a wash, and cabbage soup. Change to another train. + The carriage was crammed full. Immediately after Kursk I made friends with + my neighbours: a landowner from Harkov, as jocose as Sasha K.; a lady who + had just had an operation in Petersburg; a police captain; an officer from + Little Russia; and a general in military uniform. We settled social + questions. The general’s arguments were sound, short, and liberal; the + police captain was the type of an old battered sinner of an hussar + yearning for amorous adventures. He had the affectations of a governor: he + opened his mouth long before he began to speak, and having said a word he + gave a long growl like a dog, “er-r-r.” The lady was injecting morphia, + and sent the men to fetch her ice at the stations. + </p> + <p> + At Belgrade I had cabbage soup. We got to Harkov at nine o’clock. A + touching parting from the police captain, the general and the others.... I + woke up at Slavyansk and sent you a postcard. A new lot of passengers got + in: a landowner and a railway inspector. We talked of railways. The + inspector told us how the Sevastopol railway stole three hundred carriages + from the Azov line and painted them its own colour. [Footnote: See the + story “Cold Blood.”] + </p> + <p> + ... Twelve o’clock. Lovely weather. There is a scent of the steppe and one + hears the birds sing. I see my old friends the ravens flying over the + steppe. + </p> + <p> + The barrows, the water-towers, the buildings—everything is familiar + and well-remembered. At the station I have a helping of remarkably good + and rich sorrel soup. Then I walk along the platform. Young ladies. At an + upper window at the far end of the station sits a young girl (or a married + lady, goodness knows which) in a white blouse, beautiful and languid. + [Footnote: See the story “Two Beauties.”] I look at her, she looks at + me.... I put on my glasses, she does the same.... Oh, lovely vision! I + caught a catarrh of the heart and continued my journey. The weather is + devilishly, revoltingly fine. Little Russians, oxen, ravens, white huts, + rivers, the line of the Donets railway with one telegraph wire, daughters + of landowners and farmers, red dogs, the trees—it all flits by like + a dream.... It is hot. The inspector begins to bore me. The rissoles and + pies, half of which I have not got through, begin to smell bitter.... I + shove them under somebody else’s seat, together with the remains of the + vodka. + </p> + <p> + ... I arrive at Taganrog.... It gives one the impression of Herculaneum + and Pompeii; there are no people, and instead of mummies there are sleepy + <i>drishpaks</i> [Footnote: Uneducated young men in the jargon of + Taganrog.] and melon-shaped heads. All the houses look flattened out, and + as though they had long needed replastering, the roofs want painting, the + shutters are closed.... + </p> + <p> + At eight o’clock in the evening my uncle, his family, Irina, the dogs, the + rats that live in the storeroom, the rabbits were fast asleep. There was + nothing for it but to go to bed too. I sleep on the drawing-room sofa. The + sofa has not increased in length, and is as short as it was before, and so + when I go to bed I have either to stick up my legs in an unseemly way or + to let them hang down to the floor. I think of Procrustes and his bed.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 6. + </h2> + <p> + I wake up at five. The sky is grey. There is a cold, unpleasant wind that + reminds one of Moscow. It is dull. I wait for the church bells and go to + late Mass. In the cathedral it is all very charming, decorous, and not + boring. The choir sings well, not at all in a plebeian style, and the + congregation entirely consists of young ladies in olive-green dresses and + chocolate-coloured jackets.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 8, 9, and 10. + </h2> + <p> + Frightfully dull. It is cold and grey.... During all my stay in Taganrog I + could only do justice to the following things: remarkably good ring rolls + sold at the market, the Santurninsky wine, fresh caviare, excellent crabs + and uncle’s genuine hospitality. Everything else is poor and not to be + envied. The young ladies here are not bad, but it takes some time to get + used to them. They are abrupt in their movements, frivolous in their + attitude to men, run away from their parents with actors, laugh loudly, + easily fall in love, whistle to dogs, drink wine, etc.... + </p> + <p> + On Saturday I continued my journey. At the Moskaya station the air is + lovely and fresh, caviare is seventy kopecks a pound. At Rostdov I had two + hours to wait, at Taganrog twenty. I spent the night at an acquaintance’s. + The devil only knows what I haven’t spent a night on: on beds with bugs, + on sofas, settees, boxes. Last night I spent in a long and narrow parlour + on a sofa under a looking-glass.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 25. + </h2> + <p> + ... Yesterday was the wedding—a real Cossack wedding with music, + feminine bleating, and revolting drunkenness.... The bride is sixteen. + They were married in the cathedral. I acted as best man, and was dressed + in somebody else’s evening suit with fearfully wide trousers, and not a + single stud on my shirt. In Moscow such a best man would have been kicked + out, but here I looked smarter than anyone. + </p> + <p> + I saw many rich and eligible young ladies. The choice is enormous, but I + was so drunk all the time that I took bottles for young ladies and young + ladies for bottles. Probably owing to my drunken condition the local + ladies found me witty and satirical! The young ladies here are regular + sheep, if one gets up from her place and walks out of the room all the + others follow her. One of them, the boldest and the most brainy, wishing + to show that she is not a stranger to social polish and subtlety, kept + slapping me on the hand and saying, “Oh, you wretch!” though her face + still retained its scared expression. I taught her to say to her partners, + “How naive you are!” + </p> + <p> + The bride and bridegroom, probably because of the local custom of kissing + every minute, kissed with such gusto that their lips made a loud smack, + and it gave me a taste of sugary raisins in my mouth and a spasm in my + left calf. The inflammation of the vein in my left leg got worse through + their kisses. + </p> + <p> + ... At Zvyerevo I shall have to wait from nine in the evening till five in + the morning. Last time I spent the night there in a second-class + railway-carriage on the siding. I went out of the carriage in the night + and outside I found veritable marvels: the moon, the limitless steppe, the + barrows, the wilderness; deathly stillness, and the carriages and the + railway lines sharply standing out from the dusk. It seemed as though the + world were dead.... It was a picture one would not forget for ages and + ages. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RAGOZINA BALKA, + </h2> + <p> + April 30, 1887. + </p> + <p> + It is April 30. The evening is warm. There are storm-clouds about, and so + one cannot see a thing. The air is close and there is a smell of grass. + </p> + <p> + I am staying in the Ragozina Balka at K.‘s. There is a small house with a + thatched roof, and barns made of flat stone. There are three rooms, with + earthen floors, crooked ceilings, and windows that lift up and down + instead of opening outwards.... The walls are covered with rifles, + pistols, sabres and whips. The chest of drawers and the window-sills are + littered with cartridges, instruments for mending rifles, tins of + gunpowder, and bags of shot. The furniture is lame and the veneer is + coming off it. I have to sleep on a consumptive sofa, very hard, and not + upholstered ... Ash-trays and all such luxuries are not to be found within + a radius of ten versts.... The first necessaries are conspicuous by their + absence, and one has in all weathers to slip out to the ravine, and one is + warned to make sure there is not a viper or some other creature under the + bushes. + </p> + <p> + The population consists of old K., his wife, Pyotr, a Cossack officer with + broad red stripes on his trousers, Alyosha, Hahko (that is, Alexandr), + Zoika, Ninka, the shepherd Nikita and the cook Akulina. There are immense + numbers of dogs who are furiously spiteful and don’t let anyone pass them + by day or by night. I have to go about under escort, or there will be one + writer less in Russia.... The most cursed of the dogs is Muhtar, an old + cur on whose face dirty tow hangs instead of wool. He hates me and rushes + at me with a roar every time I go out of the house. + </p> + <p> + Now about food. In the morning there is tea, eggs, ham and bacon fat. At + midday, soup with goose, roast goose with pickled sloes, or a turkey, + roast chicken, milk pudding, and sour milk. No vodka or pepper allowed. At + five o’clock they make on a camp fire in the wood a porridge of millet and + bacon fat. In the evening there is tea, ham, and all that has been left + over from dinner. + </p> + <p> + The entertainments are: shooting bustards, making bonfires, going to + Ivanovka, shooting at a mark, setting the dogs at one another, preparing + gunpowder paste for fireworks, talking politics, building turrets of + stone, etc. + </p> + <p> + The chief occupation is scientific farming, introduced by the youthful + Cossack, who bought five roubles’ worth of works on agriculture. The most + important part of this farming consists of wholesale slaughter, which does + not cease for a single moment in the day. They kill sparrows, swallows, + bumblebees, ants, magpies, crows—to prevent them eating bees; to + prevent the bees from spoiling the blossom on the fruit-trees they kill + bees, and to prevent the fruit-trees from exhausting the ground they cut + down the fruit-trees. One gets thus a regular circle which, though + somewhat original, is based on the latest data of science. + </p> + <p> + We retire at nine in the evening. Sleep is disturbed, for Belonozhkas and + Muhtars howl in the yard and Tseter furiously barks in answer to them from + under my sofa. I am awakened by shooting: my hosts shoot with rifles from + the windows at some animal which does damage to their crops. To leave the + house at night one has to call the Cossack, for otherwise the dogs would + tear one to bits. + </p> + <p> + The weather is fine. The grass is tall and in blossom. I watch bees and + men among whom I feel myself something like a Mikluha-Maklay. Last night + there was a beautiful thunderstorm. + </p> + <p> + ... The coal mines are not far off. To-morrow morning early I am going on + a one-horse droshky to Ivanovka (twenty-three versts) to fetch my letters + from the post. + </p> + <p> + ... We eat turkeys’ eggs. Turkeys lay eggs in the wood on last year’s + leaves. They kill hens, geese, pigs, etc., by shooting here. The shooting + is incessant. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TAGANROG, + </h2> + <p> + May 11. + </p> + <p> + ... From K.‘s I went to the Holy Mountains.... I came to Slavyansk on a + dark evening. The cabmen refuse to take me to the Holy Mountains at night, + and advise me to spend the night at Slavyansk, which I did very willingly, + for I felt broken and lame with pain.... The town is something like + Gogol’s <i>Mirgorod</i>; there is a hairdresser and a watchmaker, so that + one may hope that in another thousand years there will be a telephone. The + walls and fences are pasted with the advertisements of a menagerie.... On + green and dusty streets walk pigs, cows, and other domestic creatures. The + houses look cordial and friendly, rather like kindly grandmothers; the + pavements are soft, the streets are wide, there is a smell of lilac and + acacia in the air; from the distance come the singing of a nightingale, + the croaking of frogs, barking, and sounds of a harmonium, of a woman + screeching.... I stopped in Kulikov’s hotel, where I took a room for + seventy-five kopecks. After sleeping on wooden sofas and washtubs it was a + voluptuous sight to see a bed with a mattress, a washstand.... Fragrant + breezes came in at the wide-open window and green branches thrust + themselves in. It was a glorious morning. It was a holiday (May 6th) and + the bells were ringing in the cathedral. People were coming out from mass. + I saw police officers, justices of the peace, military superintendents, + and other principalities and powers come out of the church. I bought two + kopecks’ worth of sunflower seeds, and hired for six roubles a carriage on + springs to take me to the Holy Mountains and back (in two days’ time). I + drove out of the town through little streets literally drowned in the + green of cherry, apricot, and apple trees. The birds sang unceasingly. + Little Russians whom I met took off their caps, taking me probably for + Turgenev; my driver jumped every minute off the box to put the harness to + rights, or to crack his whip at the boys who ran after the carriage.... + There were strings of pilgrims along the road. On all sides there were + white hills, big and small. The horizon was bluish-white, the rye was + tall, oak copses were met with here and there—the only things + lacking were crocodiles and rattlesnakes. + </p> + <p> + I came to the Holy Mountains at twelve o’clock. It is a remarkably + beautiful and unique place. The monastery stands on the bank of the river + Donets at the foot of a huge white rock covered with gardens, oaks, and + ancient pines crowded together and over-hanging, one above another. It + seems as if the trees had not enough room on the rock, and as if some + force were driving them upwards.... The pines literally hang in the air + and look as though they might fall any minute. Cuckoos and nightingales + sing night and day. + </p> + <p> + The monks, very pleasant people, gave me a very unpleasant room with a + pancake-like mattress. I spent two nights at the monastery and gathered a + mass of impressions. While I was there some fifteen thousand pilgrims + assembled because of St. Nicolas’ Day; eight-ninths of them were old + women. I did not know before that there were so many old women in the + world; had I known, I would have shot myself long ago. About the monks, my + acquaintance with them and how I gave medical advice to the monks and the + old women, I will write to the <i>Novoye Vremya</i> and tell you when we + meet. The services are endless: at midnight they ring for matins, at five + for early mass, at nine for late mass, at three for the song of praise, at + five for vespers, at six for the special prayers. Before every service one + hears in the corridors the weeping sound of a bell, and a monk runs along + crying in the voice of a creditor who implores his debtor to pay him at + least five kopecks for a rouble: + </p> + <p> + “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us! Please come to matins!” + </p> + <p> + It is awkward to stay in one’s room, and so one gets up and goes out. I + have chosen a spot on the bank of the Donets, where I sit during all the + services. + </p> + <p> + I have bought an ikon for Auntie. [Translator’s Note: His mother’s + sister.] The food is provided gratis by the monastery for all the fifteen + thousand: cabbage soup with dried fresh-water fish and porridge. Both are + good, and so is the rye bread. + </p> + <p> + The church bells are wonderful. The choir is not up to much. I took part + in a religious procession on boats. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. G. KOROLENKO. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, October 17, 1887. + </p> + <p> + ... I am extremely glad to have met you. I say it sincerely and with all + my heart. In the first place, I deeply value and love your talent; it is + dear to me for many reasons. In the second, it seems to me that if you and + I live in this world another ten or twenty years we shall be bound to find + points of contact. Of all the Russians now successfully writing I am the + lightest and most frivolous; I am looked upon doubtfully; to speak the + language of the poets, I have loved my pure Muse but I have not respected + her; I have been unfaithful to her and often took her to places that were + not fit for her to go to. But you are serious, strong, and faithful. The + difference between us is great, as you see, but nevertheless when I read + you, and now when I have met you, I think that we have something in + common. I don’t know if I am right, but I like to think it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, November 20, 1887. + </p> + <p> + Well, the first performance [Translator’s Note: “Ivanov.”] is over. I will + tell you all about it in detail. To begin with, Korsh promised me ten + rehearsals, but gave me only four, of which only two could be called rehearsals, + for the other two were tournaments in which <i>messieurs les artistes</i> + exercised themselves in altercation and abuse. Davydov and Glama were the + only two who knew their parts; the others trusted to the prompter and + their own inner conviction. + </p> + <p> + Act One.—I am behind the stage in a small box that looks like a + prison cell. My family is in a box of the benoire and is trembling. + Contrary to my expectations, I am cool and am conscious of no agitation. + The actors are nervous and excited, and cross themselves. The curtain goes + up ... the actor whose benefit night it is comes on. His uncertainty, the + way that he forgets his part, and the wreath that is presented to him make + the play unrecognizable to me from the first sentences. Kiselevsky, of + whom I had great hopes, did not deliver a single phrase correctly—literally + <i>not a single one</i>. He said things of his own composition. In spite + of this and of the stage manager’s blunders, the first act was a great + success. There were many calls. + </p> + <p> + Act Two.—A lot of people on the stage. Visitors. They don’t know + their parts, make mistakes, talk nonsense. Every word cuts me like a knife + in my back. But—o Muse!—this act, too, was a success. There + were calls for all the actors, and I was called before the curtain twice. + Congratulations and success. + </p> + <p> + Act Three.—The acting is not bad. Enormous success. I had to come + before the curtain three times, and as I did so Davydov was shaking my + hand, and Glama, like Manilov, was pressing my other hand to her heart. + The triumph of talent and virtue. + </p> + <p> + Act Four, Scene One.—It does not go badly. Calls before the curtain + again. Then a long, wearisome interval. The audience, not used to leaving + their seats and going to the refreshment bar between two scenes, murmur. + The curtain goes up. Fine: through the arch one can see the supper table + (the wedding). The band plays flourishes. The groomsmen come out: they are + drunk, and so you see they think they must behave like clowns and cut + capers. The horseplay and pot-house atmosphere reduce me to despair. Then + Kiselevsky comes out: it is a poetical, moving passage, but my Kiselevsky + does not know his part, is drunk as a cobbler, and a short poetical + dialogue is transformed into something tedious and disgusting: the public + is perplexed. At the end of the play the hero dies because he cannot get + over the insult he has received. The audience, grown cold and tired, does + not understand this death (the actors insisted on it; I have another + version). There are calls for the actors and for me. During one of the + calls I hear sounds of open hissing, drowned by the clapping and stamping. + </p> + <p> + On the whole I feel tired and annoyed. It was sickening though the play + had considerable success.... + </p> + <p> + Theatre-goers say that they had never seen such a ferment in a theatre, + such universal clapping and hissing, nor heard such discussions among the + audience as they saw and heard at my play. And it has never happened + before at Korsh’s that the author has been called after the second act. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + November 24. + </h2> + <p> + ... It has all subsided at last, and I sit as before at my writing-table + and compose stories with untroubled spirit. You can’t think what it was + like! ... I have already told you that at the first performance there was + such excitement in the audience and on the stage as the prompter, who has + served at the theatre for thirty-two years, had never seen. They made an + uproar, shouted, clapped and hissed; at the refreshment bar it almost came + to fighting, and in the gallery the students wanted to throw someone out + and two persons were removed by the police. The excitement was general.... + </p> + <p> + ... The actors were in a state of nervous tension. All that I wrote to you + and Maslov about their acting and attitude to their work must not, of + course, go any further. There is much one has to excuse and understand.... + It turned out that the actress who was doing the chief part in my play had + a daughter lying dangerously ill—how could she feel like acting? + Kurepin did well to praise the actors. + </p> + <p> + The next day after the performance there was a review by Pyotr Kitcheyev + in the <i>Moskovsky Listok</i>. He calls my play impudently cynical and + immoral rubbish. The <i>Moskovskiya Vyedomosti</i> praised it. + </p> + <p> + ... If you read the play you will not understand the excitement I have + described to you; you will find nothing special in it. Nikolay, Shehtel, + and Levitan—all of them painters—assure me that on the stage + it is so original that it is quite strange to look at. In reading one does + not notice it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO D. V. GRIGOROVITCH. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, 1887. + </p> + <p> + I have just read “Karelin’s Dream,” and I am very much interested to know + how far the dream you describe really is a dream. I think your description + of the workings of the brain and of the general feeling of a person who is + asleep is physiologically correct and remarkably artistic. I remember I + read two or three years ago a French story, in which the author described + the daughter of a minister., and probably without himself suspecting it, + gave a correct medical description of hysteria. I thought at the time that + an artist’s instinct may sometimes be worth the brains of a scientist, + that both have the same purpose, the same nature, and that perhaps in + time, as their methods become perfect, they are destined to become one + vast prodigious force which now it is difficult even to imagine.... + “Karelin’s Dream” has suggested to me similar thoughts, and to-day I + willingly believe Buckle, who saw in Hamlet’s musings on the dust of + Alexander the Great, Shakespeare’s knowledge of the law of the + transmutation of substance—i.e., the power of the artist to run + ahead of the men of science.... Sleep is a subjective phenomenon, and the + inner aspect of it one can only observe in oneself. But since the process + of dreaming is the same in all men, every reader can, I think, judge + Karelin by his own standards, and every critic is bound to be subjective. + From my own personal experience this is how I can formulate my impression. + </p> + <p> + In the first place the sensation of cold is given by you with remarkable + subtlety. When at night the quilt falls off I begin to dream of huge + slippery stones, of cold autumnal water, naked banks—and all this + dim, misty, without a patch of blue sky; sad and dejected like one who has + lost his way, I look at the stones and feel that for some reason I cannot + avoid crossing a deep river; I see then small tugs that drag huge barges, + floating beams.... All this is infinitely grey, damp, and dismal. When I + run from the river I come across the fallen cemetery gates, funerals, my + school-teachers.... And all the time I am cold through and through with + that oppressive nightmare-like cold which is impossible in waking life, + and which is only felt by those who are asleep. The first pages of + “Karelin’s Dream” vividly brought it to my memory—especially the + first half of page five, where you speak of the cold and loneliness of the + grave. + </p> + <p> + I think that had I been born in Petersburg and constantly lived there, I + should always dream of the banks of the Neva, the Senate Square, the + massive monuments. + </p> + <p> + When I feel cold in my sleep I dream of people.... I happened to have read + a criticism in which the reviewer blames you for introducing a man who is + “almost a minister,” and thus spoiling the generally dignified tone of the + story. I don’t agree with him. What spoils the tone is not the people but + your characterization of them, which in some places interrupts the picture + of the dream. One does dream of people, and always of unpleasant ones.... + I, for instance, when I feel cold, always dream of my teacher of + scripture, a learned priest of imposing appearance, who insulted my mother + when I was a little boy; I dream of vindictive, implacable, intriguing + people, smiling with spiteful glee—such as one can never see in + waking life. The laughter at the carriage window is a characteristic + symptom of Karelin’s nightmare. When in dreams one feels the presence of + some evil will, the inevitable ruin brought about by some outside force, + one always hears something like such laughter.... One dreams of people one + loves, too, but they generally appear to suffer together with the dreamer. + </p> + <p> + But when my body gets accustomed to the cold, or one of my family covers + me up, the sensation of cold, of loneliness, and of an oppressive evil + will, gradually disappears.... With the returning warmth I begin to feel + that I walk on soft carpets or on grass, I see sunshine, women, + children.... The pictures change gradually, but more rapidly than they do + in waking life, so that on awaking it is difficult to remember the + transitions from one scene to another.... This abruptness is well brought + out in your story, and increases the impression of the dream. + </p> + <p> + Another natural fact you have noticed is also extremely striking: dreamers + express their moods in outbursts of an acute kind, with childish + genuineness, like Karelin. Everyone knows that people weep and cry out in + their sleep much more often than they do in waking life. This is probably + due to the lack of inhibition in sleep and of the impulses which make us + conceal things. + </p> + <p> + Forgive me, I so like your story that I am ready to write you a dozen + sheets, though I know I can tell you nothing new or good.... I restrain + myself and am silent, fearing to bore you and to say something silly. + </p> + <p> + I will say once more that your story is magnificent. The public finds it + “vague,” but to a writer who gloats over every line such vagueness is more + transparent than holy water.... Hard as I tried I could detect only two + small blots, even those are rather farfetched! + </p> + <p> + (1) I think that at the beginning of the story the feeling of cold is soon + blunted in the reader and becomes habitual, owing to the frequent + repetition of the word “cold,” and (2), the word “glossy” is repeated too + often. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing else I could find, and I feel that as one is always + feeling the need of refreshing models, “Karelin’s Dream” is a splendid + event in my existence as an author. This is why I could not contain myself + and ventured to put before you some of my thoughts and impressions. + </p> + <p> + There is little good I can say about myself. I write not what I want to be + writing, and I have not enough energy or solitude to write as you advised + me.... There are many good subjects jostling in my head—and that is + all. I am sustained by hopes of the future, and watch the present slip + fruitlessly away. + </p> + <p> + Forgive this long letter, and accept the sincere good wishes of your + devoted + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. G. KOROLENKO. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, January 9, 1888. + </p> + <p> + Following your friendly advice I began writing a story [Footnote: “The + Steppe”] for the <i>Syeverny Vyestnik</i>. To begin with I have attempted + to describe the steppe, the people who live there, and what I have + experienced in the steppe. It is a good subject, and I enjoy writing about + it, but unfortunately from lack of practice in writing long things, and + from fear of making it too rambling, I fall into the opposite extreme: + each page turns out a compact whole like a short story, the pictures + accumulate, are crowded, and, getting in each other’s way, spoil the + impression as a whole. As a result one gets, not a picture in which all + the details are merged into one whole like stars in the heavens, but a + mere diagram, a dry record of impressions. A writer—you, for + instance—will understand me, but the reader will be bored and curse. + </p> + <p> + ... Your “Sokolinets” is, I think, the most remarkable novel that has + appeared of late. It is written like a good musical composition, in + accordance with all the rules which an artist instinctively divines. + Altogether in the whole of your book you are such a great artist, such a + force, that even your worst failings, which would have been the ruin of + any other writer, pass unnoticed. For instance, in the whole of your book + there is an obstinate exclusion of women, and I have only just noticed it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, February 5, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... I am longing to read Korolenko’s story. He is my favourite of + contemporary writers. His colours are rich and vivid, his style is + irreproachable, though in places rather elaborate, his images are noble. + Leontyev [Footnote: I. L. Shtcheglov.] is good too. He is not so mature + and picturesque, but he is warmer than Korolenko, more peaceful and + feminine.... But, Allah kerim, why do they both specialize? The first will + not part with his convicts, and the second feeds his readers with nothing + but officers.... I understand specialization in art such as <i>genre</i>, + landscape, history, but I cannot admit of such specialties as convicts, + officers, priests.... This is not specialization but partiality. In + Petersburg you do not care for Korolenko, and here in Moscow we do not + read Shtcheglov, but I fully believe in the future of both of them. Ah, if + only we had decent critics! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + February 9. + </h2> + <p> + ... You say you liked Dymov [Translator’s Note: One of the characters in + “The Steppe.”] as a subject. Life creates such characters as the + dare-devil Dymov not to be dissenters nor tramps, but downright + revolutionaries.... There never will be a revolution in Russia, and Dymov + will end by taking to drink or getting into prison. He is a superfluous + man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + March 6. + </h2> + <p> + It is devilishly cold, but the poor birds are already flying to Russia! + They are driven by homesickness and love for their native land. If poets + knew how many millions of birds fall victims to their longing and love for + their homes, how many of them freeze on the way, what agonies they endure + on getting home in March and at the beginning of April, they would have + sung their praises long ago! ... Put yourself in the place of a corncrake + who does not fly but walks all the way, or of a wild goose who gives + himself up to man to escape being frozen.... Life is hard in this world! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, April 18, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... In any case I am more often merry than sad, though if one comes to + think of it I am bound hand and foot.... You, my dear man, have a flat, + but I have a whole house which, though a poor specimen, is still a house, + and one of two storeys, too! You have a <i>wife</i> who will forgive your + having no money, and I have a <i>whole organization</i> which will + collapse if I don’t earn a sufficient number of roubles a month—collapse + and fall on my shoulders like a heavy stone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 3. + </h2> + <p> + ... I have just sent a story [Footnote: “The Lights.”] to the <i>Syeverny + Vyestnik</i>. I feel a little ashamed of it. It is frightfully dull, and + there is so much discussion and preaching in it that it is mawkish. I + didn’t like to send it, but had to, for I need money as I do air.... + </p> + <p> + I have had a letter from Leman. He tells me that “we” (that is all of you + Petersburg people) “have agreed to print advertisements about each other’s + work on our books,” invites me to join, and warns me that among the elect + may be included only such persons as have a “certain degree of solidarity + with us.” I wrote to say that I agreed, and asked him how does he know + with whom I have solidarity and with whom I have not? How fond of + stuffiness you are in Petersburg! Don’t you feel stifled with such words + as “solidarity,” “unity of young writers,” “common interests,” and so on? + Solidarity and all the rest of it I admit on the stock-exchange, in + politics, in religious affairs, etc., but solidarity among young writers + is impossible and unnecessary.... We cannot feel and think in the same + way, our aims are different, or we have no aims whatever, we know each + other little or not at all, and so there is nothing on to which this + solidarity could be securely hooked.... And is there any need for it? No, + in order to help a colleague, to respect his personality and his work, to + refrain from gossiping about him, envying him, telling him lies and being + hypocritical, one does not need so much to be a young writer as simply a + man.... Let us be ordinary people, let us treat everybody alike, and then + we shall not need any artificially worked up solidarity. Insistent desire + for particular, professional, clique solidarity such as you want, will + give rise to unconscious spying on one another, suspiciousness, control, + and, without wishing to do so, we shall become something like Jesuits in + relation to one another.... I, dear Jean, have no solidarity with you, but + I promise you as a literary man perfect freedom so long as you live; that + is, you may write where and how you wish, you may think like Koreisha + [Footnote: A well-known religious fanatic in Moscow.] if you like, betray + your convictions and tendencies a thousand times, etc., etc., and my human + relations with you will not alter one jot, and I will always publish + advertisements of your books on the wrappers of mine. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + SUMY, MADAME LINTVARYOV’S ESTATE, May 30, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... I am staying on the bank of the Psyol, in the lodge of an old + signorial estate. I took the place without seeing it, trusting to luck, + and have not regretted it so far. The river is wide and deep, with plenty + of islands, of fish and of crayfish. The banks are beautiful, well-covered + with grass and trees. And best of all, there is so much space that I feel + as if for my one hundred roubles I have obtained a right to live on an + expanse of which one can see no end. Nature and life here is built on the + pattern now so old-fashioned and rejected by magazine editors. + Nightingales sing night and day, dogs bark in the distance, there are old + neglected gardens, sad and poetical estates shut up and deserted where + live the souls of beautiful women; old footmen, relics of serfdom, on the + brink of the grave; young ladies longing for the most conventional love. + In addition to all these things, not far from me there is even such a + hackneyed cliche as a water-mill (with sixteen wheels), with a miller, and + his daughter who always sits at the window, apparently waiting for + someone. All that I see and hear now seems familiar to me from old novels + and fairy-tales. The only thing that has something new about it is a + mysterious bird, which sits somewhere far away in the reeds, and night and + day makes a noise that sounds partly like a blow on an empty barrel and + partly like the mooing of a cow shut up in a barn. Every Little Russian + has seen this bird in the course of his life, but everyone describes it + differently, which means that no one has seen it.... Every day I row to + the mill, and in the evening I go to the islands to fish with fishing + maniacs from the Haritovenko factory. Our conversations are sometimes + interesting. On the eve of Whit Sunday all the maniacs will spend the + night on the islands and fish all night; I, too. There are some splendid + types. + </p> + <p> + My hosts have turned out to be very nice and hospitable people. It is a + family worth studying. It consists of six members. The old mother, a very + kind, rather flabby woman who has had suffering enough in her life; she + reads Schopenhauer and goes to church to hear the Song of Praise; she + conscientiously studies every number of the <i>Vyestnik Evropi</i> and <i>Syeverny + Vyestnik</i>, and knows writers I have not dreamed of; attaches much + importance to the fact that once the painter Makovsky stayed in her lodge + and now a young writer is staying there; talking to Pleshtcheyev she feels + a holy thrill all over and rejoices every minute that it has been + “vouchsafed” to her to see the great poet. + </p> + <p> + Her eldest daughter, a woman doctor—the pride of the whole family + and “a saint” as the peasants call her—really is remarkable. She has + a tumour on the brain, and in consequence of it she is totally blind, has + epileptic fits and constant headaches. She knows what awaits her, and + stoically with amazing coolness speaks of her approaching death. In the + course of my medical practice I have grown used to seeing people who were + soon going to die, and I have always felt strange when people whose death + was at hand talked, smiled, or wept in my presence; but here, when I see + on the verandah this blind woman who laughs, jokes, or hears my stories + read to her, what begins to seem strange to me is not that she is dying, + but that we do not feel our own death, and write stories as though we were + never going to die. + </p> + <p> + The second daughter, also a woman doctor, is a gentle, shy, infinitely + kind creature, loving to everyone. Patients are a regular torture to her, + and she is scrupulous to morbidity with them. At consultations we always + disagree: I bring good tidings where she sees death, and I double the + doses which she prescribes. But where death is obvious and inevitable my + lady doctor feels quite in an unprofessional way. I was receiving patients + with her one day at a medical centre; a young Little Russian woman came + with a malignant tumour of the glands in her neck and at the back of her + head. The tumour had spread so far that no treatment could be thought of. + And because the woman was at present feeling no pain, but would in another + six months die in terrible agony, the doctor looked at her in such a + guilty way as though she were asking forgiveness for being well, and + ashamed that medical science was helpless. She takes a zealous part in + managing the house and estate, and understands every detail of it. She + knows all about horses even. When the side horse does not pull or gets + restless, she knows how to help matters and instructs the coachman. I + believe she has never hurt anyone, and it seems to me that she has not + been happy for a single instant and never will be. + </p> + <p> + The third daughter, who has finished her studies at Bezstuzhevka, is a + vigorous, sunburnt young girl with a loud voice. Her laugh can be heard a + mile away. She is a passionate Little Russian patriot. She has built a + school on the estate at her own expense, and teaches the children Krylov’s + fables translated into Little Russian. She goes to Shevtchenko’s grave as + a Turk goes to Mecca. She does not cut her hair, wears stays and a bustle, + looks after the housekeeping, is fond of laughing and singing. + </p> + <p> + The eldest son is a quiet, modest, intelligent, hardworking young man with + no talents; he has no pretensions, and is apparently content with what + life has given him. He has been dismissed from the University + [Translator’s Note: On political grounds, of course, is understood.] just + before taking his degree, but he does not boast of it. He speaks little. + He loves farming and the land and lives in harmony with the peasants. + </p> + <p> + The second son is a young man mad over Tchaikovsky’s being a genius. He + dreams of living according to Tolstoy. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Pleshtcheyev is staying with us. They all look upon him as a demi-god, + consider themselves happy if he bestows attention on somebody’s junket, + bring him flowers, invite him everywhere, and so on.... And he “listens + and eats,” and smokes his cigars which give his admirers a headache. He is + slow to move, with the indolence of old age, but this does not prevent the + fair sex from taking him about in boats, driving with him to the + neighbouring estates, and singing songs to him. Here he is by way of being + the same thing as in Petersburg—i.e., an ikon which is prayed to for + being old and for having once hung by the side of the miracle-working + ikons. So far as I am concerned I regard him—not to speak of his + being a very good, warm-hearted and sincere man—as a vessel full of + traditions, interesting memories, and good platitudes. + </p> + <p> + ... What you say about “The Lights” is quite just. You say that neither + the conversation about pessimism nor Kisotcha’s story in any way help to + solve the question of pessimism. It seems to me it is not for writers of + fiction to solve such questions as that of God, of pessimism, etc. The + writer’s business is simply to describe who has been speaking about God or + about pessimism, how, and in what circumstances. The artist must be not + the judge of his characters and of their conversations, but merely an + impartial witness. I have heard a desultory conversation of two Russians + about pessimism—a conversation which settles nothing—and I + must report that conversation as I heard it; it is for the jury, that is, + for the readers, to decide on the value of it. My business is merely to be + talented—i.e., to know how to distinguish important statements from + unimportant, how to throw light on the characters, and to speak their + language. Shtcheglov-Leontyev blames me for finishing the story with the + words, “There’s no making out anything in this world.” He thinks a writer + who is a good psychologist ought to be able to make it out—that is + what he is a psychologist for. But I don’t agree with him. It is time that + writers, especially those who are artists, recognized that there is no + making out anything in this world, as once Socrates recognized it, and + Voltaire, too. The mob thinks it knows and understands everything; and the + more stupid it is the wider it imagines its outlook to be. And if a writer + whom the mob believes in has the courage to say that he does not + understand anything of what he sees, that alone will be something gained + in the realm of thought and a great step in advance. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. + </h2> + <p> + SUMY, June 28, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... We have been to the province of Poltava. We went to the Smagins’, and + to Sorotchintsi. We drove with a four-in-hand, in an ancestral, very + comfortable carriage. We had no end of laughter, adventures, + misunderstandings, halts, and meetings on the way.... If you had only seen + the places where we stayed the night and the villages stretching eight or + ten versts through which we drove! ... What weddings we met on the road, + what lovely music we heard in the evening stillness, and what a heavy + smell of fresh hay there was! Really one might sell one’s soul to the + devil for the pleasure of looking at the warm evening sky, the pools and + the rivulets reflecting the sad, languid sunset.... + </p> + <p> + ... The Smagins’ estate is “great and fertile,” but old, neglected, and + dead as last year’s cobwebs. The house has sunk, the doors won’t shut, the + tiles in the stove squeeze one another out and form angles, young suckers + of cherries and plums peep up between the cracks of the floors. In the + room where I slept a nightingale had made herself a nest between the + window and the shutter, and while I was there little naked nightingales, + looking like undressed Jew babies, hatched out from the eggs. Sedate + storks live on the barn. At the beehouse there is an old grandsire who + remembers the King Goroh [Translator’s Note: The equivalent of Old King + Cole.] and Cleopatra of Egypt. + </p> + <p> + Everything is crumbling and decrepit, but poetical, sad, and beautiful in + the extreme. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + FEODOSIA, July, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... The journey from Sumy to Harkov is frightfully dull. Going from Harkov + to Simferopol one might well die of boredom. The Crimean steppe is + depressing, monotonous, with no horizon, colourless like Ivanenko’s + stories, and on the whole rather like the tundra.... From Simferopol + mountains begin and, with them, beauty. Ravines, mountains, ravines, + mountains, poplars stick out from the ravines, vineyards loom dark on the + mountains—all this is bathed in moonlight, is new and wild, and sets + one’s imagination working in harmony with Gogol’s “Terrible Vengeance.” + Particularly fantastic are the alternating precipices and tunnels when you + see now depths full of moonlight and now complete sinister darkness. It is + rather uncanny and delightful. One feels it is something not Russian, + something alien. I reached Sevastopol at night. The town is beautiful in + itself and beautiful because it stands by a marvellous sea. The best in + the sea is its colour, and that one cannot describe. It is like blue + copperas. As to steamers and sailing vessels, piers and harbours, what + strikes one most of all is the poverty of the Russians. Except the “<i>popovkas</i>,” + which look like Moscow merchants’ wives, and two or three decent steamers, + there is nothing to speak of in the bay. + </p> + <p> + ... In the morning it was deadly dull. Heat, dust, thirst.... In the + harbour there was a stench of ropes, and one caught glimpses of faces + burnt brick-red, sounds of a pulley, of the splashing of dirty water, + knocking, Tatar words, and all sorts of uninteresting nonsense. You go up + to a steamer: men in rags, bathed in sweat and almost baked by the sun, + dizzy, with tatters on their backs and shoulders, unload Portland cement; + you stand and look at them and the whole scene becomes so remote, so + alien, that one feels insufferably dull and uninterested. It is + entertaining to get on board and set off, but it is rather a bore to sail + and talk to a crowd of passengers consisting of elements all of which one + knows by heart and is weary of already.... Yalta is a mixture of something + European that reminds one of the views of Nice, with something cheap and + shoddy. The box-like hotels in which unhappy consumptives are pining, the + impudent Tatar faces, the ladies’ bustles with their very undisguised + expression of something very abominable, the faces of the idle rich, + longing for cheap adventures, the smell of perfumery instead of the scent + of the cedars and the sea, the miserable dirty pier, the melancholy lights + far out at sea, the prattle of young ladies and gentlemen who have crowded + here in order to admire nature of which they have no idea—all this + taken together produces such a depressing effect and is so overwhelming + that one begins to blame oneself for being biassed and unfair.... At five + o’clock in the morning I arrived at Feodosia—a greyish-brown, + dismal, and dull-looking little town. There is no grass, the trees are + wretched, the soil is coarse and hopelessly poor. Everything is burnt up + by the sun, and only the sea smiles—the sea which has nothing to do + with wretched little towns or tourists. Sea bathing is so nice that when I + got into the water I began to laugh for no reason at all.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + July 22. + </h2> + <p> + ... Yesterday we went to Shah-Mamai Aivazovsky’s estate, twenty-five + versts from Feodosia. It is a magnificent estate, rather like fairyland; + such estates may probably be seen in Persia. Aivazovsky [Translator’s + Note: The famous marine painter.] himself, a vigorous old man of + seventy-five, is a mixture of a good-natured Armenian and an overfed + bishop; he is full of dignity, has soft hands, and offers them like a + general. He is not very intelligent, but is a complex nature worthy of + attention. He combines in himself a general, a bishop, an artist, an + Armenian, a naive old peasant, and an Othello. He is married to a young + and very beautiful woman whom he rules with a rod of iron. He is friendly + with Sultans, Shahs, and Amirs. He collaborated with Glinka in writing + “Ruslan and Liudmila.” He was a friend of Pushkin, but has never read him. + He has not read a single book in his life. When it is suggested to him + that he should read something he answers, “Why should I read when I have + opinions of my own?” I spent a whole day in his house and had dinner + there. The dinner was fearfully long, with endless toasts. By the way, at + that dinner I was introduced to the lady doctor, wife of the well-known + professor. She is a fat, bulky piece of flesh. If she were undressed and + painted green she would look just like a frog. After talking to her I + mentally scratched her off the list of women doctors.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <h3> + July 28, 1888. + </h3> + <p> + On the Seas Black, Caspian, and of Life. + </p> + <p> + ... A wretched little cargo steamer, <i>Dir</i>, is racing full steam from + Suhum to Poti. It is about midnight. The little cabin—the only one + in the steamer—is insufferably hot and stuffy. There is a smell of + burning, of rope, of fish and of the sea. One hears the engine going + “Boom-boom-boom.” ... There are devils creaking up aloft and under the + floor. The darkness is swaying in the cabin and the bed rocks up and + down.... One’s stomach’s whole attention is concentrated on the bed, and, + as though to find its level, it rolls the Seltzer water I had drunk right + up to my throat and then lets it down to my heels. Not to be sick over my + clothes in the dark I hastily put on my things and go out.... It is dark. + My feet stumble against some invisible iron bars, a rope; wherever you + step there are barrels, sacks, rags. There is coal dust under foot. In the + dark I knock against a kind of grating: it is a cage with wild goats which + I saw in the daytime. They are awake and anxiously listening to the + rocking of the boat. By the cage sit two Turks who are not asleep + either.... I grope my way up the stairs to the captain’s bridge.... A warm + but violent and unpleasant wind tries to blow away my cap.... The steamer + rocks. The mast in front of the captain’s bridge sways regularly and + leisurely like a metronome; I try to look away from it, but my eyes will + not obey me and, just like my stomach, insist on following moving + objects.... The sky and the sea are dark, the shore is not in sight, the + deck looks a dark blur ... there is not a single light. + </p> + <p> + Behind me is a window ... I look into it and see a man who looks + attentively at something and turns a wheel with an expression as though he + were playing the ninth symphony.... Next to me stands the little stout + captain in tan shoes.... He talks to me of Caucasian emigrants, of the + heat, of winter storms, and at the same time looks intently into the dark + distance in the direction of the shore. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to be going too much to the left again,” he says to someone; or, + “There ought to be lights here.... Do you see them?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” someone answers from the dark. + </p> + <p> + “Climb up and look.” + </p> + <p> + A dark figure appears on the bridge and leisurely climbs up. In a minute + we hear: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + I look to the left where the lights of the lighthouse are supposed to be, + borrow the captain’s glasses, but see nothing.... Half an hour passes, + then an hour. The mast sways regularly, the devils creak, the wind makes + dashes at my cap.... It is not pitch dark, but one feels uneasy. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the captain dashes off somewhere to the rear of the ship, crying, + “You devil’s doll!” + </p> + <p> + “To the left,” he shouts anxiously at the top of his voice. “To the left! + ... To the right! A-va-va-a!” + </p> + <p> + Incomprehensible words of command are heard. The steamer starts, the + devils give a creak.... “A-va-va!” shouts the captain; at the bows a bell + is rung, on the black deck there are sounds of running, knocking, cries of + anxiety.... The <i>Dir</i> starts once more, puffs painfully, and + apparently tries to move backwards. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” I ask, and feel something like a faint terror. There is no + answer. + </p> + <p> + “He’d like a collision, the devil’s doll!” I hear the captain’s harsh + shout. “To the left!” + </p> + <p> + Red lights appear in front, and suddenly among the uproar is heard the + whistling, not of the <i>Dir</i>, but of some other steamer.... Now I + understand it: there is going to be a collision! The <i>Dir</i> puffs, + trembles, and does not move, as though waiting for a signal to go down.... + But just when I think all is lost, the red lights appear on the left of + us, and the dark silhouette of a steamer can be discerned.... A long black + body sails past us, guiltily blinks its red eyes, and gives a guilty + whistle.... + </p> + <p> + “Oof! What steamer is it?” I ask the captain. + </p> + <p> + The captain looks at the silhouette through his glasses and replies: + </p> + <p> + “It is the <i>Tweedie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause we begin to talk of the <i>Vesta</i>, which collided with + two steamers and went down. Under the influence of this conversation the + sea, the night and the wind begin to seem hideous, created on purpose for + man’s undoing, and I feel sorry as I look at the fat little captain.... + Something whispers to me that this poor man, too, will sooner or later + sink to the bottom and be choked with salt water. [Footnote: Chekhov’s + presentiment about the captain was partly fulfilled: that very autumn the + <i>Dir</i> was wrecked on the shores of Alupka.] + </p> + <p> + I go back to my cabin.... It is stuffy, and there is a smell of cooking. + My travelling companion, Suvorin-<i>fils</i>, is asleep already.... I take + off all my clothes and go to bed.... The darkness sways to and fro, the + bed seems to breathe.... Boom-boom-boom! Bathed in perspiration, + breathless, and feeling an oppression all over with the rocking, I ask + myself, “What am I here for?” + </p> + <p> + I wake up. It is no longer dark. Wet all over, with a nasty taste in my + mouth, I dress and go out. Everything is covered with dew.... The wild + goats look with human eyes through the grating of their cage and seem to + be asking “Why are we here?” The captain stands still as before and looks + intently into the distance.... + </p> + <p> + A mountainous shore stretches on the left.... Elborus is seen from behind + the mountains. + </p> + <p> + A blurred sun rises in the sky.... One can see the green valley of Rion + and the Bay of Poti by the side of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. A. LEIKIN. + </h2> + <p> + SUMY, August 12. + </p> + <p> + ... I have been to the Crimea. I spent twelve days at Suvorin’s in + Feodosia, bathed, idled about; I have been to Aivazovsky’s estate. From + Feodosia I went by steamer to Batum. On the way I spent half a day at + Suhum—a charming little town buried in luxuriant, un-Russian + greenery, and one day at the Monastery, at New Athos. It is so lovely + there at New Athos that there is no describing it: waterfalls, + eucalyptuses, tea-plants, cypresses, olive-trees, and, above all, sea and + mountains, mountains, mountains. From Athos and Suhum I went to Poti; the + River Rion, renowned for its valley and its sturgeons, is close by. The + vegetation is luxuriant. All the streets are planted with poplars. Batum + is a big commercial and military, foreign-looking, <i>cafe’-chantant</i> + sort of town; you feel in it at every step that we have conquered the + Turks. There is nothing special about it (except a great number of + brothels), but the surrounding country is charming. Particularly fine is + the road to Kars and the swift river Tchoraksu. + </p> + <p> + The road from Batum to Tiflis is poetical and original; you look all the + time out of window and exclaim: there are mountains, tunnels, rocks, + rivers, waterfalls, big and little. But the road from Tiflis to Baku is + the abomination of desolation, a bald plain, covered with sand and created + for Persians, tarantulas, and phalangas to live in. There is not a single + tree, there is no grass ... dreary as hell.... Baku and the Caspian Sea + are such rotten places that I would not agree to live there for a million. + There are no roofs, there are no trees either; Persian faces everywhere, + fifty degrees Reaumur of heat, a smell of kerosine, the naphtha-soaked mud + squelches under one’s feet, the drinking water is salt. + </p> + <p> + ... You have seen the Caucasus. I believe you have seen the Georgian + Military Road, too. If you have not been there yet, pawn your wives and + children and the <i>Oskolki</i> [Translator’s Note: <i>Oskolki</i>, (i.e., + “Chips,” “Bits”) the paper of which Leikin was editor.] and go. I have + never in my life seen anything like it. It is not a road, but unbroken + poetry, a wonderful, fantastic story written by the Demon in love with + Tamara. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + SUMY, August 29, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... When as a boy I used to stay at my grandfather’s on Count Platov’s + estate, I had to sit from sunrise to sunset by the thrashing machine and + write down the number of <i>poods</i> and pounds of corn that had been + thrashed; the whistling, the hissing, and the bass note, like the sound of + a whirling top, that the machine makes at full speed, the creaking of the + wheels, the lazy tread of the oxen, the clouds of dust, the grimy, + perspiring faces of some three score of men—all this has stamped + itself upon my memory like the Lord’s Prayer. And now, too, I have been + spending hours at the thrashing and felt intensely happy. When the + thrashing engine is at work it looks as though alive; it has a cunning, + playful expression, while the men and oxen look like machines. In the + district of Mirgorod few have thrashing machines of their own, but + everyone can hire one. The engine goes about the whole province drawn by + six oxen and offers itself to all who can pay for it. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + September 11. + </p> + <p> + ... You advise me not to hunt after two hares, and not to think of medical + work. I do not know why one should not hunt two hares even in the literal + sense.... I feel more confident and more satisfied with myself when I + reflect that I have two professions and not one. Medicine is my lawful + wife and literature is my mistress. When I get tired of one I spend the + night with the other. Though it’s disorderly, it’s not so dull, and + besides neither of them loses anything from my infidelity. If I did not + have my medical work I doubt if I could have given my leisure and my spare + thoughts to literature. There is no discipline in me. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + October 27, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... In conversation with my literary colleagues I always insist that it is + not the artist’s business to solve problems that require a specialist’s + knowledge. It is a bad thing if a writer tackles a subject he does not + understand. We have specialists for dealing with special questions: it is + their business to judge of the commune, of the future of capitalism, of + the evils of drunkenness, of boots, of the diseases of women. An artist + must only judge of what he understands, his field is just as limited as + that of any other specialist—I repeat this and insist on it always. + That in his sphere there are no questions, but only answers, can only be + maintained by those who have never written and have had no experience of + thinking in images. An artist observes, selects, guesses, combines—and + this in itself presupposes a problem: unless he had set himself a problem + from the very first there would be nothing to conjecture and nothing to + select. To put it briefly, I will end by using the language of psychiatry: + if one denies that creative work involves problems and purposes, one must + admit that an artist creates without premeditation or intention, in a + state of aberration; therefore, if an author boasted to me of having + written a novel without a preconceived design, under a sudden inspiration, + I should call him mad. + </p> + <p> + You are right in demanding that an artist should take an intelligent + attitude to his work, but you confuse two things: <i>solving a problem</i> + and <i>stating a problem correctly</i>. It is only the second that is + obligatory for the artist. In “Anna Karenin” and “Evgeny Onyegin” not a + single problem is solved, but they satisfy you completely because all the + problems are correctly stated in them. It is the business of the judge to + put the right questions, but the answers must be given by the jury + according to their own lights. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ... You say that the hero of my “Party” is a character worth developing. + Good Lord! I am not a senseless brute, you know, I understand that. I + understand that I cut the throats of my characters and spoil them, and + that I waste good material.... To tell you the truth, I would gladly have + spent six months over the “Party”; I like taking things easy, and see no + attraction in publishing at headlong speed. I would willingly, with + pleasure, with feeling, in a leisurely way, describe the <i>whole</i> of + my hero, describe the state of his mind while his wife was in labour, his + trial, the horrid feeling he has after he is acquitted; I would describe + the midwife and the doctors having tea in the middle of the night, I would + describe the rain.... It would give me nothing but pleasure because I like + to rummage about and dawdle. But what am I to do? I begin a story on + September 10th with the thought that I must finish it by October 5th at + the latest; if I don’t I shall fail the editor and be left without money. + I let myself go at the beginning and write with an easy mind; but by the + time I get to the middle I begin to grow timid and to fear that my story + will be too long: I have to remember that the <i>Syeverny Vyestnik</i> has + not much money, and that I am one of their expensive contributors. This is + why the beginning of my stories is always very promising and looks as + though I were starting on a novel, the middle is huddled and timid, and + the end is, as in a short sketch, like fireworks. And so in planning a + story one is bound to think first about its framework: from a crowd of + leading or subordinate characters one selects one person only—wife + or husband; one puts him on the canvas and paints him alone, making him + prominent, while the others one scatters over the canvas like small coin, + and the result is something like the vault of heaven: one big moon and a + number of very small stars around it. But the moon is not a success + because it can only be understood if the stars too are intelligible, and + the stars are not worked out. And so what I produce is not literature, but + something like the patching of Trishka’s coat. What am I to do? I don’t + know, I don’t know. I must trust to time which heals all things. + </p> + <p> + To tell the truth again, I have not yet begun my literary work, though I + have received a literary prize. Subjects for five stories and two novels + are languishing in my head. One of the novels was thought of long ago, and + some of the characters have grown old without managing to be written. In + my head there is a whole army of people asking to be let out and waiting + for the word of command. All that I have written so far is rubbish in + comparison with what I should like to write and should write with rapture. + It is all the same to me whether I write “The Party” or “The Lights,” or a + vaudeville or a letter to a friend—it is all dull, spiritless, + mechanical, and I get annoyed with critics who attach any importance to + “The Lights,” for instance. I fancy that I deceive him with my work just + as I deceive many people with my face, which looks serious or + over-cheerful. I don’t like being successful; the subjects which sit in my + head are annoyed and jealous of what has already been written. I am vexed + that the rubbish has been done and the good things lie about in the + lumber-room like old books. Of course, in thus lamenting I rather + exaggerate, and much of what I say is only my fancy, but there is a part + of the truth in it, a good big part of it. What do I call good? The images + which seem best to me, which I love and jealously guard lest I spend and + spoil them for the sake of some “Party” written against time.... If my + love is mistaken, I am wrong, but then it may not be mistaken! I am either + a fool and a conceited fellow or I really am an organism capable of being + a good writer. All that I now write displeases and bores me, but what sits + in my head interests, excites and moves me—from which I conclude + that everybody does the wrong thing and I alone know the secret of doing + the right one. Most likely all writers think that. But the devil himself + would break his neck in these problems. + </p> + <p> + <i>Money will not help me</i> to decide what I am to do and how I am to + act. An extra thousand roubles will not settle matters, and a hundred + thousand is a castle in the air. Besides, when I have money—it may + be from lack of habit, I don’t know—I become extremely careless and + idle; the sea seems only knee-deep to me then.... I need time and + solitude. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + November, 1888. + </h2> + <p> + In the November number of the <i>Syeverny Vyestnik</i> there is an article + by the poet Merezhkovsky about your humble servant. It is a long article. + I commend to your attention the end of it; it is characteristic. + Merezhkovsky is still very young, a student—of science I believe. + Those who have assimilated the wisdom of the scientific method and learned + to think scientifically experience many alluring temptations. Archimedes + wanted to turn the earth round, and the present day hot-heads want by + science to conceive the inconceivable, to discover the physical laws of + creative art, to detect the laws and the formulae which are instinctively + felt by the artist and are followed by him in creating music, novels, + pictures, etc. Such formulae probably exist in nature. We know that A, B, + C, do, re, mi, fa, sol, are found in nature, and so are curves, straight + lines, circles, squares, green, blue, and red.... We know that in certain + combinations all this produces a melody, or a poem or a picture, just as + simple chemical substances in certain combinations produce a tree, or a + stone, or the sea; but all we know is that the combination exists, while + the law of it is hidden from us. Those who are masters of the scientific + method feel in their souls that a piece of music and a tree have something + in common, that both are built up in accordance with equally uniform and + simple laws. Hence the question: What are these laws? And hence the + temptation to work out a physiology of creative art (like Boborykin), or + in the case of younger and more diffident writers, to base their arguments + on nature and on the laws of nature (Merezhkovsky). There probably is such + a thing as the physiology of creative art, but we must nip in the bud our + dreams of discovering it. If the critics take up a scientific attitude no + good will come of it: they will waste a dozen years, write a lot of + rubbish, make the subject more obscure than ever—and nothing more. + It is always a good thing to think scientifically, but the trouble is that + scientific thinking about creative art will be bound to degenerate in the + end into searching for the “cells” or the “centres” which control the + creative faculty. Some stolid German will discover these cells somewhere + in the occipital lobes, another German will agree with him, a third will + disagree, and a Russian will glance through the article about the cells + and reel off an essay about it to the <i>Syeverny Vyestnik</i>. The <i>Vyestnik + Evropi</i> will criticize the essay, and for three years there will be in + Russia an epidemic of nonsense which will give money and popularity to + blockheads and do nothing but irritate intelligent people. + </p> + <p> + For those who are obsessed with the scientific method and to whom God has + given the rare talent of thinking scientifically, there is to my mind only + one way out—the philosophy of creative art. One might collect + together all the best works of art that have been produced throughout the + ages and, with the help of the scientific method, discover the common + element in them which makes them like one another and conditions their + value. That common element will be the law. There is a great deal that + works which are called immortal have in common; if this common element + were excluded from each of them, a work would lose its charm and its + value. So that this universal something is necessary, and is <i>the + conditio sine qua non</i> of every work that claims to be immortal. It is + of more use to young people to write critical articles than poetry. + Merezhkovsky writes smoothly and youthfully, but at every page he loses + heart, makes reservations and concessions, and this means that he is not + clear upon the subject. He calls me a poet, he styles my stories “novelli” + and my heroes “failures”—that is, he follows the beaten track. It is + time to give up these “failures,” superfluous people, etc., and to think + of something original. Merezhkovsky calls my monk [Translator’s Note: + “Easter Eve.”] who composes the songs of praise a failure. But how is he a + failure? God grant us all a life like his: he believed in God, and he had + enough to eat and he had the gift of composing poetry.... To divide men + into the successful and the unsuccessful is to look at human nature from a + narrow, preconceived point of view. Are you a success or not? Am I? Was + Napoleon? Is your servant Vassily? What is the criterion? One must be a + god to be able to tell successes from failures without making a mistake. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + November 7, 1888. + </p> + <p> + ... It is not the public that is to blame for our theatres being so + wretched. The public is always and everywhere the same: intelligent and + stupid, sympathetic and pitiless according to mood. It has always been a + flock which needs good shepherds and dogs, and it has always gone in the + direction in which the shepherds and the dogs drove it. You are indignant + that it laughs at flat witticisms and applauds sounding phrases; but then + the very same stupid public fills the house to hear “Othello,” and, + listening to the opera “Evgeny Onyegin,” weeps when Tatyana writes her + letter. + </p> + <p> + ... The water-carrier has stolen from somewhere a Siberian kitten with + long white fur and black eyes, and brought it to us. This kitten takes + people for mice: when it sees anyone it lies flat on its stomach, stalks + one’s feet and rushes at them. This morning as I was pacing up and down + the room it several times stalked me, and <i>a la tigre</i> pounced at my + boots. I imagine the thought of being more terrible than anyone in the + house affords it the greatest delight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + November 11, 1888. + </h2> + <p> + I finished to-day the story [Footnote: “A Nervous Breakdown.”] for the + Garshin <i>sbornik</i>: it is such a load off my mind. In this story I + have told my own opinion—which is of no interest to anyone—of + such rare men as Garshin. I have run to almost 2,000 lines. I speak at + length about prostitution, but settle nothing. Why do they write nothing + about prostitution in your paper? It is the most fearful evil, you know. + Our Sobolev street is a regular slave-market. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + November 15, 1888. + </h2> + <p> + My “Party” has pleased the ladies. They sing my praises wherever I go. It + really isn’t bad to be a doctor and to understand what one is writing + about. The ladies say the description of the confinement is <i>true</i>. + In the story for the Garshin <i>sbornik</i> I have described spiritual + agony. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + (No date), 1888. + </h2> + <p> + ... You say that writers are God’s elect. I will not contradict you. + Shtcheglov calls me the Potyomkin of literature, and so it is not for me + to speak of the thorny path, of disappointments, and so on. I do not know + whether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, or + railway guards do; I do not know who speaks through my lips—God or + someone worse. I will allow myself to mention only one little drawback + which I have experienced and you probably know from experience also. It is + this. You and I are fond of ordinary people; but other people are fond of + us because they think we are not ordinary. Me, for instance, they invite + everywhere and regale me with food and drink like a general at a wedding. + My sister is indignant that people on all sides invite her simply because + she is a writer’s sister. No one wants to love the ordinary people in us. + Hence it follows that if in the eyes of our friends we should appear + to-morrow as ordinary mortals, they will leave off loving us, and will + only pity us. And that is horrid. It is horrid, too, that they like the + very things in us which we often dislike and despise in ourselves. It is + horrid that I was right when I wrote the story “The First-Class + Passenger,” in which an engineer and a professor talk about fame. + </p> + <p> + I am going away into the country. Hang them all! You have Feodosia. By the + way, about Feodosia and the Tatars. The Tatars have been robbed of their + land, but no one thinks of their welfare. There ought to be Tatar schools. + Write and suggest that the money which is being spent on the sausage + Dorpat University, where useless Germans are studying, should be devoted + to schools for Tatars, who are of use to Russia. I would write about it + myself, but I don’t know how to. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + December 23, 1888. + </h2> + <p> + ... There are moments when I completely lose heart. For whom and for what + do I write? For the public? But I don’t see it, and believe in it less + than I do in spooks: it is uneducated, badly brought up, and its best + elements are unfair and insincere to us. I cannot make out whether this + public wants me or not. Burenin says that it does not, and that I waste my + time on trifles; the Academy has given me a prize. The devil himself could + not make head or tail of it. Write for the sake of money? But I never have + any money, and not being used to having it I am almost indifferent to it. + For the sake of money I work apathetically. Write for the sake of praise? + But praise merely irritates me. Literary society, students, Pleshtcheyev, + young ladies, etc., were enthusiastic in their praises of my “Nervous + Breakdown,” but Grigorovitch is the only one who has noticed the + description of the first snow. And so on, and so on. If we had critics I + should know that I provide material, whether good or bad does not matter—that + to men who devote themselves to the study of life I am as necessary as a + star is to an astronomer. And then I would take trouble over my work and + should know what I was working for. But as it is you, I, Muravlin, and the + rest are like lunatics who write books and plays to please themselves. To + please oneself is, of course, an excellent thing; one feels the pleasure + while one is writing, but afterwards? But ... I will shut up. In short, I + am sorry for Tatyana Repin, [Translator’s Note: Suvorin’s play.] not + because she poisoned herself, but because she lived her life, died in + agony, and was described absolutely to no purpose, without any good to + anyone. A number of tribes, religions, languages, civilizations, have + vanished without a trace—vanished because there were no historians + or biologists. In the same way a number of lives and works of art + disappear before our very eyes owing to the complete absence of criticism. + It may be objected that critics would have nothing to do because all + modern works are poor and insignificant. But this is a narrow way of + looking at things. Life must be studied not from the pluses alone, but + from the minuses too. The conviction that the “eighties” have not produced + a single writer may in itself provide material for five volumes. + </p> + <p> + ... I settled down last night to write a story for the <i>Novoye Vremya,</i> + but a woman appeared and dragged me to see the poet Palmin who, when he + was drunk, had fallen and cut his forehead to the bone. I was busy over + the drunken fellow for nearly two hours, was tired out, began to smell of + iodoform all over, felt cross, and came home exhausted.... Altogether my + life is a dreary one, and I begin to get fits of hating people which used + never to happen to me before. Long stupid conversations, visitors, people + asking for help, and helping them to the extent of one or two or three + roubles, spending money on cabs for the sake of patients who do not pay me + a penny—altogether it is such a hotch-potch that I feel like running + away from home. People borrow money from me and don’t pay it back, they + take my books, they waste my time.... Blighted love is the one thing that + is missing. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + December 26, 1888. + </h2> + <p> + ... You say that from compassion women fall in love, from compassion they + get married.... And what about men? I don’t like realistic writers to + slander women, but I don’t like it either when people put women on a + pedestal and attempt to prove that even if they are worse than men, anyway + they are angels and men scoundrels. Neither men nor women are worth a + brass farthing, but men are more just and more intelligent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + December 30, 1888. + </h2> + <p> + ... This is how I understand my characters. [Translator’s Note: In the + play “Ivanov.”] Ivanov is a gentleman, a University man, and not + remarkable in any way. He is excitable, hotheaded, easily carried away, + honest and straightforward like most people of his class. He has lived on + his estate and served on the Zemstvo. What he has been doing and how he + has behaved, what he has been interested in and enthusiastic over, can be + seen from the following words of his, addressed to the doctor (Act I., + Scene 5): “Don’t marry Jewesses or neurotic women or blue-stockings ... + don’t fight with thousands single-handed, don’t wage war on windmills, + don’t batter your head against the wall ... God preserve you from + scientific farming, wonderful schools, enthusiastic speeches....” This is + what he has in his past. Sarra, who has seen his scientific farming and + other crazes, says about him to the doctor: “He is a remarkable man, + doctor, and I am sorry you did not meet him two or three years ago. Now he + is depressed and melancholy, he doesn’t talk or do anything, but in old + days ... how charming he was!” (Act I., Scene 7). His past is beautiful, + as is generally the case with educated Russians. There is not, or there + hardly is, a single Russian gentleman or University man who does not boast + of his past. The present is always worse than the past. Why? Because + Russian excitability has one specific characteristic: it is quickly + followed by exhaustion. A man has scarcely left the class-room before he + rushes to take up a burden beyond his strength; he tackles at once the + schools, the peasants, scientific farming, and the <i>Vyestnik Evropi,</i> + he makes speeches, writes to the minister, combats evil, applauds good, + falls in love, not in an ordinary, simple way, but selects either a + blue-stocking or a neurotic or a Jewess, or even a prostitute whom he + tries to save, and so on, and so on. But by the time he is thirty or + thirty-five he begins to feel tired and bored. He has not got decent + moustaches yet, but he already says with authority: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t marry, my dear fellow.... Trust my experience,” or, “After all, + what does Liberalism come to? Between ourselves Katkov was often + right....” He is ready to reject the Zemstvo and scientific farming, and + science and love. My Ivanov says to the doctor (Act I., Scene 5): “You + took your degree only last year, my dear friend, you are still young and + vigorous, while I am thirty-five. I have a right to advise you....” That + is how these prematurely exhausted people talk. Further down, sighing + authoritatively, he advises: “Don’t you marry in this or that way (see + above), but choose something commonplace, grey, with no vivid colours or + superfluous flourishes. Altogether build your life according to the + conventional pattern. The greyer and more monotonous the background the + better.... The life that I have led—how tiring it is! Ah, how + tiring!” + </p> + <p> + Conscious of physical exhaustion and boredom, he does not understand what + is the matter with him, and what has happened. Horrified, he says to the + doctor (Act I., Scene 3): “Here you tell me she is soon going to die and I + feel neither love nor pity, but a sort of emptiness and weariness.... If + one looks at me from outside it must be horrible. I don’t understand what + is happening to my soul.” Finding themselves in such a position, narrow + and unconscientious people generally throw the whole blame on their + environment, or write themselves down as Hamlets and superfluous people, + and are satisfied with that. But Ivanov, a straightforward man, openly + says to the doctor and to the public that he does not understand his own + mind. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand!” That he really doesn’t + understand can be seen from his long monologue in Act III., where, <i>tete-a-tete</i> + with the public, he opens his heart to it and even weeps. + </p> + <p> + The change that has taken place in him offends his sense of what is + fitting. He looks for the causes outside himself and fails to find them; + he begins to look for them inside and finds only an indefinite feeling of + guilt. It is a Russian feeling. Whether there is a death or illness in his + family, whether he owes money or lends it, a Russian always feels guilty. + Ivanov talks all the time about being to blame in some way, and the + feeling of guilt increases in him at every juncture. In Act I. he says: + “Suppose I am terribly to blame, yet my thoughts are in a tangle, my soul + is in bondage to a sort of sloth, and I am incapable of understanding + myself....” In Act II. he says to Sasha: “My conscience aches day and + night, I feel that I am profoundly to blame, but in what exactly I have + done wrong I cannot make out.” + </p> + <p> + To exhaustion, boredom, and the feeling of guilt add one more enemy: + loneliness. Were Ivanov an official, an actor, a priest, a professor, he + would have grown used to his position. But he lives on his estate. He is + in the country. His neighbours are either drunkards or fond of cards, or + are of the same type as the doctor. None of them care about his feelings + or the change that has taken place in him. He is lonely. Long winters, + long evenings, an empty garden, empty rooms, the grumbling Count, the + ailing wife.... He has nowhere to go. This is why he is every minute + tortured by the question: what is he to do with himself? + </p> + <p> + Now about his fifth enemy. Ivanov is tired and does not understand + himself, but life has nothing to do with that! It makes its legitimate + demands upon him, and whether he will or no, he must settle problems. His + sick wife is a problem, his numerous debts are a problem, Sasha flinging + herself on his neck is a problem. The way in which he settles all these + problems must be evident from his monologue in Act III., and from the + contents of the last two acts. Men like Ivanov do not solve difficulties + but collapse under their weight. They lose their heads, gesticulate, + become nervous, complain, do silly things, and finally, giving rein to + their flabby, undisciplined nerves, lose the ground under their feet and + enter the class of the “broken down” and “misunderstood.” + </p> + <p> + Disappointment, apathy, nervous limpness and exhaustion are the inevitable + consequence of extreme excitability, and such excitability is extremely + characteristic of our young people. Take literature. Take the present + time.... Socialism is one of the forms of this excitement. But where is + socialism? You see it in Tihomirov’s letter to the Tsar. The socialists + are married and are criticizing the Zemstvo. Where is Liberalism? + Mihailovsky himself says that all the labels have been mixed up now. And + what are all the Russian enthusiasms worth? The war has wearied us, + Bulgaria has wearied us till we can only be ironical about it. Zucchi has + wearied us and so has the comic opera. + </p> + <p> + Exhaustion (Dr. Bertensen will confirm this) finds expression not only in + complaining or the sensation of boredom. The life of an over-tired man + cannot be represented like this: + </p> + <p> + [Transcriber’s note: The line graph in the print version depicts a wavy + horizontal “line” with minimal variation in the vertical direction. The + ASCII diagram below gives a rough approximation.] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ +</pre> + <p> + It is very unequal. Over-tired people never lose the capacity for becoming + extremely excited, but cannot keep it up for long, and each excitement is + followed by still greater apathy.... Graphically, it could be represented + like this: + </p> + <p> + [Transcriber’s note: The line graph in the print version depicts a series + of wavy horizontal segments punctuated by sharp “dips,” each horizontal + segment a little lower than the one before. The ASCII illustration below + gives a rough approximation.] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ~~~~~~ + \ ~~~~~~ + \ / \ ~~~~~~ + \/ \ / \ ~~~~~~ + \ / \/ + \/ +</pre> + <p> + The fall, as you see, is not continuous but broken. Sasha declares her + love and Ivanov cries out in ecstasy, “A new life!”—and next morning + he believes in this new life as little as he does in spooks (the monologue + in Act III.); his wife insults him, and, fearfully worked up and beside + himself with anger, he flings a cruel insult at her. He is called a + scoundrel. This is either fatal to his tottering brain, or stimulates him + to a fresh paroxysm and he pronounces sentence on himself. + </p> + <p> + Not to tire you out altogether I pass now to Dr. Lvov. He is the type of + an honest, straightforward, hotheaded, but narrow and uncompromising man. + Clever people say of such men: “He is stupid but his heart is in the right + place.” Anything like width of outlook or unreflecting feeling is foreign + to Lvov. He is the embodiment of a programme, a walking tendency. He looks + through a narrow frame at every person and event, he judges everything + according to preconceived notions. Those who shout, “Make way for honest + labour!” are an object of worship to him; those who do not shout it are + scoundrels and exploiters. There is no middle. He has been brought up on + Mihailov’s [Translator’s Note: The author of second-rate works inculcating + civic virtue with a revolutionary bias.] novels; at the theatre he has + seen on the stage “new men,” i.e., the exploiters and sons of our age, + painted by the modern playwrights. He has stored it all up, and so much + so, that when he reads “Rudin” he is sure to be asking himself, “Is Rudin + a scoundrel or not?” Literature and the stage have so educated him that he + approaches every character in real life and in fiction with this + question.... It is not enough for him that all men are sinners. He wants + saints and villains! + </p> + <p> + He was prejudiced before he came to the district. He at once classed all + the rich peasants as exploiters, and Ivanov, whom he could not understand, + as a scoundrel. Why, the man has a sick wife and he goes to see a rich + lady neighbour—of course he is a scoundrel! It is obvious that he is + killing his wife in order to marry an heiress. + </p> + <p> + Lvov is honest and straightforward, and he blurts out the truth without + sparing himself. If necessary, he will throw a bomb at a carriage, give a + school inspector a blow in the face, or call a man a scoundrel. He will + not stop at anything. He never feels remorse—it is his mission as + “an honest worker” to fight “the powers of darkness”! + </p> + <p> + Such people are useful, and are for the most part attractive. To + caricature them, even in the interests of the play, is unfair and, indeed, + unnecessary. True, a caricature is more striking, and therefore easier to + understand, but it is better to put your colour on too faint than too + strong. + </p> + <p> + Now about the women. What do they love Ivanov for? Sarra loves him because + he is a fine man, because he has enthusiasm, because he is brilliant and + speaks with as much heat as Lvov does (Act I., Scene 7). She loves him so + long as he is excited and interesting; but when he begins to grow misty in + her eyes, and to lose definiteness of outline, she ceases to understand + him, and at the end of Act III. speaks out plainly and sharply. + </p> + <p> + Sasha is a young woman of the newest type. She is well-educated, + intelligent, honest, and so on. In the realm of the blind a one-eyed man + is king, and so she favours Ivanov in spite of his being thirty-five. He + is better than anyone else. She knew him when she was a child and saw his + work close at hand, at the period before he was exhausted. He is a friend + of her father’s. + </p> + <p> + She is a female who is not won by the vivid plumage of the male, not by + their courage and dexterity, but by their complaints, whinings and + failures. She is the sort of girl who loves a man when he is going + downhill. The moment Ivanov loses heart the young lady is on the spot! + That’s just what she was waiting for. Just think of it, she now has such a + holy, such a grateful task before her! She will raise up the fallen one, + set him on his feet, make him happy.... It is not Ivanov she loves, but + this task. Argenton in Daudet’s book says, “Life is not a novel.” Sasha + does not know this. She does not know that for Ivanov love is only a fresh + complication, an extra stab in the back. And what comes of it? She + struggles with him for a whole year and, instead of being raised, he sinks + lower and lower. + </p> + <p> + ... In my description of Ivanov there often occurs the word “Russian.” + Don’t be cross about it. When I was writing the play I had in mind only + the things that really matter—that is, only the typical Russian + characteristics. Thus the extreme excitability, the feeling of guilt, the + liability to become exhausted are purely Russian. Germans are never + excited, and that is why Germany knows nothing of disappointed, + superfluous, or over-tired people.... The excitability of the French is + always maintained at one and the same level, and makes no sudden bounds or + falls, and so a Frenchman is normally excited down to a decrepit old age. + In other words, the French do not have to waste their strength in + over-excitement; they spend their powers sensibly, and do not go bankrupt. + </p> + <p> + ... Ivanov and Lvov appear to my imagination to be living people. I tell + you honestly, in all conscience, these men were born in my head, not by + accident, not out of sea foam, or preconceived “intellectual" ideas. They + are the result of observing and studying life. They stand in my brain, and + I feel that I have not falsified the truth nor exaggerated it a jot. If on + paper they have not come out clear and living, the fault is not in them + but in me, for not being able to express my thoughts. It shows it is too + early for me to begin writing plays. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + January 7, 1889. + </h2> + <p> + ... I have been cherishing the bold dream of summing up all that has + hitherto been written about whining, miserable people, and with my Ivanov + saying the last word. It seemed to me that all Russian novelists and + playwrights were drawn to depict despondent men, but that they all wrote + instinctively, having no definite image or views on the subject. As far as + my design goes I was on the right track, but the execution is good for + nothing. I ought to have waited! I am glad I did not listen to + Grigorovitch two or three years ago, and write a novel! I can just imagine + what a lot of good material I should have spoiled. He says: “Talent and + freshness overcome everything.” It is more true to say that talent and + freshness can spoil a great deal. In addition to plenty of material and + talent, one wants something else which is no less important. One wants to + be mature—that is one thing; and for another the <i>feeling of + personal freedom</i> is essential, and that feeling has only recently + begun to develop in me. I used not to have it before; its place was + successfully filled by my frivolity, carelessness, and lack of respect for + my work. + </p> + <p> + What writers belonging to the upper class have received from nature for + nothing, plebeians acquire at the cost of their youth. Write a story of + how a young man, the son of a serf, who has served in a shop, sung in a + choir, been at a high school and a university, who has been brought up to + respect everyone of higher rank and position, to kiss priests’ hands, to + reverence other people’s ideas, to be thankful for every morsel of bread, + who has been many times whipped, who has trudged from one pupil to another + without goloshes, who has been used to fighting, and tormenting animals, + who has liked dining with his rich relations, and been hypocritical before + God and men from the mere consciousness of his own insignificance—write + how this young man squeezes the slave out of himself, drop by drop, and + how waking one beautiful morning he feels that he has no longer a slave’s + blood in his veins but a real man’s.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + March 5, 1889. + </h2> + <p> + ... Last night I drove out of town and listened to the gypsies. They sing + well, the wild creatures. Their singing reminds me of a train falling off + a high bank in a violent snow-storm: there is a lot of turmoil, screeching + and banging. + </p> + <p> + ... I bought Dostoevsky in your shop and am now reading him. It is fine, + but very long and indiscreet. It is over-pretentious. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUMY, + </h2> + <p> + LINTVARYOVS’ ESTATE, May, 1889. + </p> + <p> + ... Among other things I am reading Gontcharov and wondering. I wonder how + I could have considered Gontcharov a first-rate writer. His “Oblomov” is + not really good. Oblomov himself is exaggerated and is not so striking as + to make it worth while to write a whole book about him. A flabby sluggard + like so many, a commonplace, petty nature without any complexity in it: to + raise this person to the rank of a social type is to make too much of him. + I ask myself, what would Oblomov be if he had not been a sluggard? And I + answer that he would not have been anything. And if so, let him snore in + peace. The other characters are trivial, with a flavour of Leikin about + them; they are taken at random, and are half unreal. They are not + characteristic of the epoch and give one nothing new. Stoltz does not + inspire me with any confidence. The author says he is a splendid fellow, + but I don’t believe him. He is a sly brute, who thinks very well of + himself and is very complacent. He is half unreal, and three-quarters on + stilts. Olga is unreal and is dragged in by the tail. And the chief + trouble is that the whole novel is cold, cold, cold. I scratch out + Gontcharov from the list of my demi-gods. + </p> + <p> + But how direct, how powerful is Gogol, and what an artist he is! His + “Marriage” alone is worth two hundred thousand roubles. It is simply + delicious, and that is all about it. He is the greatest of Russian + writers. In “The Inspector General” the first act is the best, in “The + Marriage” the third act is the worst. I am going to read it aloud to my + people. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 4, 1889. + </h2> + <p> + ... Nature is an excellent sedative. It pacifies—that is, it makes + one indifferent. And it is essential in this world to be indifferent. Only + those who are indifferent are able to see things clearly, to be just and + to work. Of course, I am only speaking of intelligent people of fine + natures; the empty and selfish are indifferent enough any way. + </p> + <p> + You say that I have grown lazy. That does not mean that I am now lazier + than I used to be. I work now as much as I did three or five years ago. To + work and to look as though I were working from nine in the morning till + dinner, and from evening tea till bedtime has become a habit with me, and + in that respect I am just like a government clerk. And if my work does not + produce two novels a month or an income of ten thousand, it is not my + laziness that is at fault, but my fundamental, psychological + peculiarities. I do not care enough for money to succeed in medicine, and + for literature I have not enough passion and therefore not enough talent. + The fire burns in me slowly and evenly, without suddenly spluttering and + flaring up, and this is why it does not happen to me to write three or + four signatures a night, or to be so carried away by work as to prevent + myself from going to bed if I am sleepy; this is why I commit no + particular follies nor do anything particularly wise. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid that in this respect I resemble Gontcharov, whom I don’t like, + who is ten heads taller than I am in talent. I have not enough passion; + add to that this sort of lunacy: for the last two years I have for no + reason at all ceased to care about seeing my work in print, have become + indifferent to reviews, to literary conversations, to gossip, to success + and failure, to good pay—in short, I have gone downright silly. + There is a sort of stagnation in my soul. I explain it by the stagnation + in my personal life. I am not disappointed, I am not tired, I am not + depressed, but simply everything has suddenly become less interesting. I + must do something to rouse myself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 7. + </h2> + <p> + I have read Bourget’s “Disciple” in the Russian translation. This is how + it strikes me. Bourget is a gifted, very intelligent and cultured man. He + is as thoroughly acquainted with the method of the natural sciences, and + as imbued with it as though he had taken a good degree in science or + medicine. He is not a stranger in the domain he proposes to deal with—a + merit absent in Russian writers both new and old. + </p> + <p> + ... The novel is interesting. I have read it and understand why you were + so absorbed by it. It is clever, interesting, in places witty, somewhat + fantastic. As to its defects, the chief of them is his pretentious crusade + against materialism. Forgive me, but I can’t understand such crusades. + They never lead to anything and only bring needless confusion into + people’s thoughts. Whom is the crusade against, and what is its object? + Where is the enemy and what is there dangerous about him? In the first + place, the materialistic movement is not a school or tendency in the + narrow journalistic sense; it is not something passing or accidental; it + is necessary, inevitable, and beyond the power of man. All that lives on + earth is bound to be materialistic. In animals, in savages, in Moscow + merchants, all that is higher and non-animal is conditioned by an + unconscious instinct, while all the rest is material, and they of course + cannot help it. Beings of a higher order, thinking men, are also bound to + be materialists. They seek for truth in matter, for there is nowhere else + to seek for it, since they see, hear, and sense matter alone. Of necessity + they can only seek for truth where their microscopes, lancets, and knives + are of use to them. To forbid a man to follow the materialistic line of + thought is equivalent to forbidding him to seek truth. Outside matter + there is neither knowledge nor experience, and consequently there is no + truth.... + </p> + <p> + I think that when dissecting a corpse, the most inveterate spiritualist + will be bound to ask himself, “Where is the soul here?” And if one knows + how great is the likeness between bodily and mental diseases, and that + both are treated by the same remedies, one cannot help refusing to + separate the soul from the body. + </p> + <p> + ... To speak of the danger and harm of materialism, and even more to fight + against it, is, to say the least, premature. We have not enough data to + draw up an indictment. There are many theories and suppositions, but no + facts.... The priests complain of unbelief, immorality, and so on. There + is no unbelief. People believe in something, whatever it may be.... + </p> + <p> + As to immorality, it is not people like Mendeleyev but poets, abbots, and + personages regularly attending Embassy churches, who have the reputation + of being perverted debauchees, libertines, and drunkards. + </p> + <p> + In short, I cannot understand Bourget’s crusade. If, in starting upon it, + he had at the same time taken the trouble to point out to the materialists + an incorporeal God in the sky, and to point to Him in such a way that they + should see Him, that would be another matter, and I should understand what + he is driving at. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 14, 1889. + </h2> + <p> + ... You want to know if the lady doctor hates you as before. Alas! she has + grown stouter and much more resigned, which I do not like at all. There + are not many women doctors left on earth. They are disappearing and dying + out like the branches in the Byelovyezhsky forest. Some die of + consumption, others become mystics, some marry widowed + squadron-commanders, some still try to stand firm, but are obviously + losing heart. Probably the first tailors and the first astrologers also + died out rapidly. Life is hard on those who have the temerity first to + enter upon an unknown path. The vanguard always has a bad time of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 15, 1889. + </h2> + <p> + If you have not gone abroad yet, I will answer your letter about + Bourget.... You are speaking of the “right to live” of this or that branch + of knowledge; I am speaking of peace, not of rights. I want people not to + see war where there is none. Different branches of knowledge have always + lived together in peace. Anatomy and belles-lettres are of equally noble + descent; they have the same purpose and the same enemy—the devil—and + there is absolutely nothing for them to fight about. There is no struggle + for existence between them. If a man knows about the circulation of the + blood, he is rich; if he also learns the history of religion and the song + “I remember a marvellous moment,” he becomes richer, not poorer—that + is to say, we are concerned with pluses alone. This is why geniuses have + never fought, and in Goethe the poet lived amicably side by side with the + scientist. + </p> + <p> + It is not branches of knowledge such as poetry and anatomy, but errors—that + is to say, men—that fight with one another. When a man fails to + understand something he is conscious of a discord, and seeks for the cause + of it not in himself, as he should, but outside himself—hence the + war with what he does not understand. In the middle ages alchemy was + gradually in a natural, peaceful way changing into chemistry, and + astrology into astronomy; the monks did not understand, saw a conflict and + fought against it. Just such a belligerent Spanish monk was our Pisarev in + the sixties. + </p> + <p> + Bourget, too, is fighting. You say he is not, and I say he is. Imagine his + novel falling into the hands of a man whose children are studying in the + faculty of science, or of a bishop who is looking for a subject for his + Sunday sermon. Will the effect be anything like peace? It will not. Or + imagine the novel catching the eye of an anatomist or a physiologist, or + any such. It will not breathe peace into anyone’s soul; it will irritate + those who know and give false ideas to those who don’t. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, September 30, 1889. + </p> + <p> + ... I do not think I ought to change the title of the story. [Footnote: “A + Dreary Story.”] The wags who will, as you foretell, make jokes about “A + Dreary Story,” are so dull that one need not fear them; and if someone + makes a good joke I shall be glad to have given him the occasion for it. + The professor could not write about Katya’s husband because he did not + know him, and Katya does not say anything about him; besides, one of my + hero’s chief characteristics is that he cares far too little about the + inner life of those who surround him, and while people around him are + weeping, making mistakes, telling lies, he calmly talks about the theatre + or literature. Were he a different sort of man, Liza and Katya might not + have come to grief. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + October, 1889. + </h2> + <p> + I am afraid of those who look for a tendency between the lines, and who + are determined to regard me either as a liberal or as a conservative. I am + not a liberal, not a conservative, not a believer in gradual progress, not + a monk, not an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and + nothing more, and I regret that God has not given me the power to be one. + I hate lying and violence in all their forms, and am equally repelled by + the secretaries of consistories and by Notovitch and Gradovsky. + Pharisaism, stupidity and despotism reign not in merchants’ houses and + prisons alone. I see them in science, in literature, in the younger + generation.... That is why I have no preference either for gendarmes, or + for butchers, or for scientists, or for writers, or for the younger + generation. I regard trade-marks and labels as a superstition. My holy of + holies is the human body, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love, + and the most absolute freedom—freedom from violence and lying, + whatever forms they may take. This is the programme I would follow if I + were a great artist. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + February 15, 1890. + </p> + <p> + I answer you, dear Alexey Nikolaevitch, at once on receiving your letter. + It was your name-day, and I forgot it!! Forgive me, dear friend, and + accept my belated congratulations. + </p> + <p> + Did you really not like the “Kreutzer Sonata”? I don’t say it is a work of + genius for all time, of that I am no judge; but to my thinking, among the + mass of all that is written now, here and abroad, one scarcely could find + anything else as powerful both in the gravity of its conception and the + beauty of its execution. To say nothing of its artistic merits, which in + places are striking, one must be grateful to the novel, if only because it + is keenly stimulating to thought. As one reads it, one can scarcely + refrain from crying out: “That’s true,” or “That’s absurd.” It is true it + has some very annoying defects. Apart from all those you enumerate, it has + one for which one cannot readily forgive the author—that is, the + audacity with which Tolstoy holds forth about what he doesn’t know and is + too obstinate to care to understand. Thus his statements about syphilis, + foundling hospitals, the aversion of women for the sexual relation, and so + on, are not merely open to dispute, but show him up as an ignoramus who + has not, in the course of his long life, taken the trouble to read two or + three books written by specialists. But yet these defects fly away like + feathers in the wind; one simply does not notice them in face of the real + worth of the story, or, if one notices them, it is only with a little + vexation that the story has not escaped the fate of all the works of man, + all imperfect and never free from blemish. + </p> + <p> + My Petersburg friends and acquaintances are angry with me? What for? For + my not having bored them enough with my presence, which has for so long + been a bore to myself! Soothe their minds. Tell them that in Petersburg I + ate a great many dinners and a great many suppers, but did not fascinate + one lady; that every day I was confident of leaving by the evening train, + that I was detained by my friends and by <i>The Marine Almanack</i>, the + whole of which I had to look through from the year 1852. While I was in + Petersburg, I got through in one month more than my young friends would in + a year. Let them be angry, though! + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + I sit all day long reading and making extracts. I have nothing in my head + or on paper except Sahalin. Mental obsession. Mania Sachalinosa. + </p> + <p> + Not long ago I dined with Madame Yermolov. [Translator’s Note: The + celebrated actress.] A wild-flower thrust into the same nosegay with the + carnation was the more fragrant for the good company it had kept. So I, + after dining with the star, was aware of a halo round my head for two days + afterwards ... + </p> + <p> + Good-bye, my dear friend; come and see us.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, February 23, 1890. + </p> + <p> + ... My brother Alexandr is a slow-witted creature; he is enthusiastic over + Ornatsky’s missionary speech, in which he says that the natives do not + become Christians because they are waiting for a special ukaz (that is, + command) from the Tsar on the subject and are waiting for their chiefs to + be baptized ... (by force—be it understood). This eloquent pontifex + says, too, that the native priests ought, in view of their ascetic manner + of life, to be removed from the natives and put into special institutions + somewhat after the fashion of monasteries. A nice set of people and no + mistake! They have wasted two million roubles, they send out every year + from the academy dozens of missionaries who cost the treasury and the + people large sums, yet they cannot convert the natives, and what is more, + want the police and the military to help them with fire and sword.... + </p> + <p> + If you have Madame Tsebrikov’s article, do not trouble to send it. Such + articles give no information and only waste time; I want facts. Indeed, in + Russia there is a terrible poverty of facts, and a terrible abundance of + reflections of all sorts. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + February 28. + </h2> + <p> + ... To-morrow is spring, and within ten to fifteen days the larks will + come back. But alas!—the coming spring seems strange to me, for I am + going away from it. + </p> + <p> + In Sahalin there is very good fish, but there are no hot drinks.... + </p> + <p> + Our geologists, ichthyologists, zoologists and so on, are fearfully + uneducated people. They write such a vile jargon that it not only bores + one to read it, but one actually has at times to remodel the sentences + before one can understand them; on the other hand, they have solemnity and + earnestness enough and to spare. It’s really beastly.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + March 4. + </h2> + <p> + I have sent you to-day two stories: Filippov’s (he was here yesterday) and + Yezhov’s. I have not had time to read the latter, and I think it is as + well to say, once for all, that I am not responsible for what I send you. + My handwriting on the address does not mean that I like the story. + </p> + <p> + Poor Yezhov has been to see me; he sat near the table crying: his young + wife is in consumption. He must take her at once to the south. To my + question whether he had money he answered that he had.... It’s vile + catch-cold weather; the sky itself is sneezing. I can’t bear to look at + it.... I have already begun writing of Sahalin. I have written five pages. + It reads all right, as though written with intelligence and authority ... + I quote foreign authors second-hand, but minutely and in a tone as though + I could speak every foreign language perfectly. It’s regular swindling. + </p> + <p> + Yezhov has upset me with his tears. He reminded me of something, and I was + sorry for him too. + </p> + <p> + Don’t forget us sinners. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. M. LINTVARYOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, March 5, 1890. + </p> + <p> + ... As for me, I have a cough too, but I am alive and I believe I’m well. + I shan’t be with you this summer, as I am going in April, on affairs of my + own, to the island of Sahalin, and shall not be back till December. I am + going across Siberia (eleven thousand versts) and shall come back by sea. + I believe Misha wrote to you as though someone were commissioning me to + go, but that’s nonsense. I am commissioning myself to go, on my own + account. There are lots of bears and escaped convicts in Sahalin, so that + in case <i>messieurs</i> the wild beasts dine off me or some tramp cuts my + throat, I beg you not to remember evil against me. + </p> + <p> + Of course if I have the time and the skill to write what I want to about + Sahalin, I shall send you the book immediately that it comes into the + world; it will be dull, a specialist’s book consisting of nothing but + figures, but let me count upon your indulgence: you will suppress your + yawns as you read it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, March 9. + </p> + <p> + About Sahalin we are both mistaken, but you probably more than I. I am + going in the full conviction that my visit will furnish no contribution of + value either to literature or science: I have neither the knowledge, nor + the time, nor the ambition for that. I have neither the plans of a + Humboldt nor of a Kennan. I want to write some 100 to 200 pages, and so do + something, however little, for medical science, which, as you are aware, I + have neglected shockingly. Possibly I shall not succeed in writing + anything, but still the expedition does not lose its charm for me: + reading, looking about me, and listening, I shall learn a great deal and + gain experience. I have not yet travelled, but thanks to the books which I + have been compelled to read, I have learned a great deal which anyone + ought to be flogged for not knowing, and which I was so ignorant as not to + have known before. Moreover, I imagine the journey will be six months of + incessant hard work, physical and mental, and that is essential for me, + for I am a Little Russian and have already begun to be lazy. I must take + myself in hand. My expedition may be nonsense, obstinacy, a craze, but + think a moment and tell me what I am losing if I go. Time? Money? Shall I + suffer hardships? My time is worth nothing; money I never have anyway; as + for hardships, I shall travel with horses, twenty-five to thirty days, not + more, all the rest of the time I shall be sitting on the deck of a steamer + or in a room, and shall be continually bombarding you with letters. + </p> + <p> + Suppose the expedition gives me nothing, yet surely there will be 2 or 3 + days out of the whole journey which I shall remember all my life with + ecstasy or bitterness, etc., etc.... So that’s how it is, sir. All that is + unconvincing, but you know you write just as unconvincingly. For instance, + you say that Sahalin is of no use and no interest to anyone. Can that be + true? Sahalin can be useless and uninteresting only to a society which + does not exile thousands of people to it and does not spend millions of + roubles on it. Except Australia in the past and Cayenne, Sahalin is the + only place where one can study colonization by convicts; all Europe is + interested in it, and is it no use to us? Not more than 25 to 30 years ago + our Russians exploring Sahalin performed amazing feats which exalt them + above humanity, and that’s no use to us: we don’t know what those men + were, and simply sit within four walls and complain that God has made man + amiss. Sahalin is a place of the most unbearable sufferings of which man, + free and captive, is capable. Those who work near it and upon it have + solved fearful, responsible problems, and are still solving them. I am not + sentimental, or I would say that we ought to go to places like Sahalin to + worship as the Turks go to Mecca, and that sailors and gaolers ought to + think of the prison in Sahalin as military men think of Sevastopol. From + the books I have read and am reading, it is evident that we have sent <i>millions</i> + of men to rot in prison, have destroyed them—casually, without + thinking, barbarously; we have driven men in fetters through the cold ten + thousand versts, have infected them with syphilis, have depraved them, + have multiplied criminals, and the blame for all this we have thrown upon + the gaolers and red-nosed superintendents. Now all educated Europe knows + that it is not the superintendents that are to blame, but all of us; yet + that has nothing to do with us, it is not interesting. The vaunted sixties + did <i>nothing</i> for the sick and for prisoners, so breaking the chief + commandment of Christian civilization. In our day something is being done + for the sick, nothing for prisoners; prison management is entirely without + interest for our jurists. No, I assure you that Sahalin is of use and of + interest to us, and the only thing to regret is that I am going there, and + not someone else who knows more about it and would be more able to rouse + public interest. Nothing much will come of my going there. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + There have been disturbances among the students on a grand scale here. It + began with the Petrovsky Academy, where the authorities forbade the + students to take young ladies to their rooms, suspecting the ladies of + politics as well as of prostitution. From the Academy it spread to the + University, where now the students, surrounded by fully armed and mounted + Hectors and Achilleses with lances, make the following demands: + </p> + <p> + 1. Complete autonomy for the universities. + </p> + <p> + 2. Complete freedom of teaching. + </p> + <p> + 3. Free right of entrance to the university without distinction of + religious denomination, nationality, sex, and social position. + </p> + <p> + 4. Right of entrance to the university for the Jews without restriction, + and equal rights for them with the other students. + </p> + <p> + 5. Freedom of meeting and recognition of the students’ associations. + </p> + <p> + 6. The establishment of a university and students’ tribunal. + </p> + <p> + 7. The abolition of the police duties of the inspectors. + </p> + <p> + 8. Lowering of the fees for instruction. + </p> + <p> + This I copied from a manifesto, with some abbreviations. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, March 22, 1890. + </p> + <p> + My greetings, dear Jean! Thanks for your long letter and for the good will + of which it is full from beginning to end. I shall be delighted to read + your military story. Will it come out in the Easter number? It is a long + time since I read anything of yours or my own. You say that you want to + give me a harsh scolding “especially on the score of morality and art,” + you speak vaguely of my crimes as deserving friendly censure, and threaten + me with “an influential newspaper criticism.” If you scratch out the word + “art,” the whole phrase in quotation marks becomes clearer, but gains a + significance which, to tell the truth, perplexes me not a little. Jean, + what is it? How is one to understand it? Can I really be different in my + ideas of morality from people like you, and so much so as to deserve + censure and even an influential article? I cannot take it that you mean + some subtle higher morality, as there are no lower, higher, or medium + moralities, but only one which Jesus Christ gave us, and which now + prevents you and me and Barantsevitch from stealing, insulting, lying, and + so on. If I can trust the ease of my conscience, I have never by word or + deed, in thought, or in my stories, or in my farces, coveted my + neighbour’s wife, nor his man, nor his ox, nor any of his cattle, I have + not stolen, nor been a hypocrite, I have not flattered the great nor + sought their favour, I have not blackmailed, nor lived at other people’s + expense. It is true I have waxed wanton and slothful, have laughed + heedlessly, have eaten too much and drunk too much and been profligate. + But all that is a personal matter, and all that does not deprive me of the + right to think that, as far as morals are concerned, I am nothing out of + the ordinary, one way or the other. Nothing heroic and nothing scoundrelly—I + am just like everyone else; I have many sins, but I am quits with + morality, as I pay for those sins with interest in the discomforts they + bring with them. If you want to abuse me cruelly because I am not a hero, + you’d better throw your cruelty out of the window, and instead of abuse, + let me hear your charming tragic laugh—that’s better. + </p> + <p> + But of the word “art” I am terrified, as merchants’ wives are terrified of + “brimstone.” When people talk to me of what is artistic and inartistic, of + what is dramatic and not dramatic, of tendency, realism, and so on, I am + bewildered, hesitatingly assent, and answer with banal half-truths not + worth a brass farthing. I divide all works into two classes: those I like + and those I don’t. I have no other criterion, and if you ask me why I like + Shakespeare and don’t like Zlatovratsky, I don’t venture to answer. + Perhaps in time and as I grow wiser I may work out some criterion, but + meanwhile all conversations about what is “artistic” only weary me, and + seem to me like a continuation of the scholastic disputations with which + people wearied themselves in the middle ages. + </p> + <p> + If criticism, on the authority of which you rely, knows what you and I + don’t know, why has it up till now not spoken? why does it not reveal the + truth and the immutable laws? If it knew, believe me, it would long ago + have shown us the true path and we should have known what to do, and + Fofanov would not have been in a madhouse, Garshin would have been alive + to-day, Barantsevitch would not have been so depressed and we should not + be so dull and ill at ease as we are, and you would not feel drawn to the + theatre and I to Sahalin. But criticism maintains a dignified silence or + gets out of it with idle trashy babble. If it seems to you authoritative + it is because it is stupid, conceited, impudent, and clamorous; because it + is an empty barrel one cannot help hearing. + </p> + <p> + But let us have done with that and sing something out of a different + opera. Please don’t build any literary hopes on my Sahalin trip. I am not + going for the sake of impressions or observations, but simply for the sake + of living for six months differently from how I have lived hitherto. Don’t + rely on me, old man; if I am successful and clever enough to do something, + so much the better; if not, don’t blame me. I am going after Easter. I + will send you in due time my Sahalin address and minute instructions.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, March 22, 1890. + </p> + <p> + ... Yesterday a young lady told me that Professor Storozhenko had related + to her the following anecdote. The Sovereign liked the <i>Kreutzer Sonata</i>. + Pobyedonostsev, Lubimov, and the other cherubim and seraphim, hastened to + justify their attitude to Tolstoy by showing his Majesty “Nikolay Palkin.” + After reading it, his Majesty was so furious that he ordered measures to + be taken. Prince Dolgorukov was informed. And so one fine day an adjutant + from Dolgorukov comes to Tolstoy and invites him to go at once to the + prince. The latter replies: “Tell the prince that I only visit the houses + of my acquaintances.” The adjutant, overcome with confusion, rides away, + and next day brings Tolstoy the official notice demanding from him an + explanation in regard to his “Nikolay Palkin.” Tolstoy reads the document + and says: + </p> + <p> + “Tell his excellency that I have not for a long time past written anything + for publication; I write only for my friends, and if my friends spread my + writings abroad, they are responsible and not I. Tell him that!” + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t tell him that,” cried the adjutant in horror, “the prince + will not believe me!” + </p> + <p> + “The prince will not believe his subordinates? That’s bad.” + </p> + <p> + Two days later the adjutant comes again with a fresh document, and learns + that Tolstoy has gone away to Yasnaya Polyana. That is the end of the + anecdote. + </p> + <p> + Now about the new movements. They flog in our police stations; a rate has + been fixed; from a peasant they take ten kopecks for a beating, from a + workman twenty—that’s for the rods and the trouble. Peasant women + are flogged too. Not long ago, in their enthusiasm for beating in a police + station, they thrashed a couple of budding lawyers, an incident upon which + <i>Russkiya Vyedomosti</i> has a vague paragraph to-day; an investigation + has begun. + </p> + <p> + Another sign of the times: the cabmen approve of the students’ + disturbances. + </p> + <p> + “They are making a riot for the poor to be taken in to study,” they + explain, “learning is not only for the rich.” It is said that when a crowd + of students were being taken by night to the prison the populace fell upon + the gendarmes to rescue the students from them. The populace is said to + have shouted: “You have set up flogging for us, but they stand up for us.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + March 29. + </h2> + <p> + ... Fatigue is a relative matter. You say you used to work twenty hours + out of the twenty-four and were not exhausted. But you know one may be + exhausted lying all day long on the sofa. You used to write for twenty + hours, but you know you were in perfect health all that time, you were + stimulated by success, defiance, a sense of your talent; you liked your + work, or you wouldn’t have written. Your heir-apparent sits up late, not + because he has a talent for journalism or a love for his work, but simply + because his father is an editor of a newspaper. The difference is vast. He + ought to have been a doctor or a lawyer, to have had an income of two + thousand roubles a year, and published his articles not in <i>Novoye + Vremya</i> and not in the spirit of <i>Novoye Vremya</i>. Only those young + people can be accepted as healthy who refuse to be reconciled with the old + order and foolishly or wisely struggle against it—such is the will + of nature and it is the foundation of progress, while your son began by + absorbing the old order. In our most intimate talks he has never once + abused Tatistchev or Burenin, and that’s a bad sign. You are a hundred + times as liberal as he is, and it ought to be the other way. He utters a + listless and indolent protest, he soon drops his voice and soon agrees, + and altogether one has the impression that he has no interest whatever in + the contest; that is, he looks on at the cock-fight like a spectator and + has no cock of his own. And one ought to have one’s own cock, else life is + without interest. The unfortunate thing, too, is that he is intelligent, + and great intelligence with little interest in life is like a great + machine which produces nothing, yet requires a great deal of fuel and + exhausts the owner.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 1. + </h2> + <p> + You abuse me for objectivity, calling it indifference to good and evil, + lack of ideals and ideas, and so on. You would have me, when I describe + horse-stealers, say: “Stealing horses is an evil.” But that has been known + for ages without my saying so. Let the jury judge them, it’s my job simply + to show what sort of people they are. I write: you are dealing with + horse-stealers, so let me tell you that they are not beggars but well-fed + people, that they are people of a special cult, and that horse-stealing is + not simply theft but a passion. Of course it would be pleasant to combine + art with a sermon, but for me personally it is extremely difficult and + almost impossible, owing to the conditions of technique. You see, to + depict horse-stealers in seven hundred lines I must all the time speak and + think in their tone and feel in their spirit, otherwise, if I introduce + subjectivity, the image becomes blurred and the story will not be as + compact as all short stories ought to be. When I write I reckon entirely + upon the reader to add for himself the subjective elements that are + lacking in the story. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 11. + </h2> + <p> + Madame N. who used at one time to live in your family is here now. She + married the artist N., a nice but tedious man who wants at all costs to + travel with me to Sahalin to sketch. To refuse him my company I haven’t + the courage, but to travel with him would be simple misery. He is going to + Petersburg in a day or two to sell his pictures, and at his wife’s request + will call on you to <i>ask your advice</i>. With a view to this his wife + came to ask me for a letter of introduction to you. Be my benefactor, tell + N. that I am a drunkard, a swindler, a nihilist, a rowdy character, and + that it is out of the question to travel with me, and that a journey in my + company will do nothing but upset him. Tell him he will be wasting his + time. Of course it would be very nice to have my book illustrated, but + when I learned that N. was hoping to get not less than a thousand roubles + for it, I lost all appetite for illustrations. My dear fellow, advise him + against it!!! Why it is your advice he wants, the devil only knows. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 15. + </h2> + <p> + And so, my dear friend, I am setting off on Wednesday or Thursday at + latest. Good-bye till December. Good luck in my absence. I received the + money, thank you very much, though fifteen hundred roubles is a great + deal; I don’t know where to put it.... I feel as though I were preparing + for the battlefield, though I see no dangers before me but toothache, + which I am sure to have on the journey. As I am provided with nothing in + the way of papers but a passport, I may have unpleasant encounters with + the authorities, but that is a passing trouble. If they refuse to show me + something, I shall simply write in my book that they wouldn’t show it me, + and that’s all, and I won’t worry. In case I am drowned or anything of + that sort, you might keep it in mind that all I have or may have in the + future belongs to my sister; she will pay my debts. + </p> + <p> + I am taking my mother with me and putting her down at the Troitsky + Monastery; I am taking my sister too, and leaving her at Kostroma. I am + telling them I shall be back in September. + </p> + <p> + I shall go over the university in Tomsk. As the only faculty there is + medicine I shall not show myself an ignoramus. + </p> + <p> + I have bought myself a fur coat, an officer’s waterproof leather coat, big + boots, and a big knife for cutting sausage and hunting tigers. I am + equipped from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + STEAMER “ALEXANDR NEVSKY 23,” April, 1890, early in the morning. + </p> + <p> + My dear Tunguses! + </p> + <p> + Did you have rain when Ivan was coming back from the monastery? In + Yaroslavl there was such a downpour that I had to swathe myself in my + leather chiton. My first impression of the Volga was poisoned by the rain, + by the tear-stained windows of the cabin, and the wet nose of G., who came + to meet me at the station. In the rain Yaroslavl looks like Zvenigorod, + and its churches remind me of Perervinsky Monastery; there are lots of + illiterate signboards, it’s muddy, jackdaws with big heads strut about the + pavement. + </p> + <p> + In the steamer I made it my first duty to indulge my talent—that is, + to sleep. When I woke I beheld the sun. The Volga is not bad; water + meadows, monasteries bathed in sunshine, white churches; the wide expanse + is marvellous, wherever one looks it would be a nice place to sit down and + begin fishing. Class ladies [Translator’s Note: I.e., School chaperons, + whose duty it is to sit in the classroom while the girls are receiving + instruction from a master.] wander about on the banks, nipping at the + green grass. The shepherd’s horn can be heard now and then. White gulls, + looking like the younger Drishka, hover over the water. + </p> + <p> + The steamer is not up to much.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Kundasova is travelling with me. Where she is going and with what object I + don’t know. When I question her about it, she launches off into extremely + misty allusions about someone who has appointed a tryst with her in a + ravine near Kineshma, then goes off into a wild giggle and begins stamping + her feet or prodding with her elbow whatever comes first. We have passed + both Kineshma and the ravine, but she still goes on in the steamer, at + which of course I am very much pleased; by the way, yesterday for the + first time in my life I saw her eating. She eats no less than other + people, but she eats mechanically, as though she were munching oats. + </p> + <p> + Kostroma is a nice town. I saw the stretch of river on which the languid + Levitan used to live. I saw Kineshma, where I walked along the boulevard + and watched the local <i>beaus</i>. Here I went into the chemist’s shop to + buy some Bertholet salts for my tongue, which was like leather after the + medicine I had taken. The chemist, on seeing Olga Petrovna, was overcome + with delight and confusion; she was the same. They were evidently old + acquaintances, and judging from the conversation between them they had + walked more than once about the ravines near Kineshma. + </p> + <p> + ... It’s rather cold and rather dull, but interesting on the whole. The + steamer whistles every minute; its whistle is midway between the bray of + an ass and an Aeolian harp. In five or six hours we shall be in Nizhni. + The sun is rising. I slept last night artistically. My money is safe; that + is because I am constantly pressing my hands on my stomach. + </p> + <p> + Very beautiful are the steam-tugs, dragging after them four or five barges + each; they look like some fine young intellectual trying to run away while + a plebeian wife, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and wife’s grandmother hold + on to his coat-tails. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The sun is hiding behind the clouds, the sky is overcast, and the broad + Volga looks gloomy. Levitan ought not to live on the Volga. It lays a + weight of gloom on the soul. Though it would not be bad to have an estate + on its banks. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + If the waiter would wake I should ask him for some coffee; as it is, I + have to drink water without any relish for it. My greetings to Maryushka + and Olga. [Footnote: The Chekhovs’ servants.] + </p> + <p> + Well, keep well and take care of yourselves. I will write regularly. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your bored Volga-travelling + Homo Sachaliensis, + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM THE STEAMER, + </h2> + <p> + Evening, April 24, 1890. + </p> + <h3> + MY DEAR TUNGUSES! + </h3> + <p> + I am floating on the Kama, but I can’t fix the exact locality; I believe + we are near Tchistopol. I cannot extol the beauties of the scenery either, + as it is hellishly cold; the birches are not yet out, there are still + patches of snow here and there, bits of ice float by—in short, the + picturesque has gone to the dogs. I sit in the cabin, where people of all + sorts and conditions sit at the table, and listen to the conversation, + wondering whether it is not time for me to have tea. If I had my way I + should do nothing all day but eat; as I haven’t the money to be eating all + day long I sleep and sleep. I don’t go up on deck, it’s cold. By night it + rains and by day there is an unpleasant wind. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the caviare! I eat it and eat and never have enough. + </p> + <p> + ... It is a pity I did not think to get myself a little bag for tea and + sugar. I have to order it a glass at a time, which is tiresome and + expensive. I meant to buy some tea and sugar to-day at Kazan, but I + over-slept myself. + </p> + <p> + Rejoice, O mother! I believe I stop twenty-four hours at Ekaterinburg, and + shall see the relations. Perhaps their hearts may be softened and they + will give me three roubles and an ounce of tea. + </p> + <p> + From the conversation I am listening to at this moment, I gather that the + members of a judicial tribunal are travelling with me. They are not gifted + persons. The merchants, who put in their word from time to time seem, + however, intelligent. One comes across fearfully rich people. + </p> + <p> + Sterlets are cheaper than mushrooms; you soon get sick of them. What more + is there for me to write about? There is nothing.... There is a General, + though, and a lean fair man. The former keeps dashing from his cabin to + the deck and back again, and sending his photograph off somewhere; the + latter is got up to look like Nadson, and tries thereby to give one to + know that he is a writer. Today he was mendaciously telling a lady that he + had a book published by Suvorin; I, of course, put on an expression of + awe. + </p> + <p> + My money is all safe, except what I have eaten. They won’t feed me for + nothing, the scoundrels. + </p> + <p> + I am neither gay nor bored, but there is a sort of numbness in my soul. I + like to sit without moving or speaking. To-day, for instance, I have + scarcely uttered five words. That’s not true, though: I talked to a priest + on deck. + </p> + <p> + We begin to come across natives; there are lots of Tatars: they are a + respectable and well-behaved people. + </p> + <p> + I beg Father and Mother not to worry, and not to imagine dangers which do + not exist. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Excuse me for writing about nothing but food. If I did not write about + food I should have to write about cold, for I have no other subjects. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 29, 1890. + </h2> + <h3> + MY DEAR TUNGUSES! + </h3> + <p> + The Kama is a very dull river. To realise its beauties one would have to + be a native sitting motionless on a barge beside a barrel of naphtha, or a + sack of dried fish, continually taking a pull at the bottle. The river + banks are bare, the trees are bare, the earth is a dull brown, there are + patches of snow, and there is such a wind that the devil himself could not + blow as keenly and hatefully. When a cold wind blows and ruffles up the + water, which now after the floods is the colour of coffee slops, one feels + cold and bored and miserable; the strains of a concertina on the bank + sound dejected, figures in tattered sheepskins standing motionless on the + barges that meet us look as though they were petrified by some unending + grief. The towns on the Kama are grey; one would think the inhabitants + were employed in the manufacture of clouds, boredom, soaking fences and + mud in the streets, as their sole occupation. The stopping-places are + thronged with inhabitants of the educated class, for whom the arrival of a + steamer is an event.... + </p> + <p> + ... To judge from appearances not one of them earns more than thirty-five + roubles, and all of them are ailing in some way. + </p> + <p> + I have told you already there are some legal gentlemen in the steamer: the + president of the court, one of the judges, and the prosecutor. The + president is a hale and hearty old German who has embraced Orthodoxy, is + pious, a homoeopath, and evidently a devotee of the sex. The judge is an + old man such as dear Nikolay used to draw; he walks bent double, coughs, + and is fond of facetious subjects. The prosecutor is a man of forty-three, + dissatisfied with life, a liberal, a sceptic, and a very good-natured + fellow. All the journey these gentlemen have been occupied in eating, + settling mighty questions and eating, reading and eating. There is a + library on the steamer, and I saw the prosecutor reading my “In the + Twilight.” They began talking about me. Mamin-Sibiryak, who has described + the Urals, is the author most liked in these parts. He is more talked of + than Tolstoy. + </p> + <p> + I have been two and a half years sailing to Perm, so it seems to me. We + reached there at two o’clock in the night. The train went at six o’clock + in the evening. I had to wait. It rained. Rain, cold, mud ... brrr! The + Uralsky line is a good one.... That is due to the abundance of + business-like people here, factories, mines, and so on, for whom time is + precious. + </p> + <p> + Waking yesterday morning and looking out of the carriage window I felt an + aversion for nature: the earth was white, trees covered with hoar-frost, + and a regular blizzard pursuing the train. Now isn’t it revolting? Isn’t + it disgusting? ... I have no goloshes, I pulled on my big boots, and on my + way to the refreshment-room for coffee I made the whole Ural region smell + of tar. And when we got to Ekaterinburg there was rain, snow, and hail. I + put on my leather coat. The cabs are something inconceivable, wretched, + dirty, drenched, without springs, the horse’s four legs straddling, huge + hoofs, gaunt spines ... the droshkies here are a clumsy parody of our + britchkas. A tattered top is put on to a britchka, that is all. And the + more exactly I describe the cabman here and his vehicle, the more it will + seem like a caricature. They drive not on the middle of the road where it + is jolting, but near the gutter where it is muddy and soft. All the cabmen + are like Dobrolyubov. + </p> + <p> + In Russia all the towns are alike. Ekaterinburg is exactly the same as + Perm or Tula. The note of the bells is magnificent, velvety. I stopped at + the American Hotel (not at all bad), and at once sent word of my arrival + to A. M. S., telling him I meant to stay in my hotel room for two days. + </p> + <p> + The people here inspire the newcomer with a feeling akin to horror. They + are big-browed, big-jawed, broad-shouldered fellows with huge fists and + tiny eyes. They are born in the local iron foundries, and at their birth a + mechanic officiates instead of an accoucheur. A specimen comes into your + room with a samovar or a bottle of water, and you expect him every minute + to murder you. I stand aside. This morning just such a one came in, + big-browed, big-jawed, huge, towering up to the ceiling, seven feet across + the shoulders and wearing a fur coat too. + </p> + <p> + Well, I thought, this one will certainly murder me. It appeared that this + was our relation A. M. S. We began to talk. He is a member of the local + Zemstvo and manager of his cousin’s mill, which is lighted by electric + light; he is editor of the <i>Ekaterinburg Week</i> which is under the + censorship of the police-master Baron Taube, is married and has two + children, is growing rich and getting fat and elderly, and lives in a + “substantial way.” He says he has no time to be bored. He advised me to + visit the museum, the factories, and the mines; I thanked him for his + advice. He invited me to tea to-morrow evening; I invited him to dine with + me. He did not invite me to dinner, and altogether did not press me very + much to visit him. From this mother may conclude that the relations’ heart + is not softened.... Relations are a race in which I take no interest. + </p> + <p> + There is snow in the street, and I have purposely let down the blind over + the windows so as not to see the Asiatic sight. I am sitting here waiting + for an answer from Tyumen to my telegram. I telegraphed: “Tyumen. Kurbatov + steamer line. Reply paid. Inform me when the passenger steamer starts + Tomsk.” It depends on the answer whether I go by steamer or gallop fifteen + hundred versts in the slush of the thaw. + </p> + <p> + All night long they beat on sheets of iron at every corner here. You need + a head of iron not to go crazy from the incessant clanging. To-day I tried + to make myself coffee. The result was a horrid mess. I just drank it with + a shrug. I looked at five sheets, handled them, and did not take one. I am + going to-day to buy rubber overshoes. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Shall I find a letter from you at Irkutsk? + </p> + <p> + Ask Lika not to leave such big margins in her letters. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your Homo Sachaliensis, + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + THE BANK OF THE IRTYSH, May 7, 1890. + </p> + <p> + My greetings, honoured Marya Vladimirovna! I meant to write you a farewell + letter from Moscow, but I had not time; I write to you now sitting in a + hut on the bank of the Irtysh. + </p> + <p> + It is night. This is how I have come to be here. I am driving across the + plain of Siberia. I have already driven 715 versts; I have been + transformed from head to foot into a great martyr. This morning a keen + cold wind began blowing, and it began drizzling with the most detestable + rain. I must observe that there is no spring yet in Siberia. The earth is + brown, the trees are bare, and there are white patches of snow wherever + one looks; I wear my fur coat and felt overboots day and night.... Well, + the wind has been blowing since early morning.... Heavy leaden clouds, + dull brown earth, mud, rain, wind.... Brrr! I drive on and on.... I drive + on endlessly, and the weather does not improve. Towards evening I am told + at the station I can’t go on further, as everything is under water, the + bridges have been carried away, and so on. Knowing how fond these drivers + are of frightening one with the elements so as to keep the traveller for + the night (it is to their interest), I did not believe them, and ordered + them to harness the three horses; and now—alas for me!—I had + not driven more than five versts when I saw the land on the bank of the + Irtysh all covered with great lakes, the road disappeared under water, and + the bridges on the road really had been swept away or had decayed. I was + prevented from turning back partly by obstinacy and partly by the desire + to get out of these dreary parts as quickly as possible. We began driving + through the lakes.... My God, I have never experienced anything like it in + my life! The cutting wind, the cold, the loathsome rain, and one had to + get out of the chaise (not a covered one), if you please, and hold the + horses: at each little bridge one could only lead the horses over one at a + time.... What had I come to? Where was I? All around, desert, dreariness; + the bare sullen bank of the Irtysh in sight.... We drive into the very + biggest lake. Now I should be glad to turn back, but it is not easy.... We + drive on a long strip of land ... the strip comes to an end—we go + splash! Again a strip of land, again a splash.... My hands were numb, and + the wild ducks seemed jeering at us and floated in huge flocks over our + heads.... It got dark. The driver said nothing—he was bewildered. + But at last we reached the last strip that separated the Irtysh from the + lake.... The sloping bank of the Irtysh was nearly three feet above the + level; it was of clay, bare, hollowed out, and looked slippery. The water + was muddy.... White waves splashed on the clay, but the Irtysh itself made + no roar or din, but gave forth a strange sound as though someone were + nailing up a coffin under the water.... The further bank was a flat, + disconsolate plain.... You often dream of the Bozharovsky pool; in the + same way now I shall dream of the Irtysh.... + </p> + <p> + But behold a ferry. We must be ferried across to the other side. A peasant + shrinking from the rain comes out of a hut, and tells us that the ferry + cannot cross now as it is too windy.... (The ferries are worked by oars). + He advises us to wait for calm weather.... + </p> + <p> + And so I am sitting at night in a hut on a lake at the very edge of the + Irtysh. I feel a penetrating dampness to the very marrow of my bones, and + a loneliness in my soul; I hear my Irtysh banging on the coffins and the + wind howling, and wonder where I am, why I am here. + </p> + <p> + In the next room the peasants who work the ferry and my driver are asleep. + They are good-natured people. But if they were bad people they could + perfectly well rob me and drown me in the Irtysh. The hut is the only one + on the river bank; there would be no witnesses. + </p> + <p> + The road to Tomsk is absolutely free from danger as far as brigands are + concerned. It isn’t the fashion even to talk of robbery. There is no + stealing even from travellers. When you go into a hut you can leave your + things outside and they will all be safe. + </p> + <p> + But they very nearly did kill me all the same. Imagine the night just + before dawn.... I was driving along in a chaise, thinking and thinking.... + All at once I see coming flying towards us at full gallop a post-cart with + three horses; my driver had hardly time to turn to the right, the three + horses dashed by, and I noticed in it the driver who had to take it + back.... Behind it came another, also at full speed; we had turned to the + right, it turned to the left. “We shall smash into each other,” flashed + into my mind ... one instant, and—there was a crash, the horses were + mixed up in a black mass, my chaise was rearing in the air, and I was + rolling on the ground with all my bags and boxes on the top of me. I leap + up and see—a third troika dashing upon us.... + </p> + <p> + My mother must have been praying for me that night, I suppose. If I had + been asleep, or if the third troika had come immediately after the second, + I should have been crushed to death or maimed. It appeared the foremost + driver lashed on the horses, while the drivers in the second and the third + carts were asleep and did not see us. The collision was followed by the + blankest amazement on both sides, then a storm of ferocious abuse. The + traces were torn, the shafts were broken, the yokes were lying about on + the road.... Ah, how the drivers swore! At night, in that swearing + turbulent crew, I felt in utter solitude such as I have never felt before + in my life.... + </p> + <p> + But my paper is running out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + THE VILLAGE OF YAR, 45 VERSTS FROM TOMSK, May 14, 1890. + </p> + <p> + My glorious mother, my splendid Masha, my sweet Misha, and all my + household! At Ekaterinburg I got my reply telegram from Tyumen. “The first + steamer to Tomsk goes on the 18th May.” This meant that, whether I liked + it or not, I must do the journey with horses. So I did. I drove out of + Tyumen on the third of May after spending in Ekaterinburg two or three + days, which I devoted to the repair of my coughing and haemorrhoidal + person. Besides the public posting service, one can get private drivers + that take one across Siberia. I chose the latter: it is just the same. + They put me, the servant of God, into a basketwork chaise and drove me + with two horses; one sits in the basket like a goldfinch, looking at God’s + world and thinking of nothing.... The plain of Siberia begins, I think, + from Ekaterinburg, and ends goodness knows where; I should say it is very + like our South Russian Steppe, except for the little birch copses here and + there and the cold wind that stings one’s cheeks. Spring has not begun + yet. There is no green at all, the woods are bare, the snow has not thawed + everywhere. There is opaque ice on the lakes. On the ninth of May there + was a hard frost, and to-day, the fourteenth, snow has fallen to the depth + of three or four inches. No one speaks of spring but the ducks. Ah, what + masses of ducks! Never in my life have I seen such abundance. They fly + over one’s head, they fly up close to the chaise, swim on the lakes and in + the pools—in short, with the poorest sort of gun I could have shot a + thousand in one day. One can hear the wild geese calling.... There are + lots of them here too. One often comes upon a string of cranes or + swans.... Snipe and woodcock flutter about in the birch copses. The hares + which are not eaten or shot here, stand on their hindlegs, and, pricking + up their ears, watch the passer-by with an inquisitive stare without the + slightest misgiving. They are so often running across the road that to see + them doing so is not considered a bad omen. + </p> + <p> + It’s cold driving ...; I have my fur coat on. My body is all right, but my + feet are freezing. I wrap them in the leather overcoat-but it is no + use.... I have two pairs of breeches on. Well, one drives on and on.... + Telegraph poles, pools, birch copses flash by. Here we overtake some + emigrants, then an etape.... We meet tramps with pots on their back; these + gentry promenade all over the plain of Siberia without hindrance. One time + they will murder some poor old woman to take her petticoat for their + leg-wrappers; at another they will strip from the verst post the metal + plate with the number on it—it might be useful; at another will + smash the head of some beggar or knock out the eyes of some brother exile; + but they never touch travellers. Altogether, travelling here is absolutely + safe as far as brigands are concerned. Neither the post-drivers nor the + private ones from Tyumen to Tomsk remember an instance of any things being + stolen from a traveller. When you reach a station you leave your things + outside; if you ask whether they won’t be stolen, they merely smile in + answer. It is not the thing even to speak of robbery and murder on the + road. I believe, if I were to lose my money in the station or in the + chaise, the driver would certainly give it me if he found it, and would + not boast of having done so. Altogether the people here are good and + kindly, and have excellent traditions. Their rooms are simply furnished + but clean, with claims to luxury; the beds are soft, all feather + mattresses and big pillows. The floors are painted or covered with + home-made linen rugs. The explanation of this, of course, is their + prosperity, the fact that a family has sixteen dessyatins [Footnote: I.e., + about 48 acres.] of black earth, and that excellent wheat grows in this + black earth. (Wheaten flour costs thirty kopecks a <i>pood</i> here. + [Footnote: i.e., about 7-1/2d. for 36 lb.]) But it cannot all be put down + to prosperity and being well fed. One must give some of the credit to + their manner of life. When you go at night into a room where people are + asleep, the nose is not aware of any stuffiness or “Russian smell.” It is + true one old woman when she handed me a teaspoon wiped it on the back of + her skirt; but they don’t set you down to drink tea without a tablecloth, + and they don’t search in each other’s heads in your presence, they don’t + put their fingers inside the glass when they hand you milk or water; the + crockery is clean, the kvass is transparent as beer—in fact, there + is a cleanliness of which our Little Russians can only dream, yet the + Little Russians are far and away cleaner than the Great Russians! They + make the most delicious bread here—I over-ate myself with it at + first. The pies and pancakes and fritters and the fancy rolls, which + remind one of the spongy Little Russian ring rolls, are very good too.... + But all the rest is not for the European stomach. For instance, I am + regaled everywhere with “duck broth.” It’s perfectly disgusting, a + muddy-looking liquid with bits of wild duck and uncooked onion floating in + it.... I once asked them to make me some soup from meat and to fry me some + perch. They gave me soup too salt, dirty, with hard bits of skin instead + of meat; and the perch was cooked with the scales on it. They make their + cabbage soup from salt meat; they roast it too. They have just served me + some salt meat roasted: it’s most repulsive; I chewed at it and gave it + up. They drink brick tea. It is a decoction of sage and beetles—that’s + what it is like in taste and appearance. + </p> + <p> + By the way, I brought from Ekaterinburg a quarter of a pound of tea, five + pounds of sugar, and three lemons. It was not enough tea and there is + nowhere to buy any. In these scurvy little towns even the government + officials drink brick tea, and even the best shops don’t keep tea at more + than one rouble fifty kopecks a pound. I have to drink the sage brew. + </p> + <p> + The distance apart of the posting stations depends on the distance of the + nearest villages from each other—that is, 20 to 40 versts. The + villages here are large, there are no little hamlets. There are churches + and schools everywhere, the huts are of wood and there are some with two + storeys. + </p> + <p> + Towards the evening the road and the puddles begin to freeze, and at night + there is a regular frost, one wants an extra fur coat ... Brrr! It’s + jolting, for the mud is transformed into hard lumps. One’s soul is shaken + inside out.... Towards daybreak one is fearfully exhausted by the cold, by + the jolting and the jingle of the bells: one has a passionate longing for + warmth and a bed. While they change horses one curls up in some corner and + at once drops asleep, and a minute later the driver pulls at one’s sleeve + and says: “Get up, friend, it is time to start.” On the second night I had + acute toothache in my heels. It was unbearably painful. I wondered whether + they were frostbitten. + </p> + <p> + I can’t write more though. The “president,” that is the district police + inspector, has come. We have made acquaintance and are beginning to talk. + Goodbye till to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOMSK, + </h2> + <p> + May 16. + </p> + <p> + It seems my strong boots were the cause, being too tight at the back. My + sweet Misha, if you ever have any children, which I have no doubt you + will, the advice I bequeath to them is not to run after cheap goods. + Cheapness in Russian goods is the label of worthlessness. To my mind it is + better to go barefoot than to wear cheap boots. Picture my agony! I keep + getting out of the chaise, sitting down on damp ground and taking off my + boots to rest my heels. So comfortable in the frost! I had to buy felt + over-boots in Ishim.... So I drove in felt boots till they collapsed from + the mud and the damp. + </p> + <p> + In the morning between five and six o’clock one drinks tea at a hut. Tea + on a journey is a great blessing. I know its value now, and drink it with + the fury of a Yanov. It warms one through and drives away sleep; one eats + a lot of bread with it, and in the absence of other nourishment, bread has + to be eaten in great quantities; that is why peasants eat so much bread + and farinaceous food. One drinks tea and talks with the peasant women, who + are sensible, tenderhearted, industrious, as well as being devoted mothers + and more free than in European Russia; their husbands don’t abuse or beat + them, because they are as tall, as strong, and as clever as their lords + and masters are. They act as drivers when their husbands are away from + home; they like making jokes. They are not severe with their children, + they spoil them. The children sleep on soft beds and lie as long as they + like, drink tea and eat with the men, and scold the latter when they laugh + at them affectionately. There is no diphtheria. Malignant smallpox is + prevalent here, but strange to say, it is less contagious than in other + parts of the world; two or three catch it and die and that is the end of + the epidemic. There are no hospitals or doctors. The doctoring is done by + feldshers. Bleeding and cupping are done on a grandiose, brutal scale. I + examined a Jew with cancer in the liver. The Jew was exhausted, hardly + breathing, but that did not prevent the feldsher from cupping him twelve + times. Apropos of the Jews. Here they till the land, work as drivers and + ferry-men, trade and are called Krestyany, [Translator’s Note: I.e., + Peasants, literally “Christians.” ] because they are <i>de jure</i> and <i>de + facto</i> Krestyany. They enjoy universal respect, and according to the + “president” they are not infrequently chosen as village elders. I saw a + tall thin Jew who scowled with disgust and spat when the “president” told + indecent stories: a chaste soul; his wife makes splendid fish-soup. The + wife of the Jew who had cancer regaled me with pike caviare and with most + delicious white bread. One hears nothing of exploitation by the Jews. And, + by the way, about the Poles. There are a few exiles here, sent from Poland + in 1864. They are good, hospitable, and very refined people. Some of them + live in a very wealthy way; others are very poor, and serve as clerks at + the stations. Upon the amnesty the former went back to their own country, + but soon returned to Siberia again—here they are better off; the + latter dream of their native land, though they are old and infirm. At + Ishim a wealthy Pole, Pan Zalyessky, who has a daughter like Sasha + Kiselyov, for a rouble gave me an excellent dinner and a room to sleep in; + he keeps an inn and has become a money-grubber to the marrow of his bones; + he fleeces everyone, but yet one feels the Polish gentleman in his manner, + in the way the meals are served, in everything. He does not go back to + Poland through greed, and through greed endures snow till St. Nikolay’s + day; when he dies his daughter, who was born at Ishim, will remain here + for ever and so will multiply the black eyes and soft features in Siberia! + This casual intermixture of blood is to the good, for the Siberian people + are not beautiful. There are no dark-haired people. Perhaps you would like + me to write about the Tatars? Certainly. There are very few of them here. + They are good people. In the province of Kazan everyone speaks well of + them, even the priests, and in Siberia they are “better than the Russians” + as the “president” said to me in the presence of Russians, who assented to + this by their silence. My God, how rich Russia is in good people! If it + were not for the cold which deprives Siberia of the summer, and if it were + not for the officials who corrupt the peasants and the exiles, Siberia + would be the richest and happiest of lands. + </p> + <p> + I have nothing for dinner. Sensible people usually take twenty pounds of + provisions when they go to Tomsk. It seems I was a fool and so I have fed + for a fortnight on nothing but milk and eggs, which are boiled so that the + yolk is hard and the white is soft. One is sick of such fare in two days. + I have only twice had dinner during the whole journey, not counting the + Jewess’s fish-soup, which I swallowed after I had had enough to eat with + my tea. I have not had any vodka: the Siberian vodka is disgusting, and + indeed, I got out of the habit of taking it while I was on the way to + Ekaterinburg. One ought to drink vodka: it stimulates the brain, dull and + apathetic from travelling, which makes one stupid and feeble. + </p> + <p> + <i>Stop!</i> I can’t write: the editor of the <i>Sibirsky Vyestnik</i>, + N., a local Nozdryov, a drunkard and a rake, has come to make my + acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + N. has drunk some beer and gone away. I continue. + </p> + <p> + For the first three days of my journey my collarbones, my shoulders and my + vertebrae ached from the shaking and jolting. I couldn’t stand or sit or + lie.... But on the other hand, all pains in my head and chest have + vanished, my appetite has developed incredibly, and my haemorrhoids have + subsided completely. The overstrain, the constant worry with luggage and + so on, and perhaps the farewell drinking parties in Moscow, had brought on + spitting of blood in the mornings, which induced something like + depression, arousing gloomy thoughts, but towards the end of the journey + it has left off; now I haven’t even a cough. It is a long time since I + have coughed so little as now, after being for a fortnight in the open + air. After the first three days of travelling my body grew used to the + jolting, and in time I did not notice the coming of midday and then of + evening and night. The time flew by rapidly as it does in serious illness. + You think it is scarcely midday when the peasants say—“You ought to + put up for the night, sir, or we may lose our way in the dark”; you look + at your watch, and it is actually eight o’clock. + </p> + <p> + They drive quickly, but the speed is nothing remarkable. Probably I have + come upon the roads in bad condition, and in winter travelling would have + been quicker. They dash uphill at a gallop, and before setting off and + before the driver gets on the box, the horses need two or three men to + hold them. The horses remind me of the fire brigade horses in Moscow. One + day we nearly ran over an old woman, and another time almost dashed into + an etape. Now, would you like an adventure for which I am indebted to + Siberian driving? Only I beg mother not to wail and lament, for it all + ended well. On the 6th of May towards daybreak I was being driven with two + horses by a very nice old man. It was a little chaise, I was drowsy, and, + to while away the time, watched the gleaming of zigzagging lights in the + fields and birch copses—it was last year’s grass on fire; it is + their habit here to burn it. Suddenly I hear the swift rattle of wheels, a + post-cart at full speed comes flying towards us like a bird, my old man + hastens to move to the right, the three horses dash by, and I see in the + dusk a huge heavy post-cart with a driver for the return journey in it. It + was followed by a second cart also going at full speed. We made haste to + move aside to the right. To my great amazement and alarm the approaching + cart moved not to its right, but its left ... I hardly had time to think, + “Good heavens! we shall run into each other,” when there was a desperate + crash, the horses were mixed up in a dark blur, the yokes fell off, my + chaise reared up into the air, and I flew to the ground, and my luggage on + the top of me. But that was not all ... A third cart was dashing upon us. + This really ought to have smashed me and my luggage to atoms but, thank + God! I was not asleep, I broke no bones in the fall, and managed to jump + up so quickly that I was able to get out of the way. “Stop,” I bawled to + the third cart, “Stop!” The third dashed up to the second and stopped. Of + course if I were able to sleep in a chaise, or if the third cart had + followed instantly on the second, I should certainly have come back a + cripple or a headless horseman. The results of the collision were broken + shafts, torn traces, yokes and luggage scattered on the ground, the horses + scared and harassed, and the alarming feeling that we had just been in + danger. It turned out that the first driver had lashed up the horses; + while in the other two carts the drivers were asleep, and the horses + followed the first team with no one controlling them. On recovering from + the shock, my old man and the other three men fell to abusing each other + ferociously. Oh, how they swore! I thought it would end in a fight. You + can’t imagine the feeling of isolation in the middle of that savage + swearing crew in the open country, just before dawn, in sight of the fires + far and near consuming the grass, but not warming the cold night air! Oh, + how heavy my heart was! One listened to the swearing, looked at the broken + shafts and at one’s tormented luggage, and it seemed as though one were + cast away in another world, as though one would be crushed in a moment.... + After an hour’s abuse my old man began splicing together the shafts with + cord and tying up the traces; my straps were forced into the service too. + We got to the station somehow, crawling along and stopping from time to + time. + </p> + <p> + After five or six days rain with high winds began. It rained day and + night. The leather overcoat came to the rescue and kept me safe from rain + and wind. It’s a wonderful coat. The mud was almost impassable, the + drivers began to be unwilling to go on at night. But what was worst of + all, and what I shall never forget, was crossing the rivers. One reaches a + river at night.... One begins shouting and so does the driver.... Rain, + wind, pieces of ice glide down the river, there is a sound of + splashing.... And to add to our gaiety there is the cry of a heron. Herons + live on the Siberian rivers, so it seems they don’t consider the climate + but the geographical position.... Well, an hour later, in the darkness, a + huge ferry-boat of the shape of a barge comes into sight with huge oars + that look like the pincers of a crab. The ferry-men are a rowdy set, for + the most part exiles banished here by the verdict of society for their + vicious life. They use insufferably bad language, shout, and ask for money + for vodka.... The ferrying across takes a long, long time ... an + agonizingly long time. The ferryboat crawls. Again the feeling of + loneliness, and the heron seems calling on purpose, as though he means to + say: “Don’t be frightened, old man, I am here, the Lintvaryovs have sent + me here from the Psyol.” + </p> + <p> + On the 7th of May when I asked for horses the driver said the Irtysh had + overflowed its banks and flooded the meadows, that Kuzma had set off the + day before and had difficulty in getting back, and that I could not go, + but must wait.... I asked: “Wait till when?” Answer: “The Lord only + knows!” That was vague. Besides, I had taken a vow to get rid on the + journey of two of my vices which were a source of considerable expense, + trouble, and inconvenience; I mean my readiness to give in, and be + overpersuaded. I am quick to agree, and so I have had to travel anyhow, + sometimes to pay double and to wait for hours at a time. I had taken to + refusing to agree and to believe—and my sides have ached less. For + instance, they bring out not a proper carriage but a common, jolting cart. + I refuse to travel in the jolting cart, I insist, and the carriage is sure + to appear, though they may have declared that there was no such thing in + the whole village, and so on. Well, I suspected that the Irtysh floods + were invented simply to avoid driving me by night through the mud. I + protested and told them to start. The peasant who had heard of the floods + from Kuzma, and had not himself seen them, scratched himself and + consented; the old men encouraged him, saying that when they were young + and used to drive, they were afraid of nothing. We set off. Much rain, a + vicious wind, cold ... and felt boots on my feet. Do you know what felt + boots are like when they are soaked? They are like boots of jelly. We + drive on and on, and behold, there lies stretched before my eyes an + immense lake from which the earth appears in patches here and there, and + bushes stand out: these are the flooded meadows. In the distance stretches + the steep bank of the Irtysh, on which there are white streaks of snow.... + We begin driving through the lake. We might have turned back, but + obstinacy prevented me, and an incomprehensible impulse of defiance + mastered me—that impulse which made me bathe from the yacht in the + middle of the Black Sea and has impelled me to not a few acts of folly ... + I suppose it is a special neurosis. We drive on and make for the little + islands and strips of land. The direction is indicated by bridges and + planks; they have been washed away. To cross by them we had to unharness + the horses and lead them over one by one.... The driver unharnesses the + horses, I jump out into the water in my felt boots and hold them.... A + pleasant diversion! And the rain and wind.... Queen of Heaven! At last we + get to a little island where there stands a hut without a roof.... Wet + horses are wandering about in the wet dung. A peasant with a long stick + comes out of the hut and undertakes to guide us. He measures the depth of + the water with his stick, and tries the ground. He led us out—God + bless him for it!—on to a long strip of ground which he called “the + ridge.” He instructs us that we must keep to the right—or perhaps it + was to the left, I don’t remember—and get on to another ridge. This + we do. My felt boots are soaking and squelching, my socks are snuffling. + The driver says nothing and clicks dejectedly to his horses. He would + gladly turn back, but by now it was late, it was dark.... At last—oh, + joy!—we reach the Irtysh.... The further bank is steep but the near + bank is sloping. The near one is hollowed out, looks slippery, hateful, + not a trace of vegetation.... The turbid water splashes upon it with + crests of white foam, and dashes back again as though disgusted at + touching the uncouth slippery bank on which it seems that none but toads + and the souls of murderers could live.... The Irtysh makes no loud or + roaring sound, but it sounds as though it were hammering on coffins in its + depths.... A damnable impression! The further bank is steep, dark brown, + desolate.... + </p> + <p> + There is a hut; the ferry-men live in it. One of them comes out and + announces that it is impossible to work the ferry as a storm has come up. + The river, they said, was wide, and the wind was strong. And so I had to + stay the night at the hut.... I remember the night. The snoring of the + ferry-men and my driver, the roar of the wind, the patter of the rain, the + mutterings of the Irtysh.... Before going to sleep I wrote a letter to + Marya Vladimirovna; I was reminded of the Bozharovsky pool. + </p> + <p> + In the morning they were unwilling to ferry me across: there was a high + wind. We had to row across in the boat. I am rowed across the river, while + the rain comes lashing down, the wind blows, my luggage is drenched and my + felt boots, which had been dried overnight in the oven, become jelly + again. Oh, the darling leather coat! If I did not catch cold I owe it + entirely to that. When I come back you must reward it with an anointing of + tallow or castor-oil. On the bank I sat for a whole hour on my portmanteau + waiting for horses to come from the village. I remember it was very + slippery clambering up the bank. In the village I warmed myself and had + some tea. Some exiles came to beg for alms. Every family makes forty + pounds of wheaten flour into bread for them every day. It’s a kind of + forced tribute. + </p> + <p> + The exiles take the bread and sell it for drink at the tavern. One exile, + a tattered, closely shaven old man, whose eyes had been knocked out in the + tavern by his fellow-exiles, hearing that there was a traveller in the + room and taking me for a merchant, began singing and repeating the + prayers. He recited the prayer for health and for the rest of the soul, + and sang the Easter hymn, “Let the Lord arise,” and “With thy Saints, O + Lord”—goodness knows what he didn’t sing! Then he began telling + lies, saying that he was a Moscow merchant. I noticed how this drunken + creature despised the peasants upon whom he was living. + </p> + <p> + On the 11th I drove with posting horses. I read the books of complaints at + the posting station in my boredom. + </p> + <p> + ... On the 12th of May they would not give me horses, saying that I could + not drive, because the River Ob had overflowed its banks and flooded all + the meadows. They advised me to turn off the track as far as Krasny Yar; + then go by boat twelve versts to Dubrovin, and at Dubrovin you can get + posting horses.... I drove with private horses as far as Krasny Yar. I + arrive in the morning; I am told there is a boat, but that I must wait a + little as the grandfather had sent the workman to row the president’s + secretary to Dubrovin in it. Very well, we will wait.... An hour passes, a + second, a third.... Midday arrives, then evening.... Allah kerim, what a + lot of tea I drank, what a lot of bread I ate, what a lot of thoughts I + thought! And what a lot I slept! Night came on and still no boat.... Early + morning came.... At last at nine o’clock the workmen returned.... Thank + heaven, we are afloat at last! And how pleasant it is! The air is still, + the oarsmen are good, the islands are beautiful.... The floods caught men + and cattle unawares and I see peasant women rowing in boats to the islands + to milk the cows. And the cows are lean and dejected. There is absolutely + no grass for them, owing to the cold. I was rowed twelve versts. At the + station of Dubrovin I had tea, and for tea they gave me, can you imagine! + waffles.... I suppose the woman of the house was an exile or the wife of + an exile. At the next station an old clerk, a Pole, to whom I gave some + antipyrin for his headache, complained of his poverty, and said Count + Sapyega, a Pole who was a gentleman-in-waiting at the Austrian Court, and + who assisted his fellow-countrymen, had lately arrived there on his way to + Siberia, “He stayed near the station,” said the clerk, “and I didn’t know + it! Holy Mother! He would have helped me! I wrote to him at Vienna, but I + got no answer, ...” and so on. Why am I not a Sapyega? I would send this + poor fellow to his own country. + </p> + <p> + On the 14th of May again they would not give me horses. The Tom was + flooded. How vexatious! It meant not mere vexation but despair! Fifty + versts from Tomsk and how unexpected! A woman in my place would have + sobbed. Some kind-hearted people found a solution for me. “Drive on, sir, + as far as the Tom, it is only six versts from here; there they will row + you across to Yar, and Ilya Markovitch will take you on from there to + Tomsk.” I hired a horse and drove to the Tom, to the place where the boat + was to be. I drove—there was no boat. They told me it had just set + off with the post, and was hardly likely to return as there was such a + wind. I began waiting.... The ground was covered with snow, it rained and + hailed and the wind blew.... One hour passed, a second, and no boat. Fate + was laughing at me. I returned to the station. There the driver of the + mail with three posting horses was just setting off for the Tom. I told + him there was no boat. He stayed. Fate rewarded me; the clerk in response + to my hesitating inquiry whether there was anything to eat told me the + woman of the house had some cabbage soup. Oh, rapture! Oh, radiant day! + And the daughter of the house did in fact give me some excellent cabbage + soup, with some capital meat with roast potatoes and cucumbers. I have not + had such a dinner since I was at Pan Zalyessky’s. After the potatoes I let + myself go, and made myself some coffee. + </p> + <p> + Towards evening the mail driver, an elderly man who had evidently endured + a good deal in his day, and who did not venture to sit down in my + presence, began preparing to set off to the Tom. I did the same. We drove + off. As soon as we reached the river the boat came into sight—a long + boat: I have never dreamed of a boat so long. While the post was being + loaded on to the boat I witnessed a strange phenomenon—there was a + peal of thunder, a queer thing in a cold wind, with snow on the ground. + They loaded up and rowed off. My sweet Misha, forgive me for being so + rejoiced that I did not bring you with me! How sensible it was of me not + to take anyone with me! At first our boat floated over a meadow near + willow-bushes.... As is common before a storm or during a storm, a violent + wind suddenly sprang up on the water and stirred up the waves. The boatman + who was sitting at the helm advised our waiting in the willow-bushes till + the storm was over. They answered him that if the storm grew worse, they + might stay in the willow-bushes till night and be drowned all the same. + They proceeded to settle it by <i>majority of votes</i>, and decided to + row on. An evil mocking fate is mine. Oh, why these jests? We rowed on in + silence, concentrating our thoughts.... I remember the figure of the + mail-driver, a man of varied experiences. I remember the little soldier + who suddenly became as crimson as cherry juice. I thought, if the boat + upsets I will fling off my fur coat and my leather coat ... then my felt + boots, then ... and so on.... But the bank came nearer and nearer, one’s + soul felt easier and easier, one’s heart throbbed with joy, one heaved + deep sighs as though one could breathe freely at last, and leapt on the + wet slippery bank.... Thank God! + </p> + <p> + At Ilya Markovitch’s, the converted Jew’s, I was told that I could not + drive at night; the road was bad; that I must remain till next day. Very + good, I stayed. After tea I sat down to write you this letter, interrupted + by the visit of the “president.” The president is a rich mixture of + Nozdryov, Hlestakov and a cur. A drunkard, a rake, a liar, a singer, a + story-teller, and with all that a good-natured man. He had brought with + him a big trunk stuffed full of business papers, a bedstead and mattress, + a gun, and a secretary. The secretary is an excellent, well-educated man, + a protesting liberal who has studied in Petersburg, and is free in his + ideas; I don’t know how he came to Siberia, he is infected to the marrow + of his bones with every sort of disease, and is taking to drink, thanks to + his principal, who calls him Kolya. The representative of authority sends + for a cordial. “Doctor,” he bawls, “drink another glass, I beseech you + humbly!” Of course, I drink it. The representative of authority drinks + soundly, lies outrageously, uses shameless language. We go to bed. In the + morning a cordial is sent for again. They swill the cordial till ten + o’clock and at last they go. The converted Jew, Ilya Markovitch, whom the + peasants here idolize—so I was told—gave me horses to drive to + Tomsk. + </p> + <p> + The “president,” the secretary and I got into the same conveyance. All the + way the “president” told lies, drank out of the bottle, boasted that he + did not take bribes, raved about the scenery, and shook his fist at the + tramps that he met. We drove fifteen versts, then halt! The village of + Brovkino.... We stop near a Jew’s shop and go to take “rest and + refreshment.” The Jew runs to fetch us a cordial while his wife makes us + some fish-soup, of which I have written to you already. The “president” + gave orders that the <i>sotsky</i>, the <i>desyatsky</i>, and the road + contractor should come to him, and in his drunkenness began reproving + them, not the least restrained by my presence. He swore like a Tatar. + </p> + <p> + I soon parted from the “president,” and on the evening of the 15th of May + by an appalling road reached Tomsk. During the last two days I have only + done seventy versts; you can imagine what the roads are like! + </p> + <p> + In Tomsk the mud was almost impassable. Of the town and the manner of + living here I will write in a day or two, but good-bye for now—I am + tired of writing. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + There are no poplars. The Kuvshinnikov General was lying. I have seen no + nightingales. There are magpies and cuckoos. + </p> + <p> + I received a telegram of eighty words from Suvorin to-day. + </p> + <p> + Excuse this letter’s being like a hotch-potch. It’s incoherent, but I + can’t help it. Sitting in an hotel room one can’t write better. Excuse its + being long, It’s not my fault. My pen ran away with me—besides, I + wanted to go on talking to you. It’s three o’clock in the night. My hand + is tired. The wick of the candle wants snuffing, I can hardly see. Write + to me at Sahalin every four or five days. It seems that the post goes + there, not only by sea but across Siberia, so I shall get letters + frequently. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + All the Tomsk people tell me that there has not been a spring so cold and + rainy as this one since 1842. Half Tomsk is under water. My luck! + </p> + <p> + I am eating sweets. + </p> + <p> + I shall have to stay at Tomsk till the rains are over. They say the road + to Irkutsk is awful. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOMSK, + </h2> + <p> + May 20. + </p> + <p> + It is Trinity Sunday with you, while with us even the willow has not yet + come out, and there is still snow on the banks of the Tom. To-morrow I am + starting for Irkutsk. I am rested. There is no need for hurry, as steam + navigation on Lake Baikal does not begin till the 10th of June; but I + shall go all the same. + </p> + <p> + I am alive and well, my money is safe; I have a slight pain in my right + eye. It aches. + </p> + <p> + ... Everyone advises me to go back across America, as they say one may die + of boredom in the Volunteer Fleet; it’s all military discipline and red + tape regulations, and they don’t often touch at a port. + </p> + <p> + To fill up my time I have been writing some impressions of my journey and + sending them to <i>Novoye Vremya</i>; you will read them soon after the + 10th of June. I write a little about everything, chit-chat. I don’t write + for glory but from a financial point of view, and in consideration of the + money I have had in advance. + </p> + <p> + Tomsk is a very dull town. To judge from the drunkards whose acquaintance + I have made, and from the intellectual people who have come to the hotel + to pay their respects to me, the inhabitants are very dull too. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In two and a half days I shall be in Krasnoyarsk, and in seven or eight in + Irkutsk. It’s fifteen hundred versts to Irkutsk. I have made myself coffee + and am just going to drink it. + </p> + <p> + ... After Tomsk the Taiga begins. We shall see it. + </p> + <p> + My greeting to all the Lintvaryovs and to our old Maryushka. I beg mother + not to worry and not to put faith in bad dreams. Have the radishes + succeeded? There are none here at all. + </p> + <p> + Keep well, don’t worry about money—there will be plenty; don’t try + to spend less and spoil the summer for yourselves. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + TOMSK, May 20, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Greetings to you at last from Siberia, dear Alexey Sergeyevitch! I have + missed you and our correspondence terribly. + </p> + <p> + I will begin from the beginning, however. At Tyumen I was told the first + steamer to Tomsk went on the 18th of May. I had to do the journey with + horses. For the first three days every joint and sinew ached, but + afterwards I got used to the jolting and felt no more aches. Only the lack + of sleep, the continual worry over the luggage, the jolting and the + fasting brought on spitting of blood when I coughed, and this depressed my + spirits, which were none too grand before. For the first few days it was + bearable but then a cold wind began to blow, the windows of heaven were + opened, the rivers flooded the meadows and roads, I was continually having + to change my chaise for a boat. You’ll read of my struggles with the + floods and the mud in the article I enclose. I did not mention in it that + my big high boots were tight, and that I waded through the mud and the + water in my felt boots, and that my felt boots were soaked to jelly. The + road was so abominable that during the last two days of my journey I only + did seventy versts. + </p> + <p> + When I set off I promised to send you notes of my journey after Tomsk, + since the road between Tyumen and Tomsk has been described a thousand + times already. But in your telegram you have expressed the desire to get + my impressions of Siberia as quickly as possible, and have even had the + cruelty, sir, to reproach me with lapse of memory, as though I had + forgotten you. It was absolutely impossible to write on the road. I kept a + brief diary in pencil and can offer you now only what is written in that + diary. To avoid writing at great length and getting mixed up, I divided + all my impressions into chapters. I am sending you six chapters. They are + written <i>for you personally</i>. I wrote for you only, and so have not + been afraid of being too subjective, and have not been afraid of there + being more of Chekhov’s feelings and thoughts than of Siberia in them. If + you find some lines interesting and worth printing, give them a profitable + publicity, signing them with my name and printing them in separate + chapters, a tablespoonful once an hour. The general title can be <i>From + Siberia</i>, then <i>From Trans-Baikalia</i>, then <i>From the Amur</i>, + and so on. + </p> + <p> + You shall have another helping from Irkutsk, for which I am starting + to-morrow. I shall not be less than ten days on the journey—the road + is bad. I shall send you a few chapters again, and shall send them whether + you intend to print them or not. Read them and when you are tired of them + telegraph to me “Shut up!” + </p> + <p> + I have been as hungry as a dog the whole way. I stuffed myself with bread + so as not to dream of turbot, asparagus, and suchlike. I even dreamed of + buckwheat porridge. I have dreamed of it for hours at a time. + </p> + <p> + At Tyumen I bought some sausage for the journey, but what sausage! When + you take a bit in your mouth there’s a sniff as though you had gone into a + stable at the very moment when the coachmen were taking off their + leg-wrappers; when you begin chewing it, you feel as though you had + fastened your teeth into a dog’s tail defiled with pitch. Tfoo! I ate some + once or twice, and threw it away. + </p> + <p> + I have had one telegram and the letter from you in which you write that + you want to bring out an encyclopaedic dictionary. I don’t know why, but + the news of that dictionary rejoiced me greatly. Do, my dear friend! If I + am any use for working on it, I will devote November and December to you, + and will spend those months in Petersburg. I will sit at it from morning + till night. + </p> + <p> + I made a fair copy of my notes at Tomsk in horrid hotel surroundings, but + I took trouble about it and was not without a desire to please you. I + thought, he must be bored and hot in Feodosia, let him read about the + cold. These notes will come to you instead of a letter which has been + taking shape in my head during the whole journey. In return you must send + to me at Sahalin all your critical reviews except the first two, which I + have read; have Peshel’s “Ethnology” sent me there too, except the first + two instalments, which I have already. + </p> + <p> + The post to Sahalin goes both by sea and across Siberia, so if people + write to me I shall get letters often. Don’t lose my address—<i>Island + of Sahalin, Alexandrovsky Post</i>. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the expense! <i>Gewalt!</i> Thanks to the floods, I had to pay the + drivers double and almost treble, for it has been fiendishly hard work. My + trunk, a very charming article, has turned out unsuitable for the journey; + it takes a lot of room, pokes one in the ribs, and rattles, and worst of + all threatens to burst open. “Don’t take boxes on long journeys!” good + people said to me, but I remembered this advice only when I had gone + half-way. Well, I am leaving my trunk to reside permanently at Tomsk, and + am buying instead of it a sort of leather carcase, which has the advantage + that it can be tied so as to form two halves at the bottom of the chaise + as one likes. I paid sixteen roubles for it. Next point. To travel to the + Amur, changing one’s conveyance at every station, is torture. You shatter + both yourself and all your luggage. I was advised to buy a trap. I bought + one to-day for one hundred and thirty roubles. If I don’t succeed in + selling it at Sryetensk, where my horse journey ends, I shall be in a fix + and shall howl aloud. To-day I dined with the editor of the <i>Sibirsky + Vyestnik</i>, a local Nozdryov, a broad nature.... He drank to the tune of + six roubles. + </p> + <p> + Stop! They announce that the deputy police master wants to see me. What + can it be?!? + </p> + <p> + My alarm was unnecessary. The police officer turns out to be devoted to + literature and himself an author; he has come to pay his respects to me. + He went home to fetch his play, and I believe intends to regale me with + it. He is just coming again and preventing me from writing to you.... + </p> + <p> + ... My greetings to Nastyusha and Boris. I should be genuinely delighted + for their satisfaction to fling myself into the jaws of a tiger and call + them to my aid, but, alas! I haven’t reached the tigers here: the only + furry animals I have seen so far in Siberia are many hares and one mouse. + </p> + <p> + Stop! The police officer has returned. He has not read me his drama though + he brought it, but regaled me with a story. It’s not bad, only too local. + He showed me a nugget of gold. He asked for some vodka. I don’t remember a + single educated Siberian who has not asked for vodka on coming to see me. + He told me he had a mistress, a married woman; he gave me a petition to + the Tsar about divorce to read.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + How glad I am when I am forced to stop somewhere for the night! I no + sooner roll into bed than I am asleep. Here, travelling and not sleeping + at night, one prizes sleep above everything. There is no greater enjoyment + in life than sleep when one is sleepy. In Moscow, in Russia generally, I + never was sleepy as I understand the word now. I went to bed simply + because one had to. But now! Another observation. On a journey one has no + desire for spirits. I can’t drink. I smoke a great deal. One’s mind does + not work well. I cannot put my thoughts together. Time flies rapidly, so + that one scarcely notices it, from ten o’clock in the morning to seven + o’clock in the evening. Evening comes quickly after morning. It’s just the + same when one is seriously ill. The wind and the rain have made my face + all scaly, and when I look in the looking-glass I don’t recognize my once + noble features. + </p> + <p> + I am not going to describe Tomsk. All the towns are alike in Russia. Tomsk + is a dull and intemperate town. There are absolutely no good-looking + women, and the disregard for justice is Asiatic. The town is remarkable + for the fact that governors die in it. + </p> + <p> + If my letters are short, careless, or dry, don’t be cross, for one cannot + always be oneself on a journey and write as one wants to. The ink is bad, + and there is always a hair or a splodge on one’s pen. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + KRASNOYARSK, May 28, 1890. + </p> + <p> + What a deadly road! It was all we could do to crawl to Krasnoyarsk and my + trap had to be repaired twice. The first thing to be broken was the + vertical piece of iron connecting the front of the carriage with the axle; + then the so-called circle under the front broke. I have never in all my + life seen such a road—such impassable mud and such an utterly + neglected road. I am going to write about its horrors to the <i>Novoye + Vremya</i>, and so won’t talk about it now. + </p> + <p> + The last three stations have been splendid; as one comes down to + Krasnoyarsk one seems to be getting into a different world. You come out + of the forest into a plain which is like our Donets steppe, but here the + mountain ridges are grander. The sun shines its very best and the + birch-trees are out, though three stations back the buds were not even + bursting. Thank God, I have at last reached a summer in which there is + neither rain nor a cold wind. Krasnoyarsk is a picturesque, cultured town; + compared with it, Tomsk is “a pig in a skull-cap and the acme of <i>mauvais + ton</i>.” The streets are clean and paved, the houses are of stone and + large, the churches are elegant. + </p> + <p> + I am alive and perfectly well. My money is all right, and so are my + things; I lost my woollen stockings but soon found them again. + </p> + <p> + Apart from my trap, everything so far has been satisfactory and I have + nothing to complain of. Only I am spending an awful lot of money. + Incompetence in the practical affairs of life is never felt so much as on + a journey. I pay more than I need to, I do the wrong thing, and I say the + wrong thing, and I am always expecting what does not happen. + </p> + <p> + ... I shall be in Irkutsk in five or six days, shall spend as many days + there, then drive on to Sryetensk—and that will be the end of my + journey on land. For more than a fortnight I have been driving without a + break, I think about nothing else, I live for nothing else; every morning + I see the sunrise from beginning to end. I’ve grown so used to it that it + seems as though all my life I had been driving and struggling with the + muddy roads. When it does not rain, and there are no pits of mud on the + road, one feels queer and even a little bored. And how filthy I am, what a + rapscallion I look! What a state my luckless clothes are in! + </p> + <p> + ... For mother’s information: I have still a jar and a half of coffee; I + feed on locusts and wild honey; I shall dine to-day at Irkutsk. The + further east one gets the dearer everything is. Rye flour is seventy + kopecks a <i>pood</i>, while on the other side of Tomsk it was twenty-five + and twenty-seven kopecks per <i>pood</i>, and wheaten flour thirty + kopecks. The tobacco sold in Siberia is vile and loathsome; I tremble + because mine is nearly done. + </p> + <p> + ... I am travelling with two lieutenants and an army doctor who are all on + their way to the Amur. So my revolver is after all quite superfluous. In + such company hell would have no terrors. We are just having tea at the + station, and after tea we are going to have a look at the town. + </p> + <p> + I should have no objection to living in Krasnoyarsk. I can’t think why + this is a favourite place for sending exiles to. + </p> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your Homo Sachaliensis, + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. + </h2> + <p> + IRKUTSK, June 5, 1890. + </p> + <h3> + MY EUROPEAN BROTHER, + </h3> + <p> + It is, of course, unpleasant to live in Siberia; but better to live in + Siberia and feel oneself a man of moral worth, than to live in Petersburg + with the reputation of a drunkard and a scoundrel. No reference to present + company. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Siberia is a cold and long country. I drive on and on and see no end to + it. I see little that is new or of interest, but I feel and experience a + great deal. I have contended with flooded rivers, with cold, with + impassable mud, hunger and sleepiness: such sensations as you could not + get for a million in Moscow! You ought to come to Siberia. Ask the + authorities to exile you. + </p> + <p> + The best of all Siberian towns is Irkutsk. Tomskis not worth a brass + farthing, and the district towns are no better than the Kryepkaya in which + you were so heedlessly born. What is most provoking, there is nothing to + eat in the district towns, and oh dear, how conscious one is of that on + the journey! You get to a town and feel ready to eat a mountain; you + arrive and—alack!—no sausage, no cheese, no meat, no herring + even, but the same insipid eggs and milk as in the villages. + </p> + <p> + On the whole I am satisfied with my expedition, and don’t regret having + come. The travelling is hard, but the resting after it is delightful. I + rest with enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + From Irkutsk I shall make for Baikal, which I shall cross by steamer; it’s + a thousand versts from the Baikal to the Amur, and thence I shall go by + steamer to the Pacific, where the first thing I shall do is to have a bath + and eat oysters. + </p> + <p> + I got here yesterday and went first of all to have a bath, then to bed. + Oh, how I slept! I never understood what sleep meant till now. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + I bless you with both hands. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your Asiatic brother, + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. + </h2> + <p> + IRKUTSK, June 5, 1890. + </p> + <p> + A thousand greetings to you, dear Alexey Nikolaevitch. At last I have + vanquished the most difficult three thousand versts; I am sitting in a + decent hotel and can write. I have rigged myself out all in new things + and, as far as possible, smart ones, for you cannot imagine how sick I was + of my big muddy boots, of my sheepskin smelling of tar, of my overcoat + covered with bits of hay, of dust and crumbs in my pockets, and of my + extremely dirty linen. I looked such a ragamuffin on the journey that even + the tramps eyed me askance; and then, as ill luck would have it, the cold + winds and rain chapped my face and made it scaly like a fish. Now at last + I am a European again, and I am conscious of it all over. + </p> + <p> + Well, what am I to write to you? It’s all so long and so vast that one + doesn’t know where to begin. All my experiences in Siberia I divide into + three periods. (1) From Tyumen to Tomsk, fifteen hundred versts, terrible + cold, day and night, sheepskin, felt boots, cold rains, winds and a + desperate life-and-death struggle with the flooded rivers. The rivers had + flooded the meadows and roads, and I was constantly exchanging my trap for + a boat and floating like a Venetian on a gondola; the boats, the waiting + on the bank for them, the rowing across, etc., all that took up so much + time that during the last two days before reaching Tomsk, in spite of all + my efforts, I only did seventy versts instead of four or five hundred. + There were, moreover, some very uneasy and unpleasant moments, especially + when the wind rose and began to buffet the boat. (2) From Tomsk to + Krasnoyarsk, five hundred versts, impassable mud, my chaise and I stuck in + the mud like flies in thick jam. How many times I broke my chaise (it’s my + own property!) how many versts I walked! how bespattered my countenance + and my clothes were! It was not driving but wading through mud. How I + swore at it all! My brain would not work, I could do nothing but swear. I + was utterly exhausted, and was very glad to reach the posting station at + Krasnoyarsk. (3) From Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk, fifteen hundred and + sixty-six versts, heat, smoke from the burning woods, and dust—dust + in one’s mouth, in one’s nose, in one’s pockets; when you look at yourself + in the glass, you think your face has been painted. When, on reaching + Irkutsk, I washed at the baths, the soapsuds off my head were not white + but of an ashen brown colour, as though I were washing a horse. + </p> + <p> + When I get home I will tell you about the Yenissey and the Taiga—very + interesting and curious, for it is something quite new to a European; + everything else is ordinary and monotonous. Roughly speaking, the scenery + of Siberia is not very different from that of European Russia; there are + differences, but they are not very noticeable. Travelling is perfectly + safe. + </p> + <p> + Robbers and highwaymen are all nonsense and fairy tales. A revolver is + utterly unnecessary, and you are as safe at night in the forest as you are + by day on the Nevsky Prospect. It’s different for anyone travelling on + foot.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. A. LEIKIN. + </h2> + <p> + IRKUTSK, June 5, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Greetings, dear Nikolay Alexandrovitch! + </p> + <p> + I send you heartfelt good wishes from Irkutsk, from the depths of Siberia. + I reached Irkutsk last night and was very glad to have arrived, as I was + exhausted by the journey and missed friends and relations, to whom I had + not written for ages. Well, what is there of interest to write to you? I + will begin by telling you that the journey is extraordinarily long. From + Tyumen to Irkutsk I have driven more than three thousand versts. From + Tyumen to Tomsk I had cold and flooded rivers to contend with. The cold + was awful; on Ascension Day there was frost and snow, so that I could not + take off my sheepskin and felt boots until I reached the hotel at Tomsk. + As for the floods, they were a veritable plague of Egypt. The rivers rose + above their banks and overflowed the meadows, and with them the roads, for + dozens of versts around. I was continually having to exchange my chaise + for a boat, and one could not get a boat for nothing—for a good boat + one had to pay with one’s heart’s blood, for one had to sit waiting on the + bank for twenty-four hours at a stretch in the cold wind and the rain.... + From Tomsk to Krasnoyarsk was a desperate struggle through impassable mud. + My goodness, it frightens me to think of it! How often I had to mend my + chaise, to walk, to swear, to get out of my chaise and get into it again, + and so on! It sometimes happened that I was from six to ten hours getting + from one station to another, and every time the chaise had to be mended it + took from ten to fifteen hours. From Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk was fearfully + hot and dusty. Add to all that hunger, dust in one’s nose, one’s eyes + glued together with sleep, the continual dread that something would get + broken in the chaise (it is my own), and boredom.... Nevertheless I am + well content, and I thank God that He has given me the strength and + opportunity to make this journey. I have seen and experienced a great + deal, and it has all been very new and interesting to me not as a literary + man, but as a human being. The Yenissey, the Taiga, the stations, the + drivers, the wild scenery, the wild life, the physical agonies caused by + the discomforts of the journey, the enjoyment I got from rest—all + taken together is so delightful that I can’t describe it. The mere fact + that I have been for more than a month in the open air is interesting and + healthy; every day for a month I have seen the sunrise.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + IRKUTSK, June 6, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Greetings to you, dear mother, Ivan, Masha and Misha, and all of you! + </p> + <p> + In my last long letter I wrote to you that the mountains near Krasnoyarsk + are like the Donets Ridge, but that’s not true; when I looked at them from + the street I saw they were like high walls surrounding the city, and I was + vividly reminded of the Caucasus. And when towards evening I left the town + and was crossing the Yenissey, I saw on the other bank mountains that were + exactly like the Caucasus, as misty and dreamy. The Yenissey is a broad, + swift, winding river, beautiful, finer than the Volga. And the ferry + across it is wonderful, ingeniously constructed, moving against the + current; I will tell you when I am home about the construction of it. And + so the mountains and the Yenissey are the first things original and new + that I have met in Siberia. The mountains and the Yenissey have given me + sensations which have made up to me a hundredfold for all the trials and + troubles of the journey, and which have made me call Levitan a fool for + being so stupid as not to come with me. + </p> + <p> + The Taiga stretches unbroken from Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk. The trees are + not bigger than in Sokolniki, but not one driver knows how far it goes. + There is no end to be seen to it. It stretches for hundreds of versts. No + one knows who or what is in the Taiga, and it only happens in winter that + people come through the Taiga from the far north with reindeer for bread. + When you get to the top of a mountain and look down, you see a mountain + before you, then another, mountains at the sides too—and all thickly + covered with forest. It makes one feel almost frightened. That’s the + second thing original and new. + </p> + <p> + From Krasnoyarsk it began to be hot and dusty. The heat was terrible. My + sheepskin and cap lie buried away. The dust is in my mouth, in my nose, + down my neck—tfoo! We were approaching Irkutsk—we had to cross + the Angara by ferry. As though to mock us a high wind sprang up. My + military companions and I, after dreaming for ten days of a bath, dinner, + and sleep, stood on the bank and turned pale at the thought that we should + have to spend the night not at Irkutsk, but in the village. The ferry + could not succeed in reaching the bank. We stood an hour, a second, and—oh + Heavens!—the ferry made an effort and reached the bank. Bravo, we + shall have a bath, we shall have supper and sleep! Oh, how sweet to steam + oneself, to eat, to sleep! + </p> + <p> + Irkutsk is a fine town. Quite a cultured town. There is a theatre, a + museum, a town garden with a band, a good hotel.... No hideous fences, no + absurd shop-signs, and no waste places with warming placards. There is a + tavern called “Taganrog”; sugar costs twenty-four kopecks a pound, pine + kernels six kopecks a pound. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + I am quite well. My money is safe. I am saving up my coffee for Sahalin. I + have splendid tea here, after which I am aware of an agreeable excitement. + I see Chinamen. They are a good-natured and intelligent people. At the + Siberian bank they gave me money at once, received me cordially, regaled + me with cigarettes, and invited me to their summer villa. There is a + magnificent confectioner’s but everything is fiendishly dear. The + pavements are of wood. + </p> + <p> + Last night I drove with the officers about the town. We heard someone cry + “help” six times. It must have been someone being murdered. We went to + look, but could not find anyone. + </p> + <p> + The cabs in Irkutsk have springs. It is a better town than Ekaterinburg or + Tomsk. Quite European. + </p> + <p> + Have a Mass celebrated on June 17th, [Footnote: The anniversary of the + death of his brother Nikolay.] and keep the 29th [Footnote: His father’s + name-day.] as festively as you can; I shall be with you in thought and you + must drink my health. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Everything I have is crumpled, dirty, torn! I look like a pickpocket. + </p> + <p> + I shall not bring you any furs most likely. I do not know where they are + sold, and I am too lazy to ask. + </p> + <p> + One must take at least two big pillows for a journey and dark pillow cases + are essential. + </p> + <p> + What is Ivan doing? Where has he been? Has he been to the south? I am + going from Irkutsk to Baikal. My companions are preparing for + sea-sickness. + </p> + <p> + My big boots have grown looser with wearing, and don’t hurt my heels now. + </p> + <p> + I have ordered buckwheat porridge for to-morrow. On the journey here I + thought of curds and began having them with milk at the stations. + </p> + <p> + Did you get my postcards from the little towns? Keep them: I shall be able + to judge from them how long the post takes. The post here is in no hurry. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IRKUTSK, + </h2> + <p> + June 7, 1890. + </p> + <p> + ... The steamer from Sryetensk leaves on June 20th. Good Christians, what + am I to do till the 20th? How am I to dispose of myself? The journey to + Sryetensk will only take five or six days. I have greatly altered the + route of my journey. From Habarovsk (look at the map [Footnote: Chekhov’s + family had, during his absence, a map of Siberia on the wall by means of + which they followed his progress.]) I am going not to Nikolaevsk, but by + the Ussuri to Vladivostok, and from there to Sahalin. I must have a look + at the Ussuri region. At Vladivostok I shall bathe in the sea and eat + oysters. + </p> + <p> + It was cold till I reached Kansk; from Kansk (see map) I began to go down + to the south. Everything is as green as with you, even the oaks are out. + The birches here are darker than in Russia, the green is not so + sentimental. There are masses of the Russian white service-tree, which + here takes the place of both the lilac and the cherry. They say they make + an excellent jam from the service-tree. I tasted some of the fruit + pickled; it was not bad. + </p> + <p> + Two lieutenants and an army doctor are travelling with me. They have + received their travelling expenses three times over, but have spent all + the money, though they are travelling in one carriage. They are sitting + without a farthing, waiting for the pay department to send them some + money. They are nice fellows. They have had from fifteen hundred to two + thousand roubles each for travelling expenses, and the journey will cost + them next to nothing (excluding, of course, the cost of the stopping + places). They do nothing but pitch into everybody at hotels and stations + so that people are positively afraid to present their bills. In their + company I pay less than usual.... To-day for the first time in my life I + saw a Siberian cat. It has long soft fur, and a gentle disposition. + </p> + <p> + ... I felt homesick and sent you a telegram today asking you to subscribe + together and send me a long telegram. It would be nothing to all of you, + inhabitants of Luka, to fling away five roubles. + </p> + <p> + ... With whom is Mishka in love? To what happy woman is Ivanenko telling + stories of his uncle? ... I must be in love with <i>Jamais</i> as I + dreamed of her yesterday. In comparison with all the “jeunes Siberiennes” + with their Yakut-Buriat physiognomies, who do not know how to dress, to + sing, and to laugh, our <i>Jamais</i>, Drishka, and Gundassiha are simply + queens. The Siberian girls and women are like frozen fish; one would have + to be a walrus or a seal to get up a flirtation with them. + </p> + <p> + I am tired of my companions. It is much nicer travelling alone. I like + silence better than anything on the journey and my companions talk and + sing without stopping, and they talk of nothing but women. They borrowed a + hundred and thirty-six roubles from me till to-morrow and have already + spent it. They are regular sieves. + </p> + <p> + ... The stations are sometimes thirty to thirty-five versts apart. You + drive by night, you drive and drive, till you feel silly and light-headed, + and if you venture to ask the driver how far it is to the next station, he + will never say less than seventeen versts. That’s particularly agonizing + when you have to go at a walking pace along a muddy road full of holes, + and when you are thirsty. I have learned to do without sleep; I don’t mind + a bit when they wake me. As a rule one does not sleep for one day and + night, and then the next day at dinner-time there is a strained feeling in + one’s eyelids; in the evening and in the night towards daybreak of the + third day, one dozes in the chaise and sometimes falls asleep for a minute + as one sits; at dinner and after dinner at the stations, while the horses + are being harnessed, one lolls on the sofa, and the real torture only + begins at night. In the evening, after drinking five glasses of tea, one’s + face begins to burn, one’s body feels limp all over and longs to bend + backwards; one’s eyes close, one’s feet ache in one’s big boots, one’s + brain is in a tangle. If I allow myself to put up for the night I fall + into a dead sleep at once; if I have strength of will to go on, I drop + asleep in the chaise, however violent the jolting may be; at the stations + the drivers wake one up, as one has to get out of the chaise and pay for + the journey. They wake one not so much by shouting and tugging at one’s + sleeve, as by the stink of garlic that issues from their lips; they smell + of garlic and onion till they make me sick. I only learned to sleep in the + chaise after Krasnoyarsk. On the way to Irkutsk I slept for fifty-eight + versts, and was only once woken up. But the sleep one gets as one drives + makes one feel no better. It’s not real sleep, but a sort of unconscious + condition, after which one’s head is muddled and there’s a bad taste in + one’s mouth. + </p> + <p> + Chinamen are like those decrepit old gentlemen dear Nikolay [Footnote: + Chekhov’s brother.] used to like drawing. Some of them have splendid + pigtails. + </p> + <p> + The police came to see me at Tomsk. Towards eleven o’clock the waiter + suddenly announced to me that the assistant police-master wanted to see + me. What was this for? Could it be politics? Could they suspect me of + being a Voltairian? I said to the waiter, “Ask him in.” A gentleman with + long moustaches walks in and introduces himself. It appears he is devoted + to literature, writes himself, and has come to me in my hotel room as + though to Mahomed at Mecca to worship. I’ll tell you why I thought of him. + Late in the autumn he is going to Petersburg, and I have foisted my trunk + upon him and asked him to leave it at the <i>Novoye Vremya</i> office. You + might keep that in mind in case any one of us or our friends goes to + Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + You might, by the way, look out for a place in the country. When I get + back to Russia I shall take five years’ rest—that is, stay in one + place and twiddle my thumbs. A place in the country will come in very + handy. I think the money will be found, for things don’t look bad. If I + work off the money I have had in advance (half of it is worked off + already) I shall certainly borrow two or three thousand in the spring, to + be paid off over a period of five years. That will not be against my + conscience, as I have already let the publishing department of the <i>Novoye + Vremya</i> make two or three thousand out of my books, and I shall let + them make more. + </p> + <p> + I think I shall not begin on any serious work till I am five and + thirty.... I want to try personal life, of which I have had some before, + but have not noticed it owing to various circumstances. + </p> + <p> + To-day I rubbed my leather coat with grease. It’s a splendid coat. It has + saved me from catching cold. My sheepskin is a capital thing, too: it + serves me as a coat and a mattress, both. One is as warm in it as on a + stove. It’s wretched without pillows. Hay does not take the place of them, + and with the continual friction there’s a lot of dust from it which + tickles one’s face and prevents one from dozing. I haven’t a single sheet. + That’s horrid too. And I ought to have taken some more trousers. The more + luggage one has the better—there’s less jolting and more comfort. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye, though. I have got nothing more to write about. My greetings to + all. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STATION LISTVENITCHNAYA, + </h2> + <p> + ON LAKE BAIKAL, June 13. + </p> + <p> + I am having an idiotic time. On the evening of the 11th of June, the day + before yesterday, we set off from Irkutsk, in the fond hope of catching + the Baikal steamer, which leaves at four o’clock in the morning. From + Irkutsk to Baikal there are only three stations. At the first station they + informed us that all the horses were exhausted and that it was therefore + impossible to go. We had to put up for the night. Yesterday morning we set + off from that station, and by midday we reached Baikal. We went to the + harbour, and in answer to our inquiries were told that the steamer did not + go till Friday the fifteenth. This meant that we should have to sit on the + bank and look at the water and wait. As there is nothing that does not end + in time, I have no objection to waiting, and always wait patiently; but + the point is the steamer leaves Sryetensk on the 20th and sails down the + Amur: if we don’t catch it we must wait for the next steamer, which does + not go till the 30th. Merciful Heavens, when shall I get to Sahalin! + </p> + <p> + We drove to Baikal along the bank of the Angara, which rises out of Lake + Baikal and flows into the Yenissey. Look at the map. The banks are + picturesque. Mountains and mountains, and dense forests on the mountains. + The weather was exquisite still, sunny and warm; as I drove I felt I was + exceptionally well; I felt so happy that I cannot describe it. It was + perhaps the contrast after the stay at Irkutsk, and because the scenery on + the Angara is like Switzerland. It is something new and original. We drove + along the river bank, came to the mouth of the river, and turned to the + left; then we came upon the bank of Lake Baikal, which in Siberia is + called the sea. It is like a mirror. The other side, of course, is out of + sight; it is ninety versts away. The banks are high, steep, stony, and + covered with forest, to right and to left there are promontories which jut + into the sea like Au-dag or the Tohtebel at Feodosia. It’s like the + Crimea. The station of Listvenitchnaya lies at the water’s edge, and is + strikingly like Yalta: if the houses were white it would be exactly like + Yalta. Only there are no buildings on the mountains, as they are too + overhanging and it is impossible to build on them. + </p> + <p> + We have taken a little barn of a lodging that reminds one of any of the + Kraskovsky summer villas. Just outside the window, two or three yards from + the wall, is Lake Baikal. We pay a rouble a day. The mountains, the + forests, the mirror-like Baikal are all poisoned for me by the thought + that we shall have to stay here till the fifteenth. What are we to do + here? What is more, we don’t know what there is for us to eat. The + inhabitants feed upon nothing but garlic. There is neither meat nor fish. + They have given us no milk, but have promised it. For a little white loaf + they demanded sixteen kopecks. I bought some buckwheat and a piece of + smoked pork, and asked them to make a thin porridge of it: it was not + nice, but there was nothing to be done, I had to eat it. All the evening + we hunted about the village to find someone who would sell us a hen, and + found no one.... But there is vodka. The Russian is a great pig. If you + ask him why he doesn’t eat meat and fish he justifies himself by the + absence of transport, ways and communications, and so on, and yet vodka is + to be found in the remotest villages and as much of it as you please. And + yet one would have supposed that it would have been much easier to obtain + meat and fish than vodka, which is more expensive and more difficult to + transport.... Yes, drinking vodka must be much more interesting than + fishing in Lake Baikal or rearing cattle. + </p> + <p> + At midnight a little steamer arrived; we went to look at it, and seized + the opportunity to ask if there was anything to eat. We were told that + to-morrow we should be able to get dinner, but that now it was late, the + kitchen fire was out, and so on. We thanked them for “to-morrow”—it + was something to look forward to anyway! But alas! the captain came in and + told us that at four o’clock in the morning the steamer was setting off + for Kultuk. We thanked him. In the refreshment bar, where there was not + room to turn round, we drank a bottle of sour beer (thirty-five kopecks), + and saw on a plate some amber beads—it was salmon caviare. We + returned home, and to sleep. I am sick of sleeping. Every day one has to + put down one’s sheepskin with the wool upwards, under one’s head one puts + a folded greatcoat and a pillow, and one sleeps on this heap in one’s + waistcoat and trousers.... Civilization, where art thou? + </p> + <p> + To-day there is rain and Lake Baikal is plunged in mist. “Interesting,” + Semaskho would say. It’s dull. One ought to sit down and write, but one + can never work in bad weather. One has a foreboding of merciless boredom; + if I were alone I should not mind but there are two lieutenants and an + army doctor with me, who are fond of talking and arguing. They don’t + understand much but they talk about everything. One of the lieutenants, + moreover, is a bit of a Hlestakov and a braggart. When one is travelling + one absolutely must be alone. To sit in a chaise or in a room alone with + one’s thoughts is much more interesting than being with people. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Congratulate me: I sold my own carriage at Irkutsk. How much I gained on + it I won’t say, or mother would fall into a faint and not sleep for five + nights. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your Homo Sachaliensis, + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS MOTHER. + </h2> + <p> + STEAMER “YERMAK,” June 20, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Greeting, dear ones at home! + </p> + <p> + At last I can take off my heavy muddy boots, my shabby breeches, and my + blue shirt which is shiny with dust and sweat; I can wash and dress like a + human being. I am not sitting in a chaise but in a first-class cabin of + the steamer <i>Yermak</i>. This change took place ten days ago, and this + is how it happened. I wrote to you from Listvenitchnaya that I was late + for the Baikal steamer, that I had to cross Lake Baikal on Friday instead + of Tuesday, and that owing to this I should only be able to catch the Amur + steamer on the 30th. But fate is capricious, and often plays us tricks we + do not expect. On Thursday morning I went out for a walk on the shores of + Lake Baikal; behold—the funnel of one of the little steamers is + smoking. I inquire where the steamer is going. They tell me, “Across the + sea” to Klyuevo; some merchant had hired it to take his waggons of goods + across the Lake. We, too, wanted to cross “the sea” and to go to + Boyarskaya station. I inquire how many versts from Klyuevo to Boyarskaya. + They tell me twenty-seven. I run back to my companions and beg them to + take the risk of going to Klyuevo. I say the “risk” because, going to + Klyuevo where there is nothing but a harbour and a watchman’s hut, we ran + the risk of not finding horses, having to stay on at Klyuevo, and being + late for Friday’s steamer, which for us would be worse than Igor’s death, + as we should have to wait till Tuesday. My companions consented. We + gathered together our belongings, with cheerful legs stepped on to the + steamer and straight to the refreshment bar: soup, for the love of God! + Half my kingdom for a plate of soup! The refreshment bar was very nasty + and cramped; but the cook, Grigory Ivanitch, who had been a house-serf at + Voronezh, turned out to be at the tip-top of his profession. He fed us + magnificently. The weather was still and sunny. The water of Lake Baikal + is the colour of turquoise, more transparent than the Black Sea. They say + that in deep places you can see the bottom over a verst below; and I + myself have seen to such a depth, with rocks and mountains plunged in the + turquoise-blue, that it sent a shiver all over me. Our journey over Lake + Baikal was wonderful. I shall never forget it as long as I live. But I + will tell you what was not nice. We travelled third class, and the whole + deck was occupied by the waggon-horses, which were wild as mad things. + These horses gave a special character to our crossing: it seemed as though + we were in a brigand’s steamer. At Klyuevo the watchman undertook to + convey our luggage to the station; he drove the cart while we walked along + the very picturesque shore. Levitan was an ass not to come with me. The + way was through woods: on the right, woods running uphill; on the left, + woods running down to the Lake. Such ravines, such crags! The colouring of + Lake Baikal is soft and warm. It was, by the way, very warm. After walking + eight versts we reached the station of Myskan, where a Kyahtan official, + who was also on his travels, regaled us with excellent tea, and where we + got the horses for Boyarskaya; and so we set off on Thursday instead of + Friday; what is more, we got twenty-four hours in advance of the post, + which usually takes all the horses at the station. We began driving as + fast as we could, cherishing a faint hope of reaching Sryetensk by the + 20th. I will tell you when we meet about my journey along the bank of the + Selenga and across Transbaikalia. Now I will only say that Selenga is one + continuous loneliness, and in Transbaikalia I found everything I wanted: + the Caucasus, and the valley of the Psyol, and the Zvenigorod district, + and the Don. By day you gallop through the Caucasus, at night along the + steppe of the Don; in the morning, rousing yourself from slumber, behold + the province of Poltava—and so for the whole thousand versts. + Verhneudinsk is a nice little town. Tchita is a wretched place, in the + style of Sumy. I need hardly say that we had no time to think of sleep or + dinner. One gallops on thinking of nothing but the chance that at the next + station we might not get horses, and might be kept five or six hours. We + did two hundred versts in twenty-four hours—one can’t do more than + that in the summer. We were stupefied. The heat was fearful by day, while + at night it was so cold that I had to put on my leather coat over my cloth + one. One night I even wore my sheepskin. Well, we drove on and on, and + reached Sryetensk this morning just an hour before the steamer left, + giving the drivers from the last two stations a rouble each for + themselves. + </p> + <p> + And so my horse-journey is over. It has lasted two months (I set out on + the 21st of April). If we exclude the time spent on the railway and the + steamer, the three days spent in Ekaterinburg, the week in Tomsk, the day + in Krasnoyarsk, the week in Irkutsk, the two days on the shores of Lake + Baikal, and the days wasted in waiting for boats to cross the floods, you + can judge of the rate at which I have driven. My journey has been most + successful, I wish nothing better for anyone. I have not once been ill, + and of the mass of things I had with me I have lost nothing but a + penknife, the strap off my trunk, and a little jar of carbolic ointment. + My money is safe. It is not often that anyone succeeds in travelling a + thousand versts so well. + </p> + <p> + I have grown so used to driving that now I don’t feel like myself, and + cannot believe that I am not in a chaise and that I don’t hear the + rattling and the jingling of the bells. It seems strange that when I go to + bed I can stretch out my legs full length, and that my face is not covered + with dust. But what is stranger still is that the bottle of brandy + Kuvshinnikov gave me has not been broken, and that the brandy is still in + it, every drop of it. I have vowed not to uncork it except on the shore of + the Pacific. + </p> + <p> + I am sailing down the Shilka, which runs into the Amur at the Pokrovskaya + Stanitsa. The river is not broader than the Psyol, it is even narrower. + The shores are stony: there are crags and forests. It is absolutely + wild.... We tack about to avoid foundering on a sandbank, or running our + helm into the banks: steamers and barges often do so in the rapids. It’s + stifling. We have just stopped at Ust-Kara, where we have landed five or + six convicts. There are mines here and a convict prison. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday we were at Nertchinsk. The little town is nothing to boast of, + but one could live there. + </p> + <p> + And how are you, messieurs and mesdames? I know positively nothing about + you. You might subscribe twopence each and send me a full telegram. + </p> + <p> + The steamer will stay the night at Gorbitsa. The nights here are foggy, + sailing is dangerous, I shall send off this letter at Gorbitsa. + </p> + <p> + ... I am going first class because my companions are in the second. I have + got away from them. We have driven together (three in one chaise), we have + slept together and are sick of each other, especially I of them. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + My handwriting is very bad, shaky. That is because the steamer rocks. It’s + difficult to write. + </p> + <p> + I broke off here. I went to my lieutenants and had tea. They have both had + a long sleep and were in a very cordial mood. One of them, Lieutenant N. + (the surname jars upon my ear), is in the infantry; he is a tall, + well-fed, loud-voiced Courlander, a great braggart and Hlestakov, who + sings songs from every opera, but has no more ear than a smoked herring, + an unlucky fellow who has squandered all the money for his travelling + expenses, knows all Mickiewicz by heart, is ill-bred, far too unreserved, + and babbles till it makes you sick. Like me, he is fond of talking about + his uncles and aunts. The other lieutenant, M., a geographer, is a quiet, + modest, thoroughly well-educated fellow. If it were not for N., I could + travel with the other for a million versts without being bored. But with + N., who intrudes into every conversation, the other bores me too.... I + believe we are reaching Gorbitsa. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow I will make up the form of a telegram which you must send me to + Sahalin. I will try to put all I want to know in thirty words, and you + must try and keep strictly to the pattern. + </p> + <p> + The gad-flies bite. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. A. LEIKIN. + </h2> + <p> + GORBITSA, June 20, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Greetings, dear Nikolay Alexandrovitch! + </p> + <p> + I wrote you this as I approached Gorbitsa, one of the Cossack settlements + on the banks of the Shilka, a tributary of the Amur. This is where I have + got to. I am sailing down the Amur. + </p> + <p> + I sent you a letter from Irkutsk. Did you get it? Since then more than a + week has passed, in the course of which I have crossed Lake Baikal and + driven through Transbaikalia. Lake Baikal is wonderful, and the Siberians + may well call it a sea instead of a lake. The water is extraordinarily + transparent, so that one can see through it as through air; the colour is + a soft turquoise very agreeable to the eye. The banks are mountainous, and + covered with forests; it is all impenetrable wildness without a break + anywhere. + </p> + <p> + There are great numbers of bears, wild goats, and wild creatures of all + sorts, who spend their time living in the Taiga and eating one another. I + spent two days and nights on the shore of Lake Baikal. + </p> + <p> + It was still and hot when I was sailing. + </p> + <p> + Transbaikalia is splendid. It is a mixture of Switzerland, the Don, and + Finland. + </p> + <p> + I have driven with horses more than four thousand versts. My journey was + entirely successful. I was in good health all the time, and lost nothing + of my luggage but a penknife. I can wish no one a better journey. The + journey is absolutely free from danger, and all the tales of escaped + convicts, of night attacks, and so on are nothing but legends, traditions + of the remote past. A revolver is an entirely superfluous article. Now I + am sitting in a first-class cabin, and feel as though I were in Europe. I + feel in the mood one is in after passing an examination. A whistle!—that’s + Gorbitsa. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The banks of the Shilka are picturesque like stage scenes but, alas! there + is something oppressive in this complete absence of human beings. It is + like a cage without a bird. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <h3> + June 21, 1890. + </h3> + <p> + 6 o’clock in the evening, not far from the Stanitsa Pokrovskaya. + </p> + <p> + We ran upon a rock, stove a hole in the steamer, and are now undergoing + repairs. We are aground on a sandbank and pumping out water. On the left + is the Russian bank, on the right the Chinese. If I were back at home now + I should have the right to boast: “Though I have not been in China I have + seen China only twenty feet off.” We are to stay the night in Pokrovskaya. + We shall make up a party to see the place. + </p> + <p> + If I were a millionaire I should certainly have a steamer of my own on the + Amur. It is a fine, interesting country. I advise Yegor Mihailovitch not + to go to Tuapse but here; there are here by the way neither tarantulas nor + phalangas. On the Chinese side there is a sentry post—a small hut; + sacks of flour are piled up on the bank, ragged Chinamen are dragging the + sacks on barrows to the hut. And beyond is the dense, endless forest. + </p> + <p> + Some schoolgirls are travelling with us from Irkutsk—Russian faces, + but not good-looking. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POKROVSKAYA STANITSA, + </h2> + <p> + June 23, 1890. + </p> + <p> + I have told you already we are aground on a sandbank. At Ust-Stryelka, + where the Shilka joins the Argun (see map), the steamer went aground in + two and a half feet of water, struck a rock, and stove in several holes in + its side and, the hold filling with water, the steamer sank to the bottom. + They began pumping out water and putting on patches; a naked sailor + crawled into the hold, stood up to his neck in water, and tried the holes + with his heels. Each hole was covered on the inside with cloth smeared + with grease: they lay a board on the top, and stuck a support upon the + latter which pressed against the ceiling like a column. Such is the + repairing. They were pumping from five o’clock in the evening till night, + but still the water did not abate: they had to put off the work till + morning. In the morning they discovered some more holes, and began + patching and pumping again. The sailors pump while we, the general public, + pace up and down the decks, criticize, eat, drink, and sleep; the captain + and his mate do the same as the general public, and seem in no hurry. On + the right is the Chinese bank, on the left is the stanitsa, Pokrovskaya, + with the Cossacks of the Amur; if one likes one can stay in Russia, if one + likes one can go into China, there is nothing to hinder one. It is + insufferably hot in the daytime, so that one has to put on a silk shirt. + They give us dinner at twelve o’clock, supper at seven. + </p> + <p> + Unluckily the steamer <i>Vyestnik</i> coming the other way with a crowd of + passengers is approaching the stanitsa. The <i>Vyestnik</i> cannot go on + either, and both steamers stay stock-still. There is a military band on + the <i>Vyestnik</i>, consequently there has been a regular festival. All + yesterday the band was playing on deck to the entertainment of the captain + and sailors, and consequently to the delay of the repairing. The feminine + half of the public were highly delighted; a band, officers, naval men ... + oh! The schoolgirls were particularly pleased. Yesterday evening we walked + about the Cossack settlement, where the same band, hired by the Cossacks, + was playing. Today we are continuing the repairs. + </p> + <p> + The captain promises that we shall start after dinner, but he promises it + listlessly, gazing away into space—obviously he does not mean it. We + are in no haste. When I asked a passenger, “Whenever are we going on?” he + asked, “Why, aren’t you all right here!” + </p> + <p> + And that’s true. Why not stay, as long as we are not bored? + </p> + <p> + The captain, his mate, and his agent are the acme of politeness. The + Chinese in the third class are good-natured and funny. Yesterday a + Chinaman sat on the deck and sang something very mournful in a falsetto + voice; as he did so his profile was funnier than any caricature. Everybody + looked at him and laughed, while he took not the slightest notice. He sang + falsetto and then began singing tenor. My God, what a voice! It was like + the bleat of a sheep or a calf. The Chinese remind me of good-natured tame + animals, their pigtails are long and black like Natalya Mihailovna’s. + Apropos of tame animals, there’s a tame fox cub living in the toilet-room. + It sits and looks on as one washes. If it sees no one for a long time it + begins to whine. + </p> + <p> + What strange conversations one hears! They talk of nothing but gold, the + mines, the Volunteer Fleet and Japan. In Pokrovskaya all the peasants and + even the priests mine for gold. The exiles follow the same occupation and + grow rich as quickly as they grow poor. There are people who look like + artizans and who never drink anything but champagne, and walk to the + tavern on red baize which is laid down from their hut to the tavern. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The Amur country is exceedingly interesting. Highly original. The life + here is such as people have no conception of in Europe. It reminds me of + American stories. The shores of the Amur are so wild, original, and + luxuriant that one longs to live there all one’s life. I am writing these + last few lines on the 25th of June. The steamer rocks and prevents my + writing properly. We are moving again. I have come a thousand versts down + the Amur already, and have seen a million gorgeous landscapes; I feel + giddy with ecstasy.... It’s marvellous scenery, and how hot! What warm + nights! There is a mist in the mornings but it is warm. + </p> + <p> + I look through an opera-glass at the shore and see a prodigious number of + ducks, geese, grebes, herons and all sorts of creatures with long beaks. + This would be the place to take a summer villa in! At a little place + called Reinov a goldminer asked me to see his sick wife. As I was leaving + him he thrust into my hands a roll of notes. I felt ashamed. I was + beginning to refuse and thrust it back, saying that I was very rich + myself; we talked together for a long time trying to persuade each other, + and yet in the end fifteen roubles remained in my hands. Yesterday a + goldminer with the face of Petya Polevaev dined in my cabin; at dinner he + drank champagne instead of water, and treated us to it. + </p> + <p> + The villages here are like those on the Don. There is a difference in the + buildings but nothing to speak of. The inhabitants don’t keep the fasts, + and eat meat even in Holy Week; the girls smoke cigarettes, and old women + smoke pipes—it is the correct thing. It’s strange to see peasants + with cigarettes! And what liberalism! Oh, what liberalism! + </p> + <p> + The air on the steamer is positively red-hot with the talk that goes on. + People are not afraid to talk aloud here. There’s no one to arrest them + and nowhere to exile them to, so you can be as liberal as you like. The + people for the most part are independent, self-reliant, and logical. If + there is any misunderstanding at Ust-Kara, where the convicts work (among + them many politicals who don’t work), all the Amur region is in revolt. It + is not the thing to tell tales. An escaped convict can travel freely on + the steamer to the ocean, without any fear of the captain’s giving him up. + This is partly due to the absolute indifference to everything that is done + in Russia. Everybody says: “What is it to do with me?” + </p> + <p> + I forgot to tell you that in Transbaikalia the drivers are not Russians + but Buriats. A funny people! Their horses are regular vipers; they could + never be harnessed without trouble—more furious than fire-brigade + horses. While the trace-horse is being harnessed, its legs are hobbled; as + soon as they are set free the chaise goes flying to the devil, so that one + holds one’s breath. If one does not hobble a horse while it is being + harnessed, it kicks, knocks bits out of the shaft with its hoofs, tears + the harness, and behaves like a young devil that has been caught by the + horns. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + June 26. + </h2> + <p> + We are getting near Blagoveshtchensk. Be well and merry, and don’t get + used to being without me. No doubt you have already? Respectful greetings + to all, and a friendly kiss. + </p> + <p> + I am perfectly well. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + BLAGOVESHTCHENSK, June 27, 1890. + </p> + <p> + The Amur is a very fine river; I have gained more from it than I could + have expected, and I have been wishing for a long time to share my + transports with you, but the rascally steamer has been rocking all the + seven days I have been on it, and prevents me writing properly. Moreover, + I am quite incapable of describing anything so beautiful as the shores of + the Amur; I am at a complete loss before them, and recognise my + bankruptcy. How is one to describe them? ... Rocks, crags, forests, + thousands of ducks, herons and all sorts of beaked gentry, and absolute + wilderness. On the left the Russian shore, on the right the Chinese. I can + look at Russia or China as I please. China is as deserted and wild as + Russia: villages and sentinels’ huts are rare. Everything in my head is + muddled; and no wonder, your Excellency! I have come more than a thousand + versts down the Amur and seen a million landscapes, and you know before + the Amur there was Lake Baikal, Transbaikalia.... Truly I have seen such + riches and had so much enjoyment that death would have no terrors now. The + people on the Amur are original, their life is interesting, unlike ours. + They talk of gold, gold, gold, and nothing else. I am in a stupid state, I + feel no inclination to write, and I write shortly, piggishly; to-day I + sent you four papers about Yenissey and the Taiga, later on I will send + you something about Lake Baikal, Transbaikalia, and the Amur. Don’t throw + away these sheets; I will collect them, and they will serve as notes from + which I can tell you what I don’t know how to put on paper. + </p> + <p> + To-day I changed into the steamer <i>Muravyov</i>, which they say does not + rock; maybe I shall write. + </p> + <p> + I am in love with the Amur; I should be glad to spend a couple of years on + it. There is beauty, space, freedom and warmth. Switzerland and France + have never known such freedom. The lowest convict breathes more freely on + the Amur than the highest general in Russia. If you lived here, you would + write a great deal of good stuff and delight the public, but I am not + equal to it. + </p> + <p> + One begins to meet Chinamen at Irkutsk, and here they are common as flies. + They are the most good-natured people. If Nastya and Borya made the + acquaintance of the Chinese, they would leave donkeys alone, and transfer + their affection to the Chinese. They are charming tame animals. + </p> + <p> + ... When I invited a Chinaman to the refreshment bar to treat him to + vodka, before drinking it he held out the glass to me, the bar-keeper, the + waiters, and said: “Taste.” That’s the Chinese ceremonial. He did not + drink it off as we do, but drank it in sips, eating something between each + sip, and then, to express his gratitude, gave me several Chinese coins. An + awfully polite people. They are dressed poorly, but beautifully; they eat + daintily, with ceremony.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + THE STEAMER “MURAVYOV,” June 29, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Meteors are flying in my cabin—these are luminous beetles that look + like electric sparks. Wild goats swim across the Amur in the day-time. The + flies here are huge. I am sharing my cabin with a Chinaman—Son-Luli—who + is constantly telling me how in China for the merest trifle it is “off + with his head.” Last night he got drunk with opium, and was talking in his + sleep all night and preventing me from sleeping. On the 27th I walked + about the Chinese town Aigun. Little by little I seem gradually to be + stepping into a fantastic world. The steamer rocks, it is hard to write. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow I shall reach Habarovsk. The Chinaman began to sing from music + written on his fan. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TELEGRAM TO HIS MOTHER. + </h2> + <p> + SAHALIN, July 11, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Arrived well, telegraph Sahalin.—CHEKHOV. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TELEGRAM TO HIS MOTHER. + </h2> + <p> + SAHALIN, September 27, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Well. Shall arrive shortly.—CHEKHOV. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + THE STEAMER “BAIKAL,” September 11, 1890. + </p> + <p> + Greetings! I am sailing on the Gulf of Tartary from the north of Sahalin + to the south. I am writing; and don’t know when this letter will reach + you. I am well, though I see on all sides glaring at me the green eyes of + cholera which has laid a trap for me. In Vladivostok, in Japan, in + Shanghai, Tchifu, Suez, and even in the moon, I fancy—everywhere + there is cholera, everywhere quarantine and terror.... They expect the + cholera in Sahalin and keep all vessels in quarantine. In short, it is a + bad lookout. Europeans are dying at Vladivostok, among others the wife of + a general has died. + </p> + <p> + I have spent just two months in the north of Sahalin. I was received by + the local administration very amicably, though Galkin had not written a + single word about me. Neither Galkin nor the Baroness V., nor any of the + other genii I was so foolish as to appeal to for help, turned out of the + slightest use to me; I had to act on my own initiative. + </p> + <p> + The Sahalin general, Kononovitch, is a cultivated and gentlemanly man. We + soon got on together, and everything went off well. I am bringing some + papers with me from which you will see that I was put on the most + agreeable footing from the first. I have seen <i>everything</i>, so that + the question is not now <i>what</i> I have seen, but how I have seen it. + </p> + <p> + I don’t know what will come of it, but I have done a good deal. I have got + enough material for three dissertations. I got up every morning at five + o’clock and went to bed late; and all day long was on the strain from the + thought that there was still so much I hadn’t done; and now that I have + done with the convict system, I have the feeling that I have seen + everything but have not noticed the elephants. + </p> + <p> + By the way, I had the patience to make a census of the whole Sahalin + population. I made the round of all the settlements, went into every hut + and talked to everyone; I made use of the card system in making the + census, and I have already registered about ten thousand convicts and + settlers. In other words, there is not in Sahalin one convict or settler + who has not talked with me. I was particularly successful with the census + of the children, on which I am building great hopes. + </p> + <p> + I dined at Landsberg’s; I sat in the kitchen of the former Baroness + Gembruk.... I visited all the celebrities. I was present at a flogging, + after which I dreamed for three or four nights of the executioner and the + revolting accessories. I have talked to men who were chained to trucks. + Once when I was drinking tea in a mine, Borodavkin, once a Petersburg + merchant who was convicted of arson, took a teaspoon out of his pocket and + gave it to me, and the long and the short of it is that I have upset my + nerves and have vowed not to come to Sahalin again. + </p> + <p> + I should write more to you, but there is a lady in the cabin who giggles + and chatters unceasingly. I haven’t the strength to write. She has been + laughing and cackling ever since yesterday evening. + </p> + <p> + This letter will go across America, but I shall go probably not across + America. Everyone says that the American way is duller and more expensive. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow I shall see Japan, the Island of Matsmai. Now it is twelve + o’clock at night. It is dark on the sea, the wind is blowing. I don’t + understand how the steamer can go on and find its direction when one can’t + see a thing, and above all in such wild, little-known waters as those in + the Gulf of Tartary. + </p> + <p> + When I remember that I am ten thousand versts away from my world I am + overcome with apathy. It seems I shall not be home for a hundred years.... + God give you health and all blessings. I feel dreary. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS MOTHER. + </h2> + <p> + SAHALIN, October 6, 1890. + </p> + <p> + My greetings, dear mother! + </p> + <p> + I write you this letter almost on the eve of my departure for Russia. + Every day we expect a steamer of the Volunteer Fleet, and cherish hopes + that it will not come later than the 10th of October. I send this letter + to Japan, whence it will go by Shanghai or America. I am living at the + station of Korsakovo, where there is neither telegraph nor post, and which + is not visited by ships oftener than once a fortnight. Yesterday a steamer + arrived and brought me from the north a pile of letters and telegrams. + From the letters I learn that Masha likes the Crimea, I believe she will + like the Caucasus better still.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Strange, with you it has been cold and rainy, while in Sahalin from the + day of my arrival till to-day it has been bright warm weather: there is + slight cold with hoar-frost in the mornings, the snow is white on one of + the mountains, but the earth is still green, the leaves have not fallen, + and all the vegetation is still as flourishing as at a summer villa in + May. There you have Sahalin! + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + At midnight yesterday I heard the roar of a steamer. Everybody jumped out + of bed: hurrah! the steamer has arrived! We dressed and went out with + lanterns to the harbour; we gazed into the distance; there really was a + steamer.... The majority of voices decided that it was the <i>Petersburg</i>, + on which I am to go to Russia. I was overjoyed. We got into a boat and + rowed to the steamer. We went on and on, till at last we saw in the mist + the dark hulk of a steamer. One of us shouted in a hoarse voice asking the + name of the vessel. And we received the answer “the <i>Baikal</i>.” Tfoo! + anathema! what a disappointment! I am I homesick, and weary of Sahalin. + Here for the last three months I have seen no one but convicts or people + who can talk of nothing but penal servitude, the lash, and the convicts. A + depressing existence. One longs to get quickly to Japan and from there to + India. + </p> + <p> + I am quite well, except for flashes in my eye from which I often suffer + now, after which I always have a bad headache. I had the flashes in my eye + yesterday and to-day, and so I am writing this with a headache and + heaviness all over. + </p> + <p> + At the station the Japanese General Kuse-San lives with his two + secretaries, good friends of mine. They live like Europeans. To-day the + local authorities visited them in state to present decorations that had + been conferred on them; and I, too, went with my headache and had to drink + champagne. + </p> + <p> + Since I have been in the south I have three times driven to Nay Race where + the real ocean waves break. Look at the map and you will see at once on + the south coast that poor dismal Nay Race. The waves cast up a boat with + six American whalefishers, who had been shipwrecked off the coast of + Sahalin; they are living now at the station and solemnly walk about the + streets. They are waiting for the <i>Petersburg</i> and will sail with me. + </p> + <p> + I am not bringing you furs, there are none in Sahalin. Keep well and + Heaven guard you all. + </p> + <p> + I am bringing you all presents. The cholera in Vladivostok and Japan is + over. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MALAYA DMITROVKA, MOSCOW, December 9. + </p> + <p> + ... Hurrah! Here at last I am sitting at my table at home! I pray to my + faded penates and write to you. I have now a happy feeling as though I had + not been away from home at all. I am well and thriving to the marrow of my + bones. Here’s a very brief report for you. I was in Sahalin not two + months, as you have printed, but three months plus two days. I worked at + high pressure. I made a full and minute census of the whole of Sahalin’s + population, and saw <i>everything</i> except the death penalty. When we + see each other I will show you a whole trunkful of stuff about the + convicts which is very valuable as raw material. I know a very great deal + now, but I have brought away a horrid feeling. While I was staying in + Sahalin, I only had a bitter feeling in my inside as though from rancid + butter; and now, as I remember it, Sahalin seems to me a perfect hell. For + two months I worked intensely, putting my back into it; in the third month + I began to feel ill from the bitterness I have spoken of, from boredom, + and the thought that the cholera would come from Vladivostok to Sahalin, + and that so I was in danger of having to winter in the convict settlement. + But, thank God! the cholera ceased, and on the 13th of October the steamer + bore me away from Sahalin. I have been in Vladivostok. About the Primorsky + Region and our Eastern sea-coast with its fleets, its problems, and its + Pacific dreams altogether, I have only one thing to tell of: its crying + poverty! Poverty, ignorance, and worthlessness, that might drive one to + despair. One honest man for ninety-nine thieves, that are blackening the + name of Russia.... We passed Japan because the cholera was there, and so I + have not bought you anything Japanese, and the five hundred you gave me + for your purchases I have spent on my own needs, for which you have, by + law, the right to send me to a settlement in Siberia. The first foreign + port we reached was Hong Kong. It is an exquisite bay. The traffic on the + sea was such as I had never seen before even in pictures; excellent roads, + trams, a railway to the mountains, a museum, botanical gardens; wherever + you look you see the tenderest solicitude on the part of the English for + the men in their service; there is even a club for the sailors. I went + about in a jinrickshaw—that is, carried by men—bought all + sorts of rubbish of the Chinese, and was moved to indignation at hearing + my Russian fellow-travellers abuse the English for exploiting the natives. + I thought: Yes, the English exploit the Chinese, the Sepoys, the Hindoos, + but they do give them roads, aqueducts, museums, Christianity, and what do + you give them? + </p> + <p> + When we left Hong Kong the boat began to rock. The steamer was empty and + lurched through an angle of thirty-eight degrees, so that we were afraid + it would upset. I am not subject to sea-sickness: that discovery was very + agreeable to me. On the way to Singapore we threw two corpses into the + sea. When one sees a dead man, wrapped in sailcloth, fly, turning + somersaults in the water, and remembers that it is several miles to the + bottom, one feels frightened, and for some reason begins to fancy that one + will die oneself and will be thrown into the sea. Our horned cattle have + fallen sick. Through the united verdict of Dr. Stcherbak and your humble + servant, the cattle have been killed and thrown into the sea. + </p> + <p> + I have no clear memory of Singapore as, for some reason, I felt very sad + while I was driving about it, and was almost weeping. Next after it comes + Ceylon—an earthly Paradise. There in that Paradise I went more than + a hundred versts on the railway and gazed at palm forests and bronze women + to my heart’s content.... After Ceylon we sailed for thirteen days and + nights without stopping and were all stupid from boredom. I bear the heat + well. The Red Sea is depressing; I felt touched as I gazed at Sinai. + </p> + <p> + God’s world is a good place. The one thing not good in it is we. How + little justice and humility there is in us. How little we understand true + patriotism! A drunken, broken-down debauchee of a husband loves his wife + and children, but of what use is that love? We, so we are told in our own + newspapers, love our great motherland, but how does that love express + itself? Instead of knowledge—insolence and immeasurable conceit; + instead of work—sloth and swinishness; there is no justice, the + conception of honour does not go beyond “the honour of the uniform”—the + uniform which is so commonly seen adorning the prisoner’s dock in our + courts. Work is what is wanted, and the rest can go to the devil. First of + all we must be just, and all the rest will be added unto us, + </p> + <p> + I have a passionate desire to talk to you. My soul is in a ferment. I want + no one else but you, for it is only with you I can talk. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + How glad I am that everything was managed without Galkin-Vrasskoy’s help. + He didn’t write one line about me, and I turned up in Sahalin utterly + unknown. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + December 24, 1890. + </p> + <p> + I believe in Koch and in spermine and praise God for it. All that—that + is the kochines, spermines, and so on—seem to the public a kind of + miracle that leaped forth from some brain, after the fashion of Pallas + Athene; but people who have a closer acquaintance with the facts know that + they are only the natural sequel of what has been done during the last + twenty years. A great deal has been done, my dear fellow! Surgery alone + has done so much that one is fairly dumbfoundered at it. To one who is + studying medicine now, the time before twenty years ago seems simply + pitiable. My dear friend, if I were offered the choice between the + “ideals” of the renowned “sixties,” or the very poorest Zemstvo hospital + of to-day, I should, without a moment’s hesitation, choose the second. + </p> + <p> + Will kochine cure syphilis? It’s possible. But as for cancer, you must + allow me to have my doubts. Cancer is not a microbe; it’s a tissue, + growing in the wrong place, and like a noxious weed smothering all the + neighbouring tissues. If N.‘s uncle feels better, that is, because the + microbes of erysipelas—that is, the elements that produce the + disease of erysipelas—form a component part of kochine. It was + observed long ago that with the development of erysipelas, the growth of + malignant tumours is temporarily checked. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It’s a strange business—while I was travelling to Sahalin and back I + felt perfectly well, but now, at home, the devil knows what is happening + to me. My head is continually aching, I have a feeling of languor all + over, I am quickly exhausted, apathetic, and worst of all, my heart is not + beating regularly. My heart is continually stopping for a few seconds.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + January, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I shall probably come to Petersburg on the 8th of January.... Since by + February I shall not have a farthing, I must make haste and finish the + novel [Footnote: “The Duel.”] I’ve begun. There is something in the novel + about which I must talk to you and ask your advice. + </p> + <p> + I spent Christmas in a horrible way. To begin with, I had palpitations of + the heart; secondly, my brother Ivan came to stay and was ill with + typhoid, poor fellow; thirdly, after my Sahalin labours and the tropics, + my Moscow life seems to me now so petty, so bourgeois, and so dull, that I + feel ready to bite; fourthly, working for my daily bread prevents my + giving up my time to Sahalin; fifthly, my acquaintances bother me, and so + on. + </p> + <p> + The poet Merezhkovsky has been to see me twice; he is a very intelligent + man. + </p> + <p> + How sorry I am you did not see my mongoose. It is a wonderful creature. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + ST. PETERSBURG, January 14, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Unforeseen circumstances have kept me a few days longer. I am alive and + well. There is no news. I saw Tolstoy’s “The Power of Darkness” the other + day, though. I have been to Ryepin’s studio. What else? Nothing else. It’s + dull, in fact. + </p> + <p> + I went to-day to a dog-show; I went there with Suvorin, who at the moment + I am writing these lines is standing by the table and asking me to write + and tell you that I have been to the dog-show with the famous dog + Suvorin.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + January, later. + </h2> + <p> + I am alive and well, I have no palpitations, I’ve no money either, and + everything is going well. + </p> + <p> + I am paying visits and seeing acquaintances. I have to talk about Sahalin + and India. It’s horribly boring. + </p> + <p> + ... Anna Ivanovna is as nice as ever, Suvorin talks as incessantly as + ever. + </p> + <p> + I receive the most boring invitations to the most boring dinners. It seems + I must make haste and get back to Moscow, as they won’t let me work here. + </p> + <p> + Hurrah, we are avenged! To make up for our being so bored, the cotton ball + has yielded 1,500 roubles clear profit, in confirmation of which I enclose + a cutting from a newspaper. + </p> + <p> + If anything is collected for the benefit of the Sahalin schools, let me + know at once. + </p> + <p> + How is my mongoose? Don’t forget to give him food and drink, and beat him + without mercy when he jumps on the table. Does he eat people? [Footnote: A + naive question asked by a lady of Chekhov’s acquaintance.] + </p> + <p> + Write how Ivan is.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + January, later. + </h2> + <p> + I am tired as a ballet dancer after five acts and eight tableaux. Dinners, + letters which I am too lazy to answer, conversations and imbecilities of + all sorts. I have to go immediately to dine in Vassilyevsky Ostrov, and I + am bored and ought to work. + </p> + <p> + I’ll stay another three days and see whether the ballet will go on the + same, then I shall go home, or to see Ivan. + </p> + <p> + I am surrounded by a thick atmosphere of ill-feeling, extremely vague and + to me incomprehensible. They feed me with dinners and pay me the vulgarest + compliments, and at the same time they are ready to devour me. What for? + The devil only knows. If I were to shoot myself I should thereby provide + the greatest gratification to nine-tenths of my friends and admirers. And + how pettily they express their petty feelings! + </p> + <p> + ... My greetings to Lydia Yegorovna Mizinov. I expect a programme from + her. Tell her not to eat farinaceous food and to avoid Levitan. A better + admirer than me she will not find in her Town Council nor in higher + society. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + January 16, 1891. + </h2> + <p> + I have the honour to congratulate you and the hero of the name-day; + [Footnote: It was the name-day of Chekhov himself.] I wish you and him + health and prosperity, and above all that the mongoose should not break + the crockery or tear the wall-paper. I shall celebrate my name-day at the + Maly Yaroslavets restaurant, from the restaurant to the benefit + performance, from the benefit performance to the restaurant again. + </p> + <p> + I am working, but with very great difficulty. No sooner have I written a + line than the bell rings and someone comes in to talk to me about Sahalin. + It’s simply awful! ... + </p> + <p> + I have found Drishka. It appears that she is living in the same house as I + am. She ran away from Moscow to Petersburg under romantic circumstances: + she meant to marry a lawyer, plighted her troth to him, but an army + captain turned up, and so on; she had to run away or the lawyer would have + shot both Drishka and the captain with a pistol loaded with cranberries. + She is prospering and is the same lively rogue as ever. I went to + Svobodin’s name-day party with her yesterday. She sang gipsy songs, and + created such a sensation that all the great men kissed her hand. + </p> + <p> + Rumours have reached me that Lidia Stahievna is going to be married <i>par + depit</i>. Is it true? Tell her that I shall carry her off from her + husband <i>par depit</i>. I am a violent man. + </p> + <p> + Has not anything been collected for the benefit of the Sahalin schools? + Let me know.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. F. KONI. + </h2> + <p> + PETERSBURG, January 16, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR SIR, ANATOLY FYODOROVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + I did not hasten to answer your letter because I am not leaving Petersburg + before next Saturday. I am sorry I have not been to see Madame Naryshkin, + but I think I had better defer my visit till my book has come out, when I + shall be able to turn more freely to the material I have. My brief Sahalin + past looms so immense in my imagination that when I want to speak about it + I don’t know where to begin, and it always seems to me that I have not + said what was wanted. + </p> + <p> + I will try and describe minutely the position of the children and young + people in Sahalin. It is exceptional. I saw starving children, I saw girls + of thirteen prostitutes, girls of fifteen with child. Girls begin to live + by prostitution from twelve years old, sometimes before menstruation has + begun. Church and school exist only on paper, the children are educated by + their environment and the convict surroundings. Among other things I have + noted down a conversation with a boy of ten years old. I was making the + census of the settlement of Upper Armudano; all the inhabitants are + poverty-stricken, every one of them, and have the reputation of being + desperate gamblers at the game of shtoss. I go into a hut; the people are + not at home; on a bench sits a white-haired, round-shouldered, bare-footed + boy; he seems lost in thought. We begin to talk. + </p> + <p> + I. “What is your father’s second name?” + </p> + <p> + He. “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + I. “How is that? You live with your father and don’t know what his name + is? Shame!” + </p> + <p> + He. “He is not my real father.” + </p> + <p> + I. “How is that?” + </p> + <p> + He. “He is living with mother.” + </p> + <p> + I. “Is your mother married or a widow?” + </p> + <p> + He. “A widow. She followed her husband here.” + </p> + <p> + I. “What has become of her husband, then?” + </p> + <p> + He. “She killed him.” + </p> + <p> + I. “Do you remember your father?” + </p> + <p> + He. “No, I don’t, I am illegitimate. I was born when mother was at Kara.” + </p> + <p> + On the Amur steamer going to Sahalin, there was a convict with fetters on + his legs who had murdered his wife. His daughter, a little girl of six, + was with him. I noticed wherever the convict moved the little girl + scrambled after him, holding on to his fetters. At night the child slept + with the convicts and soldiers all in a heap together. I remember I was at + a funeral in Sahalin. Beside the newly dug grave stood four convict + bearers ex officio; the treasury clerk and I, in the capacity of Hamlet + and Horatio, wandering about the cemetery; the dead woman’s lodger, a + Circassian, who had come because he had nothing better to do; and a + convict woman who had come out of pity and had brought the dead woman’s + two children, one a baby, and the other, Alyoshka, a boy of four, wearing + a woman’s jacket and blue breeches with bright-coloured patches on the + knees. It was cold and damp, there was water in the grave, the convicts + were laughing. The sea was in sight. Alyoshka looked into the grave with + curiosity; he tried to wipe his chilly nose, but the long sleeve of his + jacket got into his way. When they began to fill in the grave I asked him: + “Alyoshka, where is your mother?” He waved his hand with the air of a + gentleman who has lost at cards, laughed, and said: “They have buried + her!” + </p> + <p> + The convicts laughed, the Circassian turned and asked what he was to do + with the children, saying it was not his duty to feed them. + </p> + <p> + Infectious diseases I did not meet with in Sahalin. There is very little + congenital syphilis, but I saw blind children, filthy, covered with + eruptions—all diseases that are evidence of neglect. Of course I am + not going to settle the problem of the children. I don’t know what ought + to be done. But it seems to me that one will do nothing by means of + philanthropy and what little is left of prison and other funds. To my + thinking, to make something of great importance dependent upon charity, + which in Russia always has a casual character, and on funds which do not + exist, is pernicious. I should prefer it to be financed out of the + government treasury. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, January 31, 1891. + </p> + <p> + At home I found depression. My nicest and most intelligent mongoose had + fallen ill and was lying very quietly under a quilt. The little beast eats + and drinks nothing. The climate has already laid its cold claw on it and + means to kill it. What for? + </p> + <p> + We have received a dismal letter. In Taganrog we were on friendly terms + with a well-to-do Polish family. The cakes and jam I ate in their house + when I was a boy at school arouse in me now the most touching + reminiscences; there used to be music, young ladies, home-made liqueurs, + and catching goldfinches in the immense courtyard. The father had a post + in the Taganrog customs and got into trouble. The investigation and trial + ruined the family. There were two daughters and a son. When the elder + daughter married a rascal of a Greek, the family took an orphan girl into + the house to bring up. This little girl was attacked by disease of the + knee and they amputated the leg. Then the son died of consumption, a + medical student in his fourth year, an excellent fellow, a perfect + Hercules, the hope of the family.... Then came terrible poverty.... The + father took to wandering about the cemetery, longed to take to drink but + could not: vodka simply made his head ache cruelly while his thoughts + remained the same, just as sober and revolting. Now they write that the + younger daughter, a beautiful, plump young girl, is consumptive.... The + father writes to me of that and writes to me for a loan of <i>ten roubles</i>.... + Ach! + </p> + <p> + I felt awfully unwilling to leave you, but still I am glad I did not + remain another day—I went away and showed that I had strength of + will. I am writing already. By the time you come to Moscow my novel + [Footnote: “The Duel.”] will be finished, and I will go back with you to + Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + Tell Borya, Mitya, and Andrushka that I vituperate them. In the pocket of + my greatcoat I found some notes on which was scrawled: “Anton Pavlovitch, + for shame, for shame, for shame!” O pessimi discipuli! Utinam vos lupus + devoret! + </p> + <p> + Last night I did not sleep, and I read through my “Motley Tales” for the + second edition. I threw out about twenty stories. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + February 5, 1891. + </p> + <p> + My mongoose has recovered and breaks crockery again with unfailing + regularity. + </p> + <p> + I am writing and writing! I must own I was afraid that my Sahalin + expedition would have put me out of the way of writing, but now I see that + it is all right. I have written a great deal. I am writing diffusely a la + Yasinsky. I want to get hold of a thousand roubles. + </p> + <p> + I shall soon begin to expect you. Are we going to Italy or not? We ought + to. + </p> + <p> + In Petersburg I don’t sleep at night, I drink and loaf about, but I feel + immeasurably better than in Moscow. The devil only knows why it is so. + </p> + <p> + I am not depressed, because in the first place I am writing, and in the + second, one feels that summer, which I love more than anything, is close + at hand. I long to prepare my fishing tackle.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + February 23. + </h2> + <p> + Greetings, my dear friend. + </p> + <p> + Your telegram about the Tormidor upset me. I felt dreadfully attracted to + Petersburg: now for the sake of Sardou and the Parisian visitors. But + practical considerations pulled me up. I reflected that I must hurry on + with my novel; that I don’t know French, and so should only be taking up + someone else’s place in the box; that I have very little money, and so on. + In short, as it seems to me now, I am a poor comrade, though apparently I + acted sensibly. + </p> + <p> + My novel is progressing. It’s all smooth, even, there is scarcely anything + that is too long. But do you know what is very bad? There is no movement + in my novel, and that frightens me. I am afraid it will be difficult to + read to the middle, to say nothing of reading to the end. Anyway, I shall + finish it. I shall bring Anna Pavlovna a copy on vellum paper to read in + the bathroom. I should like something to sting her in the water, so that + she would run out of the bathroom sobbing. + </p> + <p> + I was melancholy when you went away.... + </p> + <p> + Send me some money. I have none and seem to have nowhere to borrow. By my + reckoning I cannot under favourable circumstances get more than a thousand + roubles from you before September. But don’t send the money by post, as I + can’t bear going to post offices.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + March 5. + </h2> + <p> + We are going!!! I agree to go, where you like and when you like. My soul + is leaping with delight. It would be stupid on my part not to go, for when + would an opportunity come again? But, my dear friend, I leave you to weigh + the following circumstances. + </p> + <p> + (1) My work is still far from being finished; if I put it by till May, I + shall not be able to begin my Sahalin work before July, and that is risky. + For my Sahalin impressions are already evaporating, and I run the risk of + forgetting a great deal. + </p> + <p> + (2) I have absolutely no money. If without finishing my novel I take + another thousand roubles for the tour abroad, and then for living after + the tour, I shall get into such a tangle that the devil himself could not + pull me out by the ears. I am not in a tangle yet because I am up to all + sorts of dodges, and live more frugally than a mouse; but if I go abroad + everything will go to the devil. My accounts will be in a mess and I shall + get myself hopelessly in debt. The very thought of a debt of two thousand + makes my heart sink. + </p> + <p> + There are other considerations, but they are all of small account beside + that of money and work. And so, thoroughly digest my objections, put + yourself into my skin for a moment, and decide, wouldn’t it be better for + me to stay at home? You will say all this is unimportant. But lay aside + your point of view? and look at it from mine. + </p> + <p> + I await a speedy answer. + </p> + <p> + My novel [Footnote: “The Duel.”] is progressing, but I have not got far. + </p> + <p> + I have been to the Kiselyovs’. The rooks are already arriving. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, March 11, 1891. + </p> + <p> + As I depart for France, Spain, and Italy, I beseech you, oh, Heavens, keep + Babkino in good health and prosperity! + </p> + <p> + Yes, Marya Vladimirovna! As it is written in the scripture: he had not + time to cry out, before a bear devoured him. So I had not time to cry out + before an unseen power has drawn me again to the mysterious distance. + To-day I am going to Petersburg, from there to Berlin, and so further. + Whether I climb Vesuvius or watch a bull-fight in Spain, I shall remember + you in my holiest prayers. Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + I have been to a seminary and picked out a seminarist for Vassilisa. There + were plenty with delicate feelings and responsive natures, but not one + would consent. At first, especially when I told them that you sometimes + had peas and radishes on your table, they consented; but when I + accidentally let out that in the district captain’s room there was a + bedstead on which people were flogged, they scratched their heads and + muttered that they must think it over. One, however, a pockmarked fellow + called Gerasim Ivanovitch, with very delicate feelings and a responsive + nature, is coming to see you in a day or two. I hope that Vassilisa and + you will make him welcome. Snatch the chance: it’s a brilliant match. You + can flog Gerasim Ivanovitch, for he told me: “I am immensely fond of + violent sensations;” when he is with you you had better lock the cupboard + where the vodka is kept and keep the windows open, as the seminary + inspiration and responsiveness is perceptible at every minute. + </p> + <p> + “What a happy girl is Vassilisa!” + </p> + <p> + Idiotik has not been to see me yet. + </p> + <p> + The hens peck the cock. They must be keeping Lent, or perhaps the virtuous + widows don’t care for their new suitor. + </p> + <p> + They have brought me a new overcoat with check lining. + </p> + <p> + Well, be in Heaven’s keeping, happy, healthy and peaceful. God give you + all everything good. I shall come back in Holy Week. Don’t forget your + truly devoted, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTON CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + PETERSBURG, March 16. Midnight. + </p> + <p> + I have just seen the Italian actress Duse in Shakespeare’s <i>Cleopatra</i>. + I don’t know Italian, but she acted so well that it seemed to me I + understood every word. A remarkable actress! I have never seen anything + like it before. I gazed at that Duse and felt overcome with misery at the + thought that we have to educate our temperaments and tastes on such wooden + actresses as N. and her like, whom we call great because we have seen + nothing better. Looking at Duse I understood why it is that the Russian + theatre is so dull. + </p> + <p> + I sent three hundred roubles to-day, did you get them? + </p> + <p> + After Duse it was amusing to read the address I enclose. [Footnote: A + newspaper cutting containing an address: From the Students of the + Technological Institute of Harkov to M. M. Solovtsov, was enclosed.] My + God, how low taste and a sense of justice have sunk! And these are the + students—the devil take them! Whether it is Solovtsov or whether it + is Salvini, it’s all the same to them, both equally “stir a warm response + in the hearts of the young.” They are worth a farthing, all those hearts. + </p> + <p> + We set off for Warsaw at half-past one to-morrow. My greetings to all, + even the mongooses, though they don’t deserve it. I will write. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIENNA, + </h2> + <p> + March 20, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + MY DEAR CZECHS, + </h3> + <p> + I write to you from Vienna, which I reached yesterday at four o’clock in + the afternoon. Everything went well on the journey. From Warsaw to Vienna + I travelled like a railway Nana in a luxurious compartment of the “Societe + Internationale des Wagons-Lits.” Beds, looking-glasses, huge windows, + rugs, and so on. + </p> + <p> + Ah, my dears, if you only knew how nice Vienna is! It can’t be compared + with any of the towns I have seen in my life. The streets are broad and + elegantly paved, there are numbers of boulevards and squares, the houses + have always six or seven storeys, and shops—they are not shops, but + a perfect delirium, a dream! There are myriads of neckties alone in the + windows! Such amazing things made of bronze, china, and leather! The + churches are huge, but they do not oppress one by their hugeness; they + caress the eye, for it seems as though they are woven of lace. St. Stephen + and the Votiv-Kirche are particularly fine. They are not like buildings, + but like cakes for tea. The parliament, the town hall, and the university + are magnificent. It is all magnificent, and I have for the first time + realized, yesterday and to-day, that architecture is really an art. And + here the art is not seen in little bits, as with us, but stretches over + several versts. There are numbers of monuments. In every side street there + is sure to be a bookshop. In the windows of the bookshops there are + Russian books to be seen—not, alas, the works of Albov, of + Barantsevitch, and of Chekhov, but of all sorts of anonymous authors who + write and publish abroad. I saw “Renan,” “The Mysteries of the Winter + Palace,” and so on. It is strange that here one is free to read anything + and to say what one likes. Understand, O ye peoples, what the cabs are + like here! The devil take them! There are no droshkys, but they are all + new, pretty carriages with one and often two horses. The horses are + splendid. On the box sit dandies in top-hats and reefer jackets, reading + the newspaper, all politeness and readiness to oblige. + </p> + <p> + The dinners are good. There is no vodka; they drink beer and fairly good + wine. There is one thing that is nasty: they make you pay for bread. When + they bring the bill they ask, <i>Wie viel brodchen?</i>—that is, how + many rolls have you devoured? And you have to pay for every little roll. + </p> + <p> + The women are beautiful and elegant. Indeed, everything is diabolically + elegant. + </p> + <p> + I have not quite forgotten German. I understand, and am understood. + </p> + <p> + When we crossed the frontier it was snowing. In Vienna there is no snow, + but it is cold all the same. + </p> + <p> + I am homesick and miss you all, and indeed I am conscience-stricken, too, + at deserting you all again. But there, never mind! I shall come back and + stay at home for a whole year. I send my greetings to everyone, everyone. + </p> + <p> + I wish you all things good; don’t forget me with my many transgressions. I + embrace you, I bless you, send my greetings and remain, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your loving + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + Everyone who meets us recognises that we are Russians, and stares not at + my face, but at my grizzled cap. Looking at my cap they probably think I + am a very rich Russian Count. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER IVAN. + </h2> + <p> + VENICE, March 24, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am now in Venice. I arrived here two days ago from Vienna. One thing I + can say: I have never in my life seen a town more marvellous than Venice. + It is perfectly enchanting, brilliance, joy, life. Instead of streets and + roads there are canals; instead of cabs, gondolas. The architecture is + amazing, and there is not a single spot that does not excite some + historical or artistic interest. You float in a gondola and see the palace + of the Doges, the house where Desdemona lived, homes of various painters, + churches. And in the churches there are sculptures and paintings such as + we have never dreamed of. In fact it is enchantment. + </p> + <p> + All day from morning till night I sit in a gondola and glide along the + streets, or I saunter about the famous St. Mark’s Square. The square is as + level and clean as a parquet floor. Here there is St. Mark’s—something + impossible to describe—the Palace of the Doges, and other buildings + which make me feel as I do listening to part singing—I feel the + amazing beauty and revel in it. + </p> + <p> + And the evenings! My God! One might almost die of the strangeness of it. + One goes in a gondola ... warmth, stillness, stars.... There are no horses + in Venice, and so there is a silence here as in the open country. Gondolas + flit to and fro, ... then a gondola glides by, hung with lanterns. In it + are a double-bass, violins, a guitar, a mandolin and cornet, two or three + ladies, several men, and one hears singing and music. They sing from + operas. What voices! One goes on a little further and again meets a boat + with singers, and then again, and the air is full, till midnight, of the + mingled strains of violins and tenor voices, and all sorts of + heart-stirring sounds. + </p> + <p> + Merezhkovsky, whom I have met here, is off his head with ecstasy. For us + poor and oppressed Russians it is easy to go out of our minds here in a + world of beauty, wealth, and freedom. One longs to remain here for ever, + and when one stands in the churches and listens to the organ one longs to + become a Catholic. + </p> + <p> + The tombs of Canova and Titian are magnificent. Here they bury great + artists like kings in churches; here they do not despise art as with us; + the churches provide a shelter for pictures and statues however naked they + may be. + </p> + <p> + In the Palace of the Doges there is a picture in which there are about ten + thousand human figures. + </p> + <p> + To-day is Sunday. There will be a band playing in St. Mark’s Square.... + </p> + <p> + If you ever happen to come to Venice it will be the best thing in your + life. You ought to see the glass here! Your bottles [Footnote: His brother + Ivan was teaching in a school attached to a glass factory.] are so hideous + compared with the things here, that it makes one sick to think of them. + </p> + <p> + I will write again; meanwhile, good-bye. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + VENICE, March 25. + </p> + <p> + I am in Venice. You may put me in a madhouse. Gondolas, St. Mark’s Square, + water, stars, Italian women, serenades, mandolins, Falernian wine—in + fact all is lost! + </p> + <p> + Don’t remember evil against me. + </p> + <p> + The shade of the lovely Desdemona sends a smile to the District Captain. + </p> + <p> + Greetings to all. ANTONIO. + </p> + <p> + The Jesuits send their love to you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER, + </h2> + <p> + VENICE, March 25, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Bewitching blue-eyed Venice sends her greetings to all of you. Oh, signori + and signorine, what an exquisite town this Venice is! Imagine a town + consisting of houses and churches such as you have never seen; an + intoxicating architecture, everything as graceful and light as the + birdlike gondola. Such houses and churches can only be built by people + possessed of immense artistic and musical taste and endowed with a + lion-like temperament. Now imagine in the streets and alleys, instead of + pavement, water; imagine that there is not one horse in the town; that + instead of cabmen you see gondoliers on their wonderful boats, light, + delicate long-beaked birds which scarcely seem to touch the water and + tremble at the tiniest wave. And all from earth to sky bathed in sunshine. + </p> + <p> + There are streets as broad as the Nevsky, and others in which you can bar + the way by stretching out your arms. The centre of the town is St. Mark’s + Square with the celebrated cathedral of the same name. The cathedral is + magnificent, especially on the outside. Beside it is the Palace of the + Doges where Othello made his confession before the senators. + </p> + <p> + In short, there is not a spot that does not call up memories and touch the + heart. For instance, the little house where Desdemona lived makes an + impression that is difficult to shake off. The very best time in Venice is + the evening. First the stars; secondly, the long canals in which the + lights and stars are reflected; thirdly, gondolas, gondolas, and gondolas; + when it is dark they seem to be alive. Fourthly, one wants to cry because + on all sides one hears music and superb singing. A gondola glides up hung + with many-coloured lanterns; there is light enough for one to distinguish + a double-bass, a guitar, a mandolin, a violin.... Then another gondola + like it.... Men and women sing, and how they sing! It’s quite an opera. + </p> + <p> + Fifthly, it’s warm. + </p> + <p> + In short, the man’s a fool who does not go to Venice. Living is cheap + here. Board and lodging costs eighteen francs a week—that is, six + roubles each or twenty-five roubles a month. A gondolier asks a franc for + an hour-that is, thirty kopecks. Admission to the academies, museums, and + so on, is free. The Crimea is ten times as expensive, and the Crimea + beside Venice is a cuttle-fish beside a whale. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid Father is angry with me for not having said good-bye to him. I + ask his forgiveness. + </p> + <p> + What glass there is here! what mirrors! Why am I not a millionaire! ... + Next year let us all take a summer cottage in Venice. + </p> + <p> + The air is full of the vibration of church bells: my dear Tunguses, let us + all embrace Catholicism. If only you knew how lovely the organs are in the + churches, what sculptures there are here, what Italian women on their + knees with prayer-books! + </p> + <p> + Keep well and don’t forget me, a sinner. + </p> + <p> + A picturesque railway line, of which I have been told a great deal, runs + from Vienna to Venice. But I was disappointed in the journey. The + mountains, the precipices, and the snowy crests I have seen in the + Caucasus and Ceylon are far more impressive than here. <i>Addio</i>. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VENICE, + </h2> + <p> + March 26, 1891. + </p> + <p> + It is pelting cats and dogs. <i>Venetia bella</i> has ceased to be <i>bella</i>. + The water excites a feeling of dejected dreariness, and one longs to + hasten somewhere where there is sun. + </p> + <p> + The rain has reminded me of my raincoat (the leather one); I believe the + rats have gnawed it a little. If they have, send it to be mended as soon + as you can.... + </p> + <p> + How is Signor Mongoose? I am afraid every day of hearing that he is dead. + </p> + <p> + In describing the cheapness of Venetian life yesterday, I overdid it a + bit. It is Madame Merezhkovsky’s fault; she told me that she and her + husband paid only six francs per week each. But instead of per week, read + per day. Anyway, it is cheap. The franc here goes as far as a rouble. + </p> + <p> + We are going to Florence. + </p> + <p> + May the Holy Mother bless you. + </p> + <p> + I have seen Titian’s Madonna. It’s very fine. But it is a pity that here + fine works are mixed up side by side with worthless things, that have been + preserved and not flung away simply from the spirit of conservatism + all-present in such creatures of habit as <i>messieurs les hommes</i>. + There are many pictures the long life of which is quite incomprehensible. + </p> + <p> + The house where Desdemona used to live is to let. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOLOGNA, + </h2> + <p> + March 28, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am in Bologna, a town remarkable for its arcades, slanting towers, and + Raphael’s pictures of “Cecilia.” We are going on to-day to Florence. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FLORENCE, + </h2> + <p> + March 29, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am in Florence. I am worn out with racing about to museums and churches. + I have seen the Venus of Medici, and I think that if she were dressed in + modern clothes she would be hideous, especially about the waist. + </p> + <p> + The sky is overcast, and Italy without sun is like a face in a mask. + </p> + <p> + P. S.—Dante’s monument is fine. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FLORENCE, + </h2> + <p> + March 30, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am in Florence. To-morrow we are going to Rome. It’s cold. We have the + spleen. You can’t take a step in Florence without coming to a picture-shop + or a statue-shop. + </p> + <p> + P. S.—Send my watch to be mended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + ROME, April 1, 1891. + </p> + <p> + The Pope of Rome charges me to congratulate you on your name-day and wish + you as much money as he has rooms. He has eleven thousand! Strolling about + the Vatican I was nearly dead with exhaustion, and when I got home I felt + that my legs were made of cotton-wool. + </p> + <p> + I am dining at the table d’hote. Can you imagine just opposite me are + sitting two Dutch girls: one of them is like Pushkin’s Tatyana, and the + other like her sister Olga. I watch them all through dinner, and imagine a + neat, clean little house with a turret, excellent butter, superb Dutch + cheese, Dutch herrings, a benevolent-looking pastor, a sedate teacher, ... + and I feel I should like to marry a Dutch girl and be depicted with her on + a tea-tray beside the little white house. + </p> + <p> + I have seen everything and dragged myself everywhere I was told to go. + What was offered me to sniff at, I sniffed at. But meanwhile I feel + nothing but exhaustion and a craving for cabbage-soup and buckwheat + porridge. I was enchanted by Venice, beside myself; but since I have left + it, it has been nothing but Baedeker and bad weather. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye for now, Marya Vladimirovna, and the Lord God keep you. Humble + respects from me and the other Pope to his Honour, Vassilisa and Elizaveta + Alexandrovna. + </p> + <p> + Neckties are marvellously cheap here. I think I may take to eating them. + They are a franc a pair. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow I am going to Naples. Pray that I may meet there a beautiful + Russian lady, if possible a widow or a divorced wife. + </p> + <p> + In the guide-books it says that a love affair is an essential condition + for a tour in Italy. Well, hang them all! I am ready for anything. If + there must be a love affair, so be it. + </p> + <p> + Don’t forget your sinful, but sincerely devoted, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTON CHEKHOV, + My respects to the starlings. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + ROME, April 1, 1891. + </p> + <p> + When I got to Rome I went to the post-office and did not find a single + letter. Suvorin has got several letters. I made up my mind to pay you out, + not to write to you at all—but there, God bless you! I am not so + very fond of letters, but when one is travelling nothing is so bad as + uncertainty. How have you settled the summer villa question? Is the + mongoose alive? And so on and so on. + </p> + <p> + I have been in St. Peter’s, in the Capitol, in the Coliseum, in the Forum—I + have even been in a <i>cafe’-chantant</i>, but did not derive from it the + gratification I had expected. The weather is a drawback, it is raining. I + am hot in my autumn overcoat, and cold in my summer one. + </p> + <p> + Travelling is very cheap. One may pay a visit to Italy with only four + hundred roubles and go back with purchases. If I were travelling alone or + with Ivan, I should have brought away the conviction that travelling in + Italy was much cheaper than travelling in the Caucasus. But alas! I am + with the Suvorins.... In Venice we lived in the best of hotels like Doges; + here in Rome we live like Cardinals, for we have taken a salon of what was + once the palace of Cardinal Conti, now the Hotel Minerva; two huge + drawing-rooms, chandeliers, carpets, open fireplaces, and all sorts of + useless rubbish, costing us forty francs a day. + </p> + <p> + My back aches, and the soles of my feet burn from tramping about. It’s + awful how we walk! + </p> + <p> + It seems odd to me that Levitan did not like Italy. It’s a fascinating + country. If I were a solitary person, an artist, and had money, I should + live here in the winter. You see, Italy, apart from its natural scenery + and warmth, is the one country in which you feel convinced that art is + really supreme over everything, and that conviction gives one courage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NAPLES, + </h2> + <p> + April 4, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I arrived in Naples, went to the post-office and found there five letters + from home, for which I am very grateful to you all. Well done, relations! + Even Vesuvius is so touched it has gone out. + </p> + <p> + Vesuvius hides its top in clouds and can only be seen well in the evening. + By day the sky is overcast. We are staying on the sea-front and have a + view of everything: the sea, Vesuvius, Capri, Sorrento.... We drove in the + daytime up to the monastery of St. Martini: the view from here is such as + I have never seen before, a marvellous panorama. I saw something like it + at Hong Kong when I went up the mountain in the railway. + </p> + <p> + In Naples there is a magnificent arcade. And the shops!! The shops make me + quite giddy. What brilliance! You, Masha, and you, Lika, would be rabid + with delight. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + There is a wonderful aquarium in Naples. There are even sharks and squids. + When a squid (an octopus) devours some animals it’s a revolting sight. + </p> + <p> + I have been to a barber’s and watched a young man having his beard clipped + for a whole hour. He was probably engaged to be married or else a + cardsharper. At the barber’s the ceiling and all the four walls were made + of looking-glass, so that you feel that you are not at a hairdresser’s but + at the Vatican where there are eleven thousand rooms. They cut your hair + wonderfully. + </p> + <p> + I shan’t bring you any presents, as you don’t write to me about the summer + villa and the mongoose. I bought you a watch, Masha, but I have cast it to + the swine. But there, God forgive you! + </p> + <p> + P.S.—I shall be back by Easter, come and meet me at the station. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NAPLES, + </h2> + <p> + April 7, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday I went to Pompeii and went over it. As you know, it is a Roman + town buried under the lava and ashes of Vesuvius in 79 A.D. I walked about + the streets of the town and saw the houses, the temples, the theatre, the + squares.... I saw and marvelled at the faculty of the Romans for combining + simplicity with convenience and beauty. After viewing Pompeii, I lunched + at a restaurant and then decided to go to Vesuvius. The excellent red wine + I had drunk had a great deal to do with this decision. I had to ride on + horseback to the foot of Vesuvius. I have in consequence to-day a + sensation in some parts of my mortal frame as though I had been in the + Third Division, and had there been flogged. What an agonising business it + is climbing up Vesuvius! Ashes, mountains of lava, solid waves of molten + minerals, mounds of earth, and every sort of abomination. You take one + step forward and fall half a step back, the soles of your feet hurt you, + your breathing is oppressed.... You go on and on and on, and it is still a + long way to the top. You wonder whether to turn back, but you are ashamed + to turn back, you would be laughed at. The ascent began at half-past two, + and ended at six. The crater of Vesuvius is a great many yards in + diameter. I stood on its edge and looked down as into a cup. The soil + around, covered by a layer of sulphur, was smoking vigorously. From the + crater rose white stinking smoke; spurts of hot water and red-hot stones + fly out while Satan lies snoring under cover of the smoke. The noise is + rather mixed, you hear in it the beating of breakers and the roar of + thunder, and the rumble of the railway line and the falling of planks. It + is very terrible, and at the same time one has an impulse to jump right + into the crater. I believe in hell now. The lava has such a high + temperature that copper coins melt in it. + </p> + <p> + Coming down was as horrid as going up. You sink up to your knees in ashes. + I was fearfully tired. I went back on horseback through a little village + and by houses; there was a glorious fragrance and the moon was shining. I + sniffed, gazed at the moon, and thought of <i>her</i>—that is, of + Lika L. + </p> + <p> + All the summer, noble gentlemen, we shall have no money, and the thought + of that spoils my appetite. I have got into debt for a thousand for a + tour, which I could have made <i>solo</i> for three hundred roubles. All + my hopes now are in the fools of amateurs who are going to act my “Bear.” + </p> + <p> + Have you taken a house for the holidays, signori? You treat me piggishly, + you write nothing to me, and I don’t know what’s going on, and how things + are at home. + </p> + <p> + Humble respects to you all. Take care of yourselves, and don’t completely + forget me. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MONTE CARLO, + </h2> + <p> + April 13, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am writing to you from Monte Carlo, from the very place where they play + roulette. I can’t tell you how thrilling the game is. First of all I won + eighty francs, then I lost, then I won again, and in the end was left with + a loss of forty francs. I have twenty francs left, I shall go and try my + luck again. I have been here since the morning, and it is twelve o’clock + at night. If I had money to spare I believe I should spend the whole year + gambling and walking about the magnificent halls of the casino. It is + interesting to watch the ladies who lose thousands. This morning a young + lady lost 5000 francs. The tables with piles of gold are interesting too. + In fact it is beyond all words. This charming Monte Carlo is extremely + like a fine ... den of thieves. The suicide of losers is quite a regular + thing. + </p> + <p> + Suvorin <i>fils</i> lost 300 francs. + </p> + <p> + We shall soon see each other. I am weary of wandering over the face of the + earth. One must draw the line. My heels are sore as it is. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, Monday in Holy Week, April, 1891. + </p> + <p> + We are staying in Nice, on the sea-front. The sun is shining, it is warm, + green and fragrant, but windy. An hour’s journey from Nice is the famous + Monaco. There is Monte Carlo, where roulette is played. Imagine the rooms + of the Hall of Nobility but handsomer, loftier and larger. There are big + tables, and on the tables roulette—which I will describe to you when + I get home. The day before yesterday I went over there, played and lost. + The game is fearfully fascinating. After losing, Suvorin <i>fils</i> and I + fell to thinking it over, and thought out a system which would ensure + one’s winning. We went yesterday, taking five hundred francs each; at the + first staking I won two gold pieces, then again and again; my waistcoat + pockets bulged with gold. I had in hand French money even of the year + 1808, as well as Belgian, Italian, Greek, and Austrian coins.... I have + never before seen so much gold and silver. I began playing at five o’clock + and by ten I had not a single franc in my pocket, and the only thing left + me was the satisfaction of knowing that I had my return ticket to Nice. So + there it is, my friends! You will say, of course: “What a mean thing to + do! We are so poor, while he out there plays roulette.” Perfectly just, + and I give you permission to slay me. But I personally am much pleased + with myself. Anyway, now I can tell my grandchildren that I have played + roulette, and know the feeling which is excited by gambling. + </p> + <p> + Beside the Casino where roulette is played there is another swindle—the + restaurants. They fleece one frightfully and feed one magnificently. Every + dish is a regular work of art, before which one is expected to bow one’s + knee in homage and to be too awe-stricken to eat it. Every morsel is + rigged out with lots of artichokes, truffles, and nightingales’ tongues of + all sorts. And, good Lord! how contemptible and loathsome this life is + with its artichokes, its palms, and its smell of orange blossoms! I love + wealth and luxury, but the luxury here, the luxury of the gambling saloon, + reminds one of a luxurious water-closet. There is something in the + atmosphere that offends one’s sense of decency and vulgarizes the scenery, + the sound of the sea, the moon. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday—Sunday—I went to the Russian church here. What was + peculiar was the use of palm-branches instead of willows; and instead of + boy choristers a choir of ladies, which gives the singing an operatic + effect. They put foreign money in the plate; the verger and beadle speak + French, and so on.... + </p> + <p> + Of all the places I have been in hitherto Venice has left me the loveliest + memories. Rome on the whole is rather like Harkov, and Naples is filthy. + And the sea does not attract me, as I got tired of it last November and + December. + </p> + <p> + I feel as though I have been travelling for a whole year. I had scarcely + got back from Sahalin when I went to Petersburg, and then to Petersburg + again, and to Italy.... + </p> + <p> + If I don’t manage to get home by Easter, when you break the fast, remember + me in your prayers, and receive my congratulations from a distance, and my + assurance that I shall miss you all horribly on Easter night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + PARIS, April 21, 1891. + </p> + <p> + To-day is Easter. So Christ is risen! It’s my first Easter away from home. + </p> + <p> + I arrived in Paris on Friday morning and at once went to the Exhibition. + Yes, the Eiffel Tower is very very high. The other exhibition buildings I + saw only from the outside, as they were occupied by cavalry brought there + in anticipation of disorders. On Friday they expected riots. The people + flocked in crowds about the streets, shouting and whistling, greatly + excited, while the police kept dispersing them. To disperse a big crowd a + dozen policemen are sufficient here. The police make a combined attack, + and the crowd runs like mad. In one of these attacks the honour was + vouchsafed to me—a policeman caught hold of me under my shoulder, + and pushed me in front of him. + </p> + <p> + There was a great deal of movement, the streets were swarming and surging. + Noise, hubbub. The pavements are filled with little tables, and at the + tables sit Frenchmen who feel as though they were at home in the street. A + magnificent people. There is no describing Paris, though; I will put off + the description of it till I get home. + </p> + <p> + I heard the midnight service in the Church of the Embassy.... + </p> + <p> + I am afraid you have no money. + </p> + <p> + Misha, get my pince-nez mended, for the salvation of your soul! I am + simply a martyr without spectacles. I went to the Salon and couldn’t see + half the pictures, thanks to my short sight. By the way, the Russian + artists are far more serious than the French.... In comparison with the + landscape painters I saw here yesterday Levitan is a king.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PARIS, + </h2> + <p> + April 24. + </p> + <p> + A change again. One of the Russian sculptors living in Paris has + undertaken to do a bust of Suvorin, and this will keep us till Saturday. + </p> + <p> + ... How are you managing without money? Bear it till Thursday. + </p> + <p> + Imagine my delight. I was in the Chamber of Deputies just at the time of + the sitting when the Minister for Internal Affairs was called to account + for the irregularities which the government had ventured upon in putting + down the riots in Fourmis (there were many killed and wounded). It was a + stormy and extremely interesting sitting. + </p> + <p> + Men who tie boa-constrictors round their bodies, ladies who kick up to the + ceiling, flying people, lions, <i>cafe’-chantants</i>, dinners and lunches + begin to sicken me. It is time I was home. I am longing to work. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + ALEXIN, May 7, 1891. + </p> + <p> + The summer villa is all right. There are woods and the Oka: it is far away + in the wilds, it is warm, nightingales sing, and so on. It is quiet and + peaceful, and in bad weather it will be dull and depressing here. After + travelling abroad, life at a summer villa seems a little mawkish. I feel + as though I had been taken prisoner and put into a fortress. But I am + contented all the same. In Moscow I received from the Society of Dramatic + Authors not two hundred roubles, as I expected, but three hundred. It’s + very kind on the part of fortune. + </p> + <p> + Well, my dear sir, I owe you, even if we adopt your reckoning, not less + than eight hundred roubles. In June or July, when my money will be at the + shop, I will write to Zandrok to send all that comes to me to you in + Feodosia, and do not try and prevent me. I give you my word of honour that + when I have paid my debts and settled with you, I’ll accept a loan of + 2,000 from you. Do not imagine that it is disagreeable to me to be in your + debt. I lend other people money, and so I feel I have the right to borrow + money, but I am afraid of getting into difficulties and the habit of being + in debt. You know I owe your firm a devilish lot. + </p> + <p> + There is a fine view from my window. Trains are continually passing. There + is a bridge across the Oka. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALEXIN, + </h2> + <p> + May 10, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Yes, you are right, my soul needs balsam. I should read now with pleasure, + even with joy, something serious, not merely about myself but things in + general. I pine for serious reading, and recent Russian criticism does not + nourish but simply irritates me. I could read with enthusiasm something + new about Pushkin or Tolstoy. That would be balsam for my idle mind. + </p> + <p> + I am homesick for Venice and Florence too, and am ready to climb Vesuvius + again; Bologna has been effaced from my memory and grown dim. As for Nice + and Paris, when I recall them “I look on my life with loathing.” + </p> + <p> + In the last number of <i>The Messenger of Foreign Literature</i> there is + a story by Ouida, translated from the English by our Mihail. Why don’t I + know foreign languages? It seems to me I could translate magnificently. + When I read anyone else’s translation I keep altering and transposing the + words in my brain, and the result is something light, ethereal, like + lacework. + </p> + <p> + On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays I write my Sahalin book, on the other + days, except Sunday, my novel, and on Sundays, short stories. I work with + zest. The weather has been superb every day; the site of our summer villa + is dry and healthy. There is a lot of woodland. There are a lot of fish + and crayfish in the Oka. I see the trains and the steamers. Altogether if + it were not for being somewhat cramped I should be very very much pleased + with it. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + I don’t intend to get married. I should like to be a little bald old man + sitting at a big table in a fine study.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALEXIN, + </h2> + <p> + May 13, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am going to write you a Christmas story—that’s certain. Two, + indeed, if you like. I sit and write and write ...; at last I have set to + work. I am only sorry that my cursed teeth are aching and my stomach is + out of order. + </p> + <p> + I am a dilatory but productive author. By the time I am forty I shall have + hundreds of volumes, so that I can open a bookshop with nothing but my own + works. To have a lot of books and to have nothing else is a horrible + disgrace. + </p> + <p> + My dear friend, haven’t you in your library Tagantsev’s “Criminal Law”? If + you have, couldn’t you send it me? I would buy it, but I am now “a poor + relation”—a beggar and as poor as Sidor’s goat. Would you telephone + to your shop, too, to send me, on account of favours to come, two books: + “The Laws relating to Exiles,” and “The Laws relating to Persons under + Police Control.” Don’t imagine that I want to become a procurator; I want + these works for my Sahalin book. I am going to direct my attack chiefly + against life sentences, in which I see the root of all the evils; and + against the laws dealing with exiles, which are fearfully out of date and + contradictory. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO L. S. MIZINOV. + </h2> + <p> + ALEXIN, May 17, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Golden, mother-of-pearl, and <i>fil d’Ecosse</i> Lika! The mongoose ran + away the day before yesterday, and will never come back again. It is dead. + That is the first thing. + </p> + <p> + The second thing is, that we are moving our residence to the upper storey + of the house of B.K.—the man who gave you milk to drink and forgot + to give you strawberries. We will let you know the day we move in due + time. Come to smell the flowers, to walk, to fish, and to blubber. Ah, + lovely Lika! When you bedewed my right shoulder with your tears (I have + taken out the spots with benzine), and when slice after slice you ate our + bread and meat, we greedily devoured your face and head with our eyes. Ah, + Lika, Lika, diabolical beauty! ... + </p> + <p> + When you are at the Alhambra with Trofimov I hope you may accidentally jab + out his eye with your fork. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + ALEXIN, May 18, 1891. + </p> + <p> + ... I get up at five o’clock in the morning; evidently when I am old I + shall get up at four. My forefathers all got up very early, before the + cock. And I notice people who get up very early are horribly fussy. So I + suppose I shall be a fussy, restless old man.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOGIMOVO, + </h2> + <p> + May 20. + </p> + <p> + ... The carp bite capitally. I forgot all my sorrows yesterday; first I + sat by the pond and caught carp, and then by the old mill and caught + perch. + </p> + <p> + ... The last two proclamations—about the Siberian railway and the + exiles—pleased me very much. The Siberian railway is called a + national concern, and the tone of the proclamation guarantees its speedy + completion; and convicts who have completed such and such terms as + settlers are allowed to return to Russia without the right to live in the + provinces of Petersburg and Moscow. The newspapers have let this pass + unnoticed, and yet it is something which has never been in Russia before—it + is the first step towards abolishing the life sentence which has so long + weighed on the public conscience as unjust and cruel in the extreme.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOGIMOVO, + </h2> + <p> + May 27, 4 o’clock in the Morning. + </p> + <p> + The mongoose has run away into the woods and has not come back. It is + cold. I have no money. But nevertheless, I don’t envy you. One cannot live + in town now, it is both dreary and unwholesome. I should like you to be + sitting from morning till dinner-time in this verandah, drinking tea and + writing something artistic, a play or something; and after dinner till + evening, fishing and thinking peaceful thoughts. You have long ago earned + the right which is denied you now by all sorts of chance circumstances, + and it seems to me shameful and unjust that I should live more peacefully + than you. Is it possible that you will stay all June in town? It’s really + terrible.... + </p> + <p> + ... By the way, read Grigorovitch’s letter to my enemy Anna Ivanovna. Let + her soul rejoice. “Chekhov belongs to the generation which has perceptibly + begun to turn away from the West and concentrate more closely on their own + world....” “Venice and Florence are nothing else than dull towns for a man + of any intelligence....” <i>Merci</i>, but I don’t understand persons of + such intelligence. One would have to be a bull to “turn away from the + West” on arriving for the first time in Venice or Florence. There is very + little intelligence in doing so. But I should like to know who is taking + the trouble to announce to the whole universe that I did not like foreign + parts. Good Lord! I never let drop one word about it. I liked even + Bologna. Whatever ought I to have done? Howled with rapture? Broken the + windows? Embraced Frenchmen? Do they say I gained no ideas? But I fancy I + did.... + </p> + <p> + We must see each other—or more correctly, I must see you. I am + missing you already, although to-day I caught two hundred and fifty-two + carp and one crayfish. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOGIMOVO, + </h2> + <p> + June 4, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Why did you go away so soon? I was very dull, and could not get back into + my usual petty routine very quickly afterwards. As luck would have it, + after you went away the weather became warm and magnificent, and the fish + began to bite. + </p> + <p> + ... The mongoose has been found. A sportsman with dogs found him on this + side of the Oka in a quarry; if there had not been a crevice in the quarry + the dogs would have torn the mongoose to pieces. It had been astray in the + woods for eighteen days. In spite of the climatic conditions, which are + awful for it, it had grown fat—such is the effect of freedom. Yes, + my dear sir, freedom is a grand thing. + </p> + <p> + I advise you again to go to Feodosia by the Volga. Anna Ivanovna and you + will enjoy it, and it will be new and interesting for the children. If I + were free I would come with you. It’s snug now on those Volga steamers, + they feed you well and the passengers are interesting. + </p> + <p> + Forgive me for your having been so uncomfortable with us. When I am grown + up and order furniture from Venice, as I certainly shall do, you won’t + have such a cold and rough time with me. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO L. S. MIZINOV. + </h2> + <p> + BOGIMOVO, June 12, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Enchanting, amazing Lika! + </p> + <p> + Captivated by the Circassian Levitan, you have completely forgotten that + you promised my brother Ivan you would come on the 1st of June, and you do + not answer my sister’s letter at all. I wrote to you from Moscow to invite + you, but my letter, too, remained a voice crying in the wilderness. Though + you are received in aristocratic society, you have been badly brought up + all the same, and I don’t regret having once chastised you with a switch. + You must understand that expecting your arrival from day to day not only + wearies us, but puts us to expense. In an ordinary way we only have for + dinner what is left of yesterday’s soup, but when we expect visitors we + have also a dish of boiled beef, which we buy from the neighbouring cooks. + </p> + <p> + We have a magnificent garden, dark avenues, snug corners, a river, a mill, + a boat, moonlight, nightingales, turkeys. In the pond and river there are + very intelligent frogs. We often go for walks, during which I usually + close my eyes and crook my right arm in the shape of a bread-ring, + imagining that you are walking by my side. + </p> + <p> + ... Give my greetings to Levitan. Please ask him not to write about you in + every letter. In the first place it is not magnanimous on his part, and in + the second, I have no interest whatever in his happiness. + </p> + <p> + Be well and happy and don’t forget us. I have just received your letter, + it is filled from top to bottom with such charming expressions as: “The + devil choke you!” “The devil flay you!” “Anathema!” “A good smack,” + “rabble,” “overeaten myself.” Your friends—such as Trophim—with + their cabmen’s talk certainly have an improving influence on you. + </p> + <p> + You may bathe and go for evening walks. That’s all nonsense. All my inside + is full of coughs, wet and dry, but I bathe and walk about, and yet I am + alive.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0138" id="link2H_4_0138"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO L. S. MIZINOV. + </h2> + <h3> + (Enclosing a photograph of a young man inscribed “To Lida from Petya.”) + </h3> + <h3> + PRECIOUS LIDA! + </h3> + <p> + Why these reproaches! I send you my portrait. To-morrow we shall meet. Do + not forget your Petya. A thousand kisses!!! + </p> + <p> + I have bought Chekhov’s stories. How delightful! Mind you buy them. + Remember me to Masha Chekhov. What a darling you are! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0139" id="link2H_4_0139"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE SAME. + </h2> + <p> + I love you passionately like a tiger, and I offer you my hand. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Marshal of Nobility, + GOLOVIN RTISHTCHEV. +</pre> + <p> + P.S.—Answer me by signs. You do squint. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0140" id="link2H_4_0140"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + BOGIMOVO, June, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Masha! Make haste and come home, as without you our intensive culture is + going to complete ruin. There is nothing to eat, the flies are sickening. + The mongoose has broken a jar of jam, and so on, and so on. + </p> + <p> + All the summer visitors sigh and lament over your absence. There is no + news.... The spiderman is busy from morning to night with his spiders. He + has already described five of the spider’s legs, and has only three left + to do. When he has finished with spiders he will begin upon fleas, which + he will catch on his aunt. The K’s sit every evening at the club, and no + hints from me will prevail on them to move from the spot. + </p> + <p> + It is hot, there are no mushrooms. Suvorin has not come yet.... + </p> + <p> + Come soon for it is devilishly dull. We have just caught a frog and given + it to the mongoose. It has eaten it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0141" id="link2H_4_0141"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + ALEXIN, July 20, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Greetings, honoured Marya Vladimirovna. + </p> + <p> + For God’s sake write what you are doing, whether you are all well and how + things are in regard to mushrooms and gudgeon. + </p> + <p> + We are living at Bogimovo in the province of Kaluga.... It’s a huge house, + a fine park, the inevitable views, at the sight of which I am for some + reason expected to say “Ach!” A river, a pond with hungry carp who love to + get on to the hook, a mass of sick people, a smell of iodoform, and walks + in the evenings. I am busy with my Sahalin; and in the intervals, that I + may not let my family starve, I cherish the muse and write stories. + Everything goes on in the old way, there is nothing new. I get up every + day at five o’clock, and prepare my coffee with my own hands—a sign + that I have already got into old bachelor habits and am resigned to them. + Masha is painting, Misha wears his cockade creditably, father talks about + bishops, mother bustles about the house, Ivan fishes. On the same estate + with us there is living a zoologist called Wagner and his family, and some + Kisilyovs—not the Kisilyovs, but others, not the real ones. + </p> + <p> + Wagner catches ladybirds and spiders, and Kisilyov the father sketches, as + he is an artist. We get up performances, <i>tableaux-vivants</i>, and + picnics. It is very gay and amusing, but I have only to catch a perch or + find a mushroom for my head to droop, and my thoughts to be carried back + to the past, and my brain and soul begin in a funereal voice to sing the + duet “We are parted.” The “deposed idol and the deserted temple” rise up + before my imagination, and I think devoutly: “I would exchange all the + zoologists and great artists in the world for one little Idiotik.” + [Footnote: Madame Kisilyov’s son.] The weather has all the while been hot + and dry, and only to-day there has been a crash of thunder and the gates + of heaven are open. One longs to get away somewhere—for instance, to + America, or Norway.... Be well and happy, and may the good spirits, of + whom there are so many at Babkino, have you in their keeping. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0142" id="link2H_4_0142"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. + </h2> + <p> + ALEXIN, July, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + MY PHOTOGRAPHIC AND PROLIFIC BROTHER! + </h3> + <p> + I got a letter from you a long time ago with the photographs of Semashko, + but I haven’t answered till now, because I have been all the time trying + to formulate the great thoughts befitting my answer. All our people are + alive and well, we often talk of you, and regret that your prolificness + prevents you from coming to us here where you would be very welcome. + Father, as I have written to you already, has thrown up Ivanygortch, and + is living with us. Suvorin has been here twice; he talked about you, and + caught fish. I am up to my neck in work with Sahalin, and other things no + less wearisome and hard labour. I dream of winning forty thousand, so as + to cut myself off completely from writing, which I am sick of, to buy a + little bit of land and live like a hermit in idle seclusion, with you and + Ivan in the neighbourhood—I dream of presenting you with fifteen + acres each as poor relations. Altogether I have a dreary existence, I am + sick of toiling over lines and halfpence, and old age is creeping nearer + and nearer. + </p> + <p> + Your last story, in my opinion, shared by Suvorin, is good. Why do you + write so little? + </p> + <p> + The zoologist V. A. Wagner, who took his degree with you, is staying in + the same courtyard. He is writing a very solid dissertation. Kisilyov, the + artist, is living in the same yard too. We go walks together in the + evenings and discuss philosophy.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0143" id="link2H_4_0143"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + BOGIMOVO, July 24, 1891. + </p> + <p> + ... Thanks for the five kopecks addition. Alas, it will not settle my + difficulties! To save up a reserve, as you write, and extricate myself + from the abyss of halfpenny anxieties and petty terrors, there is only one + resource left me—an immoral one. To marry a rich woman or give out + Anna Karenin as my work. And as that is impossible I dismiss my + difficulties in despair and let things go as they please. + </p> + <p> + You once praised Rod, a French writer, and told me Tolstoy liked him. The + other day I happened to read a novel of his and flung up my hands in + amazement. He is equivalent to our Matchtet, only a little more + intelligent. There is a terrible deal of affectation, dreariness, + straining after originality, and as little of anything artistic as there + was salt in that porridge we cooked in the evening at Bogimovo. In the + preface this Rod regrets that he was in the past a “naturalist,” and + rejoices that the spiritualism of the latest recruits of literature has + replaced materialism. Boyish boastfulness which is at the same time coarse + and clumsy.... “If we are not as talented as you, Monsieur Zola, to make + up for it we believe in God.” ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0144" id="link2H_4_0144"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + July 29. + </h2> + <p> + Well, thank God! To-day I have received from the bookshop notice that + there is 690 roubles 6 kopecks coming to me. I have written in answer that + they are to send five hundred roubles to Feodosia and the other one + hundred and ninety to me. And so I am left owing you only one hundred and + seventy. That is comforting, it’s an advance anyway. To meet the debt to + the newspaper I am arming myself with an immense story which I shall + finish in a day or two and send. I ought to knock three hundred roubles + off the debt, and get as much for myself. Ough! ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + August 6. + </h2> + <p> + ... The death of a servant in the house makes a strange impression, + doesn’t it? The man while he was alive attracted attention only so far as + he was one’s “man”; but when he is dead he suddenly engrosses the + attention of all, lies like a weight on the whole house, and becomes the + despotic master who is talked of to the exclusion of everything. + </p> + <p> + ... I shall finish my story to-morrow or the day after, but not to-day, + for it has exhausted me fiendishly towards the end. Thanks to the haste + with which I have worked at it, I have wasted a pound of nerves over it. + The composition of it is a little complicated. I got into difficulties and + often tore up what I had written, and for days at a time was dissatisfied + with my work—that is why I have not finished it till now. How awful + it is! I must rewrite it! It’s impossible to leave it, for it is in a + devil of a mess. My God! if the public likes my works as little as I do + those of other people which I am reading, what an ass I am! There is + something asinine about our writing.... + </p> + <p> + To my great pleasure the amazing astronomer has arrived. She is angry with + you, and calls you for some reason an “eloquent gossip.” To begin with, + she is free and independent; and then she has a poor opinion of men; and + further, according to her, everyone is a savage or a ninny—and you + dared to give her my address with the words “the being you adore lives at + ...,” and so on. Upon my word, as though one could suspect earthly + feelings in astronomers who soar among the clouds! She talks and laughs + all day, is a capital mushroom-gatherer, and dreams of the Caucasus to + which she is departing today. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0146" id="link2H_4_0146"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + August 18. + </h2> + <p> + At last I have finished my long, wearisome story [Footnote: “The Duel.”] + and am sending it to you in Feodosia. Please read it. It is too long for + the paper, and not suitable for dividing into parts. Do as you think best, + however.... + </p> + <p> + There are more than four signatures of print in the story. It’s awful. I + am exhausted, and dragged the end, like a train of waggons on a muddy + night in autumn, at a walking pace with halts—that is why I am late + with it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0147" id="link2H_4_0147"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + August 18. + </h2> + <p> + Speaking of Nikolay and the doctor who attends him, you emphasize that + “all that is done without love, without self-sacrifice, even in regard to + trifling conveniences.” You are right, speaking of people generally, but + what would you have the doctors do? If, as your old nurse says, “The bowel + has burst,” what’s one to do, even if one is ready to give one’s life to + the sufferer? As a rule, while the family, the relations, and the servants + are doing “everything they can” and are straining every nerve, the doctor + sits and looks like a fool, with his hands folded, disconsolately ashamed + of himself and his science, and trying to preserve external + tranquillity.... + </p> + <p> + Doctors have loathsome days and hours, such as I would not wish my worst + enemy. It is true that ignoramuses and coarse louts are no rarity among + doctors, nor are they among writers, engineers, people in general; but + those loathsome days and hours of which I speak fall to the lot of doctors + only, and for that, truly, much may be forgiven them.... + </p> + <p> + The amazing astronomer is at Batum now. As I told her I should go to Batum + too, she will send her address to Feodosia. She has grown cleverer than + ever of late. One day I overheard a learned discussion between her and the + zoologist Wagner, whom you know. It seemed to me that in comparison with + her the learned professor was simply a schoolboy. She has excellent logic + and plenty of good common sense, but no rudder, ... so that she drifts and + drifts, and doesn’t know where she is going.... + </p> + <p> + A woman was carting rye, and she fell off the waggon head downwards. She + was terribly injured: concussion of the brain, straining of the vertebrae + of the neck, sickness, fearful pains, and so on. She was brought to me. + She was moaning and groaning and praying for death, and yet she looked at + the man who brought her and muttered: “Let the lentils go, Kirila, you can + thresh them later, but thresh the oats now.” I told her that she could + talk about oats afterwards, that there was something more serious to talk + about, but she said to me: “His oats are ever so good!” A managing, + vigilant woman. Death comes easy to such people.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0148" id="link2H_4_0148"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + August 28. + </h2> + <p> + I send you Mihailovsky’s article on Tolstoy. Read it and grow perfect. + It’s a good article, but it’s strange; one might write a thousand such + articles and things would not be one step forwarder, and it would still + remain unintelligible why such articles are written.... + </p> + <p> + I am writing my Sahalin, and I am bored, I am bored.... I am utterly sick + of life. + </p> + <p> + Judging from your telegram I have not satisfied you with my story. You + should not have hesitated to send it back to me. + </p> + <p> + Oh, how weary I am of sick people! A neighbouring landowner had a nervous + stroke and they trundled me off to him in a scurvy jolting britchka. Most + of all I am sick of peasant women with babies, and of powders which it is + so tedious to weigh out. + </p> + <p> + There is a famine year coming. I suppose there will be epidemics of all + sorts and risings on a small scale.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0149" id="link2H_4_0149"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + August 28. + </h2> + <p> + So you like my story? [Footnote: “The Duel.”] Well, thank God! Of late I + have become devilishly suspicious and uneasy. I am constantly fancying + that my trousers are horrid, and that I am writing not as I want to, and + that I am giving my patients the wrong powders. It must be a special + neurosis. + </p> + <p> + If Ladzievsky’s surname is really horrible, you can call him something + else. Let him be Lagievsky, let von Koren remain von Koren. The multitude + of Wagners, Brandts, and so on, in all the scientific world, make a + Russian name out of the question for a zoologist—though there is + Kovalevsky. And by the way, Russian life is so mixed up nowadays that any + surnames will do. + </p> + <p> + Sahalin is progressing. There are times when I long to sit over it from + three to five years, and work at it furiously; but at times, in moments of + doubt, I could spit on it. It would be a good thing, by God! to devote + three years to it. I shall write a great deal of rubbish, because I am not + a specialist, but really I shall write something sensible too. It is such + a good subject, because it would live for a hundred years after me, as it + would be the literary source and aid for all who are studying prison + organization, or are interested in it. + </p> + <p> + You are right, your Excellency, I have done a great deal this summer. + Another such summer and I may perhaps have written a novel and bought an + estate. I have not only paid my way, but even paid off a thousand roubles + of debt. + </p> + <p> + ... Tell your son that I envy him. And I envy you too, and not because + your wives have gone away, but because you are bathing in the sea and + living in a warm house. I am cold in my barn. I should like new carpets, + an open fireplace, bronzes, and learned conversations. Alas! I shall never + be a Tolstoyan. In women I love beauty above all things; and in the + history of mankind, culture, expressed in carpets, carriages with springs, + and keenness of wit. Ach! To make haste and become an old man and sit at a + big table! ... + </p> + <p> + P.S.—If we were to cut the zoological conversations out of “The + Duel” wouldn’t it make it more living? ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0150" id="link2H_4_0150"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + September 8. + </p> + <p> + I have returned to Moscow and am keeping indoors. My family is busy trying + to find a new flat but I say nothing because I am too lazy to turn round. + They want to move to Devitchye Polye for the sake of cheapness. + </p> + <p> + The title you recommend for my novel—“Deception”—will not do: + it would only be appropriate if it were a question of conscious lying. + Unconscious lying is not deception but a mistake. Tolstoy calls our having + money and eating meat lying—that’s too much.... + </p> + <p> + Death gathers men little by little, he knows what he is about. One might + write a play: an old chemist invents the elixir of life—take fifteen + drops and you live for ever; but he breaks the phial from terror, lest + such carrion as himself and his wife might live for ever. Tolstoy denies + mankind immortality, but my God! how much that is personal there is in it! + The day before yesterday I read his “Afterword.” Strike me dead! but it is + stupider and stuffier than “Letters to a Governor’s Wife,” which I + despise. The devil take the philosophy of the great ones of this world! + All the great sages are as despotic as generals, and as ignorant and as + indelicate as generals, because they feel secure of impunity. Diogenes + spat in people’s faces, knowing that he would not suffer for it. Tolstoy + abuses doctors as scoundrels, and displays his ignorance in great + questions because he’s just such a Diogenes who won’t be locked up or + abused in the newspapers. And so to the devil with the philosophy of all + the great ones of this world! The whole of it with its fanatical + “Afterwords” and “Letters to a Governor’s Wife” is not worth one little + mare in his “Story of a Horse....” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0151" id="link2H_4_0151"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO E. M. S. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, September 16. + </p> + <p> + So we old bachelors smell of dogs? So be it. But as for specialists in + feminine diseases being at heart rakes and cynics, allow me to differ. + Gynaecologists have to do with deadly prose such as you have never dreamed + of, and to which perhaps, if you knew it, you would, with the ferocity + characteristic of your imagination, attribute a worse smell than that of + dogs. One who is always swimming in the sea loves dry land; one who for + ever is plunged in prose passionately longs for poetry. All gynaecologists + are idealists. Your doctor reads poems, your instinct prompted you right; + I would add that he is a great liberal, a bit of a mystic, and that he + dreams of a wife in the style of the Nekrassov Russian woman. The famous + Snyegirev cannot speak of the “Russian woman” without a quiver in his + voice. Another gynaecologist whom I know is in love with a mysterious lady + in a veil whom he has only seen from a distance. Another one goes to all + the first performances at the theatre and then is loud in his abuse, + declaring that authors ought to represent only ideal women, and so on. You + have omitted to consider also that a good gynaecologist cannot be a stupid + man or a mediocrity. Intellect has a brighter lustre than baldness, but + you have noticed the baldness and emphasized it—and have flung the + intellect overboard. You have noticed, too, and emphasized that a fat man—brrr!—exudes + a sort of greasiness, but you completely lose sight of the fact that he is + a professor—that is, that he has spent several years in thinking and + doing something which sets him high above millions of men, high above all + the Verotchkas and Taganrog Greek girls, high above dinners and wines of + all sorts. Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. Ham only noticed + that his father was a drunkard, and completely lost sight of the fact that + he was a genius, that he had built an ark and saved the world. + </p> + <p> + Writers must not imitate Ham, bear that in mind. + </p> + <p> + I do not venture to ask you to love the gynaecologist and the professor, + but I venture to remind you of the justice which for an objective writer + is more precious than the air he breathes. + </p> + <p> + The girl of the merchant class is admirably drawn. That is a good passage + in the doctor’s speech in which he speaks of his lack of faith in + medicine, but there is no need to make him drink after every sentence.... + </p> + <p> + Then from the particular to the general! Let me warn you. This is not a + story and not a novel and not a work of art, but a long row of heavy, + gloomy barrack buildings. Where is your construction which at first so + enchanted your humble servant? Where is the lightness, the freshness, the + grace? Read your story through: a description of a dinner, then a + description of passing ladies and girls, then a description of a company, + then a description of a dinner, ... and so on endlessly. Descriptions and + descriptions and no action at all. You ought to begin straight away with + the merchant’s daughter, and keep to her, and chuck out Verotchka and the + Greek girls and all the rest, except the doctor and the merchant family. + </p> + <p> + Excuse this long letter. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0152" id="link2H_4_0152"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, October 16, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I congratulate you on your new cook, and wish you an excellent appetite. + Wish me the same, for I am coming to see you soon—sooner than I had + intended—and shall eat for three. I simply must get away from home, + if only for a fortnight. From morning till night I am unpleasantly + irritable, I feel as though someone were drawing a blunt knife over my + soul, and this irritability finds external expression in my hurrying off + to bed early and avoiding conversation. Nothing I do succeeds. I began a + story for the <i>Sbornik</i>; I wrote half and threw it up, and then began + another; I have been struggling for more than a week with this story, and + the time when I shall finish it and when I shall set to work and finish + the first story, for which I am to be paid, seems to me far away. I have + not been to the province of Nizhni Novgorod yet, for reasons not under my + control, and I don’t know when I shall go. In fact it’s a hopeless mess—a + silly muddle and not life. And I desire nothing now so much as to win two + hundred thousand.... + </p> + <p> + Ah, I have such a subject for a novel! If I were in a tolerable humour I + could begin it on the first of November and finish it on the first of + December. I would make five signatures of print. And I long to write as I + did at Bogimovo—i.e., from morning till night and in my sleep. + </p> + <p> + Don’t tell anyone I am coming to Petersburg. I shall live incognito. In my + letters I write vaguely that I am coming in November.... + </p> + <p> + Shall I remind you of Kashtanka, or forget about her? Won’t she lose her + childhood and youth if we don’t print her? However, you know best.... + </p> + <p> + P. S.—If you see my brother Alexandr, tell him that our aunt is + dying of consumption. Her days are numbered. She was a splendid woman, a + saint. + </p> + <p> + If you want to visit the famine-stricken provinces, let us go together in + January, it will be more conspicuous then.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0153" id="link2H_4_0153"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + October 19, 1891. + </p> + <p> + What a splendid little letter has come from you! It is warmly and + eloquently written, and every thought in it is true. To talk now of + laziness and drunkenness, and so on, is as strange and tactless as to + lecture a man on the conduct of life at a moment when he is being sick or + lying ill of typhus. There is always a certain element of insolence in + being well-fed, as in every kind of force, and that element finds + expression chiefly in the well-fed man preaching to the hungry. If + consolation is revolting at a time of real sorrow, what must be the effect + of preaching morality; and how stupid and insulting that preaching must + seem. These moral people imagine that if a man is fifteen roubles in + arrears with his taxes he must be a wastrel, and ought not to drink; but + they ought to reckon up how much states are in debt, and prime ministers, + and what the debts of all the marshals of nobility and all the bishops + taken together come to. What do the Guards owe! Only their tailors could + tell us that.... + </p> + <p> + You have told them to send me four hundred? Vivat dominus Suvorin! So I + have already received from your firm 400 + 100 + 400. Altogether I shall + get for “The Duel” as I calculated, about fourteen hundred, so five + hundred will go towards my debt. Well, and for that thank God! By the + spring I must pay off all my debt or I shall go into a decline, for in the + spring I want another advance from all my editors. I shall take it and + escape to Java.... + </p> + <p> + Ah, my friends, how bored I am! If I am a doctor I ought to have patients + and a hospital; if I am a literary man I ought to live among people + instead of in a flat with a mongoose, I ought to have at least a scrap of + social and political life—but this life between four walls, without + nature, without people, without a country, without health and appetite, is + not life, but some sort of ... and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + For the sake of all the perch and pike you are going to catch on your + Zaraish estate, I entreat you to publish the English humorist Bernard. + [Translator’s Note: ? Bernard Shaw.] ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0154" id="link2H_4_0154"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME LINTVARYOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, October 25, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + HONOURED NATALYA MIHAILOVNA, + </h3> + <p> + I have not gone to Nizhni as I meant to, but am sitting at home, writing + and sneezing. Madame Morozov has seen the Minister, he has absolutely + prohibited private initiative in the work of famine relief, and actually + waved her out of his presence. This has reduced me to apathy at once. Add + to that, complete lack of money, sneezing, a mass of work, the illness of + my aunt who died to-day, the indefiniteness, the uncertainty in fact—everything + has come together to hinder a lazy person like me. I have put off my going + away till the first of December. + </p> + <p> + We felt dull without you for a long time, and when the Shah of Persia + [Footnote: A. I. Smagin.] went away it was duller still. I have given + orders that no one is to be admitted, and sit in my room like a heron in + the reeds; I see no one, and no one sees me. And it is better so, or the + public would pull the bell off, and my study would be turned into a + smoking and talking room. It’s dull to live like this, but what am I to + do? I shall wait till the summer and then let myself go. + </p> + <p> + I shall sell the mongoose by auction. I should be glad to sell N. and his + poems too, but no one would buy him. He dashes in to see me almost every + evening as he used to do, and bores me with his doubts, his struggles, his + volcanoes, slit nostrils, atamans, the life of the free, and such tosh, + for which God forgive him. + </p> + <p> + Russkiya Vyedomosti is printing a <i>Sbornik</i> for the famine fund. With + your permission, I shall send you a copy. + </p> + <p> + Well, good health and happiness to you; respects and greetings to all + yours from + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + the Geographer, + A. CHEKHOV. +</pre> + <p> + P. S.—All my family send their regards. + </p> + <p> + We are all well but sorrowful. Our aunt was a general favourite, and was + considered among us the incarnation of goodness, kindness, and justice, if + only all that can be incarnated. Of course we shall all die, but still it + is sad. + </p> + <p> + In April I shall be in your parts. By the spring I hope I shall have heaps + of money. I judge by the omen: no money is a sign of money coming. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0155" id="link2H_4_0155"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, October 25, 1891. + </p> + <p> + Print “The Duel” not twice a week but only once. To print it twice is + breaking a long-established custom of the paper, and it would seem as + though I were robbing the other contributors of one day a week; and + meanwhile it makes no difference to me or my novel whether it is printed + once a week or twice. The literary brotherhood in Petersburg seems to talk + of nothing but the uncleanness of my motives. I have just received the + good news that I am to be married to the rich Madame Sibiryakov. I get a + lot of agreeable news altogether. + </p> + <p> + I wake up every night and read “War and Peace.” One reads it with the same + interest and naive wonder as though one had never read it before. It’s + amazingly good. Only I don’t like the passages in which Napoleon appears. + As soon as Napoleon comes on the scene there are forced explanations and + tricks of all sorts to prove that he was stupider than he really was. + Everything that is said and done by Pierre, Prince Andrey, or the + absolutely insignificant Nikolay Rostov—all that is good, clever, + natural, and touching; everything that is thought and done by Napoleon is + not natural, not clever, inflated and worthless. + </p> + <p> + When I live in the provinces (of which I dream now day and night), I shall + practice as a doctor and read novels. + </p> + <p> + I am not coming to Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + If I had been by Prince Andrey I should have saved him. It is strange to + read that the wound of a prince, a rich man spending his days and nights + with a doctor and being nursed by Natasha and Sonya, should have smelt + like a corpse. What a scurvy affair medicine was in those days! Tolstoy + could not help getting soaked through with hatred for medicine while he + was writing his thick novel.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0156" id="link2H_4_0156"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + November 18, 1891. + </p> + <p> + ... I have read your letter about the influenza and Solovyov. I was + unexpectedly aware of a dash of cruelty in it. The phrase “I hate” does + not suit you at all; and a public confession “I am a sinner, a sinner, a + sinner,” is such pride that it made me feel uncomfortable. When the pope + took the title “holiness,” the head of the Eastern church, in pique, + called himself “The servant of God’s servants.” So you publicly expatiate + on your sinfulness from pique of Solovyov, who has the impudence to call + himself orthodox. But does a word like orthodoxy, Judaism, or Catholicism + contain any implication of exceptional personal merit or virtue? To my + thinking everybody is bound to call himself orthodox if he has that word + inscribed on his passport. Whether you believe or not, whether you are a + prince of this world or an exile in penal servitude, you are, for + practical purposes, orthodox. And Solovyov made no sort of pretension when + he said he was no Jew or Chaldean but orthodox.... + </p> + <p> + I still feel dull, blighted, foolish, and indifferent, and I am still + sneezing and coughing, and I am beginning to think I shall not get back to + my former health. But that’s all in God’s hands. Medical treatment and + anxiety about one’s physical existence arouse in me a feeling not far from + loathing. I am not going to be doctored. I will take water and quinine, + but I am not going to let myself be sounded.... + </p> + <p> + I had only just finished this letter when I received yours. You say that + if I go into the wilds I shall be quite cut off from you. But I am going + to live in the country in order to be nearer Petersburg. If I have no flat + in Moscow you must understand, my dear sir, I shall spend November, + December, and January in Petersburg: that will be possible then. I shall + be able to be idle all the summer too; I shall look out for a house in the + country for you, but you are wrong in disliking Little Russians, they are + not children or actors in the province of Poltava, but genuine people, and + cheerful and well-fed into the bargain. + </p> + <p> + Do you know what relieves my cough? When I am working I sprinkle the edge + of the table with turpentine with a sprayer and inhale its vapour. When I + go to bed I spray my little table and other objects near me. The fine + drops evaporate sooner than the liquid itself. And the smell of turpentine + is pleasant. I drink Obersalzbrunnen, avoid hot things, talk little, and + blame myself for smoking so much. I repeat, dress as warmly as possible, + even at home. Avoid draughts at the theatre. Treat yourself like a + hothouse plant or you will not soon be rid of your cough. If you want to + try turpentine, buy the French kind. Take quinine once a day, and be + careful to avoid constipation. Influenza has completely taken away from me + any desire to drink spirituous liquors. They are disgusting to my taste. I + don’t drink my two glasses at night, and so it is a long time before I can + get to sleep. I want to take ether. + </p> + <p> + I await your story. In the summer let us each write a play. Yes, by God! + why the devil should we waste our time.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0157" id="link2H_4_0157"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO E. M. S. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, November 19, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + HONOURED ELENA MIHAILOVNA, + </h3> + <p> + I am at home to all commencing, continuing, and concluding authors—that + is my rule, and apart from your authorship and mine, I regard a visit from + you as a great honour to me. Even if it were not so, even if for some + reason I did not desire your visit, even then I should have received you, + as I have enjoyed the greatest hospitality from your family. I did not + receive you, and at once asked my brother to go to you and explain the + cause. At the moment your card was handed me I was ill and undressed—forgive + these homely details—I was in my bedroom, while there were persons + in my study whose presence would not have been welcome to you. And so—to + see you was physically impossible, and this my brother was to have + explained to you, and you, a decent and good-hearted person, ought to have + understood it; but you were offended. Well, I can’t help it.... + </p> + <p> + But can you really have written only fifteen stories?—at this rate + you won’t learn to write till you are fifty. + </p> + <p> + I am in bad health; for over a month I have had to keep indoors—influenza + and cough. + </p> + <p> + All good wishes. + </p> + <p> + Write another twenty stories and send them. I shall always read them with + pleasure, and practice is essential for you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0158" id="link2H_4_0158"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, November 22, 1891. + </p> + <p> + My health is on the road to improvement. My cough is less, my strength is + greater. My mood is livelier, and there is sunrise in my head. I wake up + in the morning in good spirits, go to bed without gloomy thoughts, and at + dinner I am not ill-humoured and don’t say nasty things to my mother. + </p> + <p> + I don’t know when I shall come to you. I have heaps of work <i>pour manger</i>. + Till the spring I must work—that is, at senseless grind. A ray of + liberty has beamed upon my horizon. There has come a whiff of freedom. + Yesterday I got a letter from the province of Poltava. They write they + have found me a suitable place. A brick house of seven rooms with an iron + roof, lately built and needing no repairs, a stable, a cellar, an + icehouse, eighteen acres of land, an excellent meadow for hay, an old + shady garden on the bank of the river Psyol. The river bank is mine; on + that side there is a marvellous view over a wide expanse. The price is + merciful. Three thousand, and two thousand deferred payment over several + years. Five in all. If heaven has mercy upon me, and the purchase comes + off, I shall move there in March <i>for good</i>, to live quietly in the + lap of nature for nine months and the rest of the year in Petersburg. I am + sending my sister to look at the place. + </p> + <p> + Ach! liberty, liberty! If I can live on not more than two thousand a year, + which is only possible in the country, I shall be absolutely free from all + anxieties over money coming in and going out. Then I shall work and read, + read ... in a word it will be marmelad. [Translator’s Note: A kind of + sweetmeat made by boiling down fruit to the consistency of damson cheese.] + ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0159" id="link2H_4_0159"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + November 30, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I return you the two manuscripts you sent me. One story is an Indian + Legend—The Lotus Flower, Wreaths of Laurel, A Summer Night, The + Humming Bird—that in India! He begins with Faust thirsting for youth + and ends with “the bliss of the true life,” in the style of Tolstoy. I + have cut out parts, polished it up, and the result is a legend of no great + value, indeed, but light, and it may be read with interest. The other + story is illiterate, clumsy, and womanish in structure, but there is a + story and a certain raciness. I have cut it down to half as you see. Both + stories could be printed.... + </p> + <p> + I keep dreaming and dreaming. I dream of moving from Moscow into the + country in March, and in the autumn coming to Petersburg to stay till the + spring. I long to spend at least one winter in Petersburg, and that’s only + possible on condition I have no perch in Moscow. And I dream of how I + shall spend five months talking to you about literature, and do as I think + best in the <i>Novoye Vremya</i>, while in the country I shall go in for + medicine heart and soul. + </p> + <p> + Boborykin has been to see me. He is dreaming too. He told me that he wants + to write something in the way of the physiology of the Russian novel, its + origin among us, and the natural course of its development. While he was + talking I could not get rid of the feeling that I had a maniac before me, + but a literary maniac who put literature far above everything in life. I + so rarely see genuine literary people at home in Moscow that a + conversation with Boborykin seemed like heavenly manna, though I don’t + believe in the physiology of the novel and the natural course of its + development—that is, there may exist such a physiology in nature, + but I don’t believe with existing methods it can be detected. Boborykin + dismisses Gogol absolutely and refuses to recognize him as a forerunner of + Turgenev, Gontcharov, and Tolstoy.... He puts him apart, outside the + current in which the Russian novel has flowed. Well, I don’t understand + that. If one takes the standpoint of natural development, it’s impossible + to put not only Gogol, but even a dog barking, outside the current, for + all things in nature influence one another, and even the fact that I have + just sneezed is not without its influence on surrounding nature.... + </p> + <p> + Good health to you! I am reading Shtchedrin’s “Diary of a Provincial.” How + long and boring it is! And at the same time how like real life! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0160" id="link2H_4_0160"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO N. A. LEIKIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, December 2, 1891. + </p> + <p> + I am writing to ask you a great favour, dear Nikolay Alexandrovitch. This + is what it is. Until last year I have always lived with my university + diploma, which by land and by sea has served me for a passport; but every + time it has been <i>vise</i> the police have warned me that one cannot + live with a diploma, and that I ought to get a passport from “the proper + department.” I have asked everyone what this “proper department” means, + and no one has given me an answer. A year ago the Moscow head police + officer gave me a passport on the condition that within a year I should + get a passport from “the proper department.” I can’t make head or tail of + it! The other day I learned that as I have never been in the government + service and by education am a doctor, I ought to be registered in the + class of professional citizens, and that a certain department, I believe + the heraldic, will furnish me with a certificate which will serve me as a + passport for all the days of my life. I remembered that you had lately + received the grade of professional citizen, and with it a certificate, and + that therefore you must have applied somewhere and to someone and so, in a + sense, are an old campaigner. For God’s sake advise me to what department + I ought to apply. What petition ought I to write, and how many stamps + ought I to put on it? What documents must be enclosed with the petition? + and so on, and so on. In the town hall there is a “passport bureau.” Could + not that bureau reveal the mystery if it is not sufficiently clear to you? + </p> + <p> + Forgive me for troubling you, but I really don’t know to whom to apply, + and I am a very poor lawyer myself.... + </p> + <p> + Your “Medal” is often given at Korsh’s Theatre, and with success. It is + played together with Myasnitsky’s “Hare.” I haven’t seen them, but friends + tell me that a great difference is felt between the two plays: that “The + Medal” in comparison with “The Hare” seems something clean, artistic, and + having form and semblance. There you have it! Literary men are swept out + of the theatre, and plays are written by nondescript people, old and + young, while the journals and newspapers are edited by tradesmen, + government clerks, and young ladies. But there, the devil take them! ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0161" id="link2H_4_0161"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO E. P. YEGOROV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, December 11, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + HONOURED EVGRAF PETROVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + I write to explain why my journey to you did not come off. I was intending + to come to you not as a special correspondent, but on a commission from, + or more correctly by agreement with, a small circle of people who want to + do something for the famine-stricken peasants. The point is that the + public does not trust the administration and so is deterred from + subscribing. There are a thousand legends and fables about the waste, the + shameless theft, and so on. People hold aloof from the Episcopal + department and are indignant with the Red Cross. The owner of our beloved + Babkino, the Zemsky Natchalnik, rapped out to me, bluntly and definitely: + “The Red Cross in Moscow are thieves.” Such being the state of feeling, + the government can scarcely expect serious help from the public. And yet + the public wants to help and its conscience is uneasy. In September the + educated and wealthy classes of Moscow formed themselves into circles, + thought, talked, and applied for advice to leading persons; everyone was + talking of how to get round the government and organize independently. + They decided to send to the famine-stricken provinces their own agents, + who should make acquaintance with the position on the spot, open feeding + centres, and so on. Some of the leaders of these circles, persons of + weight, went to Durnovo to ask permission, and Durnovo refused it, + declaring that the organization of relief must be left to the Episcopal + department and the Red Cross. In short, private initiative was suppressed + at its first efforts. Everyone was cast down and dispirited; some were + furious, some simply washed their hands of the whole business. One must + have the courage and authority of Tolstoy to act in opposition to all + prohibitions and prevailing sentiments, and to follow the dictates of + duty. + </p> + <p> + Well, now about myself. I am in complete sympathy with individual + initiative, for every man has the right to do good in the way he thinks + best; but all the discussion concerning the government, the Red Cross, and + so on, seemed to me inopportune and impractical. I imagined that with + coolness and good humour, one might get round all the terrors and delicacy + of the position, and that there was no need to go to the Minister about + it. I went to Sahalin without a single letter of recommendation, and yet I + did everything I wanted to. Why cannot I go to the famine-stricken + provinces? I remembered, too, such representatives of the government as + you, Kiselyov, and all the Zemsky Natchalniks and tax inspectors of my + acquaintance—all extremely decent people, worthy of complete + confidence. And I resolved—if only for a small region—to + combine the two elements of officialdom and private initiative. I want to + come and consult you as soon as I can. The public trusts me; it would + trust you, too, and I might reckon on succeeding. Do you remember I wrote + to you? Suvorin came to Moscow at the time; I complained to him that I did + not know your address. He telegraphed to Baranov, and Baranov was so kind + as to send it to me. Suvorin was ill with influenza; as a rule when he + comes to Moscow we spend whole days together discussing literature, of + which he has a wide knowledge; we did the same on this occasion, and in + consequence I caught his influenza, was laid up, and had a raging cough. + Korolenko was in Moscow, and he found me ill. Lung complications kept me + ill for a whole month, confined to the house and unable to do anything. + Now I am on the way to recovery, though I still cough and am thin. There + is the whole story for you. If it had not been for the influenza we might + together perhaps have succeeded in extracting two or three thousand or + more from the public. + </p> + <p> + Your exasperation with the press I can quite understand. The lucubrations + of the journalists annoy you who know the true position of affairs, in the + same way as the lucubrations of the profane about diphtheria annoy me as a + doctor. But what would you have? Russia is not England and is not France. + Our newspapers are not rich and they have very few men at their disposal. + To send to the Volga a professor of the Petrovsky Academy or an Engelhardt + is expensive: to send a talented and business-like member of the staff is + impossible too—he is wanted at home. The <i>Times</i> could organize + a census in the famine-stricken provinces at its own expense, could settle + a Kennan in every district, paying him forty roubles a day, and then + something sensible could be done; but what can the <i>Russkiya Vyedomosti</i> + or the <i>Novoye Vremya</i> do, who consider an income of a hundred + thousand as the wealth of Croesus? As for the correspondents themselves, + they are townsmen who know the country only from Glyeb Uspensky. Their + position is an utterly false one, they must fly into a district, sniff + about, write, and dash on further. The Russian correspondent has neither + material resources, nor freedom, nor authority. For two hundred roubles a + month he gallops on and on, and only prays they may not be angry with him + for his involuntary and inevitable misrepresentations. He feels guilty—though + it is not he that is to blame but Russian darkness. The newspaper + correspondents of the west have excellent maps, encyclopaedias, and + statistics; in the west they could write their reports, sitting at home, + but among us a correspondent can extract information only from talk and + rumour. Among us in Russia only three districts have been investigated: + the Tcherepov district, the Tambov district, and one other. That is all in + the whole of Russia. The newspapers tell lies, the correspondents are + duffers, but what’s to be done? If our press said nothing the position + would be still more awful, you’ll admit that. + </p> + <p> + Your letter and your scheme for buying the cattle from the peasants has + stirred me up. I am ready with all my heart and all my strength to follow + your lead and do whatever you think best. I have thought it over for a + long time, and this is my opinion: it is no use to reckon upon the rich. + It is too late. Every wealthy man has by now forked out as many thousands + as he is destined to. Our one resource now is the middle-class man who + subscribes by the rouble and the half-rouble. Those who in September were + talking about private initiative will by now have found themselves a niche + in various boards and committees and are already at work. So only the + middle-class man is left. Let us open a subscription list. You shall write + a letter to the editors, and I will get it printed in <i>Russkiya + Vyedomosti</i> and <i>Novoye Vremya</i>. To combine the two elements above + mentioned, we might both sign the letter. If that is inconvenient to you + from an official point of view, one might write in the third person as a + communication that in the fifth section of the Nizhni Novgorod district + this and that had been organized, that things were, thank God! going + successfully and that subscriptions could be sent to the Zemsky + Natchalnik, E. P. Yegorov, or to A. P. Chekhov, or to the editor of such + and such papers. We need only to write at some length. Write in full + detail, I will add something, and the thing will be done. We must ask for + subscriptions and not for loans. No one will come forward with a loan; it + is uncomfortable. It is hard to give, but it is harder still to take back. + </p> + <p> + I have only one rich acquaintance in Moscow, V. A. Morozov, a lady + well-known for her philanthropy. I went to see her yesterday with your + letter. I talked with her and dined with her. She is absorbed now in the + committee of education, which is organizing relief centres for the + school-children, and is giving everything to that. As education and horses + are incommensurables, V. A. promised me the co-operation of the committee + if we would start centres for feeding the school-children and send + detailed information about it. I felt it awkward to ask her for money on + the spot, for people beg and beg of her and fleece her like a fox. I only + asked her when she had any committees and board meetings not to forget us, + and she promised she would not.... + </p> + <p> + If any roubles or half-roubles come in I will send them on to you without + delay. Dispose of me and believe me that it would be a real happiness to + me to do at least something, for so far I have done absolutely nothing for + the famine-stricken peasants and for those who are helping them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0162" id="link2H_4_0162"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. I. SMAGIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, December 11, 1891. + </p> + <p> + ... Well, now I have something to tell you, my good sir. I am sitting at + home in Moscow, but meantime my enterprise in the Nizhni Novgorod province + is in full swing already! Together with my friend the Zemsky Natchalnik, + an excellent man, we are hatching a little scheme, on which we expect to + spend a hundred thousand or so, in the most remote section of the + province, where there are no landowners nor doctors, nor even + well-educated young ladies who are now to be found in numbers even in + hell. Apart from famine relief of all sorts, we are making it our chief + object to save the crops of next year. Owing to the fact that the peasants + are selling their horses for next to nothing, there is a grave danger that + the fields will not be ploughed for the spring corn, so that the famine + will be repeated next year. So we are going to buy up the horses and feed + them, and in spring give them back to their owners; our work is already + firmly established, and in January I am going there to behold its fruits. + Here is my object in writing to you. If in the course of some noisy + banquet you or anyone else should chance to collect, if only half a + rouble, for the famine fund, or if some Korobotchka bequeaths a rouble for + that object, or if you yourself should win a hundred roubles, remember us + sinners in your prayers, and spare us a part of your wealth! Not at once + but when you like, only not later than in the spring.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0163" id="link2H_4_0163"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, December 11, 1891. + </p> + <p> + ... I am coming to you. My lying is unintentional. I have no money at all. + I shall come when I get the various sums owing to me. Yesterday I got one + hundred and fifty roubles, I shall soon get more, then I shall fly to you. + </p> + <p> + In January I am going to Nizhni Novgorod province: there my scheme is + working already. I am very, very glad. I am going to write to Anna + Pavlovna. + </p> + <p> + Ah, if you knew how agonizingly my head aches to-day! I want to come to + Petersburg if only to lie motionless indoors for two days and only go out + to dinner. For some reason I feel utterly exhausted. It’s all this cursed + influenza. + </p> + <p> + How many persons could you and would you undertake to feed? Tolstoy! ah, + Tolstoy! In these days he is not a man but a super-man, a Jupiter. In the + <i>Sbornik</i> he has published an article about the relief centres, and + the article consists of advice and practical instructions. So + business-like, simple, and sensible that, as the editor of <i>Russkiya + Vyedomosti</i> said, it ought to be printed in the <i>Government Gazette</i>, + instead of in the <i>Sbornik</i>.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0164" id="link2H_4_0164"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + December 13, 1891. + </h2> + <p> + Now I understand why you don’t sleep well at night. If I had written a + story like that I should not have slept for ten nights in succession. The + most terrible passage is where Varya strangles the hero and initiates him + into the mysteries of the life beyond the grave. It’s terrifying and + consistent with spiritualism. You mustn’t cut out a single word from + Varya’s speeches, especially where they are both riding on horseback. + Don’t touch it. The idea of the story is good, and the incidents are + fantastic and interesting.... + </p> + <p> + But why do you talk of our “nervous age”? There really is no nervous age. + As people lived in the past so they live now, and the nerves of to-day are + no worse than the nerves of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Since you have + already written the ending I shall not put you out by sending you mine. I + was inspired and could not resist writing it. You can read it if you like. + Stories are good in this way, that one can sit over them, pen in hand, for + days together, and not notice how time passes, and at the same time be + conscious of life of a sort. That’s from the hygienic point of view. And + from the point of view of usefulness and so on, to write a fairly good + story and give the reader ten to twenty interesting minutes—that, as + Gilyarovsky says, is not a sheep sneezing.... + </p> + <p> + I have a horrible headache again to-day. I don’t know what to do. Yes, I + suppose it’s old age, or if it’s not that it’s something worse. + </p> + <p> + A little old gentleman brought me one hundred roubles to-day for the + famine. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0165" id="link2H_4_0165"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. I. SMAGIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, December 16, 1891. + </p> + <p> + ... Alas! if I don’t move into the country this year, and if the purchase + of the house and land for some reason does not come off, I shall be + playing the part of a great villain in regard to my health. It seems to me + that I am dried and warped like an old cupboard, and that if I go on + living in Moscow next season, and give myself up to scribbling excesses, + Gilyarovsky will read an excellent poem to welcome my entrance into that + country place where there is neither sitting nor standing nor sneezing, + but only lying down and nothing more. Do you know why you have no success + with women? Because you have the most hideous, heathenish, desperate, + tragic handwriting.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0166" id="link2H_4_0166"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, December 25, 1891. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ALEXEY NIKOLAEVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + Yesterday I chanced to learn your address, and I write to you. If you have + a free minute please write to me how you are in health, and how you are + getting on altogether. Write, if only a couple of lines. + </p> + <p> + I have had influenza for the last six weeks. There has been a complication + of the lungs and I have a cruel cough. In March I am going south to the + province of Poltava, and shall stay there till my cough is gone. My sister + has gone down there to buy a house and garden. + </p> + <p> + Literary doings here are quiet but life is bustling. There is a great deal + of talk about the famine, and a great deal of work resulting from the said + talk. The theatres are empty, the weather is wretched, there are no frosts + at all. Jean Shteheglov is captivated by the Tolstoyans. Merezhkovsky sits + at home as of old, lost in a labyrinth of deep researches, and as of old + is very nice; of Chekhov they say he has married the heiress Sibiryakov + and got five millions dowry—all Petersburg is talking of it. For + whose benefit and for what object this slander, I am utterly unable to + imagine. It’s positively sickening to read letters from Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + I have not seen Ostrovsky this year.... + </p> + <p> + We shall probably not meet very soon, as I am going away in March and + shall not return to the North before November. I shall not keep a flat in + Moscow, as that pleasure is beyond my means. I shall stay in Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + I embrace you warmly. By the way, a little explanation in private. One day + at dinner in Paris, persuading me to remain there, you offered to lend me + money. I refused, and it seemed to me my refusal hurt and vexed you, and I + fancied that when we parted there was a touch of coldness on your side. + Possibly I am mistaken, but if I am right I assure you, my dear friend, on + my word of honour, that I refused not because I did not care to be under + an obligation to you, but simply from a feeling of self-preservation; I + was behaving stupidly in Paris, and an extra thousand francs would only + have been bad for my health. Believe me that if I had needed it, I would + have asked you for a loan as readily as Suvorin. + </p> + <p> + God keep you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0167" id="link2H_4_0167"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. A. TIHONOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, February 22, 1892. + </p> + <p> + ... You are mistaken in thinking you were drunk at Shtcheglov’s name-day + party. You had had a drop, that was all. You danced when they all danced, + and your jigitivka on the cabman’s box excited nothing but general + delight. As for your criticism, it was most likely far from severe, as I + don’t remember it. I only remember that Vvedensky and I for some reason + roared with laughter as we listened to you. + </p> + <p> + Do you want my biography? Here it is. I was born in Taganrog in 1860. I + finished the course at Taganrog high school in 1879. In 1884 I took my + degree in medicine at the University of Moscow. In 1888 I gained the + Pushkin prize. In 1890 I made a journey to Sahalin across Siberia and back + by sea. In 1891 I made a tour in Europe, where I drank excellent wine and + ate oysters. In 1892 I took part in an orgy in the company of V. A. + Tihonov at a name-day party. I began writing in 1879. The published + collections of my works are: “Motley Tales,” “In the Twilight,” “Stories,” + “Surly People,” and a novel, “The Duel.” I have sinned in the dramatic + line too, though with moderation. I have been translated into all the + languages with the exception of the foreign ones, though I have indeed + long ago been translated by the Germans. The Czechs and the Serbs approve + of me also, and the French are not indifferent. The mysteries of love I + fathomed at the age of thirteen. With my colleagues, doctors, and literary + men alike, I am on the best of terms. I am a bachelor. I should like to + receive a pension. I practice medicine, and so much so that sometimes in + the summer I perform post-mortems, though I have not done so for two or + three years. Of authors my favourite is Tolstoy, of doctors Zaharin. + </p> + <p> + All that is nonsense though. Write what you like. If you haven’t facts + make up with lyricism. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0168" id="link2H_4_0168"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. KISELYOV. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, STATION LOPASNYA, MOSCOW-KURSK LINE. March 7, 1892. + </p> + <p> + This is our new address. And here are the details for you. If a peasant + woman has no troubles she buys a pig. We have bought a pig, too, a big + cumbersome estate, the owner of which would in Germany infallibly be made + a <i>herzog</i>. Six hundred and thirty-nine acres in two parts with land + not ours in between. Three hundred acres of young copse, which in twenty + years will look like a wood, at present is a thicket of bushes. They call + it “shaft wood,” but to my mind the name of “switch wood” would be more + appropriate, since one could make nothing of it at present but switches. + There is a fruit-garden, a park, big trees, long avenues of limes. The + barns and sheds have been recently built, and have a fairly presentable + appearance. The poultry house is made in accordance with the latest + deductions of science, the well has an iron pump. The whole place is shut + off from the world by a fence in the style of a palisade. The yard, the + garden, the park, and the threshing-floor are shut off from each other in + the same way. The house is good and bad. It’s more roomy than our Moscow + flat, it’s light and warm, roofed with iron, and stands in a fine + position, has a verandah into the garden, French windows, and so on, but + it is bad in not being lofty, not sufficiently new, having outside a very + stupid and naive appearance, and inside swarms with bugs and beetles which + could only be got rid of by one means—a fire: nothing else would do + for them. + </p> + <p> + There are flower-beds. In the garden fifteen paces from the house is a + pond (thirty-five yards long, and thirty-five feet wide), with carp and + tench in it, so that you can catch fish from the window. Beyond the yard + there is another pond, which I have not yet seen. In the other part of the + estate there is a river, probably a nasty one. Two miles away there is a + broad river full of fish. We shall sow oats and clover. We have bought + clover seed at ten roubles a pood, but we have no money left for oats. The + estate has been bought for thirteen thousand. The legal formalities cost + about seven hundred and fifty roubles, total fourteen thousand. The artist + who sold it was paid four thousand down, and received a mortgage for five + thousand at five per cent, for five years. The remaining four thousand the + artist will receive from the Land Bank when in the spring I mortgage the + estate to a bank. You see what a good arrangement. In two or three years I + shall have five thousand, and shall pay off the mortgage, and shall be + left with only the four thousand debt to the bank; but I have got to live + those two of three years, hang it all! What matters is not the interest—that + is small, not more than five hundred roubles a year—but that I shall + be obliged all the time to think about quarter-days and all sorts of + horrors attendant on being in debt. Moreover, your honour, as long as I am + alive and earning four or five thousand a year, the debts will seem a + trifle, and even a convenience, for to pay four hundred and seventy + interest is much easier than to pay a thousand for a flat in Moscow; that + is all true. But what if I depart from you sinners to another world—that + is, give up the ghost? Then the ducal estate with the debts would seem to + my parents in their green old age and to my sister such a burden that they + would raise a wail to heaven. + </p> + <p> + I was completely cleaned out over the move. + </p> + <p> + Ah, if you could come and see us! In the first place it would be very + delightful and interesting to see you; and in the second, your advice + would save us from a thousand idiocies. You know we don’t understand a + thing about it. Like Raspluev, all I know about agriculture is that the + earth is black, and nothing more. Write. How is it best to sow clover?—among + the rye, or among the spring wheat? ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0169" id="link2H_4_0169"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, March 9, 1892. + </p> + <p> + ... Yes, such men as Ratchinsky are very rare in this world. I understand + your enthusiasm, my dear fellow. After the suffocation one feels in the + proximity of A. and B.—and the world is full of them—Ratchinsky + with his ideas, his humanity, and his purity, seems like a breath of + spring. I am ready to lay down my life for Ratchinsky; but, dear friend,—allow + me that “but” and don’t be vexed—I would not send my children to his + school. Why? I received a religious education in my childhood—with + church singing, with reading of the “apostles” and the psalms in church, + with regular attendance at matins, with obligation to assist at the altar + and ring the bells. And, do you know, when I think now of my childhood, it + seems to me rather gloomy. I have no religion now. Do you know, when my + brothers and I used to stand in the middle of the church and sing the trio + “May my prayer be exalted,” or “The Archangel’s Voice,” everyone looked at + us with emotion and envied our parents, but we at that moment felt like + little convicts. Yes, dear boy! Ratchinsky I understand, but the children + who are trained by him I don’t know. Their souls are dark for me. If there + is joy in their souls, then they are happier than I and my brothers, whose + childhood was suffering. + </p> + <p> + It is nice to be a lord. There is plenty of room, it’s warm, people are + not continually pulling at the bell; and it is easy to descend from one’s + lordship and serve as concierge or porter. My estate, sir, cost thirteen + thousand, and I have only paid a third, the rest is a debt which will keep + me long years on the chain. + </p> + <p> + Come and see me, Jean, together with Suvorin. Make a plan with him. I have + such a garden! Such a naive courtyard, such geese! Write a little oftener. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0170" id="link2H_4_0170"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, March 17, 1892. + </p> + <p> + ... Ah, my dear fellow, if only you could take a holiday! Living in the + country is inconvenient. The insufferable time of thaw and mud is + beginning, but something marvellous and moving is taking place in nature, + the poetry and novelty of which makes up for all the discomforts of life. + Every day there are surprises, one better than another. The starlings have + returned, everywhere there is the gurgling of water, in places where the + snow has thawed the grass is already green. The day drags on like + eternity. One lives as though in Australia, somewhere at the ends of the + earth; one’s mood is calm, contemplative, and animal, in the sense that + one does not regret yesterday or look forward to tomorrow. From here, far + away, people seem very good, and that is natural, for in going away into + the country we are not hiding from people but from our vanity, which in + town among people is unjust and active beyond measure. Looking at the + spring, I have a dreadful longing that there should be paradise in the + other world. In fact, at moments I am so happy that I superstitiously pull + myself up and remind myself of my creditors, who will one day drive me out + of the Australia I have so happily won.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0171" id="link2H_4_0171"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME AVILOV. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, March 19, 1892. + </p> + <h3> + HONOURED LIDYA ALEXYEVNA, + </h3> + <p> + I have read your story “On the Road.” If I were the editor of an + illustrated magazine, I should publish the story with great pleasure; but + here is my advice as a reader: when you depict sad or unlucky people, and + want to touch the reader’s heart, try to be colder—it gives their + grief as it were a background, against which it stands out in greater + relief. As it is, your heroes weep and you sigh. Yes, you must be cold. + </p> + <p> + But don’t listen to me, I am a bad critic. I have not the faculty of + forming my critical ideas clearly. Sometimes I make a regular hash of + it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0172" id="link2H_4_0172"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, March, 1892. + </p> + <p> + The cost of labour is almost nil, and so I am very well off. I begin to + see the charms of capitalism. To pull down the stove in the servants’ + quarters and build up there a kitchen stove with all its accessories, then + to pull down the kitchen stove in the house arid put up a Dutch stove + instead, costs twenty roubles altogether. The price of two men to dig, + twenty-five kopecks. To fill the ice cellar it costs thirty kopecks a day + to the workmen. A young labourer who does not drink or smoke, and can read + and write, whose duties are to work the land and clean the boots and look + after the flower-garden, costs five roubles a month. Floors, partitions, + papering walls—all that is cheaper than mushrooms. And I am at ease. + But if I were to pay for labour a quarter of what I get for my leisure I + should be ruined in a month, as the number of stove-builders, carpenters, + joiners, and so on, threatens to go for ever after the fashion of a + recurring decimal. A spacious life not cramped within four walls requires + a spacious pocket too. I have bored you already, but I must tell you one + thing more: the clover seed costs one hundred roubles a <i>pood</i>, and + the oats needed for seed cost more than a hundred. Think of that! They + prophesy a harvest and wealth for me, but what is that to me! Better five + kopecks in the present than a rouble in the future. I must sit and work. I + must earn at least five hundred roubles for all these trifles. I have + earned half already. And the snow is melting, it is warm, the birds are + singing, the sky is bright and spring-like. + </p> + <p> + I am reading a mass of things. I have read Lyeskov’s “Legendary + Characters,” religious and piquant—a combination of virtue, piety, + and lewdness, but very interesting. Read it if you haven’t read it. I have + read again Pisarev’s “Criticism of Pushkin.” Awfully naive. The man pulls + Onyegin and Tatyana down from their pedestals, but Pushkin remains unhurt. + Pisarev is the grandfather and father of all the critics of to-day, + including Burenin—the same pettiness in disparagement, the same cold + and conceited wit, and the same coarseness and indelicacy in their + attitude to people. It is not Pisarev’s ideas that are brutalizing, for he + has none, but his coarse tone. His attitude to Tatyana, especially to her + charming letter, which I love tenderly, seems to me simply abominable. The + critic has the foul aroma of an insolent captious procurator. + </p> + <p> + We have almost finished furnishing; only the shelves for my books are not + done yet. When we take out the double windows we shall begin painting + everything afresh, and then the house will have a very presentable + appearance. + </p> + <p> + There are avenues of lime-trees, apple-trees, cherries, plums, and + raspberries in the garden.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0173" id="link2H_4_0173"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + April 6, 1892. + </p> + <p> + It is Easter. There is a church here, but no clergy. We collected eleven + roubles from the whole parish and got a priest from the Davydov Monastery, + who began celebrating the service on Friday. The church is very old and + chilly, with lattice windows. We sang the Easter service—that is, my + family and my visitors, young people. The effect was very good and + harmonious, particularly the mass. The peasants were very much pleased, + and they say they have never had such a grand service. Yesterday the sun + shone all day, it was warm. In the morning I went into the fields, from + which the snow has gone already, and spent half an hour in the happiest + frame of mind: it was amazingly nice! The winter corn is green already, + and there is grass in the copse. + </p> + <p> + You will not like Melihovo, at least at first. Here everything is in + miniature; a little avenue of lime-trees, a pond the size of an aquarium, + a little garden and park, little trees; but when you have walked about it + once or twice the impression of littleness goes off. There is great + feeling of space in spite of the village being so near. There is a great + deal of forest around. There are numbers of starlings, and the starling + has the right to say of itself: “I sing to my God all the days of my + life.” It sings all day long without stopping.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0174" id="link2H_4_0174"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + April 8, 1892. + </p> + <p> + If Shapiro were to present me with the gigantic photograph of which you + write, I should not know what to do with it. A cumbersome present. You say + that I used to be younger. Yes, imagine! Strange as it may seem, I have + passed thirty some time ago, and I already feel forty close at hand. I + have grown old not in body only, but in spirit. I have become stupidly + indifferent to everything in the world, and for some reason or other the + beginning of this indifference coincided with my tour abroad. I get up and + go to bed feeling as though interest in life had dried up in me. This is + either the illness called in the newspapers nervous exhaustion, or some + working of the spirit not clear to the consciousness, which is called in + novels a spiritual revulsion. If it is the latter it is all for the best, + I suppose. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The artist Levitan is staying with me. Yesterday evening I went out with + him shooting. He shot at a snipe; the bird, shot in the wing, fell into a + pool. I picked it up: a long beak, big black eyes, and beautiful plumage. + It looked at me with surprise. What was I to do with it? Levitan scowled, + shut his eyes, and begged me, with a quiver in his voice: “My dear fellow, + hit him on the head with the butt-end of your gun.” I said: “I can’t.” He + went on nervously, shrugging his shoulders, twitching his head and begging + me to; and the snipe went on looking at me in wonder. I had to obey + Levitan and kill it. One beautiful creature in love the less, while two + fools went home and sat down to supper. + </p> + <p> + Jean Shtcheglov, in whose company you were so bored for a whole evening, + is a great opponent of every sort of heresy, and amongst others of + feminine intellect; and yet if one compares him with K., for instance, + beside her he seems like a foolish little monk. By the way, if you see K., + give her my greetings, and tell her that we are expecting her here. She is + very interesting in the open air and far more intelligent than in town.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0175" id="link2H_4_0175"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME AVILOV. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, April 29, 1892. + </p> + <p> + ... Yes, it is nice now in the country, not only nice but positively + amazing. It’s real spring, the trees are coming out, it is hot. The + nightingales are singing, and the frogs are croaking in all sorts of + tones. I haven’t a halfpenny, but the way I look at it is this: the rich + man is not he who has plenty of money, but he who has the means to live + now in the luxurious surroundings given us by early spring. Yesterday I + was in Moscow, but I almost expired there of boredom and all manner of + disasters. Would you believe it, a lady of my acquaintance, aged + forty-two, recognized herself in the twenty-year-old heroine of my story, + “The Grasshopper” and all Moscow is accusing me of libelling her. The + chief proof is the external likeness. The lady paints, her husband is a + doctor, and she is living with an artist. + </p> + <p> + I am finishing a story (“Ward No. 6”), a very dull one, owing to a + complete absence of woman and the element of love. I can’t endure such + stories. I write it as it were by accident, thoughtlessly. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I wrote to you once that you must be unconcerned when you write + pathetic stories. And you did not understand me. You may weep and moan + over your stories, you may suffer together with your heroes, but I + consider one must do this so that the reader does not notice it. The more + objective, the stronger will be the effect. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0176" id="link2H_4_0176"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, May 15, 1892. + </p> + <p> + ... I have got hold of the peasants and the shopkeepers here. One had a + haemorrhage from the throat, another had his arm crushed by a tree, a + third had his little daughter sick.... It seems they would be in a + desperate case without me. They bow respectfully to me as Germans do to + their pastor, I am friends with them, and all goes well.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0177" id="link2H_4_0177"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 28, 1892. + </h2> + <p> + Life is short, and Chekhov, from whom you are expecting an answer, would + like it to flash by brilliantly and with dash. He would go to Prince’s + Island, to Constantinople, and again to India and Sahalin.... But in the + first place he is not free, he has a respectable family who need his + protection. In the second, he has a large dose of cowardice. Looking + towards the future I call nothing but cowardice. I am afraid of getting + into a muddle, and every journey complicates my financial position. No, + don’t tempt me without need. Don’t write to me of the sea. + </p> + <p> + It is hot here. There are warm rains, the evenings are enchanting. + Three-quarters of a mile from here there is a good bathing place and good + sport for picnics, but no time to bathe or go to picnics. Either I am + writing and gnashing my teeth, or settling questions of halfpence with + carpenters and labourers. Misha was cruelly reprimanded by his superiors + for coming to me every week instead of staying at home, and now there is + no one but me to look after the farming, in which I have no faith, as it + is on a petty scale, and more like a gentlemanly hobby than real work. I + have bought three mousetraps, and catch twenty-five mice a day and carry + them away to the copse. It is lovely in the copse.... + </p> + <p> + Our starlings, old and young, suddenly flew away. This puzzled us, for it + won’t be time for their migration for ever so long; but suddenly we learn + that the other day clouds of grasshoppers from the south, which were taken + for locusts, flew over Moscow. One wonders how did our starlings find out + that on precisely such a day and so many miles from Melihovo these insects + would fly past? Who told them about it? Truly this is a great mystery.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0178" id="link2H_4_0178"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + June 16. + </h2> + <p> + ... You want me to write my impressions to you. + </p> + <p> + My soul longs for breadth and altitude, but I am forced to lead a narrow + life spent over trashy roubles and kopecks. There is nothing more vulgar + than a petty bourgeois life with its halfpence, its victuals, its futile + talk, and its useless conventional virtue; my heart aches from the + consciousness that I am working for money, and money is the centre of all + I do. This aching feeling, together with a sense of justice, makes my + writing a contemptible pursuit in my eyes: I don’t respect what I write, I + am apathetic and bored with myself, and glad that I have medicine which, + anyway, I practise not for the sake of money. I ought to have a bath in + sulphuric acid and flay off my skin, and then grow a new hide.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0179" id="link2H_4_0179"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + August 1. + </p> + <p> + My letters chase you, but do not catch you. I have written to you often, + and among other places to St. Moritz. Judging from your letters you have + had nothing from me. In the first place, there is cholera in Moscow and + about Moscow, and it will be in our parts some day soon. In the second + place, I have been appointed cholera doctor, and my section includes + twenty-five villages, four factories, and one monastery. I am organizing + the building of barracks, and so on, and I feel lonely, for all the + cholera business is alien to my heart, and the work, which involves + continual driving about, talking, and attention to petty details, is + exhausting for me. I have no time to write. Literature has been thrown + aside for a long time now, and I am poverty-stricken, as I thought it + convenient for myself and my independence to refuse the remuneration + received by the section doctors. I am bored, but there is a great deal + that is interesting in cholera if you look at it from a detached point of + view. I am sorry you are not in Russia. Material for short letters is + being wasted. There is more good than bad, and in that cholera is a great + contrast to the famine which we watched in the winter. Now all are working—they + are working furiously. At the fair at Nizhni they are doing marvels which + might force even Tolstoy to take a respectful attitude to medicine and the + intervention of cultured people generally in life. It seems as though they + had got a hold on the cholera. They have not only decreased the number of + cases, but also the percentage of deaths. In immense Moscow the cholera + does not exceed fifty cases a week, while on the Don it is a thousand a + day—an impressive difference. We district doctors are getting ready; + our plan of action is definite, and there are grounds for supposing that + in our parts we too shall decrease the percentage of mortality from + cholera. We have no assistants, one has to be doctor and sanitary + attendant at one and the same time. The peasants are rude, dirty in their + habits, and mistrustful; but the thought that our labours are not thrown + away makes all that scarcely noticeable. Of all the Serpuhovo doctors I am + the most pitiable; I have a scurvy carriage and horses, I don’t know the + roads, I see nothing by evening light, I have no money, I am very quickly + exhausted, and worst of all, I can never forget that I ought to be + writing, and I long to spit on the cholera and sit down and write to you, + and I long to talk to you. I am in absolute loneliness. + </p> + <p> + Our farming labours have been crowned with complete success. The harvest + is considerable, and when we sell the corn Melihovo will bring us more + than a thousand roubles. The kitchen garden is magnificent. There are + perfect mountains of cucumbers and the cabbage is wonderful. If it were + not for the accursed cholera I might say that I have never spent a summer + so happily as this one. + </p> + <p> + Nothing has been heard of cholera riots yet. There is talk of some + arrests, some manifestoes, and so on. They say that A., the writer, has + been condemned to fifteen years’ penal servitude. If the socialists are + really going to exploit the cholera for their own ends I shall despise + them. Revolting means for good ends make the ends themselves revolting. + Let them get a lift on the backs of the doctors and feldshers, but why lie + to the peasants? Why persuade them that they are right in their ignorance + and that their coarse prejudices are the holy truth? If I were a + politician I could never bring myself to disgrace my present for the sake + of the future, even though I were promised tons of felicity for an ounce + of mean lying. Write to me as often as possible in consideration of my + exceptional position. I cannot be in a good mood now, and your letters + snatch me away from cholera concerns, and carry me for a brief space to + another world.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0180" id="link2H_4_0180"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + August 16. + </h2> + <p> + I’ll be damned if I write to you again. I have written to Abbazzio, to St. + Moritz. I have written a dozen times at least, so far you have not sent me + one correct address, and so not one of my letters has reached and my long + description and lectures about the cholera have been wasted. It’s + mortifying. But what is most mortifying is that after a whole series of + letters from me about our exertions against the cholera, you all at once + write me from gay Biarritz that you envy my leisure! Well, Allah forgive + you! + </p> + <p> + Well, I am alive and in good health. The summer was a splendid one, dry, + warm, abounding in the fruits of the earth, but its whole charm was from + July onwards, spoilt by news of the cholera. While you were inviting me in + your letters first to Vienna, and then to Abbazzio I was already one of + the doctors of the Serpuhovo Zemstvo, was trying to catch the cholera by + its tail and organizing a new section full steam. In the morning I have to + see patients, and in the afternoon drive about. I drive, I give lectures + to the natives, treat them, get angry with them, and as the Zemstvo has + not granted me a single kopeck for organizing the medical centres I cadge + from the wealthy, first from one and then from another. I turn out to be + an excellent beggar; thanks to my beggarly eloquence, my section has two + excellent barracks with all the necessaries, and five barracks that are + not excellent, but horrid. I have saved the Zemstvo from expenditure even + on disinfectants. Lime, vitriol, and all sorts of stinking stuff I have + begged from the manufacturers for all my twenty-five villages. In fact + Kolomin ought to be proud of having been at the same high school with me. + My soul is exhausted. I am bored. Not to belong to oneself, to think about + nothing but diarrhoea, to start up in the night at a dog’s barking and a + knock at the gate (“Haven’t they come for me?”), to drive with disgusting + horses along unknown roads; to read about nothing but cholera, and to + expect nothing but cholera, and at the same time to be utterly + uninterested in that disease, and in the people whom one is serving—that, + my good sir, is a hash which wouldn’t agree with anyone. The cholera is + already in Moscow and in the Moscow district. One must expect it from hour + to hour. Judging from its course in Moscow one must suppose that it is + already declining and that the bacillus is losing its strength. One is + bound to think, too, that it is powerfully affected by the measures that + have been taken in Moscow and among us. The educated classes are working + vigorously, sparing neither themselves nor their purses; I see them every + day, and am touched, and when I remember how Zhitel and Burenin used to + vent their acrid spleen on these same educated people I feel almost + suffocated. In Nizhni the doctors and the cultured people generally have + done marvels. I was overwhelmed with enthusiasm when I read about the + cholera. In the good old times, when people were infected and died by + thousands, the amazing conquests that are being made before our eyes could + not even be dreamed of. It’s a pity you are not a doctor and cannot share + my delight—that is, fully feel and recognize and appreciate all that + is being done. But one cannot tell about it briefly. + </p> + <p> + The treatment of cholera requires of the doctor deliberation before all + things—that is, one has to devote to each patient from five to ten + hours or even longer. As I mean to employ Kantani’s treatment—that + is clysters of tannin and sub-cutaneous injection of a solution of common + salt—my position will be worse than foolish; while I am busying + myself over one patient, a dozen can fall ill and die. You see I am the + only man for twenty-five villages, apart from a feldsher who calls me + “your honour,” does not venture to smoke in my presence, and cannot take a + step without me. If there are isolated cases I shall be capital; but if + there is an epidemic of only five cases a day, then I shall do nothing but + be irritable and exhausted and feel myself guilty. + </p> + <p> + Of course there is no time even to think of literature. I am writing + nothing. I refused remuneration so as to preserve some little freedom of + action for myself, and so I have not a halfpenny. I am waiting till they + have threshed and sold the rye. Until then I shall be living on “The Bear” + and mushrooms, of which there are endless masses here. By the way, I have + never lived so cheaply as now. We have everything of our own, even our own + bread. I believe in a couple of years all my household expenses will not + exceed a thousand roubles a year. + </p> + <p> + When you learn from the newspapers that the cholera is over, you will know + that I have gone back to writing again. Don’t think of me as a literary + man while I am in the service of the Zemstvo. One can’t do two things at + once. + </p> + <p> + You write that I have given up Sahalin. I cannot abandon that child of + mine. When I am oppressed by the boredom of belles-lettres I am glad to + turn to something else. The question when I shall finish Sahalin and when + I shall print does not strike me as being important. While Galkin-Vrasskoy + reigns over the prison system I feel very much disinclined to bring out my + book. Of course if I am driven to it by need, that is a different matter. + </p> + <p> + In all my letters I have pertinaciously asked you one question, which of + course you are not obliged to answer: “Where are you going to be in the + autumn, and wouldn’t you like to spend part of September and October with + me in Feodosia or the Crimea?” I have an impatient desire to eat, drink, + and sleep, and talk about literature—that is, do nothing, and at the + same time feel like a decent person. However, if my idleness annoys you, I + can promise to write with or beside you, a play or a story.... Eh? Won’t + you? Well, God be with you, then. + </p> + <p> + The astronomer has been here twice. I felt bored with her on both + occasions. Svobodin has been here too. He grows better and better. His + serious illness has made him pass through a spiritual metamorphosis. + </p> + <p> + See what a long letter I have written, even though I don’t feel sure that + the letter will reach you. Imagine my cholera-boredom, my + cholera-loneliness, and compulsory literary inactivity, and write to me + more, and oftener. Your contemptuous feeling for France I share. The + Germans are far above them, though for some reason they are called stupid. + And the Franco-Russian Entente Cordiale I am as fond of as Tolstoy is. + There’s something nastily suggestive about these cordialities. On the + other hand I was awfully pleased at Virchow’s visit to us. + </p> + <p> + We have raised a very nice potato and a divine cabbage. How do you manage + to get on without cabbage-soup? I don’t envy you your sea, nor your + freedom, nor the happy frame of mind you are in abroad. The Russian summer + is better than anything. And by the way, I don’t feel any great longing to + be abroad. After Singapore, Ceylon, and perhaps even our Amur, Italy and + even the crater of Vesuvius do not seem fascinating. After being in India + and China I did not see a great difference between other European + countries and Russia. + </p> + <p> + A neighbour of ours, the owner of the renowned Otrad, Count X, is staying + now at Biarritz, having run away from the cholera; he gave his doctor only + five hundred roubles for the campaign against the cholera. His sister, the + countess, who is living in my section, when I went to discuss the + provision of barracks for her workmen, treated me as though I had come to + apply for a situation. It mortified me, and I told her a lie, pretending + to be a rich man. I told the same lie to the Archimandrite, who refuses to + provide quarters for the cases which may occur in the monastery. To my + question what would he do with the cases that might be taken ill in his + hostel, he answered me: “They are persons of means and will pay you + themselves....” Do you understand? And I flared up, and said I did not + care about payment, as I was well off, and that all I wanted was the + security of the monastery.... There are sometimes very stupid and + humiliating positions.... Before the count went away I met his wife. Huge + diamonds in her ears, wearing a bustle, and not knowing how to hold + herself. A millionaire. In the company of such persons one has a stupid + schoolboy feeling of wanting to be rude. + </p> + <p> + The village priest often comes and pays me long visits; he is a very good + fellow, a widower, and has some illegitimate children. + </p> + <p> + Write or there will be trouble.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0181" id="link2H_4_0181"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + October 10, 1892. + </p> + <p> + Your telegram telling me of Svobodin’s death caught me just as I was going + out of the yard to see patients. You can imagine my feelings. Svobodin + stayed with me this summer; he was very sweet and gentle, in a serene and + affectionate mood, and became very much attached to me. It was evident to + me that he had not very long to live, it was evident to him too. He had + the thirst of the aged for everyday peace and quiet, and had grown to + detest the stage and everything to do with the stage and dreaded returning + to Petersburg. Of course I ought to go to the funeral, but to begin with, + your telegram came towards evening, and the funeral is most likely + tomorrow, and secondly the cholera is twenty miles away, and I cannot + leave my centre. There are seven cases in one village, and two have died + already. The cholera may break out in my section. It is strange that with + winter coming on the cholera is spreading over a wider and wider region. + </p> + <p> + I have undertaken to be the section doctor till the fifteenth of October—my + section will be officially closed on that day. I shall dismiss my + feldsher, close the barracks, and if the cholera comes, I shall cut rather + a comic figure. Add to that the doctor of the next section is ill with + pleurisy and so, if the cholera appears in his section, I shall be bound, + from a feeling of comradeship, to undertake his section. + </p> + <p> + So far I have not had a single case of cholera, but I have had epidemics + of typhus, diphtheria, scarlatina, and so on. At the beginning of summer I + had a great deal of work, then towards the autumn less and less. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The sum of my literary achievement this summer, thanks to the cholera, has + been almost nil. I have written little, and have thought about literature + even less. However, I have written two small stories—one tolerable, + one bad. + </p> + <p> + Life has been hard work this summer, but it seems, to me now that I have + never spent a summer so well as this one. In spite of the turmoil of the + cholera, and the poverty which has kept tight hold of me all the summer, I + have liked the life and wanted to live. How many trees I have planted! + Thanks to our system of cultivation, Melihovo has become unrecognizable, + and seems now extraordinarily snug and beautiful, though very likely it is + good for nothing. Great is the power of habit and the sense of property. + And it’s marvellous how pleasant it is not to have to pay rent. We have + made new acquaintances and formed new relations. Our old terrors in facing + the peasants now seem ludicrous. I have served in the Zemstvo, have + presided at the Sanitary Council and visited the factories, and I liked + all that. They think of me now as one of themselves, and stay the night + with me when they pass through Melihovo. Add to that, that we have bought + ourselves a new comfortable covered carriage, have made a new road, so + that now we don’t drive through the village. We are digging a pond.... + Anything else? In fact hitherto everything has been new and interesting, + but how it will be later on, I don’t know. There is snow already, it is + cold, but I don’t feel drawn to Moscow. So far I have not had any feeling + of dulness. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The educated people here are very charming and interesting. What matters + most, they are honest. Only the police are unattractive. + </p> + <p> + We have seven horses, a broad-faced calf, and puppies, called Muir and + Merrilees.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0182" id="link2H_4_0182"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + November 22, 1892. + </h2> + <p> + Snow is falling by day, while at night the moon is shining its utmost, a + gorgeous amazing moon. It is magnificent. But nevertheless, I marvel at + the fortitude of landowners who spend the winter in the country; there’s + so little to do that if anyone is not in one way or another engaged in + intellectual work, he is inevitably bound to become a glutton or a + drunkard, or a man like Turgenev’s Pigasov. The monotony of the snowdrifts + and the bare trees, the long nights, the moonlight, the deathlike + stillness day and night, the peasant women and the old ladies—all + that disposes one to indolence, indifference, and an enlarged liver.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0183" id="link2H_4_0183"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + November 25, 1892. + </h2> + <p> + It is easy to understand you, and there is no need for you to abuse + yourself for obscurity of expression. You are a hard drinker, and I have + regaled you with sweet lemonade, and you, after giving the lemonade its + due, justly observe that there is no spirit in it. That is just what is + lacking in our productions—the alcohol which could intoxicate and + subjugate, and you state that very well. Why not? Putting aside “Ward No. + 6” and myself, let us discuss the matter in general, for that is more + interesting. Let me discuss the general causes, if that won’t bore you, + and let us include the whole age. Tell me honestly, who of my + contemporaries—that is, men between thirty and forty-five—have + given the world one single drop of alcohol? Are not Korolenko, Nadson, and + all the playwrights of to-day, lemonade? Have Ryepin’s or Shishkin’s + pictures turned your head? Charming, talented, you are enthusiastic; but + at the same time you can’t forget that you want to smoke. Science and + technical knowledge are passing through a great period now, but for our + sort it is a flabby, stale, and dull time. We are stale and dull + ourselves, we can only beget gutta-percha boys, [Footnote: An allusion to + Grigorovitch’s well-known story.] and the only person who does not see + that is Stassov, to whom nature has given a rare faculty for getting drunk + on slops. The causes of this are not to be found in our stupidity, our + lack of talent, or our insolence, as Burenin imagines, but in a disease + which for the artist is worse than syphilis or sexual exhaustion. We lack + “something,” that is true, and that means that, lift the robe of our muse, + and you will find within an empty void. Let me remind you that the + writers, who we say are for all time or are simply good, and who + intoxicate us, have one common and very important characteristic; they are + going towards something and are summoning you towards it, too, and you + feel not with your mind, but with your whole being, that they have some + object, just like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, who did not come and + disturb the imagination for nothing. Some have more immediate objects—the + abolition of serfdom, the liberation of their country, politics, beauty, + or simply vodka, like Denis Davydov; others have remote objects—God, + life beyond the grave, the happiness of humanity, and so on. The best of + them are realists and paint life as it is, but, through every line’s being + soaked in the consciousness of an object, you feel, besides life as it is, + the life which ought to be, and that captivates you. And we? We! We paint + life as it is, but beyond that—nothing at all.... Flog us and we can + do no more! We have neither immediate nor remote aims, and in our soul + there is a great empty space. We have no politics, we do not believe in + revolution, we have no God, we are not afraid of ghosts, and I personally + am not afraid even of death and blindness. One who wants nothing, hopes + for nothing, and fears nothing, cannot be an artist. Whether it is a + disease or not—what it is does not matter; but we ought to recognize + that our position is worse than a governor’s. I don’t know how it will be + with us in ten or twenty years—then circumstances may be different, + but meanwhile it would be rash to expect of us anything of real value, + apart from the question whether we have talent or not. We write + mechanically, merely obeying the long-established arrangement in + accordance with which some men go into the government service, others into + trade, others write.... Grigorovitch and you think I am clever. Yes, I am + at least so far clever as not to conceal from myself my disease, and not + to deceive myself, and not to cover up my own emptiness with other + people’s rags, such as the ideas of the sixties, and so on. I am not going + to throw myself like Garshin over the banisters, but I am not going to + flatter myself with hopes of a better future either. I am not to blame for + my disease, and it’s not for me to cure myself, for this disease, it must + be supposed, has some good purpose hidden from us, and is not sent in + vain.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0184" id="link2H_4_0184"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + February, 1893. + </h2> + <p> + My God! What a glorious thing “Fathers and Children” is! It is positively + terrifying. Bazarov’s illness is so powerfully done that I felt ill and + had a sensation as though I had caught the infection from him. And the end + of Bazarov? And the old men? And Kukshina? It’s beyond words. It’s simply + a work of genius. I don’t like the whole of “On the Eve,” only Elena’s + father and the end. The end is full of tragedy. “The Dog” is very good, + the language is wonderful in it. Please read it if you have forgotten it. + “Acia” is charming, “A Quiet Backwater” is too compressed and not + satisfactory. I don’t like “Smoke” at all. “The House of Gentlefolk” is + weaker than “Fathers and Children,” but the end is like a miracle, too. + Except for the old woman in “Fathers and Children”—that is, + Bazarov’s mother—and the mothers as a rule, especially the society + ladies, who are, however, all alike (Liza’s mother, Elena’s mother), and + Lavretsky’s mother, who had been a serf, and the humble peasant woman, all + Turgenev’s girls and women are insufferable in their artificiality, and—forgive + my saying it—falsity. Liza and Elena are not Russian girls, but some + sort of Pythian prophetesses, full of extravagant pretensions. Irina in + “Smoke,” Madame Odintsov in “Fathers and Children,” all the lionesses, in + fact, fiery, alluring, insatiable creatures for ever craving for + something, are all nonsensical. When one thinks of Tolstoy’s “Anna + Karenin,” all these young ladies of Turgenev’s, with their seductive + shoulders, fade away into nothing. The negative types of women where + Turgenev is slightly caricaturing (Kukshina) or jesting (the descriptions + of balls) are wonderfully drawn, and so successful, that, as the saying + is, you can’t pick a hole in it. + </p> + <p> + The descriptions of nature are fine, but ... I feel that we have already + got out of the way of such descriptions and that we need something + different.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0185" id="link2H_4_0185"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + April 26, 1893. + </h2> + <p> + ... I am reading Pisemsky. His is a great, very great talent! The best of + his works is “The Carpenters’ Guild.” His novels are exhausting in their + minute detail. Everything in him that has a temporary character, all his + digs at the critics and liberals of the period, all his critical + observations with their assumption of smartness and modernity, and all the + so-called profound reflections scattered here and there—how petty + and naive it all is to our modern ideas! The fact of the matter is this: a + novelist, an artist, ought to pass by everything that has only a temporary + value. Pisemsky’s people are living, his temperament is vigorous. + Skabitchevsky in his history attacks him for obscurantism and treachery, + but, my God! of all contemporary writers I don’t know a single one so + passionately and earnestly liberal as Pisemsky. All his priests, + officials, and generals are regular blackguards. No one was so down on the + old legal and military set as he. + </p> + <p> + By the way, I have read also Bourget’s “Cosmopolis.” Rome and the Pope and + Correggio and Michael Angelo and Titian and doges and a fifty-year-old + beauty and Russians and Poles are all in Bourget, but how thin and + strained and mawkish and false it is in comparison even with our coarse + and simple Pisemsky! ... + </p> + <p> + What a good thing I gave up the town! Tell all the Fofanovs, Tchermnys, <i>et + tutti quanti</i> who live by literature, that living in the country is + immensely cheaper than living in the town. I experience this now every + day. My family costs me nothing now, for lodging, bread, vegetables, milk, + butter, horses, are all our own. And there is so much to do, there is not + time to get through it all. Of the whole family of Chekhovs, I am the only + one to lie down, or sit at the table: all the rest are working from + morning till night. Drive the poets and literary men into the country. Why + should they live in starvation and beggary? Town life cannot give a poor + man rich material in the sense of poetry and art. He lives within four + walls and sees people only at the editors’ offices and in eating-shops.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0186" id="link2H_4_0186"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + January 25, 1894. + </p> + <p> + I believe I am mentally sound. It is true I have no special desire to + live, but that is not, so far, disease, but something probably passing and + natural. It does not follow every time that an author describes someone + mentally deranged, that he is himself deranged. I wrote “The Black Monk” + without any melancholy ideas, through cool reflection. I simply had a + desire to describe megalomania. The monk floating across the country was a + dream, and when I woke I told Misha about it. So you can tell Anna + Ivanovna that poor Anton Pavlovitch, thank God! has not gone out of his + mind yet, but that he eats a great deal at supper and so he dreams of + monks. + </p> + <p> + I keep forgetting to write to you: read Ertel’s story “The Seers” in + “Russkaya Mysl.” There is poetry and something terrible in the + old-fashioned fairy-tale style about it. It is one of the best new things + that has come out in Moscow.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0187" id="link2H_4_0187"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YALTA, + </h2> + <p> + March 27, 1894. + </p> + <p> + I am in good health generally, ill in certain parts. For instance, a + cough, palpitations of the heart, haemorrhoids. I had palpitations of the + heart incessantly for six days, and the sensation all the time was + loathsome. Since I have quite given up smoking I have been free from + gloomy and anxious moods. Perhaps because I am not smoking, Tolstoy’s + morality has ceased to touch me; at the bottom of my heart I take up a + hostile attitude towards it, and that of course is not just. I have + peasant blood in my veins, and you won’t astonish me with peasant virtues. + From my childhood I have believed in progress, and I could not help + believing in it since the difference between the time when I used to be + thrashed and when they gave up thrashing me was tremendous.... But + Tolstoy’s philosophy touched me profoundly and took possession of me for + six or seven years, and what affected me was not its general propositions, + with which I was familiar beforehand, but Tolstoy’s manner of expressing + it, his reasonableness, and probably a sort of hypnotism. Now something in + me protests, reason and justice tell me that in the electricity and heat + of love for man there is something greater than chastity and abstinence + from meat. War is an evil and legal justice is an evil; but it does not + follow from that that I ought to wear bark shoes and sleep on the stove + with the labourer, and so on, and so on. But that is not the point, it is + not a matter of <i>pro and con</i>; the thing is that in one way or + another Tolstoy has passed for me, he is not in my soul, and he has + departed from me, saying: “I leave this your house empty.” I am + untenanted. I am sick of theorizing of all sorts, and such bounders as Max + Nordau I read with positive disgust. Patients in a fever do not want food, + but they do want something, and that vague craving they express as + “longing for something sour.” I, too, want something sour, and that’s not + a mere chance feeling, for I notice the same mood in others around me. It + is just as if they had all been in love, had fallen out of love, and now + were looking for some new distraction. It is very possible and very likely + that the Russians will pass through another period of enthusiasm for the + natural sciences, and that the materialistic movement will be fashionable. + Natural science is performing miracles now. And it may act upon people + like Mamay, and dominate them by its mass and grandeur. All that is in the + hands of God, however. And theorizing about it makes one’s head go round. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0188" id="link2H_4_0188"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO L. S. MIZINOV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, March 27, 1894. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR LIKA, + </h3> + <p> + Thanks for your letter. Though you do scare me in your letter saying you + are soon going to die, though you do taunt me with having rejected you, + yet thank you all the same; I know perfectly well you are not going to + die, and that no one has rejected you. + </p> + <p> + I am in Yalta and I am dreary, very dreary indeed. The aristocracy, so to + call it, are performing “Faust,” and I go to the rehearsals and there I + enjoy the spectacle of a perfect flower-bed of black, red, flaxen, and + brown heads; I listen to the singing and I eat. At the house of the + principal of the high school I eat tchibureks, and saddle of lamb with + boiled grain; in various estimable families I eat green soup; at the + confectioner’s I eat—in my hotel also. I go to bed at ten and I get + up at ten, and after dinner I lie down and rest, and yet I am bored, dear + Lika. I am not bored because “my ladies” are not with me, but because the + northern spring is better than the spring here, and because the thought + that I must, that I ought to write never leaves me for an instant. To + write and write and write! It is my opinion that true happiness is + impossible without idleness. My ideal is to be idle and to love a plump + girl. My loftiest happiness is to walk or to sit doing nothing; my + favourite occupation is to gather up what is not wanted (leaves, straws, + and so on) and to do what is useless. Meanwhile, I am a literary man, and + have to write here in Yalta. Dear Lika, when you become a great singer and + are paid a handsome salary, then be charitable to me, marry me, and keep + me at your expense, that I may be free to do nothing. If you really are + going to die, it might be undertaken by Varya Eberly, whom, as you know, I + love. I am so all to pieces with the perpetual thought of work I ought to + do and can’t avoid that for the last week I have been continually + tormented with palpitations of the heart. It’s a loathsome sensation. + </p> + <p> + I have sold my fox-skin greatcoat for twenty roubles! It cost sixty, but + as forty roubles’ worth of fur has peeled off it, twenty roubles was not + too low a price. The gooseberries are not ripe here yet, but it is warm + and bright, the trees are coming out, the sea looks like summer, the young + ladies are yearning for sensations: but yet the north is better than the + south of Russia, in spring at any rate. In our part nature is more + melancholy, more lyrical, more Levitanesque; here it is neither one thing + nor the other, like good, sonorous, but frigid verse. Thanks to my + palpitations I haven’t drunk wine for a week, and that makes the + surroundings seem even poorer.... + </p> + <p> + M. gave a concert here, and made one hundred and fifty roubles clear + profit. He roared like a grampus but had an immense success. I am awfully + sorry I did not study singing; I could have roared too, as my throat is + rich in husky elements, and they say I have a real octave. I should have + earned money, and been a favourite with the ladies.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0189" id="link2H_4_0189"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, April 15, 1894. + </p> + <p> + ... I have come back from the flaming Tavrida and am already sitting on + the cool banks of my pond. It’s very warm, however: the thermometer runs + up to twenty-six.... + </p> + <p> + I am busy looking after the land: I am making new avenues, planting + flowers, chopping down dead trees, and chasing the hens and the dogs out + of the garden. Literature plays the part of Erakit, who was always in the + background. I don’t want to write, and indeed, it’s hard to combine a + desire to live and a desire to write.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0190" id="link2H_4_0190"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, April 21, 1894 + </p> + <p> + Of course it is very nice in the country; in fine weather Russia is an + extraordinarily beautiful and enchanting country, especially for those who + have been born and spent their childhood in the country. But you will + never buy yourself an estate, as you don’t know what you want. To like an + estate you must make up your mind to buy it; so long as it is not yours it + will seem comfortless and full of defects. My cough is considerably + better, I am sunburnt, and they tell me I am fatter, but the other day I + almost fell down and I fancied for a minute that I was dying. I was + walking along the avenue with the prince, our neighbour, and was talking + when all at once something seemed to break in my chest, I had a feeling of + warmth and suffocation, there was a singing in my ears, I remembered that + I had been having palpitations for a long time and thought—“they + must have meant something then.” I went rapidly towards the verandah on + which visitors were sitting, and had one thought—that it would be + awkward to fall down and die before strangers; but I went into my bedroom, + drank some water, and recovered. + </p> + <p> + So you are not the only one who suffers from staggering! + </p> + <p> + I am beginning to build a pretty lodge.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0191" id="link2H_4_0191"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + May 9. + </h2> + <p> + I have no news. The weather is most exquisite, and in the foliage near the + house a nightingale is building and shouting incessantly. About twelve + miles from me there is the village of Pokrovskoe-Meshtcherskoe; the old + manor house there is now the lunatic asylum of the province. The Zemsky + doctors from the whole Moscow province met there on the fourth of May, to + the number of about seventy-five; I was there too. There are a great many + patients but all that is interesting material for alienists and not for + psychologists. One patient, a mystic, preaches that the Holy Trinity has + come upon earth in the form of the metropolitan of Kiev, Ioannikiy. “A + limit of ten years has been given us; eight have passed, only two years + are left. If we do not want Russia to fall into ruins like Sodom, all + Russia must go in a procession with the Cross to Kiev, as Moscow went to + Troitsa, and pray there to the divine martyr in the noble form of the + metropolitan Ioannikiy.” This queer fellow is convinced that the doctors + in the asylum are poisoning him, and that he is being saved by the + miraculous intervention of Christ in the form of the metropolitan. He is + continually praying to the East and singing, and, addressing himself to + God, invariably adds the words, “in the noble form of the metropolitan + Ioannikiy.” He has a lovely expression of face.... + </p> + <p> + From the madhouse I returned late at night in my troika. Two-thirds of the + way I had to drive through the forest in the moonlight, and I had a + wonderful feeling such as I have not had for a long time, as though I had + come back from a tryst. I think that nearness to nature and idleness are + essential elements of happiness; without them it is impossible.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0192" id="link2H_4_0192"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME AVILOV. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, July, 1894. + </p> + <p> + I have so many visitors that I cannot answer your last letter. I want to + write at length but am pulled up at the thought that any minute they may + come in and hinder me. And in fact while I write the word “hinder,” a girl + has come in and announced that a patient has arrived; I must go.... I have + grown to detest writing, and I don’t know what to do. I would gladly take + up medicine and would accept any sort of post, but I no longer have the + physical elasticity for it. When I write now or think I ought to write I + feel as much disgust as though I were eating soup from which I had just + removed a beetle—forgive the comparison. What I hate is not the + writing itself, but the literary entourage from which one cannot escape, + and which one takes everywhere as the earth takes its atmosphere.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0193" id="link2H_4_0193"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, August 15, 1894. + </p> + <p> + Our trip on the Volga turned out rather a queer one in the end. Potapenko + and I went to Yaroslav to take a steamer from there to Tsaritsyn, then to + Kalatch, from there by the Don to Taganrog. The journey from Yaroslav to + Nizhni is beautiful, but I had seen it before. Moreover, it was very hot + in the cabin and the wind lashed in our faces on deck. The passengers were + an uneducated set, whose presence was irritating. At Nizhni we were met by + N., Tolstoy’s friend. The heat, the dry wind, the noise of the fair and + the conversation of N. suddenly made me feel so suffocated, so ill at + ease, and so sick, that I took my portmanteau and ignominiously fled to + the railway station.... Potapenko followed me. We took the train for + Moscow, but we were ashamed to go home without having done anything, and + we decided to go somewhere if it had to be to Lapland. If it had not been + for his wife our choice would have fallen on Feodosia, but ... alas! we + have a wife living at Feodosia. We thought it over, we talked it over, we + counted over our money, and came to the Psyol to Suma, which you know.... + Well, the Psyol is magnificent. There is warmth, there is space, an + immensity of water and of greenery and delightful people. We spent six + days on the Psyol, ate and drank, walked and did nothing: my ideal of + happiness, as you know, is idleness. Now I am at Melihovo again. There is + a cold rain, a leaden sky, mud. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It sometimes happens that one passes a third-class refreshment room and + sees a cold fish, cooked long before, and wonders carelessly who wants + that unappetising fish. And yet undoubtedly that fish is wanted, and will + be eaten, and there are people who will think it nice. One may say the + same of the works of N. He is a bourgeois writer, writing for the + unsophisticated public who travel third class. For that public Tolstoy and + Turgenev are too luxurious, too aristocratic, somewhat alien and not + easily digested. There is a public which eats salt beef and horse-radish + sauce with relish, and does not care for artichokes and asparagus. Put + yourself at its point of view, imagine the grey, dreary courtyard, the + educated ladies who look like cooks, the smell of paraffin, the scantiness + of interests and tasks—and you will understand N. and his readers. + He is colourless; that is partly because the life he describes lacks + colour. He is false because bourgeois writers cannot help being false. + They are vulgar writers perfected. The vulgarians sin together with their + public, while the bourgeois are hypocritical with them and flatter their + narrow virtue. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0194" id="link2H_4_0194"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + February 25, 1895. + </p> + <p> + ... I should like to meet a philosopher like Nietzsche somewhere in a + train or a steamer, and to spend the whole night talking to him. I + consider his philosophy won’t last long, however. It’s more showy than + convincing.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0195" id="link2H_4_0195"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + March 16, 1895. + </p> + <p> + Instead of you, heaven has sent me N., who has come to see me with E. and + Z., two young duffers who never miss a single word but induce in the whole + household a desperate boredom. N. looks flabby and physically slack; he + has gone off, but has become warmer and more good-natured; he must be + going to die. When my mother was ordering meat from the butcher, she said + he must let us have better meat, as N. was staying with us from + Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + “What N.?” asked the butcher in surprise—“the one who writes books?” + and he sent us excellent meat. So the butcher does not know that I write + books, for he never sends anything but gristle for my benefit.... + </p> + <p> + Your little letter about physical games for students will do good if only + you will go on insisting on the subject. Games are absolutely essential. + Playing games is good for health and beauty and liberalism, since nothing + is so conducive to the blending of classes, et cetera, as public games. + Games would give our solitary young people acquaintances; young people + would more frequently fall in love; but games should not be instituted + before the Russian student ceases to be hungry. No skating, no croquet, + can keep the student cheerful and confident on an empty stomach. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0196" id="link2H_4_0196"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + March 23, 1895. + </p> + <p> + I told you that Potapenko was a man very full of life, but you did not + believe me. In the entrails of every Little Russian lie hidden many + treasures. I fancy when our generation grows old, Potapenko will be the + gayest and jolliest old man of us all. + </p> + <p> + By all means I will be married if you wish it. But on these conditions: + everything must be as it has been hitherto—that is, she must live in + Moscow while I live in the country, and I will come and see her. Happiness + continued from day to day, from morning to morning, I cannot stand. When + every day I am told of the same thing, in the same tone of voice, I become + furious. I am furious, for instance, in the society of S., because he is + very much like a woman (“a clever and responsive woman”) and because in + his presence the idea occurs to me that my wife might be like him. I + promise you to be a splendid husband, but give me a wife who, like the + moon, won’t appear in my sky every day; I shan’t write any better for + being married.... + </p> + <p> + Mamin-Sibiryak is a very nice fellow and an excellent writer. His last + novel “Bread” is praised; Lyeskov was particularly enthusiastic about it. + There are undoubtedly fine things in his work, and in his more successful + stories the peasants are depicted every bit as well as in “Master and + Man.” + </p> + <p> + This is the fourth year I have been living at Melihovo. My calves have + turned into cows, my copse has grown at least a yard higher, my heirs will + make a capital bargain over the timber and will call me an ass, for heirs + are never satisfied. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0197" id="link2H_4_0197"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + March 30, 1895. + </p> + <p> + ... We have spring here but there are regular mountains of snow, and there + is no knowing when it will thaw. As soon as the sun hides behind a cloud + there begins to be a chill breath from the snow, and it is horrible. Masha + is already busy in the flower-beds and borders. She tires herself out and + is constantly cross, so there is no need for her to read Madame Smirnov’s + article. The advice given is excellent; the young ladies will read it, and + it will be their salvation. Only one point is not clear: how are they + going to get rid of the apples and cabbages if the estate is far from the + town, and of what stuff are they going to make their own dresses if their + rye does not sell at all, and they have not a halfpenny? To live on one’s + land by the labour of one’s own hands and the sweat of one’s brow is only + possible on one condition; that is, if one works oneself like a peasant, + without regard for class or sex. There is no making use of slaves + nowadays, one must take the scythe and axe oneself, and if one can’t do + that, no gardens will help one. Even the smallest success in farming is + only gained in Russia at the price of a cruel struggle with nature, and + wishing is not enough for the struggle, you need bodily strength and grit, + you want traditions—and have young ladies all that? To advise young + ladies to take up farming is much the same as to advise them to be bears, + and to bend yokes.... + </p> + <p> + I have no money, but I live in the country: there are no restaurants and + no cabmen, and money does not seem to be needed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0198" id="link2H_4_0198"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + April 13, 1895. + </p> + <p> + I am sick of Sienkiewicz’s “The Family of the Polonetskys.” It’s the + Polish Easter cake with saffron. Add Potapenko to Paul Bourget, sprinkle + with Warsaw eau-de-Cologne, divide in two, and you get Sienkiewicz. “The + Polonetskys” is unmistakably inspired by Bourget’s “Cosmopolis,” by Rome + and by marriage (Sienkiewicz has lately got married). We have the + catacombs and a queer old professor sighing after idealism, and Leo XIII, + with the unearthly face among the saints, and the advice to return to the + prayer-book, and the libel on the decadent who dies of morphinism after + confessing and taking the sacrament—that is, after repenting of his + errors in the name of the Church. There is a devilish lot of family + happiness and talking about love, and the hero’s wife is so faithful to + her husband and so subtly comprehends “with her heart” the mysteries of + God and life, that in the end one feels mawkish and uncomfortable as after + a slobbering kiss. Sienkiewicz has evidently not read Tolstoy, and does + not know Nietzsche, he talks about hypnotism like a shopman; on the other + hand every page is positively sprinkled with Rubens, Borghesi, Correggio, + Botticelli—and that is done to show off his culture to the bourgeois + reader and make a long nose on the sly at materialism. The object of the + novel is to lull the bourgeoisie to sleep in its golden dreams. Be + faithful to your wife, pray with her over the prayer-book, save money, + love sport, and all is well with you in this world and the next. The + bourgeoisie is very fond of so-called practical types and novels with + happy endings, since they soothe it with the idea that one can both + accumulate capital and preserve innocence, be a beast and at the same time + be happy.... + </p> + <p> + I wish you every sort of blessing. I congratulate you on the peace between + Japan and China, and hope we may quickly obtain a Feodosia free from ice + on the East Coast, and may make a railway to it. + </p> + <p> + The peasant woman had not troubles enough so she bought a pig. And I fancy + we are saving up a lot of trouble for ourselves with this ice-free port. + [Footnote: Prophetic of Port Arthur and the Japanese War.] It will cost us + dearer than if we were to take it into our heads to wage war on all Japan. + However, <i>futura sunt in manibus deorum.</i> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0199" id="link2H_4_0199"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + October 21, 1895. + </p> + <p> + Thanks for your letter, for your warm words and your invitation. I will + come, but most likely not before the end of November, as I have a devilish + lot to do. First in the spring I am going to build a new school in the + village where I am school warden; before beginning I have to make a plan + and calculations, and to drive off here and there, and so on. Secondly—can + you imagine it—I am writing a play which I shall probably not finish + before the end of November. I am writing it not without pleasure, though I + swear fearfully at the conventions of the stage. It’s a comedy, there are + three women’s parts, six men’s, four acts, landscapes (view over a lake); + a great deal of conversation about literature, little action, tons of + love. [Footnote: “The Seagull.”] I read of Ozerova’s failure and was + sorry, for nothing is more painful than failing.... I have read of the + success of the “Powers of Darkness” in your theatre.... When I was at + Tolstoy’s in August, he told me, as he was wiping his hands after washing, + that he wouldn’t alter his play. And now, remembering that, I fancy that + he knew even then that his play would be passed by the censor <i>in toto</i>. + I spent two days and a night with him. He made a delightful impression, I + felt as much at ease as though I were at home, and our talks were easy.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0200" id="link2H_4_0200"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + October 26, 1895. + </p> + <p> + Tolstoy’s daughters are very nice. They adore their father and have a + fanatical faith in him and that means that Tolstoy really is a great moral + force, for if he were insincere and not irreproachable his daughters would + be the first to take up a sceptical attitude to him, for daughters are + like sparrows: you don’t catch them with empty chaff.... A man can deceive + his fiancee or his mistress as much as he likes, and, in the eyes of a + woman he loves, an ass may pass for a philosopher; but a daughter is a + different matter.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0201" id="link2H_4_0201"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MELIHOVO, + </h2> + <p> + November 21, 1895. + </p> + <p> + Well, I have finished with the play. I began it <i>forte</i> and ended it + <i>pianissimo</i>—contrary to all the rules of dramatic art. It has + turned into a novel. I am rather dissatisfied than satisfied with it, and + reading over my new-born play, I am more convinced than ever that I am not + a dramatist. The acts are very short. There are four of them. Though it is + so far only the skeleton of a play, a plan which will be altered a million + times before the coming season, I have ordered two copies to be typed and + will send you one, only don’t let anyone read it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0202" id="link2H_4_0202"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <p> + PETERSBURG, October 15, 1896. + </p> + <p> + ... My “Seagull” comes on on the seventeenth of October. Madame + Kommissarzhevsky acts amazingly. There is no news. I am alive and well. I + shall be at Melihovo about the twenty-fifth or towards the end of October. + On the twenty-ninth is the meeting of the Zemstvo, at which I must be + present as there will be a discussion about roads.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0203" id="link2H_4_0203"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + PETERSBURG, October 18, 1896. + </p> + <p> + I am off to Melihovo. All good wishes.... Stop the printing of the plays. + I shall never forget yesterday evening, but still I slept well, and am + setting off in a very tolerable good humour. + </p> + <p> + Write to me.... I have received your letter. I am not going to produce the + play in Moscow. I shall <i>never</i> either write plays or have them + acted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0204" id="link2H_4_0204"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + PETERSBURG, October 18, 1896. + </p> + <p> + I am setting off to Melihovo. I shall be there tomorrow between one or two + o’clock in the afternoon. Yesterday’s adventure did not astonish or + greatly disappoint me, for I was prepared for it by the rehearsals—and + I don’t feel particularly bad. + </p> + <p> + When you come to Melihovo bring Lika with you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0205" id="link2H_4_0205"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <p> + PETERSBURG, October 18, 1896. + </p> + <p> + The play has fallen flat, and come down with a crash. There was an + oppressive strained feeling of disgrace and bewilderment in the theatre. + The actors played abominably stupidly. The moral of it is, one ought not + to write plays. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0206" id="link2H_4_0206"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, October 22, 1896. + </p> + <p> + In your last letter (of October 18) you three times call me womanish, and + say that I was in a funk. Why this libel? After the performance I had + supper at Romanov’s. On my word of honour. Then I went to bed, slept + soundly, and next day went home without uttering a sound of complaint. If + I had been in a funk I should have run from editor to editor and actor to + actor, should have nervously entreated them to be considerate, should + nervously have inserted useless corrections and should have spent two or + three weeks in Petersburg fussing over my “Seagull,” in excitement, in a + cold perspiration, in lamentation.... When you were with me the night + after the performance you told me yourself that it would be the best thing + for me to go away; and next morning I got a letter from you to say + good-bye. How did I show funk? I acted as coldly and reasonably as a man + who has made an offer, received a refusal, and has nothing left but to go. + Yes, my vanity was stung, but you know it was not a bolt from the blue; I + was expecting a failure, and was prepared for it, as I warned you with + perfect sincerity beforehand. + </p> + <p> + When I got home I took a dose of castor oil, and had a cold bath, and now + I am ready to write another play. I no longer feel exhausted and + irritable, and am not afraid that Davydov and Jean will come to me and + talk about the play. I agree with your corrections, and a thousand thanks + for them. Only please don’t regret that you were not at the rehearsals. + You know there was in reality only one rehearsal, at which one could make + out nothing. One could not see the play at all through the loathsome + acting. + </p> + <p> + I have got a telegram from Potapenko—“A colossal success.” I have + had a letter from Mlle. Veselitsky (Mikulitch) whom I don’t know. She + expresses her sympathy in a tone as if one of my family were dead. It’s + really quite inappropriate; that’s all nonsense, though. + </p> + <p> + My sister is delighted with you and Anna Ivanovna, and I am inexpressibly + glad of it, for I love your family like my own. She hastened home from + Petersburg, possibly imagining that I would hang myself.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0207" id="link2H_4_0207"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO E. M. S. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, November, 1896. + </p> + <p> + If, O honoured “One of the Audience”, you are writing of the first + performance, then allow—oh, allow me to doubt your sincerity. You + hasten to pour healing balsam on the author’s wounds, supposing that, + under the circumstances, that is more necessary and better than sincerity; + you are kind, very kind, and it does credit to your heart. At the first + performance I did not see all, but what I did see was dingy, grey, dismal + and wooden. I did not distribute the parts and was not given new scenery. + There were only two rehearsals, the actors did not know their parts—and + the result was a general panic and utter depression; even Madame + Kommissarzhevsky’s acting was not up to much, though at one of the + rehearsals she acted marvellously, so that people sitting in the stalls + wept with bowed heads. + </p> + <p> + In any case I am grateful and very, very much touched. All my plays are + being printed, and as soon as they are ready I shall send you a copy.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0208" id="link2H_4_0208"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. F. KONI. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, November 11, 1896. + </p> + <p> + You cannot imagine how your letter rejoiced me. I saw from the front only + the two first acts of my play. Afterwards I sat behind the scenes and felt + the whole time that “The Seagull” was a failure. After the performance + that night and next day, I was assured that I had hatched out nothing but + idiots, that my play was clumsy from the stage point of view, that it was + not clever, that it was unintelligible, even senseless, and so on and so + on. You can imagine my position—it was a collapse such as I had + never dreamed of! I felt ashamed and vexed, and I went away from + Petersburg full of doubts of all sorts. I thought that if I had written + and put on the stage a play so obviously brimming over with monstrous + defects, I had lost all instinct and that, therefore, my machinery must + have gone wrong for good. After I had reached home, they wrote to me from + Petersburg that the second and third performances were a success; several + letters, some signed, some anonymous, came praising the play and abusing + the critics. I read them with pleasure, but still I felt vexed and + ashamed, and the idea forced itself upon me that if kind-hearted people + thought it was necessary to comfort me, it meant that I was in a bad way. + But your letter has acted upon me in a most definite way. I have known you + a long time, I have a deep respect for you, and I believe in you more than + in all the critics taken together—you felt that when you wrote your + letter, and that is why it is so excellent and convincing. My mind is at + rest now, and I can think of the play and the performance without + loathing. Kommissarzhevskaia is a wonderful actress. At one of the + rehearsals many people were moved to tears as they looked at her, and said + that she was the first actress in Russia to-day; but at the first + performance she was affected by the general attitude of hostility to my + “Seagull,” and was, as it were, intimidated by it and lost her voice. Our + press takes a cold tone to her that doesn’t do justice to her merits, and + I am sorry for her. Allow me to thank you with all my heart for your + letter. Believe me, I value the feelings that prompted you to write it far + more than I can express in words, and the sympathy you call “unnecessary” + at the end of your letter I shall never never forget, whatever happens. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0209" id="link2H_4_0209"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. I. NEMIROVITCH-DANTCHENKO. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, November 26, 1896. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR FRIEND, + </h3> + <p> + I am answering the chief substance of your letter—the question why + we so rarely talk of serious subjects. When people are silent, it is + because they have nothing to talk about or because they are ill at ease. + What is there to talk about? We have no politics, we have neither public + life nor club life, nor even a life of the streets; our civic existence is + poor, monotonous, burdensome, and uninteresting—and to talk is as + boring as corresponding with L. You say that we are literary men, and that + of itself makes our life a rich one. Is that so? We are stuck in our + profession up to our ears, it has gradually isolated us from the external + world, and the upshot of it is that we have little free time, little + money, few books, we read little and reluctantly, we hear little, we + rarely go anywhere. Should we talk about literature? ... But we have + talked about it already. Every year it’s the same thing again and again, + and all we usually say about literature may be reduced to discussing who + write better, and who write worse. Conversations upon wider and more + general topics never catch on, because when you have tundras and Esquimaux + all round you, general ideas, being so inappropriate to the reality, + quickly lose shape and slip away like thoughts of eternal bliss. Should we + talk of personal life? Yes, that may sometimes be interesting and we might + perhaps talk about it; but there again we are constrained, we are reserved + and insincere: we are restrained by an instinct of self-preservation and + we are afraid. We are afraid of being overheard by some uncultured + Esquimaux who does not like us, and whom we don’t like either. I + personally am afraid that my acquaintance, N., whose cleverness attracts + us, will hold forth with raised finger, in every railway carriage and + every house about me, settling the question why I became so intimate with + X. while I was beloved by Z. I am afraid of our morals, I am afraid of our + ladies.... In short, for our silence, for the frivolity and dulness of our + conversations, don’t blame yourself or me, blame what the critics call + “the age,” blame the climate, the vast distances, what you will, and let + circumstances go on their own fateful, relentless course, hoping for a + better future. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0210" id="link2H_4_0210"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, January 11, 1897. + </p> + <p> + We are having a census. They have served out to the numerators detestable + inkpots, detestable clumsy badges like the labels of a brewery, and + portfolios into which the census forms will not fit—giving the + effect of a sword that won’t go into its sheath. It is a disgrace. From + early morning I go from hut to hut, and knock my head in the low doorways + which I can’t get used to, and as ill-luck will have it my head aches + hellishly; I have migraine and influenza. In one hut a little girl of nine + years old, boarded out from the foundling hospital, wept bitterly because + all the other little girls in the hut were Mihailovnas while she was + called Lvovna after her godfather. I said call yourself Mihailovna. They + were all highly delighted, and began thanking me. That’s what’s called + making friends with the Mammon of Unrighteousness. + </p> + <p> + The “Journal of Surgery” has been sanctioned by the Censor. We are + beginning to bring it out. Be so good as to do us a service—have the + enclosed advertisement printed on your front page and charge it to my + account. The journal will be a very good one, and this advertisement can + lead to nothing but unmistakable and solid benefit. It’s a great benefit, + you know, to cut off people’s legs. + </p> + <p> + While we are on medical topics—a remedy for cancer has been found. + For almost a year past, thanks to a Russian doctor Denisenko, they have + been trying the juice of the celandine, and one reads of astonishing + results. Cancer is a terrible unbearable disease, the death from it is + agonizing; you can imagine how pleasant it is for a man initiated into the + secrets of Aesculapius to read of such results.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0211" id="link2H_4_0211"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + February 8, 1897. + </p> + <p> + The census is over. I was pretty sick of the business, as I had both to + enumerate and to write till my fingers ached, and to give lectures to + fifteen numerators. The numerators worked excellently, with a pedantic + exactitude almost absurd. On the other hand the Zemsky Natchalniks, to + whom the census was entrusted in the districts, behaved disgustingly. They + did nothing, understood little, and at the most difficult moments used to + report themselves sick. The best of them turned out to be a man who drinks + and draws the long bow <i>a la</i> Hlestakov [Translator’s Note: A + character in Gogol’s “Inspector General.”]—but was all the same a + character, if only from the point of view of comedy, while the others were + colourless beyond words, and it was annoying beyond words to have anything + to do with them. + </p> + <p> + I am in Moscow at the Great Moscow Hotel. I am staying a short time, ten + days, and then going home. The whole of Lent and the whole of April after + it, I shall have to be busy again with carpenters and so on. I am building + a school again. A deputation came to me from the peasants begging me for + it, and I had not the courage to refuse. The Zemstvo is giving a thousand + roubles, the peasants have collected three hundred, and that is all, while + the school will not cost less than three thousand. So again I shall have + all the summer to be thinking about money, and scraping it together here + and there. Altogether life in the country is full of work and care.... + </p> + <p> + The police have made a raid upon Tchertkov, the well-known Tolstoyan, have + carried off all that the Tolstoyans had collected relating to the Duhobors + and sectarians—and so all at once as though by magic all evidence + against Pobyedonostsev and his angels has vanished. Goremykin called upon + Tchertkov’s mother and said: “Your son must make the choice—either + the Baltic Province where Prince Hilkov is already living in exile, or a + foreign country.” Tchertkov has chosen London. + </p> + <p> + He is setting off on the thirteenth of February. L. N. Tolstoy has gone to + Petersburg to see him off; and yesterday they sent his winter overcoat + after him. A great many are going to see him off, even Sytin, and I am + sorry that I cannot do the same. I don’t cherish tender sentiments for + Tchertkov, but the way he has been treated fills me with intense, intense + indignation.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0212" id="link2H_4_0212"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + April 1, 1897. + </p> + <p> + The doctors have diagnosed tuberculosis in the upper part of the lungs, + and have ordered me to change my manner of life. I understand their + diagnosis but I don’t understand their prescription, because it is almost + impossible. They tell me I must live in the country, but you know living + permanently in the country involves continual worry with peasants, with + animals, with elementary forces of all kinds, and to escape from worries + and anxieties in the country is as difficult as to escape burns in hell. + But still I will try to change my life as far as possible, and have + already, through Masha, announced that I shall give up medical practice in + the country. This will be at the same time a great relief and a great + deprivation to me. I shall drop all public duties in the district, shall + buy a dressing-gown, bask in the sun, and eat a great deal. They tell me + to eat six times a day and are indignant with me for eating, as they + think, very little. I am forbidden to talk much, to swim, and so on, and + so on. + </p> + <p> + Except my lungs, all my organs were found to be healthy. Hitherto I + fancied I drank just so much as not to do harm; now it turns out on + investigation that I was drinking less than I was entitled to. What a + pity! + </p> + <p> + The author of “Ward No. 6” has been moved from Ward No. 16 to Ward No. 14. + There is plenty of room here, two windows, lighting a la Potapenko, three + tables. There is very little haemorrhage. After the evening when Tolstoy + was here (we talked for a long time) at four o’clock in the morning I had + violent haemorrhage again. + </p> + <p> + Melihovo is a healthy place; it stands exactly on a watershed, on high + ground, so that there is never fever or diphtheria in it. They have + decided, after general consultation, that I am not to go away anywhere but + to go on living at Melihovo. I must only arrange the house somewhat more + comfortably.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0213" id="link2H_4_0213"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + April 7, 1897. + </p> + <p> + ... You write that my ideal is laziness. No, it is not laziness. I despise + laziness as I despise weakness and lack of mental and moral energy. I was + not talking of laziness but of leisure, and I did not say leisure was an + ideal but only one of the essential conditions of personal happiness. + </p> + <p> + If the experiments with Koch’s new serum give favourable results, I shall + go of course to Berlin. Feeding is absolutely no use to me. Here for the + last fortnight they have been feeding me zealously, but it’s no use, I + have not gained weight. + </p> + <p> + I ought to get married. Perhaps a cross wife would cut down the number of + my visitors by at least a half. Yesterday they were coming all day long, + it was simply awful. They came two at a time—and each one begs me + not to speak and at the same time asks me questions.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0214" id="link2H_4_0214"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. I. ERTEL. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, April 17, 1897. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR FRIEND ALEXANDR IVANOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + I am now at home. For a fortnight before Easter I was lying in Ostroumov’s + clinic and was spitting blood. The doctor diagnosed tuberculosis in the + lungs. I feel splendid, nothing aches, nothing is uneasy inside, but the + doctors have forbidden me <i>vinum</i>, movement, and conversation, they + have ordered me to eat a great deal, and forbidden me to practise—and + I feel as it were dreary. + </p> + <p> + I hear nothing about the People’s Theatre. At the congress it was spoken + of apathetically, without interest, and the circle that had undertaken to + write its constitution and set to work have evidently cooled off a little. + It is due to the spring, I suppose. The only one of the circle I saw was + Goltsev, and I had not time to talk to him about the theatre. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing new. A dead calm in literature. In the editor’s offices + they are drinking tea and cheap wine, drinking it without relish as they + walk about, evidently from having nothing to do. Tolstoy is writing a + little book about Art. He came to see me in the clinic, and said that he + had flung aside his novel “Resurrection” as he did not like it, and was + writing only about Art, and had read sixty books about Art. His idea is + not a new one; all intelligent old men in all the ages have sung the same + tune in different keys. Old men have always been prone to see the end of + the world, and have always declared that morality was degenerating to the + uttermost point, that Art was growing shallow and wearing thin, that + people were growing feebler, and so on, and so on. + </p> + <p> + Lyov Nikolaevitch wants to persuade us in his little book that at the + present time Art has entered upon its final phase, that it is in a blind + alley, from which it has no outlet (except retreat). + </p> + <p> + I am doing nothing, I feed the sparrows with hemp-seed and prune a + rose-tree a day. After my pruning, the roses flower magnificently. I am + not looking after the farming. + </p> + <p> + Keep well, dear Alexandr Ivanovitch, thank you for your letter and + friendly sympathy. Write to me for the sake of my infirmity, and don’t + blame me too much for my carelessness in correspondence. + </p> + <p> + In future I am going to try and answer your letters as soon as I have read + them. Warmest greetings. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0215" id="link2H_4_0215"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MELIHOVO, July 12, 1897. + </p> + <p> + ... I am reading Maeterlinck, I have read his “Les Aveugles,” “L’Intrus,” + and am reading “Aglavaine et Selysette.” They are all strange wonderful + things, but they make an immense impression, and if I had a theatre I + should certainly stage “Les Aveugles.” There is, by the way, a magnificent + scenic effect in it, with the sea and a lighthouse in the distance. The + public is semi-idiotic, but one might avoid the play’s failing by writing + the contents of the play—in brief, of course—on the programme, + saying the play is the work of Maeterlinck, a Belgian author and decadent, + and that what happens in it is that an old man, who leads about some blind + men, has died in silence and that the blind men, not knowing this, are + sitting and waiting for his return.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0216" id="link2H_4_0216"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME AVILOV. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, October 6, 1897. + </p> + <p> + ... You complain that my heroes are gloomy—alas! that’s not my + fault. This happens apart from my will, and when I write it does not seem + to me that I am writing gloomily; in any case, as I work I am always in + excellent spirits. It has been observed that gloomy, melancholy people + always write cheerfully, while those who enjoy life put their depression + into their writings. And I am a man who enjoys life; the first thirty + years of my life I have lived as they say in pleasure and content.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0217" id="link2H_4_0217"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, December 15, 1897. + </p> + <p> + ... In one of your letters you expressed a desire that I should send you + an international story, taking for my subject something from the life + here. Such a story I can write only in Russia from reminiscences. I can + only write from reminiscences, and I have never written directly from + Nature. I have let my memory sift the subject, so that only what is + important or typical is left in it as in a filter.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0218" id="link2H_4_0218"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, January 4, 1898. + </p> + <p> + ... Judging from the extract printed in <i>Novoye Vremya</i>, Tolstoy’s + article on Art does not seem interesting. All that is old. He says about + Art that it is decrepit, that it has got into a blind alley, that it is + not what it ought to be, and so on, and so on. That’s just like saying the + desire to eat and drink has grown old, has outlived its day, and is not + what it ought to be. Of course hunger is an old story, in the desire to + eat we have got into a blind alley, but still eating is necessary, and we + shall go on eating however the philosophers and irate old men moralise.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0219" id="link2H_4_0219"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, January 28, 1898. + </p> + <p> + ... We talk of nothing here but Zola and Dreyfus. The immense majority of + educated people are on Zola’s side and believe that Dreyfus is innocent. + Zola has gained immensely in public esteem; his letters of protest are + like a breath of fresh air, and every Frenchman has felt that, thank God! + there is still justice in the world, and that if an innocent man is + condemned there is still someone to champion him. The French papers are + extremely interesting while the Russian are worthless. <i>Novoye Vremya</i> + is simply loathsome.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0220" id="link2H_4_0220"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, February 6, 1898. + </p> + <p> + ... You write that you are annoyed with Zola, and here everyone has a + feeling as though a new, better Zola had arisen. In his trial he has been + cleansed as though in turpentine from grease-spots, and now shines before + the French in his true brilliance. There is a purity and moral elevation + that was not suspected in him. You should follow the whole scandal from + the very beginning. The degradation of Dreyfus, whether it was just or + not, made on all (you were of the number I remember) a painful and + depressing impression. It was noticed that at the time of the sentence + Dreyfus behaved like a decent well-disciplined officer, while those + present at the sentence, the journalists for instance, shouted at him, + “Hold your tongue, Judas,”—that is, behaved badly and indecently. + Everyone came back from the sentence dissatisfied and with a troubled + conscience. Dreyfus’ counsel Demange, an honest man, who even during the + preliminary stages of the trial felt that something shifty was being done + behind the scenes, was particularly dissatisfied—and then the + experts who, to convince themselves that they had not made a mistake, kept + talking of nothing but Dreyfus, of his being guilty, and kept wandering + all over Paris! ... + </p> + <p> + Of the experts one turned out to be mad, the author of a monstrously + absurd project; two were eccentric creatures. + </p> + <p> + People could not help talking of the Intelligence Department at the War + Office, that military consistory which is employed in hunting for spies + and reading other people’s letters; it began to be said that the head of + that Department, Sandhen, was suffering from progressive paralysis; Paty + de Clam has shown himself to be something after the style of Tausch of + Berlin; Picquart suddenly took his departure mysteriously, causing a lot + of talk. All at once a series of gross judicial blunders came to light. By + degrees people became convinced that Dreyfus had been condemned on the + strength of a secret document, which had been shown neither to the accused + man nor his defending counsel, and decent law-abiding people saw in this a + fundamental breach of justice. If the latter were the work not simply of + Wilhelm, but of the centre of the solar system, it ought to have been + shown to Demange. All sorts of guesses were made as to the contents of + this letter, the most impossible stories circulated. Dreyfus was an + officer, the military were suspect; Dreyfus was a Jew, the Jews were + suspect. People began talking about militarism, about the Jews. Such + utterly disreputable people as Drumont held up their heads; little by + little they stirred up a regular pother on a substratum of anti-semitism, + on a substratum that smelt of the shambles. When something is wrong with + us we look for the causes outside ourselves, and readily find them. “It’s + the Frenchman’s nastiness, it’s the Jews’, it’s Wilhelm’s.” Capital, + brimstone, the freemasons, the Syndicate, the Jesuits—they are all + bogeys, but how they relieve our uneasiness! They are of course a bad + sign. Since the French have begun talking about the Jews, about the + Syndicate, it shows they are feeling uncomfortable, that there is a worm + gnawing at them, that they feel the need of these bogeys to soothe their + over-excited conscience. + </p> + <p> + Then this Esterhazy, a duellist, in the style of Turgenev’s duellists, an + insolent ruffian, who had long been an object of suspicion, and was not + respected by his comrades; the striking resemblance of his handwriting + with that of the <i>bordereau,</i> the Uhlan’s letters, his threats which + for some reason he does not carry out; finally the judgment, utterly + mysterious, strangely deciding that the <i>bordereau</i> was written in + Esterhazy’s handwriting but not by his hand! ... And the gas has been + continually accumulating, there has come to be a feeling of acute tension, + of overwhelming oppression. The fighting in the court was a purely nervous + manifestation, simply the hysterical result of that tension, and Zola’s + letter and his trial are a manifestation of the same kind. What would you + have? The best people, always in advance of the nation, were bound to be + the first to raise an agitation—and so it has been. The first to + speak was Scherer-Kestner, of whom Frenchmen who know him intimately + (according to Kovalevsky) say that he is a “sword-blade,” so spotless and + without blemish is he. The second is Zola, and now he is being tried. + </p> + <p> + Yes, Zola is not Voltaire, and we are none of us Voltaires, but there are + in life conjunctions of circumstances when the reproach that we are not + Voltaires is least of all appropriate. Think of Korolenko, who defended + the Multanovsky natives and saved them from penal servitude. Dr. Haas is + not a Voltaire either, and yet his wonderful life has been well spent up + to the end. + </p> + <p> + I am well acquainted with the case from the stenographers’ report, which + is utterly different from what is in the newspapers, and I have a clear + view of Zola. The chief point is that he is sincere—that is, he + bases his judgments simply on what he sees, and not on phantoms like the + others. And sincere people can be mistaken, no doubt of it, but such + mistakes do less harm than calculated insincerity, prejudgments, or + political considerations. Let Dreyfus be guilty, and Zola is still right, + since it is the duty of writers not to accuse, not to prosecute, but to + champion even the guilty once they have been condemned and are enduring + punishment. I shall be told: “What of the political position? The + interests of the State?” But great writers and artists ought to take part + in politics only so far as they have to protect themselves from politics. + There are plenty of accusers, prosecutors, and gendarmes without them, and + in any case, the role of Paul suits them better than that of Saul. + Whatever the verdict may be, Zola will anyway experience a vivid delight + after the trial, his old age will be a fine old age, and he will die with + a conscience at peace, or at any rate greatly solaced. The French are very + sick. They clutch at every word of comfort and at every genuine reproach + coming to them from outside. That is why Bernstein’s letter and our + Zakrevsky’s article (which was read here in the Novosti) have had such a + great success here, and why they are so disgusted by abuse of Zola, such + as the gutter press, which they despise, flings at him every day. However + neurotic Zola may be, still he stands before the court of French common + sense, and the French love him for it and are proud of him, even though + they do applaud the Generals who, in the simplicity of their hearts, scare + them first with the honour of the army, then with war.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0221" id="link2H_4_0221"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. + </h2> + <p> + NICE, February 23, 1898. + </p> + <p> + ... <i>Novoye Vremya</i> has behaved simply abominably about the Zola + case. The old man and I have exchanged letters on the subject (in a tone + of great moderation, however), and have both dropped the subject. + </p> + <p> + I don’t want to write and I don’t want his letters, in which he keeps + justifying the tactlessness of his paper by saying he loves the military: + I don’t want them because I have been thoroughly sick of it all for a long + time past. I love the military too, but I would not if I had a newspaper + allow the <i>cactuses</i> to print Zola’s novel <i>for nothing</i> in the + Supplement, while they pour dirty water over this same Zola in the paper—and + what for? For what not one of the cactuses has ever known—for a + noble impulse and moral purity. And in any case to abuse Zola when he is + on his trial—that is unworthy of literature.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0222" id="link2H_4_0222"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, October 26, 1898. + </p> + <p> + ... I am buying a piece of land in Yalta and am going to build so as to + have a place in which to spend the winters. The prospect of continual + wandering with hotel rooms, hotel porters, chance cooking, and so on, and + so on, alarms my imagination. Mother will spend the winter with me. There + is no winter here; it’s the end of October, but the roses and other + flowers are blooming freely, the trees are green and it is warm. + </p> + <p> + There is a great deal of water. Nothing will be needed apart from the + house, no outbuildings of any sort; it will all be under one roof. The + coal, wood and everything will be in the basement. The hens lay the whole + year round, and no special house is needed for them, an enclosure is + enough. Close by there is a baker’s shop and the bazaar, so that it will + be very cosy for Mother and very convenient. By the way, there are + chanterelles and boletuses to be gathered all the autumn, and that will be + an amusement for Mother. I am not doing the building myself, the architect + is doing it all. The houses will be ready by April. The grounds, for a + town house, are considerable. There will be a garden and flowerbeds, and a + vegetable garden. The railway will come to Yalta next year.... + </p> + <p> + As for getting married, upon which you are so urgent—what am I to + say to you? To marry is interesting only for love; to marry a girl simply + because she is nice is like buying something one does not want at the + bazaar solely because it is of good quality. + </p> + <p> + The most important screw in family life is love, sexual attraction, one + flesh, all the rest is dreary and cannot be reckoned upon, however + cleverly we make our calculations. So the point is not in the girl’s being + nice but in her being loved; putting it off as you see counts for + little.... + </p> + <p> + My “Uncle Vanya” is being done all over the province, and everywhere with + success. So one never knows where one will gain and where one will lose; I + had not reckoned on that play at all.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0223" id="link2H_4_0223"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GORKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, December 3, 1898. + </p> + <p> + Your last letter has given me great pleasure. I thank you with all my + heart. “Uncle Vanya” was written long, long ago; I have never seen it on + the stage. Of late years it has often been produced at provincial + theatres. I feel cold about my plays as a rule; I gave up the theatre long + ago, and feel no desire now to write for the stage. + </p> + <p> + You ask what is my opinion of your stories. My opinion? The talent is + unmistakable and it is a real, great talent. For instance, in the story + “In the Steppe” it is expressed with extraordinary vigour, and I actually + felt a pang of envy that it was not I who had written it. You are an + artist, a clever man, you feel superbly, you are plastic—that is, + when you describe a thing you see it and you touch it with your hands. + That is real art. There is my opinion for you, and I am very glad I can + express it to you. I am, I repeat, very glad, and if we could meet and + talk for an hour or two you would be convinced of my high appreciation of + you and of the hopes I am building on your gifts. + </p> + <p> + Shall I speak now of defects? But that is not so easy. To speak of the + defects of a talent is like speaking of the defects of a great tree + growing in the garden; what is chiefly in question, you see, is not the + tree itself but the tastes of the man who is looking at it. Is not that + so? + </p> + <p> + I will begin by saying that to my mind you have not enough restraint. You + are like a spectator at the theatre who expresses his transports with so + little restraint that he prevents himself and other people from listening. + This lack of restraint is particularly felt in the descriptions of nature + with which you interrupt your dialogues; when one reads those descriptions + one wishes they were more compact, shorter, put into two or three lines. + The frequent mention of tenderness, whispering, velvetiness, and so on, + give those descriptions a rhetorical and monotonous character—and + they make one feel cold and almost exhaust one. The lack of restraint is + felt also in the descriptions of women (“Malva,” “On the Raft”) and love + scenes. It is not vigour, not breadth of touch, but just lack of + restraint. Then there is the frequent use of words quite unsuitable in + stories of your type. “Accompaniment,” “disc,” “harmony,” such words spoil + the effect. You often talk of waves. There is a strained feeling and a + sort of circumspection in your descriptions of educated people; that is + not because you have not observed educated people sufficiently, you know + them, but you don’t seem to know from what side to approach them. + </p> + <p> + How old are you? I don’t know you, I don’t know where you came from or who + you are, but it seems to me that while you are still young you ought to + leave Nizhni and spend two or three years rubbing shoulders with + literature and literary people; not to learn to crow like the rest of us + and to sharpen your wits, but to take the final plunge head first into + literature and to grow to love it. Besides, the provinces age a man early. + Korolenko, Potapenko, Mamin, Ertel, are first-rate men; you would perhaps + at first feel their company rather boring, but in a year or two you would + grow used to them and appreciate them as they deserve, and their society + would more than repay you for the disagreeableness and inconvenience of + life in the capital.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0224" id="link2H_4_0224"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YALTA, + </h2> + <p> + January 3, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... Apparently you have misunderstood me a little. I did not write to you + of coarseness of style, but only of the incongruity of foreign, not + genuinely Russian, or rarely used words. In other authors such words as, + for instance, “fatalistically,” pass unnoticed, but your things are + musical, harmonious, and every crude touch jars fearfully. Of course it is + a question of taste, and perhaps this is only a sign of excessive + fastidiousness in me, or the conservatism of a man who has adopted + definite habits for himself long ago. I am resigned to “a <i>collegiate + assessor</i>,” and “a <i>captain</i> of the second <i>rank</i>” in + descriptions, but “<i>flirt</i>” and “<i>champion</i>” when they occur in + descriptions excite repulsion in me. + </p> + <p> + Are you self-educated? In your stories you are completely an artist and at + the same time an “educated” man in the truest sense. + </p> + <p> + Nothing is less characteristic of you than coarseness, you are clever and + subtle and delicate in your feelings. Your best things are “In the + Steppe,” and “On the Raft,”—did I write to you about that? They are + splendid things, masterpieces, they show the artist who has passed through + a very good school. I don’t think that I am mistaken. The only defect is + the lack of restraint, the lack of grace. When a man spends the least + possible number of movements over some definite action, that is grace. One + is conscious of superfluity in your expenditure. + </p> + <p> + The descriptions of nature are the work of an artist; you are a real + landscape painter. Only the frequent personification (anthropomorphism) + when the sea breathes, the sky gazes, the steppe barks, nature whispers, + speaks, mourns, and so on—such metaphors make your descriptions + somewhat monotonous, sometimes sweetish, sometimes not clear; beauty and + expressiveness in nature are attained only by simplicity, by such simple + phrases as “The sun set,” “It was dark,” “It began to rain,” and so on—and + that simplicity is characteristic of you in the highest degree, more so + perhaps than of any other writer.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0225" id="link2H_4_0225"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 17, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... I have been reading Tolstoy’s son’s story: “The Folly of the Mir.” The + construction of the story is poor, indeed it would have been better to + write it simply as an article, but the thought is treated with justice and + passion. I am against the Commune myself. There is sense in the Commune + when one has to deal with external enemies who make frequent invasions, + and with wild animals; but now it is a crowd artificially held together, + like a crowd of convicts. They will tell us Russia is an agricultural + country. That is so, but the Commune has nothing to do with that, at any + rate at the present time. The commune exists by husbandry, but once + husbandry begins to pass into scientific agriculture the commune begins to + crack at every seam, as the commune and culture are not compatible ideas. + Our national drunkenness and profound ignorance are, by the way, sins of + the commune system.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0226" id="link2H_4_0226"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 6, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... Being bored, I am reading “The Book of my Life” by Bishop Porfiry. + This passage about war occurs in it: + </p> + <p> + “Standing armies in time of peace are locusts devouring the people’s bread + and leaving a vile stench in society, while in time of war they are + artificial fighting machines, and when they grow and develop, farewell to + freedom, security, and national glory! ... They are the lawless defenders + of unjust and partial laws, of privilege and of tyranny.” ... + </p> + <p> + That was written in the forties.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0227" id="link2H_4_0227"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO I. I. ORLOV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 22, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... In your letter there is a text from Scripture. To your complaint in + regard to the tutor and failures of all sorts I will reply by another + text: “Put not thy trust in princes nor in any sons of man” ... and I + recall another expression in regard to the sons of man, those in + particular who so annoy you: they are the sons of their age. + </p> + <p> + Not the tutor but the whole educated class—that is to blame, my dear + sir. While the young men and women are students they are a good honest + set, they are our hope, they are the future of Russia, but no sooner do + those students enter upon independent life and become grown up than our + hope and the future of Russia vanishes in smoke, and all that is left in + the filter is doctors owning house property, hungry government clerks, and + thieving engineers. Remember that Katkov, Pobyedonostsev, Vishnegradsky, + were nurselings of the Universities, that they were our Professors—not + military despots, but professors, luminaries.... I don’t believe in our + educated class, which is hypocritical, false, hysterical, badly educated + and indolent. I don’t believe in it even when it’s suffering and + complaining, for its oppressors come from its own entrails. I believe in + individual people, I see salvation in individual personalities scattered + here and there all over Russia—educated people or peasants—they + have strength though they are few. No prophet is honoured in his own + country, but the individual personalities of whom I am speaking play an + unnoticed part in society, they are not domineering, but their work can be + seen; anyway, science is advancing and advancing, social + self-consciousness is growing, moral questions begin to take an uneasy + character, and so on, and so on-and all this is being done in spite of the + prosecutors, the engineers, and the tutors, in spite of the intellectual + class en masse and in spite of everything.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0228" id="link2H_4_0228"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME AVILOV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, March 9, 1899. + </p> + <p> + I shall not be at the writers’ congress. In the autumn I shall be in the + Crimea or abroad—that is, of course, if I am alive and free. I am + going to spend the whole summer on my own place in the Serpuhov district. + [Footnote: Melihovo.] + </p> + <p> + By the way, in what district of the Tula province have you bought your + estate? For the first two years after buying an estate one has a hard + time, at moments it is very bad indeed, but by degrees one is led to + Nirvana, by sweet habit. I bought an estate and mortgaged it, I had a very + hard time the first years (famine, cholera). Afterwards everything went + well, and now it is pleasant to remember that I have somewhere near the + Oka a nook of my own. I live in peace with the peasants, they never steal + anything from me, and when I walk through the village the old women smile + and cross themselves. I use the formal address to all except children, and + never shout at them; but what has done most to build up our good relations + is medicine. You will be happy on your estate, only please don’t listen to + anyone’s advice and gloomy prognostications, and don’t at first be + disappointed, or form an opinion about the peasants. The peasants behave + sullenly and not genuinely to all new-comers, and especially so in the + Tula province. There is indeed a saying: “He’s a good man though he is + from Tula.” + </p> + <p> + So here’s something like a sermon for you, you see, madam. Are you + satisfied? + </p> + <p> + Do you know L. N. Tolstoy? Will your estate be far from Tolstoy’s? If it + is near I shall envy you. I like Tolstoy very much. + </p> + <p> + Speaking of new writers, you throw Melshin in with a whole lot. That’s not + right. Melshin stands apart. He is a great and unappreciated writer, an + intelligent, powerful writer, though perhaps he will not write more than + he has written already. Kuprin I have not read at all. Gorky I like, but + of late he has taken to writing rubbish, revolting rubbish, so that I + shall soon give up reading him. “Humble People” is good, though one could + have done without Buhvostov, whose presence brings into the story an + element of strain, of tiresomeness and even falsity. Korolenko is a + delightful writer. He is loved—and with good reason. Apart from all + the rest there is sobriety and purity in him. + </p> + <p> + You ask whether I am sorry for Suvorin. Of course I am. He is paying + heavily for his mistakes. But I’m not at all sorry for those who are + surrounding him.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0229" id="link2H_4_0229"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GORKY. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, April 25, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... The day before yesterday I was at L. N. Tolstoy’s; he praised you very + highly and said that you were “a remarkable writer.” He likes your “The + Fair” and “In the Steppe” and does not like “Malva.” He said: “You can + invent anything you like, but you can’t invent psychology, and in Gorky + one comes across just psychological inventions: he describes what he has + never felt.” So much for you! I said that when you were next in Moscow we + would go together to see him. + </p> + <p> + When will you be in Moscow? On Thursday there will be a private + performance—for me—of “The Seagull.” If you come to Moscow I + will give you a seat.... + </p> + <p> + From Petersburg I get painful letters, as it were from the damned, + [Footnote: From Suvorin.] and it’s painful to me as I don’t know what to + answer, how to behave. Yes, life when it is not a psychological invention + is a difficult business.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0230" id="link2H_4_0230"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, September 30, 1899. + </p> + <p> + At your command I hasten to answer your letter in which you ask me about + Astrov’s last scene with Elena. + </p> + <p> + You write that Astrov addresses Elena in that scene like the most ardent + lover, “clutches at his feeling like a drowning man at a straw.” + </p> + <p> + But that’s not right, not right at all! Astrov likes Elena, she attracts + him by her beauty; but in the last act he knows already that nothing will + come of it, and he talks to her in that scene in the same tone as of the + heat in Africa, and kisses her quite casually, to pass the time. If Astrov + takes that scene violently, the whole mood of the fourth act—quiet + and despondent—is lost.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0231" id="link2H_4_0231"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO G. I. ROSSOLIMO. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, October 11, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... Autobiography? I have a disease—Auto-biographophobia. To read + any sort of details about myself, and still more to write them for print, + is a veritable torture to me. On a separate sheet I send a few facts, very + bald, but I can do no more.... + </p> + <p> + I, A. P. Chekhov, was born on the 17th of January, 1860, at Taganrog. I + was educated first in the Greek School near the church of Tsar + Constantine; then in the Taganrog high school. In 1879 I entered the + Moscow University in the Faculty of Medicine. I had at the time only a + slight idea of the Faculties in general, and chose the Faculty of Medicine + I don’t remember on what grounds, but did not regret my choice afterwards. + I began in my first year to publish stories in the weekly journals and + newspapers, and these literary pursuits had, early in the eighties, + acquired a permanent professional character. In 1888 I took the Pushkin + prize. In 1890 I travelled to the Island of Sahalin, to write afterwards a + book upon our penal colony and prisons there. Not counting reviews, + feuilletons, paragraphs, and all that I have written from day to day for + the newspapers, which it would be difficult now to seek out and collect, I + have, during my twenty years of literary work, published more than three + hundred signatures of print, of tales, and novels. I have also written + plays for the stage. + </p> + <p> + I have no doubt that the study of medicine has had an important influence + on my literary work; it has considerably enlarged the sphere of my + observation, has enriched me with knowledge the true value of which for me + as a writer can only be understood by one who is himself a doctor. It has + also had a guiding influence, and it is probably due to my close + association with medicine that I have succeeded in avoiding many mistakes. + </p> + <p> + Familiarity with the natural sciences and with scientific method has + always kept me on my guard, and I have always tried where it was possible + to be consistent with the facts of science, and where it was impossible I + have preferred not to write at all. I may observe in passing that the + conditions of artistic creation do not always admit of complete harmony + with the facts of science. It is impossible to represent upon the stage a + death from poisoning exactly as it takes place in reality. But harmony + with the facts of science must be felt even under those conditions—i.e., + it must be clear to the reader or spectator that this is only due to the + conditions of art, and that he has to do with a writer who understands. + </p> + <p> + I do not belong to the class of literary men who take up a sceptical + attitude towards science; and to the class of those who rush into + everything with only their own imagination to go upon, I should not like + to belong.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0232" id="link2H_4_0232"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, October 30, 1899. + </p> + <p> + ... You ask whether I shall be excited, but you see I only heard properly + that “Uncle Vanya” was to be given on the twenty-sixth from your letter + which I got on the twenty-seventh. The telegrams began coming on the + evening of the twenty-seventh when I was in bed. They send them on to me + by telephone. I woke up every time and ran with bare feet to the + telephone, and got very much chilled; then I had scarcely dozed off when + the bell rang again and again. It’s the first time that my own fame has + kept me awake. The next evening when I went to bed I put my slippers and + dressing-gown beside my bed, but there were no more telegrams. + </p> + <p> + The telegrams were full of nothing but the number of calls and the + brilliant success, but there was a subtle, almost elusive something in + them from which I could conclude that the state of mind of all of you was + not exactly of the very best. The newspapers I have got to-day confirm my + conjectures. + </p> + <p> + Yes, dear actress, ordinary medium success is not enough now for all you + artistic players: you want an uproar, big guns, dynamite. You have been + spoiled at last, deafened by constant talk about successes, full and not + full houses: you are already poisoned with that drug, and in another two + or three years you will be good for nothing! So much for you! + </p> + <p> + How are you getting on? How are you feeling? I am still in the same place, + and am still the same; I am working and planting trees. + </p> + <p> + But visitors have come, I can’t go on writing. Visitors have been sitting + here for more than an hour. They have asked for tea. They have sent for + the samovar. Oh, how dreary! + </p> + <p> + Don’t forget me, and don’t let your friendship for me die away, so that we + may go away together somewhere again this summer. Good-bye for the + present. We shall most likely not meet before April. If you would all come + in the spring to Yalta, would act here and rest—that would be + wonderfully artistic. A visitor will take this letter and drop it into the + post-box.... + </p> + <p> + P.S.—Dear actress, write for the sake of all that’s holy, I am so + dull and depressed. I might be in prison and I rage and rage.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0233" id="link2H_4_0233"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YALTA, + </h2> + <p> + November 1, 1899. + </p> + <p> + I understand your mood, dear actress, I understand it very well; but yet + in your place I would not be so desperately upset. Both the part of Anna + [Footnote: In Hauptmann’s “Lonely Lives.”] and the play itself are not + worth wasting so much feeling and nerves over. It is an old play. It is + already out of date, and there are a great many defects in it; if more + than half the performers have not fallen into the right tone, then + naturally it is the fault of the play. That’s one thing, and the second + is, you must once and for all give up being worried about successes and + failures. Don’t let that concern you. It’s your duty to go on working + steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes which are + inevitable, for failures—in short, to do your job as actress and let + other people count the calls before the curtain. To write or to act, and + to be conscious at the time that one is not doing the right thing—that + is so usual, and for beginners so profitable! + </p> + <p> + The third thing is that the director has telegraphed that the second + performance went magnificently, that everyone played splendidly, and that + he was completely satisfied.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0234" id="link2H_4_0234"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GORKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 2, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + PRECIOUS ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + I wish you a happy New Year! How are you getting on? How are you feeling? + When are you coming to Yalta? Write fully. I have received the photograph, + it is very good; many thanks for it. + </p> + <p> + Thank you, too, for the trouble you have taken in regard to our committee + for assisting invalids coming here. Send any money there is or will be to + me, or to the executive of the Benevolent Society, no matter which. + </p> + <p> + My story (i.e., “In the Ravine”) has already been sent off to <i>Zhizn</i>. + Did I tell you that I liked your story “An Orphan” extremely, and sent it + to Moscow to first-rate readers? There is a certain Professor Foht in the + Medical Faculty in Moscow who reads Slyeptsov capitally. I don’t know a + better reader. So I have sent your “Orphan” to him. Did I tell you how + much I liked a story in your third volume, “My Travelling Companion”? + There is the same strength in it as “In the Steppe.” If I were you, I + would take the best things out of your three volumes and republish them in + one volume at a rouble—and that would be something really remarkable + for vigour and harmony. As it is, everything seems shaken up together in + the three volumes; there are no weak things, but it leaves an impression + as though the three volumes were not the work of one author but of seven. + </p> + <p> + Scribble me a line or two. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0235" id="link2H_4_0235"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 2, 1900. + </p> + <p> + My greetings, dear actress! Are you angry that I haven’t written for so + long? I used to write often, but you didn’t get my letters because our + common acquaintance intercepted them in the post. + </p> + <p> + I wish you all happiness in the New Year. I really do wish you happiness + and bow down to your little feet. Be happy, wealthy, healthy, and gay. + </p> + <p> + We are getting on pretty well, we eat a great deal, chatter a great deal, + laugh a great deal, and often talk of you. Masha will tell you when she + goes back to Moscow how we spent Christmas. + </p> + <p> + I have not congratulated you on the success of “Lonely Lives.” I still + dream that you will all come to Yalta, that I shall see “Lonely Lives” on + the stage, and congratulate you really from my heart. I wrote to + Meierhold, [Footnote: An actor at the Art Theatre at that time playing + Johannes in Hauptmann’s “Lonely Lives.”] and urged him in my letter not to + be too violent in the part of a nervous man. The immense majority of + people are nervous, you know: the greater number suffer, and a small + proportion feel acute pain; but where—in streets and in houses—do + you see people tearing about, leaping up, and clutching at their heads? + Suffering ought to be expressed as it is expressed in life—that is, + not by the arms and legs, but by the tone and expression; not by + gesticulation, but by grace. Subtle emotions of the soul in educated + people must be subtly expressed in an external way. You will say—stage + conditions. No conditions allow falsity. + </p> + <p> + My sister tells me that you played “Anna” exquisitely. Ah, if only the Art + Theatre would come to Yalta! <i>Novoye Vremya</i> highly praised your + company. There is a change of tactics in that quarter; evidently they are + going to praise you all even in Lent. My story, a very queer one, will be + in the February number of <i>Zhizn</i>. There are a great number of + characters, there is scenery too, there’s a crescent moon, there’s a + bittern that cries far, far away: “Boo-oo! boo-oo!” like a cow shut up in + a shed. There’s everything in it. + </p> + <p> + Levitan is with us. Over my fireplace he has painted a moonlight night in + the hayfield, cocks of hay, forest in the distance, a moon reigning on + high above it all. + </p> + <p> + Well, the best of health to you, dear, wonderful actress. I have been + pining for you. + </p> + <p> + And when are you going to send me your photograph? What treachery! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0236" id="link2H_4_0236"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 8, 1900. + </p> + <p> + ... My health is not so bad. I feel better than I did last year, but yet + the doctors won’t let me leave Yalta. I am as tired and sick of this + charming town as of a disagreeable wife. It’s curing me of tuberculosis, + but it’s making me ten years older. If I go to Nice it won’t be before + February. I am writing a little; not long ago I sent a long story to <i>Zhizn</i>. + Money is short, all I have received so far from Marks for the plays is + gone by now.... + </p> + <p> + If Prince Baryatinsky is to be judged by his paper, I must own I was + unjust to him, for I imagined him very different from what he is. They + will shut up his paper, of course, but he will long maintain his + reputation as a good journalist. You ask me why the <i>Syeverny Kurier</i> + is successful? Because our society is exhausted, hatred has turned it as + rank and rotten as grass in a bog, and it has a longing for something + fresh, free, light—a desperate longing. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + I often see the academician Kondakov here. We talk of the Pushkin section + of belles-lettres. As Kondakov will take part in the elections of future + academicians, I am trying to hypnotize him, and suggest that they should + elect Barantsevitch and Mihailovsky. The former is broken down and worn + out. He is unquestionably a literary man, is poverty-stricken in his old + age.... An income and rest would be the very thing for him. The latter—that + is Mihailovsky—would make a good foundation for the new section, and + his election would satisfy three-quarters of the brotherhood. But my + hypnotism failed, my efforts came to nothing. The supplementary clauses to + the statute are like Tolstoy’s After-word to the Kreutzer Sonata. The + academicians have done all they can to protect themselves from literary + men, whose society shocks them as the society of the Russian academicians + shocked the Germans. Literary men can only be honorary academicians, and + that means nothing—it is just the same as being an honorary citizen + of the town of Vyazma or Tcherepovets, there is no salary and no vote + attached. A clever way out of it! The professors will be elected real + academicians, and those of the writers will be elected honorary + academicians who do not live in Petersburg, and so cannot be present at + the sittings and abuse the professors. + </p> + <p> + I hear the muezzin calling in the minaret. The Turks are very religious; + it’s their fast now, they eat nothing the whole day. They have no + religious ladies, that element which makes religion shallow as the sand + does the Volga. + </p> + <p> + You do well to print the martyrology of Russian towns avoided by the + extortionate railway contractors. Here is what the famous author Chekhov + wrote on the subject in his story “My Life.” [Footnote: Appended to the + letter was a printed cutting.] Railway contractors are revengeful people; + refuse them a trifle, and they will punish you for it all your life—and + it’s their tradition. + </p> + <p> + Thanks for your letter, thanks for your indulgence. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0237" id="link2H_4_0237"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO P. I. KURKIN. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 18, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR PYOTR IVANOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + Thank you for your letter. I have long been wanting to write to you, but + have never had time, under the load of business and official + correspondence. Yesterday was the 17th of January—my name-day, and + the day of my election to the Academy. What a lot of telegrams! And what a + lot of letters still to come! And I must answer all of them, or posterity + will accuse me of not knowing the laws of good manners. + </p> + <p> + There is news, but I won’t tell you it now (no time), but later on. I am + not very well. I was ailing all yesterday. I press your hand heartily. + Keep well. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0238" id="link2H_4_0238"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. M. SOBOLEVSKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 19, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR VASSILY MIHAILOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + In November I wrote a story [Footnote: “In the Ravine.”] fully intending + to send it to <i>Russkiya Vyedomosti</i>, but the story lengthened out + beyond the sixteen pages, and I had to send it elsewhere. Then Elpatyevsky + and I decided to send you a telegram on New Year’s Eve, but there was such + a rush and a whirl that we let the right moment slip, and now I send you + my New Year wishes. Forgive me my many transgressions. You know how deeply + I love and respect you, and if the intervals in our correspondence are + prolonged it’s merely external causes that are to blame. + </p> + <p> + I am alive and almost well. I am often ill, but not for long at a time; + and I haven’t once been kept in bed this winter, I keep about though I am + ill. I am working harder than I did last year, and I am more bored. It’s + bad being without Russia in every way.... All the evergreen trees look as + though they were made of tin, and one gets no joy out of them. And one + sees nothing interesting, as one has no taste for the local life. + </p> + <p> + Elpatyevsky and Kondakov are here. The former has run up a huge house for + himself which towers above all Yalta; the latter is going to Petersburg to + take his seat in the Academy—and is glad to go. Elpatyevsky is + cheerful and hearty, always in good spirits, goes out in all weathers, in + a summer overcoat; Kondakov is irritably sarcastic, and goes about in a + fur coat. Both often come and see me and we speak of you. + </p> + <p> + V. A. wrote that she had bought a piece of land in Tuapse. Oy-oy! but the + boredom there is awful, you know. There are Tchetchentsi and scorpions, + and worst of all there are no roads, and there won’t be any for a long + time. Of all warm places in Russia the best are on the south coast of the + Crimea, there is no doubt of that, whatever they may say about the natural + beauties of the Caucasus. I have been lately to Gurzufa, near Pushkin’s + rock, and admired the view, although it rained and although I am sick to + death of views. In the Crimea it is snugger and nearer to Russia. Let V. + A. sell her place in Tuapse or make a present of it to someone, and I will + find her a bit of the sea-front with bathing, and a bay, in the Crimea. + </p> + <p> + When you are in Vosdvizhenka give my respects and greetings to Varvara + Alexyevna, Varya, Natasha, and Glyeb. I can fancy how Glyeb and Natasha + have grown. Now if only you would all come here for Easter, I could have a + look at you all. Don’t forget me, please, and don’t be angry with me. I + send you my warmest good wishes. I press your hand heartily and embrace + you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0239" id="link2H_4_0239"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO G. I. ROSSOLIMO. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 21, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR GRIGORY IVANOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + ... I send you in a registered parcel what I have that seems suitable for + children—two stories of the life of a dog. And I think I have + nothing else of the sort. I don’t know how to write for children; I write + for them once in ten years, and so-called children’s books I don’t like + and don’t believe in. Children ought only to be given what is suitable + also for grown-up people. Andersen, “The Frigate Pallada,” Gogol, are + easily read by children and also by grown-up people. Books should not be + written for children, but one ought to know how to choose from what has + been written for grown-up people—that is, from real works of art. To + be able to select among drugs, and to administer them in suitable doses, + is more direct and consistent than trying to invent a special remedy for + the patient because he is a child. Forgive the medical comparison. It’s in + keeping with the moment, perhaps, as for the last four days I have been + occupied with medicine, doctoring my mother and myself. Influenza no + doubt. Fever and headache. + </p> + <p> + If I write anything, I will let you know in due time, but anything I write + can only be published by one man—Marks! For anything published by + anyone else I have to pay a fine of 5,000 roubles (per signature).... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0240" id="link2H_4_0240"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 22, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ACTRESS, + </h3> + <p> + On January 17th I had telegrams from your mother and your brother, from + your uncle Alexandr Ivanovitch (signed Uncle Sasha), and from N. N. + Sokolovsky. Be so good as to give them my warm thanks and the expression + of my sincere feeling for them. + </p> + <p> + Why don’t you write?—what has happened? Or are you already so + fascinated? ... Well, there is no help for it. God be with you! + </p> + <p> + I am told that in May you will be in Yalta. If that is settled, why + shouldn’t you make inquiries beforehand about the theatre? The theatre + here is let on lease, and you could not get hold of it without negotiating + with the tenant, Novikov the actor. If you commission me to do so I would + perhaps talk to him about it. + </p> + <p> + The 17th, my name-day and the day of my election to the Academy, passed + dingily and gloomily, as I was unwell. Now I am better, but my mother is + ailing. And these little troubles completely took away all taste and + inclination for a name-day or election to the Academy, and they, too, have + hindered me from writing to you and answering your telegram at the proper + time. + </p> + <p> + Mother is getting better now. + </p> + <p> + I see the Sredins at times. They come to see us, and I go to them very, + very rarely, but still I do go.... + </p> + <p> + So, then, you are not writing to me and not intending to write very soon + either.... X. is to blame for all that. I understand you! + </p> + <p> + I kiss your little hand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0241" id="link2H_4_0241"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 24, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + MUCH RESPECTED F. D., + </h3> + <p> + Roche asks me to send him the passages from “Peasants” which were cut out + by the Censor, but there were no such passages. There is one chapter which + has not appeared in the magazine, nor in the book. It was a conversation + of the peasants about religion and government. But there is no need to + send that chapter to Paris, as indeed there was no need to translate + “Peasants” into French at all. + </p> + <p> + I thank you most sincerely for the photograph; Ryepin’s illustration is an + honour I had not expected or dreamed of. It will be very pleasant to have + the original; tell Ilya Efimovitch [Footnote: Ryepin, who was, at the + request of Roche, the French translator, illustrating the French edition + of Chekhov’s “Peasants.”] that I shall expect it with impatience, and that + he cannot change his mind now, as I have already bequeathed the original + to the town of Taganrog—in which, by the way, I was born. + </p> + <p> + In your letter you speak of Gorky: how do you like Gorky? I don’t like + everything he writes, but there are things I like very, very much, and to + my mind there is not a shadow of doubt that Gorky is made of the dough of + which artists are made. He is the real thing. He’s a fine man, clever, + thinking, and thoughtful. But there is a lot of unnecessary ballast upon + him and in him—for example, his provincialism.... + </p> + <p> + Thanks very much for your letter, for remembering me. I am dull here, I am + sick of it, and I have a feeling as though I have been thrown overboard. + And the weather’s bad too, and I am not well. I still go on coughing. All + good wishes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0242" id="link2H_4_0242"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO M. O. MENSHIKOV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 28, 1900. + </p> + <p> + ... I can’t make out what Tolstoy’s illness is. Tcherinov has sent me no + answer, and from what I read in the papers and what you write me now I can + draw no conclusion. Ulcers in the stomach and intestines would give + different indications: they are not present, or there have been a few + bleeding wounds caused by gall-stones which have passed and lacerated the + walls. There is no cancer either. It would have shown itself first in the + appetite, in the general condition, and above all the face would have + betrayed cancer if he had had it. The most likely thing is that L. N. is + in good health (apart from the gall-stones), and will live another twenty + years. His illness frightened me, and kept me on tenter-hooks. I am afraid + of Tolstoy’s death. If he were to die there would be a big empty place in + my life. To begin with, because I have never loved any man as much as him. + I am not a believing man, but of all beliefs I consider his the nearest + and most akin to me. Secondly, while Tolstoy is in literature it is easy + and pleasant to be a literary man; even recognizing that one has done + nothing and never will do anything is not so dreadful, since Tolstoy will + do enough for all. His work is the justification of the enthusiasms and + expectations built upon literature. Thirdly, Tolstoy takes a firm stand, + he has an immense authority, and so long as he is alive, bad tastes in + literature, vulgarity of every kind, insolent and lachrymose, all the + bristling, exasperated vanities will be in the far background, in the + shade. Nothing but his moral authority is capable of maintaining a certain + elevation in the moods and tendencies of literature so called. Without him + they would be a flock without a shepherd, or a hotch-potch, in which it + would be difficult to discriminate anything. + </p> + <p> + To finish with Tolstoy, I have something to say about “Resurrection,” + which I have read not piecemeal, in parts, but as a whole, at one go. It + is a remarkable artistic production. The least interesting part is all + that is said of Nehludov’s relations with Katusha; and the most + interesting the princes, the generals, the aunts, the peasants, the + convicts, the warders. The scene in the house of the General in command of + the Peter-Paul Fortress, the spiritualist, I read with a throbbing heart—it + is so good! And Madame Kortchagin in the easy chair; and the peasant, the + husband of Fedosya! The peasant calls his grandmother “an artful one.” + That’s just what Tolstoy’s pen is—an artful one. There’s no end to + the novel, what there is you can’t call an end. To write and write, and + then to throw the whole weight of it on a text from the Gospel, that is + quite in the theological style. To settle it all by a text from the Gospel + is as arbitrary as dividing the convicts into five classes. Why into five + and not into ten? He must make us believe in the Gospel, in its being the + truth, and then settle it all by texts. + </p> + <p> + ... They write about Tolstoy as old women talk about a crazy saint, all + sorts of unctuous nonsense; it’s a mistake for him to talk to those + people.... + </p> + <p> + They have elected Tolstoy [Footnote: An honorary Academician.]—against + the grain. According to notions there, he is a Nihilist. Anyway, that’s + what he was called by a lady, the wife of an actual privy councillor, and + I heartily congratulate him upon it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0243" id="link2H_4_0243"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO L. S. MIZINOV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, January 29, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR LIRA, + </h3> + <p> + They have written to me that you have grown very fat and become dignified, + and I did not expect that you would remember me and write to me. But you + have remembered me—and thank you very much for it, dear. You write + nothing about your health: evidently it’s not bad, and I am glad. I hope + your mother is well and that everything is going on all right. I am nearly + well; I am ill from time to time, but not often, and only because I am old—the + bacilli have nothing to do with it. And when I see a lovely woman now I + smile in an aged way, and drop my lower lip—that’s all. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Lika, I am dreadfully bored in Yalta. My life does not run or flow, but + crawls along. Don’t forget me; write to me now and then, anyway. In your + letters just as in your life you are a very interesting woman. I press + your hand warmly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0244" id="link2H_4_0244"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GORKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 3, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + Thank you for your letter, for the lines about Tolstoy and about “Uncle + Vanya,” which I haven’t seen on the stage; thanks altogether for not + forgetting me. Here in this blessed Yalta one could hardly keep alive + without letters. The idleness, the idiotic winter with the temperature + always above freezing-point, the complete absence of interesting women, + the pig-faces on the sea-front—all this may spoil a man and wear him + out in a very short time. I am tired of it; it seems to me as though the + winter had been going on for ten years. + </p> + <p> + You have pleurisy. If so, why do you stay on in Nizhni. Why? What do you + want with that Nizhni, by the way? What glue keeps you sticking to that + town? If you like Moscow, as you write, why don’t you live in Moscow? In + Moscow there are theatres and all the rest of it, and, what matters most + of all, Moscow is handy for going abroad; while living in Nizhni you’ll + stick in Nizhni, and never go further than Vasilsursk. You want to see + more, to know more, to have a wider range. Your imagination is quick to + seize and hold, but it is like a big oven which is not provided with fuel + enough. One feels this in general, and in particular in the stories: you + present two or three figures in a story, but these figures stand apart, + outside the mass; one sees that these figures are living in your + imagination, but only these figures—the mass is not grasped. I + except from this criticism your Crimean things (for instance, “My + Travelling Companion”), in which, besides the figures, there is a feeling + of the human mass out of which they have come, and atmosphere and + background—everything, in fact. See what a lecture I am giving you—and + all that you may not go on staying in Nizhni. You are a young man, strong + and tough; if I were you I should make a tour in India and all sorts of + places. I would take my degree in two or more faculties—I would, + yes, I would! You laugh, but I do feel so badly treated at being forty + already, at having asthma and all sorts of horrid things which prevent my + living freely. Anyway, be a good fellow and a good comrade, and don’t be + angry with me for preaching at you like a head priest. + </p> + <p> + Write to me. I look forward to “Foma Gordeyev,” which I haven’t yet read + properly. + </p> + <p> + There is no news. Keep well, I press your hand warmly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0245" id="link2H_4_0245"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 10, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ACTRESS, + </h3> + <p> + The winter is very cold, I am not well, no one has written to me for + nearly a whole month—and I had made up my mind that there was + nothing left for me but to go abroad, where it is not so dull; but now it + has begun to be warmer, and it’s better, and I have decided that I shall + go abroad only at the end of the summer, for the exhibition. + </p> + <p> + And you, why are you depressed? What are you depressed about? You are + living, working, hoping, drinking; you laugh when your uncle reads aloud + to you—what more do you want? I am a different matter. I am torn up + by the roots, I am not living a full life, I don’t drink, though I am fond + of drinking; I love noise and don’t hear it—in fact, I am in the + condition of a transplanted tree which is hesitating whether to take root + or to begin to wither. If I sometimes allow myself to complain of boredom, + I have some grounds for doing so—but you? And Meierhold is + complaining of the dulness of his life too. Aie, aie! + </p> + <p> + By the way, about Meierhold—he ought to spend the whole summer in + the Crimea. His health needs it. Only it must be for the whole summer. + </p> + <p> + Well, now I am all right again. I am doing nothing because I intend to set + to work. I dig in the garden. You write that for you, little people, the + future is wrapped in mystery. I had a letter from your chief Nemirovitch + not long ago. He writes that the company is going to be in Sevastopol, + then in Yalta at the beginning of May: in Yalta there will be five + performances, then evening rehearsals. Only the precious members of the + company will remain for the rehearsals, the others can have a holiday + where they please. I trust that you are precious. To the director you are + precious, to the author you are priceless. There is a pun for a titbit for + you. I won’t write another word to you till you send me your portrait. + </p> + <p> + Thank you for your good wishes in regard to my marriage. I have informed + my <i>fiancee</i> of your design of coming to Yalta in order to cut her + out a little. She said that if “that horrid woman” comes to Yalta, she + will hold me tight in her embrace. I observed that to be embraced for so + long in hot weather was not hygienic. She was offended and grew + thoughtful, as though she were trying to guess in what surroundings I had + picked up this <i>facon de parler</i>, and after a little while said that + the theatre was an evil and that my intention of writing no more plays was + extremely laudable—and asked me to kiss her. To this I replied that + it was not proper for me to be so free with my kisses now that I am an + academician. She burst into tears, and I went away. + </p> + <p> + In the spring the company will be in Harkov too. I will come and meet you + then, only don’t talk of that to anyone. Nadyezhda Ivanovna has gone off + to Moscow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0246" id="link2H_4_0246"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 12, 1900. + </p> + <p> + I have been racking my brains over your fourth act, and have come to no + conclusion except, perhaps, that you must not end it up with Nihilists. + It’s too turbulent and screaming; a quiet, lyrical, touching ending would + be more in keeping with your play. When your heroine begins to grow old + without arriving at anything or deciding anything for herself, and sees + that she is forsaken by all, that she is uninteresting and superfluous, + when she understands that the people around her were idle, useless, bad + people (her father too), and that she has let her life slip—is not + that more dreadful than the Nihilists? + </p> + <p> + Your letters about “The Russalka” and Korsh are very good. The tone is + brilliant, and they are wonderfully written. But about Konovalov and the + jury, I think you ought not to have written, however alluring the subject. + Let A—-t write as much as he likes about it, but not you, for it is + not your affair. To treat such questions boldly and with conviction, one + must be a man with a single purpose, while you would go off at a tangent + halfway through the letter—as you have done—saying suddenly + that we all sometimes desire to kill someone, and desire the death of our + neighbours. When a daughter-in-law feels sick and tired of an invalid + mother-in-law, a spiteful old woman, she, the daughter-in-law, feels + easier at the thought that the old woman will soon die: but that’s not + desiring her death, but weariness, an exhausted spirit, vexation, longing + for peace. If that daughter-in-law were ordered to kill the old woman, she + would sooner kill herself, whatever desire might have been brooding in her + heart. + </p> + <p> + Why, of course jurymen may make a mistake, but what of that? It does + happen by mistake that help is given to the well-fed instead of to the + hungry, but whatever you write on that subject, you will reach no result + but harm to the hungry. Whether from our point of view the jury are + mistaken or not mistaken, we ought to recognize that in each individual + case they form a conscious judgment and make an effort to do so + conscientiously; and if a captain steers his steamer conscientiously, + continually consulting the chart and the compass, and if the steamer is + shipwrecked all the same, would it not be more correct to put down the + shipwreck not to the captain, but to something else—for instance, to + think that the chart is out of date or that the bottom of the sea has + changed? Yes, there are three points the jury have to take into + consideration: (1) Apart from the criminal law, the penal code and legal + procedure, there is a moral law which is always in advance of the + established law, and which defines our actions precisely when we try to + act on our conscience; thus, for instance, the heritage of a daughter is + laid down by law as a seventh part. But you, acting on the dictates of + purely moral principle, go beyond the law and in opposition to it, and + bequeath her the same share as your sons, for you know that to act + otherwise would be acting against your conscience. In the same way it + sometimes happens to the jury to be put in a position in which they feel + that their conscience is not satisfied by the established law, that in the + case they are judging there are fine shades and subtleties which cannot be + brought under the provisions of the penal code, and that obviously + something else is needed for a just judgment, and that for the lack of + that “something” they will be forced to give a judgment in which something + is lacking. (2) The jury know that acquittal is not pardon, and that + acquittal does not deliver the prisoner from the day of judgment in the + other world, from the judgment of his conscience, from the judgment of + public opinion; they decide the question only so far as it is a judicial + question, and leave A——t to decide whether it is good to kill + children or bad. (3) The prisoner comes to the court already exhausted by + prison and examination, and he is in an agonizing position at his trial, + so that even if he is acquitted he does not leave the court unpunished. + </p> + <p> + Well, be that as it may, my letter is almost finished, and I seem to have + written nothing. We have the spring here in Yalta, no news of interest.... + </p> + <p> + “Resurrection” is a remarkable novel. I liked it very much, but it ought + to be read straight off at one sitting. The end is uninteresting and false—false + in a technical sense. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0247" id="link2H_4_0247"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 14, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ACTRESS, + </h3> + <p> + The photographs are very, very good, especially the one in which you are + leaning in dejection with your elbows on the back of a chair, which gives + you a discreetly mournful, gentle expression under which there lies hid a + little demon. The other is good too, but it looks a little like a Jewess, + a very musical person who attends a conservatoire, but at the same time is + studying dentistry on the sly as a second string, and is engaged to be + married to a young man in Mogilev, and whose fiance is a person like M——. + Are you angry? Really, really angry? It’s my revenge for your not signing + them. + </p> + <p> + Of the seventy roses I planted in the autumn only three have not taken + root. Lilies, irises, tulips, tuberoses, hyacinths, are all pushing out of + the ground. The willow is already green. By the little seat in the corner + the grass is luxuriant already. The almond-tree is in blossom. I have put + little seats all over the garden, not grand ones with iron legs, but + wooden ones which I paint green. I have made three bridges over the + stream. I am planting palms. In fact, there are all sorts of novelties, so + much so that you won’t know the house, or the garden, or the street. Only + the owner has not changed, he is just the same moping creature and devoted + worshipper of the talents that reside at Nikitsky Gate. [Footnote: O. L. + Knipper was living at Nikitsky Gate.] I have heard no music nor singing + since the autumn, I have not seen one interesting woman. How can I help + being melancholy? + </p> + <p> + I had made up my mind not to write to you, but since you have sent the + photographs I have taken off the ban, and here you see I am writing. I + will even come to Sevastopol, only I repeat, don’t tell that to anyone, + especially not to Vishnevsky. I shall be there incognito, I shall put + myself down in the hotel-book Count Blackphiz. + </p> + <p> + I was joking when I said that you were like a Jewess in your photograph. + Don’t be angry, precious one. Well, herewith I kiss your little hand, and + remain unalterably yours. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0248" id="link2H_4_0248"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GORKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 15, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + Your article in the Nizhni-Novgorod Listok was balm to my soul. What a + talented person you are! I can’t write anything but belles-lettres, you + possess the pen of a journalist as well. I thought at first I liked the + article so much because you praise me in it; afterwards it came out that + Sredin and his family and Yartsev were all delighted with it. So peg away + at journalism. God bless you! + </p> + <p> + Why don’t they send me “Foma Gordeyev”? I have read it only in bits, and + one ought to read it straight through at a sitting as I have just read + “Resurrection.” Except the relations of Nehludov and Katusha, which are + somewhat obscure and made up, everything in the novel made the impression + of strength, richness, and breadth, and the insincerity of a man afraid of + death and refusing to admit it and clutching at texts and holy Scripture. + </p> + <p> + Write to them to send me “Foma.” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-six Men and a Girl” is a good story. There is a strong feeling of + the environment. One smells the hot rolls. + </p> + <p> + They have just brought your letter. So you don’t want to go to India? + That’s a pity. When India is in the past, a long sea voyage, you have + something to think about when you can’t get to sleep. And a tour abroad + takes very little time, it need not prevent your going about in Russia on + foot. + </p> + <p> + I am bored, not in the sense of <i>weltschmerz</i>, not in the sense of + being weary of existence, but simply bored from want of people, from want + of music which I love, and from want of women, of whom there are none in + Yalta. I am bored without caviare and pickled cabbage. + </p> + <p> + I am very sorry that apparently you have given up the idea of coming to + Yalta. The Art Theatre from Moscow will be here in May. It will give five + performances and then remain for rehearsals. So you come, study the stage + at the rehearsals, and then in five to eight days write a play, which I + should welcome joyfully with my whole heart. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I have the right now to insist on the fact that I am forty, that I am + a man no longer young. I used to be the youngest literary man, but you + have appeared on the scene and I became more dignified at once, and no one + calls me the youngest now. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0249" id="link2H_4_0249"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. A. POSSE. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, February 15, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + MUCH RESPECTED VLADIMIR ALEXANDROVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + “Foma Gordeyev” and in a superb binding too is a precious and touching + present; I thank you from the bottom of my heart. A thousand thanks! I + have read “Foma” only in bits, now I shall read it properly. Gorky should + not be published in parts; either he must write more briefly, or you must + put him in whole as the <i>Vyestnik Evropy</i> does with Boborykin. + “Foma,” by the way, is very successful, but only with intelligent + well-read people—with the young also. I once overheard in a garden + the conversation of a lady (from Petersburg) with her daughter: the mother + was abusing the book, the daughter was praising it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0250" id="link2H_4_0250"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YALTA, + </h2> + <p> + February 29, 1900. + </p> + <p> + “Foma Gordeyev” is written all in one tone like a dissertation. All the + characters speak alike, and their way of thinking is alike too. They all + speak not simply but intentionally; they all have some idea in the + background; as though there is something they know they don’t speak out: + but in reality there is nothing they know, and it is simply their <i>facon + de parler</i>. + </p> + <p> + There are wonderful passages in “Foma.” Gorky will make a very great + writer if only he does not weary, does not grow cold and lazy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0251" id="link2H_4_0251"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN, + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, March 10, 1900. + </p> + <p> + No winter has ever dragged on so long for me as this one, and time merely + drags and does not move, and now I realize how stupid it was of me to + leave Moscow. I have lost touch with the north without getting into touch + with the south, and one can think of nothing in my position but to go + abroad. After the spring, winter has begun here again in Yalta—snow, + rain, cold, mud—simply disgusting. + </p> + <p> + The Moscow Art Theatre will be in Yalta in April; it will bring its + scenery and decorations. All the tickets for the four days advertised were + sold in one day, although the prices have been considerably raised. They + will give among other things Hauptmann’s “Lonely Lives,” a magnificent + play in my opinion. I read it with great pleasure, although I am not fond + of plays, and the production at the Art Theatre they say is marvellous. + </p> + <p> + There is no news. There is one great event, though: N.‘s “Socrates” is + printed in the <i>Neva</i> Supplement. I have read it, but with great + effort. It is not Socrates but a dull-witted, captious, opinionated man, + the whole of whose wisdom and interest is confined to tripping people up + over words. There is not a trace or vestige of talent in it, but it is + quite possible that the play might be successful because there are words + in it such as “amphora,” and Karpov says it would stage well. + </p> + <p> + How many consumptives there are here! What poverty, and how worried one is + with them! The hotels and lodging-houses here won’t take in those who are + seriously ill. You can imagine the awful cases that may be seen here. + People are dying from exhaustion, from their surroundings, from complete + neglect, and this in blessed Taurida! + </p> + <p> + One loses all relish for the sun and the sea.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0252" id="link2H_4_0252"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, March 26, 1900. + </p> + <p> + There is a feeling of black melancholy about your letter, dear actress; + you are gloomy, you are fearfully unhappy—but not for long, one may + imagine, as soon, very soon, you will be sitting in the train, eating your + lunch with a very good appetite. It is very nice that you are coming first + with Masha before all the others; we shall at least have time to talk a + little, walk a little, see things, drink and eat. But please don’t bring + with you ... + </p> + <p> + I haven’t a new play, it’s a lie of the newspapers. The newspapers never + do tell the truth about me. If I did begin a play, of course the first + thing I should do would be to inform you of the fact. + </p> + <p> + There is a great wind here; the spring has not begun properly yet, but we + go about without our goloshes and fur caps. The tulips will soon be out. I + have a nice garden but it is untidy, moss-grown—a dilettante garden. + </p> + <p> + Gorky is here. He is warm in his praises of you and your theatre. I will + introduce you to him. + </p> + <p> + Oh dear! Someone has arrived. A visitor has come in. Good-bye for now, + actress! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0253" id="link2H_4_0253"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, March 26, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR MASHA, + </h3> + <p> + ... There is no news, there is no water in the pipes either. I am sick to + death of visitors. Yesterday, March 25, they came in an incessant stream + all day; doctors keep sending people from Moscow and the provinces with + letters asking me to find lodgings, to “make arrangements,” as though I + were a house-agent! Mother is well. Mind you keep well too, and make haste + and come home. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0254" id="link2H_4_0254"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO O. L. KNIPPER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, May 20, 1900. + </p> + <p> + Greetings to you, dear enchanting actress! How are you? How are you + feeling? I was very unwell on the way back to Yalta. [Footnote: Chekhov + went to Moscow with the Art Theatre Company on their return from Yalta.] I + had a bad headache and temperature before I left Moscow. I was wicked + enough to conceal it from you, now I am all right. + </p> + <p> + How is Levitan? I feel dreadfully worried at not knowing. If you have + heard, please write to me. + </p> + <p> + Keep well and be happy. I heard Masha was sending you a letter, and so I + hasten to write these few lines. [Footnote: Chekhov’s later letters to O. + L. Knipper have not been published.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0255" id="link2H_4_0255"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, September 9, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR MASHA, + </h3> + <p> + I answer the letter in which you write about Mother. To my thinking it + would be better for her to go to Moscow now in the autumn and not after + December. She will be tired of Moscow and pining for Yalta in a month, you + know, and if you take her to Moscow in the autumn she will be back in + Yalta before Christmas. That’s how it seems to me, but possibly I am + mistaken; in any case you must take into consideration that it is much + drearier in Yalta before Christmas than it is after—infinitely + drearier. + </p> + <p> + Most likely I will be in Moscow after the 20th of September, and then we + will decide. From Moscow I shall go I don’t know where—first to + Paris, and then probably to Nice, from Nice to Africa. I shall hang on + somehow to the spring, all April or May, when I shall come to Moscow + again. + </p> + <p> + There is no news. There’s no rain either, everything is dried up. At home + here it is quiet, peaceful, satisfactory, and of course dull. + </p> + <p> + “Three Sisters” is very difficult to write, more difficult than my other + plays. Oh well, it doesn’t matter, perhaps something will come of it, next + season if not this. It’s very hard to write in Yalta, by the way: I am + interrupted, and I feel as though I had no object in writing; what I wrote + yesterday I don’t like to-day.... + </p> + <p> + Well, take care of yourself. + </p> + <p> + My humblest greetings to Olga Leonardovna, to Vishnevsky, and all the rest + of them too. + </p> + <p> + If Gorky is in Moscow, tell him that I have sent a letter to him in + Nizhni-Novgorod. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0256" id="link2H_4_0256"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GORKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, October 16, 1900. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, + </h3> + <p> + ... On the 21st of this month I am going to Moscow, and from there abroad. + Can you imagine—I have written a play; but as it will be produced + not now, but next season, I have not made a fair copy of it yet. It can + lie as it is. It was very difficult to write “Three Sisters.” Three + heroines, you see, each a separate type and all the daughters of a + general. The action is laid in a provincial town, as it might be Perm, the + surroundings military, artillery. + </p> + <p> + The weather in Yalta is exquisite and fresh, my health is improving. I + don’t even want to go away to Moscow. I am working so well, and it is so + pleasant to be free from the irritation I suffered from all the summer. I + am not coughing, and am even eating meat. I am living alone, quite alone. + My mother is in Moscow. + </p> + <p> + Thanks for your letters, my dear fellow, thanks very much. I read them + over twice. My warmest greetings to your wife and Maxim. And so, till we + meet in Moscow. I hope you won’t play me false, and we shall see each + other. + </p> + <p> + God keep you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0257" id="link2H_4_0257"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MOSCOW, + </h2> + <p> + October 22, 1901. + </p> + <p> + Five days have passed since I read your play (“The Petty Bourgeois”). I + have not written to you till now because I could not get hold of the + fourth act; I have kept waiting for it, and—I still have not got it. + And so I have only read three acts, but that I think is enough to judge of + the play. It is, as I expected, very good, written a la Gorky, original, + very interesting; and, to begin by talking of the defects, I have noticed + only one, a defect incorrigible as red hair in a red-haired man—the + conservatism of the form. You make new and original people sing new songs + to an accompaniment that looks second-hand, you have four acts, the + characters deliver edifying discourses, there is a feeling of alarm before + long speeches, and so on, and so on. But all that is not important, and it + is all, so to speak, drowned in the good points of the play. Pertchihin—how + living! His daughter is enchanting, Tatyana and Pyotr are also, and their + mother is a splendid old woman. The central figure of the play, Nil, is + vigorously drawn and extremely interesting! In fact, the play takes hold + of one from the first act. Only God preserve you from letting anyone act + Pertchihin except Artyom, while Alexeyev-Stanislavsky must certainly play + Nil. Those two figures will do just what’s needed; Pyotr—Meierhold. + Only Nil’s part, a wonderful part, must be made two or three times as + long. You ought to end the play with it, to make it the leading part. Only + do not contrast him with Pyotr and Tatyana, let him be by himself and them + by themselves, all wonderful, splendid people independently of each other. + When Nil tries to seem superior to Pyotr and Tatyana, and says of himself + that he is a fine fellow, the element so characteristic of our decent + working man, the element of modesty, is lost. He boasts, he argues, but + you know one can see what sort of man he is without that. Let him be + merry, let him play pranks through the whole four acts, let him eat a + great deal after his work—and that will be enough for him to conquer + the audience with. Pyotr, I repeat, is good. Most likely you don’t even + suspect how good he is. Tatyana, too, is a finished figure, only (a) she + ought really to be a schoolmistress, ought to be teaching children, ought + to come home from school, ought to be taken up with her pupils and + exercise-books, and (b) it ought to be mentioned in the first or second + act that she has attempted to poison herself; then, after that hint, the + poisoning in the third act will not seem so startling and will be more in + place. Telerev talks too much: such characters ought to be shown bit by + bit between others, for in any case such people are everywhere merely + incidental—both in life and on the stage. Make Elena dine with all + the rest in the first act, let her sit and make jokes, or else there is + very little of her, and she is not clear. Her avowal to Pyotr is too + abrupt, on the stage it would come out in too high relief. Make her a + passionate woman, if not loving at least apt to fall in love.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0258" id="link2H_4_0258"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + July 29, 1902. + </h2> + <p> + I have read your play. [Footnote: “In the Depths.”] It is new and + unmistakably fine. The second act is very good, it is the best, the + strongest, and when I was reading it, especially the end, I almost danced + with joy. The tone is gloomy, oppressive; the audience unaccustomed to + such subjects will walk out of the theatre, and you may well say good-bye + to your reputation as an optimist in any case. My wife will play + Vassilisa, the immoral and spiteful woman; Vishnevsky walks about the + house and imagines himself the Tatar—he is convinced that it is the + part for him. Luka, alas! you must not give to Artyom. He will repeat + himself in that part and be exhausted; but he would do the policeman + wonderfully, it is his part. The part of the actor, in which you have been + very successful (it is a magnificent part), should be given to an + experienced actor, Stanislavsky perhaps. Katchalev will play the baron. + </p> + <p> + You have left out of the fourth act all the most interesting characters + (except the actor), and you must mind now that there is no ill effect from + it. The act may seem boring and unnecessary, especially if, with the exit + of the strongest and most interesting actors, there are left only the + mediocrities. The death of the actor is awful; it is as though you gave + the spectator a sudden box on the ear apropos of nothing without preparing + him in any way. How the baron got into the doss-house and why he is a + baron is also not sufficiently clear. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Andreyev’s “Thought” is something pretentious, difficult to understand, + and apparently no good, but it is worked out with talent. Andreyev has no + simplicity, and his talent reminds me of an artificial nightingale. + Skitalets now is a sparrow, but he is a real living sparrow.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0259" id="link2H_4_0259"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO S. P. DYAGILEV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, December 30, 1902. + </p> + <p> + ... You write that we talked of a serious religious movement in Russia. We + talked of a movement not in Russia but in the intellectual class. I won’t + say anything about Russia; the intellectuals so far are only playing at + religion, and for the most part from having nothing to do. One may say of + the cultured part of our public that it has moved away from religion, and + is moving further and further away from it, whatever people may say and + however many philosophical and religious societies may be formed. Whether + it is a good or a bad thing I cannot undertake to decide; I will only say + that the religious movement of which you write is one thing, and the whole + trend of modern culture is another, and one cannot place the second in any + causal connection with the first. Modern culture is only the first + beginning of work for a great future, work which will perhaps go on for + tens of thousands of years, in order that man may if only in the remote + future come to know the truth of the real God—that is not, I + conjecture, by seeking in Dostoevsky, but by clear knowledge, as one knows + twice two are four. Modern culture is the first beginning of the work, + while the religious movement of which we talked is a survival, almost the + end of what has ceased, or is ceasing to exist. But it is a long story, + one can’t put it all into a letter.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0260" id="link2H_4_0260"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. S. SUVORIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, June 29, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... One feels a warm sympathy, of course, for Gorky’s letter about the + Kishinev pogrom, as one does for everything he writes; the letter is not + written though, but put together, there is neither youthfulness in it nor + confidence, like Tolstoy’s. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0261" id="link2H_4_0261"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + July 1, 1903. + </h2> + <p> + You are reading belles-lettres now, so read Veresaev’s stories. Begin with + a little story in the second volume called “Lizar.” I think you will be + very much pleased with it. Veresaev is a doctor; I have got to know him + lately. He makes a very good impression.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0262" id="link2H_4_0262"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO S. P. DYAGILEV. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, July 12, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... I have been thinking over your letter for a long time, and alluring as + your suggestion or offer is, yet in the end I must answer it as neither + you nor I would wish. + </p> + <p> + I cannot be the editor of <i>The World of Art</i>, as I cannot live in + Petersburg, ... that’s the first point. And the second is that just as a + picture must be painted by one artist and a speech delivered by one + orator, so a magazine must be edited by one man. Of course I am not a + critic, and I dare say I shouldn’t make a very good job of the reviews; + but on the other hand, how could I get on in the same boat with + Merezhkovsky, who definitely believes, didactically believes, while I lost + my faith years ago and can only look with perplexity at any “intellectual” + who does believe? I respect Merezhkovsky, and think highly of him both as + a man and as a writer, but we should be pulling in opposite directions.... + </p> + <p> + Don’t be cross with me, dear Sergey Pavlovitch: it seems to me that if you + go on editing the magazine for another five years you will come to agree + with me. A magazine, like a picture or a poem, must bear the stamp of one + personality and one will must be felt in it. This has been hitherto the + case in the <i>World of Art</i>, and it was a good thing. And it must be + kept up.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0263" id="link2H_4_0263"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, July 28, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... My play “The Cherry Orchard” is not yet finished; it makes slow + progress, which I put down to laziness, fine weather, and the difficulty + of the subject.... + </p> + <p> + I think your part [Translator’s Note: Stanislavsky acted Lopahin.] is all + right, though I can’t undertake to decide, as I can judge very little of a + play by reading it.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0264" id="link2H_4_0264"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME STANISLAVSKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, September 15, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... Don’t believe anybody—no living soul has read my play yet; I + have written for you not the part of a “canting hypocrite,” but of a very + nice girl, with which you will, I hope, be satisfied. I have almost + finished the play, but eight or ten days ago I was taken ill, with + coughing and weakness—in fact, last year’s business over again. Now—that + is to-day—it is warmer and I feel better, but still I cannot write, + as my head is aching. Olga will not bring the play; I will send the four + acts together as soon as it is possible for me to set to work for a whole + day. It has turned out not a drama, but a comedy, in parts a farce, + indeed, and I am afraid I shall catch it from Vladimir Ivanitch [Footnote: + Nemirovitch Dantchenko.].... + </p> + <p> + I can’t come for the opening of your season, I must stay in Yalta till + November. Olga, who has grown fatter and stronger in the summer, will + probably come to Moscow on Sunday. I shall remain alone, and of course + shall take advantage of that. As a writer it is essential for me to + observe women, to study them, and so, I regret to say, I cannot be a + faithful husband. As I observe women chiefly for the sake of my plays, in + my opinion the Art Theatre ought to increase my wife’s salary or give her + a pension! ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0265" id="link2H_4_0265"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, October 30, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... Many thanks for your letter and telegram. Letters are very precious to + me now—in the first place, because I am utterly alone here; and in + the second, because I sent the play three weeks ago and only got your + letter yesterday, and if it were not for my wife, I should know nothing at + all and might imagine any mortal thing. When I was writing Lopahin, I + thought of it as a part for you. If for any reason you don’t care for it, + take the part of Gaev. Lopahin is a merchant, of course, but he is a very + decent person in every sense. He must behave with perfect decorum, like an + educated man, with no petty ways or tricks of any sort, and it seemed to + me this part, the central one of the play, would come out brilliantly in + your hands.... In choosing an actor for the part you must remember that + Varya, a serious and religious girl, is in love with Lopahin; she wouldn’t + be in love with a mere money-grubber.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0266" id="link2H_4_0266"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO V. I. NEMIROVITCH DANTCHENKO. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, November 2, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... About the play. + </p> + <p> + 1. Anya can be played by anyone you like, even by a quite unknown actress, + so long as she is young and looks like a girl, and speaks in a youthful + singing voice. It is not an important part. + </p> + <p> + (2) Varya is a more serious part.... She is a character in a black dress, + something of a nun, foolish, tearful, etc. + </p> + <p> + ... Gorky is younger than you or I, he has his life before him.... As for + the Nizhni theatre, that’s a mere episode; Gorky will try it, “sniff it + and reject it.” And while we are on this subject, the whole idea of a + “people’s” theatre and “people’s” literature is foolishness and lollipops + for the people. We mustn’t bring Gogol down to the people but raise the + people up to Gogol.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0267" id="link2H_4_0267"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A. L. VISHNEVSKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, November 7, 1903. + </p> + <p> + ... As I am soon coming to Moscow, please keep a ticket for me for “The + Pillars of Society”; I want to see the marvellous Norwegian acting, and I + will even pay for my seat. You know Ibsen is my favourite writer.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0268" id="link2H_4_0268"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. + </h2> + <p> + YALTA, November 10, 1903. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR KONSTANTIN SERGEYITCH, + </h3> + <p> + Of course the scenery for III. and IV. can be the same, the hall and the + staircase. Please do just as you like about the scenery, I leave it + entirely to you; I am amazed and generally sit with my mouth wide open at + your theatre. There can be no question about it, whatever you do will be + excellent, a hundred times better than anything I could invent.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0269" id="link2H_4_0269"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, January 19, 1904. + </p> + <p> + ... At the first performance of “The Cherry Orchard” on the 17th of + January, they gave me an ovation, so lavish, warm, and really so + unexpected, that I can’t get over it even now.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0270" id="link2H_4_0270"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MADAME AVILOV. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, February 14, 1904. + </p> + <p> + ... All good wishes. Above all, be cheerful; don’t look at life so much as + a problem—it is, most likely, far simpler. And whether it—life, + of which we know nothing—is worth all the agonizing reflections + which wear out our Russian wits, is a question. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0271" id="link2H_4_0271"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO FATHER SERGEY SHTCHUKIN. + </h2> + <p> + MOSCOW, May 27, 1904. + </p> + <h3> + DEAR FATHER SERGEY, + </h3> + <p> + Yesterday I talked to a very well-known lawyer about the case in which you + are interested, and I will tell you his opinion. Let Mr. N. immediately + put together <i>all</i> the necessary documents, let his fiancee do the + same, and go off to another province, such as Kherson, and there get + married. When they are married let them come home and live quietly, saying + nothing about it. It is not a crime (there is no consanguinity), but only + a breach of a long established tradition. If in another two or three years + someone informs against them, or finds out and interferes, and the case is + brought into court, anyway the children would be legitimate. And when + there is a lawsuit (a trivial one anyway), then they can send in a + petition to the Sovereign. The Sovereign does not sanction what is + forbidden by law (so it is no use to petition for permission for the + marriage), but the Sovereign enjoys the fullest privilege of pardon and + does as a rule pardon what is inevitable. + </p> + <p> + I don’t know whether I am putting it properly. You must forgive me, I am + in bed, ill, and have been since the second of May, I have not been able + to get up once all this time. I cannot execute your other commissions.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0272" id="link2H_4_0272"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS SISTER. + </h2> + <p> + BERLIN, Sunday, June 6, 1904. + </p> + <p> + ... I write to you from Berlin, where I have been now for twenty-four + hours. It turned very cold in Moscow after you went away; we had snow, and + it was most likely through that that I caught cold. I began to have + rheumatic pains in my arms and legs, I did not sleep for nights, got very + thin, had injections of morphia, took thousands of medicines of all sorts, + and remember none of them with gratitude except heroin, which was once + prescribed me by Altschuller.... + </p> + <p> + On Thursday I set off for foreign parts, very thin, with very lean skinny + legs. We had a good and pleasant journey. Here in Berlin we have taken a + comfortable room in the best hotel. I am enjoying being here, and it is a + long time since I have eaten so well, with such appetite. The bread here + is wonderful, I eat too much of it. The coffee is excellent and the + dinners beyond description. Anyone who has not been abroad does not know + what good bread means. There is no decent tea here (we have our own), + there are no hors d’oeuvres, but all the rest is magnificent, though + cheaper than with us. I am already the better for it, and to-day I even + took a long drive in the Thiergarten, though it was cool. And so tell + Mother and everyone who is interested that I am getting better, or indeed + have already got better; my legs no longer ache, I have no diarrhoea, I am + beginning to get fat, and am all day long on my legs, not lying down.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0273" id="link2H_4_0273"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BERLIN, + </h2> + <p> + June 8. + </p> + <p> + . . . The worst thing here which catches the eye at once is the dress of + the ladies. Fearfully bad taste, nowhere do women dress so abominably, + with such utter lack of taste. I have not seen one beautiful woman, nor + one who was not trimmed with some kind of absurd braid. Now I understand + why taste is so slowly developed in Germans in Moscow. On the other hand, + here in Berlin life is very comfortable. The food is good, things are not + dear, the horses are well fed—the dogs, who are here harnessed to + little carts, are well fed too. There is order and cleanliness in the + streets.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0274" id="link2H_4_0274"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BADENWEILER, + </h2> + <p> + June 12. + </p> + <p> + I have been for three days settled here, this is my address—Germany, + Badenweiler, Villa Fredericke. This Villa Fredericke, like all the houses + and villas here, stands apart in a luxuriant garden in the sun, which + shines and warms us till seven o’clock in the evening (after which I go + indoors). We are boarding in the house; for fourteen or sixteen marks a + day we have a double room flooded with sunshine, with washing-stands, + bedsteads, etc., with a writing-table, and, best of all, with excellent + water, like Seltzer water. The general impression: a big garden, beyond + the garden, mountains covered with forest, few people, little movement in + the street. The garden and the flowers are splendidly cared for. But + to-day, apropos of nothing, it has begun raining; I sit in our room, and + already begin to feel that in another two or three days I shall be + thinking of how to escape. + </p> + <p> + I am still eating butter in enormous quantities and with no effect. I + can’t take milk. The doctor here, Schworer, married to a Moscow woman, + turns out to be skilful and nice. + </p> + <p> + We shall perhaps return to Yalta by sea from Trieste or some other port. + Health is coming back to me not by ounces but by stones. Anyway, I have + learned here how to feed. Coffee is forbidden to me absolutely, it is + supposed to be relaxing; I am beginning by degrees to eat eggs. Oh, how + badly the German women dress! + </p> + <p> + I live on the ground floor. If only you knew what the sun is here! It does + not scorch, but caresses. I have a comfortable low chair in which I can + sit or lie down. I will certainly buy the watch, I haven’t forgotten it. + How is Mother? Is she in good spirits? Write to me. Give her my love. Olga + is going to a dentist here.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0275" id="link2H_4_0275"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + June 16. + </h2> + <p> + I am living amongst the Germans and have already got used to my room and + to the regime, but can never get used to the German peace and quiet. Not a + sound in the house or outside it; only at seven o’clock in the morning and + at midday there is an expensive but very poor band playing in the garden. + One feels there is not a single drop of talent in anything nor a single + drop of taste; but, on the other hand, there is order and honesty to + spare. Our Russian life is far more talented, and as for the Italian or + the French, it is beyond comparison. + </p> + <p> + My health has improved. I don’t notice now as I go about that I am ill; my + asthma is better, nothing is aching. The only trace left of my illness is + extreme thinness; my legs are thin as they have never been. The German + doctors have turned all my life upside down. At seven o’clock in the + morning I drink tea in bed—for some reason it must be in bed; at + half-past seven a German by way of a masseur comes and rubs me all over + with water, and this seems not at all bad. Then I have to lie still a + little, get up at eight o’clock, drink acorn cocoa and eat an immense + quantity of butter. At ten o’clock, oatmeal porridge, extremely nice to + taste and to smell, not like our Russian. Fresh air and sunshine. Reading + the newspaper. At one o’clock, dinner, at which I must not taste + everything but only the things Olga chooses for me, according to the + German doctor’s prescription. At four o’clock the cocoa again. At seven + o’clock supper. At bedtime a cup of strawberry tea—that is as a + sleeping draught. In all this there is a lot of quackery, but a lot of + what is really good and useful—for instance, the porridge. I shall + bring some oatmeal from here with me.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0276" id="link2H_4_0276"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + June 21. + </h2> + <p> + Things are going all right with me, only I have begun to get sick of + Badenweiler. There is so much German peace and order here. It was + different in Italy. To-day at dinner they gave us boiled mutton—what + a dish! The whole dinner is magnificent, but the maitres d’hotel look so + important that it makes one uneasy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0277" id="link2H_4_0277"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + June 28. + </h2> + <p> + ... It has begun to be terribly hot here. The heat caught me unawares, as + I have only winter suits here. I am gasping and dreaming of getting away. + But where to go? I should like to go to Italy, to Como, but everyone is + running away from the heat there. It is hot everywhere in the south of + Europe. I should like to go from Trieste to Odessa by steamer, but I don’t + know how far it is possible now, in June and July.... If it should be + rather hot it doesn’t matter; I should have a flannel suit. I confess I + dread the railway journey. It is stifling in the train now, particularly + with my asthma, which is made worse by the slightest thing. Besides, there + are no sleeping carriages from Vienna right up to Odessa; it would be + uncomfortable. And we should get home by railway sooner than we need, and + I have not had enough holiday yet. It is so hot one can’t bear one’s + clothes, I don’t know what to do. Olga has gone to Freiburg to order a + flannel suit for me, there are neither tailors nor shoemakers in + Badenweiler. She has taken the suit Dushar made me as a pattern. + </p> + <p> + I like the food here very much, but it does not seem to suit me; my + stomach is constantly being upset. I can’t eat the butter here. Evidently + my digestion is hopelessly ruined. It is scarcely possible to cure it by + anything but fasting—that is, eating nothing—and that’s the + end of it. And the only remedy for the asthma is not moving. + </p> + <p> + There is not a single decently dressed German woman. The lack of taste + makes one depressed. + </p> + <p> + Well, keep well and happy. My love to Mother, Vanya, George, and all the + rest. Write! + </p> + <p> + I kiss you and press your hand. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours, + A. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0278" id="link2H_4_0278"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE END + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0279" id="link2H_4_0279"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + [Transcriber’s Note: In the Biographical Sketch, “Chekhov was + </p> + <p> + found of hearing Potapenko” was changed to “Chekhov was fond of hearing + Potapenko”.] + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Letters of Anton Chekhov, by Anton Chekhov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF ANTON CHEKHOV *** + +***** This file should be named 6408-h.htm or 6408-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/0/6408/ + +Produced by Tom Allen, Charles Franks, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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