The Selected Letters of Anton Chekhov

My fingers ache, and so I'll conclude. . . . If all the above- mentioned points are not in the play, then there's no sense even talking about producing it. It would mean I had not written what I had intended. Take the play back. I do not wish to preach heresy on the stage. If the audience leaves the theatre with the consciousness that Ivanovs are villains, while the Doc- tor Lvovs are great people, I will be forced to resign from the theatre and send my pen to hell. And you can't accomplish any- thing with revisions and interpolations. No revisions can make a great man step down from his pedestal and no interpolations can turn a scoundrel into an ordinary mortal. Sasha can be brought on at the final curtain, but I simply cannot add any more to Ivanov and Lvov. I don't know why. If I add anything, I merely feel that I will spoil it even more. Please believe my instincts, which after all are those of an author.

. . . Don't for any reason whatever allow Kiselevski to play the count! My play caused him a good deal of grief in Moscow! Wherever he went he complained he had been forced to act this son-of-a-bitch role. Why should I distress him again?

. . . God, how I must have wearied you with this letter! Enough, basta!

Happy New Year! Hurrah!

You lucky ones, you will be drinking, or have already drunk, champagne, while I indulge in slops!

. . . My compliments to you all, and I kiss Anna Ivanovna's hand. Keep well.

Your

A. Chekhov

If the audience does not understand "blood and iron," then the hell with it, i.e., with the blood in which there is no iron.

I have read over this letter. In characterizing Ivanov the word "Russian" occurs frequently. Don't be angry on its ac- count. When I wrote the play I had in view only what really mattered, that is, only typical Russian traits. In that light, ex- cessive excitability, the sense of guilt, and the inclination to weariness are purely Russian. Germans never get worked up and therefore Germany knows neither disillusioned people nor superfluous and overweary ones. . . . The excitation of the French always remains at the same level, without acute rises or falls, and therefore the Frenchman, until advanced senility sets in, is normally excited. In other words, the Frenchman doesn't have to waste his energy on inordinate excitement; he dispenses his strength with common sense, and that is why he never goes bankrupt.

In my play, naturally I did not employ such terms as Russian, excitability, exhaustion and so on—in full confidence that the reader and spectator would be attentive and would not require a sign reading: Dis ain't no melon, dis is a plum." I tried to express myself simply, did not resort to deceptions and had no suspicion that my readers and spectators would trip up my characters in every phrase they uttered, stress the talks about the dowry, etc.

I was not able to write the play I wished to write. Of course it's a pity. In my imagination Ivanov and Lvov appear as living people. I am telling you in all sincerity and in accordance with the dictates of my conscience that these people were born in my head and not out of ocean spray, or preconceived ideas, not out of "intellectuality," and not by sheer accident. They are the result of observation and the study of life. They are still in my brain and I feel I have not lied, not by a single centimetre, nor have I been too smart-alecky by a single iota. If these figures have emerged on paper lifeless and indistinct, it is not they who are to blame, but my lack of ability to convey my ideas. Seems as though it's too soon for me to take up play writing.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

January 7, 1889, Moscow . . . Davidov is playing Ivanov. \Vhich is to say I must write as tersely and colorlessly as possible, remembering that all subtleties and "nuances" will merge into a gray mass and pro- duce nothing but tedium. Can Davidov actually be first tender and then raging? \Vhen he plays serious roles, a little grinding machine sits in his throat, monotonous and weak voiced, and performs in his stead. . ..

Ivanov has two long monologues which are decisive for the play: one in Act III and the other at the end of Act IV. The first should be sung, the second read savagely. Both are im- possible for Davidov. He will deliver both monologues "in- telligently," i.e., with overwhelming languor.

. . . I would with great pleasure read an essay before the Literary Society whence carne the idea of writing "Ivanov." I would make a public confession. I have long cherished the audacious notion of summing up all that has hitherto been writ- ten about complaining and melancholy people, and would have my Ivanov proclaim the ultimate in such writing. It seems to me that all Russian novelists and playwrights have felt a need to depict the mournful man and that they have all written in- stinctively, without having definite images or a point of view. I tried consciously to get on the right track, and practically did so, but my manner of presentation is not worth a hoot in hell. It would have ben much better to wait! I rejoice that I did not heed Grigorovich's advice two or three years ago and write a nmel! I can imagine how much good stuff I would have spoiled if I had listened to him. He says "talent and freshness will over- come everything." Talent and freshness can spoil a great deal— that would be more true. Besides an abundance of material and talent, other qualities of no less importance are also required. "\Vhat you must have is maturity—that's one; second, you must have a feeling of personal freedom, and this feeling began kindling within me only a short time ago. I hadn't had it pre- viously; frivolity, carelessness and lack of respect for my work had successfully served instead.

Self-made intellectuals buy at the price of their youth what gently born and bred writers have been endowed with by nature. Go ahead and write a story about a young man, the son of a serf, an ex-small shopkeeper, a choir boy, high school and university student, brought up on respect for rank, kissing priests' hands, and the worship of others' ideas, offering thanks for every mouthful of bread, often whipped, going to school without shoes, fighting, torturing animals, fond of dining with rich relatives, playing the hypocrite before God and people without any cause, except out of a consciousness of his own insignificance—then tell how this young man presses the slave out of himself one drop at a time and how he wakes up one fine morning to feel that in his veins flows not the blood of a slave, but real human blood. . . .

Keep well then, and forgive the long letter.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

March ii, /889, Moscow . . . What do you know? I am writing a novel!! I am keeping at it, but can't see the end in sight. I have begun doing it, i.e., the novel, all over again, revising and abridging considerably what had already been written. I have already clearly sketched in nine individuals. What a plot! I have called it "Tales from the Life of my Friends" and am writing it in the form of sepa- rate, complete stories, tightly held together by the common basis of plot, idea and characters. There is a special chapter for each story. Don't think that the novel will consist of odds and ends. No indeed. It will be a real novel, a complete whole, in which each person will be organically indispensable. . . .

I am having a hard time coping with technical problems. I am still weak in this quarter and have the feeling I am making loads of mistakes. There are going to be overlong passages, and inanities. Faithless wives, suicides, kulaks, virtuous peasants, devoted slaves, moralizing old ladies, kind old nurses, rustic wits, red-nosed captains and "new" people I shall endeavor to avoid, although in spots I do stray into conventional types. . . .

By the way, amongst your papers and magazines there was a quotation from some newspaper praising German housemaids for working all day long, like convict labor, and getting only two or three rubles a month pay for it. "New Times" endorses this praise and adds as its own commentary that one of our mis- fortunes is that we keep many unnecessary servants. In my opin- ion the Germans are scoundrels and bad political economists. In the first place one should not talk about servants in a tone implying they are criminals; in the second place, servants are worthy people and composed of the same flesh and blood as Bismarck; they are not slaves, but free workers; in the third place, the better labor is paid, the happier the country is, and each of us should strive to see that labor is paid better. Not to speak of the Christian point of view! As to unnecessary servants, well, they are kept only where there is plenty of money and are paid more than the heads of departments. They should not be taken into account, for they constitute an accidental phe- nomenon and not an organic one.

\Vhy don t you come to Moscow? How well we would get along together!

Your

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

May 1889, Sumy

Dear Alexei Sergeyevich,

I am writing you upon my return from a crabbing expedition. The weather is superb. Everything sings, blooms and gleams with beauty. The garden is already completely green, and even the oaks have blossomed forth. The busy worms have given a white coat to the trunks of the apple, pear, cherry and plum trees. All these trees bloom white, which makes them startlingly like brides in their wedding dresses: white frocks, white flowers and a look of innocence, as though they were ashamed to have people stare at them. Every day billions of beings are born. Nightingales, bitterns, cuckoos and other winged creatures lift their voices night and day, with frogs to accompany them. Every hour of the day and night has some particular quality. Thus, at nine in the evening the garden literally roars with May beetles. The nights are moonlit, the days bright. What with all the foregoing I am in a good mood, and were it not for the coughing artist and the mosquitoes, against which even Elpe's prescription is no help, I would be a perfect Potemkin. Nature is an excellent sedative. It pacifies, i.e., makes a man carefree. And being carefree is of the essence in this world. Only such people are able to look upon things clearly, to be just and to work properly—of course, this pertains only to clever and generous people; egoists and empty heads are indifferent enough as it is.

You write that I have grown lazy. This doesn't mean I have become any lazier than I used to be. I do as much work now as I did three or five years ago. Working and looking like a work- ing person at intervals from nine in the morning to dinner and from evening tea until retiring have become habits with me, and in this respect I am like a regular official. If two stories a month don't emerge out of my efforts, or io,ooo yearly income, it is not laziness that is to blame, but my basic psychological makeup; for medicine I am not fond enough of money, and for literature I don't have sufficient passion, and, consequently, talent. My creative fire burns at a slow, even pace, without llash and crackle, although sometimes I may write fifty or sixty pages at one swoop in one night or, absorbed by my work, I will keep myself from going to bed when I feel sleepy; for the same rea- son I am not remarkable either for stupidity or brilliance. I am afraid that in this respect I am very like Goncharov,¹ whom I don't like although he stands miles above me in talent. I don't have much passion; add to this fact the following symptom of a psychopathic condition: for the past two years and for no earthly reason I have become sick of seeing my works in print, have grown indifferent to reviews, talks on literature, slanders, successes, failures, and big fees—in short, I have become an utter fool. There is a sort of stagnation in my soul. I explain this by the stagnation in my personal life. I am not disillusioned, not weary, not dispirited, but everything has just become less interesting somehow. I must add some gunpowder to my makeup.

Imagine, the first act of my "\Vood Demon" is ready. It's a fair piece of work, though long. I feel a much greater sense of power than I did while I was writing "Ivanov." The play will be ready by the beginning of June. Look out, you directors, the 5,ooo are mine! The play is awfully queer, and I am amazed

1 Goncharov was best known as the author of the famous novel Oblomov.

that such peculiar things can issue from my pen. My one fear is that the censor won't allow it. I am also writing a novel that is more to my liking and closer to my heart than the "Wood Demon," which obliges me to resort to slyness and act like an idiot. Last night I recalled that I had promised Varlamov I'd write him a one-act comedy. I did so today and sent it off. You see what a ferment goes on within me! And you write that I've grown lazy!

. . . My brother writes that he has tortured himself with his play. I am glad. Let him. He viewed "Tatiana Repina" and "Ivanov" at the theatre with frightful condescension and during the intermissions drank cognac and deigned to criticize graci- ously. All these people judge plays in a manner which supposes they are ,ery easy to write. They aren't aware, either, that writ- ing a good play is difficult, and writing a bad one is twice as hard and a horrible job. I would like the entire public merged into a single person and ha\e it write a play, whereupon you and I would sit in a box and hiss it. ...

Please bring me some forbidden books and newspapers from abroad. Were it not for our artist, I would go with you . . . .

If you should play roulette, put twenty-five francs on for me just for luck.

Well, God grant you health and all the best.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

May I), 1889, Sumy If you haven't left yet for abroad, I will reply to your letter on Bourget,¹ and will be brief. Among other things you write: "Let us pursue the science of matter as usual, but let us also

1 Paul Bourget, the French novelist.

keep for ourselves a place of refuge from this everlasting con- cern with matter." The science of matter is being pursued as usual, and the places of refuge are also on hand, and I don't think anybody is intruding there. If there is any intrusion, it will certainly be that of the natural sciences and not of the sacred places where one can take refuge from them. In my letter the problem was put more correctly and inoffensively than in yours, and I am closer to the "life of the spirit" than you. You speak of the right of one or another field of learning to exist, while I, on the other hand, speak not of any right, but of peace. I don't want people to see war where there isn't any. Branches of knowledge have always got along peaceably. Anatomy and elegant letters have an equally illustrious ancestry, the same aims, the same enemy—the devil—and there is no reason for them to battle with each other. They don't struggle against each other for existence. If a man understands the circulatory system, he is rich; if in addition he also studies the history of religion and knows the ballad "I Recall the \Vond'rous Moment," he is the gainer thereby; accordingly we are treating only of plus quantities. That is why geniuses have never struggled and in Goethe - the naturalist lived in harmony along with the poet.

It is not that branches of knowledge fight with one another, not poetry with anatomy, but fallacies, i.e., people. When a man does not understand a thing, he feels discord within himself: he seeks causes for this dissonance not in himself, as he should, but outside himself, and the result is war with something he does not understand. During the Middle Ages alchemy developed gradually, naturally and peacefully into chemistry; astrology into astronomy; the monks did not understand what was taking place, saw the process as war, and so gave battle. . . .

Bourget is fascinating to the Russian reader, like thunder after a drought, and it is easy to understand why. The reader of his novel saw that the characters and author were wiser than he, and observed a life richer than his own; whereas Russian fiction writers are stupider than the readers, their characters are pale and unimportant, the life of which they treat is barren and uninteresting. The Russian writer lives in a miserable hole, eats mold, is fond of low creatures and laundresses, doesn't know history, or geography, or the natural sciences, or the reli- gion of his own country, or administration, or navigation . . . in short, doesn't know beans. In comparison with Bourget he is a web-footed goose and that's all. One can understand why people should be fond of Bourget. . . .

. . . I am bored. . . .

I'll soon be sending you a letter in French and German. My compliments to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya.

Have a fine trip.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To MIKHAIL GALKIN-VRASKI¹

January 20, 1890, St. Petersburg

Dear Sir,

As I propose in the spring of the present year to take a trip to Eastern Siberia with scientific and literary aims in view, and as I desire among other things to visit the island of Sakhalin, both in its central and southern portions, I have made so bold as to request most humbly that Your Excellency lend any support in my behalf you may find possible toward the attainment of the aims I have mentioned above.

^ Chekhov took this letter to the office of the Main Prison Administration, of which Galkin-Vraski was the head. He explained to Galkin-Vraski, in great detail, the aims o[ his jonrney and asked permission to inspect prisons and industries. Galkin-Vraski was so agreeable and polite that Chekhov felt sure he would get the aid he needed. But Galkin-Vrnski did not help him and, after the Bolshevik government opened the Prison Administration's archives, it was found that he had given orders that Chekhov was not to be allowed to see certain categories of political prisoners and exiles.

With sincere respect and devotion, I have the honor to be the most humble servant of Your Excellency,

Anton Chekhov

To ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV

February ij, 1890, Moscow

. . . You really didn't like the "Kreutzer Sonata"? I won't say it is a work of genius, or a work for all eternity, for I am no judge of these matters, but in my opinion, amongst the mass of things being written here and abroad, you will hardly find anything its equal in seriousness of conception and beauty of execution, not to mention its artistic merits, which in spots are astounding. You must thank the story for just the one point that it is extremely thought-provoking. As I read it I could hardly keep myself from exclaiming, "That's true!" or "That's ridiculous!" Of course it does have some very annoying defects. Besides those you enumerated, there is still another point that one won't readily forgive its author, to wit, Tolstoy's stubborn brashness in treating of things he doesn't know and doesn't understand. Thus, his pronouncements on syphilis, foundling homes, women's repugnance to cohabitation and so on are not only debatable but also show him to be an ignoramus who has never taken the trouble during the course of his long life to read two or three books written by specialists. Still, these defects fly like feathers before the wind; considering the story's great qualities you just do not notice them, or if you do, it is only to be peeved that the story did not avoid the fate of all works cre- ated by man, none of which are perfect or free from error.

So my Petersburg friends and acquaintances are all angry with me? Why? Because I didn't bore them much with my presence, which has been a bore to myself for so long! Calm their minds, tell them that I ate a lot of dinners and suppers there, but did not captivate a single lady, that every day I felt sure I would be leaving on that evening's express, but that I was detained by my friends and "The Marine Miscellany" which I had to leaЈ through in its entirety, going back to i8:J2. I did as much in one month in St. Pete as my young friends would not be able to do in a year. However, let them rave! . . .

Goodbye, dear fellow, please pay us a visit. Regards to your family. My sister and mother send their compliments.

A. Chekhov

Sakhalin was a half forgotten island off the Pacific coast of Siberia, used by the Czarist government as a colony for crim- inals and political prisoners. Chekhov decided in i8go to make a trip to Sakhalin. Up to that time he had shown no interest in penology, had not belonged to any organizations doing re- habilitation work or prison reform, had little interest in Siberia. The climate of the flat lands of Siberia in early spring was obviously too harsh for a man with tuberculosis, the trip was expensive and Chekhov didn't have much money, and the three months' journey from Moscow to Sakhalin had to be made under incredibly primitive and uncomfortable condition.¹

Why did he go? He gave many answers to his bewildered and protesting friends. Sometimes he said he was worried about his work: "Sketches, stupidities, vaudevilles, 'A Tiresome Tale' . . . paper filled with writing, the Pushkin Prize² • • • and all the time not a single line which has any serious literary importance in my own eyes." Sometimes he said he was worried about the staleness of his life in Moscow: "Even if I get nothing out of it all there are bound to be two or three days which I will re- member all my life with joy or grief."Sometimes he said he was going to Sakhalin to pay his debt to medicine, but some of his

Fifty years later, I made almost the same trip across Siberia. Even though I went in a good airplane and took only fourteen days, it was still rough going.

Chekhov had won the l'ushkin Prize but the judges had made the whole thing mingy by cutting the money award in half.

friends thought he was running away from a love affair that he was afraid of.

There is nothing in the Chekhov letters or notes or in the memoirs of his friends that truly explains the reasons for this daring journey. Perhaps it was undertaken simply out of pity for the people on Sakhalin and a humane desire to help them, but, on the other hand, the trip was made at a time when many intellectuals were accusing him of being a man without con- victions, without social ideals. Perhaps he felt—certainly he said it often enough in other places—that ideals are proved in action and not in fireplace chit-chat. \Vhatever the reasons, or mixture of reasons, he took off for Sakhalin in the spring of lSgo.

The letters about the journey speak for themselves. The trip proved to be a kind of catharsis for Chekhov. The misery of the people on Sakhalin put his own physical-social-literary problems in their proper place. He said, for example, that before he went to Sakhalin the publication of The Kreutzer Sonata was a tremendous event, but that after the trip the book made him laugh.

Chekhov's book, Sakhalin Island, is said to be an excellent ex- ample of a creative writer making use of research material. The book did have influence: it caused so much comment that a special government investigating committe was sent to Sakhalin. There is no record that the committee accomplished anvthing, and Chekhovs book was soon forgotten. But what he had seen on the island of Sakhalin was important to Chekhov for the rest of his life.

In i S92 Chekhov bought a country house for his family in the village of Melikhovo, about fifty miles from Moscow. The Melikhmo letters are happy letters. Even his father, Pavel Chekhov, finally found a niche for himself: he became the vil- lage choirmaster and the peasants understood and accepted this

/890-7897

old man who was so like themselves. Chekhov, as the years went on, took an active part in village life. He doctored the peasants, he was a man of importance in local government, he built three schools with his own money, and he worked hard on projects for new roads and new housing. These were good and fruitful years in Melikhovo. Much of his very best work was done in this period.

In 1894, with Suvorin, he took his second trip to Europe. \Vestern Europe was an impressive place for a Russian. The beauty of the cities, the comfort of hotels and railroads and houses, the easy freedom of intellectual life lived without the fears and pressures of censorship—Chekhov was enchanted with all of it. But it is amusing to watch the enchantment wear off. He soon begins to tire of the beauties of Vienna and Venice and to remember the rough virtues of home. It has been said that Russians are the greatest complainers in history, but what- ever it is that holds them to their land holds them forever. Homesick, Chekhov went back to Melikhovo.

Melikhovo, like all the houses of the Chekhov family, was always full of guests. One of the frequent visitors was Lydia Mizinova, a beautiful and charming young girl, a friend of Maria Chekhova's. Letters from Lydia Mizinova, found in re- cently opened archives, are said to prove that she was very much in love with Chekhov. But he was not in love with her. His letters to her are affectionate and flirtatious but they make clear that whatever she wanted, he wanted nothing. Lydia consoled herself with the painter Levitan. But Levitan, a famous beau, never consoled any woman for very long and so, in time, Lydia moved from Levitan to the novelist Potapenko. Chekhov watched this affair carefully and when he sat down to write The Seagull,^ he very possibly made use of the Lydia-Potapenko relationship. Trigorin, in The Seagull, was so like Potapenko

3 The Seagull was, of course, a famous failure in its first production in St. Peiersburg. Two ycars later the newly formed Moscow Art Theatre produced it with great success.

that Suvorin spotted the resemblance immediately. Chekhov altered Trigorin in the next version of the play.

The Seagull was Chekhov's third full length play. (The earlier Wood Demon would later become Uncle Vanya.) The play does not reach the artistic purity and depth of The Three Sisters, but it is full of good things, and a daring departure in stage technique.

The serious theatre can be uncomfortable. How often we go to a play with high expectations which, as the evening wears on, turn into a kind of impatient discomfort. \Ve grow conscious of strains and stresses, and something irritates us although we do not know its name. But sometimes we go to a play and after the curtain has been up five minutes we have a sense of being able to settle back in the arms of the playvright. Instinctively we know that the playwright knows his business. Neatness in design and execution is, after all, only the proper use of ma- terial, but it has a beauty of its own. It is exhilarating to watch a good workman at work, to see each detail fall into useful place, to know that the shortest line, the smallest stage movement, has an end in view and is not being used to trick us or deceive or pull fashionable wool over our eyes. It is then that we say to ourselves, this writer knows what he is doing, he has paid us the compliment of learning his trade. To such writers, in whatever field they be, we give our full attention and they deserve it.

It is that way with Chekhov. The smallest detail has meaning. In The SeaguU, for example, Arkadina, many years before the play begins, married a man whose social standing she consid- ered too low. This seems of no importance—the line about it is thrown away—until the third act when the whole Hamlet- Gertrude theme of the play is given new meaning: Arkadina, turning on her son, calls him a "Kiev artisan," which is what she had once called his father. And suddenly we understand that the son never had a chance: his father was not a gentleman to Arkadina and the child was made to pay for it from the day he was born. Chekhov knew all there was to know about his char-

[ go ]

acters and every line he wrote advanced the play and moved it to its end. It is strange that neither his interpreters nor his imitators have been impressed with the fine, hard core of the design.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

March 9, /890, Moscow

March gth, 40 Martyrs and 1 o,ooo skylarks

We are both mistaken about Sakhalin, but you probably more than I. I am leaving in the firm conviction that my ex- pedition will not yield anything valuable in the way of either literature or science, as I haven't enough knowledge, time or pretensions. I haven't the plans of a Humboldt^ or even of a Kennan.² I want to write a couple of hundred pages and thereby atone in some degree for my medicine, which, as you know, I have piggishly neglected.

Perhaps I shall not be able to write anything worthwhile, but the trip still has not lost its allure for me: in reading, looking about and listening, my researches will teach me a great deal. Although I have not yet left, thanks to the books I have gone through, I have been forced to learn much that people should be beaten for not knowing and which in my ignorance I had not known before this. Moreover, I am of the opinion that the trip will turn out to be six months at hard labor, physical and mental, and for me this is also essential, as I am a Little Russian and have already begun to get lazy. I have to discipline myself. Though the trip may be nonsense, stubbornness, a whim, still, think it over and tell me what I have to lose by going. Time?

Alexander Humboldt, the German scientist, made a journey to Asiatic Russia in 1829 to get geological and geophysical data.

George Kennan (1845-1924), an American engineer and explorer who, in 1886, made a famous tour of Siberian prisons. He was a great-uncle of George Kennan, former U. S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union.

Money? Will I have to undergo hardships? My time isn't worth anything, I'll never have any money anyway; as to hardships, I'll be traveling by horse for twenty-five or thirty days, not longer, and all the rest of the time I'll be sitting on the deck of a steamer or in a room and will be bombarding you with letters. Let's say I find the trip absolutely unrewarding. I still feel there are bound to be two or three days which I'll remem- ber all my life with the greatest pleasure or the greatest pain, etc. That's how I figure it, my dear sir. All I say may be uncon- vincing, but certainly you too write just as unconvincingly. For example, you write that Sakhalin is of no use or interest to anybody. Do you really think that's so? Sakhalin is useless and uninteresting only to a society that does not exile thousands of people to it and spends millions maintaining it. Except for Australia in the old days and Cayenne today, Sakhalin is the only place where one can study convict colonization: all Europe is interested in it, but it's no use to us? No more than twenty- five or thirty years back our Russian researchers in Sakhalin did a tremendous job, a job that should make us proud of being men, but we have no use for this sort of thing, have we, nor do we know what kind of people we've got there; so we just sit shut within our four walls and complain of the bad job that God has made of man. Sakhalin is a place of intolerable suffer- ings, the kind that only free and unfree people together can in- flict. Men there and elsewhere have solved terribly serious prob- lems and are doing so now. I regret I am not sentimental, or I would say that we ought to journey to places like Sakhalin to worship as Turks go to Mecca; while sailors and penologists in particular ought to look upon Sakhalin as military men regard Sevastopol. From the books I have read and am now reading it is evident that we have let millions of people rot in prison, let them rot to no good purpose, barbarously, without giving the matter a thought; we have driven people in chains through the cold thousands of miles, infected them with syphilis, de- praved them, multiplied criminals and shifted the blame onto the red-nosed prison overseers. Now, all educated Europe knows it is not the overseers who are the guilty parties, but all of us; but this does not interest us in the slightest. The celebrated sixties did nothing for the sick and imprisoned, thereby trans- gressing against the most important commandment of Christian civilization. In our times something is being done for the sick, but nothing at all for the imprisoned; penology just doesn't interest our jurists. No, I assure you, Sakhalin is of use and of interest and my sole regret is that it is I who goes there and not someone else who knows more about the business and is more capable of arousing public interest. My going won't mean very much. . . .

We have been having tremendous student riots. They began at Petrovski Academy, where the authorities banned the admis- sion of young ladies into student quarters, suspecting these lat- ter not only of prostitution but also of political activity. From the academy it spread to the university where, surrounded by Hectors and Achilleses heavily armed and mounted, and equip- ped with lances, the students are making the following demands:

Complete autonomy of the universities.

Complete freedom of teaching.

Free access to the university without distinction of creed, nationality, sex and social background.

Admission of Jews to the university without restrictions and equal rights for them with the other students.

Freedom of assemblage and recognition of student asso- ciations.

Establishment of a university and student tribunal.

Abolition of the police function of the inspectors.

Lowering of fees for courses.

This I have copied from a manifesto, with some abridge- ments. I think most of the fuss has been kicked up by the bunch of [. . .] and the sex that craves admission to the university, although it is five times worse prepared than the male. The lat- ter is miserably enough prepared as it is, and its university career is, with rare exceptions, inglorious.

... I sympathize with Hay³ with all my heart, but he is grieving needlessly. Syphilis is now treated very easily and we will cure him—no doubt of that.

Along with the books please send my one-acter "The Wed- ding." That's all. . . .

Keep well and happy. I put as much credence in old age creeping up on you as I do in the fourth dimension. First, you are not yet an old man; you think and work enough for ten and your ability to reason is certainly far from senile; second, and this I am prepared to state under oath, you have no illnesses except migraine headaches; third, old age is bad only for bad old people, and wearisome only to the weary, while you are good and anything but weary. Fourth, the difference between youth and age is extremely relative and conditional. Saying which, allow me to express my admiration for you by throwing myself into a deep pit and knocking out my brains.

Your

A. Chekhov

The other day I wrote you of Ostrovski. He has been to see me again. What shall I tell him? . . .

To MODEST TCHAIKOVSKI

March 16, i8go, Aioscow ... I have been staying horne without budging and reading about the price of Sakhalin coal per ton in 1863 and the price of coal in Shanghai, reading of latitudes and NO, NW, SO and other winds that will be whistling about my head when I ob- serve my own seasickness along the Sakhalin shores. I am read- ing about the soil, subsoil, sandy clay and clayey sand. However, I havent yet gone out of my mind and even sent a story yester-

3 Hay, a contribulor to New Times.

day to "New Times" and will soon be dispatching the "Wood Demon" to the "Northern Herald"—and doing so most un- willingly, as I don't like seeing my plays in print.

In a week and a half or two weeks my little book¹ dedicated to Pyotr Ilich will be coming out. I would feel it an honor to stand on guard, night and day, in front of any house where he happened to be living, so profoundly do I esteem him. If one were to speak of ranks in Russian art, he now occupies the place next to Leo Tolstoy, who has long stood at its head. (Third place I bestow on Repin² and take No. 98 for myself.) I have long held within me the daring dream of dedicating something to him. Such a step, I thought, would be the least I could do, inadequate as it might be, to express the tremendous critical approval in which I, a writing man, hold his magnificent talent; an approval I canot commit to paper because of my lack of a musical gift. To my regret I had to realize this dream through the medium of a book that I do not consider my best. It is composed of especially gloomy psychopathological sketches and bears a gloomy title that makes my dedication alien to Peter Ilich's taste and that of his admirers.

You are a Chekhist? I thank you humbly. No, you are not a Chekhist, but simply indulgent. Keep well. My best wishes.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To IVAN LEONTIEV (SHCHEGLOV)

March 22, /8go, Moscow

How are you, dear Johnchik,

Thanks for your long letter and for its true kindness. I shall be glad to read your war story. Is it appearing in the Easter

Gloomy People, a collection of Chekhov stories.

Repin, the most famous of Russian painters, the man whose traditional and conservative work is still overrated in the Soviet Union.

issue? I havent read anything of yours, or of mine, for a long time.

You write that you wish to pick a violent quarrel with me "especially on matters of morality and artistry," you speak vaguely of certain crimes I have committed which merit a friendly reproach and threaten me even "with influential news- paper criticism." If you cross out the word "artistry," the entire phrase between quotation marks becomes clearer, but acquires a significance which, to speak frankly, perplexes me consider- ably. John, what is it all about? How is this matter to be under- stood? Do you mean to say my understanding of morality puts me in a different camp from people like you and even to such an extent as to merit a reproach and the special attention of influential criticism? I cannot suppose you have in view some sort of abstruse lofty morality, since there are no low, high or medium moralities, but only one, namely, that given us in his day by Jesus Christ and which now deters you, and me . . . from stealing, offending, lying and so on. In all my life, if I can rely upon the repose of my own conscience, neither by word, deed or intention, nor in my stories or plays have I coveted my neighbors wife, or his manservant, or his ox or his ass, or any- thing that is my neighbor's; I have not stolen, dissembled, flattered the powerful or sought their favor, have not black- mailed or lived on other people. It is true that in idleness I have wasted by substance, laughing madly, overeating, drinking to excess, have played the prodigal, but surely all of this is per- sonal to me and does not deprive me of the right to think that in the morality section I do not dcviate much either up or down from the normal. No notable feats, no mean acts—that is how I am, like the majority; my sins are many, but in morality we are quits, since I am atoning lavishly for those sins through the discomforts they bring in their wake. If you really wish to quar- rel with me violently because I am not a hero, then throw your savagery out of the window and substitute for the harsh words your amiable tragic laugh—that would be better.

But that word "artistry" I fear as merchants' wives are sup- posed to fear bogey men. When people talk to me of what is artistic or inartistic, of what is stageable or not stageable, of tendency, realism and so forth I am at my wit's end, assent irresolutely and reply with banal half-truths that aren't worth a hoot. I divide all productions into two categories: those I like and those I don't like. I have no other criterion, and if you ask me why I like Shakespeare and don't like Zlatovratski¹, I cannot tell you. Perhaps in time, when I get smarter, I will acquire a criterion, but in the meantime all talks about "ar- tistry" only weary me and seem a continuation of those scholas- tic polemics with which people wore themselves out during the Middle Ages.

If criticism, whose authority you refer to, knows what you and I do not know, why has it been silent until now, why doesn't it reveal the truth and the immutable laws to us? If it knew, then believe me, it would long since have shown us the way and we would know what to do, Fofanov² would not be in an insane asylum, Garshin³ would still be alive . . . and we wouldn't find existence as boring and tedious as it is now. You wouldn't be lured into the theatre and I to Sakhalin. But crit- icism is solidly silent or actually disposes of us with idle, rub- bishy prattle. If it seems influential to you, it is only because it is stupid, immodest, arrogant and noisy, because it rumbles like an empty barrel which you can't avoid hearing.

However, let's spit on all this and sing a tune from another opera. Please do not have any literary hopes for my Sakhalin expedition. I am not going to observe or get impressions, but simply to be able to live for a half year as I have not lived hitherto. Don't expect anything from me, old man; if I have the time and ability to achieve anything, then glory be to

Zlatovratski, a popular author of the period.

Fofanov, the poet, was a contributor to New Times.

Garshin, a well-known writer who had committed suicide.

God—if not, don't find fault. I'll be leaving after Easter Week. . . .

Be a nice little staff captain with moustachios and keep well and happy.

Your A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

April 1, 1890, 1\Ioscow Christ has risen! Happy Easter, dear fellow, to all of you, and every good wish for your happiness.

I am leaving during St. Thomas week or somewhat later, depending on when the Kama opens for traffic. I am soon going to make the round of farewell visits. Before my departure I shall be asking you for a correspondent's blank and some money. Please send the first, but as for the second I must wait a little since I don't know how much I'll require. I am now gathering all the capital I have any claim to from the far ends of the earth, have not got it together yet, but when I do I'll be able to tell how much more I need.

My family is taken care of until October—in this regard my mind is already at ease. . . .

You scold me for objectivity, calling it indifference to good and evil, lack of ideals and ideas and so on. When I portray horse thieves, you would want me to say that stealing horses is an evil. But certainly this has always been obvious without my saying so. Let the jury pass judgment on them; it is my business solely to show them as they are. Here is the way I write: you are considering the subject of horse thieves, so bear in mind they are not beggars but well-fed people, that they are members of a cult and that with them stealing horses is not just theft but a passion. Of course it would be nice to combine art with sermonizing, but that kind of thing I find extraordinarily diffi- cult and well-nigh impossible because of technical considera- tions. Certainly if I am to depict horse thieves in seven hundred lines, I must speak and think as they would and feel with their feelings; I add a subjective point of view if I don't and then my characters will grow dim and the story won't be as compact as all little short stories should be. When I write I count upon my reader fully, assuming that he himself will add the subjec- tive elements that are lacking in the telling.

All good wishes.

Your

A. Chekhov

ToVUKOL LAVROV

April 10,1890, Moscow

Vukol Mikhailovich,

In the March issue of "Russian Thought," on page 147 of the biographical section, I happened to come upon the follow- ing sentence: "Only yesterday even the pontiffs of unprincipled writing, such as Messrs. Yasinski and Chekhov, whose names . . ." etc. Generally one does not reply to criticism, but in the present instance the question is perhaps not one of criticism but simply of calumny. As a matter of fact I would not even reply to slander, except that in a few days I shall be leaving Russia for a long period, perhaps never to return, and I do not have the will power to refrain from a reply.

I have never been an unprincipled writer, or what amounts to the same thing, an unscrupulous person.

True, my literary career has consisted of an uninterrupted series of mistakes, sometimes crude ones, but this can be ex- plained by the dimensions of my talent, and certainly not by whether I am good or bad. I have never blackmailed, written lampoons, informed on others; I have not toadied, or lied, or insulted anyone, in short, I am the author of a great number of stories and editorial articles that I would gladly throw out because of their worthlessness, but there is not a single line of which I need be ashamed. Let us say you subscribe to the theory of considering as lack of principle the grievous circum- stance that I, a well-educated, popular writer, have not exerted myself at all in behalf of those I admire, that my literary endeavors have left no trace, for example in promoting local self-government, the new court procedure, freedom of the press, freedom in general and so on; in this respect "Russian Thought" should in all fairness look upon me as its comrade and not point a finger at me, since up until the present it has not done any more than I have in this field—and neither you nor I am to blame for the omission.

Let us say you are judging me as a writer from the external point of view; even then I do not merit a public dressing-down for lack of principle. I have always led a reserved life, within the four walls of my home. ... I have always persistently avoided participation in literary evenings, evening parties, meetings, etc., have never shown myself without an invitation in any editorial office, have always striven to have my acquaint- ances consider me a physician rather than a writer; in brief, I have been a modest writing man and the letter I am now writ- ing is the first immodesty committed during ten years of activ- ity. With my comrades I maintain excellent relations; I have never taken upon myself the role of judging them or the news- papers and magazines on which they work, as I do not consider myself competent, and find the present dependent position of the press is such that every word uttered against a paper or a writer is not only merciless and tactless, but in point of fact criminal. I have always clung to my decision to turn down offers from newspapers and magazines whose bad quality has been apparent and proved; and when it came to choosing among them, I have given the preference to those which have been in greater need of my services because of material or other circumstances, and that is why I have worked not for you and

not for the "European Herald," but for the "Northern Herald" and consequently have received half as much as I might have, had I another point of view toward my obligations.

Your accusation is a slander. I cannot request you to take it back, since the damage has already been done and can't be cut out with an axe. I cannot explain it as carelessness, frivolity or anything of that sort either, as I know your editorial office to be staffed by undoubtedly decent, cultured people who read and write articles, I trust, not casually but with a consciousness of responsibility for every word. It only remains for me to point out your error and ask you to believe in the sincerity of the unhappy feeling that caused me to write you this letter. It is of course obvious that in view of your accusation, not only busi- ness dealings between us, but even formal social relations are out of the question.

A. Chekhov

T0 MARIA CHEKHOVA

April 23, 1890, 0n the V0lga ab0ard the SS. Alexander Nevsky early in the m0rning.

Dear clan 0f Tunguses,

. . . My first impression of the Volga was spoiled by the rain, the tear-stained cabin windows and the wet nose of Gurland who came to meet me at the station. . . .

Once on the boat I paid first honors to my special talent, i.e., I went to sleep. When I awoke it was to behold the sun. The Volga is not bad, with water-drenched meadows, monasteries flooded with sunlight, white churches; a wonderful sense of expansive ease, and wherever you look you see nice places to sit and fish. . . .

The steamer itself is not so wonderful. The best thing about it is the toilet. This stands on high, four steps leading to it, so that an inexperienced person, say Ivanenko, might easily mis- take it for a royal throne. The boat's worst feature is the dinner it serves. Here is the menu, with original spelling retained: veg. soupe, frankfurts and cab, sturgon frit, baked kat pudding; kat, it develops, means kasha. Since my money has been earned by blood and sweat, I should have wished the reverse order of things, i.e., to have the dinner better than the toilet facilities, all the more so since after the wine I drank at Korneyev's my insides have become completely clogged and I'll be doing with- out the toilet all the way through to Tomsk.

Madame Kundasova¹ is traveling on this boat. I haven't any idea where she is going, or why. When I start asking questions, she launches into extremely hazy conjectures on the subject of somebody who was supposed to meet her in a ravine near Kineshma, then bursts into furious laughter and stamps her foot or pokes her elbow into whatever is handy, not sparing [. . .] ribs. We have sailed past Kineshma, and the ravines as well, but she has continued on the boat, which has been very nice as far as I am concerned. By the way: yesterday, for the first time in my life, I saw her eat. She doesn't eat less than other folks, but she eats mechanically, as though she were champing oats ....

It's coldish and somewhat tiresome—but on the whole inter- esting.

The boat whistles every few minutes, sounding halfway be- tween a donkey's bray and an Aeolian harp. In five or six hours I'll be in Nizhni-Novgorod. The sun is rising. I slept artistically all night. My money is intact—because I'm always clutching at my stomach. . . .

The sun has hidden behind a cloud, the sky is overcast and the broad Volga wears a dismal look. Levitan should not be liv- ing on the Volga. The river sheds gloom on the soul. Although a nice little estate along its banks would not be too bad.

Best regards to all. Hearty greetings and a thousand salu- tations. . . .

If the steward were awake, I should have some coffee, but as

1 Kundasova was a friend of the Chekhov family, a mathematician and astronomcr.

it is I must drink water disconsolately. Greetings to Maryusha and Olga.²

Keep well and happy. I'll write regularly.

Your bored Volgaman, Homo Sakhaliensis,

A. Chekhov

Greetings to Grandma.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

April 24, r8go, Kama S.S. Perm

My dear Tungus /riendsj

I am sailing on the Kama, but cannot tell you exactly where we are; around Chistopol, I think. Nor can I extol the beauty of the banks since it is devilishly cold; the birches haven't yet put forth their leaves, here and there lie patches of snow, ice floats in the river, in brief, all aesthetic considerations are shot to hell. I am sitting in the deck cabin where people of all classes are at table and am listening to conversations and asking myself whether it isn't time for some tea. If it were up to me I would do nothing but eat from morning to night; but as I haven't the money for continuous eating I sleep or wait for sleep. I haven't been going out on deck—it's too cold. It rains at night and daytime an unpleasant wind blows.

Ah, caviar! I keep on eating it, but can never get my fill. Like olives. It's a lucky thing it's not salty.

It's a shame I didn't think of sewing myself a little bag for tea and sugar. I have to order it one glass at a time, which is a bore and expensive to boot. This morning I wanted to buy some tea and sugar in Kazan but slept too late.

Rejoice, Mother! It seems I'll be spending twenty-four hours in Ekaterinburg and am goi.ng to see our relatives. Perhaps their

2 Maryusha and Olga were servants in the Chekhov household.

hearts have grown tender and they will give me three rubles and a little packet of tea.

From the conversations now under way, I take it that a cir- ciiit court is making the trip with us. These people are not overburdened with intellect and so the merchants who only rarely put in a word seem very clever. You run across frightfully rich people everywhere.

Small sturgeon are cheaper than dirt, but you get tired of them very fast. What more is there to write? Nothing. Oh yes, we have a general on board and an emaciated man with fair hair. The former rushes back and forth from his cabin to the deck and keeps sending photos to people; the latter . . . seeks to give the impression that he is a writer; today at dinner he lied to some lady that Suvorin had published a little book of his; I, of course, expressed the proper awe on my face.

My money is intact with the exception of what I've eaten up. The scoundrcls won't feed me free!

I am neither gay nor sad but seem to have a soul of gelatin. I am content to sit motionless and silent. Today, for example, I hardly spoke fivc words. Hold on, I'm not telling the truth: I had a talk with a priest on deck.

We are starting to meet up with natives. There are great numbers of Tatars, who appear to be a respectable and decorous people . . . .

I send my humblest greetings to all of you. I plead with Mama and Papa not to worry about me and not to imagine dangers that do not exist. . . .

Keep well and happy.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

Forgive me for writing only of food. If I didn't write of it I would have to write of the cold; there are no other themes.

The circuit court has decreed that we are to have tea. It has picked up somewhere along the line two candidates for court duties who are now serving as the office staff. One looks like our sartorial poet Byelousov and the other like Yezhov. Both re- spectfully listen to Messrs. the bosses. They don't dare have an opinion of their own and try to look as though they themselves were acquiring wisdom in listening to these sage speeches. I like model young people.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

April 29, /890, Ekaterinburg

Dear Tungus /riends,

The Kama is the very dullest of rivers; to grasp its beauty one should be a Pecheneg, sit motionless on a barge near a barrel filled with oil or a sack with fish from the Caspian and continually take swigs of liquor. The banks are bare, the trees bare, the earth a mat-brown, patches of snow stretch ahead and the wind is such that even the devil himself couldn't blow as sharply or unpleasantly. When the cold wind blows and ripples the water, which after the spring's flooding has taken on the color of coffee slops, everything turns cold and lonely and wretched; the accordion sounds on the shore seem mournful and the figures in torn sheepskin coats standing motionless on the barges we encounter appear permanently stiff with sorrow. The cities of the Kama are gray; it looks as though their inhab- itants occupied themselves exclusively in the manufacture of lowering clouds, boredom, wet fences and street filth. The quays swarm with intelligentsia, for whom the arrival of a boat is an event. . . .

I have already written that a circuit court is aboard: presid- ing officer, judge and public prosecutor. The presiding officer is a healthy, sturdy old German fellow converted to Orthodoxy, pious, a homeopath, and obviously an assiduous ladies' man; the judge is an old fellow of the type our departed Nikolai used to draw; he walks badly bent, coughs and likes comic themes; the prosecutor is a man of forty-three, dissatisfied with life, a liberal, skeptic and really big-hearted fellow. During the entire trip this judicial group has employed its time eating, deciding important questions, eating, reading and eating. There is a library on board, and I saw the prosecutor reading my "In the Twilight." The talk was about me. Around this part of the world their favorite is Sibiryak-Mamin and his descriptions of the Urals. They have more to say about him than they do about Tolstoy. . . .

[Later]

After awakening yesterday morning and looking out of the coach window I felt an aversion to nature; the ground was white-covered, trees were cloaked in hoar frost and a genuine blizzard was catching up with the train. Wasn't it revolting! What sons of bitches these natural phenomena are! I had no overshoes, so I drew on my big boots and on my trip to the re- freshment bar for coffee I perfumed the whole Ural region with tar. Upon arriving in Ekaterinburg I found rain, snow and hail and put on my leather coat. The cabs are inconceivable as far as their squalor is concerned—filthy, dripping, no springs; the horses' front feet are arranged this way [drawing], their hoofs are enormous and their spines spindly. . . . The local droshkis are a clumsy parody of our surreys. . . .

All cities look alike in Russia. Ekaterinburg is just exactly like Perm or Tula. The bells chime magnificently, in velvet tones. I put up at the American Hotel (not half bad) and im- mediately let Alexander Simonov know of my arrival, inform- ing him that I intended sitting tight in my rooms for about two days and drinking Hunyadi water, which I am taking, and—I mention this not without pride—with great success.

The people here inspire the newcomer with something like horror; they are high-cheekboned, with jutting foreheads, broad-shouldered, have little eyes and enormously big fists. They are born at the local iron foundries and it is a mechanic, and not a midwife, who officiates. One of them will walk into your room with a samovar or water carafe and you may well fear he will murder you. I steer clear of them. This morning one such creature entered—high cheekbones, bulging brow, morose, almost as tall as the ceiling, shoulders five feet across and, to top it all, wearing a sheepskin coat.

\Vell, I think to myself, this one will certainly murder me. He turned out to be Alexander Sirnonov! \Ve had a long talk. He serves as a member of the local government council, is man- ager of his cousin's mill, which is lit by electricity, is the editor of the "Ekaterinburg \Veekly," which is censored by Police Chief Baron Taube, is married, has two children, is getting rich and fat, is aging, and lives "substantially." Says he has no time to be bored. He advised me to visit the museum, factories and mines; I thanked him for the advice. Then he invited me to take tea with him tomorrow; I invited him to have dinner with me. He did not ask me for dinner and generally did not insist on my visiting him. From this Marna may conclude that the heart of her relative has not softened and that both of us— Sirnonov and I—have no use for each other. . . .

There is snow on the streets and I have purposely pulled the curtains over the window so as not to have to look out upon all Asiatica . . . .

All night long sheets of iron are struck at every corner. People have to have iron heads not to go out of their minds with the incessant hammering. Today I attempted to boil myself some coffee; the result was like our cheap Taganrog wine. I drank it and shrugged it off. . . .

Keep well and happy, all of you, and may God look after you. . . . My money is intact. If Marna has a screen made in Nikolai's memory, I shall have nothing against it. I would like it.

Will I find a letter from you in Irkutsk!!

Your Homo Sakhaliensis,

A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

May 14-17, 1890, Krasni Yar to Tomsk May 14, i8go, Village of Krasni Yar, 30 miles from Tomsk My wonderful Mama, excellent Masha, sweet Misha and everybody at home,

... I left Tyumen on May the third after a stop of two or three days in Ekaterinburg, which I applied to the repair of my coughing and hemorrhoidal personage. Both post and pri- vate drivers make the trans-Siberian trip. I elected to use the latter, as it was all the same to me. They put your humble ser- vant into a vehicle resembling a little wicker basket and off we drove with a pair of horses. You sit in the basket, and look out upon God's earth like a bird in a cage, without a thought on your mind.

It looks to me as if the Siberian plain commences right at Ekaterinburg and ends the devil knows where; I would say it is very like our South Russian steppe, were it not for the small birch groves encountered here and there and the cold wind stinging one's cheeks. Spring hasn't yet arrived here. There is absolutely no greenery, the forests are bare, the snow has not all melted and lusterless ice sheathes the lakes. On the ninth of May, St. Nicholas Day, there was a frost, and today, the four- teenth, we had a snowfall of about three inches. Only the ducks hint of spring. How many of them there are! I have never in my life seen such a superabundance of ducks. They fly over your head, take wing over the carriage, swim the lakes and pools, in short, I could have shot a thousand of them in one day with a poor gun. You can hear the wild geese honking; they are also numerous here. Often files of cranes and swans head our way. . . .In the birch groves flutter grouse and woodcock. Rab- bits, which are not eaten or shot here, sit up on their hind paws in a relaxed way and prick up their ears as they stare inquisitively at all comers. They run across the road so often that here it is not considered bad luck.

Traveling is a cold business. I am wearing my sheepskin jacket. I don't mind my body, that's all right, but my feet are always freezing. I wrap them in my leather coat but it doesn't help. I am wearing two pairs of trousers. \Vell, you go on and on. Road signs flash by, ponds, little birch groves. . . . Now we drive past a group of new settlers, then a file of prisoners. . . . We've met tramps with pots on their backs; these gentlemen promenade all over the Siberian plain without hindrance. On occasion they will murder a poor old woman to obtain her skirt for leg puttees; or they will tear off the tin numbers from the road signs, on the chance they may find them useful; another time they will bash in the head of a passing beggar or knock out the eyes of one of their own banished brotherhood, but they won't touch people in vehicles. On the whole, as far as robbery is concerned, traveling hereabouts is absolutely safe. From Tyumen to Tomsk neither the drivers of the post coaches nor the independent drivers can recall anything ever having been stolen from a traveler; when you get to a station, you leave your things outside; when you ask whether they won't be stolen you get a smile in reply. It is not good form to mention burglaries and murders on the road. I really believe that were I to lose my money at a station or in a vehicle the driver would return it to me without fail if he found it and wouldn't boast of his honesty. On the whole, the people here are good, kind, and have splen- did traditions. Their rooms are furnished simply, but cleanly, with some pretension to luxury; the beds are soft, with feather mattresses and big pillows, the floors are painted or covered with handmade linen rugs. All this is due, of course, to their prosperity, to the fact that a family gets an allotment of about 50 acres of good black earth, and that good wheat grows on it (wheat flour here is 30 kopeks for 36 pounds). But not every- thing can be explained by comfortable circumstances and plenty to eat, some reference must be made to their way of life as well. When you enter a room full of sleeping people at night your nose isn't assailed, especially not by that notorious Russian smell. I must say, one old lady wiped a teaspoon on her hind- side before handing it to me, but still you do not sit down to tea without a tablecloth, people do not bekh in your presence and don't search for things in their heads; when they hand you water or milk, they don't put their fingers inside the glass, the dishes are clean, the kvas is as transparent as beer—in fact, they practice cleanliness of a sort our Little Russians can only dream about, and certainly Little Russians are far and away cleaner than Great Russians! They bake the most delicious bread; the first few days I made a pig of myself. Delicious also are the pies and pancakes, the fritters and dinner rolls which remind one of Little Russian spongy ring rolls. The pancakes are thin. . . . On the other hand, the rest of their cuisine is not for the European stomach. For instance, I have been treated everywhere to "duck soup." This is absolutely awful, consisting of a muddy liquid in which float bits of wild duck and un- cooked onion; the duck stomachs haven't been entirely cleaned of their contents and so, when you bite into them, cause you to think your mouth and rectum have changed places. One time I asked for soup cooked with meat and some fried perch. The soup was served oversalted, dirty, with weatherbeaten bits of skin instead of meat, and the perch arrived complete with scales. They cook cabbage soup here with corned beef; they also roast corned beef. I've just been served some of the latter; it's vile stuff and after chewing a little of it I pushed it aside. Brick tea is their beverage. This is an infusion of sage and cockroaches—both in taste and color—not tea but something like our horrible Taganrog wine. I might mention that I brought a quarter of a pound of tea with me from Ekaterin- burg, five pounds of sugar and three lemons. I've run out of tea and now there's no place to buy any. In the dumpy little towns even the oflicials drink brick tea and the very best shops don't sell any more expensive than 1 ruble 50 a pound. So I've just had to drink sage.

The distance between stations is determined by the distance

between the villages, usually 14 to 28 miles. The villages here are large, and there are no hamlets or farms. Churches and schools are everywhere. You see wooden cabins, some of them of two storeys.

Toward evening the pools and roads begin freezing, and at night there is a regular frost; an extra fur coat would not be amiss. Br-r-r-1 The vehicle jolts because the mud has turned into hillocks. It is heartbreaking. By dawn you are terribly tired with the cold, the jolting and the jingle of the bells on your horses; you passionately crave warmth and a bed. While the horses are being changed, you curl up in some corner and im- mediately fall asleep, but a moment later your driver is already tugging at your sleeve and saying, "Get up, friend, time to leave!" On the second night I began feeling a sharp toothache in my heels. It was intolerably painful and I wondered whether they hadn't got frost-bitten. . . .

Tomsk, May 16

The guilty party turned out to be my jack boots, too narrow in the back. Sweet Misha, if you ever have children, which I don't doubt will happen, advise them not to look for cheapness. A cheap price on Russian merchandise is a guarantee of its worthlessness. In my opinion going barefoot is preferable to wearing cheap boots. ... I had to buy felt boots in Ishim. . . . So I have been traveling in felt boots until they decompose on me from dampness and mud.

Tea drinking in the cabins goes on at five or six in the morn- ing. Tea on the road is a true boon. . . . It warms you up, dispels sleep and with it you eat a lot of bread; in the absence of other food, bread should be eaten in large amounts and that is why the peasant eats such a quantity of bread and starchy things. You drink tea and talk with the peasant women, who here are sensible, home-loving, tenderhearted, hard-working and more free than they are in Europe; their husbands do not curse or beat them because they are just as tall, and strong, and clever as their lords; when their husbands are not at home it is they who do the driving. They are great punsters. They do not raise their children strictly but are inclined to indulge them. The children sleep in comfortable beds for as long as they like, drink tea, ride with the peasants and use swear words when the latter tease them playfully. There is no diphtheria. Smallpox is widespread but curiously enough it is not as contagious here as it is elsewhere; two or three will come down with it and die—and that's the end of the epidemic. There are no hospitals or doctors. The doctoring is done by medical assistants. They go in for bloodletting and cupping on a grandiose, brutal scale. On the road I examined a Jew with cancer of the liver. The Jew was emaciated and hardly breathing, but this did not deter the medical assistant from putting twelve cupping glasses on him. By the way, on the subject of Jews. Here they work the land, drive, run ferryboats, trade and call themselves peasants,¹ because they actually are de jure and de facto peasants. They cnjoy universal respect and according to the police officer are not infrequently elected village elders. I saw a tall, thin Jew scowling in revulsion and spitting when the police officer told obscene stories; he had a clean mind and his wife cooked excel- lent fish soup. The wife of the Jew with the cancer treated me to some pike roe and the most delicious white bread. Exploita- tion by Jews is unheard of.

By the way, about the Poles. You run across exiles sent here from Poland in 18G4. They are kind, hospitable and most con- siderate. Some enjoy real wealth, others are poverty-stricken and work as clerks at the stations. After the amnesty the former returned to their homeland, but soon came back to Siberia, where life is more opulent; the latter dream of their native land, although they are already old and ailing. In Ishim a cer- tain Pan Zalesski, who is rich and whose daughter resembles Sasha Kiseleva, served me an excellent dinner for a ruble and

1 Thc Russian word for pcasant derives from the word "Christian" because it was taken for granted that all peasants were Christians.

gave me a room where I slept very well; he keeps a tavern, has become a kulak to the marrow of his bones, swindles every- body, but nevertheless the gentleman makes itself felt in his manners, in the table he sets, in everything. He won't go back home out of greed, out of greed he puts up with snow on St. Nicholas Day; when he dies his daughter, born in Ishim, will remain here forever, and so black eyes and delicate features will keep on multiplying in Siberia! These random mixtures of blood are all to the good, since Siberians are not handsome. There are absolutely no brunettes. Perhaps you'd like to hear about the Tatars as well? Here goes. They are not numerous here. Good people. In Kazan Province even the priests speak well of them, and in Siberia they are "better than the Russians" —so stated the police officer in the presence of Russians, whose silence gave assent. My God, how rich Russia is in good people! If it were not for the cold which deprives Siberia of summer, and were it not for the officials who corrupt the peasants and exiles, Siberia would be the very richest and happiest of terri- tories.

Dinners are nothing in particular. . . . During the entire trip I have only had a real dinner twice, if you don't count the Yiddish fish soup which I ate after having filled up on tea. I haven't been drinking any vodka; the Siberian brand is vile, and besides I had got out of the habit of drinking before reach- ing Ekaterinburg. One should drink vodka, though. It acts as a stimulant on the brain, which, flabby and inert with the con- tinual movement, makes one stupid and weak. . . .

The first three days of the voyage, what with the shaking and jolting, my collarbones, shoulders and vertebrae started aching. I couldn't sit, walk or lie down. On the other hand, though, all my chest and head aches disappeared, my appetite took an un- believable spurt and the hemorrhoids—keep your fingers crossed—have given up the ghost. The strain, the continual worry over trunks and such, and perhaps the farewell drinking bouts in Moscow, gave rise to some blood-spitting in the morn- ings, and this infected me with a kind of despondency and stirred up gloomy thoughts; but it ceased toward the end of the trip and now I don't even have a cough; it is a long time since I have coughed as little as now, after two weeks spent in the fresh air. After the first three days of the trip my body accus- tomed itself to the jolts and the time arrived when I began not to notice the way midday arrived after morning, followed by evening and night. The days flitted by quickly, as in a linger- ing illness. . . .

Now let me tell you of an adventure for which I am indebted to Siberian driving. Except that I ask Mama not to groan or lament, for everything came out all right. On the sixth of May, before dawn, I was being driven by a very nice old man with a team of horses. I was in a little buggy. I was drowsing and to make time pass was observing the tongues of flame darting about the fields and birch groves; people here burn the pre- vious year's grass this way. Suddenly I heard the broken thud of wheels. Coming toward us at full tilt, like a bird, dashed a three-horse carriage. My old man quickly turned to the right, the post carriage sailed past and then I discerned in the shadows an enormous, heavy three-horse post wagon with a driver mak- ing the return trip. Behind this wagon I could see another tearing along, also at full speed. \Ve hurried to turn right. . . . To my great bewilderment and alarm the cart turned to the left, not the right. I scarcely had time to think to myself, "My God, we'll collide!" when there was a desperate crash, the horses mingled into one dark mass, the yokes fell, my buggy stood on end, I lay on the ground and my baggage on top of me. But that wasn't all. . . . A third cart dashed upon us . . . . Verily, this should have crushed me and my suitcases, but thank God, I was not sleeping, didn't fracture any bones and managed to jump up quickly enough to run to one side. "Stop!" I yelled at the third cart, "Stop!" It hurled itself upon the second one and came to a halt. Of course, if I had been able to sleep in my buggy, or if the third wagon had flung itself im- mediately upon the second, I would have returned home a cripple or a headless horseman. Results of the collision: broken shafts, torn harness, yokes and baggage on the ground, scared, exhausted horses and terror at the thought of having expe- rienced a moment of peril. It seemed that the first driver had urged on his horses, while the drivers of the other two wagons were asleep; nobody was steering. After recovering from the tumult my old fellow and the drivers of all three vehicles began swearing furiously at one another. How they cursed! I thought it would wind up in a free-for-all. You cannot con- ceive how alone you feel in the midst of this wild, cursing horde, in the open country, at dawn, in sight of flames lapping up the grass in the distance and close at hand, but not throw- ing off a bit of heat into the frigid night air! How grief-stricken was my soul! You listen to the swearing, look down at the broken shafts and your own torn baggage and you seem to be thrust into another world, about to be trampled down. After an hour long of cursing, my old man began tying up the shafts and harness with cord; my straps were pressed into service too. We dragged ourselves to the station somehow, with plenty of stops in between, and barely made it.

After the fifth or sixth day the rains began, accompanied by a stiff wind. It poured day and night. Out came the leather coat to save me from the rain and wind. It is a marvelous coat. The mud became practically impassable and the drivers were unwilling to drive by night. But the most terrible busi- ness of all, which I won't ever forget, were the river crossings. You reach a river at night. You and the driver both start shout- ing. . . . Rain, wind, sheets of ice creep along the river, you hear a splash. To enliven things appropriately, we hear a bit- tern screeching. These birds live on Siberian rivers. That means they don't recognize climate, but geographical position. Well, sir, in an hour a massive ferryboat in the form of a barge looms in the shadows; it has immense oars resembling the pincers of a crab. The ferrymen are a mischievous lot, for the most part exiles, deported here by society to atone for their sins. They use foul language to an intolerable degree, shout, demand money for vodka. . . . It is a long, long trip across the river . . . one long agony! . . .

The seventh of May, when I asked the driver for horses, he told me the Irtish had overflown its banks and flooded the meadows, that yesterday Kuzma had gone that way and had scarcely managed to return, and that it was impossible to go on, that we would have to wait. I asked until when. Reply: "The Lord only knows!" Here was an indefinite answer for me, and besides, I had promised myself to get rid of two vices en route which had caused me considerable expense, trouble and incon- venience: a readiness to comply and let myself be talked into things. I would quickly come to terms with a driver and find myself riding on the devil knows what, sometimes paying twice the usual price, and waiting for hours on end. I decided not to give in and not to believe what was told me and I've had less aches and pains. For instance, they would get out a plain, jolting wagon instead of a carriage. I'd refuse to ride in it, lay down the law, and a carriage would inevitably appear, although previously I had been assured there wasn't a single one in the whole village, etc.

Well, sir, suspecting that the flood on the Irtish had been dreamed up expressly to avoid driving through the mud at night, I protested and gave orders to go on. . . . Off we went. Mud, rain, a furious wind, cold . . . and felt boots on. Do you know what wet felt boots are like? They are footwear made of gelatin. \Ve kept on and suddenly before my vision spread an immense lake, with mounds of earth and bushes jutting out in clumps—these were the inundated meadows. In the distance ranged the Irtish's steep bank and on it the patches of snow lay white. \Ve started negotiating the lake. We should have turned back, but my obstinacy stood in the way, I was in a sort of defiant fervor, that same fervor that compelled me to bathe in the midst of the Black Sea from the yacht, and which has led me to perform all sorts of foolish acts. It's probably a psychotic condition. On we went, picking out little islets and strips of land. Big and little bridges are supposed to show the way, but they had been washed out. To get past them the horses had to be unharnessed and led one at a time. The driver did so, and I jumped into the water—in my felt boots—to hold the horses. . . . What sport! And with it the rain, the wind. Save us, Heavenly Mother! Finally we made our way to an islet with a roofless cabin. Wet horses were wandering about in wet man- ure. A mujik with a long stick came out of the cabin and volun- teered to show us the way. He measured the depth of the water with his stick and tested the ground. God bless him, he steered us to a long strip of ground which he called a "ridge." He showed us how to get our bearings from this ridge and take the road to the right, or maybe the left, I don't remember exactly, and land on another ridge. This we did.

On we went. . . . Finally—O Joy—we reached the Irtish. The other bank was steep, on our side it sloped. . . The Irtish does not murmur, or roar, but resigns itself to its fate, which, as it were, is to hammer as though coffins were reposing on its bottom. Cursed impression! The other bank was high, mat- brown, desolate.

\Ve came to the cabin where the ferrymen lived. One of them came out to announce it was impossible to allow a ferry across, as a storm was brewing. The river, they told us, was wide and the wind strong. What to do? \Ve had to spend the night in the cabin. I recall that night, the snoring of the ferrymen, and of my driver, the howl of the wind, the patter of the rain, the growling of the Irtish. . . .

In the morning they were reluctant to ferry us across because of the wind. So we had to row our way over. There I was sail- ing across the river, with the rain beating down, the wind blowing, the baggage getting drenched, the felt boots, which had been dried overnight in the stove, again turning into

^jelly—

. . . Seated on my suitcase I spent a full hour waiting for horses to be sent from the village. As I recall, climbing the bank was very slippery business. In the village I warmed up and had some tea. Some exiles approached me for alms. Every family makes about forty pounds of wheat flour into bread for them every day, as a sort of compulsory service.

The exiles sell the bread for liquor in the taverns. One such, a ragged, shaven old fellow, whose eyes his fellow prisoners had knocked out in the tavern, upon hearing there was a trav- eler in the room, and taking me for a merchant, began chanting and saying prayers. Prayers for health, requiescats, the Easter "God Has Risen," and "Peace 'Vith the Saints"—what didn't he sing! Then he began lying that he came of a Moscow mer- chant family. I noticed that this sot held in contempt the mujiks on whose necks he hung!

On the 1 1 th I travelled on post horses. To pass the time I read the complaint book at the stations. I made a discovery that astounded me and which in the rain and dampness con- stitutes a pearl beyond price: and that is that there are toilets in the entrance halls of the post stations. You cannot put too high a value on them!

. . . In Tomsk the mud is impassable. Of the city and way of life here I will write in a few days, but so long for now. I have worn myself out writing. . . .

. . . I embrace you all, kiss and bless you.

Your

A. Chekhov

Misha's letter has arrived. Thanks.

Excuse the letter's resembling a hotchpotch. It rambles, but what can I do? One can't do better sitting in a hotel room. Excuse its length, but I am not to blame. My pen has run away with me, and besides, I wanted to be talking to you for as long as I could. It's three in the morning, and my hand has wearied. The wick has burned down on the candle and I can scarcely make things out. 'Vrite me at Sakhalin every four or five days.

It seems the mails reach there not only by the sea route, but also across Siberia, which means I will be receiving them in good time and often. . . .

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

May 20, 1890, Tomsk

Greetings at last! Greetings from your Siberian, dear Alexei Sergeyevich. I have missed you and our correspondence ter- ribly. . . .

When I left I promised to send you my travel notes, begin- ning with Tomsk, as the road between Tyumen and Tomsk has long since been described and exploited a thousand times over. But in your telegram you expressed the desire of having some Siberian impressions as soon as possible and even, sir, had the cruelty to reproach me with a lapse of memory, i.e., of having forgotten you. It was absolutely out of the question writing on the road: I kept up a short diary in pencil and can only now offer you what has been set down in it. So as not to write at great length and make a muddle, I divided all my written im- pressions into chapters. I am sending you six of them. They are written f0r y0u pers0nally; I wrote only for you and so haven't been afraid of being too subjective in my remarks and of putting in more of Chekhov's feelings and thoughts than of Siberia. If you find some parts interesting and deserving of print, give them beneficent publicity, sign my name and pub- lish them, also in separate chapterlets, one tablespoon an hour. They could be given a general title: "From Siberia," later, "From the Trans-Baikal," then "From the Amur" and so on. . . .

I starved like a dog all along the way. I crammed my belly with bread in order not to think of turbot, asparagus and the like. I even dreamt of kasha. Reveries for hours on end.

In Tyumen I bought some sausage to eat along the way, but what an abomination! When you put a piece in your mouth, the odor was as if you had entered a stable at the moment the coachman was unwinding his leg puttees; when you started chewing the stuff you experienced a sensation like sinking your teeth in to a tar-smeared dog's tail. Phew! I tried some twice and then threw it away.

I got a telegram and letter from you in which you say you would like to publish an encyclopedic dictionary. I don't know why, but the news of this dictionary gave me great pleasure. Go on with it, dear man! If I would do for the job, I would give you November and December; I'd spend those months in St. Pete and sit at my work from morning to night.

I made a fair copy of my notes in Tomsk, in the utterly vile surroundings of a hotel room, but with application and not without the dcsire of pleasing you. I thought to myself, he must find it somewhat hot and tiresome in Feodosia, so let him read about the cold. These notes are going to you in lieu of the letter which was storing itself up in my head all through the trip. In return you must send to Sakhalin all your critical articles except the first two, which I have read; arrange also that I be sent Peshel's "Ethnology," except for the first two installments, which I already have.

God, what expenses! On account of the floods I had to keep paying my drivers almost double and sometimes triple, for their work is hellish, as bad as penal servitude. My suitcase, my adorable little trunk, turned out to be unsuitable for the road; takes up a lot of room, pushes into your side, clatters, and most important—threatens to fall apart. Kind people counseled me not to take a trunk on a long journey, but this advice was only recalled when I had gone half the way. Now what? I am deporting it to Tomsk and instead have bought a piece of leathcr trash which has the convenience of flattening itself into any shape you please on the floor of the carriage. I paid iG rubles for it. Further . . . galloping to the Amur on post horses is torture. You shatter both yourself and your baggage. I had been advised to purchase a small carriage and bought one today for 130 rubles. If I do not manage to sell it in Sretensk where my trip by horse comes to an end, I will be flat broke and will set up a howl. I dined today with the editor of the "Siberian Herald," Kartamyshev. The local Nozdrev, and an expansive soul . . . he drank up 6 rubles' worth.

Stop! I have been informed that the Assistant Chief of Police wishes to see me. What now?

False alarm. The arm of the law turned out to be a devotee of literature and even a writing man; came to pay his respects. He went back home for his drama and I think he wants to treat me to a reading of it. He'll be returning presently and interfering with my writing to you.

Write me of Feodosia, Tolstoy, the sea, the bulls, of mutual acquaintances. . . .

Stop! Our policeman has returned. He did not read his drama, although he did bring it along, but regaled me with a story. Not bad, only too localized. He showed me a gold nugget and asked for some vodka. I cannot recall one Siberian intel- lectual who has called on me and not asked for vodka. Told me he was in the midst of a "little affair" with a married woman; let me read a petition to the All Highest regarding a divorce. Then he offered to drive me downtown to look over the Tomsk houses of prostitution.

I have returned from these houses. Revolting. Two o'clock in the morning.

. . . From now on I shall be writing you punctually, from every city and every station where I am not given horses, i.e., where I am forced to spend the night. And how delighted I am when I am compelled to remain somewhere overnight! I hardly have time to plop into bed before I am already asleep. Living as I am at the moment, where one keeps on going and doesn't sleep nights, one values sleep above all else; there is no higher felicity on earth than sleep, when sleep is desired. In Moscow and in Russia generally I never really desired sleep, as I now understand the word. I went to bed only because it was the thing to do. But now! Here's another observation: travenng like this you don't crave liquor. I haven't been able to drink, but have smoked a great deal. Thinking coherently is difficult; somehow your thoughts don't knit together. Time runs on rap- idly, so that you don't notice the interval between 10 a.m. and 7 p.m. Evening follows morning in a twinkling. This sort of thing occurs during a lingering illness. The wind and rain have made my face scaly, and looking at myself in the mirror I can- not recognize my former noble lineaments. . . .

I embrace you warmly. I kiss Anna Ivanovna's both hands and bow to the ground before her. It is raining. So long, and be well and happy. If my letters are short, negligent or dry, don t grumble, for one cannot always be oneself on one's travels and write as one would wish. The ink is miserable, and little hairs and lumps are eternally sitting on my pen.

Your

A. Chekhov

T0 EVGENIA CHEKHOVA

June 7, 1890, Irkutsk ... I have changed my route drastically. From Khabarovsk (see map) I am journeying not to Nikolayevsk but to Vladivos- tok along the Ussuri and from there to Sakhalin. I must have a look at the Ussuri region. In Vladivostok I'm going to do some sea bathing and eat oysters.

It was cold until Kansk; starting from there we began head- ing south. The greenery is just as dense as at your place, and even the oaks have put forth their leaves. The birches are darker here than in Russia and in their foliage not as sentimen- tal. There are masses of sweet cherries, which here take the place of lilacs and sour cherries. They say they make excellent preserves. I ate some, pickled; nothing special.

I have two lieutenants and a medical corps doctor as company on the trip. They got a travel allowance three times the usual amount but have gone through it, although the three of them are making the trip in only one carriage. They are without a sou and waiting for fresh funds. Nice people. Each of them has had an allowance of around 1500-2000 rubles, with the expenses of the road amounting to practically nothing (not counting stopovers, of course). They pass their time calling down people in hotels and at stations, so that everybody is terribly afraid to ask them for payments. I spend less than usual when in their company.

It would be best to request an accounting from the bookstore in August, around the tenth or twentieth; then send the letter to Kondratiev. . . .

For the first time in my life I saw a Siberian cat today. It has long, soft fur and a gentle disposition.

I felt lonesome for you and sent off a wire today, asking you to pool your funds and answer me at greater length. It wouldn't be a tragedy for all you Luka residents to ruin yourself to the extent of five rubles.

How do matters stand with regard to civilian admirers and psychic influence? With whom has Misha fallen in love and what lucky girl is Ivanenko telling about his uncle? And what about Vata? I must be in love with Jamais, for I saw her in my dreams last night. In comparison . . . with all these oafs who don't know how to dress, sing, or laugh, our J amais, Drish- kas and Gundasikhas are virtual queens. Siberian women and misses are frozen fish. You'd have to be a walrus or seal to have an affair with them . . . .

Mama, how are your legs? Are you following the advice of Kuzmin, who charged you five rubles for it? How are Auntie and Alyosha? Send my regards when you write. . . .

The Siberian highways have their scurvy little stations, like the Ukraine. They pop up every 20 or 25 miles. You drive at night, on and on, until you feel giddy and ill, but you keep on going, and if you venture to ask the driver how many miles it is to the next station, he invariably says not less than twelve.

This is particularly agonizing when you have to drive at a walk along a muddy, rutted road, and when you are thirsty. I have taught myself how to get along without sleep and don't care a bit if I am awakened. Ordinarily you won't sleep for a day and a night, then at dinnertime of the following day you begin feeling tension in the eyelids; that evening and late at night, particularly at daybreak and the morning of the follow- ing day, you drowse in the carriage and you may happen to fall asleep in a sitting position for a moment; at dinner and after dinner, while the horses are being harnessed at the sta- tions, you loll about on the sofa and it is only that night that the ordeal begins. In the evening, after having drunk five glasses of tea, your face starts naming and your entire body suddenly droops with fatigue and wants to bend backward; your eyelids stick together, your feet itch in your big boots, your brain is in confusion. If you allow yourself to spend the night somewhere you immediately fall into a dead stupor; if you have suflicient will power to continue, you fall asleep in the carriage, no matter how strong the jolting is; at the stations the drivers wake you up, as you have to crawl out of the car- riage and pay the charges; they wake you not so much with their voices and tugging at your sleeve as with the stench of garlic emanating from their mouths; they stink of onion and garlic to a point of nausea. I taught myself to sleep in a vehicle only after Krasnoyarsk. On the way to Irkutsk I once slept through 40 miles, during which I was awakened only once. But slumber in a vehicle does not refresh. It is not sleep, but a sort of unconscious situation which results in a muddy head and vile-tasting mouth. . . .

By the way, you ought to be looking for a farm. Upon my return to Russia I am going to have a rest for five years or so, i.e., am going to stay put and take it easy. A farm would be most appropriate. I believe money can be found, for my affairs are not going badly. If I work off the advance I have had (I'm halfway there), next spring I shall certainly take two or three thousands' advance to be paid off in installments over a five- year period. This won't trouble my conscience, as my books have already earned the "New Times" bookstore more than two or three thousands, and will earn even more. I plan not to take up anything serious until I am thirty-five; I'd like to have a try at personal life, which I once had but didn't have any regard for owing to various circumstances. . . .

Anyway, keep well. There's nothing more to write about. My regards to all.

Your

A. Chekhov

To NIKOLAI LEIKIN

June 20,1890, The Amur near Gorbitza Greetings, my dear Nikolai Alexeyevich,

I write the above lines as I approach Gorbitza, one of the Cossack settlements on the banks of the Shilka, a tributary of the Amur. So this is where I have got to! I am sailing the Amur.

I sent you a letter from Irkutsk. Did you get it? More than a week has elapsed since then, during which I made the crossing of the Baikal and traversed the Baikal region. The Baikal is astonishing, and it is with good cause that the Siber- ians entitle it not a lake, but a sea. The water is unusually limpid, so that you can see through it as. you do through air; its color is tenderly turquoise, pleasant to the eye. The shores are mountainous and wooded; all about are impenetrable, sun- less thickets. There is an abundance of bears, sables, wild goats and all kinds of wild game, which occupies itself in existing in the taiga and making meals out of one another. I spent two days on the banks of the Baikal.

It was quiet and hot during the sailing.

The Baikal area is magnificent; it is a mixture of Switzerland, the Don and Finland.

I covered over 26oo miles on horses. The trip was entirely satisfactory. I was well throughout and of all my baggage lost only a penknife. God grant that everyone make as good a journey. Traveling is absolutely safe, and all those stories about runaways, night assaults and such are nothing but fairy tales, legends of days gone by. A revolver is a completely super- fluous article. I am now sitting in a first-class cabin and feel I am in Europe. My spirits are as high as if I had just passed an examination.

A whistlc. That's Gorbitza. So long, then, keep healthy and happy. If I am lucky I will post this letter, if not, I will wait until we reach the Cossack village of Pokrovsk, where I expect to be tomorrow. The mails go but seldom from the Amur, scarcely more than three times a month.

Regards to Praskovya Nikiforovna and Fedya.

Your

A. Chekhov

The banks of the Shilka are exquisite, like a stage setting, but alas! the utter absence of human beings depresses me. The place is like a cage without a bird.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

June 27, 1890, Blagoveshchensk

Greetings, my dear friend,

The Amur is a very fine river; I derived more pleasure from it than I had a right to expect, and have for a long time been wishing to share my delight with you, but the villainous boat quivered for all seven days of the trip and hindered me from writing. In addition, I am absolutely unable to convey such beauty as one linds on the banks of the Amur; I confess I am bankrupt before beauty which is beyond my powers to describe. How can I, though? Imagine the Suram Pass transformed into ihe bank of a river—that is the Amur for you. Cliffs, crags, forests, thousands of ducks, herons and assorted long-nosed rascals, and utter wilderness. To the left the Russian bank, to the right the Chinese. I can look at Russia or China, whichever suits me. China is just as wild and desolate as Russia; villages and sentry boxes are few. My head is in a whirl, and small wonder, Your Excellency! I sailed the Amur for more than 650 miles, in the process of which I gazed upon millions of landscapes; and as you are aware, the Amur was preceded by the Baikal and Trans-Baikal. Verily, I saw such wealth and derived such enjoyment that I can now look upon death with equanimity. The Amur people are singular, the life they lead interesting and unlike ours. All the talk is about gold. Gold, gold and more gold. . . .

I am in love with the Amur and would be delighted to remain here a couple of years. It is beautiful, and expansive, and free and warm. Switzerland and France have never known such freedom. The lowliest exile breathes more freely on the Amur than the top general in Russia. If you had spent some time here you would have set down a lot of good material of interest to readers, but I am not up to it.

You begin running across Chinese from Irkutsk on, and here they are thicker than flies. They are a most good-natured race. . . .

From Blagoveshchensk on you meet Japanese, or, more pre- cisely, Japanese women. They are petite brunettes with big, complicated hair-dos, handsome torsos and, the way it looks to me, short thighs. They dress beautifully. The sound "ts" pre- dominates in their language. . . .

When I asked a Chinese to join me at the refreshment coun- ter in a glass of vodka, he extended his glass to me, the bartender and the flunkies before drinking and said, "Taste!" This is a Chinese ritual. He did not drain the glass at one gulp as we do, but in small sips, nibbling a bite of food after each one and then, to thank me, gave me a few Chinese coins. They are terribly polite people. They dress poorly but beautifully, eat delicious food in ceremonious fashion.

The Chinese are going to take the Amur from us—no doubt of it. They themselves may not do so, but it will be given them by others, the English, for example, who are the ruling group there and are even building forts. The people living along the Amur are a scoffing lot; they remark jeeringly that Russia is making a fuss over Bulgaria, which isn't worth a damn, and is forgetting the Amur entirely. This is neither prudent nor intelligent. However, more about politics later, when we meet.

You have wired me to return via America. I myself was thinking of doing so. But people frighten me with the expenses involved. A transfer of money can be arranged not only in New York but also in Vladivostok, via the Siberian Bank in Irkutsk, which treated me with overwhelming courtesy. My money has not all disappeared yet, although I spend it god- lessly. I took a loss of more than 160 rubles on the carriage and my fellow-traveling lieutenants did me out of more than 150 rubles. But still I will hardly require a transfer of funds. If the need arises I will apply to you in due course. I am com- pletely well. You can judge for yourself; here it is more than two months that I have been living day and night under the open skies. What exercise! . . .

I am treating patients along the way. In the village of Reinov on the Amur, inhabited exclusively by gold miners, a husband asked me to have a look at his pregnant wife. As I left he thrust a wad of bills into my hand; I was ashamed and started pro- testing, assuring him I was a very rich man who didn't need the money. The patient's spouse began assuring me he was also a very rich man. We wound up by giving him back the wad, but still fifteen rubles remained with me.

Yesterday I treated a little boy and refused six rubles which his Mama shoved into my hand. I regret I did so.

Be well and happy. Forgive me for writing so badly and without giving details. Have you sent letters to Sakhalin for me?

I am bathing in the Amur. Bathing in the river, conversing and dining with gold smugglers—don't you find it interesting? I must hurry now to the "Yermak." So long! Thanks for the news of your family.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

September ii, 1890, S.S. Baikal, Tatar Straits

Greetings!

I am sailing along Tatar Sound from North Sakhalin to South. I write this letter though I am not sure it will reach you. I am well, although green-eyed cholera, which is all set to trap me, gazes at me everywhere. In Vladivostok, Japan, Shanghai, Chifu, Suez and even on the moon, I suppose, there is cholera; everywhere there is quarantine and fear. They are waiting for it in Sakhalin and holding all boats in quarantine. To put it briefly, it's a bad business. Europeans are dying in Vladivostok, among others a general's wife.

I spent exactly two months in North Sakhalin. I was wel- comed with extreme cordiality by the local administration, although Galkin had not sent ahead a word about me. Neither Galkin nor Baroness Muskrat¹ nor the other genii to whom I had the stupidity to turn for help gave me any assistance; I had to proceed on my own hook.

The General of Sakhalin, Kononovich, is an intelligent and honorable man. \Ve quickly hit it off and everything went along smoothly. I am bringing some papers with me which will show you that the conditions under which I worked from the very beginning were most favorable. I saw everything; now the question is not what I saw, but how I saw it.

I do not know what will come of it, but I have done quite a bit. The material gathered would be sufficient for three

1 Chekhov's nickname for the Baroness Barbara Ichschul von Hildeband.

dissertations. I rose every morning at five, went to bed late and every day felt under intense strain in the realization that a great deal had not yet been done, and now that I have already finished my study of the penal system my feeling is that I have ■ seen the trees but missed the forest.

By the way, let me tell you that I was patient enough to take a census of the entire population of Sakhalin. I made the rounds of every settlement, entered every cabin and spoke with every individual; I used a card system and have already ac- counted for approximately ten thousand convicts and penal settlers. In other words, there is not a single convict or penal settler on Sakhalin with whom I have not had a word. My inventory of the children was particularly successful, and I lay a great deal of hope in it.

I had dinner at Landsberg's and sat in the kitchen of ex- Baroness Hembruck . ... I paid calls on all the celebrities. I witnessed a flogging, after which I had nightmares for three or four nights about the flogger and his horrible accessories. I spoke with people chained to their wheelbarrows. One day when I was having tea in a mine, the former Petersburg mer- chant Borodavkin,² sent up for arson, pulled a teaspoon out of his pocket and presented it to me, with the result that my nerves were upset and I vowed I would never more visit Sak- halin.

would write you more, but in the cabin sits a lady roaring away with laughter and prattling without mercy. I haven't the strength to continue. She hasn't stopped laughing boisterously and chattering since last night.

This letter is traveling across America, but I probably won't. Everybody says the American trip is more expensive and more tiresome.

Tomorrow I shall see Japan from afar—Matsmai Island. It is now twelve midnight. The sea is dark and a wind is blowing.

Landsberg was an ex-army officer, Hembruck an aristocrat, Borodavkin a prominent businessman. They were all exiled to Sakhalin for criminal offenses.

I cannot understand how this boat can keep on going and orient itself when it is pitch-dark, and moreover in such wild, little-known waters as Tatar Sound.

When I remind myself that six thousand miles separate me from my world, apathy overcomes me. I feel as though I won't get home for a hundred years.

Respectful salutations and hearty greetings to Anna Ivanovna and all of you. God grant you happiness and all the best.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

I'm lonesome. To ALEXEI SUVORIN

December 9, 1890, Moscow

Greetings, my very dear friend,

Hurrah! Well, here I am, back at my own desk at last, with a prayer to my fading penates and a letter to you. I feel very well, as if I had never left home, healthy and happy to the very mar- row of my bones. Now for a very brief report. I stayed in Sakhalin not two months, as was reported in your paper, but three months plus two days. It was high-pressurc work; I made a full, detailed census of the entire Sakhalin population and saw everything except capital punishment. \Vhen we get to- gether I will show you a whole trunkful of penal colony para- phernalia which should be unusually valuable as raw material. I know a lot now, but brought back a nasty feeling. While I was on the island I felt a kind of bitter taste, as of rancid butter, in the pit of my stomach, but now in retrospect Sakhalin seems a regular hell. I worked intensively for two months without sparing myself, but the third month, began giving way to the bitter taste I mention above, to the tedium and to thinking about the cholera due by way of Vladivostok, so that I stood the risk of wintering in the convict colony. But thank heaven the cholera came to an end and on the thirteenth of October the steamer bore me off from Sakhalin. I stopped in Vladivostok. Of the Maritime Province and our eastern shore generally, with its fleets, problems and Pacific Ocean aspirations, I have but one thing to say: crying poverty! Poverty, ignorance and nothing- ness, enough to drive one to despair. There is one honest man for ninety-nine thieves befouling the name of Russia. . . . 'Ve sailed past Japan, as it has some cholera cases, and so I didn't buy you anything Japanese, and the five hundred rubles you gave me for the purpose I spent on myself, for which reason you have a legal right to have me transported to Siberia. The first foreign port on my journey was Hong Kong. It has a glorious bay, the movement of ships on the ocean is beyond anything I have seen even in pictures, excellent roads, trolleys, a railway to the mountains, museums, botanical gardens; wherever you turn you will note evidences of the most tender solicitude on the part of the English for men in their service; there is even a sailors' club. I drove around in a rickshaw, i.e., was borne by humans, bought all sorts of rubbish from the Chinese and got indignant listening to my Russian traveling companions abusing the Eng- lish for exploiting the natives. Thought I to myself, yes, the English exploit the Chinese, the Sepoys and the Hindus, but they do give them roads, plumbing and Christianity; you ex- ploit them too, but what do you give them?

As we left Hong Kong the sea got really rough. The steamer wasn't carrying a load and dipped at a 38° angle, so that we were afraid it might turn over. The discovery that I am not sus- ceptible to seasickness surprised me pleasantly. On our way to Singapore two dead bodies were flung into the sea. 'Vhen you look at a corpse sewed into canvas flying head over heels into the water and when you realize it is a couple of miles to the bottom, your sensation is one of horror, as if, somehow, you yourself were about to die and be thrown into the ocean. Our cattle got sick and upon the sentence of Dr. Shcherbak and your humble sen^rant were killed and thrown into the sea.

I recall Singapore only vaguely as I was sad somehow, close to tears, as I traveled past it. But then Ceylon followed, a heavenly place. In this paradise I made more than seventy miles by train and steeped myself in palm forests and bronze-hued women up to the neck [. ..] From Ceylon we sailed thirteen days and nights without a halt and were stupefied with boredom. I stand the heat very well. The Red Sea is dismal; looking upon Mt. Sinai I was moved.

God's earth is good. It is only we on it who are bad. How little justice and humility we have, how poor our understanding of patriotism! A drunken, worn-out, good-for-nothing husband loves his wife and children, but what good is this love? The newspapers tell us we love our mighty land, but how does this love express itself? Instead of knowledge, there is insolence and boundless conceit, instead of labor, idleness and caddishness; there is no justice, the understanding of honor does not go be- yound "the honor of the uniform," a uniform usually adorning our prisoners' dock. We must work, the hell with everything else. The important thing is that we must be just, and all the rest will be added unto us.

I want terribly to speak with you. My soul is in upheaval. I don't want to see anyone but you, because you are the only one I can talk to. The hell with Pleshcheyev. And the hell with the actors, too.

I got your telegrams in deplorable condition, all of them torn. . . .

God keep you.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

December 24, /8go, 1\foscow We felicitate you and all your respected family on the occa- sion of the holidays and wish you many more of them to be enjoyed in good health and happiness.

I believe both in Koch and in sperm and praise God I do. The public regards all this, i.e., Kochini, spermini, etc., as some miracle leaping without warning from the brain of a Pallas Athene, but people in the know see it only as a logical result of everything that has been done during the past twenty years. And much has been done, my dear man! Surgery alone has ac- complished so much that the very thought of it is frightening. The period of twenty years ago appears just pitiful to anybody studying medicine nowadays. My dear man, if I were presented the choice of one of the two: the "ideals" of the celebrated sixties, or the worst community hospital of the present time, I wouldn't hesitate a moment in choosing the latter.

Do Kochini cure syphilis? Possibly. As to cancer, permit me to have my doubts. Cancer is not a microbe; it is tissue growing in the wrong place which, like a weed, chokes all the tissues in its vicinity. If Hay's uncle shows improvement, it would be merely because the erysipelas germ, i.e., the elements producing the disease of erysipelas—are also elements of the Kochini. It has long been noted that the growth of malignant tumors halts for a time when this disease is present....

I brought some utterly fascinating animals with me from India. They are called mongooses and are the natural enemies of cobras; they are very inquisitive, are fond of humans and break dishes.... During the day the mongoose wanders through the rooms and sticks close to people, at night he sleeps on any bed handy and purrs like a kitten. He might bite through Tresor's throat, or vice versa. . . . He cannot stand animals.

Following your custom of previous years, would you send me some stories for polishing. I like this occupation.

Funny—journeying to Sakhalin and back I felt absolutely well, but now that I am home the devil only knows what goes on within me. I have a continual slight headache, a general feel- ing of lassitude, I tire easily, am apathetic, and the thing that bothers me most—have palpitations of the heart. Every minute my heart stops for several seconds and does n0t beat.

Misha got himself the uniform of a Grade VI official and is wearing it tomorrow on his round of holiday calls. Mother and Father look at him with tender pride, with expressions on their faces like those in paintings of the Blessed St. Simeon when he says, "Now absolve the sins of thy slave, O Lord . . ."

Baroness Ichschul (Madam Muskrat) is printing little books for popular consumption. Every booklet is adorned with the slogan "Truth"; and the price for truth runs from three to five kopeks a copy. Here you will find Uspenski, and Korolenko, and Potapenko, and other eminent personages. She asked my advice on what to publish. I couldn't reply to her question but in pass- ing recommended that she poke around in old papers, almanacs, etc. . . . When she complained that it was hard for her to ob- tain books, I promised to get your help. If she comes with a request, don't refuse it. The Baroness is an honest lady and won't muss or soil the books. She'll return them and will re- ward you with an enchanting smile at the same time.

Alexei Alexeyevich sent me some elegant wine. According to the testimony of all who have drunk it, it is good enough to warrant your being boldly proud of your son. He also sent me a letter in Latin. Splendid.

I mailed you a story yesterday. I'm afraid I was late. It's a choppy affair, but the hell with it.

Our medical circles in Moscow have adopted a cautious at- titude toward Koch, and nine tenths of the doctors don't believe in him.

God grant you the best of everything, and, principally, good health.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

T0 MARIA CHEKHOVA

January 14, 1891, St. Petersburg

I am as weary as a ballerina after five acts and eight tableaux. Dinners. letters I am too lazy to answer, conversations and as- sorted nonsense. Right now I must drive to Vassili Island for dinner, but I am bored and ought to be at work . . . .

I am enveloped in a heavy aura of bad feeling, extremely vague and to me incomprehensible. People feed me dinners and sing me vulgar hymns of praise, but at the same time are ready to devour me, the devil only knows why. If I were to shoot my- self I would afford great pleasure to nine-tenths of my friends and admirers. And how pettily they express their petty feelings! Burenin's! article abuses me, although abusing one's colleagues in print just isn't done; Maslov [Bejetski] won't have dinner with the Suvorins; Shcheglov gossips about me to everyone he meets, etc. All this is terribly stupid and dreary. They are not people, but a sort of fungus growth. . . .

My "Children" has come out in a second edition. I got one hundred rubles on the occasion.

I am well but go to bed late. . . .

I spoke to Suvorin about you: you are not to work with him— I have decreed it. He is terribly well disposed toward you, and enamored of Kundasova. . . .

My respects to Lydia. . . . Tell her not to eat starchy things and to avoid Levitan. She won't find a more devoted admirer than me in the Duma or in high society.

Shcheglov has arrived.

Yesterday Grigorovich came to see me; he kissed me fondly, lied, and kept begging me to tell him about Japanese women.

My greetings to all.

Your

A. Chekhov.

1 Burenin was a critic on New Times who seldom had a good word for any- body. In one article he said that it would be a good idea for Chekhov to retum to Sakhalin and stay there.

January 26, 1891, St. Petersburg

Dear Sir,

I have not answered your letter in a hurry, as I am not leav- ing St. Petersburg before Saturday.

I shall attempt to describe in detail the situation of Sakhalin children and adolescents. It is extraordinary. I saw hungry children, thirteen-year-old mistresses, girls of fifteen pregnant. Little girls enter upon prostitution at the age of twelve, some- times before the coming of menstruation. The church and the school exist only on paper, the children are educated instead by their environment and convict atmosphere. By the way, I wrote down a conversation I had with a ten-year old boy. I was taking the census of the village of Upper Armudan; its inhab- itants are to a man beggars, and notorious as reckless stoss play- ers. I entered a hut: the parents were not at home, and on a bench sat a towheaded little fellow, round-shouldered, bare- footed, in a brown study. \Ve started talking:

I. \Vhat is your father's middle name?

He. I don't know.

I. How's that? You live with your father and don't know his name? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

He. He isn't my real father.

I. What do you mean—not real?

He. He's living with Mom.

I. Does your mother have a husband or is she a widow?

He. A widow. She came here on account of her husband.

I. What do you mean by that?

He. She killed him.

I. Do you remember your father?

He. No. I'm illegitimate. She gave birth to me on Kara.

A prisoner, in foot shackles, who had murdered his wife, was with us on the Amur boat to Sakhalin. His poor half-orphaned daughter, a little girl of about six, was with him. I noticed that

when the father went down from the upper to the lower deck, where the toilet was, his guard and daughter followed; while the former sat in the toilet the armed soldier and the little girl stood at the door. When the prisoner climbed the staircase on his way back, the little girl clambered up and held on to his fetters. At night the little girl slept in a heap with the convicts and soldiers. Then I remember attending a funeral in Sakhalin. The wife of a transported criminal, who had left for Nikolay- evsk, was being buried. Around the open grave stood four con- victs as pallbearers—ex ollicio; the island treasurer and I in the capacity of Hamlet and Horatio, roamed about the cemetery; the dead woman's lodger, a Circassian, who had nothing else to do; and a peasant woman prisoner, who was here out of pity; shc had brought along two children of the deceased—one an infant and the other little Alyosha, a boy of four dressed in a woman's jacket and blue pants with brightly colored patches on the knees. It was cold, raw, there was water in the grave, and the convicts stood around laughing. The sea was visible. Alyosha looked at the grave with curiosity; he wanted to wipe his chilly nose, but the long sleeves of the jacket got in the way. While the grave was being filled I asked him, "Where is your mother, Alyosha?"

He waved his arm like a gentleman who had lost at cards, laughed and said, "Buried!"

The prisoners laughed; the Circassian turned to us and asked what he was to do with the children, as he was not obliged to take care of them.

I did not come upon infectious diseases in Sakhalin, there was very little congenital syphilis, but I did see children blind, filthy, covered with rashes—all maladies symptomatic of neglect.

Of course I shall not solve the children's problem, and I don't know what should be done. But it seems to me you will not get anyvhere with charity and leftovers from prison appropriations and other sums. To my way of thinking, it is harmful to ap- proach this important problem by depending upon charity, which in Russia is a casual affair, or upon nonexistent funds. I should prefer to have the government be financially respon- sible.

My Moscow address is c/o Firgang, M. Dmitrovka Street. Permit me to thank you for your cordiality and for your promise to visit me and to remain,

Your sincerely respectful and devoted,

A. Chekhov

T0 MARIA CHEKHOVA

March 17, 1891, St. Petersburg

I have just seen Duse, the Italian actress, in Shakespeare's "Cleopatra." I don't understand Italian, but she performed so brilliantly I seemed to understand every word. What an actress! I have never seen anything like her. [I looked at Duse and worked myself into a state of anguish at the thought that we have to educate our temperaments and tastes through the med- ium of such wooden actresses as X and her like, whom we con- sider great because we haven't any better. After Duse I could understand why the Russian theatre is so dreary.]^x

I sent you a draft today for three hundred rubles. Did you get i t? . . .

Tomorrow at half past one we leave for Warsaw. All of you keep alive and well. My regards to all and sundry, even to the mongoose, who doesn't deserve to be remembered.

I will write.

Yours entirely,

A. Chekhov

1 For reasons known only to bureaucrats and to scholars who come under their influence, the section in brackets was omitted in the new Soviet edition of Chekhov's complete works.

March 20, /89/, Vienna

My Czech friends,

I write this from Vienna, where I arrived yesterday afternoon at four. The trip came off very well. From 'Varsaw to Vienna I traveled like a railway Nana in a luxurious compartment of the "International Sleeping Car Company"; beds, mirrors, huge windows, carpets and so on.

Ah, my good Tungus friends, if you could only know how fine Vienna is! Comparing it with any of the cities I have seen in my lifetime is out of the question. The streets are broad, elegantly paved, there is a quantity of boulevards and squares, the apartment houses are all six or seven storeys high, and the shops—they are not shops but utter dizziness, dreams! They have millions of neckties alone in the windows! 'Vhat stunning things of bronze, china, leather! The churches are huge, yet they do not overpower one with their immensity, but caress the sight, because they seem to be spun out of lace. Particularly exquisite are St. Stephen's Cathedral and the Votivkirche. They are not buildings, but petits fours. The Parliament, the Town Hall and the University are splendid. . . . Everything is splen- did, and only yesterday and today have I truly realized that architecture is an art. And here this art doesn't show up in isolated examples, as it does at home, but extends miles on end. There are numerous monuments. Every little side-street is sure to have its bookshop. You can see Russian books, too, in their windows, but alas! not the works of Albov, or Barantsevich, or Chekhov, but of assorted anonymities who write and get their stuff printed abroad. I saw "Renan," "The Secrets of the 'Vin- ter Palace," etc. Funny, you can read and say whatever you like.

Try to realize, O ye of little faith, 'vhat the cabs are like here, devil take them! They don't have droshkis, but spic-and-span, pretty little carriages drawn by one, or oftener by two horses. The horses are admirable. In the coachman's seat repose dandies in jackets and derbies reading newspapers. The soul of courtesy and service.

The meals are superlative. There is no vodka, but people drink beer and very decent wine. One thing grates: you have to pay for the bread served. When you get your bill you are asked, "Wieviel Brodchen?" i.e., how many rolls did you gobble? And they charge you for every roll you've eaten.

The women are beautiful and elegant. On the whole I would say everything is fiendishly elegant.

I haven't entirely forgotten my German; I understand what people say and people understand me.

Snow was falling as we crossed the border, but there is no snow in Vienna, though it remains cold.

I am lonesome for home and miss you all; besides, my con- science bothers me for having deserted you. Though it's not so terrible, for when I return I'll sit glued to one spot a whole year. My regards to all and everyone!

Papa, be so good as to buy for me at Sytin's or anywhere you like a popular print of St. Varlaam in which the saint is de- picted riding on a sleigh, and on a little balcony in the distance stands the bishop; underneath the drawing is a picture of St. Varlaam's dwelling. Please put it on my desk. . . .

My very best wishes. Don't forget this miserable sinner. My deepest respects to all, I embrace you, bless you and remain,

Your loving

A. Chekhov

Everybody we meet recognizes us as Russians and doesn't look at my face but at my grizzly-furred cap. From it they probably figure I am a very wealthy Russian count . . . .

My compliments to handsome Levitan.

March 24, i8gi, Venice I am now in Venice, where I arrived the day before yesterday from Vienna. I can say one thing: never in my life have I seen a more remarkable town than Venice. It is full of enchantment, glitter, the joy of life. There are canals instead of streets and lanes, gondolas instead of cabs, the architecture is amazing, and there isn't a spot that doesn't stir either historical or artistic interest. You skim along in a gondola and gaze upon the palaces of the doges, the house where Desdemona lived, the homes of celebrated artists, temples of religion. . . . These temples con- tain sculptures and paintings magnificent beyond our wildest dreams. In a word, enchantment.

All day long, from morning to night, I loll in a gondola and float through the streets or else wander about the famous St. Mark's Square, which is as smooth and clean as a parquet floor. Here is St. Mark's Cathedral—something impossible to describe —the palaces of the doges and buildings that give me the same feeling I get listening to music; I am aware of astounding beauty and revel in it.

And the evenings! Good God in heaven! Then you feel like dying with the strangeness of it all. You move along in your gondola. It is warm, calm, the stars gleam. . . . There are no horses in Venice, and so the silence is that of the countryside. All about you drift other gondolas. . . . Here is one hung about with little lanterns. In it sit bass viol, violin, guitar, mandolin and cornet players, two or three ladies, a couple of men—and you hear singing and instrumental music. They sing operatic arias. What voices! You glide on a bit farther and again come upon a boat with singers, then another; and until midnight the air is filled with a blend of tenor voices and violin music and sounds that melt one's heart.

Merejkowski, whom I met here, has gone wild with rapture. It is not hard for a poor and humble Russian to lose his mind in this world of beauty, wealth and freedom. You feel like remaining here forever, and when you go to church and listen to the organ you feel like becoming a Catholic.

The tombs of Canova and Titian are superb. Here eminent artists are buried in churches like kings; here art is not despised, as it is with us; the churches offer a refuge to statues and pic- tures, no matter how naked they may be.

There is a picture hanging in the palace of the doges that portrays about ten thousand human figures.

Today is Sunday. A band is to play on St. Mark's Square.

At any rate, keep well, and my best wishes to you all. If you ever happen to be in Venice, you will consider it the best time of your life. You should have a look at the glass manufac- tures! . . .

I'll write some more, but so long for now.

Your A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

March 29 0r ;0, 1891, Fl0rence

I am in Florence and have exhausted myself running through museums and churches. I saw the Medici Venus and find that if she were dressed in modern clothing she would look ugly, especially around the waist. I am well. The sky is overcast, and Italy without sunshine is like a person in a mask. Keep well.

Your

Antonio

The monument to Dante is beautiful.

T0 MARIA KISELEVA

April 1, 1891, R0me The Pope of Rome directs me to congratulate you on your birthday and wish you as much money as he has rooms. And he has eleven thousand of them! Staggering through the Vatican

I almost dropped with weariness, and when I got home I felt my legs were stuffed with cotton.

I dine at a table d'hote. Just picture it, opposite me sit two Dutch girls, one of them looking like Pushkin's Tatiana, and the other like her sister Olga.i I stare at them all through dinner and visualize a clean little white house with a little turret, excellent butter, prime Dutch cheese, Dutch herrings, a good- looking pastor, a sedate teacher . . .and I feel like marrying the little Dutch girl and then having both of us painted on a tray as we stand by the clean little house.

I have seen and climbed into everything as ordered. 'Vhen I was told to smell, I smelled. But meanwhile I experience nothing but weariness and a desire to eat cabbage soup with kasha. Venice fascinated me, infatuated me, but after I left it, on came Baedeker and bad weather.

Goodbye for now, Maria Vladimirovna, and the Lord God protect you. A most respectful bow from me and the Pope of Rome to His Honor, Vasilissa and Elisaveta Alexandrovna.

Neckties are wonderfully cheap here. Terribly cheap, so that I daresay I'll start eating them. A franc a pair.

Tomorrow I leave for Naples. Please hope I meet a handsome Russian lady there, if possible a widow or divorcee.

The guidebooks state that a love affair is indispensable in contemplating a trip to Naples. 'Vell, I don't care—I'm ready for anything. If it's to be a love affair, let's have it.

Don't forget your miserably sinning, sincerely devoted and respectful,

A. Chekhov

To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV

ApriZ i), /89/) Nice Monday of Ho/y Week

• • • We are living at the seaside in Nice. The sun shines, it is warm and green and the air is like perfume, but it is windy.

1 Tatiana and Olga are characters in Pushkin's Eugene Ortegin.

We are one hour away from the celebrated Monaco with its town of Monte Carlo, where roulette is played. Just imagine the ballrooms of our House of Nobles, but even more beautiful, high-ceilinged and even larger. These rooms are furnished with large tables with roulette wheels placed on them, which I will describe to you upon my return. I played there three days ago and lost. The game tempts one terribly. After counting our losses, Suvorin fils and I began putting on our thinking caps and after due thought devised a system whereby we couldn't help winning. Last night we went there again, each of us with 5oo francs; my first bet netted me a couple of gold pieces, and then I won more and more; my vest pockets were weighted down with gold; I was even handed some 1808 French coins, Belgian, Italian, Greek and Austrian coins. ... I had never seen so much gold and silver. I started playing at five in the afternoon and by ten at night there wasn't a single franc left in my pocket and the only satisfaction left was the thought that I had previously purchased a return ticket to Nice. So there you have it, my friends! You will of course say, "\Vhat baseness! We are poverty-stricken and he plays roulette." You are absolutely right and have my permission to kill me. But personally I am very well satisfied with myself. At any rate I can now tell my grandchildren I have played roulette and experienced the sensa- tion that this game arouses.

Next to the casino where roulette is played there is another form of roulette—the restaurants. They fleece you here un- mercifully and feed you magnificently. Whatever dish you order is a regular composition before which one should bend the knee in reverence, but by no means have the daring to consume. Every mouthful is abundantly garnished with artichokes, truffles, an assortment of nightingales' tongues. . . . Yet good God, how contemptible and loathsome is this life with its artichokes, palms and the aroma of orange blossoms! I like luxury and wealth, but the local roulette type of luxury affects me like a luxurious toilet. You feel there is something in the air that offends your sense of decency, vulgarizes the charm of nature, the roar of the sea, the moon.

This past Sunday I attended the local Russian church. Peculi- arities: palm branches instead of pussy willows, women in the choir instead of boys, so that the singing has an operatic tinge, people put foreign money in the collection plates, the verger and beadle speak French, etc. They sang Bortnianski's Cherubim No. 7 splendidly, and a plain Our Father.

Of all the places I have visited up to now, my loveliest mem- ories are of Venice. Rome bears a general resemblance to Khar- kov, and Naples is filthy. The sea does not fascinate me, though, as I had already wearied of it in November and December. The devil only knows what goes on, I seem to have been on the go for a whole year. I hardly managed to get back from Sakhalin when I left for St. Pete, then another trip to St. Pete and to Italy. . . .

If I don't manage to return by Easter, when you celebrate remember me in your prayers, and accept my good wishes sight unseen and the assurance that I shall be terribly lonesome with- out you on Easter eve.

Are you saving the newspapers for me?

. . . Do keep well, and may the Heavens preserve you. I have the honor to give an accounting of myself and remain,

Your homesick

Antonio

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

April 21, 1891, Paris It is Easter today, so Christ has risen! This is my first Easter spent away from home.

I arrived in Paris Friday morning and immediately went to the Exposition.! The Eiffel Tower is really very, very high. I 1 The Exposition of 1891.

saw the other exposition buildings only from the outside, as the cavalry was stationed inside in case of riots.[3] Disorders were expected on Friday. People surged through the streets, shouted, whistled, flared up and were dispersed by the police. A dozen policemen are enough to break up a big mob. They rush them in a body and the crowd runs like crazy. During one of these rushes I had the honor of being grabbed by the shoulder by a policeman and shoved forward.

The streets swarm and seethe with continual movement. . . . The noise and uproar is general. The sidewalks are set out with little tables, behind which sit the French, who feel very much at home on the streets. An excellent people. However, there's no describing Paris, so I'll postpone descriptions until I get home.

I heard midnight mass at the Embassy church. ... -

We leave for Russia tomorrow or the day after. I will be in Moscow either Friday or Saturday. I am returning via Smolensk and so if you want to meet me, go to the Smolensk station. . . .

am afraid you have no money.

Misha, I implore you by all that's holy to have my glasses repaired, using the same lenses as in yours. I am simply a martyr without eyeglasses. I was at a picture exhibition (The Salon) and didn't see half of them on account of my short-sightedness. I may say in passing that Russian artists are far more serious than the French. In comparison with the local landscapists I saw yesterday, Levitan is a king.

This is my last letter, so goodbye for now. I left with an empty trunk and am returning with a full one. You will all receive something according to your merits.

Good health to you.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

May /0, /89/, Alexin

. . . Yes, you are right, my soul needs balm. I would with pleasure, even with joy, read something weighty not only about myself but about things in general. I yearn for serious reading; Russian criticism of the present time does not help me. It irri- tates me. I would be delighted to read something new about Pushkin or Tolstoy—that would be balm for my idle mind.

I also miss Venice and Florence and would be ready to climb Vesuvius again; Bologna has been wiped out and become a dim memory, and as for Nice and Paris, when I think of them "I look with loathing upon my life."¹

The last number of the "Foreign Literature Herald" contains a story by Ouida translated from the English by our Mikhail, the assessor. 'Vhy don't I know languages? It seems to me I would translate fiction superbly; when I read other people's translations I am always changing and shifting the words around mentally, and I get something light and ethereal, like lace.

Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays I work at my book on Sakhalin, the rest of the week, except Sunday, on my novel,² and on Sundays I write short stories. I work enthusiastically but alas! my family is a numerous one, and here I am, a writing man, resembling a crayfish in a net along with others of the species: quite a crowd. Every day the weather is glorious, our country place stands on dry, healthy ground, with lots of woods. . . . There are plenty of fish and crayfish in the Oka. I can see trains and steamers passing. On the whole I would be very, very content if only we weren't so cramped. When will you be in Moscow? Please write.

You won't like the French Exposition—be prepared for that reaction. . . .

I have no intention of getting married. I would like to be a

A line from Piishkin's "Remembrances."

The novel turned into the long short story called "The Duel."

little bald old man and sit at a big desk in a well-appointed study.

Keep well and calm. My respectful compliments to your fam- ily. Please write.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

May 20, i8gi, Bogimovo . . . The carp here bite with all their might. Yesterday I for- got all my woes. First I sat beside the brook reeling in carp and then alongside the deserted mill catching perch. Details of everyday life are also of interest.

The last two proclamations—on the Siberian railway and exiles—I liked very much. The Siberian railway is called a national matter and the tone of the proclamation assures its speedy completion; while prisoners who have served their terms either as transported criminals or peasant exiles will be per- mitted to return to Russia, without the right to live in Moscow or St. Petersburg provinces. The newspapers just haven't paid any attention to this, but actually it is something that has never happened in Russia, a serious step toward the abolition of the life sentence, which has for so long weighed upon the public conscience as being to the highest degree unjust and cruel. . . .

I shall expect you. You would do well to hurry, as the night- ingales will soon stop singing and the lilacs blooming. . . . I can find rooms and beds for an entire division. Keep well.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

June-July i8gi, Bogimovo

Dear Lida,

Why the reproaches?

I am sending you my ugly face. \Ve'll be seeing each other tomorrow. Don't forget your little Pete. A thousand kisses!!!

I ha\ e bought Chekhov's stories: how delightful they are! You buy them, too.

My regards to Masha Chekhova. \Vhat a sweetheart you are!

To LYDIA MIZINOVA

June-July 1891, Bogimovo

Dear Lydia Stakhievna,

I love you passionately, likc a tiger, and offer you my hand.

Leader of Mongrel Breeds¹

Golovin-Rtishchev. P. S. Give me your answer in gestures, as you squint.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

August 18, i8gi, Bogimovo I sent you a letter today with my story, and now here is another in reply to the one just received from you. Speaking of Nikolai and the doctor who is attending him you keep stressing that "all this is done without love, without self-sacrifice, even as regards his little comforts." You are right to say this about people in general, but what would you have the doctors do? If, as our nurse puts it, "his bowel busted," what are you going to

1 A "Leader of Nobility" was a chosen representathe of well-born country families and a title of distinction. The Russian words for "nobility" and "mon- grel breeds" are similar at first glance.

do, even if you want to give up your life for the patient? As a rule, when the household, relatives and servants take "all pos- sible measures" and practically crawl out of their skins, the doctor just looks like a fool, the picture of discouragement, blushing gloomily for himself and his science and striving to maintain outer calm . . . . Doctors go through execrable days and hours, God protect you from anything like them. Among physi- cians, it is true, ignorant fools and cads are no rarity, as is also the case amongst writers, engineers and people generally; but those odious days and hours I mention occur only to doctors, and because of them, in all conscience, you must forgive them a great deal. . . .

My teacher-brother has received a medal and an appointment in Moscow for his conscientious efforts. He is stubborn in the good sense of the word and will get what he aims for. He is not yet thirty but is already considered a model pedagogue in Moscow.

I woke last night and started thinking of the story I sent you. My head was in utter confusion while I wrote it in fiendish haste, and it wasn't my brain that functioned, but a rusty wire. Hurrying is no good, for what results is not creative writing but muck. If you don't reject the story, defer its publication until autumn, when it will be possible to read proof. . . .

A peasant woman was carting some rye and fell out of her wagon, head first. She was horribly injured: concussion of the brain, dislocation of the neck vertebrae, vomiting, acute pains and so on. She was brought to me. She groaned, moaned, prayed God to let her die, but at the same time she turned to the mujik who had brought her and mumbled, "Cyril, don't bother with the lentils, you can thresh them aftenvard, but you'd better thresh the oats right now." I told her she could worry about the oats afterward, but now there were more serious things to con- sider, and she comes back with, "But his oats are so good!" A bustling peasant woman, to be envied. That type doesn't find it hard to die.

I am leaving for Moscow the fifth of September as I have to look for a new apartment. Best wishes!

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

September 8, 1891, Moscow M. Dmitrovka, cjo Firgang

have already moved to Moscow and am staying indoors. . . .

"The Lie," the title you recommended for my long story,

won't do. It would be appropriate only in cases where the lie is a conscious one. An unconscious lie really isn't a lie, but an error. Having money and eating meat Tolstoy calls a lie— which is going too far.

Yesterday I was informed that Kurepin is hopelessly ill with cancer of the neck. Before he dies the cancer will have eaten up half his head and torment him with neuralgic pains. I was told his wife has written you.

Little by little death takes its toll. It knows its job. Try writing a play along these lines: an old chemist has concocted an elixir of immortality—a dose of fifteen drops and one lives eternally; but the chemist breaks the vial with the elixir out of fear that such carrion as he and his wife will continue to live forever. Tolstoy denies immortality to mankind, but good God, how much there is that's personal in his denial! The day before yes- terday I read his "Epilogue."¹ Strike me dead, but this is stupider and stuffier than "Letters to a Governor's Wife."² which I despise. The hell with the philosophy of the great of this world! All eminent sages are as despotic as generals, as dis- courteous and lacking in delicacy as generals, because they know they are safe from punishment. Diogenes spat into peo-

^ The "Epilogue" to Tolstoy's Kreutzer Sonata,

Gogol's Letters to a Governor's Wife.

ples' beards, sure that nothing would happen to him; Tolstoy abuses doctors as scoundrels and shows his ignorance in regard to weighty questions because he is another Diogenes, whom you can't take to the police station or call down in the news- papers. And so, the hell with the philosophy of the great of this world! All of it, with all its beggarly epilogues and letters to governors' ladies isn't worth a single filly in his "Story of a Horse." . . .

Keep well and don't forget this miserable sinner. I miss you very much.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ELENA SHAVROVA

September /6, /8g/, Moscow So we old bachelors smell like dogs? Very well, but let me dispute your thesis that specialists in women's diseases are Lotharios and cynics at heart. Gynecologists arc concerned with a kind of violent prose you have never even dreamed of, and to which, were you aware of it, you would attribute an odor even worse than that of dogs, with the harshness charactcristic of your imagination. He who always sails the seas lovcs dry land; he who is eternally absorbed in prose passionately pines for poetry. All gynecolologists are idealists. Your doctor reads verses, and your instinct has served you well; I would add that he is a great liberal, something of a mystic, and muses of a wife along the lines of Nekrasov's Russian Woman. The eminent Snegirev never speaks of "the Russian woman" without a tremor in his voice. Another gynecologist I know is in love with a mysterious unknown who wears a veil, and whom he has seen from a distance. Still another attends all the first nights—and stands next to the coatroom swearing loudly and assuring people that authors haven't the right to depict women who aren't ideal, etc.

You have also lost sight of the fact that a good gynecologist cannot be stupid or a mediocrity. His mind, even if it has had only moderate training, shines more brightly than his bald spot; you, however, noticed the bald spot and stressed it and threw the mind overboard. You noted and stressed as well that a kind of grease oozes out of this fat man—brrr!—and com- pletely lost sight of the fact that he is a professor, i.e., has thought and done things for some years that set him above mil- lions of people, above all the little Veras and Taganrog Greek young ladies, above all meals and wines. Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham and, I think, J apheth. The only thing Ham noted was that his father was a drunkard, he completely lost sight of the fact that Noah was a genius, that he built an ark and saved the world. Writing people ought not imitate Ham. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. I don't dare ask you to be fond of gynecologists and professors, but I venture to remind you of justice, which is more precious than air to the objective writer.

The little girl in the merchant's family is done beautifully. The passage in the doctor's speech where he talks of his disbe- lief in medicine is good, but it isn't necessary for him to take a drink after every sentence. The fondness for corpses shows your exasperation with your captive thought. You have not seen corpses.

Now to move from the particular to the general. Let me ad- vise you to watch your step. \Vhat you have here is not a short story or a novel, not a piece of artistry, but a long row of heavy, dismal barracks.

\\'here is the architectural construction that once so en- chanted your humble servant? \Vhere is the airiness, the fresh- ness, the grace? Read your story through: a description of a dinner, then a description of passing women and misses—then a description of a party—then one of a dinner . . . and so on and on—endlessly. Descriptions, descriptions and more descrip- tions—and no action at all. You should start right off with the merchant's daughter, stick to her, and throw out the little

Veras, throw out the Greek girls, throw out everything . . . except for the doctor and the merchant's spawn.

We must have a talk. So it seems you are not moving to St. Petersburg. I was counting on seeing you, as Misha assured me you intended settling there. Keep well, then. The heavenly angels guard you. Your imagination is becoming an interesting thing.

Forgive the long letter.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

October 25, 1891, Moscow

. . . Run "The Duel" only once a week, not twice. If you carry it twice a week you will be violating an old established custom and it will look as if I were usurping someone else's space in the paper; as a matter of fact it's all the same to me and my story whether it appears once or twice weekly.

Among the St. Petersburg writing fraternity the only topic of conversation is the impurity of my motives. I have just had the agreeable news that I am getting married to rich Madame Sibir- yakova. I've been getting lots of good news generally.

I wake up every night and read "War and Peace." One reads with such curiosity and naive enthusiasm as though one had never read anything previously. It is wonderfully good. Except that I don't care for the passages where Napoleon makes an appearance. Wherever Napoleon comes on the scene, you get a straining after effect and all manner of devices to prove that he was stupider than he actually was in reality. Everything that Pierre, Prince Andrei, or even the utterly insignificant Nikolai Rostov say or do—is good, clever, natural and touching; every- thing that Napoleon thinks and does is not natural, not clever, but inflated and lacking in significance. When I live in the provinces (and I dream of it day and night), I intend to practice medicine and read novels.

I won't be going to St. Petersburg.

If I had treated Prince Andrei I would have cured him. It is extraordinary to read that the wound of the prince, a rich man, with a physician in attendance all the time and Natasha and Sonia to look after him, should emit the odor of a corpse. How scurvy medicine was at the time! Tolstoy must have had an un- conscious hatred of medicine while writing this tremendous novel.

Keep well. Auntie died.

Your A. Chekhov

To YEVGRAF YEGOROV

December ii, 1891, Moscow

Dear Yevgraf Petrovich,

Here is the story of my trip to your place which did not come off. I intended visiting you not as a newspaper correspondent, but on a mission, or rather at the bidding of a small circle of people who wanted to do something for the famine-stricken. The fact of the matter is that the public has no faith in official- dom and therefore refrains from donating its money. There are thousands of fantastic tales and fables going the rounds of em- bezzling, outright thievery and so on. People keep away from the Diocesan Office and are indignant at the Red Cross. The owner of my unforgettable Babkino, the head of the community there, cut me short sharply and categorically, "The Moscow Red Cross people are thieves!" In the face of such a mood the officials can scarcely expect any serious aid from the public. Yet at the same time the public wants to do good and its con- science is aroused. In September the Moscow educated class and plutocracy met together, thought, spoke, bestirred them- selves, invited people who knew the situation for advice; every- body discussed how to get around the officials and organize help independently. They decided to send their own agents to the famine-stricken provinces, to get acquainted with the state of affairs on the spot, set up soup kitchens and so on. Several leaders of these groups, people with a good deal of weight, asked Durnovo's permission to operate, but Durnovo turned them down, declaring that the organization of aid belonged wholly to the Diocesan Office and the Red Cross. In short, personal initiative was nipped in the bud. Everyone was crestfallen and depressed; some flew into a rage, others simply washed their hands of the project. It needed the daring and the authority of Tolstoy to act in defiance of bans and official sentiments and do what one's sense of duty directed.

Well, sir, now about myself. My attitude was one of complete sympathy with private initiative, as everyone ought to be free to do good as he wishes; but judging officialdom, the Red Cross and so on seemed to me inopportune and impractical. I assumed that with a certain amount of equanimity and good nature it would be possible to avoid whatever was unpleasant or ticklish, and that under such circumstances, approaching the Minister was unnecessary. I went all the way to Sakhalin without a single letter of recommendation, and yet accomplished whatever I deemed necessary; why then should I not do the same in the case of the famine-stricken provinces? I also recalled such admin- istrators as you, Kiselev and all my community-leader friends and officials—people honorable in the extreme and deserving of the most implicit confidence. And I decided, starting with a small district, of course, to try to unite the two elements of officialdom and private initiative. I wanted to call upon you for advice as soon as possible. The public believes in me, it would also believe in you, and I could count upon success. I sent you a letter, you will recall.

Then Suvorin arrived in Moscow. . . . Suvorin had influenza; usually when he comes to Moscow we spend days on end to- gether discussing literature, which he knows admirably. This time, too, we had discussions and it wound up with my catching his influenza, going to bed and coughing furiously. Korolenko was in Moscow and found me suffering. A lung complication kept me languishing indoors a whole month doing absolutely nothing. 1\'ow my affairs are looking up, but I am still coughing and am very thin. Here you have my story. If it were not for the influcnza, perhaps we together would have managed to wrest two or three thousands, or even more, from the public, depending upon circumstances.

Your exasperation with the press is entirely understandable. The snap judgments of newspaper writers vex you, who are familiar with the true state of affairs, as much as the snap judg- ments of laymen on diphtheria vex me, a medical man. But what would you have one do, I ask you? Russia is not England, nor France. Our newspapers are not rich and have very few people at their disposal. Sending an academy professor or Engel- hardt to the Volga is expensive; sending a well-equipped, gifted newspaperman is also impossible—he is needed in the home oflice. The "New York Times" could arrange for a census of the famine provinces at its owra expense, could put a Kennan into every district, paying him forty rubles a day—and some- thing purposeful would come of it; but what can "Russian Re- ports" or "New Times" do, newspapers that consider a hundred- thousand-ruble profit as the wealth of Croesus? As to the corre- spondents themselves, you know these are city folks who are acquainted with rural life solely through the works of Gleb Uspenski. Their position is untenable in the extreme. Make a quick dash into a district, sniff around, give it a writeup and get going to the next. The man has neither material means, freedom of action nor authority. For two hundred rubles a month he keeps dashing around and praying God people won't get mad at him for his unintentional and unavoidable misrep- resentations. He feels he is to blame. But you know it is not he who should be blamed, but Russian black ignorance. At the service of the 'Vestern correspondent are excellent maps, en- cyclopedias, statistical studies; in the 'Vest you can write up your report without leaving your house. But here? Our cor- respondent can dredge up information only from conversations and rumors. Why, in all of our Russia only three districts have been investigated thus far: Cherepov, Tambov and one other. That is for all Russia! The newspapers lie that correspondents are roisterers, but what can they do? And not writing is impos- sible. If our press were silent you will agree with me the situa- tion would be even more horrible.

Your letter and your project regarding the purchase of cattle from the peasants galvanized me into action. I am ready with all my heart and all my energies to carry out whatever you propose. I have given the matter much thought and here is my opinion. You cannot count upon the rich. It is too late. Every rich man has already shelled out the thousands he had set aside for the purpose. All the power is now in the hands of the middle-class man who will donate his half-rubles or rubles. . . . That means only the average man is left. Let us set up a subscription list. You write a letter to the editor and I will have it published in "Russian Reports" and "'New Times." In order to combine the above-mentioned elements, we might both sign the letter. If you find this unacceptable because of your official duties, the letter might be written in the third person, stating that in Sec- tion 5 of Nizhni-Novgorod District, such and such work has been organized, that, praise God, things are going well, and it is requested that contributions be sent to the head of the com- munity, Y. P. Yegorov, residing at such and such an address, or to A. P. Chekhov, or to the editorial office of such and such newspapers. But the letter must be a good long one. Write in as much detail as possible, I will add a thing or two—and we can't lose. We must ask for contributions, not loans. Nobody will go along with a loan: it is horrible. It is hard to give, but it is even harder to take back.

I know only one wealthy person in Moscow, and that is Mme. Morozova,¹ the well-known philanthropist. I called on her yes-

1 Varvara Morozova was an extremely wealthy woman who had a famous salon in Moscow.

terday with your letter, talked and ate. At the moment she is keen on the Committee on Literacy, which is establishing soup kitchens for schoolchildren and she is giving everything to this group. Since literacy and horses are incompatible, the lady promised me the co-operation of her committee only in the event that you wished to set up soup kitchens for schoolchildren and sent detailed information. It was aivkivard for me to ask her for money then and there, since people keep taking money from her endlessly and flay her like a fox. My sole request to her was that in case she intended donating to other commissions and committees, she not forget us either, and she promised not to. Your letter and your idea have also been communicated to Sobolevski, editor of "Russian Reports"—just in case. I am busy shouting that the project is already under way.

IЈ any rubles or half-rubles come my way, I shall send them on to you without delay. Please consider me at your disposal and believe me when I say I would be truly happy to do some- thing, as I have thus far done nothing at all for the famine- stricken and for those helping them.

We are all in good health, except that Nick died of consump- tion in 1889. . . . Ivan is teaching in Moscow, Misha is an assessor.

Keep well. ,,

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR TIKHONOV

February 22, /892, Moscow Forgive me, my dear Vladimir Alexeyevich, for not having answered your letter for so long. To start with, I have only just recently returned from Voronej Province, and secondly, I am buying an estate (keep your fingers crossed) and spend entire days in assorted notary, bank, insurance and similar parasitical establishments. This purchase of mine has reduced me to a state of frenzy. I am like a person who has entered an inn just for some chopped beef with onions, but meeting good pals, has gone to work on the bottle, got as drunk as a pig and must settle a bill for 142 rubles and 75 kopeks. . . .

You mistakenly think you were drunk at Shcheglov's birthday party. You were fairly high, that was all. You danced when everybody danced and your jigging on the cabman's box gave nothing but general pleasure. As to the criticism, it couldn't have been severe, as I don't recall it. I only remember that Vedenski and I laughed long and loud at you.

So you need my biography? Here goes. I was born in Tagan- rog in i86o. In 1879 I graduated from the Taganrog Boys' School. In 1884 I graduated from the Medical School of Moscow University. In 1888 I received the Pushkin Prize. In 1890 I took a trip to Sakhalin across Siberia and returned by sea. In 1891 I made a European tour, during which I drank some first-rate wine and ate oysters. In 1892 I had a good time at V. A. Tikho- nov's birthday party. I began my writing in 1879 for "Dragon Fly" magazine. Here in substance are my works: "Motley Stories," "In the Twilight," "Tales," "Gloomy People," and a novel, "The Duel." I have also sinned in the dramatic field, though in moderation. I have been translated into all languages except the foreign. Joking aside, I have long since been trans- lated by the Germans. The Czechs and Serbs also approve of me. And the French belong to our mutual admiration society. At thirteen I probed the mysteries of love. With my colleagues, both medical and literary, I maintain the most excellent rela- tions. I am a bachelor. I would like a pension. I still practice medicine, if you can call it that. Summers in the country I even perform an autopsy every couple of years. Among writers my preference goes to Tolstoy, among doctors—to Zakharin.

All this is nonsense, though. Write whatever you like. If you haven't the facts, substitute lyricism.

Keep well and happy. My regards to your little daughters.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

March j, 1892, Moscow

. . . Every day I find out something new. What a terrible thing it is to have business with liars! The artist who sold me the property lies and lies and lies—needlessly, stupidly, and the upshot is a series of daily disillusionments. Every moment I expect him to put over another swindle and so I am continually exasperated. \Ve are accustomed to assuming that only mer- chants cheat in measuring and weighing, but people should have a good look at our upper class! They are an odious spec- tacle. They are not people but ordinary kulaks, even worse than kulaks, for a peasant-kulak goes ahead and does some work himself, while my artist just goes around guzzling liquor and swearing at the servants. Just imagine, from as far back as last summer his horses haven't seen a single grain of oats, or a wisp of hay, but have lived off straw exclusively, although they work hard enough for ten. The cow doesn't give any milk because she is starving. His wife and mistress live under the same roof. The children are dirty and ragged. There is a stench of cats. Bedbugs and enormous cockroaches abound. The artist pretends he is de- voted to me heart and soul and at the same time gives the peasants lessons in the art of cheating. Since is is difficult to judge even ap- proximately where my fields and woodlands reach to, the peasants had been coached to point out for my benefit an extensive stand of woods which actually belongs to the church. But they refused to do as they were told. On the whole I am involved in a lot of tommyrot and vulgarity. It is disgusting to realize that all this hungry and filthy riffraff thinks that I, too, tremble for the sake of a kopek just as it does, and that I too don't mind putting over crooked deals. The peasants are downtrodden, frightened and worried. I am sending you a circular on the estates and am going to conduct an enquiry on the spot. . . .

You want to build a theatre, while I want terribly to go to Venice and write . . . a play. How glad I am I'm not going to have an apartment in Moscow! This is a sort of comfort I have never had the pleasure of enjoying before.

How is Alexei Alexeyevich's health? I don't understand why he had to take showers.

All the best!

Your A. Chekhov

To LYDIA AVILOVA

March 19,1892, Melikhovo

Dear Lydia A lexeyevna,

... I read your "Along the Way." If I were the editor of an illustrated magazine I would publish this story with great pleasure. Only here is the advice of this particular reader: when you portray miserable wretches and unlucky people and want to stir the reader to compassion, try to be cooler—to give their sorrow a background, as it were, against which it can stand out in sharper relief. The way it is, the characters weep and you sigh. Yes, you must be cold.

But don't listen to me, as I am a poor critic. I don't have the ability to formulate my critical ideas clearly. Sometimes I just talk frightful nonsense. . . .

Your letter distressed and bewildered me. You mention cer- tain "strange things" that I seem to have said at Leikin's, then you beg me in the name of respect for womankind not to speak of you "in that spirit" and finally you even say "for having been trustful just this once, I can find my name dragged into the mud ..." \Vhat is this dreaming of yours all about? Mud—and me! ... My self-esteem will not permit me to justify myself: more- over, your accusations are too vague to allow me to decide on what grounds I can defend myself. As far as I can judge, it is a question of gossip, isn't it? I earnestly implore you (if you trust me no less than you do the gossips), do not believe all the nasty things people say in your St. Petersburg. Or, if you find it impossible not to believe these rumors, then don't swallow them plain, but with a pinch of salt; both as to my marriage to some- one with five millions and my affairs with the wives of my best friends, etc. Calm down, for heaven's sake. If I don't sound convincing enough, have a talk with Yasinski, who was with me at Leikin's after the jubilee. I recall that both of us, he and I, spoke at some length of what fine people you and your sister were. . . . We both were somewhat high after the jubilee, but even if I were as drunk as a sailor or had lost my mind, I would not have lowered myself to "that spirit" or "mud" (didn't your arm wither as you spelled out that little word!) as I would be re- strained by my usual decency and devotion to my mother, sister and women in general. Imagine speaking ill of you and especially in Leikin's presence!

However, I wash my hands of the business. Defending one- self against gossip is like begging for a loan from [. . .]: useless. Think as you wish about me. . . .

I am living in the country. I throw snow into the brook and with satisfaction ponder upon my decision—nevermore to visit St. Petersburg.

My best wishes.

Your sincerely devoted and respectful,

A. Chekhov

To PYOTR BYKOV

May 4, 1892, Melikhovo

Dear Pyotr Vasilievich,

Ieronym Ieronymich wrote me that you are on very friendly terms with the editors of "World-Wide Illustration." If you have the opportunity would you be good enough to inform thcm that the announcemcnt in which they praise me as "highly giftcd," and the title of my story which they print in letters as big as a signboard, havc produced a most unpleasant impression on me. The announcement resembles the advcrtisement of a dentist or masseur and in any case is lacking in taste. I realize the value of publicity and am not opposed to it, but for a man of letters, modesty and the literary approach in dealing with readers and colleagues alike constitute the very finest and most infallible publicity. On the whole I have had no luck with "World-\Vide Illustration": I requested an advance and am regaled with publicity. They didn't send the advance—all right, that's bad enough, but they should have had mercy on my literary reputation. This, my first letter to you, is a peevish one and is bound to irk you. Forgive me.

I beg you earnestly to excuse me and to believe that I have turned to you with a complaint only because I hold you in the sincerest esteem.

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

August /892, Melikhovo My letters chase after you, but you are elusive. I have written often, and to St. Moritz, by the way. Judging by your letters, you haven't had anything from me. To start with, cholera is raging in and near Moscow, and will reach our area any day now. In the second place, I have been appointed cholera doctor, and my section includes twenty-five villages, four factories and one monastery. I organize, put up barracks, etc., and feel like a lonely soul, as everything connected with cholera is alien to my nature, and the work, which requires me to take trips con- tinually, deliver talks and attend to petty details, is exhausting. There is no time for writing. Literature has long ago been cast aside, and I am poverty-stricken and wretched, as I found it proper, in the interests of independence, to turn down the com- pensation that section doctors usually receive. I am bored, yet there is a great deal that is interesting in cholera, looking at it objectively. It's a pity you are not in Russia. Material for those short letters of yours is falling by the wayside. The situa- tion is more good than bad, and in this respect cholera differs sharply from famine. . . . Everybody is at work now, and work- ing feverishly. At the Nizhni Fair miracles are performed which may cause even Tolstoy to adopt a more respectful attitude to- ward medicine and toward the general participation of educated people in life. It looks as if a lasso had been thrown over cholera. The number of cases has not only been lowered, but the percentage of mortality as well. In a huge place like Moscow it won't go beyond fifty cases a week, though on the Don it will fasten upon thousands every day—an imposing difference. "\Ve country doctors are ready: we have a definite program of action and perhaps we will lower the percentage of fatalities from cholera in our districts.

"\Ve have no assistants, and have to act as doctors and orderlies at the same time; the mujiks are crude, filthy, mistrustful; but the thought that our labors won't be wasted makes all these things practically unnoticeable. Of all the Serpukhov doctors I am the sorriest specimen; I have a scurvy horse and carriage, don't know the roads, cant see at night, haven't any money, get tired very easily, and most important of all—I cannot forget for a moment that I must write, and I feel very much like spitting on the cholera and getting down to my work. And I would like to have a talk with you. I am utterly lonely.

Our farming efforts have been crowned with complete suc- cess. The harvest is a solid one, and when we sell our grain, Melikhovo will net us more than a thousand rubles. The truck garden is a brilliant success. "\Ve have regular mountains of cucumbers, and wonderful cabbage. If it weren't for the damned cholera I could say I had never spent as good a summer as this one. . . .

Nothing is heard of cholera riots any more. There is talk of arrests, proclamations and so on. They say Astyrev/ the literary man, has been scntenced to a fifteen-year prison term. If our socialists actually exploit cholera for their own ends, I shall

1 Astyrc\' was a sociologist.

despise them. Using vile means to attain worthy ends makes the ends themselves vile. Let them ride on the backs of doctors and medical assistants, but why lie to the people? Why assure the people they are right in their ignorance and that their crude prejudices are sacred truth? Can any splendid future possibly justify this base lie? Were I a politician, I could never make up my mind to shame my present for the sake of the future, even though I might be promised tons of bliss for a pinch of foul lying.

Shall we see each other in the fall, and will we be together in Feodosia? You, after your trip abroad, and I, after the cholera, might have a good deal that is interesting to tell each other. Let's spend October together in the Crimea. It wouldn't be boring, honestly. We can write, talk, eat. . . . There is no more cholera in Feodosia.

Write me if possible more often. ... I can't be in very good spirits now, but your letters do tear me away from worries over the cholera and carry me briefly into another world.

Keep well. My regards to my classmate, Alexei Petrovich.

Yours,

A. Chek.hov

I am going to treat cholera by the Cantani method: lots of enemas with tannin at 40 degrees and injections under the skin of a solution of sodium chloride. The fonner have an ex- cellent effect: they wann, and decrease the diarrhea. The in- jection sometimes produces miracles, but on other occasions causes a stroke.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

August 16, 1892, Melikhovo I won't write any more, not if you cut me down. I wrote to Abbazzio, to St. Moritz, wrote at least ten times. . . . It's mortify- ing, particularly so when, after a whole group of my letters on

our worries over cholera, you suddenly write from gay, tur- quoise-hued Biarritz that you envy me my leisure! May Allah forgive you!

\Vell, sir, I'm alive and well. The summer is an admirable one, dry, warm, teeming with fruits of the earth, but all its dclight, from July on, was totally spoiled by news of a cholera epidemic. During the time you were inviting me first to Vienna, then to Abbazzio, I had alrcady become the section doctor of the Scrpukhov community, was trying to catch cholera by the tail and had organized a new section like a whirlwind. In my sec- tion I have twenty-five villages, four factories and one mon- astery. In the morning I hold office hours for patients, in the afternoon I pay visits . ... I have turned out to be a first-rate beggar; what with my beggar-like eloquence, my section now has two cxcellent barracks completely equipped and five that are not exccllent but miserable. I have even relieved the com- munity council of expenditures for disinfection purposes. I have begged lime, vitriol and assorted stinking junk from manu- facturers for all of my twenty-five villages. . . . My soul is spent and I am weary. Not to belong to yourself, to think only of diarrhea, to tremble at night at the bark of a dog and knock at the gate (haven't thcy come to get me out of bed?) to drive scurvy horses along unknown roads, to read only about cholera and wait only for cholera and at the same time to be completely indiffercnt to the malady and the pcople you are treating— my dear sir, you can't have even a bowing acquaintance with the stew that is going on within me. Cholera has already hit Moscow and Moscow District. \Ve must expect it hourly. Judg- ing by its progress in Moscow, we have reason to believe it has already abatcd and the bacillus is beginning to lose its vigor. \Ve must also rcalize that it must readily give way before the measures takcn herc and in Moscow. The educated class is work- ing diligently without sparing its body or its purse; I see evi- dencc of it evcry day and am moved, and then whcn I recall how Inhabitant and Burcnin poured forth their vcnom on this class, I get a pretty choked feeling. In Nizhni the doctors and educated people generally have performed wonders. I was over- come with delight when I read about the handling of cholera. In the good old days, when people sickened and died by the thousands, people couldn't even have dreamed of the astound- ing victories that are now being won before our eyes. It is a pity you are not a physician and cannot share my gratification, i.e., properly feel, recognize and value all that is being done. However, it is not possible to talk of this in a brief paragraph.

The method of treating cholera requires that the doctor, above all else, take his time, i.e., give five to ten hours to each patient, and sometimes more. As I mean to use the Cantani method—enemas of tannin and injections of a solution of sodi- um chloride under the skin—my situation will be stupider than a fool's. \Vhile I am fussing around with one patient, ten others will manage to get sick and die. You know I am the only one serving twenty-five villages, aside from the medical assistant, who calls me Your Honor, is timid about smoking in my pres- ence and won't take a step without my advice. If we have iso- lated cases, I will be in full control, but if the epidemic spreads to even as few as five cases a day, I will lose my temper, worry and feel I am to blame. . ..

\Vhen you learn from the papers that the cholera has abated, you will know I have again taken up writing. While I serve the community, don't consider me a literary man. I can't try to catch two rabbits at once.

You write I have abandoned "Sakhalin." No, I cannot aban- don my big baby. When boredom with fiction gets me down, I find it pleasant to take up with non-fiction. I don't think the question of when I shall finish "Sakhalin" and where I shall publish it is important. While Galkin-Vraski is king of the prison system I am strongly disposed against publishing the book. Though if I am forced to it, that will be another matter.

In all my letters I have insistently put one question to you which you don't have to answer, however: where will you be in the fall and don't you want to pass a part of September and October in Feodosia and Crimea with me. I feel an irresistible desire to eat, drink, sleep and talk about literature, i.e., do nothing and at the same time feel I am a decent person. But if you find my indolence distasteful, I can promise to write a play or novel with or near you. How about it? You don't want to? Well, the hell with it. ...

. . . Picture to yourself my cholera boredom, my cholera solitude and forced literary idleness and write me more and oftener. I share your squeamish feeling toward the French. The Germans are very much above them, though for some reason we consider them stolid. And I care for Franco-Russian under- standings as much as I do for Tatishchev. There is something low and suggestive in these understandings . . . .

We have raised some very delicious potatoes and wonderful cabbage. How can you get along without cabbage soup? I don't envy you your sea, or your freedom or the good mood you en- joy abroad. There is nothing like the Russian summcr. And I may add incidentally, I don't particularly care about going abroad. After Singapore, Ceylon and our Amur, I daresay Italy and even Mt. Vesuvius don't seem enticing. "\Vhen I was in India and China, I did not see any great difference between the rest of Europe and Russia.

My neighbor, Count Orlov-Davidov, the owner of the cele- brated estate Consolation, who ran away from the cholera, is now living in Biarritz; he gave his doctor only five hundred rubles for the cholera campaign. 'Vhen I went to visit his sister, the countess, who lives in my section, to talk about building a barracks for her workingmen, she treated me as if I had come to ask her to take me on as a hired hand. She just made me sick, and I lied to her that I was a man of means. I told a similar lie to the hcad of the monastery, who refused to give me any spacc for patients, of whom there will probably be quite a few. In answer to my question as to what he would do with those that fell ill in his hostel he replied that they were substan- tial people who would pay all charges themselves. Do you get it? I flared up and said I didn't need a fee, as I was rich, and all I wanted was for the monastery to be safe. Sometimes you get into the most stupid and insulting situations. . . . Before Count Orlov-Davidov's departure, I had an interview with his wife. Complete with enormous diamonds in her ears, a bustle and an inability to comport herself properly. A millionairess. With such personages you experience a stupid schoolboy reaction, when you feel like saying something vulgar for no good reason.

I often have visits, and long ones, from the local priest, a fine young fellow, a widower with illegitimate children. Write, or there will be trouble.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

November 25, 1892, Melikhovo You are not hard to understand and you abuse yourself need- lessly for expressing yourself vaguely. You are a hard drinker and I treated you to sweet lemonade; after downing it wryly, you remark with entire justice that it hasn't an alcoholic kick. That is just what our works haven't got—the kick that would make us drunk and hold us in their grasp, and this you set forth clearly. And why not? Leaving me and my "Ward No. 6" out of it, let's talk in general terms, which are more interesting. Let's talk of general causes, if it won't bore you, and let's em- brace the whole age. Tell me in all conscience, what writers of my own generation, i.e., people from thirty to forty-five, have given the world even one drop of alcohol? Aren't Korolenko, Nadson, and all today's playwrights lemonade? Have Repin's or Shishkin's paintings really turned your head? All this work is just amiable and talented, and though you are delighted, you still can't forget you'd like a smoke. Science and technical knowledge are now experiencing great days, but for our brother- hood the times are dull, stale and frivolous, we ourselves are stale and dreary. . . . The causes for it are not to be found in our stupidity or lack of gifts and not in our insolence, as Burenin holds, but in a disease which in an artist is worse than syphilis or sexual impotence. Our illness is a lack of "some- thing," that is the rights of the case, and it means that when you lift the hem of our Muse's gown you will behold an empty void. Bear in mind that writers who are considered immortal or just plain good and who intoxicate us have one very important trait in common: they are going somewhere and call you with them; you sense, not with your mind but with all your being, that they have an aim, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, who had a reason for appearing and alarming the imagination. Looking at some of them in terms of their calibre you will see that they have immediate aims—the abolition of serfdom, the liberation of their country, political matters, beauty, or just vodka, like Denis Davidov; others have remote aims—God, life beyond the grave, the happiness of mankind and so on. The best of them are realistic and paint life as it is, but because every line is saturated with juice, with the sense of life, you feel, in addition to life as it is, life as it should be, and you are entranced. Now what about us? Yes, us! \Ve paint life such as it is—that's all, there isn't any more. . . . Beat us up, if you like, but that's as far as we'll go. \Ve have neither immediate nor distant aims, and you can rattlc around in our souls. \Ve have no politics, we don't believe in rcvolution, we don't believe in God, we aren't afraid of ghosts, and personally I don't even fear death or blindness. He who doesn't desire anything, doesn't hope for anything and isn't afraid of anything cannot be an artist. It doesn't matter whether we call it a discase or not, the name doesn't matter, but we do have to admit that our situation is worse than a gover- nor's. I don't know how it will be with us ten or twenty years hence, perhaps circumstances may change by then, but for the time bcing it would be rash to expect anything really good from us, regardlcss of whether or not we are gifted. We write mechanically, in submission to the old established order where- by some people are in government service, others in business and still others write. . . . You and Grigorovich hold that I am intelligent. Yes, I am intelligent in that at least I don't conceal my illness from myself, don't lie to myself and don't cover my own emptiness with other people's intellectual rags, like the ideas of the sixties and so on. I won't throw myself down a flight of stairs, like Garshin, but neither will I attempt to flatter myself with hopes of a better future. I am not to blame for my disease, and it is not for me to cure myself, as I have to assume this illness has good aims which are obscure to us and not inflicted without good reason. . . . "It wasn't just the weather that brought them together. . . ."

Well, sir, now as to the intellect. Grigorovich believes the mind can triumph over talent. Byron was as brilliant as a hun- dred devils, but it was his talent that made him immortal. If you tell me that X spoke nonsense because his intellect tri- umphed over his talent, or vice versa, I will reply that X had neither intellect nor talent. . . .

. . . The Heavens guard you!

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To LYDIA MIZINOVA

November 1892, Melikhovo

Trofim!¹

You son of a bitch, if you don't stop showering attentions on Lika, I will drill a corkscrew into you, you cheap riffraff, in the place that rhymes with brass. You—you piece of filth! Don't tell me you don't know that Lika belongs to me and that we already have two children! You pig's tail! You toadstool! Go out into the barnyard and wash yourself in the mud puddle,

1 Trofim was an imaginary lover of Lydia Mizinova.

you'll be cleaner than you are now, you son of a bitch. Feed your mothcr and respect her, but leave the girls alone. You rat!!!

Lika's Lover

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

February 24, i8gMelikhovo . . . Heavens! What a magnificent thing "Fathers and Sons" is! It is beyond words. Bazarov's illncss is donc so powerfully that I could feel myself gctting weak and experiencing a sen- sation as though I had caught his infection. And 13azarov's death? And thc old folks? And Kukshina? The devil knows how he did it. It is simply a work of genius. I do not likc anything about "On the Eve" except Elena's father and the conclusion. This finale is tragic. "The Dog" is vcry good and the language hc uses is striking. Please read it, if you have forgotten it. "Asya" is nice, "The Lull Bcfore the Storm" is a hotchpotch which lcavcs one dissatisficd. "Smoke" I don't likc at all. "A Ncst of Gentlefolk" is weaker than "Fathcrs and Sons," but its finale is also in the nature of a miracle. Exccpt for the old lady in Bazarov, i.e., Eugene's mothcr, and mothers gcnerally, par- ticularly ladies in good society, who by the way are all alike (Lisa's mother, Elcna's mother), as well as Lavretski's mother, a formcr scrf woman, and also thc plain country types, all of Turgcnev's women and young girls are insufferable in their artificiality and, if you will excuse it, their falsencss. Lisa, Elena —these are not Russian girls, but a species of female pythons, crystal-ball gazcrs, crammed with high-flown notions out of harmony with their place in socicty. Irina in "Smokc," Odint- sova in "Fathers and Sons," give thc general impression of being lioncsscs; they arc caustic, insatiable, appctizing wcnches all looking for somcthing or other—and thcy are all trash. When you recall Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, all these Turgenev ladies with their enticing shoulders aren't worth a hoot. His negative

female types—where Turgenev deftly caricatures (Kukshina) or pokes fun (description of balls) —are remarkably drawn and so superbly managed that there isn't a flaw in the fabric, as they say. The descriptions of nature are good, but ... I feel we have outgrown that sort of descriptiveness and something quite dif- ferent is needed.

My sister is getting better, my father also. \Ve are expecting cholera but we do not fear it because we are prepared; not to die, however, but to spend the community's funds. If there is an outbreak of the disease it will take away a great deal of my time.

Keep alive, well and serene. Special regards to Anna Iva- novna.

Yours entirely,

A. Chekhov

\Ve have been sent a lot of Little Russian lard and bologna. Heavenly fare! . ..

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

_ , March 9. 1803. Melikhovo

Tuesday.

Buy a plain copper coffeepot, something like a receptacle for holy water, the kind we used to have, holding six or seven cups. The coffee is always undrinkable in those scientific coffeepots. 1 lb. epsom salts.

I am sending 25 rubles just in case. It is snowing. . . .

A quarter pound of onion and horseradish. \Ve are slaughtering a pig the week before Easter. 5 Ibs. coffee.

Evening: Misha has arrived. He will be back on Thursday and will carry half the baggage for you.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

ApriZ 26, /Bgj, MeZikhovo

Greetings and happy homecoming!

. . . First of all, let me tell you about myself. I'II begin by in- forming you that I am ill. A vile, despicable malady. Not syphilis, but worse—hemorrhoids ... with pain, itching, tension, no sitting or walking and such irritation throughout the entire body that one feels like lying down and dying. It seems to me that nobody wants to understand me and that everybody is stupid and unjust; I am in a bad temper and speak nonsense; I believe my people at home breathe easier when I go out. What a business! My malady cannot be explained either by sedentary living, for I was and am lazy, nor by my depraved be- havior, nor by heredity. I once had peritonitis; in consequence the lumen of the intestines has constricted because of the in- flammation. Sum total: an opcration is necessary. . . .

Well sir, here is a page right out of a novel. This I am telling you in confidence. My brother Misha fell in love with a little countess, wooed her with gentle amours, and before Easter was officially accepted as her fiance. Ardent love, dreams of splen- dor. . . . Eastertime the countess wrote she was leaving to visit her aunt in Kostroma. Up until these last few days there had been no letters from her. The languishing Misha, upon hear- ing that she was in Moscow, went to her home and—will won- ders never cease?—saw people hanging about at the windows and gates of the house. What was happening? Nothing less than that a wedding was taking place within—the countess was marrying a gold-mine owner. How do you like that? Misha came home in despair and has been poking the countess' tender and loving lettcrs under my nose and begging me to solve this psychological problem. A woman can't wear out a pair of shoes without deceiving someone five times over. However, I think Shakespcare has already spoken adequatcly on the subject. . . .

I probably will not go to America, as I have no money. I haven't earned anything since spring, have been ill and exas- perated by the weather. What a good idea it was to put the town behind me! Tell all the Fofanovs, Chermnis and tutti quanti who exist on literature that living in the country is immeasur- ably cheaper than in town. I experience this every day. My family doesn't cost me anything now, since lodgings, bread, vegetables, milk, butter and horses are all my own, not boughten. And there is so much work that time does not suffice. Out of the entire Chekhov family it is only I who may lie down or sit at the table, all the rest toil from morning until night. Drive the poets and fiction writers into the country! \Vhy should they exist as beggars, and on the verge of starvation? Surely city life in the sense of poetry and art cannot offer rich material to the poor man. People live within four walls and only see others in editorial offices and beer houses.

There are many sick people about. For some reason, many consumptives. But keep well, old fellow.

The drought has begun.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

March 27, 1894, Yalta

Greetings!

Here I have been living in Yalta for almost a month in super- boring Yalta, at the Hotel Russia, Room No. 39, with your favorite actress, Abarinova, occupying No. 38. The weather is springlike, it is warm and sunny, and the sea is behaving prop- erly; but the people are utterly dull, drab and dismal. I was an ass to have set aside all of March for the Crimea. I should have gone to Kiev and there devoted myself to the contemplation of the holy places and the Little Russian spring.

My cough has not left me, but still I am heading north to my penates on the fifth of April. I cannot remain here longer and besides I haven't any money, as I took only 350 rubles with me.

If you calculate round-trip traveling expenses, you have 250 rubles left, and you can't do anything rash on that kind of money. If I had a thousand or fifteen hundred, I would go to Paris, which would be desirable for many reasons.

I am healthy generally speaking, but am ailing in several particulars. As an example, I have the cough, palpitations of the heart and hemorrhoids. This business with my heart went on for six days without a stop, and the sensation was a vile one. After cutting out smoking I no longer get into a gloomy or anxious mood. Perhaps because of my no longer smoking, the Tolstoyan morality has stopped stirring me, and in the depths of my soul I feel badly disposed toward it, which is, of course, unjust. Peasant blood flows in my veins, and you cannot astound me with the virtues of the peasantry. From childhood I have believed in progress and cannot help believing, as the difference between the time when I got whipped and the time when the whippings ceased was terrific. I liked superior mentality, sen- sibility, courtesy, wit, and was as indifferent to people's picking their corns and having their leg puttees emit a stench as to young ladies who walk around mornings with their hair done up in curl papers. But the Tolstoyan philosophy had a power- ful effect on me, governed my life for a period of six or seven years; it was not the basic premises, of which I had been pre- viously aware, that reacted on me, but the Tolstoyan manner of expression, its good sense and probably a sort of hypnotic qual- ity. :i\ow something within me protests; prudence and justice tell me there is more love in natural phenomena than in chastity and abstinence from meat. \Var is evil and the court system is evil, but it does not therefore follow that I have to walk around in straw slippers and sleep on a stove alongside a workman and his wife, etc., etc. This, howe,er, is not the crux of the matter, not the "pro and contra"; it is that somehow or other Tolstoy has already passed out of my life, is no longer in my heart; he has gone away saying, behold, your house is left unto you desolate. I have freed myself from lodging his ideas in my brain. All these theories have wearied me, and I read such whistlers in the dark as Max Nordau with revulsion. A sick man with a temperature won't feel like eating, but has a vague desire for something or other, which he expresses by asking for "something sort of sour." I want something sort of sour, too. I am not an isolated case, as I have noted just this kind of mood all about me. It is as though everybody had fallen in love, had got over it and was now looking for some new distraction. It is very possible and very likely that Russians are again becoming enthusiastic over the natural sciences and that the materalistic movement will once more be fashionable. The natural sciences are now performing miracles; they can advance upon the public like Mamai, and subject it to their massiveness and grandeur. However, all this is in God's hands. Once you philosophize your brain starts whirling.