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