Here in Ufa Province life is dull and uninteresting; I am drinking kumiss, which, apparently, agrees with me pretty well. It is an acid drink similar to kvass. . . .

If your funds are running low send me a blank check, which you can get out of my desk. I have put the receipts from the government bank into one packet, have added another one for 3,700 rubles and have marked it "For M. P. Chekhova." The packet is at Knipper's, and they will tum it over to you. Take care of it, please, or I may lose it.

My health is tolerable at the moment, you might even say good, and I hardly cough any more. I will be in Yalta at the end of July and will stay there until October, then live in Moscow until December and then back again to Yalta. It looks as though my wife and I must live apart—a situation to which, by the way, I am already accustomed. . . .

I shall write you again soon, and in the meantime keep well. I send my deepest respects to Mama. Her telegram was for- warded to me by mail from Moscow. . . .

There is no bathing here. It would be nice to go fishing, but the place is at some distance. Christ be with you.

Your Antoine

T0 VASILI SOBOLEVSKI

June 9, 1901, Aksen0v0

Dear Vasili Mikhaihvich,

. . . Well, sir, I suddenly up and got married. I have already become accustomed, or practically so, to my new state, i.e., to deprivation of certain rights and privileges, and feel fine. My wife is a very decent person, and far from stupid, and a kindly soul.

And so, permit me to await a letter from you, my dear chap. We have a sanatorium here, and kumiss is drunk in quantity; at first life here seems tiresome and pallid, but then you don't mind it so much. Good luck and good health, give my regards to Varvara Alexeyevna and the children; and with all my heart I wish you the best of everything.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

T0 MARIA CHEKHOVN

August 1901, Yalta

Dear Masha,

I will to you for possession during your lifetime my home in Yalta, the money and royalties from my dramatic productions, and to my wife Olga Leonardovna the country home in Gurzuf

! Olga Knipper Chekhova delivered this letter to Maria Chekhova, after Chekhov died.

and five thousand rubles. If you wish, you may sell the real estate. Give our brother Alexander three thousand. Ivan is to get five thousand and Mikhail three thousand. One thousand rubles are to be given to Alexei Dolzhenko2 and one thousand to Elena Chekhova2 upon her marriage. After your death and Mother's death, everything that remains, except for the royalties from the plays, reverts to the Taganrog city administration for public education; royalties from the plays are for brother Ivan, and after Ivan's death are to be assigned to the Taganrog city administration for the same purpose mentioned above. I prom- ised the peasants of Melikhovo Village one hundred rubles to pay for the highway; I also promised Gabriel Alexeyevich Khar- chenko (private house, Moskalevka Street, Kharkov) to pay for his older daughter's secondary school education. . . . Help the poor. Take care of Mother. Live together peaceably.

Anton Chekhov.

To OLGA KNIPPER

August 21, 1901, Sevastopol My sweet, my darling, my g00d wife,

I have just got out of bed, have had my coffee and am cocking an ear to the noise of the wind with a certain amount of alarm. I dare say the crossing will be a violent one. My darling, buy 1 lb. of raffia in some shop, even if it is only Lisitsin's and send it to me in Yalta. You can't get any here in Sevastopol. \Vith it enclose about five cords for my pince-nez. Put in anything else you like, but try to manage not to have the parcel weigh more than two pounds.

I shall leave for Yalta and await your letter there. Don't be lonesome, little one, don't get sick or blue, don't be cross, but be gay and laugh—it suits you very well.

love you very much and will always love you. 1\Iy greetings to all your family. I kiss you firmly a hundred times, embrace

Cousins.

you tenderly and am sketching in my imagination various pic- tures in which you and I figure, and nobody and nothing else. Goodbye, my darling, farewell!

Your boss Anton

To OLGA KNIPPER

August 28, /go/, Ya/

My kitten, my little kitten,

I just got your letter, read it through twice—and kiss you a thousand times. I like the plan of the apartment, and will show it to Masha (she left to see Dunya Konowitzer off on the boat) ; everything is very nice, only why did you put "Anton's study" next to a certain place? Want to get beaten up?

Here are answers to your questions. I am sleeping splendidly [. . . ] my "innards" have been in running order thus far, and I haven't rubbed my neck with Eau de Cologne—forgot to. Yesterday I washed my head.

Yesterday I was at Orlenev's and was introduced to Mme Leventon;1 they share an apartment.

Masha is bringing you some almonds from our tree. You can see what kind of husband I am; I write you every day, in the most exemplary fashion. I am so lonesome without you! . . . It seems to me I have become a regular middle-class householder and cannot live without a wife. . . .

Behave yourself properly, or I'll beat you until it hurts. Write, sweetie, don't be a lazybones.

Your Ant.

To OLGA KNIPPER

September 4, /gor, Ya/

See all the trouble I go to /or you!

With this passport you can live as you please wherever you please, with a husband or without such a character. Except that

1 Mme. Leventon was Alla Nazimova.

you must: (1) sign "Olga Chekhova" on page 6, and (2) regis- ter with the Yalta police that you have received it; you can do this the next time you are in Yalta. So, you see, you are now a regular Yaltan, until the brink of the wave. At first I was in- clined to put you down as the wife of an "honorary academi- cian," but then decided it was incomparably pleasanter being the wife of a medical man.

Live placidly and generously, be a loving soul, and then I will kiss you every day. They tell me "The Three Sisters" was presented in Odessa with great success. I had my hair cut today, washed my head, trimmed by beard, took a walk along the promenade, then dined at home with Dr. Reformatski.

Write every day, or I'll take your passport away. Generally speaking, I intend keeping you strictly in line, so that you will fear and obey me. I'll give it to you!

Your severe husband,

A. Chekhov

Even though I haven't seen our apartment, you speak so well of it that I am satisfied with it sight unseen, very well satisfied, my sweet. Thank you for all the trouble you have taken, God bless you.

To MAXIM GORKI

October 22, i90i, Moscow

My dear Alexei Maximovich,

Five days have gone by since I read your play* and I haven't written you until now for the reason that I just couldn't get hold of Act IV; I kept on waiting—and still am. And so I have only read the three acts, but I think they are sufficient to judge the play. As I anticipated, it is very good, written with the true Gorki touch, a singular thing, very engrossing, and if I may begin by speaking of its defects, I have thus far noted only one,

1 The play was Gorki's Small Folk.

irremediable, like a redhead's red hair—and that is its con- servatism of form. You force new, strange people to sing new songs from a score that looks second-hand; you have four acts, your characters deliver moral lectures, the long-drawn-out pas- sages cause dismay, and so on. But all this is not basically im- portant and is submerged, so to say, in the play's merits. How alive Perchikhin is! His daughter is fascinating and so are Tatiana and Peter, and their mother is an admirable old lady. The play's central figure—Nil—is powerfuly done and extraor- dinarily interesting! In brief, the play grips one from the start. Only, God save you from allowing anyone except Artem to play Perchikhin, and have Stanislavski play Nil without fail. These two people will do them exactly right. Peter should be played by Meierhold. Except that Nil's part, a magnificent one, should be made two or three times longer, the play should end with it and be built around it. Don't contrast Nil with Peter and Tatiana, though, just let him stand on his own feet, and them on theirs; all these remarkable, splendid people, independent of one another. . . .

Plenty of time remains before the staging, and you will man- age to revise your play a good ten times over. What a pity that I have to leave! I would sit in on the rehearsals and send you word whenever it was needed.

On Friday I leave for Yalta. Keep well, and God keep you. My deepest respects to Ekaterina Pavlovna and the children. Let me give you a friendly handclasp and embrace you.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

T0 OLGA KNIPPER

N0vember 2, 1901, Yalta

My sweet little pup, greetings!

... I am in good health, but yesterday and the day before, since the day of my return, in fact, I have been out of sorts and yesterday had to take some ol. ricini. But I am very happy that you are well and merry, my precious, it makes my heart easier. And how terribly I want you now to have a little half-German i to divert you, to fill your life. It should be so, my darling little one! What do you say?

Gorki will soon be passing through Moscow. He wrote me he was leaving Nizhni on the tenth of November. He has prom- ised to revise your part in the play, i.e., give it broader range, has promised a lot generally, and I am extremely happy about it, because it is my belief revisions will not make his play worse, but much better, more rounded.

. . . I haven't been at Tolstoy's2 yet, but am going there to- morrow. People say he is feeling well.

Olya, my dear wife, congratulate me: I have had a haircut!! Yesterday my boots were cleaned—the first time since my ar- rival. My clothes haven't yet had a cleaning. But on the other hand I have been changing my tie every day, and yesterday I washed my head . . . .

I am sending you the announcement from Prague on "Uncle Vanya." I keep on wondering what to send you and can't think of a thing. I am living like a monk and dream only of of you. Although it is shameful making declarations of love at forty, I cannot restrain myself, little pup, from telling you once again that I love you deeply and tenderly.

I kiss you, embrace you and press you close.

Keep healthy, happy and gay. Your Antoine

T0 OLGA KNIPPER

N0vember 9, 1901, YaZ

Greetings, my little darling,

Today's weather is amazing: warm, bright and dry, and quiet —like summer. The roses are blooming and the carnations and

Knipper's family were of Gennan origin. Chekhov meant, of course, that he wanted her to haie a baby.

Tolstoy was lhing in Yalta.

chrysanthemums, and some yellow flowers. Today I sat in the garden for a long time and thought of how splendid the weather is here but how much pleasanter it would be to ride in a sleigh. Forgive me this cynicism.

So Roxanova is again acting in "The Seagull"? Why, they took the play out of the repertory until they could get a new actress for the part and suddenly here's Roxanova in it againl What a beastly business! From the repertory list sent here I also noted that "Ivanov" is in rehearsal. To my way of thinking this is futile, unnecessary toil. The play will be a failure because it is going to get a dull production before an indifferent audience.

I'm going to get all the best authors to write plays for the Art Theatre. Gorki has already done so; Balmont, Leonid An- dreyev, Teleshov and others are in the process of writing. It would be quite proper to assign me a fee, if only one ruble per person.

My letters to you don't satisfy me at all. After what you and I have experienced together, letters mean little; we ought to continue really living. How we sin by not living togetherl But what's the sense of talkingl God be with you, my blessings upon you, my little German female, I am happy you are enjoying yourself. I kiss you resoundingly.

Your Antonio

T0 OLGA KNIPPER

N0vember 17, 1901, Yalta

My sweet little sp0use,

The rumors reaching you about Tolstoy, his illness and even death, have no basis in fact. There are no particular changes in his health and have been none, and death is evidently a long way off. It is true he is weak and sickly-looking, but he hasn't a single symptom to cause alarm, nothing except old age. . . . Don't believe anything you hear. If, God forbid, anything hap- pens, I will let you know by wire. I will call him "Grandpa," otherwise I daresay it won't reach you.

Alexei Maximovich 1 is here, and well. He sleeps at my place and is registered with me. The local policeman was around today.

I am writing and working, but, my darling, working in Yalta is impossible, utterly, utterly impossible. It is remote from the world, uninteresting—and the principal point—cold. . . .

My lamp is burning now in the study. It's not too bad as long as it doesn't stink of kerosene.

Alexei Maximovich hasn't changed, he is the same decent, cultivated, kind man. The only thing in him, or on him, rather, that I find disconcerting is that Russian shirt of his. I can't get used to it any more than to the Court Chamberlain's uniform.

The weather is autumn-like, nothing to boast of.

Well, stay alive and healthy, light of my life. Thank you for the letters. Don't get sick, be a smart girl. Send my regards to the family.

I kiss and embrace you tenderly.

Your husband,

Antonio

I am in good health. Moscow had an astonishingly good effect on me. I don't know whether it was Moscow, or your doing, but I have been coughing very little. . . .

To OLGA KNIPPER

December 7, 1901, Yalta

Dear little miss actress,

How come you are not obeying your husband? "\Vhy didn't you ask Nemirovich to send the last act of "Small Folk"? Please ask him, my sweetheart. How disgusting, how unfortunate that you are not coming to Yalta for the holidays. It seems to me we shall be seeing each other only after many years, when we are both old folks.

1 Gorki was undcr constant police surveillance.

[ 294 ]

I just spoke to Leo Tolstoy over the telephone. I have read the conclusion of Gorki's novel, "Three of Us." It is an extraor- dinarily queer thing. If it hadn't been Gorki who had written it, nobody would have read it. At least so it appears to me.

I haven't been well these last days, my lamb. I took some cas- tor oil, think I have lost a lot of weight, cough and can't do a thing. Today I am better, so that tomorrow I shall probably get back to work again . . . . Solitude, apparently, reacts most per- niciously on the stomach. Joking aside, my darling, when shall we get together again? When shall I see you? If only you could come here for the holidays, even for one day, it would be in- finitely good. However, you know best.

I am writing this on the night of the seventh and will send it out tomorrow, the eighth. You are always attending dinners or jubilees—I am glad, puss, and commend you for it. You are a bright child, you are so sweet.

May the Lord be with you, my dear. I kiss you countless times.

Your Ant.

Don't spend too much money on the play—it won't be a suc- cess anyway. Twelve hundred rubles for dresses—for God's sake! I read Leonid Andreyev while I was still in Moscow, and on my way back to Yalta. Yes, he is a good writer; if he would write more, he would enjoy greater success. There is not much sin- cerity or simplicity in him, and so it is hard to get used to him. But still, sooner or later the audience will get accustomed to him and he'll make a big name for himself.

To VICTOR MIROLUBOV

December /7, /go/, Ya1ta

Dear Fzc<0r Sergeyevich,

I am not well, or not altogether well—that is more like it, and I cannot write. I have been coughing blood and now I feel feeble and ill-tempered as I sit with a hot compress on my side and take creosote and all sorts of trash . . . .

I read the article in "Newv Times" by that policeman Roza- nov,1 which, incidentally, told me of your new activities. My dear fellow, I wish you knew how upset I was! It seems to me you ought to leave St. Petersburg right now—for Nervi or Yalta, it doesn't matter—but leave. \Vhat have you, a fine, up- standing man, in common with this Rozanov, or with that egregiously crafty Sergi, or, finally, with super-satisfied Merej- kowski? I would like to write you at great length but had better restrain myself, all the more so as letters are now read for the most part by those to whom they are not addressed. I will only say that the important thing about the problems engaging you are not the forgotten words, not the idealism, but the con- sciousness of your own decency, i.e., the complete freedom of your soul from all forgotten and unforgotten words, idealisms and the rest of those words that nobody understands. One should believe in God; if one doesn't have faith, though, its place should not be taken by sound and fury but by seeking and more seeking, seeking alone, face to face with one's conscience.

At any rate, keep well. If you decide to come, drop me a line. Tolstoy and Gorki are here and you won't find it dull, I hope.

There is nothing new. I clasp your hand firmly.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

T0 KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI

January 20, 1902, Yalta

Dear K0nstantin Sergeyevich,

To the best of my knowledge (from information obtained by mail) the portraits of writers in the Taganrog library are hung in a row in one big frame. They probably want to put you, too, in the same sort of frame and therefore I believe it

1 Vasili Rozanov was on the sta!I of New Times. Chekhov considered him vain and hypocritical. He had organized a philosophic society with the approval of the St. Petersburg Church authorities and Chekhov is here attacking the hypocrisy of Rozanov and his friends.

would be best without further ado to fonvard a photograph of the usual studio format, without a frame. If a frame proves necessary, you can send it along afterward just as well.

As I read "Small Folk," I felt that the part of Nil was the central one. He is not a mujik, not a skilled workman, but a new man, an intellectualized worker. He doesn't seem to be a finished character, and it would not be a hard or lengthy job to fill him in, and it is a pity, a terrible pity, that Gorki is deprived of the possibility of attending the rehearsals.

May I say incidentally that Act IV is badly done (except for the ending) and since Gorki is deprived of the possibility of attending the rehearsals, it will be very bad.

I clasp your hand cordially and send hearty greetings to you and Maria Petrovna.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To OLGA KNIPPER

January 20, I9o2, Yalta H0w stupid you are, my kitten, and what a little fool!

What makes you so sick, why are you in such a state? You write that life is hollow, that you are an utter nonentity, that your letters bore me, that you feel horror at the way your life is narrowing, etc., etc. You foolish creature! I didn't write you about the forthcoming play not because I had no faith in you, as you put it, but because I do not yet have faith in the play. It is in its faint dawn in my brain, like the first flush of day- break, and I still am not clear as to what sort of thing it is, what will come of it and whether it won't change from one day to the next. If wve were together, I would tell you all about it, but it is impossible to write because nothing gets set down properly, I just write all sorts of trash and then become indifferent to the subject. In your letter you threaten never to ask me about any- thing, or to mix into anything; but what is your reason, my sweet? No, you are my own good girl, you will substitute mercy for wrath when you realize once again how much I love you, how near and dear you are to me, how impossible it is to live without you, my silly little goose. Quit having the blues, quit it! And have yourself a good laugh! I am permitted to be de- pressed, because I live in a desert, without anything to do, don't see people, am sick practically every week, but you? No matter what, your life is a full one.

I had a letter from Stanislavski. He writes a good deal and graciously. Hints that perhaps Gorki's play may not be put on this season. "\Vrites about Omon, about "mesdames, ne vous decolletez pas trop."

Let me say in passing, Gorki intends working on a new play, about life in a cheap flophouse,1 although I have been counsel- ing him to wait a year or two, and to take his time. An author must produce in large quantities, but he must not hurry. Don't you think so, my good wife?

On my birthday, the seventeenth of January, I was in an abominable mood because I was ailing and because the tele- phone kept ringing all day with congratulatory telegrams. Even you and Masha did not spare me! . . .

You write me not to be sad, that we shall see each other soon. What do you mean? Will that be Holy Week? Or earlier? Don't get me excited, joy of my life. You wrote in December that you would be coming in January, got me all worked up, then wrote you would come during Holy "\Veek—and I ordered my soul to becalm itself, withdrew into my shell and now you are again raising a gale on the Black Sea. Why?

The death of Solovtsov,2 to whom I had dedicated my "Bear," was a most distressing event in my provincial life. I knew him well. The newspaper accounts implied that he had made some revisions of "Ivanov" and that I, as the playwright, had taken his advice, but it isn't true.

^ The Lower Depths.

2 Solovtsov was an actor.

And so, my wife, my enchanting creature, my adored, be- loved girl, may God keep you, may you be healthy, gay and mindful of your husband, even if it is only when you go to bed at night. The important thing is not to get depressed. \Vhy, your husband certainly is no drunkard, nor a spendthrift, nor a brawler. I am a regular German husband in my behavior, and even wear warm underdrawers.

I embrace you a hundred times, and kiss you infinitely, wife of mine.

Your Ant.

You write: wherever you poke your nose you hit a stone wall. And where did you poke it?

To OLGA KNIPPER

january j/, /902, YaZ

Greetings, my swee< little O1ya,

How are you? I am just so-so, for living otherwise is not pos- sible. You are in raptures over LV play, but actually it is the work of a dilettante, composed in solemn classical language be- cause its author does not know how to write naturally of Rus- sian life. It seems this L. has been writing for some time, and if you were to go poking around, I wouldn't wonder but what you might turn up some letters of his in my desk. Bunin's "In Autumn" is done with a constrained, tensed hand; at any rate Kuprin's "At the Circus" stands much above it. "At the Circus" is a free, artless, gifted work, in addition to being written by someone who knows the business. But why bother with either! How did we get talking about literature anyway? . . .

Tolstoy felt better yesterday, and now there is hope.

I've received your description of the evening and the placards and thank you, my darling. It made me laugh hilariously. The

1 L. was Anatol Lunacharski and the play was a drama about life in the Renaissance. Lunacharski, after the Bolshevik Revolution, became the first People's Commissar of Education.

wrestlers, Kachalov in big boots, the orchestra under Moskvin's baton, amused me particularly. How jolly your life is and how dreary mine!

Anyway, keep well, my joy, God keep you safe. Don't forget me. Let me kiss and embrace you.

Your German,

Ant.

Tell Masha Mother is already walking about, and is fully re- covered. I am writing this on the thirty-first of January, after tea, and wrote the letter to her in the morning. Everything is fine.

To PYOTR SERGEYENKO

February 2,1902, Yalta

My dear Py0tr Alexeyevich,

Here are the details regarding Leo Nikolayevich.! One eve- ning he suddenly felt ill. Angina pectoris set in, with inter- mittent heartbeats and agony. The doctors who are treating him happened to be visiting me at the time and were summoned by telephone. The next morning they let me know that Tolstoy was in a bad way, that there was scant hope he would pull through and that pneumonia had set in, the type that generally attacks old people before death. This tormenting, expectant mood continued for about two days, and then we got the infor- mation by telephone that the process in the lungs had been ar- rested and that there was hope.

Now Tolstoy is lying on his back, extraordinarily weak, but his pulse is good. Hope has not abated. He is being magnifi- cently treated, among his doctors being Shchurovski of Moscow and Altshuller of Yalta. The fact that Tolstoy has remained alive and that there is hope for him I attribute at least in part to the good offices of these two doctors.

1 Tolstoy.

Thank you for the photograph. There is nothing new, all goes well for the time being. Keep well.

Your

A. Chekhov

T0 MARIA LILINA

February ], 1902, Yalta

Dear Maria Petr0vna,

You are very kind and I thank you very much for the letter. To my regret I cannot tell you anything interesting . . . we grow old, drink medicinal teas, walk around in felt boots. . . . However, there is one bit of news, and most agreeable at that— Leo Tolstoy's recovery. The Count was very seriously ill and had the beginnings of pneumonia, which such old fellows as he usually do not get over. For three days we expected the end and suddenly the old chap brightened up and started giving us hope. At present writing, our hopes have been enhanced con- siderably and when you read this letter, Leo Nikolayevich will probably be quite well.

As to Gorki, he doesn't feel too bad, maintains a cheerful atti- tude but is lonesome and is preparing to set to work on a new play, for which he has already found a theme. To the best of my understanding, about five years hence he will be writing magnificent things; right now he seems to be groping.

What you disclose in confidence about Konstantin Sergey- evich and my wife made me extraordinarily happy. Thank you, now I can take measures and will now proceed on the matter of a divorce.i I'm sending a statement to the Consistory today, to which I will attach your letter, and believe I will be free by spring; but before May I will give it to that spouse of mine properly. She fears me and I certainly don't handle her with kid gloves—she gets it wherever my foot lands!

1 Lilina had jokingly written that her husband was paying attention to Knipper.

Greetings and hearty regards to Konstantin Sergeyevich. My congratulations to you both on the new theatre—I believe in its future success.

My profound compliments to you, I kiss your hand and greet you once more.

Your sincerely devoted

A. Chekhov

To OLGA KNIPPER

February ij, igo2, Yalta

Sweetie, pussy cat,

I will not meet you at the pier, as it will probably be chilly. Don't worry. I will meet you in my study, we will have supper together and then a good long talk.

Yesterday I suddenly and unexpectedly had a letter from Suvorin. This was after a silence of three years. He runs down your theatre but praises you, as it would be embarrassing to abuse you. . . .

It doesn't take three, but five days for letters to reach Yalta. This one, which I am mailing on the thirteenth of February, you will receive the seventeenth or eighteenth. So you seel Con- sequently I will write you one little bit of a letter tomorrow and then—enough! Then, after, a brief interval, I will enter upon my marital responsibilities.

When you arrive, please don't mention a word to me about eating. It is a bore, especially in Yalta. After Masha's departure everything changed again and goes along in the old way, as it did before her arrival, and it could not have been otherwise.

I am reading Turgenev. One eighth or one tenth of what he has written will survive, all the rest will be a mere matter of historical record twenty-five or thirty-five years from now. You don't mean to say you once liked Chichagov, the "Alarm Clock" artist? Heavens!

Why, oh why, does Savva Morozovi have aristocratic guests? Certainly they will cram themselves full of his food and laugh at his expense when they leave, as if he were a Yakut. I would drive those beasts out with a big stick. I have some perfume, but not much, and hardly any Eau de Cologne.

I kiss my sweetheart, my wonderful, beloved wife, and await her arrival impatiently. It is overcast today, not warm, drab, and if it weren't for thoughts of you and your visit, I think I might start drinking.

Now then, let me embrace my little German lady.

Your Ant.

To VLADIMIR KOROLENKO

April 19, 1902, Yalta

Dear F/adimir Galaktionovich,

My wife arrived from St. Petersburg with a 102.2 tempera- ture, quite weak and in considerable pain; she cannot walk, and had to be carried off the boat. . . . Now I think she is somewhat better.

I am not going to give Tolstoy the protest. When I began talking to him about Gorki and the Academy,ia he mumbled something about not considering himself an academician and buried his head in his book. I gave Gorki one copy and read him your letter. For some reason or other I don't think the Academy will hold a meeting on the twenty-fifth of May, as all the academicians will already have left town by the beginning of the month. I also think they won't vote for Gorki a second time and that he'll be blackballed. I want awfully to see you and talk things over. Can't you come to Yalta? I'll be here until the fifteenth of May. I would go to your place in Poltava, but my wife is sick, and will probably be bedridden here for an-

1 Savva Morozov was a wealthy merchant, a liberal and cultured man and an early backer of Ihe Moscow Art Theatre.

la Gorki had been elecled lo Ihe Academy, but the Czar disapproved, and had the election declared null and void. Chekhov and Korolenko wrote a declaration of principles and both resigned from the Academy.

other three weeks. Or shall we see each other after the fifteenth of May in Moscow, on the Volga, or abroad? Write.

I give you a cordial handclasp and send my very best wishes. Keep well.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

My wife sends her greetings.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

June 2, i9o2, M0sc0w

Dear Masha,

We are again in a predicament. The night before Trinity, at 10 o'clock, Olga felt sharp pains in her abdomen (more painful than those she had in Yalta), then followed groans, shrieks, sobbing; the doctors had all gone to their summer homes (the night before a holiday), all our friends had also departed. . . . Thank goodness, Vishnevski appeared at midnight and began dashing around for a doctor. Olga was in torments all night, and this morning the doctor came; it has been decided to put her in Strauch's hospital. Overnight she became hollow-cheeked and thin. . . .

It is now uncertain what I will be doing, when I shall arrive and when I shall be leaving Moscow. Everything has been turned upside down.

Anna Ivanovna1 has an expression on her face as though she were to blame for some reason. She was on the hunt for doctors all night.

shall write later. In the meantime, keep well. Compliments

to Mama. ,, » •

Your Antoine

Olga's illness is the kind that will probably continue for a couple of years.2

^ Anna lvanovna was Olga Knipper's mother.

Olga Chekhova had a miscarriage. Chekhov's postscript, "Olga's illness is the kind that will probably continue for a couple of years," tells us nothing.

T0 KONSTANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI

July 18,1902, Lubim0vkat

Dear K0nstantin Sergeyevich,

Dr. Strauch came here today and found everything in order. He forbade Olga one thing only—driving over bad highways and excessive movement in general, but to my great satisfaction he has permitted her to take part in rehearsals without reserva- tion; she can start her theatre work even as early as the tenth of August. She has been forbidden to travel to Yalta. I am going there alone in August, will return the middle of September and then will remain in Moscow until December.

I like it very much in Lubimovka. April and May were bad months but luck is with me now, as if to make up for all I had gone through; there is so much quiet, health, warmth and pleas- ure that I just can't get over it. The weather is fine and the river is fine, and indoors we eat and sleep like bishops. I send you thousands of thanks, straight from the bottom of my heart. It is a long time since I have spent such a summer. I go fishing every day, five times a day, and the fishing is not bad (yesterday we had a perch chowder). Sitting on the riverbank is too agree- able a pastime to write about. To put it briefly, everything is very fine. Except for one thing: I am idling and haven't been doing any work. I haven't yet begun the play, am only thinking it over. I will probably not start work before the end of August.

. . . Be well and gay, gather up your strength and energy. I press your hand. Yours,

A. Chekhov

T0 MAXIM GORKI

July 29,1902, Lubim0vka

Dear A lexei Maxim0vich,

I have read your play,la which is new and good beyond any doubt. Act II is very good, the very best, the most powerful, and

l Chekhov borrowed the Stanislavski's summer cottage. I» The Lower Depths.

in reading it, especially the end, I almost leaped with joy. The mood is a gloomy, painful one; its novelty will cause the audi- ence to walk out of the theatre and at the least you can say goodbye to your reputation as an optimist. My wife is going to play Vasilisa, the lewd and vile-tempered female; Vishnevski walks around the house acting like a Tatar—he is sure that part will be his. Alas, it is not possible to give Artem the part of Luka, as he will be repeating himself and tire the audience; on the other hand he will play the policeman splendidly, that is really his part; Samarova will do the roommate. The part of the actor, whom you hit off most successfully, offers a magnificent opportunity and should be given to an experienced actor, say Stanislavski. Kachalov will play the Baron.

You have disposed of the most interesting characters by Act IV (except the actor), so you'd better watch out lest something happen on that account. This act can prove boresome and un- necessary, especially if only the mediocre characterizations re- main after the exit of the vigorous and interesting actors. The death of the actor is terrible; it's as though you gave the specta- tor a box on the ear for no good reason, and without preparing him for the blow. It isn't sufficiently clear, either, how the Baron happened to find himself in the flophouse, and why he is a baron.

I am leaving for Yalta around the tenth of August (my wife is remaining in Moscow), then that same month I am returning to Moscow to stay until December, if nothing particular occurs. I will be seeing "Small Folk" and attending the rehearsals of the new play. Can't you manage to break away from Arzamas and come to Moscow if only for a week? I heard that you will be allowed to come to 1Ioscow, that people are interceding for you. . . .

I am living in Lubimovka, Stanislavski's summer cottage, and do nothing but fish from morning to night. The stream here is delightfully deep, with plenty of fish. I have become so lazy I even feel disgusted with myself. . . .

L. Andreyev's "A Dilemma" is a pretentious thing, unintel- ligible and obviously of no use, but it is performed with talent. Andreyev has no simplicity and his talent reminds one of the singing of an artificial nightingale. . . .

Whatever happens, we'll see each other at the end of August. Keep well and happy, don't get lonesome. . . .

Your

A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR KOROLENKO

August 25, /902, Ya/

Dear F/adimir Ga/aktionovich,

Where are you? At home? At any rate, I am directing this letter to Poltava. This is what I wrote to the Academy.* Your Imperial Highness,

In December of last year I received notification of the elec- tion of A. M. Peshkov as an honorary academician; I lost no time in getting in contact with Mr. Peshkov, who was then in the Crimea, was the first to bring him the news of his election and the first to congratulate him. After a lapse of some time, an announcement appeared in the newspapers stating that in view of the investigation of Mr. Peshkov under Article 1035, the election was considered invalid; it was definitely indicated that this announcement emanated from the Academy of Sci- ences. Since I am an honorary academician, this announcement in part came from myself as well. Thus, I was congratulating him heartily and, at the same time, was one of those who were involved in considering his election invalid—and I was unable to reconcile my conscience to this contradiction. A knowledge of the contents of Article 1035 explained nothing. After lengthy reflection I was able to arrive at only one decision, extremely distressing and grievous to me, namely, most humbly to request

1 This was the letter of resignation to the Academy. Peshkov was, of course, Gorki's real name.

Your Imperial Highness to accept my resignation of the title of honorary academician.

There you have it. It's a long-winded composition, drafted on a very hot day; I couldn't, and probably can't do any better.

Visiting you was out of the question. My wife and I wanted to travel along the Volga and the Don, but she fell seriously ill in Moscow again, and we were both in such torments that we couldn't even consider a trip. . . .

I wish you the best of everything, and extend a cordial hand- clasp. Keep well and happy.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To OLGA KNIPPER

September 6, 19^2, Yalta

My little crocodile, my unusual wife,

This is why I didn't get to Moscow despite my promise. Hardly had I got to Yalta when my physical barometer started falling, I began coughing fiendishly and lost my appetite en- tirely. It was no time either for trips or writing. In addition, as if on purpose, there was no rain, a perilous, heat-laden drought that parched one's very soul. As is my custom I wanted to take some Hunyadi Janos water, but the Yalta brand was the arti- ficial variety, and for two days after taking it I had palpitations of the heart.

You see what a dull husband you've got! Today I feel much better, but there is still no rain and it doesn't look as if there will ever be any. I would leave for i\Ioscow, but am afraid of the journey, afraid of Sevastopol, where I would have to remain half a day. And don't you come here. I am ill at ease asking you to visit this sultry, dusty desert; besides, there isn't any spe- cial necessity, as I am already better and will soon be arriving in Moscow.

One hundred rubles for two and a half acres is an absurd, ridiculous price. Please, my sweet one, stop looking at summer cottages, we won't buy one anyhow. We can wait for some spe- cial opportunity, that would be the best of all, or else we can hire a cottage every summer. . . .

In case you want to come here, bring my cuspidor (the blue one, I forgot it), the pince-nez; don't take along any shirts, but the jersey underwear, the Jaeger stuff.

Suvorin stayed here two days, told me all sorts of things, a great deal that was new and interesting, and left yesterday. One of Nemirovich's admirers by the name of Fomin came to see me; he delivers public lectures on "The Three Sisters" and "Three of Us" (by Chekhov and Gorki). He is an honest, high- minded, but obviously not very bright little gentleman. I filled him with a lot of ponderous remarks, saying I did not consider myself a dramatist, that the only one such in present-day Russia was Naidenov and that [Nemirovich's] "In My Dreams" (a play he likes very much) was a middle-class piece and so forth and so on. Whereupon he left.

I am writing to your own Moscow address, since, if I am to believe your last letter, you have already moved to town. And a good thing.

I kiss the mother of my future family and embrace her. . . .

Your A.

T0 OLGA KNIPPER

September /8, /902, Yalta

My exquisite little missis,

I have a real event to relate: we had rain last night. . . . My health has improved immensely, at least I am eating a lot and coughing less; I am not drinking cream because the local prod- uct upsets my stomach and is extremely cloying. To put it briefly, don't worry, everything is all right, and even though things are not at their best, at least they are not worse than usual.

Today I am sad, for Zola has died. It was so sudden and untimely, so to speak. I wasn't particularly devoted to him as a writer, but on the other hand, during these last years, with all the clamor of the Dreyfus affair, I esteemed him highly as a man.

And so we shall soon be seeing each other, my little bug. I am going to stay until you drive me out. I'll manage to bore you, you may rest easy on that score. If you discuss Naidenov's play with him, assure him he has great gifts—no matter what the play is. I am not writing him, as I shall soon be talking with him—you can tell him that. . . .

Don't get into the dumps, it doesn't suit your style of looks. Be a gay little girl, my sweetie. I kiss both your hands, your forehead, cheeks, shoulders . . . .

Your A.

. . . Mother sends her greetings and keeps on complaining you don't write her.

To ADOLF MARXi

October 23, /g02, Moscow

Dear Ado// Fedorovich,

... As to Mr. Ettinger's manuscript, his "Thoughts and Ideas" are put together in an absolutely childish fashion, so that it would be impossible to discuss his book seriously. In addition, all these "thoughts and ideas" are not mine, but those of my characters; for instance, if some character in a story or play of mine asserts that he must kill or steal, it certainly does not sig- nify that Mr. Ettinger has the right to characterize me as an advocate of murder or theft.

I am returning Mr. Ettinger's manuscript. Permit me to wish you all the best, and to remain,

Yours sincerely,

A. Chekhov

i Marx wanted to know if Ettinger's manuscript was worth publishing.

[ 310]

To LEOPOLD SULERJITSKI

November 5, 1902, Moscow

The new theatre is very fine; spacious, bright, no cheap, glaring luxury. The acting remains as ever, i.e., good; there are no new plays, and the only one they did stage did not meet with success. Meierhold is not missed; Kachalov substitutes for him in "The Three Sisters" and turns in a magnificent perform- ance; the rest of their repertory ("Lonely Lives," for instance) has not gone on yet. The absence of Sanin, who is enjoying suc- cess in St. Petersburg, is keenly felt. Box office prices are the same as last year's. They give a superb performance of "Uncle Vanya."

My mother is in St. Petersburg, my sister isn't painting, my wife is well, Vishnevski visits us daily. Last night my wife went to hear Olenina d'Alheim, who is reputed to be an extraordi- nary singer. I am not allowed anywhere and am kept at home for fear that I may catch cold. I will probably not go abroad, but will return to Yalta in December. . . . You know you ought to buy yourself a small plot of ground not far from Moscow and cultivate it, keep busy with the orchard and truck garden and write short stories during the winter. You can buy land or rent it for sixty to ninety years, but it is most important to have it as close as possible to Moscow. . . . Are you treating sick people? It won't do. The best thing is to send the person to a doctor. Let me have the name of the article you are writing. May the heav- enly angels guard you.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To OLGA KNIPPER

December 20,1902, Yalta

My sweet love,

I had a letter today from Alexeyev along these lines: "Gorki's play! and the theatre have had a tremendous success. Olga 1 The Lower Depths.

Leonardovna gleamed like a shining light before an exacting audience." Rejoice, my sweet. Your husband is very pleased and will drink to your health today, if only Masha brings some beer with her.

I am currently having a lot of trouble with my teeth. I don't know when all this stupid business will come to an end. Yes- terday I had a letter from you that was practically unsealed (again!) and today is a sad day for me, since Arseni brought nothing from you from the post office. And today's weather is dismal: warm and quiet, but not even a hint of spring. I sat out on the balcony, basking in the sun and thinking of you, and Fomka, and crocodiles, and the lining of my jacket, which is in shreds. I thought how much you needed to have a little boy to take up your time, to fill your life. You will have a baby son or daughter, my beloved, believe me, but you must just wait and get back to normal after your illness. I am not lying to you, nor am I concealing a single word of what the doctors have told me, cross my heart.

Misha sent some herrings. . . . There is absolutely nothing else to write about, or at least it doesn't seem so, life goes on obscurely and rather emptily. I am coughing. I sleep well, but dream all night long, as is fitting for an idle fellow.

\Vrite me everything in detail, my child, so as to make me feel that I belong not to Yalta, but to the north, that this mournful and empty life has not yet engulfed me. I am hoping to get to Moscow not later than the first of March, i.e., two months from now, but I do not know whether I will do so or not. God keep you, my good little wife, my little red-haired kitten. Just imagine me holding you in my arms and carrying you around the room a couple of hours, kissing and embracing you.. . .

I will write tomorrow. Sleep in peace, my blessed joy, eat properly and think of your husband.

Your A.

December 22, 1902, Yalta . . . Today the news came that Gorki's play "The Lower Depths" had an enormous success and was magnificently per- formed. I am rarely in the Art Theatre, but it seems to me that you have overestimated Stanislavski's role as producer.[4] The theatre is of the most usual sort, and their business is carried on in the most usual way, as it is everywhere, except that the actors are cultivated, very decent people; as a matter of fact they do not gleam with talent but they work hard, love what they do and learn their parts. If much of their repertory has not en- joyed success it is because the play is not suitable or the actors haven't enough of what it takes. Stanislavski certainly is not to blame. You write that he is chasing all the gifted people off the stage of the Art Theatre, but actually during all the five years of its existence not a single person with any pretension to talent has left. . . .

You write, "You are such an amiable person, why have you thrust yourself now into this acting and new-literature circle?" I have thrust myself into Yalta, into this little provincial coun- try town, and that is the root of all the evils besetting me. Regretfully, the new-literature circle considers me an outsider, and old-fashioned; its relations toward me are warm but prac- tically official, and as for the acting circle, that consists only of the letters of my wife, an actress, and nothing more. . . .

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and I wish you good health. . . . Many thanks for the letter, which was very inter- esting.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To SHOLOM ALEICHEM

June /9, /903, Naro Fominjkoye

Dear So/omon Naumovich,

Generally speaking, I am not writing nowadays, or rather I write very little, so I can only give you a conditional promise: I will be very glad to write a story for you if illness does not interfere. As to my already published works, they are at your entire disposal, and a translation into Yiddish to be published in a collectioni for the benelit of the Kishinev victims2 would afford me heartfelt pleasure.

With sincere respect and devotion,

A. Chekhov

I got the letter yesterday, June i8th.

To KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI

Ju/y 28, 1903, Ya/ta

Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,

am so very, very sorry you are not in Yalta now; the weather here is extraordinarily fine, enchanting; it couldn't be any better. . . .

My playi is not done and is moving ahead a little stiffly, a state of affairs I attribute to my laziness, the marvelous weather and the difficulty of the subject. I will write you when I finish, or better yet will wire. Your role, it seems, has come off not badly, though I won't set myself up as a judge, because gen- erally speaking I can hardly form an estimate of a play merely by reading it.

Olga is well and bathes in the sea every day; she fusses over me. My sister is also in good health and the two of them thank you for your greetings and send theirs. Yesterday I saw Mik-

^ The colleciion rcfcrrcd to was printed in Warsaw and included one of Chckhov's storics, "Grim Pcoplc."

This was thc pogrom in the Ukraine that shocked the \Vestern world.

1 Chekbov was at work on The Cherry Orchard.

hailovski-Garin, the engineer and writer, who is building the Crimean railway; he says he is going to write a play.

I am well. ... I press your hand cordially, wish you health and all the best.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

I won't read my play to you because I don't know how to; but I'll give it to you for reading, providing I can get it ready, of course.

To KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI

October ;o, i90ĵ, Yalta

Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,

Thank you very much for the letter and for the telegram. Letters are always very precious to me because, one, I am here all alone, and two, I sent the play off three weeks ago and your letter came only yesterday; if it were not for my wife, I would have been entirely in the dark and would have imagined any old thing that might have crept into my head. When I worked on the part of Lopakhin, I thought it might be for you. If for some reason it doesn't appeal to you, take Gayev. Lopakhin, of course, is only a merchant, but he is a decent person in every sense, should conduct himself with complete decorum, like a cul- tivated man, without pettiness or trickery, and it did seem to me that you would be brilliant in this part, which is central for the play. (If you do decide to play Gayev, let Vishnevski play Lopakhin. He won't make an artistic Lopakhin but still he won't be a petty one. Lujski would be a cold-blooded foreigner in this part and Leonidov would play it like a little kulak. You mustn't lose sight of the fact that Varya, an earnest, devout young girl, is in love with Lopakhin; she wouldn't love a little kulak.)

I want so much to go to Moscow but I don't know how I can

To VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO [rgoj]

get away from here. It is turning cold and I hardly ever leave the house; I am not used to fresh air and am coughing. I do not fear Moscow, or the trip itself, but I am afraid of having to stay in Sevastopol from two to eight, and in the most tedious company.

'Vrite me what role you are taking for yourself. My wife wrote that Moskvin wants to play Epikhodov. 'Vhy not, it would be a very good idea, and the play would gain from it.

My deepest compliments and regards to Maria Petrovna, and may I wish her and you all the best. Keep well and gay.

You know, I haven't yet seen "The Lower Depths" or "Julius Caesar." I would so much like to see them.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO

November 2, igo;, Yalta

My dear Vladimir Ivanovich,

Two letters from you in one day, thanks a lot! I don't drink beer, the last time I drank any was in July; and I cannot eat honey, as it gives me a stomach ache. Now as to the play.

Anya can be played by any actress you'd like, even an utter unknown, if only she is young and looks like a young girl, and talks in a young, resonant voice. This rOle is not one of the important ones.

Var'a's part is more on the serious side, if only Maria Petrovna would take it. If she doesn't the part will turn out rather flat and coarse, and I would have to do it over and soften it. M. P. won't repeat herself because, firstly, she is a gifted actress, and secondly, because Varya does not resemble Sonya or Natasha; she is a figure in a black dress, a little nun-like crea- ture, somewhat simple-minded, plaintive and so forth and so on.

Gayev and Lopakhin—have Stanislavski try these parts

T0 VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO [190J]

and make his choice. If he takes Lopakhin and feels at home in the part, the play is bound to be a success. Certainly if Lopakhin is a pallid figure, played by a pallid actor, both the part and the play will fail.

Pishchik—the part for Gribunin. God have mercy on you if you assign the part to Vishnevski.

Charlotta—a big part. It would of course be impossible to give the part to Pomyalova; Muratova might be good, perhaps, but not funny. This is the part for Mme. Knipper.

Epikhodov—if Moskvin wants the part let him have it. He'll be a superb Epikhodov. . . .

Firs—the role for Artem.

Dunyasha—for Khalutina.

g. Yasha. If it is the Alexandrov you wrote about, the one that is assistant to your producer, let him have it. Moskvin would make a splendid Yasha. And I haven't anything against Leonidov for the part.

10. The passer-by—Gromov.

1 1. The stationmaster who reads "The Sinner" in Act III should have a bass voice.

Charlotta speaks with a good accent, not broken Russian, except that once in a while she gives a soft sound to a con- sonant at the end of a word rather than the hard sound that is proper, and she mixes masculine and feminine adjectives. Pishchik is an old Russian fellow broken down with gout, old age and satiety, plump, dressed in a long Russian coat (a la Simov) and boots without heels. Lopahkin wears a white vest and tan shoes, flails his arms when he is in motion, takes long strides, is lost in thought when he moves about and walks in a straight line. He doesn't cut his hair short and so he frequently tosses his head back; in reflection he strokes his beard back and forth, i.e., from his neck to his lips. I think Trofimov is clearly sketched. Varya wears a black dress and wide belt.

I have been intending to write "The Cherry Orchard" these past three years and for three years have been telling you to hire an actress who could play a part like Lubov Andreyevna. This long waiting game never pays.

I have got into the stupidest position: I am here alone and don't know why. But you are unjust in saying that despite your work it is "Stanislavski's theatre." You are the one that people speak about and write about while they do nothing but criticize Stanislavski for his performance of Brutus. If you leave the theatre, so will I. Gorki is younger than we and has his own life to lead. As to the Nizhni-Novgorod theatre, this is only an episode in his life; Gorki will try it, sniff at it and cast it aside. I may say in this connection that people's theatres and people's literature are plain foolishness, something to sweeten up the people. Gogol shouldn't be pulled down to the people, but the people raised to Gogol's level.

I would like so much to visit the Hermitage Restaurant, eat some sturgeon and drink a bottle of wine. Once I drank a bottle of champagne solo and didn't get drunk, then I had some cognac and didn't get drunk either.

I'll write you again and in the meantime send my humble greetings and thanks. Was it Lujski's father that died? I read about it in the paper today.

Why does Maria Petrovna insist on playing Anya? And why does Maria Fyodorovna think she is too aristocratic to play Varya? Isn't she playing in "The Lower Depths," after all? Well, the devil take them. I embrace you, keep well.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

T0 ALEXANDER VISHNEVSKI

November 190J, YaZ

Dear A1exander Leonidovich,

I got your letter and finally am getting around to thanking you. Since I am coming to Moscow soon, please set aside one seat for me for "Pillars of Society." I want to have a look at this amazing Norwegian play and will even pay for the privilege. Ibsen is my favorite author, you know.

You didn't write how you were getting along, and how your health is. Are you exhausted? I stay put, cough a lot and run to the toilet, if you will pardon the expression, five times a day minimum. One of nature's tricks.

When you dine with us in Moscow, please don't laugh. I press your hand and send you a thousand heartiest greetings. I begged so earnestly in my letters that you not be given a part in "The Cherry Orchard"—now I see my request has been honored.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI

November 23, igoj, Yalta

Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,

Haymaking usually takes place from about the twentieth to the twenty-fifth of June, during which time it seems the corn crake and the frogs are over their summer music and are silent. Only the oriole can be heard. There is no cemetery—there had once been one, but two or three gravestones leaning in disorder are all that remain. A bridge—that is a very good idea. If you can get the train into the action without noise, without so much as a single sound—go ahead. I am not against using the same scenery in Acts III and IV as long as entrances and exits can be conveniently managed.

I am impatiently waiting for the day and hour when my wife will permit me to come to Moscow. Devil take it, I am begin- ning to suspect her of being foxy with me!

The weather here is quite warm, remarkable weather, but when one recalls Moscow and the Sandunov baths all this de- light seems stale and unprofitable.

I sit in my study and keep looking at the telephone. I get my telegrams by telephone and am expecting every minute to be summoned at last to Moscow.

I press your hand heartily and am everlastingly grateful for your letter. Keep well and happy.

Yours,

A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

June 6, 1904, Berlin

Dear Masha,

I am writing you from Berlin, where I have been for the last twenty-four hours. Moscow got awfully cold after you left; there was snow and I probably caught cold on account of it, had rheumatic pains in my arms and legs, couldn't sleep, got ter- ribly thin, had morphine injections, took thousands of assorted medicines and gratefully recall only heroin, which Altshuller had once prescribed for me. At departure time I picked up new strength, my appetite carne back, I started dosing myself with arsenic, and so on and so forth, and finally left for abroad on Thursday, very skinny, with very thin, spindling legs. I had a really good, pleasant journey. Here in Berlin we have taken a comfortable room in the very best hotel and are enjoying our stay thoroughly; it's been a long time since I've eaten as well, with as much appetite. The bread here is marvelous and I eat too much of it, the coffee is excellent and as for the dinners, they are beyond words. People who haven't been abroad don't know what good bread means. There isn't any decent tea here (we brought along our own), no appetizers, but on the other hand all the rest is superb, despite its being cheaper than at horne. I've already put on weight and today even took quite a long drive to the Tiergarten, although it was cold. And so you can tell Marna and everyone interested that I am getting better, or even that I am already better, my legs no longer ache, I don't have diarrhea, am beginning to fill out, am on my feet all day, and don't lie down. Tomorrow I am having a visit from the local celebrity—Prof. Ewald, a specialist in intestinal ailments; Dr. Taube wrote him of me.

I drank some wonderful beer yesterday. . . . Do keep well and in good spirits, and may the heavenly angels guard you. Give my greetings to Mama and tell her everything is fine now. I'll leave for Yalta in August. Regards also to Grandma, Arseni and Nastya. . . . Let me kiss you.

Your

A. Chekhov

We forgot to take along our dressing gowns.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

June 8, 1904, Berlin

Dear Masha,

Today we leave Berlin for our prolonged residence on the Swiss border, where it will probably be very boresome and very hot. My address is: Herrn Anton Tschechow, Badenweiler, Germany. As that is the way they spell my name on my docu- ments here, it must be the way it should be written in German.

It is somewhat cold in Berlin, but nice. The worst thing here, the thing that intrudes upon your vision piercingly, are the out- fits of the local ladies. There is a horrible lack of taste, nowhere do they dress as abominably, with complete absence of taste. I haven't seen a single handsome woman and not one who isn't trimmed up with some variety of absurd braid. Now I under- stand why taste is grafted so slowly and painfully upon the Moscow Germans. On the other hand, life in Berlin is most comfortable, the meals are delicious, the prices not high, the horses are well fed, the dogs, which are harnessed to little carts, are also well fed, and the streets are clean and orderly. . . .

My legs don't ache any more, I am eating splendidly, sleep well and dash around Berlin, but my one trouble is shortness of breath. I bought myself a summer suit today, Jaeger caps, etc., etc., This stuff is much cheaper than it is in Moscow. . . .

Regards to Mama and Vanya. Have a good time and don't get downhearted if you can avoid it. I press your hand warmly and kiss you.

Your Anton

T0 MARIA CHEKHOVA

june 12, /904, Badenwei1er

Dear Masha,

. . . Villa Friederike, like all the local houses and villas, is a private house situated in a luxuriant garden, exposed to the sun, which shines upon me and keeps me warm until seven in the evening (after that hour I stay indoors). 'Ve take both room and board here. For fourteen or sixteen marks a day we have a double room flooded with sunlight, with a washstand, beds, etc., etc., a desk, and the most important thing—marvelous water which is like seltzer. The general impression is one of a big garden, with tree-covered mountains in the background, few people, very little movement on the streets, the garden and the flowers beautifully tended; but today for no good reason we had rain, and I must sit indoors, and it seems to me that another few days like this and I will start thinking of how I can get away.

I continue eating butter in enormous quantities—and with- out effect. I can't stand milk. The local doctor, Schwohrer (mar- ried to a girl from Moscow named Zhivo), has turned out to be proficient and pleasant.

From here we may perhaps take the sea route to Yalta by way of Trieste, or some other port. I am gaining health here in leaps and bounds. At least I have learned the right way to keep myself well fed. I am absolutely forbidden coffee; they say it has a laxative effect. I am already beginning to eat an occasional egg. God, how frightfully the German women dress!

I am living on the ground floor. If you could only have some idea of the sunshine we have here! It doesn't burn, but caresses. I have a comfortable armchair in which I can sit or lie down.

I will buy you a watch without fail, I haven't forgotten. How is Mama's health? How are her spirits? Write me. Give her my regards. Olga is going to the dentist here, a very good one.

Well, keep healthy and merry. I'll write you again in a few days.

I bought a lot of this paper in Berlin, and envelopes as well. I kiss you and press your hand.

Your A.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

June i6, 1904, Badenweiler

Dear Masha,

I had your first postcard today, thanks a lot. I am living among the Germans and have already become accustomed to my room and my regime but just cannot ever get used to Ger- man peace and quiet. There's not a sound in the house or out- side it, except for a band in the garden at 7 in the morning and at noon, expensive, but no talent in the playing. You feel there isn't a drop of talent in anything, not a drop of taste, but on the other hand there is order and honesty, and to spare. Our Russian life is much more talented, and as for the Italian or the French, they are beyond comparison.

My health has improved and when I walk I no longer feel aware of my illness, and just walk around calmly; my shortness of breath has abated, nothing aches, but my illness has left me painfully thin, and my legs are skinnier than they have ever been. The German doctors have turned my life upside down. At 7 a.m. I have tea in bed, and it must definitely be in bed, for some reason or other; at 7:30 a German who is a sort of masseur comes in and rubs me with water, which is not so bad; then I have to lie down for a while, after which I get up and drink acorn cocoa and with it eat an enormous quantity of butter. At 10 o'clock oatmeal, thin, unusually delicious and aromatic, not at all like our Russian stuff. Fresh air and bask- ing in the sun. Reading the newspapers. Dinner at one in the afternoon, at which I can't help myself to all the courses, but eat only those that Olga chooses for me on orders from the German doctor. Cocoa again at 4 o'clock. Supper at 7. Before going to bed I have a cup of strawberry tea to make me sleep. There is a lot of quackery in all this, but a lot that is actually good, the oatmeal, for instance. I'm going to take some of their oatmeal with me.

Olga has just left for Switzerland, to have her teeth fixed in Basle. She will be horne at 5 this afternoon.

I want terribly to go to Italy. I'm very glad Vanya is with you and give him my regards. Give them to Marna, too. . . .

I am glad everything is going well at horne. I will remain here another three weeks probably, then spend a short time in Italy, and on to Yalta, perhaps by the sea route.

\Vrite oftener. Tell Vanya to wvrite, too. Keep well and happy. I kiss you.

Your A.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA1

June 28, igo4, Badenweiler

Dear Masha,

A fierce heat wave has come upon us and caught me unawares, as I have only my winter suits with me. I am stifling and am considering leaving here. But where to go? I would like to visit Como in Italy but everybody there has run away on account of the heat. All southern Europe is hot. I would like to take the steamer from Trieste to Odessa but don't know how feasible this is during June and July. \Vould you mind perhaps inquir- ing from Georgie what kind of boats they have on that run?

1 This is the last letter Chekhov 'uote. He died four days later in Baden- weiler, on July 2, 1904.

Have they comfortable accommodations? Do they make long stops, is the food good, etc., etc.? This would be an invaluable trip for me, but only if the ship were a good one. George2 would do me a great favor if he would cable me at my expense. The cable should take this form: "Badenweiler Tschechow. Bien. 16. Vendredi." These words would mean: bien—the steamer is all right. Sixteen—number of days the trip takes, Vendredi—the day the steamer leaves Trieste. Of course I am only giving the form of the cable, and if the steamer leaves on a Thursday it certainly won't do to write Vendredi.

It won't be a calamity if the trip is a somewhat hot one, as I will be wearing a light flannel suit. I might as well confess I am rather afraid of making it by train. The coaches are suffocating in this kind of weather, especially with my shortness of breath, which the least little nothing makes worse. Besides, there are no sleeping cars from Vienna right through to Odessa, so it would be a restless trip. Then too, the train gets one home faster than necessary and I haven't yet had my fill of traveling.

It is very hot, enough to make you strip. I just don't know what to do. Olga went to Freiburg to order my flannel suit— there are no tailors or shoemakers in Badenweiler. She took the suit Duchard made for me as a sample.

am eating really delicious food, but not much of it as my stomach is always getting out of order. I daren't eat the butter here. Apparently my stomach has been hopelessly spoiled and it is hardly possible to set it to rights by any means short of fast- ing, i.e. to stop eating—and that's that. As for the shortness of breath, there is only one remedy—not to move.

You don't see a single decently dressed German woman, the lack of taste is depressing.

Keep well and happy, regards to Mama, Vanya, George, Auntie and all the rest. Write. I kiss you and press your hand.

Your

A.

Chekhov's cousin George worked for a steamship line.

INDEX


Academy of Sciences, 205, 259-260, 263,

303, 303^, 307 Alarm Clock, The, 7, 16 Alexander Theatre, 250 Altshuller, Doctor Isaac, 267, 300, 320 Andreyev, Leonid, 293, 295, 307 Andreye,a, Maria, letter to, 282 Anna Karenina, 57, 174 Annals of Surgery, 190 to 191 Antigone, 225

Artem, Alexander, 291, 306, 317 Artist, The, 181 Astyrev, Nikolai, 166, i66n Asya, 174

Avilova, Lydia, letters to, 163, 212, 225,

237

Balmont, Konstantin, 293 Barantsevich, Kasimir, 259 Baryatinski, Prince, 259 Batushkov, Fyodor, letter to, 261 Bear, The, 57• 66, 298 Bertenson, Doctor Lev, 73 Bourget, Paul, 82, 82n, 83, 84, 187 Bunin, Ivan, 5, 299

Burenin, Victor, 41, 65, 135, 135^, 168,

243

Bykov, Pyotr, letter to, 164 Byron, Lord, 173

Cantani, Method, 167, 169 Chekhov, Alexander, x,i, X\ii, 45, 288; letters to, 22, 40, 42, 47, 181, 185, 197. 209, 221, 222, 234, 240, 2,13 Chekhov, Ivan, 47, 151, 160, 201, 276,

285, 288, 324; letter to, 142 Chekhov, Mikhail, 123, 135, 147, 148, 155. 160, 175. 176, 288, 312; letters to, 45^ 141, *93, 226, 264 Chekhov, Nikolai, xvi, xvii, 6, 22, 43, 105, 107, 160; letter to, 10

Chekhov, Mitrofan (uncle). 28, 29, 34, 39. 182

Chekhov, Pavel, xiv, xv, 48, 88, 135, 182, 185, 186, 186n, 201 209, 226, 227 Chekhova, Elena, 288 Chekhova, Evgenia, xiv, xv, 47, 135, 182, 201, 209, 214, 226, 227, 240, 265, 267, 274-275, 278, 279, 286, 287, 288, 300, 310, 311, 323; letter to, 122; tele- gram to, 286 Chekhova, Maria, 47, 89, 195, 201, 203, 208, 258, 26o, 271, 273, 276, 279, 2870, 288, 289, 298, 300, 302, 311, 312, 314; letters to, 25, 36, 37, 101, 103, 105, 108, 135, 139. 140, 143, 146, 175, 184, 212, 238. 245, 267, 274, 286, 287, 304, 320, 321, 322, 323, 324 Chekhova, Olga, see Knipper, Olga Chekhova, Olga Hennanovna, letter to, 220

Chekhova, Sasha, 184

Cherry Orchard, The, xxv, xx\i, 204,

Children, The, 136 Chirikov, Evgeni, 237, 270 Cosmopolis, 187 Cosmopolis (magazine) ,216 Ciar Fyodor loannovich, 223, 223^

D'Alheim, Olenina, 311 Daiidov, Denis, 172 Davidov, Vladimir, 40, 43, 66, 77 Diaghilev, Serge, 243 Diakonov, Pyotr, 190 Dilemma, A., 307 Diversion, 7 Dog, The, 174 Dolzhenko, Alexei, 288 Dragon Fly, 161

Dreyfus Case, 201-202, 216 to 220, 221, 2410, 310

Duel, The, 1480, 155, 161 Duse, Eleanora, 139

Eberle, Varvara, 180

Enel, Alexander, 229; letter to, 210

Eugene Onegin, 57, 144^

Fair, The, 241 Father Petrov, 242, 2420 Fathers and Sons, 174 Faust, 179

First-class Passenger, The, 64 Fofanov, Konstantin, 97, 970, 177 Folly of the Mir, 231 Foma Gordeyev, 244, 248, 266, 270 Fragments, 6, 6n, 16

Galkin-Vraski, Mikhail, 840, 129, 169;

letter to, 84 Garshin, Vsevolod, 97, 970, 173 Glama, Alexandra, 40 Gloomy People, 95, 950, 161 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, Xviii, 12, 83 Gogol, Nikolai, i$2n, 318 Goltsev, Victor, 60 Goncharov, Ivan, 81, 810 Gorki, Maxim, 204, 205, 237, 241, 261, 272, 274, 275, 292, 293, 294, 294«, 295, 2g6, 297, 298, 301, 303, 3030, 307, 3o;n, 309, 311, 313, 318; letters 10, 228, 230, 241, 242, 244, 248, 265, 270, 27/. 290 305 Grigormich, Dmitri, 66, 78, 136, 173;

letters to, 8, 23 Grim People, 3141

Herald of Europe, 52, 61, 70, 100, 195 Hingley, Edward, 5 Hirshman, Leonard, 216 Humboldt, Alexander, 91, g1n Huntsman, The, g

Ibsen, Henrik, 319 Inhabitant (Alexander Dykov) , 168 h My Dreams, 309 h the Twilight, 52, 106, 161, 232 Ivatiov, xiii, 5, 40, 40^, 42, 43, 68, Gg. 6gn^ 70 71 72 73^ 74, 75, 76, 77^ 8i 82, 250, 293, 298

Just, Elena, 232, 242 (see also Shav- rova, Elena)

Ka^alov, Vasili, 306, 311

Karelin's Dream, 23, 24, 25

Karpov, Evtikhi, 256, 2560

Kennan, George, 91, 91n, 158

Khudekov, Sergei, 67

KiAeyev, Pyotr, 41, 410, 42

Kiseleva, Maria, 4; letters to, 15, 17,

143

Kiselevski, Ivan, 40, 41, 43, 75 Knipper, Anna, 254, 254n, 304, 304^ Knipper, Olga, 204, 205 to 207, 224^, 225, 245, 2550, 286, 287, 2870, 2920,

303, 304, 304"* 305, 306, 311, 312, 314,

317, 323, 324, 325; letters to, 243, 246, 249, 250 253, 255, 257, 267, 26g, 271, 272, 273, 275, 277, 278, 283, 284, 288, 28g, 291, 292, 293, 294, 297, 299, 302, 308, 309, 311 Koch, Robert, 134, 135 Kommisarjevskaya, Vera, 196, 197, 275 Kondakov, Nikodim, 259 Koni, Anatol, 137, 216; letter to, 1g6 Kononovich, General, 129 Korolenko, \'ladimir, 21, 44, 135, 157, 171, 219, 223, 229, 3030; letters to, 303, 307

Korsh, Fyodor, 16, 40, 41, 57, 59, 63 Kovalevski, Maxim, 218, 2180 Kreutzer Sonata, 85, 88, 1520, 260 Krylov, Ivan, 14, 14^, 53 Kiimanin, Fyodor, 181 Kund^va, Olga, 102, 102n, 136, 186, 1860

Kuprin, Alexander, 299 Kurkin, Pyotr, letter to, 260

Lanov, Vukol. xxi, xxii; letter to, 99 Leikin, Nikolai, 60, 45, 63, 65, 163, 164,

183; letter to, 6 Lenin, Nikolai, 2420 Leontiev (Shcheglov) , Ivan, 46, 55, 64,

67, 136, 161; letters to, 49, 95, 125 Lehman, Anatoli, 49 Letters to a Govemors Jl!ife, 152, 1520 Levitan, Isaac, 17, 18, 19, 43, Sg, 102,

136, 141, 147, 256, 258 Life, 231, 249, 258, 270

Lights, The, 54, 58 Lilina, Maria, 316, 318; letter to, 301 Lintvarev Family, 51, 52, 53, 54 Little Cyril, 231

Lonely Lives, 255^, 258, 258^, 267, 277, 284^, 311

Lower Depths, 2g8, 2g8n, 305 to 306,

311, 3'3> 316, 318 Lull Before the Storm, 174 Lunacharski, Anatol, 299, 2ggn

Magarshack, David, xxi

Malkiel, Maria, 243; letter to, 256

Malva, 229, 241

Maly Theatre, 236, 238^

Mamyshev, Vassili, 60

Manasevich, Albert, 26g, 26gn

Marx, Adolf, 233, 234, 2340, 235, 238,

240, 250, 264, 274; letter to, 310 Marx, Karl, 53

Maslov-Bejetski, Alexei, 42, 43, 63^, 136

Meierhold, Vsevolod, 258, 268, 291, 311 Menshikov, Mikhail, letter to, 262 Merejkowski, Dmitri, 55, 550, 62, 142, 296 Mikhail Kramer, 285 Mikhailov (Alexander Sheller), 73, 73" Mikhailovski, Nikolai, 4, 72, 259 Mikhailovski-Garin, M. G., 314, 315 Mire, 17, 20

Mirolubov, Victor, 180; letter to, 295 Mizinova, Lydia, 8g, 136; letters to,

^50, '73- ^79 Morozov, Savva, 303, 303^ Morozova, Varvara, 159, 15gfl, Moscow Art Theatre, xxiv, 202, 203, 204, 205, 225", 249, 254, 256, 258, 268, 26grc, 271, 2840, 285, 293, 3030, 311,

3'3^ 316-317

Moscow News, 42 Moscow Reports, 42 Moskvin, Ivan, 2230, 300, 316, 317 Motley Stories, 161, 232 My 266

Nadson, Semyon, 171 Naidenov, Sergei, 309, 310 Nazimova, Alla, 28g, 28gn

Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir, xxiv, 202, 203, 215, 223, 238, 268, 277, 279, 280, 281, 294, 3og; letters to, ig8, 224, 232, 256, 257", 316 Nervous Breakdowrt, 66 Nest of Ge^tlefolk, A, 174 New Times, 3, 4, 16, 34, 37, 38, 43, 45, 49^ 67, 79, 95, 125, 1360, 158, 159, 216, 221, 222n, 223, 235, 239, 258, 264, 265, 295, 2g6, 2g6n York Times, 158 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 188 Nizlmi Novgorod Blade, 270 Nordau, Max, 179 Nort/i, The, 181 Northern Courier, 259 Northem Herald, 44, 49, 52, 58, 6o, 61, 95, 100

Obolenski, L. E., 21

O^ the Eve, 174

Oh the High Road, ioh

Oh the Rafts, 229, 230

Oh the Road, 17, 21

Oh the Steppe, 228, 230, 237, 241, 249

Orlov, Ivan, letter to, 235

Orlov-Davidov, Count, 170, 171

Ostrovski, Alexander, 2760

Ostrovski, Pyotr, 94

Ouida, 148

Ozerova, Ludmilla, i8g

Palmin, Liodor, 67

Party, The, 57, 58, 59

Peasartts, The, 261

Petrov, Father, 242, 2420

Physiciao, The, 200

Pillars of Society, 318

Pleshcheyev, Alexei, 46, 52, 54, 133;

letters to, 44, 55, 85 Pola^etskis, The, 187 Porphiri, Bishop, 234 Potapenko, Ignati, 88, 135, 181, 187,

'95' 195n, 208, 223, 229, 264 Power of Dark^ess, The, 18g Prmcess, The, 68 Pushkin, Alexander, 148, 1480 Pushkin Prize, 87. 870, 161, 252

Repin, llya, 95, 950, 171, 261

Resurrection, 210, 263, 270 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 276n Roche, Denis, 261, 26m Rossolimo, Grigori, letter to, 251 Roxanova, Maria, 242», 249, 293 Rozanov, \'asili, 296, 2g6n Rudin, 74 Russian Sews, 185 Russian Reports, 158, 159, Russian Thought, 15, 16, 99, loo

St. Petersburg Ga:ette, 7, 16, 34, 37, 189

St. Petersburg Reports 24 Sakhalin Island, 88, 169, 182, 200 Sanin, Alexander, 284, 284^, 311 Sa \ina, Maria, 66, 69 Schechtel, Franz, 10, 43 Schedrin (Mikhail Saltykov), 15, 15^ Seagull, The, x.x, xxv, S9, S9n, go, 189, 189^, 192, 193, 193^, 194, 195-196, 197, 202, 203, 204, 224, 232-233^ 237- 238, 241, 242, 249, 25jn, 264. 293 Sergeyenko, Pyotr, 199. 199^, 233; let-

ter to, 300 Shavro\'a, Elena, letters to, 153, 192,

195 (see also Just, Elena) Shishkin, Ivan, 171 Sholom Aleichem, letter to, 314 Sibiryak-Mamin, Dmitri, 106, 229 Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 187-188 Simono\', Ale.xander, 106, 107 Sklifasovski, N. V., 1go, 191 Small Folk, 290-291, 290^, 294, 297, 306 Smoke, 174

Snow Maiden, The, 276, 276^, 277 Sobolevski, Vasili, 160, 215; letters to,

211, 287 SolovtSOv, K N., 298, 298^ Stanislavski, Konstantin, xxiv, xxv, 202, 203, 204, 223, 232, 2420, 257, 25;n, 272, 291, 298, 301, 3050, 306, 311, 313, 316, 318; letters to, 280, 282, 296, 305,

314- 3^ 3^9 Steppe, The, 44, 45», 46 Story of a Horse, 153 Strindberg, August, 242 Sulerjitski, Leopold, letter to, 311 Suvorin, Alexei, xxii, 3, 9, 17, S9, 90, 104, 136, 157, i86n, 201, 202, 221-222,

223, 239-240, 2410, 256, 264, 265, 302, 309; letters to, 51, 56, 6o, 64, 67, 69, 77^ 79, S0, 82, 91, 98, 119, 126, 129^ ^31 ^33^ qS, q9, 150 l52, ^5, 162, 165, 167, 171, 174. 176, 177, 182, 186, 187, 189, 191, 192, 194, 208, 215, 216, 223, 231, 233, 259, 313 Suvorina, Anna, 43, 45- 46, 59. 6°, ^95,

265; letters to, 214, 239 Swan Song, 21n

Tales from the Life of My Friends, 79 Tatiana Repina, 82 Tatishchev, Sergei, 170 Tchaikovski, Modest, letter to, 94 Tchaikovski, Pyotr, 54, 95 Teleshov, Nikolai, 293 Three of Us, 295^ 309 Three Sisters, The, 90, 204, 272, 272n, 273- 273n, 274^ 275, 277, 278, 280, 281, 281n, 283, 285, 290, 309, 311 Three }'ears, 186n Thunder and Lightning, 66 Tikhomirov, Joasaph, letter to, 281 Tikhonov, Vladimir, letter to, 160 Tiresome Tale, A, xix, 6, 87, 207 Tolstoy, Count Alexei, 2230 Tolstoy, Leo, x\iii, x.ix, xxvii, 4, 5^ 18, 21, 85, 95^ 106, q8, 152, 152^, 153, 155. 156, 161, 166, 1 74^ i 78, 182n, 188, 189, 191, 201, 208, 210, 216, 231, 241, 260, 262-263, 264, 265, 279, 280, 28on, 285, 285", 292, 293, 295, 296, 299, 300, 301, 303

Turgenev, Ivan, xviii, 18, 69, 174 to

175, 183, 218, 302 Ta'ent)'-$ix Men and a Girl, 270

Uncle Vanya, 90, 204, 227, 228, 2360, 238, 238^, 239, 249. 250, 250^, 253^ 255. 255^, 256, 257, 265, 267, 271, 282, 292, 311 Uspenski, Gleb, 135, 158

Vasilievski, Ippolit, 185 Veresayev (Vikenti Smido\ ich), 237 Veselitskaya, Lydia, 195, 1950 Vishnevski, Alexander, 257, 267, 269, 271. 273, 304, 306, 311, 315, 317; let- ter to, 318

Visiting with Friends, 216

Von Hildeband, Baroness, 12gn, 135

Voltaire, 219

War and Peace, 155, 156 Ward No. 6, 171, 208 Wedding, The, 91 Wild Duck, The, 285 Witch, The, 9

Witte, Count Serge, 182 to 183, 191 Wood Demon, The, 81-82, go, 95, 204

World Wide Illuitration, 164 to 165

Yakovenko, Vladimir, letter to, 200 Yasinski, Ieronym, 99, 164 Yasnaya Polyana, 182, 182n Yegorov, Yevgraf, letter to, 156 Yevreinova, Anna, 66

Zlatovratski, Nikolai, 97, 97^ Zola, Emile, 15, 201, 216-220, 221, 222, 222n, 241^, 309-310

I Chekhov's brother was looking for early Chekhov stories for the new edi- tion about to be published by Maarx

1 The Snow Maiden was a play by A. N. Ostrovski. It was made into an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov.


[1] get a nauseous feeling when I write. I have no money and if I didn't have the faculty of living off other people I don't know what I'd do.

You can smell the acacias. Ludmila Pavlovna has gotten stout and resembles [...] very much. No intelligence can fathom the profundities of her intellect. When I listen to her, I am lost in wonder before the inscrutable fates which sometimes create such rare pearls.

Incomprehensible creation! I haven't yet forgotten my anatomy, but contemplating her skull I begin to disbelieve in the existence of the substance termed brain.

Uncle is delightful and just about the best of anyone in town.

A. Chekhov

[2] Kicheyev was the critic on a Moscow newspaper who denounced the play as "coldly cynical," "profoundly immoral," etc.

[3] Chekhov referred to the demonstrations of the First of May. He used the old Russian calendar.

[4] The Russians, like most Europeans, use the word "producer" to mean the man who directs the play. They use "direclor" to mean the general head of the theatre, a kind of manager for the acling company and the Iheatre itself.

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