LETTERS OF ANTON CHEKHOVTO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS

WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

Of the eighteen hundred and ninety letters published by Chekhov's family Ihave chosen for translation these letters and passages from letters whichbest to illustrate Chekhov's life, character and opinions. The brief memoiris abridged and adapted from the biographical sketch by his brother Mihail. Chekhov's letters to his wife after his marriage have not as yet beenpublished. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

In 1841 a serf belonging to a Russian nobleman purchased his freedom andthe freedom of his family for 3, 500 roubles, being at the rate of 700roubles a soul, with one daughter, Alexandra, thrown in for nothing. Thegrandson of this serf was Anton Chekhov, the author; the son of thenobleman was Tchertkov, the Tolstoyan and friend of Tolstoy. 

There is in this nothing striking to a Russian, but to the English studentit is sufficiently significant for several reasons. It illustrates howrecent a growth was the educated middle-class in pre-revolutionary Russia, and it shows, what is perhaps more significant, the homogeneity of theRussian people, and their capacity for completely changing their whole wayof life. 

Chekhov's father started life as a slave, but the son of this slave waseven more sensitive to the Arts, more innately civilized and in love withthe things of the mind than the son of the slaveowner. Chekhov's father, Pavel Yegorovitch, had a passion for music and singing; while he was stilla serf boy he learned to read music at sight and to play the violin. A fewyears after his freedom had been purchased he settled at Taganrog, a townon the Sea of Azov, where he afterwards opened a "Colonial Stores. "

This business did well until the construction of the railway toVladikavkaz, which greatly diminished the importance of Taganrog as a portand a trading centre. But Pavel Yegorovitch was always inclined to neglecthis business. He took an active part in all the affairs of the town, devoted himself to church singing, conducted the choir, played on theviolin, and painted ikons. 

In 1854 he married Yevgenia Yakovlevna Morozov, the daughter of a clothmerchant of fairly good education who had settled down at Taganrog after alife spent in travelling about Russia in the course of his business. 

There were six children, five of whom were boys, Anton being the third son. The family was an ordinary patriarchal household of the kind common at thattime. The father was severe, and in exceptional cases even went so far asto chastise his children, but they all lived on warm and affectionateterms. Everyone got up early, the boys went to the high school, and whenthey returned learned their lessons. All of them had their hobbies. Theeldest, Alexandr, would construct an electric battery, Nikolay used todraw, Ivan to bind books, while Anton was always writing stories. In theevening, when their father came home from the shop, there was choralsinging or a duet. 

Pavel Yegorovitch trained his children into a regular choir, taught them tosing music at sight, and play on the violin, while at one time they had amusic teacher for the piano too. There was also a French governess who cameto teach the children languages. Every Saturday the whole family went tothe evening service, and on their return sang hymns and burned incense. OnSunday morning they went to early mass, after which they all sang hymns inchorus at home. Anton had to learn the whole church service by heart andsing it over with his brothers. 

The chief characteristic distinguishing the Chekhov family from theirneighbours was their habit of singing and having religious services athome. 

Though the boys had often to take their father's place in the shop, theyhad leisure enough to enjoy themselves. They sometimes went for whole daysto the sea fishing, played Russian tennis, and went for excursions to theirgrandfather's in the country. Anton was a sturdy, lively boy, extremelyintelligent, and inexhaustible in jokes and enterprises of all kinds. Heused to get up lectures and performances, and was always acting andmimicking. As children, the brothers got up a performance of Gogol's"Inspector General, " in which Anton took the part of Gorodnitchy. One ofAnton's favourite improvisations was a scene in which the Governor of thetown attended church parade at a festival and stood in the centre of thechurch, on a rug surrounded by foreign consuls. Anton, dressed in hishigh-school uniform, with his grandfather's old sabre coming to hisshoulder, used to act the part of the Governor with extraordinary subtletyand carry out a review of imaginary Cossacks. Often the children wouldgather round their mother or their old nurse to hear stories. 

Chekhov's story "Happiness" was written under the influence of one of hisnurse's tales, which were always of the mysterious, of the extraordinary, of the terrible, and poetical. 

Their mother, on the other hand, told the children stories of real life, describing how she had travelled all over Russia as a little girl, how theAllies had bombarded Taganrog during the Crimean War, and how hard life hadbeen for the peasants in the days of serfdom. She instilled into herchildren a hatred of brutality and a feeling of regard for all who were inan inferior position, and for birds and animals. 

Chekhov in later years used to say: "Our talents we got from our father, but our soul from our mother. "

In 1875 the two elder boys went to Moscow. 

After their departure the business went from bad to worse, and the familysank into poverty. 

In 1876 Pavel Yegorovitch closed his shop, and went to join his sons inMoscow. While earning their own living, one was a student at theUniversity, and the other a student at the School of Sculpture andPainting. The house was sold by auction, one of the creditors took all thefurniture, and Chekhov's mother was left with nothing. Some monthsafterwards she went to rejoin her husband in Moscow, taking the youngerchildren with her, while Anton, who was then sixteen, lived on in solitudeat Taganrog for three whole years, earning his own living, and paying forhis education at the high school. 

He lived in the house that had been his father's, in the family of oneSelivanov, the creditor who had bought it, and gave lessons to the latter'snephew, a Cossack. He went with his pupil to the latter's house in thecountry, and learned to ride and shoot. During the last two years he wasvery fond of the society of the high-school girls, and used to tell hisbrothers that he had had the most delightful flirtations. 

At the same time he went frequently to the theatre and was very fond ofFrench melodramas, so that he was by no means crushed by his early strugglefor existence. In 1879 he went to Moscow to enter the University, bringingwith him two school-fellows who boarded with his family. He found hisfather had just succeeded in getting work away from home, so that from thefirst day of his arrival he found himself head of the family, every memberof which had to work for their common livelihood. Even little Mihail usedto copy out lectures for students, and so made a little money. It was theabsolute necessity of earning money to pay for his fees at the Universityand to help in supporting the household that forced Anton to write. Thatwinter he wrote his first published story, "A Letter to a LearnedNeighbour. " All the members of the family were closely bound together roundone common centre--Anton. "What will Anton say?" was always their uppermostthought on every occasion. 

Ivan soon became the master of the parish school at Voskresensk, a littletown in the Moscow province. Living was cheap there, so the other membersof the family spent the summer there; they were joined by Anton when he hadtaken his degree, and the Chekhovs soon had a large circle of friends inthe neighbourhood. Every day the company met, went long walks, playedcroquet, discussed politics, read aloud, and went into raptures overShtchedrin. Here Chekhov gained an insight into military society which heafterwards turned to account in his play "The Three Sisters. "

One day a young doctor called Uspensky came in from Zvenigorod, a smalltown fourteen miles away. "Look here, " he said to Chekhov, "I am going awayfor a holiday and can't find anyone to take my place. .. . You take the jobon. My Pelageya will cook for you, and there is a guitar there. .. . "

Voskresensk and Zvenigorod played an important part in Chekhov's life as awriter; a whole series of his tales is founded on his experiences there, besides which it was his first introduction to the society of literary andartistic people. Three or four miles from Voskresensk was the estate of alandowner, A. S. Kiselyov, whose wife was the daughter of Begitchev, thedirector of the Moscow Imperial Theatre. The Chekhovs made the acquaintanceof the Kiselyovs, and spent three summers in succession on their estate, Babkino. 

The Kiselyovs were musical and cultivated people, and intimate friends ofDargomyzhsky, Tchaykovsky the composer, and the Italian actor Salvini. Madame Kiselyov was passionately fond of fishing, and would spend hours ata time sitting on the river bank with Anton, fishing and talking aboutliterature. She was herself a writer. Chekhov was always playing with theKiselyov children and running about the old park with them. The people hemet, the huntsman, the gardener, the carpenters, the sick women who came tohim for treatment, and the place itself, river, forests, nightingales--allprovided Chekhov with subjects to write about and put him in the mood forwriting. He always got up early and began writing by seven o'clock in themorning. After lunch the whole party set off to look for mushrooms in thewoods. Anton was fond of looking for mushrooms, and said it stimulated theimagination. At this time he was always talking nonsense. 

Levitan, the painter, lived in the neighbourhood, and Chekhov and hedressed up, blacked their faces and put on turbans. Levitan then rode offon a donkey through the fields, where Anton suddenly sprang out of thebushes with a gun and began firing blank cartridges at him. 

In 1886 Chekhov suffered for the second time from an attack of spittingblood. There is no doubt that consumption was developing, but apparently herefused to believe this himself. He went on being as gay as ever, though heslept badly and often had terrible dreams. It was one of these dreams thatsuggested the subject of his story "The Black Monk. "

That year he began to write for the _Novoye Vremya_, which made a specialfeature of his work. Under the influence of letters from Grigorovitch, whowas the first person to appreciate his talent, Chekhov began to take hiswriting more seriously. 

In 1887 he visited the south of Russia and stayed at the Holy Mountains, which gave him the subjects of two of his stories, "Easter Eve" and"Uprooted. " In the autumn of that year he was asked by Korsh, a theatricalmanager who knew him as a humorous writer, to write something for histheatre. Chekhov sat down and wrote "Ivanov" in a fortnight, sending offevery act for rehearsal as it was completed. 

By this time he had won a certain amount of recognition, everyone wastalking of him, and there was consequently great curiosity about his newplay. The performance was, however, only partially a success; the audience, divided into two parties, hissed vigorously and clapped noisily. For a longtime afterwards the newspapers were full of discussions of the characterand personality of the hero, while the novelty of the dramatic methodattracted great attention. 

In January, 1889, the play was performed at the Alexandrinsky Theatre inPetersburg and the controversy broke out again. 

"Ivanov" was the turning-point in Chekhov's mental development, andliterary career. He took up his position definitely as a writer, though hisbrass plate continued to hang on the door. Shortly after writing "Ivanov, "he wrote a one-act play called "The Bear. " The following season Solovtsev, who had taken the chief character in "The Bear, " opened a theatre of hisown in Moscow, which was not at first a success. He appealed to Chekhov tosave him with a play for Christmas, which was only ten days off. Chekhovset to work and wrote an act every day. The play was produced in time, butthe author was never satisfied with it, and after a short, very successfulrun took it off the stage. Several years later he completely remodelled itand produced it as "Uncle Vanya" at the Art Theatre in Moscow. At this timehe was writing a long novel, of which he often dreamed aloud, and which heliked to talk about. He was for several years writing at this novel, but nodoubt finally destroyed it, as no trace of it could be found after hisdeath. He wanted it to embody his views on life, opinions which heexpressed in a letter to Plestcheyev in these words:

"I am not a Liberal, not a Conservative. .. . I should have liked to havebeen a free artist and nothing more--and I regret that God has not given methe strength to be one. I hate lying and violence in all their forms--themost absolute freedom, freedom from force and fraud in whatever form thetwo latter may be expressed, that is the programme I would hold to if Iwere a great artist. "

At this time he was always gay and insisted on having people round himwhile he worked. His little house in Moscow, which "looked like a chest ofdrawers, " was a centre to which people, and especially young people, flocked in swarms. Upstairs they played the piano, a hired one, whiledownstairs he sat writing through it all. "I positively can't live withoutvisitors, " he wrote to Suvorin; "when I am alone, for some reason I amfrightened. " This gay life which seemed so full of promise was, however, interrupted by violent fits of coughing. He tried to persuade other people, and perhaps himself, that it was not serious, and he would not consent tobe properly examined. He was sometimes so weak from haemorrhage that hecould see no one, but as soon as the attack was over his mood changed, thedoors were thrown open, visitors arrived, there was music again, andChekhov was once more in the wildest spirits. 

The summers of those two years, 1888 and 1889, he spent with his family ina summer villa at Luka, in the province of Harkov. He was in ecstasiesbeforehand over the deep, broad river, full of fish and crayfish, the pondfull of carp, the woods, the old garden, and the abundance of young ladies. His expectations were fulfilled in every particular, and he had all thefishing and musical society he could wish for. Soon after his arrivalPlestcheyev came to stay with him on a month's visit. 

He was an old man in feeble health, but attractive to everyone. Youngladies in particular were immediately fascinated by him. He used to composehis works aloud, sometimes shouting at the top of his voice, so thatChekhov would run in and ask him if he wanted anything. Then the old manwould give a sweet and guilty smile and go on with his work. Chekhov was inconstant anxiety about the old man's health, as he was very fond of cakesand pastry, and Chekhov's mother used to regale him on them to such anextent that Anton was constantly having to give him medicine. AfterwardsSuvorin, the editor of _Novoye Vremya_, came to stay. Chekhov and he usedto paddle in a canoe, hollowed out of a tree, to an old mill, where theywould spend hours fishing and talking about literature. 

Both the grandsons of serfs, both cultivated and talented men, they weregreatly attracted by each other. Their friendship lasted for several years, and on account of Suvorin's reactionary opinions, exposed Chekhov to agreat deal of criticism in Russia. Chekhov's feelings for Suvorin began tochange at the time of the Dreyfus case, but he never broke entirely withhim. Suvorin's feelings for Chekhov remained unchanged. 

In the spring of 1889 his brother Nikolay, the artist, fell ill withconsumption, and his illness occupied Anton entirely, and completelyprevented his working. That summer Nikolay died, and it was under theinfluence of this, his first great sorrow, that Chekhov wrote "A DrearyStory. " For several months after the death of his brother he was extremelyrestless and depressed. 

In 1890 his younger brother Mihail was taking his degree in law at Moscow, and studying treatises on the management of prisons. Chekhov got hold ofthem, became intensely interested in prisons, and resolved to visit thepenal settlement of Sahalin. He made up his mind to go to the Far East sounexpectedly that it was difficult for his family to believe that he was inearnest. 

He was afraid that after Kennan's revelations about the penal system inSiberia, he would, as a writer, be refused permission to visit the prisonsin Sahalin, and therefore tried to get a free pass from the head of theprison administration, Galkin-Vrasskoy. When this proved fruitless he setoff in April, 1890, with no credentials but his card as a newspapercorrespondent. 

The Siberian railway did not then exist, and only after great hardships, being held up by floods and by the impassable state of the roads, Chekhovsucceeded in reaching Sahalin on the 11th of July, having driven nearly3, 000 miles. He stayed three months on the island, traversed it from northto south, made a census of the population, talked to every one of the tenthousand convicts, and made a careful study of the convict system. Apparently the chief reason for all this was the consciousness that "Wehave destroyed millions of men in prisons. .. . It is not the superintendentsof the prisons who are to blame, but all of us. " In Russia it was notpossible to be a "free artist and nothing more. "

Chekhov left Sahalin in October and returned to Europe by way of India andthe Suez Canal. He wanted to visit Japan, but the steamer was not allowedto put in at the port on account of cholera. 

In the Indian Ocean he used to bathe by diving off the forecastle deck whenthe steamer was going at full speed, and catching a rope which was let downfrom the stern. Once while he was doing this he saw a shark and a shoal ofpilot fish close to him in the water, as he describes in his story "Gusev. "

The fruits of this journey were a series of articles in _Russkaya Myssl_on the island of Sahalin, and two short stories, "Gusev" and "In Exile. "His articles on Sahalin were looked on with a favourable eye in Petersburg, and, who knows, it is possible that the reforms which followed in regard topenal servitude and exile would not have taken place but for theirinfluence. 

After about a month in Moscow, Chekhov went to Petersburg to see Suvorin. The majority of his Petersburg friends and admirers met him with feelingsof envy and ill-will. People gave dinners in his honour and praised him tothe skies, but at the same time they were ready to "tear him to pieces. "Even in Moscow such people did not give him a moment for work or rest. Hewas so prostrated by the feeling of hostility surrounding him that heaccepted an invitation from Suvorin to go abroad with him. When Chekhov hadcompleted arrangements for equipping the Sahalin schools with the necessarybooks, they set off for the South of Europe. Vienna delighted him, andVenice surpassed all his expectations and threw him into a state ofchildlike ecstasy. 

Everything fascinated him--and then there was a change in the weather and asteady downpour of rain. Chekhov's spirits drooped. Venice was damp andseemed horrible, and he longed to escape from it. 

He had had just such a change of mood in Singapore, which interested himimmensely and suddenly filled him with such misery that he wanted to cry. 

After Venice Chekhov did not get the pleasure he expected from any Italiantown. Florence did not attract him; the sun was not shining. Rome gave himthe impression of a provincial town. He was feeling exhausted, and to addto his depression he had got into debt, and had the prospect of spendingthe summer without any money at all. 

Travelling with Suvorin, who did not stint himself, drew him into spendingmore than he intended, and he owed Suvorin a sum which was furtherincreased at Monte Carlo by Chekhov's losing nine hundred roubles atroulette. But this loss was a blessing to him in so far as, for somereason, it made him feel satisfied with himself. At the end of April, 1891, after a stay in Paris, Chekhov returned to Moscow. Except at Vienna and forthe first days in Venice and at Nice, it had rained the whole time. On hisreturn he had to work extremely hard to pay for his two tours. His brotherMihail was at this time inspector of taxes at Alexino, and Chekhov and hishousehold spent the summer not far from that town in the province ofKaluga, so as to be near him. They took a house dating from the days ofCatherine. Chekhov's mother had to sit down and rest halfway when shecrossed the hall, the rooms were so large. He liked the place with itsendless avenues of lime-trees and poetical river, while fishing andgathering mushrooms soothed him and put him in the mood for work. Here hewent on with his story "The Duel, " which he had begun before going abroad. From the windows there was the view of an old house which Chekhov describedin "An Artist's Story, " and which he was very eager to buy. Indeed fromthis time he began thinking of buying a country place of his own, not inLittle Russia, but in Central Russia. Petersburg seemed to him more andmore idle, cold and egoistic, and he had lost all faith in his Petersburgacquaintances. On the other hand, Moscow no longer seemed to him as before"like a cook, " and he grew to love it. He grew fond of its climate, itspeople and its bells. He always delighted in bells. Sometimes in earlierdays he had gathered together a party of friends and gone with them toKamenny Bridge to listen to the Easter bells. After eagerly listening tothem he would set off to wander from church to church, and with his legsgiving way under him from fatigue would, only when Easter night was over, make his way homewards. Meanwhile his father, who was fond of staying tillthe end of the service, would return from the parish church, and all thebrothers would sing "Christ is risen" in chorus, and then they all sat downto break their fast. Chekhov never spent an Easter night in bed. 

Meanwhile in the spring of 1892 there began to be fears about the crops. These apprehensions were soon confirmed. An unfortunate summer was followedby a hard autumn and winter, in which many districts were famine-stricken. Side by side with the Government relief of the starving population therewas a widespread movement for organizing relief, in which various societiesand private persons took part. Chekhov naturally was drawn into thismovement. The provinces of Nizhni-Novogorod and Voronezh were in thegreatest distress, and in the former of these two provinces, Yegorov, anold friend of Chekhov's Voskresensk days, was a district captain (ZemskyNatchalnik). Chekhov wrote to Yegorov, got up a subscription fund among hisacquaintance, and finally set off himself for Nizhni-Novogorod. As thestarving peasants were selling their horses and cattle for next to nothing, or even slaughtering them for food, it was feared that as spring came onthere would be no beasts to plough with, so that the coming year threatenedto be one of famine also. 

Chekhov organized a scheme for buying up the horses and feeding them tillthe spring at the expense of a relief fund, and then, as soon as fieldlabour was possible, distributing them among the peasants who were withouthorses. 

After visiting the province of Nizhni-Novogorod, Chekhov went with Suvorinto Voronezh. But this expedition was not a successful one. He was revoltedby the ceremonious dinners with which he was welcomed as an author, whilethe whole province was suffering from famine. Moreover travelling withSuvorin tied him down and hindered his independent action. Chekhov longedfor intense personal activity such as he displayed later in his campaignagainst the cholera. 

In the winter of the same year his long-cherished dream was realized: hebought himself an estate. It was in the province of Moscow, near the hamletof Melihovo. As an estate it had nothing to recommend it but an old, badlylaid out homestead, wastes of land, and a forest that had been felled. Ithad been bought on the spur of the moment, simply because it had happenedto turn up. Chekhov had never been to the place before he bought it, andonly visited it when all the formalities had been completed. One couldhardly turn round near the house for the mass of hurdles and fences. Moreover the Chekhovs moved into it in the winter when it was under snow, and all boundaries being obliterated, it was impossible to tell what wastheirs and what was not. But in spite of all that, Chekhov's firstimpression was favourable, and he never showed a sign of beingdisappointed. He was delighted by the approach of spring and the freshsurprises that were continually being revealed by the melting snow. Suddenly it would appear that a whole haystack belonged to him which he hadsupposed to be a neighbour's, then an avenue of lime-trees came to lightwhich they had not distinguished before under the snow. Everything that wasamiss in the place, everything he did not like, was at once abolished oraltered. But in spite of all the defects of the house and its surroundings, and the appalling road from the station (nearly nine miles) and the lack ofrooms, so many visitors came that there was nowhere to put them, and bedshad sometimes to be made up in the passages. Chekhov's household at thistime consisted of his father and mother, his sister, and his youngerbrother Mihail. These were all permanent inmates of Melihovo. 

As soon as the snow had disappeared the various duties in the house and onthe land were assigned: Chekhov's sister undertook the flower-beds and thekitchen garden, his younger brother undertook the field work. Chekhovhimself planted the trees and looked after them. His father worked frommorning till night weeding the paths in the garden and making new ones. 

Everything attracted the new landowner: planting the bulbs and watching theflight of rooks and starlings, sowing the clover, and the goose hatchingout her goslings. By four o'clock in the morning Chekhov was up and about. After drinking his coffee he would go out into the garden and would spend along time scrutinizing every fruit-tree and every rose-bush, now cuttingoff a branch, now training a shoot, or he would squat on his heels by astump and gaze at something on the ground. It turned out that there wasmore land than they needed (639 acres), and they farmed it themselves, withno bailiff or steward, assisted only by two labourers, Frol and Ivan. 

At eleven o'clock Chekhov, who got through a good deal of writing in themorning, would go into the dining-room and look significantly at the clock. His mother would jump up from her seat and her sewing-machine and begin tobustle about, crying: "Oh dear! Antosha wants his dinner!"

When the table was laid there were so many homemade and other daintiesprepared by his mother that there would hardly be space on the table forthem. There was not room to sit at the table either. Besides the fivepermanent members of the family there were invariably outsiders as well. After dinner Chekhov used to go off to his bedroom and lock himself in to"read. " Between his after-dinner nap and tea-time he wrote again. The timebetween tea and supper (at seven o'clock in the evening) was devoted towalks and outdoor work. At ten o'clock they went to bed. Lights were putout and all was stillness in the house; the only sound was a subduedsinging and monotonous recitation. This was Pavel Yegorovitch repeating theevening service in his room: he was religious and liked to say his prayersaloud. 

From the first day that Chekhov moved to Melihovo the sick began flockingto him from twenty miles around. They came on foot or were brought incarts, and often he was fetched to patients at a distance. Sometimes fromearly in the morning peasant women and children were standing before hisdoor waiting. He would go out, listen to them and sound them, and wouldnever let one go away without advice and medicine. His expenditure on drugswas considerable, as he had to keep a regular store of them. Once somewayfarers brought Chekhov a man they had picked up by the roadside in themiddle of the night, stabbed in the stomach with a pitchfork. The peasantwas carried into his study and put down in the middle of the floor, andChekhov spent a long time looking after him, examining his wounds andbandaging them up. But what was hardest for Chekhov was visiting the sickat their own homes: sometimes there was a journey of several hours, and inthis way the time essential for writing was wasted. 

The first winter at Melihovo was cold; it lasted late and food was short. Easter came in the snow. There was a church at Melihovo in which a servicewas held only once a year, at Easter. Visitors from Moscow were stayingwith Chekhov. The family got up a choir among themselves and sang all theEaster matins and mass. Pavel Yegorovitch conducted as usual. It was out ofthe ordinary and touching, and the peasants were delighted: it warmed theirhearts to their new neighbours. 

Then the thaw came. The roads became appalling. There were only threebroken-down horses on the estate and not a wisp of hay. The horses had tobe fed on rye straw chopped up with an axe and sprinkled with flour. One ofthe horses was vicious and there was no getting it out of the yard. Anotherwas stolen in the fields and a dead horse left in its place. And so for along time there was only one poor spiritless beast to drive which wasnicknamed Anna Petrovna. This Anna Petrovna contrived to trot to thestation, to take Chekhov to his patients, to haul logs and to eat nothingbut straw sprinkled with flour. But Chekhov and his family did not loseheart. Always affectionate, gay and plucky, he cheered the others, workwent ahead, and in less than three months everything in the place waschanged: the house was furnished with crockery; there was the ring ofcarpenters' axes; six horses were bought, and all the field work for thespring had been completed in good time and in accordance with the rules ofagricultural science. They had no experience at all, but bought masses ofbooks on the management of the land, and every question, however small, wasdebated in common. 

Their first successes delighted Chekhov. He had thirty acres under rye, thirty under oats, and fully thirty under hay. Marvels were being done inthe kitchen garden: tomatoes and artichokes did well in the open air. A dryspring and summer ruined the oats and the rye; the peasants cut the hay inreturn for half the crop, and Chekhov's half seemed a small stack; only inthe kitchen garden things went well. 

The position of Melihovo on the highroad and the news that Chekhov theauthor had settled there inevitably led to new acquaintances. Doctors andmembers of the local Zemstvos began visiting Chekhov; acquaintance was madewith the officials of the district, and Chekhov was elected a member of theSerpuhov Sanitary Council. 

At that time cholera was raging in the South of Russia. Every day it camenearer and nearer to the province of Moscow, and everywhere it foundfavourable conditions among the population weakened by the famine of autumnand winter. It was essential to take immediate measures for meeting thecholera, and the Zemstvo of Serpuhov worked its hardest. Chekhov as adoctor and a member of the Sanitary Council was asked to take charge of asection. He immediately gave his services for nothing. He had to driveabout among the manufacturers of the district persuading them to takeadequate measures to combat the cholera. Owing to his efforts the wholesection containing twenty-five villages and hamlets was covered with anetwork of the necessary institutions. For several months Chekhov scarcelygot out of his chaise. During that time he had to drive all over hissection, receive patients at home, and do his literary work. He returnedhome shattered and exhausted, but always behaved as though he were doingsomething trivial; he cracked little jokes and made everyone laugh asbefore, and carried on conversations with his dachshund, Quinine, about hersupposed sufferings. 

By early autumn the place had become unrecognizable. The outhouses had beenrebuilt, unnecessary fences had been removed, rose-trees had been planted, a flower-bed had been laid out; in the fields before the gates Chekhov wasplanning to dig a big new pond. With what interest he watched each day theprogress of the work upon it! He planted trees round it and dropped into ittiny carp and perch which he brought with him in a jar from Moscow. Thepond became later on more like an ichthyological station than a pond, asthere was no kind of fish in Russia, except the pike, of which Chekhov hadnot representatives in this pond. He liked sitting on the dam on its bankand watching with ecstasy shoals of little fish coming suddenly to thesurface and then hiding in its depths. An excellent well had been dug inMelihovo before this. Chekhov had been very anxious that it should be inLittle Russian style with a crane. But the position did not allow of this, and it was made with a big wheel painted yellow like the wells at Russianrailway stations. The question where to dig this well and whether the waterin it would be good greatly interested Chekhov. He wanted exact informationand a theory based on good grounds, seeing that nine-tenths of Russia useswater out of wells, and has done so since time immemorial; but whenever hequestioned the well-sinkers who came to him, he received the same vagueanswer: "Who can tell? It's in God's hands. Can you find out beforehandwhat the water will be like?"

But the well, like the pond, was a great success, and the water turned outto be excellent. 

He began seriously planning to build a new house and farm buildings. Creative activity was his passion. He was never satisfied with what he hadready-made; he longed to make something new. He planted little trees, raised pines and fir-trees from seed, looked after them as though they werehis children, and, like Colonel Vershinin in his "Three Sisters, " dreamedas he looked at them of what they would be like in three or four hundredyears. 

The winter of 1893 was a severe one with a great deal of snow. The snow wasso high under the windows that the hares who ran into the garden stood ontheir hind-legs and looked into the window of Chekhov's study. The sweptpaths in the garden were like deep trenches. By then Chekhov had finishedhis work in connection with the cholera and he began to live the life of ahermit. His sister found employment in Moscow; only his father and motherwere left with him in the house, and the hours seemed very long. They wentto bed even earlier than in the summer, but Chekhov would wake up at one inthe morning, sit down to his work and then go back to bed and sleep again. At six o'clock in the morning all the household was up. Chekhov wrote agreat deal that winter. But as soon as visitors arrived, life wascompletely transformed. There was singing, playing on the piano, laughter. Chekhov's mother did her utmost to load the tables with dainties; hisfather with a mysterious air would produce various specially preparedcordials and liqueurs from some hidden recess; and then it seemed thatMelihovo had something of its own, peculiar to it, which could be found inno other country estate. Chekhov was always particularly pleased at thevisits of Miss Mizinov and of Potapenko. He was particularly fond of them, and his whole family rejoiced at their arrival. They stayed up long aftermidnight on such days, and Chekhov wrote only by snatches. And every timehe wrote five or six lines, he would get up again and go back to hisvisitors. 

"I have written sixty kopecks' worth, " he would say with a smile. 

Braga's "Serenade" was the fashion at that time, and Chekhov was fond ofhearing Potapenko play it on the violin while Miss Mizinov sang it. 

Having been a student at the Moscow University, Chekhov liked to celebrateSt. Tatyana's Day. He never missed making a holiday of it when he lived inMoscow. That winter, for the first time, he chanced to be in Petersburg onthe 12th of January. He did not forget "St. Tatyana, " and assembled all hisliterary friends on that day in a Petersburg restaurant. They made speechesand kept the holiday, and this festivity initiated by him was so successfulthat the authors went on meeting regularly afterwards. 

Though Melihovo was his permanent home, Chekhov often paid visits to Moscowand Petersburg. He frequently stayed at hotels, and there he sometimes haddifficulties over his passport. As a landowner he had no need ofcredentials from the police in the Serpuhov district, and found hisUniversity diploma sufficient. In Petersburg and Moscow, under the oldpassport regulations they would not give him a passport because he residedpermanently in the provinces. Misunderstandings arose, sometimes developinginto disagreeable incidents and compelling Chekhov to return home earlierthan he had intended. Someone suggested to Chekhov that he should enter theGovernment service and immediately retire from it, as retired officialsused at that time to receive a permanent passport from the department inwhich they had served. Chekhov sent a petition to the Department ofMedicine for a post to be assigned to him, and received an appointment asan extra junior medical clerk in that Department, and soon afterwards sentin his resignation, after which he had no more trouble. 

Chekhov spent the whole spring of 1893 at Melihovo, planted roses, lookedafter his fruit-trees, and was enthusiastic over country life. That summerMelihovo was especially crowded with visitors. Chekhov was visited not onlyby his friends, but also by people whose acquaintance he neither sought nordesired. People were sleeping on sofas and several in a room; some evenspent the night in the passage. Young ladies, authors, local doctors, members of the Zemstvo, distant relations with their sons--all these peopleflitted through Melihovo. Life was a continual whirl, everyone was gay;this rush of visitors and the everlasting readiness of Chekhov's mother toregale them with food and drink seemed like a return to the good old timesof country life in the past. Chekhov was the centre on which all attentionwas concentrated. Everyone sought him, lived in him, and caught up everyword he uttered. When he was with friends he liked taking walks or makingexpeditions to the neighbouring monastery. The chaise, the cart, and theracing droshky were brought out. Chekhov put on his white tunic, buckled astrap round his waist, and got on the racing droshky. A young lady wouldsit sideways behind him, holding on to the strap. The white tunic and strapused to make Chekhov call himself an Hussar. The party would set off; the"Hussar" in the racing droshky would lead the way, and then came the cartand the chaise full of visitors. 

The numbers of guests necessitated more building, as the house would notcontain them all. Instead of a farm, new buildings close to the houseitself were begun. Some of the farm buildings were pulled down, others wereput up after Chekhov's own plans. A new cattle yard made its appearance, and by it a hut with a well and a hurdle fence in the Little Russian style, a bathhouse, a barn, and finally Chekhov's dream--a lodge. It was a littlehouse with three tiny rooms, in one of which a bedstead was put withdifficulty, and in another a writing-table. At first this lodge wasintended only for visitors, but afterwards Chekhov moved into it and therehe wrote his "Seagull. " This little lodge was built among the fruit-bushes, and to reach it one had to pass through the orchard. In spring, when theapples and cherries were in blossom, it was pleasant to live in this lodge, but in winter it was so buried in the snow that pathways had to be cut toit through drifts as high as a man. 

Chekhov suffered terribly about this time from his cough. It troubled himparticularly in the morning. But he made light of it. He was afraid ofworrying his family. His younger brother once saw his handkerchiefspattered with blood, and asked what it meant. Chekhov seemed disconcertedand said:

"Oh, nothing; it is no matter. .. . Don't tell Masha and Mother. "

The cough was the reason for Chekhov's going in 1894 to the Crimea. Hestayed in Yalta, though he evidently did not like it and longed to be home. 

Chekhov's activity in the campaign against the cholera resulted in hisbeing elected a member of the Zemstvo. He was keenly interested ineverything to do with the new roads to be constructed, and the newhospitals and schools it was intended to open. Besides this public work theneighbourhood was indebted to him for the making of a highroad from thestation of Lopasnya to Melihovo, and for the building of schools at Talezh, Novoselka, and Melihovo. He made the plans for these schools himself, bought the material, and superintended the building of them. When he talkedabout them his eyes kindled, and it was evident that if he had had themeans he would have built, not three, but a multitude. 

At the opening of the school at Novoselka, the peasants brought him theikon and offered him bread and salt. Chekhov was much embarrassed inresponding to their gratitude, but his face and his shining eyes showedthat he was pleased. Besides the schools he built a fire-station for thevillage and a belfry for the church, and ordered a cross made oflooking-glass for the cupola, the flash of which in the sun or moonlightwas visible more than eight miles away. 

Chekhov spent the year 1894 at Melihovo, began writing "The Seagull, " anddid a great deal of work. He paid a visit to Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana, and returned enchanted with the old man and his family. Chekhov was alreadychanging; he looked haggard, older, sallower. He coughed, he was torturedby intestinal trouble. Evidently he was now aware of the gravity of hisillness, but, as before, made no complaint and tried to hide it fromothers. 

In 1896 "The Seagull" was performed at the Alexandrinsky Theatre inPetersburg. It was a fiasco. The actors did not know their parts; in thetheatre there was "a strained condition of boredom and bewilderment. " Thenotices in the press were prejudiced and stupid. Not wishing to see or meetanyone, Chekhov kept out of sight after the performance, and by nextmorning was in the train on his way back to Melihovo. The subsequentperformances of "The Seagull, " when the actors understood it, weresuccessful. 

Chekhov had collected a large number of books, and in 1896 he resolved topresent them to the public library in his native town of Taganrog. Wholebales of books were sent by Chekhov from Petersburg and Moscow, andIordanov, the mayor of Taganrog, sent him lists of the books needed. At thesame time, at Chekhov's suggestion, something like an Information Bureauwas instituted in connection with the Taganrog Library. There were to becatalogues of all the important commercial firms, all the existingregulations and government enactments on all current questions, everything, in fact, which might be of immediate service to a reader in any practicaldifficulty. The library at Taganrog has now developed into a fineeducational institution, and is lodged in a special building designed andequipped for it and dedicated to the memory of Chekhov. 

Chekhov took an active interest in the census of the people in 1896. Itwill be remembered that he had made a census of the whole convictpopulation of the island of Sahalin on his own initiative and at his ownexpense in 1890. Now he was taking part in a census again. He studiedpeasant life in all its aspects; he was on intimate terms with his peasantneighbours, to whom he was now indispensable as a doctor and a friendalways ready to give them good counsel. 

Just before the census was completed Chekhov was taken ill with influenza, but that did not prevent his carrying out his duties. In spite of headache, he went from hut to hut and village to village, and then had to work atputting together his materials. He was absolutely alone in his work. TheZemsky Natchalniks, upon whom the government relied principally to carryout the census, were inert, and for the most part the work was left toprivate initiative. 

In February, 1897, Chekhov was completely engrossed by a project ofbuilding a "People's Palace" in Moscow. "People's Palaces" had not beenthought of; the common people spent their leisure in drink-shops. The"People's Palace" in Moscow was designed on broad principles; there was tobe a library, a reading-room, lecture-rooms, a museum, a theatre. It wasproposed to run it by a company of shareholders with a capital of half amillion roubles. Owing to various causes in no way connected with Chekhov, this scheme came to nothing. 

In March he paid a visit to Moscow, where Suvorin was expecting him. He hadhardly sat down to dinner at The Hermitage when he had a sudden haemorrhagefrom the lungs. He was taken to a private hospital, where he remained tillthe 10th of April. When his sister, who knew nothing of his illness, arrived in Moscow, she was met by her brother Ivany who gave her a card ofadmission to visit the invalid at the hospital. On the card were the words:"Please don't tell father or mother. " His sister went to the hospital. There casting a casual glance at a little table, she saw on it a diagram ofthe lungs, in which the upper part of the left lung was marked with a redpencil. She guessed at once that this was what was affected in Chekhov'scase. This and the sight of her brother alarmed her. Chekhov, who hadalways been so gay, so full of spirits and vitality, looked terribly ill;he was forbidden to move or to talk, and had hardly the strength to do so. 

He was declared to be suffering from tuberculosis of the lungs, and it wasessential to try and ward it off at all costs, and to escape theunwholesome northern spring. He recognized himself that this was essential. 

When he left the hospital he returned to Melihovo and prepared to goabroad. He went first to Biarritz, but there he was met by bad weather. Afashionable, extravagant way of living did not suit his tastes, andalthough he was delighted with the sea and the life led (especially by thechildren) on the beach, he soon moved on to Nice. Here he stayed for aconsiderable time at the Pension Russe in the Rue Gounod. He seemed to befully satisfied with the life there. He liked the warmth and the people hemet, M. Kovalevsky, V. M. Sobolesky, V. T. Nemirovitch-Dantchenko, theartist V. T. Yakobi and I. N. Potapenko. Prince A. I. Sumbatov arrived atNice too, and Chekhov used sometimes to go with him to Monte Carlo toroulette. 

Chekhov followed all that he had left behind in Russia with keen attention:he was anxious about the _Chronicle of Surgery_, which he had more thanonce saved from ruin, made arrangements about Melihovo, and so on. 

He spent the autumn and winter in Nice, and in February, 1898, meant to goto Africa. He wanted to visit Algiers and Tunis, but Kovalevsky, with whomhe meant to travel, fell ill, and he had to give up the project. Hecontemplated a visit to Corsica, but did not carry out that plan either, ashe was taken seriously ill himself. A wretched dentist used contaminatedforceps in extracting a tooth, and Chekhov was attacked by periostitis in amalignant form. In his own words, "he was in such pain that he climbed upthe wall. "

As soon as the spring had come he felt an irresistible yearning for Russia. He was weary of enforced idleness; he missed the snow and the Russiancountry, and at the same time he was depressed at having gained no weightin spite of the climate, good nourishment, and idleness. 

While he was at Nice France was in the throes of the Dreyfus affair. Chekhov began studying the Dreyfus and Zola cases from shorthand notes, andbecoming convinced of the innocence of both, wrote a heated letter toSuvorin, which led to a coolness between them. 

He spent March, 1898, in Paris. He sent three hundred and nineteen volumesof French literature from Paris to the public library at Taganrog. 

The lateness of the spring in Russia forced Chekhov to remain in Paris tillMay, when he returned to Melihovo. Melihovo became gay and lively on hisarrival. Visitors began coming again; he was as hospitable as ever, but hewas quieter, no longer jested as in the past, and perhaps owing to hisillness talked little. But he still took as much pleasure in his roses. 

After a comparatively good summer there came days of continual rain, and onthe 14th of September Chekhov went away to Yalta. He had to choose betweenNice and Yalta. He did not want to go abroad, and preferred the Crimea, reckoning that he might possibly seize an opportunity to pay a brief visitto Moscow, where his plays were to appear at the Art Theatre. His choicedid not disappoint him. That autumn in Yalta was splendid; he felt wellthere, and the progress of his disease led him to settle in Yaltapermanently. 

Chekhov obtained a piece of land at Autka, and the same autumn beganbuilding. He spent whole days superintending the building. Stone andplaster was brought, Turks and Tatars dug the ground and laid thefoundation, while he planted little trees and watched with fatherly anxietyevery new shoot on them. Every stone, every tree there is eloquent ofChekhov's creative energy. That same autumn he bought the little propertyof Kutchuka. It was twenty-four miles from Yalta, and attracted him by itswildness and primitive beauty. To reach it one had to drive along the roadat a giddy height. He began once more dreaming and drawing plans. Thepossible future began to take a different shape to him now, and he wasalready dreaming of moving from Melihovo, farming and gardening and livingthere as in the country. He wanted to have hens, cows, a horse and donkeys, and, of course, all of this would have been quite possible and might havebeen realized if he had not been slowly dying. His dreams remained dreams, and Kutchuka stands uninhabited to this day. 

The winter of 1898 was extremely severe in the Crimea. The cold, the snow, the stormy sea, and the complete lack of people akin to him in spirit andof "interesting women" wearied Chekhov; he began to be depressed. He wasirresistibly drawn to the north, and began to fancy that if he moved forthe winter to Moscow, where his plays were being acted with such successand where everything was so full of interest for him, it would be no worsefor his health than staying in Yalta, and he began dreaming of buying ahouse in Moscow. He wanted at one moment to get something small and snug inthe neighbourhood of Kursk Station, where it might be possible to stay thethree winter months in every comfort; but when such a house was found hismood changed and he resigned himself to life at Yalta. 

The January and February of 1899 were particularly irksome to Chekhov: hesuffered from an intestinal trouble which poisoned his existence. Moreoverconsumptive patients from all over Russia began appealing to him to assistthem to come to Yalta. These invalids were almost always poor, and onreaching Yalta mostly ended their lives in miserable conditions, pining fortheir native place. Chekhov exerted himself on behalf of everyone, printedappeals in the papers, collected money, and did his utmost to alleviatetheir condition. 

After the unfavourable winter came an exquisite warm spring, and on the12th of April Chekhov was in Moscow and by May in Melihovo. His father haddied the previous October, and with his death a great link with the placewas broken. The consciousness of having to go away early in the autumngradually brought Chekhov to decide to sell the place. 

On the 25th of August he went back to his own villa at Yalta, and soonafterwards Melihovo was sold, and his mother and sister joined him. Duringthe last four and a half years of his life Chekhov's health grew rapidlyworse. His chief interest was centred in Moscow, in the Art Theatre, whichhad just been started, and the greater part of his dramatic work was doneduring this period. 

Chekhov was ill all the winter of 1900, and only felt better towards thespring. During those long winter months he wrote "In the Ravine. " Thedetestable spring of that year affected his mood and his health even more. Snow fell on the 5th of March, and this had a shattering effect on him. InApril he was again very ill. An attack of intestinal trouble prevented himfrom eating, drinking, or working. As soon as it was over Chekhov, homesickfor the north, set off for Moscow, but there he was met by severe weather. Returning in August to Yalta, he wrote "The Three Sisters. "

He spent the autumn in Moscow, and at the beginning of December went to theFrench Riviera, settled in Nice, and dreamed again of a visit to Africa, but went instead to Rome. Here, as usual, he met with severe weather. Earlyin February he returned to Yalta. That year there was a soft, sunny spring. Chekhov spent whole days in the open air, engaged in his favouriteoccupations; he planted and pruned trees, looked after his garden, orderedall sorts of seeds, and watched them coming up. At the same time he wasworking on behalf of the invalids coming to Yalta, who appealed to him forhelp, and also completing the library he had founded at Taganrog, andplanning to open a picture gallery there. 

In May, 1901, Chekhov went to Moscow and was thoroughly examined by aphysician, who urged him to go at once to Switzerland or to take a koumisscure. Chekhov preferred the latter. 

On the 25th of May he married Olga Knipper, one of the leading actresses atthe Art Theatre, and with her went off to the province of Ufa for thekoumiss cure. On the way they had to wait twenty-four hours for a steamer, in very unpleasant surroundings, at a place called Pyany Bor ("DrunkenMarket"), in the province of Vyatka. 

In the autumn of 1901 Tolstoy was staying, for the sake of his health, atGaspra. Chekhov was very fond of him and frequently visited him. Altogetherthat autumn was an eventful one for him: Kuprin, Bunin and Gorky visitedthe Crimea; the writer Elpatyevsky settled there also, and Chekhov feltfairly well. Tolstoy's illness was the centre of general attention, andChekhov was very uneasy about him. 

In 1902 there was suddenly a change for the worse: violent haemorrhageexhausted him till the beginning of February; he was for over a monthconfined to his study. It was at this time that the incident of Gorky'selection to the Academy and subsequent expulsion from it led Chekhov towrite a letter to the Royal President of the Academy asking that his ownname should be struck off the list of Academicians. 

Chekhov had hardly recovered when his wife was taken seriously ill. Whenshe was a little better he made a tour by the Volga and the Kama as far asPerm. On his return he settled with his wife in a summer villa not far fromMoscow; he spent July there and returned home to Yalta in August. But thelonging for a life of movement and culture, the desire to be nearer to thetheatre, drew him to the north again, and in September he was back inMoscow. Here he was not left in peace for one minute; swarms of visitorsjostled each other from morning till night. Such a life exhausted him; heran away from it to Yalta in December, but did not escape it there. Hiscough was worse; every day he had a high temperature, and these symptomswere followed by an attack of pleurisy. He did not get up all through theChristmas holidays; he still had an agonizing cough, and it was in thisenforced idleness that he thought out his play "The Cherry Orchard. "

It is quite possible that if Chekhov had taken care of himself his diseasewould not have developed so rapidly or proved fatal. The feverish energy ofhis temperament, his readiness to respond to every impression, and histhirst for activity, drove him from south to north and hack again, regardless of his health and of the climate. Like all invalids, he ought tohave gone on living in the same place, at Nice or at Yalta, until he wasbetter, but he lived exactly as though he had been in good health. When hearrived in the north he was always excited and absorbed by what was goingon, and this exhilaration he mistook for an improvement in his health; buthe had only to return to Yalta for the reaction to set in, and it wouldseem to him at once that his case was hopeless, that the Crimea had nobeneficial effect on consumptives, and that the climate was wretched. 

The spring of 1903 passed fairly favourably. He recovered sufficiently togo to Moscow and even to Petersburg. On returning from Petersburg he beganpreparing to go to Switzerland. But his state of health was such that hisdoctor in Moscow advised him to give up the idea of Switzerland and even ofYalta, and to stay somewhere not very far from Moscow. He followed thisadvice and settled at Nar. Now that it was proposed that he should stay thewinter in the north, all that he had created in Yalta--his house and hisgarden--seemed unnecessary and objectless. In the end he returned to Yaltaand set to work on "The Cherry Orchard. "

In October, 1903, the play was finished and he set off to produce ithimself in Moscow. He spent days at a time in the Art Theatre, producinghis "Cherry Orchard, " and incidentally supervising the setting andperformance of the plays of other authors. He gave advice and criticized, was excited and enthusiastic. 

On the 17th of January, 1904, "The Cherry Orchard" was produced for thefirst time. The first performance was the occasion of the celebration ofthe twenty-fifth anniversary of Chekhov's literary activity. A great numberof addresses were read and speeches were made. Chekhov was many timescalled before the curtain, and this expression of universal sympathyexhausted him to such a degree that the very day after the performance hebegan to think with relief of going back to Yalta, where he spent thefollowing spring. 

His health was completely shattered, and everyone who saw him secretlythought the end was not far off; but the nearer Chekhov was to the end, theless he seemed to realize it. Ill as he was, at the beginning of May he setoff for Moscow. He was terribly ill all the way on the journey, and onarrival took to his bed at once. He was laid up till June. 

On the 3rd of June he set off with his wife for a cure abroad to the BlackForest, and settled in a little spa called Badenweiler. He was dying, although he wrote to everyone that he had almost recovered, and that healthwas coming back to him not by ounces but by hundredweights. He was dying, but he spent the time dreaming of going to the Italian lakes and returningto Yalta by sea from Trieste, and was already making inquiries about thesteamers and the times they stopped at Odessa. 

He died on the 2nd of July. 

His body was taken to Moscow and buried in the Novodyevitchy Monastery, beside his father's tomb. 

LETTERS

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

TAGANROG, July 1, 1876. 

DEAR BROTHER MISHA, I got your letter when I was fearfully bored and was sitting at the gateyawning, and so you can judge how welcome that immense letter was. Yourwriting is good, and in the whole letter I have not found one mistake inspelling. But one thing I don't like: why do you style yourself "yourworthless and insignificant brother"? You recognize your insignificance?. .. Recognize it before God; perhaps, too, in the presence of beauty, intelligence, nature, but not before men. Among men you must be consciousof your dignity. Why, you are not a rascal, you are an honest man, aren'tyou? Well, respect yourself as an honest man and know that an honest man isnot something worthless. Don't confound "being humble" with "recognizingone's worthlessness. " . .. 

It is a good thing that you read. Acquire the habit of doing so. In timeyou will come to value that habit. Madame Beecher-Stowe has wrung tearsfrom your eyes? I read her once, and six months ago read her again with theobject of studying her--and after reading I had an unpleasant sensationwhich mortals feel after eating too many raisins or currants. .. . Read "DonQuixote. " It is a fine thing. It is by Cervantes, who is said to be almoston a level with Shakespeare. I advise my brothers to read--if they haven'talready done so--Turgenev's "Hamlet and Don Quixote. " You won't understandit, my dear. If you want to read a book of travel that won't bore you, readGontcharov's "The Frigate Pallada. "

. .. I am going to bring with me a boarder who will pay twenty roubles amonth and live under our general supervision. Though even twenty roubles isnot enough if one considers the price of food in Moscow and mother'sweakness for feeding boarders with righteous zeal. [Footnote: This letterwas written by Chekhov when he was in the fifth class of the Taganrog highschool. ]

TO HIS COUSIN, MIHAIL CHEKHOV. 

TAGANROG, May 10, 1877. 

. .. If I send letters to my mother, care of you, please give them to herwhen you are alone with her; there are things in life which one can confidein one person only, whom one trusts. It is because of this that I write tomy mother without the knowledge of the others, for whom my secrets arequite uninteresting, or, rather, unnecessary. .. . My second request is ofmore importance. Please go on comforting my mother, who is both physicallyand morally broken. She has found in you not merely a nephew but a greatdeal more and better than a nephew. My mother's character is such that themoral support of others is a great help to her. It is a silly request, isn't it? But you will understand, especially as I have said "moral, "i. E. , spiritual support. There is no one in this wicked world dearer tous than our mother, and so you will greatly oblige your humble servant bycomforting his worn-out and weary mother. .. . 

TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV. 

MOSCOW, 1885. 

. .. I could not come to see you last summer because I took the place of adistrict doctor friend of mine who went away for his holiday, but this yearI hope to travel and therefore to see you. Last December I had an attack ofspitting blood, and decided to take some money from the Literary Fund andgo abroad for my health. I am a little better now, but I still think that Ishall have to go away. And whenever I go abroad, or to the Crimea, or tothe Caucasus, I will go through Taganrog. 

. .. I am sorry I cannot join you in being of service to my nativeTaganrog. .. . I am sure that if my work had been there I should have beencalmer, more cheerful, in better health, but evidently it is my fate toremain in Moscow. My home and my career are here. I have work of two sorts. As a doctor I should have grown slack in Taganrog and forgotten mymedicine, but in Moscow a doctor has no time to go to the club and playcards. As a writer I am no use except in Moscow or Petersburg. 

My medical work is progressing little by little. I go on steadily treatingpatients. Every day I have to spend more than a rouble on cabs. I have alot of friends and therefore many patients. Half of them I have to treatfor nothing, but the other half pay me three or five roubles a visit. .. . Ineed hardly say I have not made a fortune yet, and it will be a long timebefore I do, but I live tolerably and need nothing. So long as I am aliveand well the position of the family is secure. I have bought new furniture, hired a good piano, keep two servants, give little evening parties withmusic and singing. I have no debts and do not want to borrow. Till quiterecently we used to run an account at the butcher's and grocer's, but now Ihave stopped even that, and we pay cash for everything. What will comelater, there is no knowing; as it is we have nothing to complain of. .. . 

TO N. A. LEIKIN. 

MOSCOW, October, 1885. 

. .. You advise me to go to Petersburg, and say that Petersburg is notChina. I know it is not, and as you are aware, I have long realized thenecessity of going there; but what am I to do? Owing to the fact that weare a large family, I never have a ten-rouble note to spare, and to gothere, even if I did it in the most uncomfortable and beggarly way, wouldcost at least fifty roubles. How am I to get the money? I can't squeeze itout of my family and don't think I ought to. If I were to cut down our twocourses at dinner to one, I should begin to pine away from pangs ofconscience. .. . Allah only knows how difficult it is for me to keep mybalance, and how easy it would be for me to slip and lose my equilibrium. Ifancy that if next month I should earn twenty or thirty roubles less, mybalance would be gone, and I should be in difficulties. I am awfullyapprehensive about money matters and, owing to this quite uncommercialcowardice in pecuniary affairs, I avoid loans and payments on account. I amnot difficult to move. If I had money I should fly from one city to anotherendlessly. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, February 21, 1886. 

. .. Thank you for the flattering things you say about my work and forhaving published my story so soon. You can judge yourself how refreshing, even inspiring, the kind attention of an experienced and gifted writer likeyourself has been to me. 

I agree with what you say about the end of my story which you have cut out;thank you for the helpful advice. I have been writing for the last sixyears, but you are the first person who has taken the trouble to advise andexplain. 

. .. I do not write very much--not more than two or three short storiesweekly. 

TO D. V. GRIGOROVITCH. 

MOSCOW, March 28, 1886. 

Your letter, my kind, fervently beloved bringer of good tidings, struck melike a flash of lightning. I almost burst into tears, I was overwhelmed, and now I feel it has left a deep trace in my soul! May God show the sametender kindness to you in your age as you have shown me in my youth! I canfind neither words nor deeds to thank you. You know with what eyes ordinarypeople look at the elect such as you, and so you can judge what your lettermeans for my self-esteem. It is better than any diploma, and for a writerwho is just beginning it is payment both for the present and the future. Iam almost dazed. I have no power to judge whether I deserve this highreward. I only repeat that it has overwhelmed me. 

If I have a gift which one ought to respect, I confess before the purecandour of your heart that hitherto I have not respected it. I felt that Ihad a gift, but I had got into the habit of thinking that it wasinsignificant. Purely external causes are sufficient to make one unjust tooneself, suspicious, and morbidly sensitive. And as I realize now I havealways had plenty of such causes. All my friends and relatives have alwaystaken a condescending tone to my writing, and never ceased urging me in afriendly way not to give up real work for the sake of scribbling. I havehundreds of friends in Moscow, and among them a dozen or two writers, but Icannot recall a single one who reads me or considers me an artist. InMoscow there is a so-called Literary Circle: talented people andmediocrities of all ages and colours gather once a week in a private roomof a restaurant and exercise their tongues. If I went there and read them asingle passage of your letter, they would laugh in my face. In the courseof the five years that I have been knocking about from one newspaper officeto another I have had time to assimilate the general view of my literaryinsignificance. I soon got used to looking down upon my work, and so it hasgone from bad to worse. That is the first reason. The second is that I am adoctor, and am up to my ears in medical work, so that the proverb abouttrying to catch two hares has given to no one more sleepless nights thanme. 

I am writing all this to you in order to excuse this grievous sin a littlebefore you. Hitherto my attitude to my literary work has been frivolous, heedless, casual. I don't remember a _single_ story over which I havespent more than twenty-four hours, and "The Huntsman, " which you liked, Iwrote in the bathing-shed! I wrote my stories as reporters write theirnotes about fires, mechanically, half-unconsciously, taking no thought ofthe reader or myself. .. . I wrote and did all I could not to waste upon thestory the scenes and images dear to me which--God knows why--I havetreasured and kept carefully hidden. 

The first impulse to self-criticism was given me by a very kind and, to thebest of my belief, sincere letter from Suvorin. I began to think of writingsomething decent, but I still had no faith in my being any good as awriter. And then, unexpected and undreamed of, came your letter. Forgivethe comparison: it had on me the effect of a Governor's order to clear outof the town within twenty-four hours--i. E. , I suddenly felt an imperativeneed to hurry, to make haste and get out of where I have stuck. .. . 

I agree with you in everything. When I saw "The Witch" in print I feltmyself the cynicism of the points to which you call my attention. Theywould not have been there had I written this story in three or four daysinstead of in one. 

I shall put an end to working against time, but cannot do so just yet. .. . It is impossible to get out of the rut I have got into. I have nothingagainst going hungry, as I have done in the past, but it is not a questionof myself. .. . I give to literature my spare time, two or three hours a dayand a bit of the night, that is, time which is of no use except for shortthings. In the summer, when I have more time and have fewer expenses, Iwill start on some serious work. 

I cannot put my real name on the book because it is too late: the designfor the cover is ready and the book printed. [Footnote: "Motley Tales" ismeant. ] Many of my Petersburg friends advised me, even before you did, notto spoil the book by a pseudonym, but I did not listen to them, probablyout of vanity. I dislike my book very much. It's a hotch-potch, adisorderly medley of the poor stuff I wrote as a student, plucked by thecensor and by the editors of comic papers. I am sure that many people willbe disappointed when they read it. Had I known that I had readers and thatyou were watching me, I would not have published this book. 

I rest all my hopes on the future. I am only twenty-six. Perhaps I shallsucceed in doing something, though time flies fast. 

Forgive my long letter and do not blame a man because, for the first timein his life, he has made bold to treat himself to the pleasure of writingto Grigorovitch. 

Send me your photograph, if possible. I am so overwhelmed with yourkindness that I feel as though I should like to write a whole ream to you. God grant you health and happiness, and believe in the sincerity of yourdeeply respectful and grateful

 A. CHEKHOV. 

TO N. A. LEIKIN. 

MOSCOW, April 6, 1886. 

. .. I am ill. Spitting of blood and weakness. I am not writing anything. .. . If I don't sit down to write to-morrow, you must forgive me--I shall notsend you a story for the Easter number. I ought to go to the South but Ihave no money. .. . I am afraid to submit myself to be sounded by mycolleagues. I am inclined to think it is not so much my lungs as my throatthat is at fault. .. . I have no fever. 

TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV. 

BABKINO, June, 1886. 

LOVE UNRIPPLED [Footnote: Parody of a feminine novel. ]

(A NOVEL) Part I. 

It was noon. .. . The setting sun with its crimson, fiery rays gildedthe tops of pines, oaks, and fir-trees. .. . It was still; only in theair the birds were singing, and in the distance a hungry wolf howledmournfully. .. . The driver turned round and said:

"More snow has fallen, sir. "

"What?"

"I say, more snow has fallen. "

"Ah!"

Vladimir Sergeitch Tabatchin, who is the hero of our story, looked forthe last time at the sun and expired. 

 * * * * *

A week passed. .. . Birds and corncrakes hovered, whistling, over anewly-made grave. The sun was shining. A young widow, bathed in tears, was standing by, and in her grief sopping her whole handkerchief. .. . 

MOSCOW, September 21, 1886. 

. .. It is not much fun to be a great writer. To begin with, it's a drearylife. Work from morning till night and not much to show for it. Money is asscarce as cats' tears. I don't know how it is with Zola and Shtchedrin, butin my flat it is cold and smoky. .. . They give me cigarettes, as before, onholidays only. Impossible cigarettes! Hard, damp, sausage-like. Before Ibegin to smoke I light the lamp, dry the cigarette over it, and only then Ibegin on it; the lamp smokes, the cigarette splutters and turns brown, Iburn my fingers . .. It is enough to make one shoot oneself!

. .. I am more or less ill, and am gradually turning into a drieddragon-fly. 

. .. I go about as festive as though it were my birthday, but to judge fromthe critical glances of the lady cashier at the _Budilnik_, I am notdressed in the height of fashion, and my clothes are not brand-new. I go inbuses, not in cabs. 

But being a writer has its good points. In the first place, my book, Ihear, is going rather well; secondly, in October I shall have money;thirdly, I am beginning to reap laurels: at the refreshment bars peoplepoint at me with their fingers, they pay me little attentions and treat meto sandwiches. Korsh caught me in his theatre and straight away presentedme with a free pass. .. . My medical colleagues sigh when they meet me, begin to talk of literature and assure me that they are sick of medicine. And so on. .. . 

September 29. 

. .. Life is grey, there are no happy people to be seen. .. . Life is a nastybusiness for everyone. When I am serious I begin to think that people whohave an aversion for death are illogical. So far as I understand the orderof things, life consists of nothing but horrors, squabbles, andtrivialities mixed together or alternating!

December 3. 

This morning an individual sent by Prince Urusov turned up and asked me fora short story for a sporting magazine edited by the said Prince. I refused, of course, as I now refuse all who come with supplications to the foot ofmy pedestal. In Russia there are now two unattainable heights: MountElborus and myself. 

The Prince's envoy was deeply disappointed by my refusal, nearly died ofgrief, and finally begged me to recommend him some writers who are versedin sport. I thought a little, and very opportunely remembered a lady writerwho dreams of glory and has for the last year been ill with envy of myliterary fame. In short, I gave him your address. .. . You might write astory "The Wounded Doe"--you remember, how the huntsmen wound a doe; shelooks at them with human eyes, and no one can bring himself to kill her. It's not a bad subject, but dangerous because it is difficult to avoidsentimentality--you must write it like a report, without pathetic phrases, and begin like this: "On such and such a date the huntsmen in the Daraganovforest wounded a young doe. .. . " And if you drop a tear you will strip thesubject of its severity and of everything worth attention in it. 

December 13. 

. .. With your permission I steal out of your last two letters to my sistertwo descriptions of nature for my stories. It is curious that you havequite a masculine way of writing. In every line (except when dealing withchildren) you are a man! This, of course, ought to flatter your vanity, forspeaking generally, men are a thousand times better than women, andsuperior to them. 

In Petersburg I was resting--i. E. , for days together I was rushing abouttown paying calls and listening to compliments which my soul abhors. Alasand alack! In Petersburg I am becoming fashionable like Nana. WhileKorolenko, who is serious, is hardly known to the editors, my twaddle isbeing read by all Petersburg. Even the senator G. Reads me. .. . It isgratifying, but my literary feeling is wounded. I feel ashamed of thepublic which runs after lap-dogs simply because it fails to noticeelephants, and I am deeply convinced that not a soul will know me when Ibegin to work in earnest. 

TO HIS BROTHER NIKOLAY. 

MOSCOW, 1886. 

. .. You have often complained to me that people "don't understand you"!Goethe and Newton did not complain of that. .. . Only Christ complained ofit, but He was speaking of His doctrine and not of Himself. .. . Peopleunderstand you perfectly well. And if you do not understand yourself, it isnot their fault. 

I assure you as a brother and as a friend I understand you and feel for youwith all my heart. I know your good qualities as I know my five fingers; Ivalue and deeply respect them. If you like, to prove that I understand you, I can enumerate those qualities. I think you are kind to the point ofsoftness, magnanimous, unselfish, ready to share your last farthing; youhave no envy nor hatred; you are simple-hearted, you pity men and beasts;you are trustful, without spite or guile, and do not remember evil. .. . Youhave a gift from above such as other people have not: you have talent. Thistalent places you above millions of men, for on earth only one out of twomillions is an artist. Your talent sets you apart: if you were a toad or atarantula, even then, people would respect you, for to talent all thingsare forgiven. 

You have only one failing, and the falseness of your position, andyour unhappiness and your catarrh of the bowels are all due to it. That is your utter lack of culture. Forgive me, please, but _veritasmagis amicitiae. .. . _ You see, life has its conditions. In order tofeel comfortable among educated people, to be at home and happy withthem, one must be cultured to a certain extent. Talent has brought youinto such a circle, you belong to it, but . .. You are drawn away fromit, and you vacillate between cultured people and the lodgers _vis-a-vis. _

Cultured people must, in my opinion, satisfy the following conditions:

1. They respect human personality, and therefore they are always kind, gentle, polite, and ready to give in to others. They do not make a rowbecause of a hammer or a lost piece of india-rubber; if they live withanyone they do not regard it as a favour and, going away, they do not say"nobody can live with you. " They forgive noise and cold and dried-up meatand witticisms and the presence of strangers in their homes. 

2. They have sympathy not for beggars and cats alone. Their heart aches forwhat the eye does not see. .. . They sit up at night in order to help P. .. . , to pay for brothers at the University, and to buy clothes for their mother. 

3. They respect the property of others, and therefor pay their debts. 

4. They are sincere, and dread lying like fire. They don't lie even insmall things. A lie is insulting to the listener and puts him in a lowerposition in the eyes of the speaker. They do not pose, they behave in thestreet as they do at home, they do not show off before their humblercomrades. They are not given to babbling and forcing their uninvitedconfidences on others. Out of respect for other people's ears they moreoften keep silent than talk. 

5. They do not disparage themselves to rouse compassion. They do not playon the strings of other people's hearts so that they may sigh and make muchof them. They do not say "I am misunderstood, " or "I have becomesecond-rate, " because all this is striving after cheap effect, is vulgar, stale, false. .. . 

6. They have no shallow vanity. They do not care for such false diamonds asknowing celebrities, shaking hands with the drunken P. , [Translator's Note:Probably Palmin, a minor poet. ] listening to the raptures of a strayspectator in a picture show, being renowned in the taverns. .. . If they do apennyworth they do not strut about as though they had done a hundredroubles' worth, and do not brag of having the entry where others are notadmitted. .. . The truly talented always keep in obscurity among the crowd, as far as possible from advertisement. .. . Even Krylov has said that anempty barrel echoes more loudly than a full one. 

7. If they have a talent they respect it. They sacrifice to it rest, women, wine, vanity. .. . They are proud of their talent. .. . Besides, they arefastidious. 

8. They develop the aesthetic feeling in themselves. They cannot go tosleep in their clothes, see cracks full of bugs on the walls, breathe badair, walk on a floor that has been spat upon, cook their meals over an oilstove. They seek as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexualinstinct. .. . What they want in a woman is not a bed-fellow . .. They do notask for the cleverness which shows itself in continual lying. They wantespecially, if they are artists, freshness, elegance, humanity, thecapacity for motherhood. .. . They do not swill vodka at all hours of the dayand night, do not sniff at cupboards, for they are not pigs and know theyare not. They drink only when they are free, on occasion. .. . For they want_mens sana in corpore sano. _

And so on. This is what cultured people are like. In order to be culturedand not to stand below the level of your surroundings it is not enough tohave read "The Pickwick Papers" and learnt a monologue from "Faust. " . .. 

What is needed is constant work, day and night, constant reading, study, will. .. . Every hour is precious for it. .. . Come to us, smash the vodkabottle, lie down and read. .. . Turgenev, if you like, whom you have notread. 

You must drop your vanity, you are not a child . .. You will soon be thirty. It is time!

I expect you. .. . We all expect you. 

 * * * * *

TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV. 

MOSCOW, January 14, 1887. 

. .. Even your praise of "On the Road" has not softened my anger as anauthor, and I hasten to avenge myself for "Mire. " Be on your guard, andcatch hold of the back of a chair that you may not faint. Well, I begin. 

One meets every critical article with a silent bow even if it is abusiveand unjust--such is the literary etiquette. It is not the thing to answer, and all who do answer are justly blamed for excessive vanity. But sinceyour criticism has the nature of "an evening conversation on the steps ofthe Babkino lodge" . .. And as, without touching on the literary aspects ofthe story, it raises general questions of principle, I shall not be sinningagainst the etiquette if I allow myself to continue our conversation. 

In the first place, I, like you, do not like literature of the kind we arediscussing. As a reader and "a private resident" I am glad to avoid it, butif you ask my honest and sincere opinion about it, I shall say that it isstill an open question whether it has a right to exist, and no one has yetsettled it. .. . Neither you nor I, nor all the critics in the world, haveany trustworthy data that would give them the right to reject suchliterature. I do not know which are right: Homer, Shakespeare, Lopez daVega, and, speaking generally, the ancients who were not afraid to rummagein the "muck heap, " but were morally far more stable than we are, or themodern writers, priggish on paper but coldly cynical in their souls and inlife. I do not know which has bad taste--the Greeks who were not ashamed todescribe love as it really is in beautiful nature, or the readers ofGaboriau, Marlitz, Pierre Bobo. [Footnote: P. D. Boborykin. ] Like theproblems of non-resistance to evil, of free will, etc. , this question canonly be settled in the future. We can only refer to it, but are notcompetent to decide it. Reference to Turgenev and Tolstoy--who avoided the"muck heap"--does not throw light on the question. Their fastidiousnessdoes not prove anything; why, before them there was a generation of writerswho regarded as dirty not only accounts of "the dregs and scum, " but evendescriptions of peasants and of officials below the rank of titularcouncillor. Besides, one period, however brilliant, does not entitle us todraw conclusions in favour of this or that literary tendency. Reference tothe demoralizing effects of the literary tendency we are discussing doesnot decide the question either. Everything in this world is relative andapproximate. There are people who can be demoralized even by children'sbooks, and who read with particular pleasure the piquant passages in thePsalms and in Solomon's Proverbs, while there are others who become onlythe purer from closer knowledge of the filthy side of life. Political andsocial writers, lawyers, and doctors who are initiated into all themysteries of human sinfulness are not reputed to be immoral; realisticwriters are often more moral than archimandrites. And, finally, noliterature can outdo real life in its cynicism, a wineglassful won't make aman drunk when he has already emptied a barrel. 

2. That the world swarms with "dregs and scum" is perfectly true. Humannature is imperfect, and it would therefore be strange to see none butrighteous ones on earth. But to think that the duty of literature is tounearth the pearl from the refuse heap means to reject literature itself. "Artistic" literature is only "art" in so far as it paints life as itreally is. Its vocation is to be absolutely true and honest. To narrow downits function to the particular task of finding "pearls" is as deadly for itas it would be to make Levitan draw a tree without including the dirty barkand the yellow leaves. I agree that "pearls" are a good thing, but then awriter is not a confectioner, not a provider of cosmetics, not anentertainer; he is a man bound, under contract, by his sense of duty andhis conscience; having put his hand to the plough he mustn't turn back, and, however distasteful, he must conquer his squeamishness and soil hisimagination with the dirt of life. He is just like any ordinary reporter. What would you say if a newspaper correspondent out of a feeling offastidiousness or from a wish to please his readers would describe onlyhonest mayors, high-minded ladies, and virtuous railway contractors?

To a chemist nothing on earth is unclean. A writer must be as objective asa chemist, he must lay aside his personal subjective standpoint and mustunderstand that muck heaps play a very respectable part in a landscape, andthat the evil passions are as inherent in life as the good ones. 

3. Writers are the children of their age, and therefore, like everybodyelse, must submit to the external conditions of the life of the community. Thus, they must be perfectly decent. This is the only thing we have a rightto ask of realistic writers. But you say nothing against the form andexecutions of "Mire. " . .. And so I suppose I have been decent. 

4. I confess I seldom commune with my conscience when I write. This is dueto habit and the brevity of my work. And so when I express this or thatopinion about literature, I do not take myself into account. 

5. You write: "If I were the editor I would have returned this feuilletonto you for your own good. " Why not go further? Why not muzzle the editorsthemselves who publish such stories? Why not send a reprimand to theHeadquarters of the Press Department for not suppressing immoralnewspapers?

The fate of literature would be sad indeed if it were at the mercy ofindividual views. That is the first thing. Secondly, there is no policewhich could consider itself competent in literary matters. I agree that onecan't dispense with the reins and the whip altogether, for knaves findtheir way even into literature, but no thinking will discover a betterpolice for literature than the critics and the author's own conscience. People have been trying to discover such a police since the creation of theworld, but they have found nothing better. 

Here you would like me to lose one hundred and fifteen roubles and be putto shame by the editor; others, your father among them, are delighted withthe story. Some send insulting letters to Suvorin, pouring abuse on thepaper and on me, etc. Who, then, is right? Who is the true judge?

6. Further you write, "Leave such writing to spiritless and unluckyscribblers such as Okrects, Pince-Nez, [Footnote: The pseudonym of MadameKisselyov. ] or Aloe. " [Footnote: The pseudonym of Chekhov's brotherAlexandr. ]

Allah forgive you if you were sincere when you wrote those words! Acondescending and contemptuous tone towards humble people simply becausethey are humble does no credit to the heart. In literature the lower ranksare as necessary as in the army--this is what the head says, and the heartought to say still more. 

Ough! I have wearied you with my drawn-out reflections. Had I known mycriticism would turn out so long I would not have written it. Pleaseforgive me! . .. 

You have read my "On the Road. " Well, how do you like my courage? I writeof "intellectual" subjects and am not afraid. In Petersburg I excite aregular furore. A short time ago I discoursed upon non-resistance to evil, and also surprised the public. On New Year's Day all the papers presentedme with a compliment, and in the December number of the _RusskoyeBogatstvo_, in which Tolstoy writes, there is an article thirty-two pageslong by Obolensky entitled "Chekhov and Korolenko. " The fellow goes intoraptures over me and proves that I am more of an artist than Korolenko. Heis probably talking rot, but, anyway, I am beginning to be conscious of onemerit of mine: I am the only writer who, without ever publishing anythingin the thick monthlies, has merely on the strength of writing newspaperrubbish won the attention of the lop-eared critics--there has been noinstance of this before. .. . At the end of 1886 I felt as though I were abone thrown to the dogs. 

. .. I have written a play [Footnote: "Calchas, " later called "Swansong. "]on four sheets of paper. It will take fifteen to twenty minutes to act. .. . It is much better to write small things than big ones: they areunpretentious and successful. .. . What more would you have? I wrote my playin an hour and five minutes. I began another, but have not finished it, forI have no time. 

TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV. 

MOSCOW, January 18, 1887. 

. .. During the holidays I was so overwhelmed with work that on Mother'sname-day I was almost dropping with exhaustion. 

I must tell you that in Petersburg I am now the most fashionable writer. One can see that from papers and magazines, which at the end of 1886 weretaken up with me, bandied my name about, and praised me beyond my deserts. The result of this growth of my literary reputation is that I get a numberof orders and invitations--and this is followed by work at high pressureand exhaustion. My work is nervous, disturbing, and involving strain. It ispublic and responsible, which makes it doubly hard. Every newspaper reportabout me agitates both me and my family. .. . My stories are read at publicrecitations, wherever I go people point at me, I am overwhelmed withacquaintances, and so on, and so on. I have not a day of peace, and feel asthough I were on thorns every moment. 

. .. Volodya [Translator's Note: He had apparently criticized the nameVladimir, which means "lord of the world. "] is right. .. . It is true that aman cannot possess the world, but a man can be called "the lord of theworld. " Tell Volodya that out of gratitude, reverence, or admiration of thevirtues of the best men--those qualities which make a man exceptional andakin to the Deity--peoples and historians have a right to call their electas they like, without being afraid of insulting God's greatness or ofraising a man to God. The fact is we exalt, not a man as such, but his goodqualities, just that divine principle which he has succeeded in developingin himself to a high degree. Thus remarkable kings are called "great, "though bodily they may not be taller than I. I. Loboda; the Pope is called"Holiness, " the patriarch used to be called "Ecumenical, " although he wasnot in relations with any planet but the earth; Prince Vladimir was called"the lord of the world, " though he ruled only a small strip of ground, princes are called "serene" and "illustrious, " though a Swedish matchis a thousand times brighter than they are--and so on. In using theseexpressions we do not lie or exaggerate, but simply express our delight, just as a mother does not lie when she calls her child "my golden one. " Itis the feeling of beauty that speaks in us, and beauty cannot endure whatis commonplace and trivial; it induces us to make comparisons which Volodyamay, with his intellect, pull to pieces, but which he will understand withhis heart. For instance, it is usual to compare black eyes with the night, blue with the azure of the sky, curls with waves, etc. , and even the Biblelikes these comparisons; for instance, "Thy womb is more spacious thanheaven, " or "The Sun of righteousness arises, " "The rock of faith, " etc. The feeling of beauty in man knows no limits or bounds. This is why aRussian prince may be called "the lord of the world"; and my friend Volodyamay have the same name, for names are given to people, not for theirmerits, but in honour and commemoration of remarkable men of the past. .. . If your young scholar does not agree with me, I have one more argumentwhich will be sure to appeal to him: in exalting people even to God we donot sin against love, but, on the contrary, we express it. One must nothumiliate people--that is the chief thing. Better say to man "My angel"than hurl "Fool" at his head--though men are more like fools than they arelike angels. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

TAGANROG, April 2, 1887. 

The journey from Moscow to Serpuhov was dull. My fellow-travellers werepractical persons of strong character who did nothing but talk of theprices of flour. .. . 

. .. At twelve o'clock we were at Kursk. An hour of waiting, a glass ofvodka, a tidy-up and a wash, and cabbage soup. Change to another train. Thecarriage was crammed full. Immediately after Kursk I made friends with myneighbours: a landowner from Harkov, as jocose as Sasha K. ; a lady who hadjust had an operation in Petersburg; a police captain; an officer fromLittle Russia; and a general in military uniform. We settled socialquestions. The general's arguments were sound, short, and liberal; thepolice captain was the type of an old battered sinner of an hussar yearningfor amorous adventures. He had the affectations of a governor: he openedhis mouth long before he began to speak, and having said a word he gave along growl like a dog, "er-r-r. " The lady was injecting morphia, and sentthe men to fetch her ice at the stations. 

At Belgrade I had cabbage soup. We got to Harkov at nine o'clock. Atouching parting from the police captain, the general and the others. .. . Iwoke up at Slavyansk and sent you a postcard. A new lot of passengers gotin: a landowner and a railway inspector. We talked of railways. Theinspector told us how the Sevastopol railway stole three hundred carriagesfrom the Azov line and painted them its own colour. [Footnote: See thestory "Cold Blood. "]

. .. Twelve o'clock. Lovely weather. There is a scent of the steppe and onehears the birds sing. I see my old friends the ravens flying over thesteppe. 

The barrows, the water-towers, the buildings--everything is familiar andwell-remembered. At the station I have a helping of remarkably good andrich sorrel soup. Then I walk along the platform. Young ladies. At an upperwindow at the far end of the station sits a young girl (or a married lady, goodness knows which) in a white blouse, beautiful and languid. [Footnote:See the story "Two Beauties. "] I look at her, she looks at me. .. . I put onmy glasses, she does the same. .. . Oh, lovely vision! I caught a catarrh ofthe heart and continued my journey. The weather is devilishly, revoltinglyfine. Little Russians, oxen, ravens, white huts, rivers, the line of theDonets railway with one telegraph wire, daughters of landowners andfarmers, red dogs, the trees--it all flits by like a dream. .. . It is hot. The inspector begins to bore me. The rissoles and pies, half of which Ihave not got through, begin to smell bitter. .. . I shove them under somebodyelse's seat, together with the remains of the vodka. 

. .. I arrive at Taganrog. .. . It gives one the impression of Herculaneum andPompeii; there are no people, and instead of mummies there are sleepy_drishpaks_ [Footnote: Uneducated young men in the jargon of Taganrog. ] andmelon-shaped heads. All the houses look flattened out, and as though theyhad long needed replastering, the roofs want painting, the shutters areclosed. .. . 

At eight o'clock in the evening my uncle, his family, Irina, the dogs, therats that live in the storeroom, the rabbits were fast asleep. There wasnothing for it but to go to bed too. I sleep on the drawing-room sofa. Thesofa has not increased in length, and is as short as it was before, and sowhen I go to bed I have either to stick up my legs in an unseemly way or tolet them hang down to the floor. I think of Procrustes and his bed. .. . 

April 6. 

I wake up at five. The sky is grey. There is a cold, unpleasant wind thatreminds one of Moscow. It is dull. I wait for the church bells and go tolate Mass. In the cathedral it is all very charming, decorous, and notboring. The choir sings well, not at all in a plebeian style, and thecongregation entirely consists of young ladies in olive-green dresses andchocolate-coloured jackets. .. . 

April 8, 9, and 10. 

Frightfully dull. It is cold and grey. .. . During all my stay in Taganrog Icould only do justice to the following things: remarkably good ring rollssold at the market, the Santurninsky wine, fresh caviare, excellent crabsand uncle's genuine hospitality. Everything else is poor and not to beenvied. The young ladies here are not bad, but it takes some time to getused to them. They are abrupt in their movements, frivolous in theirattitude to men, run away from their parents with actors, laugh loudly, easily fall in love, whistle to dogs, drink wine, etc. .. . 

On Saturday I continued my journey. At the Moskaya station the air islovely and fresh, caviare is seventy kopecks a pound. At Rostdov I had twohours to wait, at Taganrog twenty. I spent the night at an acquaintance's. The devil only knows what I haven't spent a night on: on beds with bugs, onsofas, settees, boxes. Last night I spent in a long and narrow parlour on asofa under a looking-glass. .. . 

April 25. 

. .. Yesterday was the wedding--a real Cossack wedding with music, femininebleating, and revolting drunkenness. .. . The bride is sixteen. They weremarried in the cathedral. I acted as best man, and was dressed in somebodyelse's evening suit with fearfully wide trousers, and not a single stud onmy shirt. In Moscow such a best man would have been kicked out, but here Ilooked smarter than anyone. 

I saw many rich and eligible young ladies. The choice is enormous, but Iwas so drunk all the time that I took bottles for young ladies and youngladies for bottles. Probably owing to my drunken condition the local ladiesfound me witty and satirical! The young ladies here are regular sheep, ifone gets up from her place and walks out of the room all the others followher. One of them, the boldest and the most brainy, wishing to show that sheis not a stranger to social polish and subtlety, kept slapping me on thehand and saying, "Oh, you wretch!" though her face still retained itsscared expression. I taught her to say to her partners, "How naive youare!"

The bride and bridegroom, probably because of the local custom of kissingevery minute, kissed with such gusto that their lips made a loud smack, andit gave me a taste of sugary raisins in my mouth and a spasm in my leftcalf. The inflammation of the vein in my left leg got worse through theirkisses. 

. .. At Zvyerevo I shall have to wait from nine in the evening till five inthe morning. Last time I spent the night there in a second-classrailway-carriage on the siding. I went out of the carriage in the night andoutside I found veritable marvels: the moon, the limitless steppe, thebarrows, the wilderness; deathly stillness, and the carriages and therailway lines sharply standing out from the dusk. It seemed as though theworld were dead. .. . It was a picture one would not forget for ages andages. 

RAGOZINA BALKA, April 30, 1887. 

It is April 30. The evening is warm. There are storm-clouds about, and soone cannot see a thing. The air is close and there is a smell of grass. 

I am staying in the Ragozina Balka at K. 's. There is a small house with athatched roof, and barns made of flat stone. There are three rooms, withearthen floors, crooked ceilings, and windows that lift up and down insteadof opening outwards. .. . The walls are covered with rifles, pistols, sabresand whips. The chest of drawers and the window-sills are littered withcartridges, instruments for mending rifles, tins of gunpowder, and bags ofshot. The furniture is lame and the veneer is coming off it. I have tosleep on a consumptive sofa, very hard, and not upholstered . .. Ash-traysand all such luxuries are not to be found within a radius of ten versts. .. . The first necessaries are conspicuous by their absence, and one has in allweathers to slip out to the ravine, and one is warned to make sure there isnot a viper or some other creature under the bushes. 

The population consists of old K. , his wife, Pyotr, a Cossack officer withbroad red stripes on his trousers, Alyosha, Hahko (that is, Alexandr), Zoika, Ninka, the shepherd Nikita and the cook Akulina. There are immensenumbers of dogs who are furiously spiteful and don't let anyone pass themby day or by night. I have to go about under escort, or there will be onewriter less in Russia. .. . The most cursed of the dogs is Muhtar, an old curon whose face dirty tow hangs instead of wool. He hates me and rushes at mewith a roar every time I go out of the house. 

Now about food. In the morning there is tea, eggs, ham and bacon fat. Atmidday, soup with goose, roast goose with pickled sloes, or a turkey, roastchicken, milk pudding, and sour milk. No vodka or pepper allowed. At fiveo'clock they make on a camp fire in the wood a porridge of millet and baconfat. In the evening there is tea, ham, and all that has been left over fromdinner. 

The entertainments are: shooting bustards, making bonfires, going toIvanovka, shooting at a mark, setting the dogs at one another, preparinggunpowder paste for fireworks, talking politics, building turrets of stone, etc. 

The chief occupation is scientific farming, introduced by the youthfulCossack, who bought five roubles' worth of works on agriculture. The mostimportant part of this farming consists of wholesale slaughter, which doesnot cease for a single moment in the day. They kill sparrows, swallows, bumblebees, ants, magpies, crows--to prevent them eating bees; to preventthe bees from spoiling the blossom on the fruit-trees they kill bees, andto prevent the fruit-trees from exhausting the ground they cut down thefruit-trees. One gets thus a regular circle which, though somewhatoriginal, is based on the latest data of science. 

We retire at nine in the evening. Sleep is disturbed, for Belonozhkas andMuhtars howl in the yard and Tseter furiously barks in answer to them fromunder my sofa. I am awakened by shooting: my hosts shoot with rifles fromthe windows at some animal which does damage to their crops. To leave thehouse at night one has to call the Cossack, for otherwise the dogs wouldtear one to bits. 

The weather is fine. The grass is tall and in blossom. I watch bees and menamong whom I feel myself something like a Mikluha-Maklay. Last night therewas a beautiful thunderstorm. 

. .. The coal mines are not far off. To-morrow morning early I am going on aone-horse droshky to Ivanovka (twenty-three versts) to fetch my lettersfrom the post. 

. .. We eat turkeys' eggs. Turkeys lay eggs in the wood on last year'sleaves. They kill hens, geese, pigs, etc. , by shooting here. The shootingis incessant. 

TAGANROG, May 11. 

. .. From K. 's I went to the Holy Mountains. .. . I came to Slavyansk on adark evening. The cabmen refuse to take me to the Holy Mountains at night, and advise me to spend the night at Slavyansk, which I did very willingly, for I felt broken and lame with pain. .. . The town is something like Gogol's_Mirgorod_; there is a hairdresser and a watchmaker, so that one mayhope that in another thousand years there will be a telephone. The wallsand fences are pasted with the advertisements of a menagerie. .. . On greenand dusty streets walk pigs, cows, and other domestic creatures. The houseslook cordial and friendly, rather like kindly grandmothers; the pavementsare soft, the streets are wide, there is a smell of lilac and acacia in theair; from the distance come the singing of a nightingale, the croaking offrogs, barking, and sounds of a harmonium, of a woman screeching. .. . Istopped in Kulikov's hotel, where I took a room for seventy-five kopecks. After sleeping on wooden sofas and washtubs it was a voluptuous sight tosee a bed with a mattress, a washstand. .. . Fragrant breezes came in at thewide-open window and green branches thrust themselves in. It was a gloriousmorning. It was a holiday (May 6th) and the bells were ringing in thecathedral. People were coming out from mass. I saw police officers, justices of the peace, military superintendents, and other principalitiesand powers come out of the church. I bought two kopecks' worth of sunflowerseeds, and hired for six roubles a carriage on springs to take me to theHoly Mountains and back (in two days' time). I drove out of the townthrough little streets literally drowned in the green of cherry, apricot, and apple trees. The birds sang unceasingly. Little Russians whom I mettook off their caps, taking me probably for Turgenev; my driver jumpedevery minute off the box to put the harness to rights, or to crack his whipat the boys who ran after the carriage. .. . There were strings of pilgrimsalong the road. On all sides there were white hills, big and small. Thehorizon was bluish-white, the rye was tall, oak copses were met with hereand there--the only things lacking were crocodiles and rattlesnakes. 

I came to the Holy Mountains at twelve o'clock. It is a remarkablybeautiful and unique place. The monastery stands on the bank of the riverDonets at the foot of a huge white rock covered with gardens, oaks, andancient pines crowded together and over-hanging, one above another. Itseems as if the trees had not enough room on the rock, and as if some forcewere driving them upwards. .. . The pines literally hang in the air and lookas though they might fall any minute. Cuckoos and nightingales sing nightand day. 

The monks, very pleasant people, gave me a very unpleasant room with apancake-like mattress. I spent two nights at the monastery and gathered amass of impressions. While I was there some fifteen thousand pilgrimsassembled because of St. Nicolas' Day; eight-ninths of them were old women. I did not know before that there were so many old women in the world; had Iknown, I would have shot myself long ago. About the monks, my acquaintancewith them and how I gave medical advice to the monks and the old women, Iwill write to the _Novoye Vremya_ and tell you when we meet. The servicesare endless: at midnight they ring for matins, at five for early mass, atnine for late mass, at three for the song of praise, at five for vespers, at six for the special prayers. Before every service one hears in thecorridors the weeping sound of a bell, and a monk runs along crying in thevoice of a creditor who implores his debtor to pay him at least fivekopecks for a rouble:

"Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us! Please come to matins!"

It is awkward to stay in one's room, and so one gets up and goes out. Ihave chosen a spot on the bank of the Donets, where I sit during all theservices. 

I have bought an ikon for Auntie. [Translator's Note: His mother's sister. ]The food is provided gratis by the monastery for all the fifteen thousand:cabbage soup with dried fresh-water fish and porridge. Both are good, andso is the rye bread. 

The church bells are wonderful. The choir is not up to much. I took part ina religious procession on boats. 

TO V. G. KOROLENKO. 

MOSCOW, October 17, 1887. 

. .. I am extremely glad to have met you. I say it sincerely and with all myheart. In the first place, I deeply value and love your talent; it is dearto me for many reasons. In the second, it seems to me that if you and Ilive in this world another ten or twenty years we shall be bound to findpoints of contact. Of all the Russians now successfully writing I am thelightest and most frivolous; I am looked upon doubtfully; to speak thelanguage of the poets, I have loved my pure Muse but I have not respectedher; I have been unfaithful to her and often took her to places that werenot fit for her to go to. But you are serious, strong, and faithful. Thedifference between us is great, as you see, but nevertheless when I readyou, and now when I have met you, I think that we have something in common. I don't know if I am right, but I like to think it. 

TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. 

MOSCOW, November 20, 1887. 

Well, the first performance [Translator's Note: "Ivanov. "] is over. Iwill tell you all about it in detail. To begin with, Korsh promised meten rehearsals, but gave me only four, of which only two could be calledrehearsals, for the other two were tournaments in which _messieurs lesartistes_ exercised themselves in altercation and abuse. Davydov and Glamawere the only two who knew their parts; the others trusted to the prompterand their own inner conviction. 

Act One. --I am behind the stage in a small box that looks like a prisoncell. My family is in a box of the benoire and is trembling. Contrary to myexpectations, I am cool and am conscious of no agitation. The actors arenervous and excited, and cross themselves. The curtain goes up . .. Theactor whose benefit night it is comes on. His uncertainty, the way that heforgets his part, and the wreath that is presented to him make the playunrecognizable to me from the first sentences. Kiselevsky, of whom I hadgreat hopes, did not deliver a single phrase correctly--literally _not asingle one_. He said things of his own composition. In spite of this and ofthe stage manager's blunders, the first act was a great success. There weremany calls. 

Act Two. --A lot of people on the stage. Visitors. They don't knowtheir parts, make mistakes, talk nonsense. Every word cuts me like a knifein my back. But--o Muse!--this act, too, was a success. There were callsfor all the actors, and I was called before the curtain twice. Congratulations and success. 

Act Three. --The acting is not bad. Enormous success. I had to comebefore the curtain three times, and as I did so Davydov was shaking myhand, and Glama, like Manilov, was pressing my other hand to her heart. Thetriumph of talent and virtue. 

Act Four, Scene One. --It does not go badly. Calls before the curtainagain. Then a long, wearisome interval. The audience, not used to leavingtheir seats and going to the refreshment bar between two scenes, murmur. The curtain goes up. Fine: through the arch one can see the supper table(the wedding). The band plays flourishes. The groomsmen come out: they aredrunk, and so you see they think they must behave like clowns and cutcapers. The horseplay and pot-house atmosphere reduce me to despair. ThenKiselevsky comes out: it is a poetical, moving passage, but my Kiselevskydoes not know his part, is drunk as a cobbler, and a short poeticaldialogue is transformed into something tedious and disgusting: the publicis perplexed. At the end of the play the hero dies because he cannot getover the insult he has received. The audience, grown cold and tired, doesnot understand this death (the actors insisted on it; I have anotherversion). There are calls for the actors and for me. During one of thecalls I hear sounds of open hissing, drowned by the clapping and stamping. 

On the whole I feel tired and annoyed. It was sickening though the play hadconsiderable success. .. . 

Theatre-goers say that they had never seen such a ferment in a theatre, such universal clapping and hissing, nor heard such discussions among theaudience as they saw and heard at my play. And it has never happened beforeat Korsh's that the author has been called after the second act. 

November 24. 

. .. It has all subsided at last, and I sit as before at my writing-tableand compose stories with untroubled spirit. You can't think what it waslike! . .. I have already told you that at the first performance there wassuch excitement in the audience and on the stage as the prompter, who hasserved at the theatre for thirty-two years, had never seen. They made anuproar, shouted, clapped and hissed; at the refreshment bar it almost cameto fighting, and in the gallery the students wanted to throw someone outand two persons were removed by the police. The excitement was general. .. . 

. .. The actors were in a state of nervous tension. All that I wrote to youand Maslov about their acting and attitude to their work must not, ofcourse, go any further. There is much one has to excuse and understand. .. . It turned out that the actress who was doing the chief part in my play hada daughter lying dangerously ill--how could she feel like acting? Kurepindid well to praise the actors. 

The next day after the performance there was a review by Pyotr Kitcheyev inthe _Moskovsky Listok_. He calls my play impudently cynical and immoralrubbish. The _Moskovskiya Vyedomosti_ praised it. 

. .. If you read the play you will not understand the excitement I havedescribed to you; you will find nothing special in it. Nikolay, Shehtel, and Levitan--all of them painters--assure me that on the stage it is sooriginal that it is quite strange to look at. In reading one does notnotice it. 

TO D. V. GRIGOROVITCH. 

MOSCOW, 1887. 

I have just read "Karelin's Dream, " and I am very much interested to knowhow far the dream you describe really is a dream. I think your descriptionof the workings of the brain and of the general feeling of a person who isasleep is physiologically correct and remarkably artistic. I remember Iread two or three years ago a French story, in which the author describedthe daughter of a minister. , and probably without himself suspecting it, gave a correct medical description of hysteria. I thought at the time thatan artist's instinct may sometimes be worth the brains of a scientist, thatboth have the same purpose, the same nature, and that perhaps in time, astheir methods become perfect, they are destined to become one vastprodigious force which now it is difficult even to imagine. .. . "Karelin'sDream" has suggested to me similar thoughts, and to-day I willingly believeBuckle, who saw in Hamlet's musings on the dust of Alexander the Great, Shakespeare's knowledge of the law of the transmutation of substance--i. E. , the power of the artist to run ahead of the men of science. .. . Sleep is a subjective phenomenon, and the inner aspect of it one can onlyobserve in oneself. But since the process of dreaming is the same in allmen, every reader can, I think, judge Karelin by his own standards, andevery critic is bound to be subjective. From my own personal experiencethis is how I can formulate my impression. 

In the first place the sensation of cold is given by you with remarkablesubtlety. When at night the quilt falls off I begin to dream of hugeslippery stones, of cold autumnal water, naked banks--and all this dim, misty, without a patch of blue sky; sad and dejected like one who has losthis way, I look at the stones and feel that for some reason I cannot avoidcrossing a deep river; I see then small tugs that drag huge barges, floating beams. .. . All this is infinitely grey, damp, and dismal. When Irun from the river I come across the fallen cemetery gates, funerals, myschool-teachers. .. . And all the time I am cold through and through withthat oppressive nightmare-like cold which is impossible in waking life, andwhich is only felt by those who are asleep. The first pages of "Karelin'sDream" vividly brought it to my memory--especially the first half of pagefive, where you speak of the cold and loneliness of the grave. 

I think that had I been born in Petersburg and constantly lived there, Ishould always dream of the banks of the Neva, the Senate Square, themassive monuments. 

When I feel cold in my sleep I dream of people. .. . I happened to have reada criticism in which the reviewer blames you for introducing a man who is"almost a minister, " and thus spoiling the generally dignified tone of thestory. I don't agree with him. What spoils the tone is not the people butyour characterization of them, which in some places interrupts the pictureof the dream. One does dream of people, and always of unpleasant ones. .. . I, for instance, when I feel cold, always dream of my teacher of scripture, a learned priest of imposing appearance, who insulted my mother when I wasa little boy; I dream of vindictive, implacable, intriguing people, smilingwith spiteful glee--such as one can never see in waking life. The laughterat the carriage window is a characteristic symptom of Karelin's nightmare. When in dreams one feels the presence of some evil will, the inevitableruin brought about by some outside force, one always hears something likesuch laughter. .. . One dreams of people one loves, too, but they generallyappear to suffer together with the dreamer. 

But when my body gets accustomed to the cold, or one of my family covers meup, the sensation of cold, of loneliness, and of an oppressive evil will, gradually disappears. .. . With the returning warmth I begin to feel that Iwalk on soft carpets or on grass, I see sunshine, women, children. .. . Thepictures change gradually, but more rapidly than they do in waking life, sothat on awaking it is difficult to remember the transitions from one sceneto another. .. . This abruptness is well brought out in your story, andincreases the impression of the dream. 

Another natural fact you have noticed is also extremely striking: dreamersexpress their moods in outbursts of an acute kind, with childishgenuineness, like Karelin. Everyone knows that people weep and cry out intheir sleep much more often than they do in waking life. This is probablydue to the lack of inhibition in sleep and of the impulses which make usconceal things. 

Forgive me, I so like your story that I am ready to write you a dozensheets, though I know I can tell you nothing new or good. .. . I restrainmyself and am silent, fearing to bore you and to say something silly. 

I will say once more that your story is magnificent. The public finds it"vague, " but to a writer who gloats over every line such vagueness is moretransparent than holy water. .. . Hard as I tried I could detect only twosmall blots, even those are rather farfetched!

(1) I think that at the beginning of the story the feeling of cold is soonblunted in the reader and becomes habitual, owing to the frequentrepetition of the word "cold, " and (2), the word "glossy" is repeated toooften. 

There is nothing else I could find, and I feel that as one is alwaysfeeling the need of refreshing models, "Karelin's Dream" is a splendidevent in my existence as an author. This is why I could not contain myselfand ventured to put before you some of my thoughts and impressions. 

There is little good I can say about myself. I write not what I want to bewriting, and I have not enough energy or solitude to write as you advisedme. .. . There are many good subjects jostling in my head--and that is all. Iam sustained by hopes of the future, and watch the present slip fruitlesslyaway. 

Forgive this long letter, and accept the sincere good wishes of yourdevoted

 A. CHEKHOV. 

TO V. G. KOROLENKO. 

MOSCOW, January 9, 1888. 

Following your friendly advice I began writing a story [Footnote: "TheSteppe"] for the _Syeverny Vyestnik_. To begin with I have attemptedto describe the steppe, the people who live there, and what I haveexperienced in the steppe. It is a good subject, and I enjoy writing aboutit, but unfortunately from lack of practice in writing long things, andfrom fear of making it too rambling, I fall into the opposite extreme: eachpage turns out a compact whole like a short story, the pictures accumulate, are crowded, and, getting in each other's way, spoil the impression as awhole. As a result one gets, not a picture in which all the details aremerged into one whole like stars in the heavens, but a mere diagram, a dryrecord of impressions. A writer--you, for instance--will understand me, butthe reader will be bored and curse. 

. .. Your "Sokolinets" is, I think, the most remarkable novel that hasappeared of late. It is written like a good musical composition, inaccordance with all the rules which an artist instinctively divines. Altogether in the whole of your book you are such a great artist, such aforce, that even your worst failings, which would have been the ruin of anyother writer, pass unnoticed. For instance, in the whole of your book thereis an obstinate exclusion of women, and I have only just noticed it. 

TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. 

MOSCOW, February 5, 1888. 

. .. I am longing to read Korolenko's story. He is my favourite ofcontemporary writers. His colours are rich and vivid, his style isirreproachable, though in places rather elaborate, his images are noble. Leontyev [Footnote: I. L. Shtcheglov. ] is good too. He is not so matureand picturesque, but he is warmer than Korolenko, more peaceful andfeminine. .. . But, Allah kerim, why do they both specialize? The firstwill not part with his convicts, and the second feeds his readers withnothing but officers. .. . I understand specialization in art such as_genre_, landscape, history, but I cannot admit of such specialtiesas convicts, officers, priests. .. . This is not specialization butpartiality. In Petersburg you do not care for Korolenko, and here inMoscow we do not read Shtcheglov, but I fully believe in the future ofboth of them. Ah, if only we had decent critics!

February 9. 

. .. You say you liked Dymov [Translator's Note: One of the characters in"The Steppe. "] as a subject. Life creates such characters as the dare-devilDymov not to be dissenters nor tramps, but downright revolutionaries. .. . There never will be a revolution in Russia, and Dymov will end by taking todrink or getting into prison. He is a superfluous man. 

March 6. 

It is devilishly cold, but the poor birds are already flying to Russia!They are driven by homesickness and love for their native land. If poetsknew how many millions of birds fall victims to their longing and love fortheir homes, how many of them freeze on the way, what agonies they endureon getting home in March and at the beginning of April, they would havesung their praises long ago! . .. Put yourself in the place of a corncrakewho does not fly but walks all the way, or of a wild goose who giveshimself up to man to escape being frozen. .. . Life is hard in this world!

TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. 

MOSCOW, April 18, 1888. 

. .. In any case I am more often merry than sad, though if one comes tothink of it I am bound hand and foot. .. . You, my dear man, have a flat, butI have a whole house which, though a poor specimen, is still a house, andone of two storeys, too! You have a _wife_ who will forgive your having nomoney, and I have a _whole organization_ which will collapse if I don'tearn a sufficient number of roubles a month--collapse and fall on myshoulders like a heavy stone. 

May 3. 

. .. I have just sent a story [Footnote: "The Lights. "] to the _SyevernyVyestnik_. I feel a little ashamed of it. It is frightfully dull, andthere is so much discussion and preaching in it that it is mawkish. Ididn't like to send it, but had to, for I need money as I do air. .. . 

I have had a letter from Leman. He tells me that "we" (that is all of youPetersburg people) "have agreed to print advertisements about each other'swork on our books, " invites me to join, and warns me that among the electmay be included only such persons as have a "certain degree of solidaritywith us. " I wrote to say that I agreed, and asked him how does he know withwhom I have solidarity and with whom I have not? How fond of stuffiness youare in Petersburg! Don't you feel stifled with such words as "solidarity, ""unity of young writers, " "common interests, " and so on? Solidarity and allthe rest of it I admit on the stock-exchange, in politics, in religiousaffairs, etc. , but solidarity among young writers is impossible andunnecessary. .. . We cannot feel and think in the same way, our aims aredifferent, or we have no aims whatever, we know each other little or not atall, and so there is nothing on to which this solidarity could be securelyhooked. .. . And is there any need for it? No, in order to help a colleague, to respect his personality and his work, to refrain from gossiping abouthim, envying him, telling him lies and being hypocritical, one does notneed so much to be a young writer as simply a man. .. . Let us be ordinarypeople, let us treat everybody alike, and then we shall not need anyartificially worked up solidarity. Insistent desire for particular, professional, clique solidarity such as you want, will give rise tounconscious spying on one another, suspiciousness, control, and, withoutwishing to do so, we shall become something like Jesuits in relation to oneanother. .. . I, dear Jean, have no solidarity with you, but I promise you asa literary man perfect freedom so long as you live; that is, you may writewhere and how you wish, you may think like Koreisha [Footnote: A well-knownreligious fanatic in Moscow. ] if you like, betray your convictions andtendencies a thousand times, etc. , etc. , and my human relations with youwill not alter one jot, and I will always publish advertisements of yourbooks on the wrappers of mine. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

SUMY, MADAME LINTVARYOV'SESTATE, May 30, 1888. 

. .. I am staying on the bank of the Psyol, in the lodge of an old signorialestate. I took the place without seeing it, trusting to luck, and have notregretted it so far. The river is wide and deep, with plenty of islands, offish and of crayfish. The banks are beautiful, well-covered with grass andtrees. And best of all, there is so much space that I feel as if for my onehundred roubles I have obtained a right to live on an expanse of which onecan see no end. Nature and life here is built on the pattern now soold-fashioned and rejected by magazine editors. Nightingales sing night andday, dogs bark in the distance, there are old neglected gardens, sad andpoetical estates shut up and deserted where live the souls of beautifulwomen; old footmen, relics of serfdom, on the brink of the grave; youngladies longing for the most conventional love. In addition to all thesethings, not far from me there is even such a hackneyed cliche as awater-mill (with sixteen wheels), with a miller, and his daughter whoalways sits at the window, apparently waiting for someone. All that I seeand hear now seems familiar to me from old novels and fairy-tales. The onlything that has something new about it is a mysterious bird, which sitssomewhere far away in the reeds, and night and day makes a noise thatsounds partly like a blow on an empty barrel and partly like the mooing ofa cow shut up in a barn. Every Little Russian has seen this bird in thecourse of his life, but everyone describes it differently, which means thatno one has seen it. .. . Every day I row to the mill, and in the evening I goto the islands to fish with fishing maniacs from the Haritovenko factory. Our conversations are sometimes interesting. On the eve of Whit Sunday allthe maniacs will spend the night on the islands and fish all night; I, too. There are some splendid types. 

My hosts have turned out to be very nice and hospitable people. It is afamily worth studying. It consists of six members. The old mother, a verykind, rather flabby woman who has had suffering enough in her life; shereads Schopenhauer and goes to church to hear the Song of Praise; sheconscientiously studies every number of the _Vyestnik Evropi_ and_Syeverny Vyestnik_, and knows writers I have not dreamed of; attachesmuch importance to the fact that once the painter Makovsky stayed in herlodge and now a young writer is staying there; talking to Pleshtcheyev shefeels a holy thrill all over and rejoices every minute that it has been"vouchsafed" to her to see the great poet. 

Her eldest daughter, a woman doctor--the pride of the whole family and "asaint" as the peasants call her--really is remarkable. She has a tumour onthe brain, and in consequence of it she is totally blind, has epilepticfits and constant headaches. She knows what awaits her, and stoically withamazing coolness speaks of her approaching death. In the course of mymedical practice I have grown used to seeing people who were soon going todie, and I have always felt strange when people whose death was at handtalked, smiled, or wept in my presence; but here, when I see on theverandah this blind woman who laughs, jokes, or hears my stories read toher, what begins to seem strange to me is not that she is dying, but thatwe do not feel our own death, and write stories as though we were nevergoing to die. 

The second daughter, also a woman doctor, is a gentle, shy, infinitely kindcreature, loving to everyone. Patients are a regular torture to her, andshe is scrupulous to morbidity with them. At consultations we alwaysdisagree: I bring good tidings where she sees death, and I double the doseswhich she prescribes. But where death is obvious and inevitable my ladydoctor feels quite in an unprofessional way. I was receiving patients withher one day at a medical centre; a young Little Russian woman came with amalignant tumour of the glands in her neck and at the back of her head. Thetumour had spread so far that no treatment could be thought of. And becausethe woman was at present feeling no pain, but would in another six monthsdie in terrible agony, the doctor looked at her in such a guilty way asthough she were asking forgiveness for being well, and ashamed that medicalscience was helpless. She takes a zealous part in managing the house andestate, and understands every detail of it. She knows all about horseseven. When the side horse does not pull or gets restless, she knows how tohelp matters and instructs the coachman. I believe she has never hurtanyone, and it seems to me that she has not been happy for a single instantand never will be. 

The third daughter, who has finished her studies at Bezstuzhevka, is avigorous, sunburnt young girl with a loud voice. Her laugh can be heard amile away. She is a passionate Little Russian patriot. She has built aschool on the estate at her own expense, and teaches the children Krylov'sfables translated into Little Russian. She goes to Shevtchenko's grave as aTurk goes to Mecca. She does not cut her hair, wears stays and a bustle, looks after the housekeeping, is fond of laughing and singing. 

The eldest son is a quiet, modest, intelligent, hardworking young man withno talents; he has no pretensions, and is apparently content with what lifehas given him. He has been dismissed from the University [Translator'sNote: On political grounds, of course, is understood. ] just before takinghis degree, but he does not boast of it. He speaks little. He loves farmingand the land and lives in harmony with the peasants. 

The second son is a young man mad over Tchaikovsky's being a genius. Hedreams of living according to Tolstoy. 

 * * * * *

Pleshtcheyev is staying with us. They all look upon him as a demi-god, consider themselves happy if he bestows attention on somebody's junket, bring him flowers, invite him everywhere, and so on. .. . And he "listens andeats, " and smokes his cigars which give his admirers a headache. He is slowto move, with the indolence of old age, but this does not prevent the fairsex from taking him about in boats, driving with him to the neighbouringestates, and singing songs to him. Here he is by way of being the samething as in Petersburg--i. E. , an ikon which is prayed to for beingold and for having once hung by the side of the miracle-working ikons. Sofar as I am concerned I regard him--not to speak of his being a very good, warm-hearted and sincere man--as a vessel full of traditions, interestingmemories, and good platitudes. 

. .. What you say about "The Lights" is quite just. You say that neitherthe conversation about pessimism nor Kisotcha's story in any way help tosolve the question of pessimism. It seems to me it is not for writers offiction to solve such questions as that of God, of pessimism, etc. Thewriter's business is simply to describe who has been speaking about Godor about pessimism, how, and in what circumstances. The artist must benot the judge of his characters and of their conversations, but merelyan impartial witness. I have heard a desultory conversation of twoRussians about pessimism--a conversation which settles nothing--and Imust report that conversation as I heard it; it is for the jury, thatis, for the readers, to decide on the value of it. My business is merelyto be talented--i. E. , to know how to distinguish important statementsfrom unimportant, how to throw light on the characters, and to speaktheir language. Shtcheglov-Leontyev blames me for finishing the storywith the words, "There's no making out anything in this world. " Hethinks a writer who is a good psychologist ought to be able to make itout--that is what he is a psychologist for. But I don't agree with him. It is time that writers, especially those who are artists, recognizedthat there is no making out anything in this world, as once Socratesrecognized it, and Voltaire, too. The mob thinks it knows and understandseverything; and the more stupid it is the wider it imagines its outlookto be. And if a writer whom the mob believes in has the courage to saythat he does not understand anything of what he sees, that alone will besomething gained in the realm of thought and a great step in advance. 

TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. 

SUMY, June 28, 1888. 

. .. We have been to the province of Poltava. We went to the Smagins', and to Sorotchintsi. We drove with a four-in-hand, in an ancestral, very comfortable carriage. We had no end of laughter, adventures, misunderstandings, halts, and meetings on the way. .. . If you had onlyseen the places where we stayed the night and the villages stretchingeight or ten versts through which we drove! . .. What weddings we met onthe road, what lovely music we heard in the evening stillness, and whata heavy smell of fresh hay there was! Really one might sell one's soulto the devil for the pleasure of looking at the warm evening sky, thepools and the rivulets reflecting the sad, languid sunset. .. . 

. .. The Smagins' estate is "great and fertile, " but old, neglected, anddead as last year's cobwebs. The house has sunk, the doors won't shut, thetiles in the stove squeeze one another out and form angles, young suckersof cherries and plums peep up between the cracks of the floors. In the roomwhere I slept a nightingale had made herself a nest between the window andthe shutter, and while I was there little naked nightingales, looking likeundressed Jew babies, hatched out from the eggs. Sedate storks live on thebarn. At the beehouse there is an old grandsire who remembers the KingGoroh [Translator's Note: The equivalent of Old King Cole. ] and Cleopatraof Egypt. 

Everything is crumbling and decrepit, but poetical, sad, and beautiful inthe extreme. 

 * * * * *

TO HIS SISTER. 

FEODOSIA, July, 1888. 

. .. The journey from Sumy to Harkov is frightfully dull. Going from Harkovto Simferopol one might well die of boredom. The Crimean steppe isdepressing, monotonous, with no horizon, colourless like Ivanenko'sstories, and on the whole rather like the tundra. .. . From Simferopolmountains begin and, with them, beauty. Ravines, mountains, ravines, mountains, poplars stick out from the ravines, vineyards loom dark on themountains--all this is bathed in moonlight, is new and wild, and sets one'simagination working in harmony with Gogol's "Terrible Vengeance. "Particularly fantastic are the alternating precipices and tunnels when yousee now depths full of moonlight and now complete sinister darkness. It israther uncanny and delightful. One feels it is something not Russian, something alien. I reached Sevastopol at night. The town is beautiful initself and beautiful because it stands by a marvellous sea. The best in thesea is its colour, and that one cannot describe. It is like blue copperas. As to steamers and sailing vessels, piers and harbours, what strikes onemost of all is the poverty of the Russians. Except the "_popovkas_, " whichlook like Moscow merchants' wives, and two or three decent steamers, thereis nothing to speak of in the bay. 

. .. In the morning it was deadly dull. Heat, dust, thirst. .. . In theharbour there was a stench of ropes, and one caught glimpses of faces burntbrick-red, sounds of a pulley, of the splashing of dirty water, knocking, Tatar words, and all sorts of uninteresting nonsense. You go up to asteamer: men in rags, bathed in sweat and almost baked by the sun, dizzy, with tatters on their backs and shoulders, unload Portland cement; youstand and look at them and the whole scene becomes so remote, so alien, that one feels insufferably dull and uninterested. It is entertaining toget on board and set off, but it is rather a bore to sail and talk to acrowd of passengers consisting of elements all of which one knows by heartand is weary of already. .. . Yalta is a mixture of something European thatreminds one of the views of Nice, with something cheap and shoddy. Thebox-like hotels in which unhappy consumptives are pining, the impudentTatar faces, the ladies' bustles with their very undisguised expression ofsomething very abominable, the faces of the idle rich, longing for cheapadventures, the smell of perfumery instead of the scent of the cedars andthe sea, the miserable dirty pier, the melancholy lights far out at sea, the prattle of young ladies and gentlemen who have crowded here in order toadmire nature of which they have no idea--all this taken together producessuch a depressing effect and is so overwhelming that one begins to blameoneself for being biassed and unfair. .. . At five o'clock in the morning Iarrived at Feodosia--a greyish-brown, dismal, and dull-looking littletown. There is no grass, the trees are wretched, the soil is coarse andhopelessly poor. Everything is burnt up by the sun, and only the seasmiles--the sea which has nothing to do with wretched little towns ortourists. Sea bathing is so nice that when I got into the water I began tolaugh for no reason at all. .. . 

 * * * * *

July 22. 

. .. Yesterday we went to Shah-Mamai Aivazovsky's estate, twenty-five verstsfrom Feodosia. It is a magnificent estate, rather like fairyland; suchestates may probably be seen in Persia. Aivazovsky [Translator's Note: Thefamous marine painter. ] himself, a vigorous old man of seventy-five, is amixture of a good-natured Armenian and an overfed bishop; he is full ofdignity, has soft hands, and offers them like a general. He is not veryintelligent, but is a complex nature worthy of attention. He combines inhimself a general, a bishop, an artist, an Armenian, a naive old peasant, and an Othello. He is married to a young and very beautiful woman whom herules with a rod of iron. He is friendly with Sultans, Shahs, and Amirs. Hecollaborated with Glinka in writing "Ruslan and Liudmila. " He was a friendof Pushkin, but has never read him. He has not read a single book in hislife. When it is suggested to him that he should read something he answers, "Why should I read when I have opinions of my own?" I spent a whole day inhis house and had dinner there. The dinner was fearfully long, with endlesstoasts. By the way, at that dinner I was introduced to the lady doctor, wife of the well-known professor. She is a fat, bulky piece of flesh. Ifshe were undressed and painted green she would look just like a frog. Aftertalking to her I mentally scratched her off the list of women doctors. .. . 

 * * * * *

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

July 28, 1888. 

On the Seas Black, Caspian, and of Life. 

. .. A wretched little cargo steamer, _Dir_, is racing full steam fromSuhum to Poti. It is about midnight. The little cabin--the only one in thesteamer--is insufferably hot and stuffy. There is a smell of burning, ofrope, of fish and of the sea. One hears the engine going "Boom-boom-boom. ". .. There are devils creaking up aloft and under the floor. The darkness isswaying in the cabin and the bed rocks up and down. .. . One's stomach'swhole attention is concentrated on the bed, and, as though to find itslevel, it rolls the Seltzer water I had drunk right up to my throat andthen lets it down to my heels. Not to be sick over my clothes in the dark Ihastily put on my things and go out. .. . It is dark. My feet stumble againstsome invisible iron bars, a rope; wherever you step there are barrels, sacks, rags. There is coal dust under foot. In the dark I knock against akind of grating: it is a cage with wild goats which I saw in the daytime. They are awake and anxiously listening to the rocking of the boat. By thecage sit two Turks who are not asleep either. .. . I grope my way up thestairs to the captain's bridge. .. . A warm but violent and unpleasant windtries to blow away my cap. .. . The steamer rocks. The mast in front of thecaptain's bridge sways regularly and leisurely like a metronome; I try tolook away from it, but my eyes will not obey me and, just like my stomach, insist on following moving objects. .. . The sky and the sea are dark, theshore is not in sight, the deck looks a dark blur . .. There is not a singlelight. 

Behind me is a window . .. I look into it and see a man who looksattentively at something and turns a wheel with an expression as though hewere playing the ninth symphony. .. . Next to me stands the little stoutcaptain in tan shoes. .. . He talks to me of Caucasian emigrants, of theheat, of winter storms, and at the same time looks intently into the darkdistance in the direction of the shore. 

"You seem to be going too much to the left again, " he says to someone; or, "There ought to be lights here. .. . Do you see them?"

"No, sir, " someone answers from the dark. 

"Climb up and look. "

A dark figure appears on the bridge and leisurely climbs up. In a minute wehear:

"Yes, sir. "

I look to the left where the lights of the lighthouse are supposed to be, borrow the captain's glasses, but see nothing. .. . Half an hour passes, thenan hour. The mast sways regularly, the devils creak, the wind makes dashesat my cap. .. . It is not pitch dark, but one feels uneasy. 

Suddenly the captain dashes off somewhere to the rear of the ship, crying, "You devil's doll!"

"To the left, " he shouts anxiously at the top of his voice. "To the left!. .. To the right! A-va-va-a!"

Incomprehensible words of command are heard. The steamer starts, the devilsgive a creak. .. . "A-va-va!" shouts the captain; at the bows a bell is rung, on the black deck there are sounds of running, knocking, cries ofanxiety. .. . The _Dir_ starts once more, puffs painfully, and apparentlytries to move backwards. 

"What is it?" I ask, and feel something like a faint terror. There is noanswer. 

"He'd like a collision, the devil's doll!" I hear the captain's harshshout. "To the left!"

Red lights appear in front, and suddenly among the uproar is heard thewhistling, not of the _Dir_, but of some other steamer. .. . Now I understandit: there is going to be a collision! The _Dir_ puffs, trembles, and doesnot move, as though waiting for a signal to go down. .. . But just when Ithink all is lost, the red lights appear on the left of us, and the darksilhouette of a steamer can be discerned. .. . A long black body sails pastus, guiltily blinks its red eyes, and gives a guilty whistle. .. . 

"Oof! What steamer is it?" I ask the captain. 

The captain looks at the silhouette through his glasses and replies:

"It is the _Tweedie_. "

After a pause we begin to talk of the _Vesta_, which collided with twosteamers and went down. Under the influence of this conversation the sea, the night and the wind begin to seem hideous, created on purpose for man'sundoing, and I feel sorry as I look at the fat little captain. .. . Somethingwhispers to me that this poor man, too, will sooner or later sink to thebottom and be choked with salt water. [Footnote: Chekhov's presentimentabout the captain was partly fulfilled: that very autumn the _Dir_ waswrecked on the shores of Alupka. ]

I go back to my cabin. .. . It is stuffy, and there is a smell of cooking. Mytravelling companion, Suvorin-_fils_, is asleep already. .. . I take offall my clothes and go to bed. .. . The darkness sways to and fro, the bedseems to breathe. .. . Boom-boom-boom! Bathed in perspiration, breathless, and feeling an oppression all over with the rocking, I ask myself, "What amI here for?"

I wake up. It is no longer dark. Wet all over, with a nasty taste in mymouth, I dress and go out. Everything is covered with dew. .. . The wildgoats look with human eyes through the grating of their cage and seem to beasking "Why are we here?" The captain stands still as before and looksintently into the distance. .. . 

A mountainous shore stretches on the left. .. . Elborus is seen from behindthe mountains. 

A blurred sun rises in the sky. .. . One can see the green valley of Rion andthe Bay of Poti by the side of it. 

TO N. A. LEIKIN. 

SUMY, August 12. 

. .. I have been to the Crimea. I spent twelve days at Suvorin's inFeodosia, bathed, idled about; I have been to Aivazovsky's estate. FromFeodosia I went by steamer to Batum. On the way I spent half a day atSuhum--a charming little town buried in luxuriant, un-Russian greenery, andone day at the Monastery, at New Athos. It is so lovely there at New Athosthat there is no describing it: waterfalls, eucalyptuses, tea-plants, cypresses, olive-trees, and, above all, sea and mountains, mountains, mountains. From Athos and Suhum I went to Poti; the River Rion, renownedfor its valley and its sturgeons, is close by. The vegetation is luxuriant. All the streets are planted with poplars. Batum is a big commercial andmilitary, foreign-looking, _cafe'-chantant_ sort of town; you feel in it atevery step that we have conquered the Turks. There is nothing special aboutit (except a great number of brothels), but the surrounding country ischarming. Particularly fine is the road to Kars and the swift riverTchoraksu. 

The road from Batum to Tiflis is poetical and original; you look all thetime out of window and exclaim: there are mountains, tunnels, rocks, rivers, waterfalls, big and little. But the road from Tiflis to Baku is theabomination of desolation, a bald plain, covered with sand and created forPersians, tarantulas, and phalangas to live in. There is not a single tree, there is no grass . .. Dreary as hell. .. . Baku and the Caspian Sea are suchrotten places that I would not agree to live there for a million. There areno roofs, there are no trees either; Persian faces everywhere, fiftydegrees Reaumur of heat, a smell of kerosine, the naphtha-soaked mudsquelches under one's feet, the drinking water is salt. 

. .. You have seen the Caucasus. I believe you have seen the GeorgianMilitary Road, too. If you have not been there yet, pawn your wives andchildren and the _Oskolki_ [Translator's Note: _Oskolki_, (i. E. , "Chips, ""Bits") the paper of which Leikin was editor. ] and go. I have never in mylife seen anything like it. It is not a road, but unbroken poetry, awonderful, fantastic story written by the Demon in love with Tamara. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

SUMY, August 29, 1888. 

. .. When as a boy I used to stay at my grandfather's on Count Platov'sestate, I had to sit from sunrise to sunset by the thrashing machine andwrite down the number of _poods_ and pounds of corn that had beenthrashed; the whistling, the hissing, and the bass note, like the sound ofa whirling top, that the machine makes at full speed, the creaking of thewheels, the lazy tread of the oxen, the clouds of dust, the grimy, perspiring faces of some three score of men--all this has stamped itselfupon my memory like the Lord's Prayer. And now, too, I have been spendinghours at the thrashing and felt intensely happy. When the thrashing engineis at work it looks as though alive; it has a cunning, playful expression, while the men and oxen look like machines. In the district of Mirgorod fewhave thrashing machines of their own, but everyone can hire one. The enginegoes about the whole province drawn by six oxen and offers itself to allwho can pay for it. 

 * * * * *

MOSCOW, September 11. 

. .. You advise me not to hunt after two hares, and not to think of medicalwork. I do not know why one should not hunt two hares even in the literalsense. .. . I feel more confident and more satisfied with myself when Ireflect that I have two professions and not one. Medicine is my lawful wifeand literature is my mistress. When I get tired of one I spend the nightwith the other. Though it's disorderly, it's not so dull, and besidesneither of them loses anything from my infidelity. If I did not have mymedical work I doubt if I could have given my leisure and my spare thoughtsto literature. There is no discipline in me. 

 * * * * *

MOSCOW, October 27, 1888. 

. .. In conversation with my literary colleagues I always insist that it isnot the artist's business to solve problems that require a specialist'sknowledge. It is a bad thing if a writer tackles a subject he does notunderstand. We have specialists for dealing with special questions: it istheir business to judge of the commune, of the future of capitalism, of theevils of drunkenness, of boots, of the diseases of women. An artist mustonly judge of what he understands, his field is just as limited as that ofany other specialist--I repeat this and insist on it always. That in hissphere there are no questions, but only answers, can only be maintained bythose who have never written and have had no experience of thinking inimages. An artist observes, selects, guesses, combines--and this in itselfpresupposes a problem: unless he had set himself a problem from the veryfirst there would be nothing to conjecture and nothing to select. To put itbriefly, I will end by using the language of psychiatry: if one denies thatcreative work involves problems and purposes, one must admit that an artistcreates without premeditation or intention, in a state of aberration;therefore, if an author boasted to me of having written a novel without apreconceived design, under a sudden inspiration, I should call him mad. 

You are right in demanding that an artist should take an intelligentattitude to his work, but you confuse two things: _solving a problem_ and_stating a problem correctly_. It is only the second that is obligatory forthe artist. In "Anna Karenin" and "Evgeny Onyegin" not a single problem issolved, but they satisfy you completely because all the problems arecorrectly stated in them. It is the business of the judge to put the rightquestions, but the answers must be given by the jury according to their ownlights. 

 * * * * *

. .. You say that the hero of my "Party" is a character worth developing. Good Lord! I am not a senseless brute, you know, I understand that. Iunderstand that I cut the throats of my characters and spoil them, and thatI waste good material. .. . To tell you the truth, I would gladly have spentsix months over the "Party"; I like taking things easy, and see noattraction in publishing at headlong speed. I would willingly, withpleasure, with feeling, in a leisurely way, describe the _whole_ of myhero, describe the state of his mind while his wife was in labour, histrial, the horrid feeling he has after he is acquitted; I would describethe midwife and the doctors having tea in the middle of the night, I woulddescribe the rain. .. . It would give me nothing but pleasure because I liketo rummage about and dawdle. But what am I to do? I begin a story onSeptember 10th with the thought that I must finish it by October 5th at thelatest; if I don't I shall fail the editor and be left without money. I letmyself go at the beginning and write with an easy mind; but by the time Iget to the middle I begin to grow timid and to fear that my story will betoo long: I have to remember that the _Syeverny Vyestnik_ has not muchmoney, and that I am one of their expensive contributors. This is why thebeginning of my stories is always very promising and looks as though I werestarting on a novel, the middle is huddled and timid, and the end is, as ina short sketch, like fireworks. And so in planning a story one is bound tothink first about its framework: from a crowd of leading or subordinatecharacters one selects one person only--wife or husband; one puts him onthe canvas and paints him alone, making him prominent, while the others onescatters over the canvas like small coin, and the result is something likethe vault of heaven: one big moon and a number of very small stars aroundit. But the moon is not a success because it can only be understood if thestars too are intelligible, and the stars are not worked out. And so what Iproduce is not literature, but something like the patching of Trishka'scoat. What am I to do? I don't know, I don't know. I must trust to timewhich heals all things. 

To tell the truth again, I have not yet begun my literary work, though Ihave received a literary prize. Subjects for five stories and two novelsare languishing in my head. One of the novels was thought of long ago, andsome of the characters have grown old without managing to be written. In myhead there is a whole army of people asking to be let out and waiting forthe word of command. All that I have written so far is rubbish incomparison with what I should like to write and should write with rapture. It is all the same to me whether I write "The Party" or "The Lights, " or avaudeville or a letter to a friend--it is all dull, spiritless, mechanical, and I get annoyed with critics who attach any importance to "The Lights, "for instance. I fancy that I deceive him with my work just as I deceivemany people with my face, which looks serious or over-cheerful. I don'tlike being successful; the subjects which sit in my head are annoyed andjealous of what has already been written. I am vexed that the rubbish hasbeen done and the good things lie about in the lumber-room like old books. Of course, in thus lamenting I rather exaggerate, and much of what I say isonly my fancy, but there is a part of the truth in it, a good big part ofit. What do I call good? The images which seem best to me, which I love andjealously guard lest I spend and spoil them for the sake of some "Party"written against time. .. . If my love is mistaken, I am wrong, but then itmay not be mistaken! I am either a fool and a conceited fellow or I reallyam an organism capable of being a good writer. All that I now writedispleases and bores me, but what sits in my head interests, excites andmoves me--from which I conclude that everybody does the wrong thing and Ialone know the secret of doing the right one. Most likely all writers thinkthat. But the devil himself would break his neck in these problems. 

_Money will not help me_ to decide what I am to do and how I am to act. Anextra thousand roubles will not settle matters, and a hundred thousand is acastle in the air. Besides, when I have money--it may be from lack ofhabit, I don't know--I become extremely careless and idle; the sea seemsonly knee-deep to me then. .. . I need time and solitude. 

November, 1888. 

In the November number of the _Syeverny Vyestnik_ there is an article bythe poet Merezhkovsky about your humble servant. It is a long article. Icommend to your attention the end of it; it is characteristic. Merezhkovskyis still very young, a student--of science I believe. Those who haveassimilated the wisdom of the scientific method and learned to thinkscientifically experience many alluring temptations. Archimedes wanted toturn the earth round, and the present day hot-heads want by science toconceive the inconceivable, to discover the physical laws of creative art, to detect the laws and the formulae which are instinctively felt by theartist and are followed by him in creating music, novels, pictures, etc. Such formulae probably exist in nature. We know that A, B, C, do, re, mi, fa, sol, are found in nature, and so are curves, straight lines, circles, squares, green, blue, and red. .. . We know that in certain combinations allthis produces a melody, or a poem or a picture, just as simple chemicalsubstances in certain combinations produce a tree, or a stone, or the sea;but all we know is that the combination exists, while the law of it ishidden from us. Those who are masters of the scientific method feel intheir souls that a piece of music and a tree have something in common, thatboth are built up in accordance with equally uniform and simple laws. Hencethe question: What are these laws? And hence the temptation to work out aphysiology of creative art (like Boborykin), or in the case of younger andmore diffident writers, to base their arguments on nature and on the lawsof nature (Merezhkovsky). There probably is such a thing as the physiologyof creative art, but we must nip in the bud our dreams of discovering it. If the critics take up a scientific attitude no good will come of it: theywill waste a dozen years, write a lot of rubbish, make the subject moreobscure than ever--and nothing more. It is always a good thing to thinkscientifically, but the trouble is that scientific thinking about creativeart will be bound to degenerate in the end into searching for the "cells"or the "centres" which control the creative faculty. Some stolid Germanwill discover these cells somewhere in the occipital lobes, another Germanwill agree with him, a third will disagree, and a Russian will glancethrough the article about the cells and reel off an essay about it to the_Syeverny Vyestnik_. The _Vyestnik Evropi_ will criticize the essay, andfor three years there will be in Russia an epidemic of nonsense which willgive money and popularity to blockheads and do nothing but irritateintelligent people. 

For those who are obsessed with the scientific method and to whom God hasgiven the rare talent of thinking scientifically, there is to my mind onlyone way out--the philosophy of creative art. One might collect together allthe best works of art that have been produced throughout the ages and, withthe help of the scientific method, discover the common element in themwhich makes them like one another and conditions their value. That commonelement will be the law. There is a great deal that works which are calledimmortal have in common; if this common element were excluded from each ofthem, a work would lose its charm and its value. So that this universalsomething is necessary, and is _the conditio sine qua non_ of every workthat claims to be immortal. It is of more use to young people to writecritical articles than poetry. Merezhkovsky writes smoothly and youthfully, but at every page he loses heart, makes reservations and concessions, andthis means that he is not clear upon the subject. He calls me a poet, hestyles my stories "novelli" and my heroes "failures"--that is, he followsthe beaten track. It is time to give up these "failures, " superfluouspeople, etc. , and to think of something original. Merezhkovsky calls mymonk [Translator's Note: "Easter Eve. "] who composes the songs of praise afailure. But how is he a failure? God grant us all a life like his: hebelieved in God, and he had enough to eat and he had the gift of composingpoetry. .. . To divide men into the successful and the unsuccessful is tolook at human nature from a narrow, preconceived point of view. Are you asuccess or not? Am I? Was Napoleon? Is your servant Vassily? What is thecriterion? One must be a god to be able to tell successes from failureswithout making a mistake. 

 * * * * *

MOSCOW, November 7, 1888. 

. .. It is not the public that is to blame for our theatres being sowretched. The public is always and everywhere the same: intelligent andstupid, sympathetic and pitiless according to mood. It has always been aflock which needs good shepherds and dogs, and it has always gone in thedirection in which the shepherds and the dogs drove it. You are indignantthat it laughs at flat witticisms and applauds sounding phrases; but thenthe very same stupid public fills the house to hear "Othello, " and, listening to the opera "Evgeny Onyegin, " weeps when Tatyana writes herletter. 

. .. The water-carrier has stolen from somewhere a Siberian kitten with longwhite fur and black eyes, and brought it to us. This kitten takes peoplefor mice: when it sees anyone it lies flat on its stomach, stalks one'sfeet and rushes at them. This morning as I was pacing up and down the roomit several times stalked me, and _a la tigre_ pounced at my boots. Iimagine the thought of being more terrible than anyone in the house affordsit the greatest delight. 

November 11, 1888. 

I finished to-day the story [Footnote: "A Nervous Breakdown. "] for theGarshin _sbornik_: it is such a load off my mind. In this story I havetold my own opinion--which is of no interest to anyone--of such rare men asGarshin. I have run to almost 2, 000 lines. I speak at length aboutprostitution, but settle nothing. Why do they write nothing aboutprostitution in your paper? It is the most fearful evil, you know. OurSobolev street is a regular slave-market. 

November 15, 1888. 

My "Party" has pleased the ladies. They sing my praises wherever I go. Itreally isn't bad to be a doctor and to understand what one is writingabout. The ladies say the description of the confinement is _true_. Inthe story for the Garshin _sbornik_ I have described spiritual agony. 

(No date), 1888. 

. .. You say that writers are God's elect. I will not contradict you. Shtcheglov calls me the Potyomkin of literature, and so it is not for me tospeak of the thorny path, of disappointments, and so on. I do not knowwhether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, orrailway guards do; I do not know who speaks through my lips--God or someoneworse. I will allow myself to mention only one little drawback which I haveexperienced and you probably know from experience also. It is this. You andI are fond of ordinary people; but other people are fond of us because theythink we are not ordinary. Me, for instance, they invite everywhere andregale me with food and drink like a general at a wedding. My sister isindignant that people on all sides invite her simply because she is awriter's sister. No one wants to love the ordinary people in us. Hence itfollows that if in the eyes of our friends we should appear to-morrow asordinary mortals, they will leave off loving us, and will only pity us. Andthat is horrid. It is horrid, too, that they like the very things in uswhich we often dislike and despise in ourselves. It is horrid that I wasright when I wrote the story "The First-Class Passenger, " in which anengineer and a professor talk about fame. 

I am going away into the country. Hang them all! You have Feodosia. By theway, about Feodosia and the Tatars. The Tatars have been robbed of theirland, but no one thinks of their welfare. There ought to be Tatar schools. Write and suggest that the money which is being spent on the sausage DorpatUniversity, where useless Germans are studying, should be devoted toschools for Tatars, who are of use to Russia. I would write about itmyself, but I don't know how to. 

December 23, 1888. 

. .. There are moments when I completely lose heart. For whom and for whatdo I write? For the public? But I don't see it, and believe in it less thanI do in spooks: it is uneducated, badly brought up, and its best elementsare unfair and insincere to us. I cannot make out whether this public wantsme or not. Burenin says that it does not, and that I waste my time ontrifles; the Academy has given me a prize. The devil himself could not makehead or tail of it. Write for the sake of money? But I never have anymoney, and not being used to having it I am almost indifferent to it. Forthe sake of money I work apathetically. Write for the sake of praise? Butpraise merely irritates me. Literary society, students, Pleshtcheyev, youngladies, etc. , were enthusiastic in their praises of my "Nervous Breakdown, "but Grigorovitch is the only one who has noticed the description of thefirst snow. And so on, and so on. If we had critics I should know that Iprovide material, whether good or bad does not matter--that to men whodevote themselves to the study of life I am as necessary as a star is to anastronomer. And then I would take trouble over my work and should know whatI was working for. But as it is you, I, Muravlin, and the rest are likelunatics who write books and plays to please themselves. To please oneselfis, of course, an excellent thing; one feels the pleasure while one iswriting, but afterwards? But . .. I will shut up. In short, I am sorry forTatyana Repin, [Translator's Note: Suvorin's play. ] not because shepoisoned herself, but because she lived her life, died in agony, and wasdescribed absolutely to no purpose, without any good to anyone. A number oftribes, religions, languages, civilizations, have vanished without atrace--vanished because there were no historians or biologists. In the sameway a number of lives and works of art disappear before our very eyes owingto the complete absence of criticism. It may be objected that critics wouldhave nothing to do because all modern works are poor and insignificant. Butthis is a narrow way of looking at things. Life must be studied not fromthe pluses alone, but from the minuses too. The conviction that the"eighties" have not produced a single writer may in itself provide materialfor five volumes. 

. .. I settled down last night to write a story for the _Novoye Vremya, _ buta woman appeared and dragged me to see the poet Palmin who, when he wasdrunk, had fallen and cut his forehead to the bone. I was busy over thedrunken fellow for nearly two hours, was tired out, began to smell ofiodoform all over, felt cross, and came home exhausted. .. . Altogether mylife is a dreary one, and I begin to get fits of hating people which usednever to happen to me before. Long stupid conversations, visitors, peopleasking for help, and helping them to the extent of one or two or threeroubles, spending money on cabs for the sake of patients who do not pay mea penny--altogether it is such a hotch-potch that I feel like running awayfrom home. People borrow money from me and don't pay it back, they take mybooks, they waste my time. .. . Blighted love is the one thing that ismissing. 

 * * * * *

December 26, 1888. 

. .. You say that from compassion women fall in love, from compassion theyget married. .. . And what about men? I don't like realistic writers toslander women, but I don't like it either when people put women on apedestal and attempt to prove that even if they are worse than men, anywaythey are angels and men scoundrels. Neither men nor women are worth a brassfarthing, but men are more just and more intelligent. 

December 30, 1888. 

. .. This is how I understand my characters. [Translator's Note: In the play"Ivanov. "] Ivanov is a gentleman, a University man, and not remarkable inany way. He is excitable, hotheaded, easily carried away, honest andstraightforward like most people of his class. He has lived on his estateand served on the Zemstvo. What he has been doing and how he has behaved, what he has been interested in and enthusiastic over, can be seen from thefollowing words of his, addressed to the doctor (Act I. , Scene 5): "Don'tmarry Jewesses or neurotic women or blue-stockings . .. Don't fight withthousands single-handed, don't wage war on windmills, don't batter yourhead against the wall . .. God preserve you from scientific farming, wonderful schools, enthusiastic speeches. .. . " This is what he has in hispast. Sarra, who has seen his scientific farming and other crazes, saysabout him to the doctor: "He is a remarkable man, doctor, and I am sorryyou did not meet him two or three years ago. Now he is depressed andmelancholy, he doesn't talk or do anything, but in old days . .. Howcharming he was!" (Act I. , Scene 7). His past is beautiful, as is generallythe case with educated Russians. There is not, or there hardly is, a singleRussian gentleman or University man who does not boast of his past. Thepresent is always worse than the past. Why? Because Russian excitabilityhas one specific characteristic: it is quickly followed by exhaustion. Aman has scarcely left the class-room before he rushes to take up a burdenbeyond his strength; he tackles at once the schools, the peasants, scientific farming, and the _Vyestnik Evropi, _ he makes speeches, writes tothe minister, combats evil, applauds good, falls in love, not in anordinary, simple way, but selects either a blue-stocking or a neurotic or aJewess, or even a prostitute whom he tries to save, and so on, and so on. But by the time he is thirty or thirty-five he begins to feel tired andbored. He has not got decent moustaches yet, but he already says withauthority:

"Don't marry, my dear fellow. .. . Trust my experience, " or, "After all, what does Liberalism come to? Between ourselves Katkov was oftenright. .. . " He is ready to reject the Zemstvo and scientific farming, andscience and love. My Ivanov says to the doctor (Act I. , Scene 5): "Youtook your degree only last year, my dear friend, you are still young andvigorous, while I am thirty-five. I have a right to advise you. .. . " Thatis how these prematurely exhausted people talk. Further down, sighingauthoritatively, he advises: "Don't you marry in this or that way (seeabove), but choose something commonplace, grey, with no vivid colours orsuperfluous flourishes. Altogether build your life according to theconventional pattern. The greyer and more monotonous the background thebetter. .. . The life that I have led--how tiring it is! Ah, how tiring!"

Conscious of physical exhaustion and boredom, he does not understand whatis the matter with him, and what has happened. Horrified, he says to thedoctor (Act I. , Scene 3): "Here you tell me she is soon going to die andI feel neither love nor pity, but a sort of emptiness and weariness. .. . If one looks at me from outside it must be horrible. I don't understandwhat is happening to my soul. " Finding themselves in such a position, narrow and unconscientious people generally throw the whole blame ontheir environment, or write themselves down as Hamlets and superfluouspeople, and are satisfied with that. But Ivanov, a straightforward man, openly says to the doctor and to the public that he does not understandhis own mind. "I don't understand! I don't understand!" That he reallydoesn't understand can be seen from his long monologue in Act III. , where, _tete-a-tete_ with the public, he opens his heart to it andeven weeps. 

The change that has taken place in him offends his sense of what isfitting. He looks for the causes outside himself and fails to find them; hebegins to look for them inside and finds only an indefinite feeling ofguilt. It is a Russian feeling. Whether there is a death or illness in hisfamily, whether he owes money or lends it, a Russian always feels guilty. Ivanov talks all the time about being to blame in some way, and the feelingof guilt increases in him at every juncture. In Act I. He says: "Suppose Iam terribly to blame, yet my thoughts are in a tangle, my soul is inbondage to a sort of sloth, and I am incapable of understanding myself. .. . "In Act II. He says to Sasha: "My conscience aches day and night, I feelthat I am profoundly to blame, but in what exactly I have done wrong Icannot make out. "

To exhaustion, boredom, and the feeling of guilt add one more enemy:loneliness. Were Ivanov an official, an actor, a priest, a professor, hewould have grown used to his position. But he lives on his estate. He is inthe country. His neighbours are either drunkards or fond of cards, or areof the same type as the doctor. None of them care about his feelings or thechange that has taken place in him. He is lonely. Long winters, longevenings, an empty garden, empty rooms, the grumbling Count, the ailingwife. .. . He has nowhere to go. This is why he is every minute tortured bythe question: what is he to do with himself?

Now about his fifth enemy. Ivanov is tired and does not understand himself, but life has nothing to do with that! It makes its legitimate demands uponhim, and whether he will or no, he must settle problems. His sick wife is aproblem, his numerous debts are a problem, Sasha flinging herself on hisneck is a problem. The way in which he settles all these problems must beevident from his monologue in Act III. , and from the contents of the lasttwo acts. Men like Ivanov do not solve difficulties but collapse undertheir weight. They lose their heads, gesticulate, become nervous, complain, do silly things, and finally, giving rein to their flabby, undisciplinednerves, lose the ground under their feet and enter the class of the "brokendown" and "misunderstood. "

Disappointment, apathy, nervous limpness and exhaustion are the inevitableconsequence of extreme excitability, and such excitability is extremelycharacteristic of our young people. Take literature. Take the presenttime. .. . Socialism is one of the forms of this excitement. But where issocialism? You see it in Tihomirov's letter to the Tsar. The socialists aremarried and are criticizing the Zemstvo. Where is Liberalism? Mihailovskyhimself says that all the labels have been mixed up now. And what are allthe Russian enthusiasms worth? The war has wearied us, Bulgaria has weariedus till we can only be ironical about it. Zucchi has wearied us and so hasthe comic opera. 

Exhaustion (Dr. Bertensen will confirm this) finds expression not only incomplaining or the sensation of boredom. The life of an over-tired mancannot be represented like this:

[Transcriber's note: The line graph in the print version depicts a wavyhorizontal "line" with minimal variation in the vertical direction. TheASCII diagram below gives a rough approximation. ]

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is very unequal. Over-tired people never lose the capacity for becomingextremely excited, but cannot keep it up for long, and each excitement isfollowed by still greater apathy. .. . Graphically, it could be representedlike this:

[Transcriber's note: The line graph in the print version depicts a seriesof wavy horizontal segments punctuated by sharp "dips, " each horizontalsegment a little lower than the one before. The ASCII illustration belowgives a rough approximation. ]

 ~~~~~~ \ ~~~~~~ \ / \ ~~~~~~ \/ \ / \ ~~~~~~ \ / \/ \/

The fall, as you see, is not continuous but broken. Sasha declares her loveand Ivanov cries out in ecstasy, "A new life!"--and next morning hebelieves in this new life as little as he does in spooks (the monologue inAct III. ); his wife insults him, and, fearfully worked up and besidehimself with anger, he flings a cruel insult at her. He is called ascoundrel. This is either fatal to his tottering brain, or stimulates himto a fresh paroxysm and he pronounces sentence on himself. 

Not to tire you out altogether I pass now to Dr. Lvov. He is the type of anhonest, straightforward, hotheaded, but narrow and uncompromising man. Clever people say of such men: "He is stupid but his heart is in the rightplace. " Anything like width of outlook or unreflecting feeling is foreignto Lvov. He is the embodiment of a programme, a walking tendency. He looksthrough a narrow frame at every person and event, he judges everythingaccording to preconceived notions. Those who shout, "Make way for honestlabour!" are an object of worship to him; those who do not shout it arescoundrels and exploiters. There is no middle. He has been brought up onMihailov's [Translator's Note: The author of second-rate works inculcatingcivic virtue with a revolutionary bias. ] novels; at the theatre he has seenon the stage "new men, " i. E. , the exploiters and sons of our age, paintedby the modern playwrights. He has stored it all up, and so much so, thatwhen he reads "Rudin" he is sure to be asking himself, "Is Rudin ascoundrel or not?" Literature and the stage have so educated him that heapproaches every character in real life and in fiction with thisquestion. .. . It is not enough for him that all men are sinners. He wantssaints and villains!

He was prejudiced before he came to the district. He at once classed allthe rich peasants as exploiters, and Ivanov, whom he could not understand, as a scoundrel. Why, the man has a sick wife and he goes to see a rich ladyneighbour--of course he is a scoundrel! It is obvious that he is killinghis wife in order to marry an heiress. 

Lvov is honest and straightforward, and he blurts out the truth withoutsparing himself. If necessary, he will throw a bomb at a carriage, give aschool inspector a blow in the face, or call a man a scoundrel. He will notstop at anything. He never feels remorse--it is his mission as "an honestworker" to fight "the powers of darkness"!

Such people are useful, and are for the most part attractive. To caricaturethem, even in the interests of the play, is unfair and, indeed, unnecessary. True, a caricature is more striking, and therefore easier tounderstand, but it is better to put your colour on too faint than toostrong. 

Now about the women. What do they love Ivanov for? Sarra loves him becausehe is a fine man, because he has enthusiasm, because he is brilliant andspeaks with as much heat as Lvov does (Act I. , Scene 7). She loves him solong as he is excited and interesting; but when he begins to grow misty inher eyes, and to lose definiteness of outline, she ceases to understandhim, and at the end of Act III. Speaks out plainly and sharply. 

Sasha is a young woman of the newest type. She is well-educated, intelligent, honest, and so on. In the realm of the blind a one-eyed man isking, and so she favours Ivanov in spite of his being thirty-five. He isbetter than anyone else. She knew him when she was a child and saw his workclose at hand, at the period before he was exhausted. He is a friend of herfather's. 

She is a female who is not won by the vivid plumage of the male, not bytheir courage and dexterity, but by their complaints, whinings andfailures. She is the sort of girl who loves a man when he is goingdownhill. The moment Ivanov loses heart the young lady is on the spot!That's just what she was waiting for. Just think of it, she now has sucha holy, such a grateful task before her! She will raise up the fallenone, set him on his feet, make him happy. .. . It is not Ivanov she loves, but this task. Argenton in Daudet's book says, "Life is not a novel. "Sasha does not know this. She does not know that for Ivanov love is onlya fresh complication, an extra stab in the back. And what comes of it?She struggles with him for a whole year and, instead of being raised, hesinks lower and lower. 

. .. In my description of Ivanov there often occurs the word "Russian. "Don't be cross about it. When I was writing the play I had in mind onlythe things that really matter--that is, only the typical Russiancharacteristics. Thus the extreme excitability, the feeling of guilt, theliability to become exhausted are purely Russian. Germans are neverexcited, and that is why Germany knows nothing of disappointed, superfluous, or over-tired people. .. . The excitability of the French isalways maintained at one and the same level, and makes no sudden boundsor falls, and so a Frenchman is normally excited down to a decrepit oldage. In other words, the French do not have to waste their strength inover-excitement; they spend their powers sensibly, and do not go bankrupt. 

. .. Ivanov and Lvov appear to my imagination to be living people. I tellyou honestly, in all conscience, these men were born in my head, not byaccident, not out of sea foam, or preconceived "intellectual" ideas. Theyare the result of observing and studying life. They stand in my brain, andI feel that I have not falsified the truth nor exaggerated it a jot. If onpaper they have not come out clear and living, the fault is not in them butin me, for not being able to express my thoughts. It shows it is too earlyfor me to begin writing plays. 

 * * * * *

January 7, 1889. 

. .. I have been cherishing the bold dream of summing up all that hashitherto been written about whining, miserable people, and with my Ivanovsaying the last word. It seemed to me that all Russian novelists andplaywrights were drawn to depict despondent men, but that they all wroteinstinctively, having no definite image or views on the subject. As far asmy design goes I was on the right track, but the execution is good fornothing. I ought to have waited! I am glad I did not listen to Grigorovitchtwo or three years ago, and write a novel! I can just imagine what a lot ofgood material I should have spoiled. He says: "Talent and freshnessovercome everything. " It is more true to say that talent and freshness canspoil a great deal. In addition to plenty of material and talent, one wantssomething else which is no less important. One wants to be mature--that isone thing; and for another the _feeling of personal freedom_ isessential, and that feeling has only recently begun to develop in me. Iused not to have it before; its place was successfully filled by myfrivolity, carelessness, and lack of respect for my work. 

What writers belonging to the upper class have received from nature fornothing, plebeians acquire at the cost of their youth. Write a story of howa young man, the son of a serf, who has served in a shop, sung in a choir, been at a high school and a university, who has been brought up to respecteveryone of higher rank and position, to kiss priests' hands, to reverenceother people's ideas, to be thankful for every morsel of bread, who hasbeen many times whipped, who has trudged from one pupil to another withoutgoloshes, who has been used to fighting, and tormenting animals, who hasliked dining with his rich relations, and been hypocritical before God andmen from the mere consciousness of his own insignificance--write how thisyoung man squeezes the slave out of himself, drop by drop, and how wakingone beautiful morning he feels that he has no longer a slave's blood in hisveins but a real man's. .. . 

March 5, 1889. 

. .. Last night I drove out of town and listened to the gypsies. They singwell, the wild creatures. Their singing reminds me of a train falling off ahigh bank in a violent snow-storm: there is a lot of turmoil, screechingand banging. 

. .. I bought Dostoevsky in your shop and am now reading him. It is fine, but very long and indiscreet. It is over-pretentious. 

 * * * * *

SUMY, LINTVARYOVS' ESTATE, May, 1889. 

. .. Among other things I am reading Gontcharov and wondering. I wonder howI could have considered Gontcharov a first-rate writer. His "Oblomov" isnot really good. Oblomov himself is exaggerated and is not so striking asto make it worth while to write a whole book about him. A flabby sluggardlike so many, a commonplace, petty nature without any complexity in it: toraise this person to the rank of a social type is to make too much of him. I ask myself, what would Oblomov be if he had not been a sluggard? And Ianswer that he would not have been anything. And if so, let him snore inpeace. The other characters are trivial, with a flavour of Leikin aboutthem; they are taken at random, and are half unreal. They are notcharacteristic of the epoch and give one nothing new. Stoltz does notinspire me with any confidence. The author says he is a splendid fellow, but I don't believe him. He is a sly brute, who thinks very well of himselfand is very complacent. He is half unreal, and three-quarters on stilts. Olga is unreal and is dragged in by the tail. And the chief trouble is thatthe whole novel is cold, cold, cold. I scratch out Gontcharov from the listof my demi-gods. 

But how direct, how powerful is Gogol, and what an artist he is! His"Marriage" alone is worth two hundred thousand roubles. It is simplydelicious, and that is all about it. He is the greatest of Russian writers. In "The Inspector General" the first act is the best, in "The Marriage" thethird act is the worst. I am going to read it aloud to my people. 

 * * * * *

May 4, 1889. 

. .. Nature is an excellent sedative. It pacifies--that is, it makes oneindifferent. And it is essential in this world to be indifferent. Onlythose who are indifferent are able to see things clearly, to be just and towork. Of course, I am only speaking of intelligent people of fine natures;the empty and selfish are indifferent enough any way. 

You say that I have grown lazy. That does not mean that I am now lazierthan I used to be. I work now as much as I did three or five years ago. Towork and to look as though I were working from nine in the morning tilldinner, and from evening tea till bedtime has become a habit with me, andin that respect I am just like a government clerk. And if my work does notproduce two novels a month or an income of ten thousand, it is not mylaziness that is at fault, but my fundamental, psychological peculiarities. I do not care enough for money to succeed in medicine, and for literature Ihave not enough passion and therefore not enough talent. The fire burns inme slowly and evenly, without suddenly spluttering and flaring up, and thisis why it does not happen to me to write three or four signatures a night, or to be so carried away by work as to prevent myself from going to bed ifI am sleepy; this is why I commit no particular follies nor do anythingparticularly wise. 

I am afraid that in this respect I resemble Gontcharov, whom I don't like, who is ten heads taller than I am in talent. I have not enough passion; addto that this sort of lunacy: for the last two years I have for no reason atall ceased to care about seeing my work in print, have become indifferentto reviews, to literary conversations, to gossip, to success and failure, to good pay--in short, I have gone downright silly. There is a sort ofstagnation in my soul. I explain it by the stagnation in my personal life. I am not disappointed, I am not tired, I am not depressed, but simplyeverything has suddenly become less interesting. I must do something torouse myself. 

May 7. 

I have read Bourget's "Disciple" in the Russian translation. This is how itstrikes me. Bourget is a gifted, very intelligent and cultured man. He isas thoroughly acquainted with the method of the natural sciences, and asimbued with it as though he had taken a good degree in science or medicine. He is not a stranger in the domain he proposes to deal with--a meritabsent in Russian writers both new and old. 

. .. The novel is interesting. I have read it and understand why you were soabsorbed by it. It is clever, interesting, in places witty, somewhatfantastic. As to its defects, the chief of them is his pretentious crusadeagainst materialism. Forgive me, but I can't understand such crusades. Theynever lead to anything and only bring needless confusion into people'sthoughts. Whom is the crusade against, and what is its object? Where is theenemy and what is there dangerous about him? In the first place, thematerialistic movement is not a school or tendency in the narrowjournalistic sense; it is not something passing or accidental; it isnecessary, inevitable, and beyond the power of man. All that lives on earthis bound to be materialistic. In animals, in savages, in Moscow merchants, all that is higher and non-animal is conditioned by an unconsciousinstinct, while all the rest is material, and they of course cannot helpit. Beings of a higher order, thinking men, are also bound to bematerialists. They seek for truth in matter, for there is nowhere else toseek for it, since they see, hear, and sense matter alone. Of necessitythey can only seek for truth where their microscopes, lancets, and knivesare of use to them. To forbid a man to follow the materialistic line ofthought is equivalent to forbidding him to seek truth. Outside matter thereis neither knowledge nor experience, and consequently there is no truth. .. . 

I think that when dissecting a corpse, the most inveterate spiritualistwill be bound to ask himself, "Where is the soul here?" And if one knowshow great is the likeness between bodily and mental diseases, and that bothare treated by the same remedies, one cannot help refusing to separate thesoul from the body. 

. .. To speak of the danger and harm of materialism, and even more to fightagainst it, is, to say the least, premature. We have not enough data todraw up an indictment. There are many theories and suppositions, but nofacts. .. . The priests complain of unbelief, immorality, and so on. There isno unbelief. People believe in something, whatever it may be. .. . 

As to immorality, it is not people like Mendeleyev but poets, abbots, andpersonages regularly attending Embassy churches, who have the reputation ofbeing perverted debauchees, libertines, and drunkards. 

In short, I cannot understand Bourget's crusade. If, in starting upon it, he had at the same time taken the trouble to point out to the materialistsan incorporeal God in the sky, and to point to Him in such a way that theyshould see Him, that would be another matter, and I should understand whathe is driving at. 

May 14, 1889. 

. .. You want to know if the lady doctor hates you as before. Alas! she hasgrown stouter and much more resigned, which I do not like at all. There arenot many women doctors left on earth. They are disappearing and dying outlike the branches in the Byelovyezhsky forest. Some die of consumption, others become mystics, some marry widowed squadron-commanders, some stilltry to stand firm, but are obviously losing heart. Probably the firsttailors and the first astrologers also died out rapidly. Life is hard onthose who have the temerity first to enter upon an unknown path. Thevanguard always has a bad time of it. 

May 15, 1889. 

If you have not gone abroad yet, I will answer your letter aboutBourget. .. . You are speaking of the "right to live" of this or that branchof knowledge; I am speaking of peace, not of rights. I want people not tosee war where there is none. Different branches of knowledge have alwayslived together in peace. Anatomy and belles-lettres are of equally nobledescent; they have the same purpose and the same enemy--the devil--andthere is absolutely nothing for them to fight about. There is no strugglefor existence between them. If a man knows about the circulation of theblood, he is rich; if he also learns the history of religion and the song"I remember a marvellous moment, " he becomes richer, not poorer--that is tosay, we are concerned with pluses alone. This is why geniuses have neverfought, and in Goethe the poet lived amicably side by side with thescientist. 

It is not branches of knowledge such as poetry and anatomy, buterrors--that is to say, men--that fight with one another. When a man failsto understand something he is conscious of a discord, and seeks for thecause of it not in himself, as he should, but outside himself--hence thewar with what he does not understand. In the middle ages alchemy wasgradually in a natural, peaceful way changing into chemistry, and astrologyinto astronomy; the monks did not understand, saw a conflict and foughtagainst it. Just such a belligerent Spanish monk was our Pisarev in thesixties. 

Bourget, too, is fighting. You say he is not, and I say he is. Imagine hisnovel falling into the hands of a man whose children are studying in thefaculty of science, or of a bishop who is looking for a subject for hisSunday sermon. Will the effect be anything like peace? It will not. Orimagine the novel catching the eye of an anatomist or a physiologist, orany such. It will not breathe peace into anyone's soul; it will irritatethose who know and give false ideas to those who don't. 

TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. 

MOSCOW, September 30, 1889. 

. .. I do not think I ought to change the title of the story. [Footnote: "ADreary Story. "] The wags who will, as you foretell, make jokes about "ADreary Story, " are so dull that one need not fear them; and if someonemakes a good joke I shall be glad to have given him the occasion for it. The professor could not write about Katya's husband because he did not knowhim, and Katya does not say anything about him; besides, one of my hero'schief characteristics is that he cares far too little about the inner lifeof those who surround him, and while people around him are weeping, makingmistakes, telling lies, he calmly talks about the theatre or literature. Were he a different sort of man, Liza and Katya might not have come togrief. 

October, 1889. 

I am afraid of those who look for a tendency between the lines, and who aredetermined to regard me either as a liberal or as a conservative. I am nota liberal, not a conservative, not a believer in gradual progress, not amonk, not an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and nothingmore, and I regret that God has not given me the power to be one. I hatelying and violence in all their forms, and am equally repelled by thesecretaries of consistories and by Notovitch and Gradovsky. Pharisaism, stupidity and despotism reign not in merchants' houses and prisons alone. Isee them in science, in literature, in the younger generation. .. . That iswhy I have no preference either for gendarmes, or for butchers, or forscientists, or for writers, or for the younger generation. I regardtrade-marks and labels as a superstition. My holy of holies is the humanbody, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love, and the mostabsolute freedom--freedom from violence and lying, whatever forms they maytake. This is the programme I would follow if I were a great artist. 

MOSCOW, February 15, 1890. 

I answer you, dear Alexey Nikolaevitch, at once on receiving your letter. It was your name-day, and I forgot it!! Forgive me, dear friend, and acceptmy belated congratulations. 

Did you really not like the "Kreutzer Sonata"? I don't say it is a work ofgenius for all time, of that I am no judge; but to my thinking, among themass of all that is written now, here and abroad, one scarcely could findanything else as powerful both in the gravity of its conception and thebeauty of its execution. To say nothing of its artistic merits, which inplaces are striking, one must be grateful to the novel, if only because itis keenly stimulating to thought. As one reads it, one can scarcely refrainfrom crying out: "That's true, " or "That's absurd. " It is true it has somevery annoying defects. Apart from all those you enumerate, it has one forwhich one cannot readily forgive the author--that is, the audacity withwhich Tolstoy holds forth about what he doesn't know and is too obstinateto care to understand. Thus his statements about syphilis, foundlinghospitals, the aversion of women for the sexual relation, and so on, arenot merely open to dispute, but show him up as an ignoramus who has not, inthe course of his long life, taken the trouble to read two or three bookswritten by specialists. But yet these defects fly away like feathers in thewind; one simply does not notice them in face of the real worth of thestory, or, if one notices them, it is only with a little vexation that thestory has not escaped the fate of all the works of man, all imperfect andnever free from blemish. 

My Petersburg friends and acquaintances are angry with me? What for? Formy not having bored them enough with my presence, which has for so longbeen a bore to myself! Soothe their minds. Tell them that in PetersburgI ate a great many dinners and a great many suppers, but did not fascinateone lady; that every day I was confident of leaving by the evening train, that I was detained by my friends and by _The Marine Almanack_, thewhole of which I had to look through from the year 1852. While I was inPetersburg, I got through in one month more than my young friends would ina year. Let them be angry, though!

 * * * * *

I sit all day long reading and making extracts. I have nothing in my heador on paper except Sahalin. Mental obsession. Mania Sachalinosa. 

Not long ago I dined with Madame Yermolov. [Translator's Note: Thecelebrated actress. ] A wild-flower thrust into the same nosegay with thecarnation was the more fragrant for the good company it had kept. So I, after dining with the star, was aware of a halo round my head for two daysafterwards . .. 

Good-bye, my dear friend; come and see us. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, February 23, 1890. 

. .. My brother Alexandr is a slow-witted creature; he is enthusiastic overOrnatsky's missionary speech, in which he says that the natives do notbecome Christians because they are waiting for a special ukaz (that is, command) from the Tsar on the subject and are waiting for their chiefs tobe baptized . .. (by force--be it understood). This eloquent pontifex says, too, that the native priests ought, in view of their ascetic manner oflife, to be removed from the natives and put into special institutionssomewhat after the fashion of monasteries. A nice set of people and nomistake! They have wasted two million roubles, they send out every yearfrom the academy dozens of missionaries who cost the treasury and thepeople large sums, yet they cannot convert the natives, and what is more, want the police and the military to help them with fire and sword. .. . 

If you have Madame Tsebrikov's article, do not trouble to send it. Sucharticles give no information and only waste time; I want facts. Indeed, inRussia there is a terrible poverty of facts, and a terrible abundance ofreflections of all sorts. 

February 28. 

. .. To-morrow is spring, and within ten to fifteen days the larks will comeback. But alas!--the coming spring seems strange to me, for I am going awayfrom it. 

In Sahalin there is very good fish, but there are no hot drinks. .. . 

Our geologists, ichthyologists, zoologists and so on, are fearfullyuneducated people. They write such a vile jargon that it not only bores oneto read it, but one actually has at times to remodel the sentences beforeone can understand them; on the other hand, they have solemnity andearnestness enough and to spare. It's really beastly. .. . 

March 4. 

I have sent you to-day two stories: Filippov's (he was here yesterday) andYezhov's. I have not had time to read the latter, and I think it is as wellto say, once for all, that I am not responsible for what I send you. Myhandwriting on the address does not mean that I like the story. 

Poor Yezhov has been to see me; he sat near the table crying: his youngwife is in consumption. He must take her at once to the south. To myquestion whether he had money he answered that he had. .. . It's vilecatch-cold weather; the sky itself is sneezing. I can't bear to look atit. .. . I have already begun writing of Sahalin. I have written five pages. It reads all right, as though written with intelligence and authority . .. Iquote foreign authors second-hand, but minutely and in a tone as though Icould speak every foreign language perfectly. It's regular swindling. 

Yezhov has upset me with his tears. He reminded me of something, and I wassorry for him too. 

Don't forget us sinners. 

TO N. M. LINTVARYOV. 

MOSCOW, March 5, 1890. 

. .. As for me, I have a cough too, but I am alive and I believe I'm well. I shan't be with you this summer, as I am going in April, on affairs of myown, to the island of Sahalin, and shall not be back till December. I amgoing across Siberia (eleven thousand versts) and shall come back by sea. I believe Misha wrote to you as though someone were commissioning me to go, but that's nonsense. I am commissioning myself to go, on my own account. There are lots of bears and escaped convicts in Sahalin, so that in case_messieurs_ the wild beasts dine off me or some tramp cuts my throat, I beg you not to remember evil against me. 

Of course if I have the time and the skill to write what I want to aboutSahalin, I shall send you the book immediately that it comes into theworld; it will be dull, a specialist's book consisting of nothing butfigures, but let me count upon your indulgence: you will suppress youryawns as you read it. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, March 9. 

About Sahalin we are both mistaken, but you probably more than I. I amgoing in the full conviction that my visit will furnish no contributionof value either to literature or science: I have neither the knowledge, nor the time, nor the ambition for that. I have neither the plans of aHumboldt nor of a Kennan. I want to write some 100 to 200 pages, and sodo something, however little, for medical science, which, as you areaware, I have neglected shockingly. Possibly I shall not succeed inwriting anything, but still the expedition does not lose its charm forme: reading, looking about me, and listening, I shall learn a great dealand gain experience. I have not yet travelled, but thanks to the bookswhich I have been compelled to read, I have learned a great deal whichanyone ought to be flogged for not knowing, and which I was so ignorantas not to have known before. Moreover, I imagine the journey will be sixmonths of incessant hard work, physical and mental, and that is essentialfor me, for I am a Little Russian and have already begun to be lazy. Imust take myself in hand. My expedition may be nonsense, obstinacy, acraze, but think a moment and tell me what I am losing if I go. Time?Money? Shall I suffer hardships? My time is worth nothing; money I neverhave anyway; as for hardships, I shall travel with horses, twenty-five tothirty days, not more, all the rest of the time I shall be sitting on thedeck of a steamer or in a room, and shall be continually bombarding youwith letters. 

Suppose the expedition gives me nothing, yet surely there will be 2 or 3days out of the whole journey which I shall remember all my life withecstasy or bitterness, etc. , etc. .. . So that's how it is, sir. All that isunconvincing, but you know you write just as unconvincingly. For instance, you say that Sahalin is of no use and no interest to anyone. Can that betrue? Sahalin can be useless and uninteresting only to a society which doesnot exile thousands of people to it and does not spend millions of roubleson it. Except Australia in the past and Cayenne, Sahalin is the only placewhere one can study colonization by convicts; all Europe is interested init, and is it no use to us? Not more than 25 to 30 years ago our Russiansexploring Sahalin performed amazing feats which exalt them above humanity, and that's no use to us: we don't know what those men were, and simply sitwithin four walls and complain that God has made man amiss. Sahalin is aplace of the most unbearable sufferings of which man, free and captive, iscapable. Those who work near it and upon it have solved fearful, responsible problems, and are still solving them. I am not sentimental, orI would say that we ought to go to places like Sahalin to worship as theTurks go to Mecca, and that sailors and gaolers ought to think of theprison in Sahalin as military men think of Sevastopol. From the books Ihave read and am reading, it is evident that we have sent _millions_of men to rot in prison, have destroyed them--casually, without thinking, barbarously; we have driven men in fetters through the cold ten thousandversts, have infected them with syphilis, have depraved them, havemultiplied criminals, and the blame for all this we have thrown upon thegaolers and red-nosed superintendents. Now all educated Europe knows thatit is not the superintendents that are to blame, but all of us; yet thathas nothing to do with us, it is not interesting. The vaunted sixties did_nothing_ for the sick and for prisoners, so breaking the chiefcommandment of Christian civilization. In our day something is being donefor the sick, nothing for prisoners; prison management is entirely withoutinterest for our jurists. No, I assure you that Sahalin is of use and ofinterest to us, and the only thing to regret is that I am going there, andnot someone else who knows more about it and would be more able to rousepublic interest. Nothing much will come of my going there. 

 * * * * *

There have been disturbances among the students on a grand scale here. Itbegan with the Petrovsky Academy, where the authorities forbade thestudents to take young ladies to their rooms, suspecting the ladies ofpolitics as well as of prostitution. From the Academy it spread to theUniversity, where now the students, surrounded by fully armed and mountedHectors and Achilleses with lances, make the following demands:

1. Complete autonomy for the universities. 

2. Complete freedom of teaching. 

3. Free right of entrance to the university without distinction ofreligious denomination, nationality, sex, and social position. 

4. Right of entrance to the university for the Jews without restriction, and equal rights for them with the other students. 

5. Freedom of meeting and recognition of the students' associations. 

6. The establishment of a university and students' tribunal. 

7. The abolition of the police duties of the inspectors. 

8. Lowering of the fees for instruction. 

This I copied from a manifesto, with some abbreviations. 

TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. 

MOSCOW, March 22, 1890. 

My greetings, dear Jean! Thanks for your long letter and for the good willof which it is full from beginning to end. I shall be delighted to readyour military story. Will it come out in the Easter number? It is a longtime since I read anything of yours or my own. You say that you want togive me a harsh scolding "especially on the score of morality and art, " youspeak vaguely of my crimes as deserving friendly censure, and threaten mewith "an influential newspaper criticism. " If you scratch out the word"art, " the whole phrase in quotation marks becomes clearer, but gains asignificance which, to tell the truth, perplexes me not a little. Jean, what is it? How is one to understand it? Can I really be different in myideas of morality from people like you, and so much so as to deservecensure and even an influential article? I cannot take it that you meansome subtle higher morality, as there are no lower, higher, or mediummoralities, but only one which Jesus Christ gave us, and which now preventsyou and me and Barantsevitch from stealing, insulting, lying, and so on. IfI can trust the ease of my conscience, I have never by word or deed, inthought, or in my stories, or in my farces, coveted my neighbour's wife, nor his man, nor his ox, nor any of his cattle, I have not stolen, nor beena hypocrite, I have not flattered the great nor sought their favour, I havenot blackmailed, nor lived at other people's expense. It is true I havewaxed wanton and slothful, have laughed heedlessly, have eaten too much anddrunk too much and been profligate. But all that is a personal matter, andall that does not deprive me of the right to think that, as far as moralsare concerned, I am nothing out of the ordinary, one way or the other. Nothing heroic and nothing scoundrelly--I am just like everyone else; Ihave many sins, but I am quits with morality, as I pay for those sins withinterest in the discomforts they bring with them. If you want to abuse mecruelly because I am not a hero, you'd better throw your cruelty out of thewindow, and instead of abuse, let me hear your charming tragiclaugh--that's better. 

But of the word "art" I am terrified, as merchants' wives are terrified of"brimstone. " When people talk to me of what is artistic and inartistic, ofwhat is dramatic and not dramatic, of tendency, realism, and so on, I ambewildered, hesitatingly assent, and answer with banal half-truths notworth a brass farthing. I divide all works into two classes: those I likeand those I don't. I have no other criterion, and if you ask me why I likeShakespeare and don't like Zlatovratsky, I don't venture to answer. Perhapsin time and as I grow wiser I may work out some criterion, but meanwhileall conversations about what is "artistic" only weary me, and seem to melike a continuation of the scholastic disputations with which peoplewearied themselves in the middle ages. 

If criticism, on the authority of which you rely, knows what you and Idon't know, why has it up till now not spoken? why does it not reveal thetruth and the immutable laws? If it knew, believe me, it would long agohave shown us the true path and we should have known what to do, andFofanov would not have been in a madhouse, Garshin would have been aliveto-day, Barantsevitch would not have been so depressed and we should not beso dull and ill at ease as we are, and you would not feel drawn to thetheatre and I to Sahalin. But criticism maintains a dignified silence orgets out of it with idle trashy babble. If it seems to you authoritative itis because it is stupid, conceited, impudent, and clamorous; because it isan empty barrel one cannot help hearing. 

But let us have done with that and sing something out of a different opera. Please don't build any literary hopes on my Sahalin trip. I am not goingfor the sake of impressions or observations, but simply for the sake ofliving for six months differently from how I have lived hitherto. Don'trely on me, old man; if I am successful and clever enough to do something, so much the better; if not, don't blame me. I am going after Easter. I willsend you in due time my Sahalin address and minute instructions. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, March 22, 1890. 

. .. Yesterday a young lady told me that Professor Storozhenko had relatedto her the following anecdote. The Sovereign liked the _KreutzerSonata_. Pobyedonostsev, Lubimov, and the other cherubim and seraphim, hastened to justify their attitude to Tolstoy by showing his Majesty"Nikolay Palkin. " After reading it, his Majesty was so furious that heordered measures to be taken. Prince Dolgorukov was informed. And so onefine day an adjutant from Dolgorukov comes to Tolstoy and invites him to goat once to the prince. The latter replies: "Tell the prince that I onlyvisit the houses of my acquaintances. " The adjutant, overcome withconfusion, rides away, and next day brings Tolstoy the official noticedemanding from him an explanation in regard to his "Nikolay Palkin. "Tolstoy reads the document and says:

"Tell his excellency that I have not for a long time past written anythingfor publication; I write only for my friends, and if my friends spread mywritings abroad, they are responsible and not I. Tell him that!"

"But I can't tell him that, " cried the adjutant in horror, "the prince willnot believe me!"

"The prince will not believe his subordinates? That's bad. "

Two days later the adjutant comes again with a fresh document, and learnsthat Tolstoy has gone away to Yasnaya Polyana. That is the end of theanecdote. 

Now about the new movements. They flog in our police stations; a rate hasbeen fixed; from a peasant they take ten kopecks for a beating, from aworkman twenty--that's for the rods and the trouble. Peasant women areflogged too. Not long ago, in their enthusiasm for beating in a policestation, they thrashed a couple of budding lawyers, an incident upon which_Russkiya Vyedomosti_ has a vague paragraph to-day; an investigationhas begun. 

Another sign of the times: the cabmen approve of the students'disturbances. 

"They are making a riot for the poor to be taken in to study, " theyexplain, "learning is not only for the rich. " It is said that when a crowdof students were being taken by night to the prison the populace fell uponthe gendarmes to rescue the students from them. The populace is said tohave shouted: "You have set up flogging for us, but they stand up for us. "

March 29. 

. .. Fatigue is a relative matter. You say you used to work twenty hours outof the twenty-four and were not exhausted. But you know one may beexhausted lying all day long on the sofa. You used to write for twentyhours, but you know you were in perfect health all that time, you werestimulated by success, defiance, a sense of your talent; you liked yourwork, or you wouldn't have written. Your heir-apparent sits up late, notbecause he has a talent for journalism or a love for his work, but simplybecause his father is an editor of a newspaper. The difference is vast. Heought to have been a doctor or a lawyer, to have had an income of twothousand roubles a year, and published his articles not in _Novoye Vremya_and not in the spirit of _Novoye Vremya_. Only those young people can beaccepted as healthy who refuse to be reconciled with the old order andfoolishly or wisely struggle against it--such is the will of nature and itis the foundation of progress, while your son began by absorbing the oldorder. In our most intimate talks he has never once abused Tatistchev orBurenin, and that's a bad sign. You are a hundred times as liberal as heis, and it ought to be the other way. He utters a listless and indolentprotest, he soon drops his voice and soon agrees, and altogether one hasthe impression that he has no interest whatever in the contest; that is, helooks on at the cock-fight like a spectator and has no cock of his own. Andone ought to have one's own cock, else life is without interest. Theunfortunate thing, too, is that he is intelligent, and great intelligencewith little interest in life is like a great machine which producesnothing, yet requires a great deal of fuel and exhausts the owner. .. . 

April 1. 

You abuse me for objectivity, calling it indifference to good and evil, lack of ideals and ideas, and so on. You would have me, when I describehorse-stealers, say: "Stealing horses is an evil. " But that has been knownfor ages without my saying so. Let the jury judge them, it's my job simplyto show what sort of people they are. I write: you are dealing withhorse-stealers, so let me tell you that they are not beggars but well-fedpeople, that they are people of a special cult, and that horse-stealing isnot simply theft but a passion. Of course it would be pleasant to combineart with a sermon, but for me personally it is extremely difficult andalmost impossible, owing to the conditions of technique. You see, to depicthorse-stealers in seven hundred lines I must all the time speak and thinkin their tone and feel in their spirit, otherwise, if I introducesubjectivity, the image becomes blurred and the story will not be ascompact as all short stories ought to be. When I write I reckon entirelyupon the reader to add for himself the subjective elements that are lackingin the story. 

April 11. 

Madame N. Who used at one time to live in your family is here now. Shemarried the artist N. , a nice but tedious man who wants at all costs totravel with me to Sahalin to sketch. To refuse him my company I haven't thecourage, but to travel with him would be simple misery. He is going toPetersburg in a day or two to sell his pictures, and at his wife's requestwill call on you to _ask your advice_. With a view to this his wifecame to ask me for a letter of introduction to you. Be my benefactor, tellN. That I am a drunkard, a swindler, a nihilist, a rowdy character, andthat it is out of the question to travel with me, and that a journey in mycompany will do nothing but upset him. Tell him he will be wasting histime. Of course it would be very nice to have my book illustrated, but whenI learned that N. Was hoping to get not less than a thousand roubles forit, I lost all appetite for illustrations. My dear fellow, advise himagainst it!!! Why it is your advice he wants, the devil only knows. 

April 15. 

And so, my dear friend, I am setting off on Wednesday or Thursday atlatest. Good-bye till December. Good luck in my absence. I received themoney, thank you very much, though fifteen hundred roubles is a great deal;I don't know where to put it. .. . I feel as though I were preparing for thebattlefield, though I see no dangers before me but toothache, which I amsure to have on the journey. As I am provided with nothing in the way ofpapers but a passport, I may have unpleasant encounters with theauthorities, but that is a passing trouble. If they refuse to show mesomething, I shall simply write in my book that they wouldn't show it me, and that's all, and I won't worry. In case I am drowned or anything of thatsort, you might keep it in mind that all I have or may have in the futurebelongs to my sister; she will pay my debts. 

I am taking my mother with me and putting her down at the TroitskyMonastery; I am taking my sister too, and leaving her at Kostroma. I amtelling them I shall be back in September. 

I shall go over the university in Tomsk. As the only faculty there ismedicine I shall not show myself an ignoramus. 

I have bought myself a fur coat, an officer's waterproof leather coat, bigboots, and a big knife for cutting sausage and hunting tigers. I amequipped from head to foot. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

STEAMER "ALEXANDR NEVSKY 23, "April, 1890, early in the morning. 

My dear Tunguses!

Did you have rain when Ivan was coming back from the monastery? InYaroslavl there was such a downpour that I had to swathe myself in myleather chiton. My first impression of the Volga was poisoned by the rain, by the tear-stained windows of the cabin, and the wet nose of G. , who cameto meet me at the station. In the rain Yaroslavl looks like Zvenigorod, andits churches remind me of Perervinsky Monastery; there are lots ofilliterate signboards, it's muddy, jackdaws with big heads strut about thepavement. 

In the steamer I made it my first duty to indulge my talent--that is, tosleep. When I woke I beheld the sun. The Volga is not bad; water meadows, monasteries bathed in sunshine, white churches; the wide expanse ismarvellous, wherever one looks it would be a nice place to sit down andbegin fishing. Class ladies [Translator's Note: I. E. , School chaperons, whose duty it is to sit in the classroom while the girls are receivinginstruction from a master. ] wander about on the banks, nipping at the greengrass. The shepherd's horn can be heard now and then. White gulls, lookinglike the younger Drishka, hover over the water. 

The steamer is not up to much. .. . 

 * * * * *

Kundasova is travelling with me. Where she is going and with what object Idon't know. When I question her about it, she launches off into extremelymisty allusions about someone who has appointed a tryst with her in aravine near Kineshma, then goes off into a wild giggle and begins stampingher feet or prodding with her elbow whatever comes first. We have passedboth Kineshma and the ravine, but she still goes on in the steamer, atwhich of course I am very much pleased; by the way, yesterday for the firsttime in my life I saw her eating. She eats no less than other people, butshe eats mechanically, as though she were munching oats. 

Kostroma is a nice town. I saw the stretch of river on which the languidLevitan used to live. I saw Kineshma, where I walked along the boulevardand watched the local _beaus_. Here I went into the chemist's shop tobuy some Bertholet salts for my tongue, which was like leather after themedicine I had taken. The chemist, on seeing Olga Petrovna, was overcomewith delight and confusion; she was the same. They were evidently oldacquaintances, and judging from the conversation between them they hadwalked more than once about the ravines near Kineshma. 

. .. It's rather cold and rather dull, but interesting on the whole. Thesteamer whistles every minute; its whistle is midway between the bray of anass and an Aeolian harp. In five or six hours we shall be in Nizhni. Thesun is rising. I slept last night artistically. My money is safe; that isbecause I am constantly pressing my hands on my stomach. 

Very beautiful are the steam-tugs, dragging after them four or five bargeseach; they look like some fine young intellectual trying to run away whilea plebeian wife, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and wife's grandmother holdon to his coat-tails. 

 * * * * *

The sun is hiding behind the clouds, the sky is overcast, and the broadVolga looks gloomy. Levitan ought not to live on the Volga. It lays aweight of gloom on the soul. Though it would not be bad to have an estateon its banks. 

 * * * * *

If the waiter would wake I should ask him for some coffee; as it is, I haveto drink water without any relish for it. My greetings to Maryushka andOlga. [Footnote: The Chekhovs' servants. ]

Well, keep well and take care of yourselves. I will write regularly. 

 Your bored Volga-travelling Homo Sachaliensis, A. CHEKHOV. 

FROM THE STEAMER, Evening, April 24, 1890. 

MY DEAR TUNGUSES!

I am floating on the Kama, but I can't fix the exact locality; I believe weare near Tchistopol. I cannot extol the beauties of the scenery either, asit is hellishly cold; the birches are not yet out, there are still patchesof snow here and there, bits of ice float by--in short, the picturesque hasgone to the dogs. I sit in the cabin, where people of all sorts andconditions sit at the table, and listen to the conversation, wonderingwhether it is not time for me to have tea. If I had my way I should donothing all day but eat; as I haven't the money to be eating all day long Isleep and sleep. I don't go up on deck, it's cold. By night it rains and byday there is an unpleasant wind. 

Oh, the caviare! I eat it and eat and never have enough. 

. .. It is a pity I did not think to get myself a little bag for tea andsugar. I have to order it a glass at a time, which is tiresome andexpensive. I meant to buy some tea and sugar to-day at Kazan, but Iover-slept myself. 

Rejoice, O mother! I believe I stop twenty-four hours at Ekaterinburg, andshall see the relations. Perhaps their hearts may be softened and they willgive me three roubles and an ounce of tea. 

From the conversation I am listening to at this moment, I gather that themembers of a judicial tribunal are travelling with me. They are not giftedpersons. The merchants, who put in their word from time to time seem, however, intelligent. One comes across fearfully rich people. 

Sterlets are cheaper than mushrooms; you soon get sick of them. What moreis there for me to write about? There is nothing. .. . There is a General, though, and a lean fair man. The former keeps dashing from his cabin to thedeck and back again, and sending his photograph off somewhere; the latteris got up to look like Nadson, and tries thereby to give one to know thathe is a writer. Today he was mendaciously telling a lady that he had a bookpublished by Suvorin; I, of course, put on an expression of awe. 

My money is all safe, except what I have eaten. They won't feed me fornothing, the scoundrels. 

I am neither gay nor bored, but there is a sort of numbness in my soul. Ilike to sit without moving or speaking. To-day, for instance, I havescarcely uttered five words. That's not true, though: I talked to a prieston deck. 

We begin to come across natives; there are lots of Tatars: they are arespectable and well-behaved people. 

I beg Father and Mother not to worry, and not to imagine dangers which donot exist. 

 * * * * *

Excuse me for writing about nothing but food. If I did not write about foodI should have to write about cold, for I have no other subjects. 

 * * * * *

April 29, 1890. 

MY DEAR TUNGUSES!

The Kama is a very dull river. To realise its beauties one would have to bea native sitting motionless on a barge beside a barrel of naphtha, or asack of dried fish, continually taking a pull at the bottle. The riverbanks are bare, the trees are bare, the earth is a dull brown, there arepatches of snow, and there is such a wind that the devil himself could notblow as keenly and hatefully. When a cold wind blows and ruffles up thewater, which now after the floods is the colour of coffee slops, one feelscold and bored and miserable; the strains of a concertina on the bank sounddejected, figures in tattered sheepskins standing motionless on the bargesthat meet us look as though they were petrified by some unending grief. Thetowns on the Kama are grey; one would think the inhabitants were employedin the manufacture of clouds, boredom, soaking fences and mud in thestreets, as their sole occupation. The stopping-places are thronged withinhabitants of the educated class, for whom the arrival of a steamer is anevent. .. . 

. .. To judge from appearances not one of them earns more than thirty-fiveroubles, and all of them are ailing in some way. 

I have told you already there are some legal gentlemen in the steamer: thepresident of the court, one of the judges, and the prosecutor. Thepresident is a hale and hearty old German who has embraced Orthodoxy, ispious, a homoeopath, and evidently a devotee of the sex. The judge is anold man such as dear Nikolay used to draw; he walks bent double, coughs, and is fond of facetious subjects. The prosecutor is a man of forty-three, dissatisfied with life, a liberal, a sceptic, and a very good-naturedfellow. All the journey these gentlemen have been occupied in eating, settling mighty questions and eating, reading and eating. There is alibrary on the steamer, and I saw the prosecutor reading my "In theTwilight. " They began talking about me. Mamin-Sibiryak, who has describedthe Urals, is the author most liked in these parts. He is more talked ofthan Tolstoy. 

I have been two and a half years sailing to Perm, so it seems to me. Wereached there at two o'clock in the night. The train went at six o'clock inthe evening. I had to wait. It rained. Rain, cold, mud . .. Brrr! TheUralsky line is a good one. .. . That is due to the abundance ofbusiness-like people here, factories, mines, and so on, for whom time isprecious. 

Waking yesterday morning and looking out of the carriage window I felt anaversion for nature: the earth was white, trees covered with hoar-frost, and a regular blizzard pursuing the train. Now isn't it revolting? Isn't itdisgusting? . .. I have no goloshes, I pulled on my big boots, and on my wayto the refreshment-room for coffee I made the whole Ural region smell oftar. And when we got to Ekaterinburg there was rain, snow, and hail. I puton my leather coat. The cabs are something inconceivable, wretched, dirty, drenched, without springs, the horse's four legs straddling, huge hoofs, gaunt spines . .. The droshkies here are a clumsy parody of our britchkas. Atattered top is put on to a britchka, that is all. And the more exactly Idescribe the cabman here and his vehicle, the more it will seem like acaricature. They drive not on the middle of the road where it is jolting, but near the gutter where it is muddy and soft. All the cabmen are likeDobrolyubov. 

In Russia all the towns are alike. Ekaterinburg is exactly the same as Permor Tula. The note of the bells is magnificent, velvety. I stopped at theAmerican Hotel (not at all bad), and at once sent word of my arrival to A. M. S. , telling him I meant to stay in my hotel room for two days. 

The people here inspire the newcomer with a feeling akin to horror. Theyare big-browed, big-jawed, broad-shouldered fellows with huge fists andtiny eyes. They are born in the local iron foundries, and at their birth amechanic officiates instead of an accoucheur. A specimen comes into yourroom with a samovar or a bottle of water, and you expect him every minuteto murder you. I stand aside. This morning just such a one came in, big-browed, big-jawed, huge, towering up to the ceiling, seven feet acrossthe shoulders and wearing a fur coat too. 

Well, I thought, this one will certainly murder me. It appeared that thiswas our relation A. M. S. We began to talk. He is a member of the localZemstvo and manager of his cousin's mill, which is lighted by electriclight; he is editor of the _Ekaterinburg Week_ which is under thecensorship of the police-master Baron Taube, is married and has twochildren, is growing rich and getting fat and elderly, and lives in a"substantial way. " He says he has no time to be bored. He advised me tovisit the museum, the factories, and the mines; I thanked him for hisadvice. He invited me to tea to-morrow evening; I invited him to dine withme. He did not invite me to dinner, and altogether did not press me verymuch to visit him. From this mother may conclude that the relations' heartis not softened. .. . Relations are a race in which I take no interest. 

There is snow in the street, and I have purposely let down the blind overthe windows so as not to see the Asiatic sight. I am sitting here waitingfor an answer from Tyumen to my telegram. I telegraphed: "Tyumen. Kurbatovsteamer line. Reply paid. Inform me when the passenger steamer startsTomsk. " It depends on the answer whether I go by steamer or gallop fifteenhundred versts in the slush of the thaw. 

All night long they beat on sheets of iron at every corner here. You need ahead of iron not to go crazy from the incessant clanging. To-day I tried tomake myself coffee. The result was a horrid mess. I just drank it with ashrug. I looked at five sheets, handled them, and did not take one. I amgoing to-day to buy rubber overshoes. 

 * * * * *

Shall I find a letter from you at Irkutsk?

Ask Lika not to leave such big margins in her letters. 

 Your Homo Sachaliensis, A. CHEKHOV. 

TO MADAME KISELYOV. 

THE BANK OF THE IRTYSH, May 7, 1890. 

My greetings, honoured Marya Vladimirovna! I meant to write you a farewellletter from Moscow, but I had not time; I write to you now sitting in a huton the bank of the Irtysh. 

It is night. This is how I have come to be here. I am driving across theplain of Siberia. I have already driven 715 versts; I have been transformedfrom head to foot into a great martyr. This morning a keen cold wind beganblowing, and it began drizzling with the most detestable rain. I mustobserve that there is no spring yet in Siberia. The earth is brown, thetrees are bare, and there are white patches of snow wherever one looks; Iwear my fur coat and felt overboots day and night. .. . Well, the wind hasbeen blowing since early morning. .. . Heavy leaden clouds, dull brown earth, mud, rain, wind. .. . Brrr! I drive on and on. .. . I drive on endlessly, andthe weather does not improve. Towards evening I am told at the station Ican't go on further, as everything is under water, the bridges have beencarried away, and so on. Knowing how fond these drivers are of frighteningone with the elements so as to keep the traveller for the night (it is totheir interest), I did not believe them, and ordered them to harness thethree horses; and now--alas for me!--I had not driven more than five verstswhen I saw the land on the bank of the Irtysh all covered with great lakes, the road disappeared under water, and the bridges on the road really hadbeen swept away or had decayed. I was prevented from turning back partly byobstinacy and partly by the desire to get out of these dreary parts asquickly as possible. We began driving through the lakes. .. . My God, I havenever experienced anything like it in my life! The cutting wind, the cold, the loathsome rain, and one had to get out of the chaise (not a coveredone), if you please, and hold the horses: at each little bridge one couldonly lead the horses over one at a time. .. . What had I come to? Where wasI? All around, desert, dreariness; the bare sullen bank of the Irtysh insight. .. . We drive into the very biggest lake. Now I should be glad to turnback, but it is not easy. .. . We drive on a long strip of land . .. The stripcomes to an end--we go splash! Again a strip of land, again a splash. .. . Myhands were numb, and the wild ducks seemed jeering at us and floated inhuge flocks over our heads. .. . It got dark. The driver said nothing--he wasbewildered. But at last we reached the last strip that separated the Irtyshfrom the lake. .. . The sloping bank of the Irtysh was nearly three feetabove the level; it was of clay, bare, hollowed out, and looked slippery. The water was muddy. .. . White waves splashed on the clay, but the Irtyshitself made no roar or din, but gave forth a strange sound as thoughsomeone were nailing up a coffin under the water. .. . The further bank was aflat, disconsolate plain. .. . You often dream of the Bozharovsky pool; inthe same way now I shall dream of the Irtysh. .. . 

But behold a ferry. We must be ferried across to the other side. A peasantshrinking from the rain comes out of a hut, and tells us that the ferrycannot cross now as it is too windy. .. . (The ferries are worked by oars). He advises us to wait for calm weather. .. . 

And so I am sitting at night in a hut on a lake at the very edge of theIrtysh. I feel a penetrating dampness to the very marrow of my bones, and aloneliness in my soul; I hear my Irtysh banging on the coffins and the windhowling, and wonder where I am, why I am here. 

In the next room the peasants who work the ferry and my driver are asleep. They are good-natured people. But if they were bad people they couldperfectly well rob me and drown me in the Irtysh. The hut is the only oneon the river bank; there would be no witnesses. 

The road to Tomsk is absolutely free from danger as far as brigands areconcerned. It isn't the fashion even to talk of robbery. There is nostealing even from travellers. When you go into a hut you can leave yourthings outside and they will all be safe. 

But they very nearly did kill me all the same. Imagine the night justbefore dawn. .. . I was driving along in a chaise, thinking and thinking. .. . All at once I see coming flying towards us at full gallop a post-cart withthree horses; my driver had hardly time to turn to the right, the threehorses dashed by, and I noticed in it the driver who had to take itback. .. . Behind it came another, also at full speed; we had turned to theright, it turned to the left. "We shall smash into each other, " flashedinto my mind . .. One instant, and--there was a crash, the horses were mixedup in a black mass, my chaise was rearing in the air, and I was rolling onthe ground with all my bags and boxes on the top of me. I leap up andsee--a third troika dashing upon us. .. . 

My mother must have been praying for me that night, I suppose. If I hadbeen asleep, or if the third troika had come immediately after the second, I should have been crushed to death or maimed. It appeared the foremostdriver lashed on the horses, while the drivers in the second and the thirdcarts were asleep and did not see us. The collision was followed by theblankest amazement on both sides, then a storm of ferocious abuse. Thetraces were torn, the shafts were broken, the yokes were lying about on theroad. .. . Ah, how the drivers swore! At night, in that swearing turbulentcrew, I felt in utter solitude such as I have never felt before in mylife. .. . 

But my paper is running out. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

THE VILLAGE OF YAR, 45 VERSTS FROM TOMSK, May 14, 1890. 

My glorious mother, my splendid Masha, my sweet Misha, and all myhousehold! At Ekaterinburg I got my reply telegram from Tyumen. "The firststeamer to Tomsk goes on the 18th May. " This meant that, whether I liked itor not, I must do the journey with horses. So I did. I drove out of Tyumenon the third of May after spending in Ekaterinburg two or three days, whichI devoted to the repair of my coughing and haemorrhoidal person. Besides thepublic posting service, one can get private drivers that take one acrossSiberia. I chose the latter: it is just the same. They put me, the servantof God, into a basketwork chaise and drove me with two horses; one sits inthe basket like a goldfinch, looking at God's world and thinking ofnothing. .. . The plain of Siberia begins, I think, from Ekaterinburg, andends goodness knows where; I should say it is very like our South RussianSteppe, except for the little birch copses here and there and the cold windthat stings one's cheeks. Spring has not begun yet. There is no green atall, the woods are bare, the snow has not thawed everywhere. There isopaque ice on the lakes. On the ninth of May there was a hard frost, andto-day, the fourteenth, snow has fallen to the depth of three or fourinches. No one speaks of spring but the ducks. Ah, what masses of ducks!Never in my life have I seen such abundance. They fly over one's head, theyfly up close to the chaise, swim on the lakes and in the pools--in short, with the poorest sort of gun I could have shot a thousand in one day. Onecan hear the wild geese calling. .. . There are lots of them here too. Oneoften comes upon a string of cranes or swans. .. . Snipe and woodcock flutterabout in the birch copses. The hares which are not eaten or shot here, stand on their hindlegs, and, pricking up their ears, watch the passer-bywith an inquisitive stare without the slightest misgiving. They are sooften running across the road that to see them doing so is not considered abad omen. 

It's cold driving . .. ; I have my fur coat on. My body is all right, but myfeet are freezing. I wrap them in the leather overcoat-but it is no use. .. . I have two pairs of breeches on. Well, one drives on and on. .. . Telegraphpoles, pools, birch copses flash by. Here we overtake some emigrants, thenan etape. .. . We meet tramps with pots on their back; these gentry promenadeall over the plain of Siberia without hindrance. One time they will murdersome poor old woman to take her petticoat for their leg-wrappers; atanother they will strip from the verst post the metal plate with the numberon it--it might be useful; at another will smash the head of some beggar orknock out the eyes of some brother exile; but they never touch travellers. Altogether, travelling here is absolutely safe as far as brigands areconcerned. Neither the post-drivers nor the private ones from Tyumen toTomsk remember an instance of any things being stolen from a traveller. When you reach a station you leave your things outside; if you ask whetherthey won't be stolen, they merely smile in answer. It is not the thing evento speak of robbery and murder on the road. I believe, if I were to lose mymoney in the station or in the chaise, the driver would certainly give itme if he found it, and would not boast of having done so. Altogether thepeople here are good and kindly, and have excellent traditions. Their roomsare simply furnished but clean, with claims to luxury; the beds are soft, all feather mattresses and big pillows. The floors are painted or coveredwith home-made linen rugs. The explanation of this, of course, is theirprosperity, the fact that a family has sixteen dessyatins [Footnote:I. E. , about 48 acres. ] of black earth, and that excellent wheat grows inthis black earth. (Wheaten flour costs thirty kopecks a _pood_ here. [Footnote: I. E. , about 7-1/2d. For 36 lb. ]) But it cannot all be put downto prosperity and being well fed. One must give some of the credit to theirmanner of life. When you go at night into a room where people are asleep, the nose is not aware of any stuffiness or "Russian smell. " It is true oneold woman when she handed me a teaspoon wiped it on the back of her skirt;but they don't set you down to drink tea without a tablecloth, and theydon't search in each other's heads in your presence, they don't put theirfingers inside the glass when they hand you milk or water; the crockery isclean, the kvass is transparent as beer--in fact, there is a cleanliness ofwhich our Little Russians can only dream, yet the Little Russians are farand away cleaner than the Great Russians! They make the most deliciousbread here--I over-ate myself with it at first. The pies and pancakes andfritters and the fancy rolls, which remind one of the spongy Little Russianring rolls, are very good too. .. . But all the rest is not for the Europeanstomach. For instance, I am regaled everywhere with "duck broth. " It'sperfectly disgusting, a muddy-looking liquid with bits of wild duck anduncooked onion floating in it. .. . I once asked them to make me some soupfrom meat and to fry me some perch. They gave me soup too salt, dirty, withhard bits of skin instead of meat; and the perch was cooked with the scaleson it. They make their cabbage soup from salt meat; they roast it too. Theyhave just served me some salt meat roasted: it's most repulsive; I chewedat it and gave it up. They drink brick tea. It is a decoction of sage andbeetles--that's what it is like in taste and appearance. 

By the way, I brought from Ekaterinburg a quarter of a pound of tea, fivepounds of sugar, and three lemons. It was not enough tea and there isnowhere to buy any. In these scurvy little towns even the governmentofficials drink brick tea, and even the best shops don't keep tea at morethan one rouble fifty kopecks a pound. I have to drink the sage brew. 

The distance apart of the posting stations depends on the distance of thenearest villages from each other--that is, 20 to 40 versts. The villageshere are large, there are no little hamlets. There are churches and schoolseverywhere, the huts are of wood and there are some with two storeys. 

Towards the evening the road and the puddles begin to freeze, and at nightthere is a regular frost, one wants an extra fur coat . .. Brrr! It'sjolting, for the mud is transformed into hard lumps. One's soul is shakeninside out. .. . Towards daybreak one is fearfully exhausted by the cold, bythe jolting and the jingle of the bells: one has a passionate longing forwarmth and a bed. While they change horses one curls up in some corner andat once drops asleep, and a minute later the driver pulls at one's sleeveand says: "Get up, friend, it is time to start. " On the second night I hadacute toothache in my heels. It was unbearably painful. I wondered whetherthey were frostbitten. 

I can't write more though. The "president, " that is the district policeinspector, has come. We have made acquaintance and are beginning to talk. Goodbye till to-morrow. 

TOMSK, May 16. 

It seems my strong boots were the cause, being too tight at the back. Mysweet Misha, if you ever have any children, which I have no doubt you will, the advice I bequeath to them is not to run after cheap goods. Cheapness inRussian goods is the label of worthlessness. To my mind it is better to gobarefoot than to wear cheap boots. Picture my agony! I keep getting out ofthe chaise, sitting down on damp ground and taking off my boots to rest myheels. So comfortable in the frost! I had to buy felt over-boots inIshim. .. . So I drove in felt boots till they collapsed from the mud and thedamp. 

In the morning between five and six o'clock one drinks tea at a hut. Tea ona journey is a great blessing. I know its value now, and drink it with thefury of a Yanov. It warms one through and drives away sleep; one eats a lotof bread with it, and in the absence of other nourishment, bread has to beeaten in great quantities; that is why peasants eat so much bread andfarinaceous food. One drinks tea and talks with the peasant women, who aresensible, tenderhearted, industrious, as well as being devoted mothers andmore free than in European Russia; their husbands don't abuse or beat them, because they are as tall, as strong, and as clever as their lords andmasters are. They act as drivers when their husbands are away from home;they like making jokes. They are not severe with their children, they spoilthem. The children sleep on soft beds and lie as long as they like, drinktea and eat with the men, and scold the latter when they laugh at themaffectionately. There is no diphtheria. Malignant smallpox is prevalenthere, but strange to say, it is less contagious than in other parts of theworld; two or three catch it and die and that is the end of the epidemic. There are no hospitals or doctors. The doctoring is done by feldshers. Bleeding and cupping are done on a grandiose, brutal scale. I examined aJew with cancer in the liver. The Jew was exhausted, hardly breathing, butthat did not prevent the feldsher from cupping him twelve times. Apropos ofthe Jews. Here they till the land, work as drivers and ferry-men, trade andare called Krestyany, [Translator's Note: I. E. , Peasants, literally"Christians. " ] because they are _de jure_ and _de facto_ Krestyany. Theyenjoy universal respect, and according to the "president" they are notinfrequently chosen as village elders. I saw a tall thin Jew who scowledwith disgust and spat when the "president" told indecent stories: a chastesoul; his wife makes splendid fish-soup. The wife of the Jew who had cancerregaled me with pike caviare and with most delicious white bread. One hearsnothing of exploitation by the Jews. And, by the way, about the Poles. There are a few exiles here, sent from Poland in 1864. They are good, hospitable, and very refined people. Some of them live in a very wealthyway; others are very poor, and serve as clerks at the stations. Upon theamnesty the former went back to their own country, but soon returned toSiberia again--here they are better off; the latter dream of their nativeland, though they are old and infirm. At Ishim a wealthy Pole, PanZalyessky, who has a daughter like Sasha Kiselyov, for a rouble gave me anexcellent dinner and a room to sleep in; he keeps an inn and has become amoney-grubber to the marrow of his bones; he fleeces everyone, but yet onefeels the Polish gentleman in his manner, in the way the meals are served, in everything. He does not go back to Poland through greed, and throughgreed endures snow till St. Nikolay's day; when he dies his daughter, whowas born at Ishim, will remain here for ever and so will multiply the blackeyes and soft features in Siberia! This casual intermixture of blood is tothe good, for the Siberian people are not beautiful. There are nodark-haired people. Perhaps you would like me to write about the Tatars?Certainly. There are very few of them here. They are good people. In theprovince of Kazan everyone speaks well of them, even the priests, and inSiberia they are "better than the Russians" as the "president" said to mein the presence of Russians, who assented to this by their silence. My God, how rich Russia is in good people! If it were not for the cold whichdeprives Siberia of the summer, and if it were not for the officials whocorrupt the peasants and the exiles, Siberia would be the richest andhappiest of lands. 

I have nothing for dinner. Sensible people usually take twenty pounds ofprovisions when they go to Tomsk. It seems I was a fool and so I have fedfor a fortnight on nothing but milk and eggs, which are boiled so that theyolk is hard and the white is soft. One is sick of such fare in two days. Ihave only twice had dinner during the whole journey, not counting theJewess's fish-soup, which I swallowed after I had had enough to eat with mytea. I have not had any vodka: the Siberian vodka is disgusting, andindeed, I got out of the habit of taking it while I was on the way toEkaterinburg. One ought to drink vodka: it stimulates the brain, dull andapathetic from travelling, which makes one stupid and feeble. 

_Stop!_ I can't write: the editor of the _Sibirsky Vyestnik_, N. , a localNozdryov, a drunkard and a rake, has come to make my acquaintance. 

N. Has drunk some beer and gone away. I continue. 

For the first three days of my journey my collarbones, my shoulders and myvertebrae ached from the shaking and jolting. I couldn't stand or sit orlie. .. . But on the other hand, all pains in my head and chest havevanished, my appetite has developed incredibly, and my haemorrhoids havesubsided completely. The overstrain, the constant worry with luggage and soon, and perhaps the farewell drinking parties in Moscow, had brought onspitting of blood in the mornings, which induced something like depression, arousing gloomy thoughts, but towards the end of the journey it has leftoff; now I haven't even a cough. It is a long time since I have coughed solittle as now, after being for a fortnight in the open air. After the firstthree days of travelling my body grew used to the jolting, and in time Idid not notice the coming of midday and then of evening and night. The timeflew by rapidly as it does in serious illness. You think it is scarcelymidday when the peasants say--"You ought to put up for the night, sir, orwe may lose our way in the dark"; you look at your watch, and it isactually eight o'clock. 

They drive quickly, but the speed is nothing remarkable. Probably I havecome upon the roads in bad condition, and in winter travelling would havebeen quicker. They dash uphill at a gallop, and before setting off andbefore the driver gets on the box, the horses need two or three men to holdthem. The horses remind me of the fire brigade horses in Moscow. One day wenearly ran over an old woman, and another time almost dashed into an etape. Now, would you like an adventure for which I am indebted to Siberiandriving? Only I beg mother not to wail and lament, for it all ended well. On the 6th of May towards daybreak I was being driven with two horses by avery nice old man. It was a little chaise, I was drowsy, and, to while awaythe time, watched the gleaming of zigzagging lights in the fields and birchcopses--it was last year's grass on fire; it is their habit here to burnit. Suddenly I hear the swift rattle of wheels, a post-cart at full speedcomes flying towards us like a bird, my old man hastens to move to theright, the three horses dash by, and I see in the dusk a huge heavypost-cart with a driver for the return journey in it. It was followed by asecond cart also going at full speed. We made haste to move aside to theright. To my great amazement and alarm the approaching cart moved not toits right, but its left . .. I hardly had time to think, "Good heavens! weshall run into each other, " when there was a desperate crash, the horseswere mixed up in a dark blur, the yokes fell off, my chaise reared up intothe air, and I flew to the ground, and my luggage on the top of me. Butthat was not all . .. A third cart was dashing upon us. This really ought tohave smashed me and my luggage to atoms but, thank God! I was not asleep, Ibroke no bones in the fall, and managed to jump up so quickly that I wasable to get out of the way. "Stop, " I bawled to the third cart, "Stop!" Thethird dashed up to the second and stopped. Of course if I were able tosleep in a chaise, or if the third cart had followed instantly on thesecond, I should certainly have come back a cripple or a headless horseman. The results of the collision were broken shafts, torn traces, yokes andluggage scattered on the ground, the horses scared and harassed, and thealarming feeling that we had just been in danger. It turned out that thefirst driver had lashed up the horses; while in the other two carts thedrivers were asleep, and the horses followed the first team with no onecontrolling them. On recovering from the shock, my old man and the otherthree men fell to abusing each other ferociously. Oh, how they swore! Ithought it would end in a fight. You can't imagine the feeling of isolationin the middle of that savage swearing crew in the open country, just beforedawn, in sight of the fires far and near consuming the grass, but notwarming the cold night air! Oh, how heavy my heart was! One listened to theswearing, looked at the broken shafts and at one's tormented luggage, andit seemed as though one were cast away in another world, as though onewould be crushed in a moment. .. . After an hour's abuse my old man begansplicing together the shafts with cord and tying up the traces; my strapswere forced into the service too. We got to the station somehow, crawlingalong and stopping from time to time. 

After five or six days rain with high winds began. It rained day and night. The leather overcoat came to the rescue and kept me safe from rain andwind. It's a wonderful coat. The mud was almost impassable, the driversbegan to be unwilling to go on at night. But what was worst of all, andwhat I shall never forget, was crossing the rivers. One reaches a river atnight. .. . One begins shouting and so does the driver. .. . Rain, wind, piecesof ice glide down the river, there is a sound of splashing. .. . And to addto our gaiety there is the cry of a heron. Herons live on the Siberianrivers, so it seems they don't consider the climate but the geographicalposition. .. . Well, an hour later, in the darkness, a huge ferry-boat of theshape of a barge comes into sight with huge oars that look like the pincersof a crab. The ferry-men are a rowdy set, for the most part exiles banishedhere by the verdict of society for their vicious life. They useinsufferably bad language, shout, and ask for money for vodka. .. . Theferrying across takes a long, long time . .. An agonizingly long time. Theferryboat crawls. Again the feeling of loneliness, and the heron seemscalling on purpose, as though he means to say: "Don't be frightened, oldman, I am here, the Lintvaryovs have sent me here from the Psyol. "

On the 7th of May when I asked for horses the driver said the Irtysh hadoverflowed its banks and flooded the meadows, that Kuzma had set off theday before and had difficulty in getting back, and that I could not go, butmust wait. .. . I asked: "Wait till when?" Answer: "The Lord only knows!"That was vague. Besides, I had taken a vow to get rid on the journey of twoof my vices which were a source of considerable expense, trouble, andinconvenience; I mean my readiness to give in, and be overpersuaded. I amquick to agree, and so I have had to travel anyhow, sometimes to pay doubleand to wait for hours at a time. I had taken to refusing to agree and tobelieve--and my sides have ached less. For instance, they bring out not aproper carriage but a common, jolting cart. I refuse to travel in thejolting cart, I insist, and the carriage is sure to appear, though they mayhave declared that there was no such thing in the whole village, and so on. Well, I suspected that the Irtysh floods were invented simply to avoiddriving me by night through the mud. I protested and told them to start. The peasant who had heard of the floods from Kuzma, and had not himselfseen them, scratched himself and consented; the old men encouraged him, saying that when they were young and used to drive, they were afraid ofnothing. We set off. Much rain, a vicious wind, cold . .. And felt boots onmy feet. Do you know what felt boots are like when they are soaked? Theyare like boots of jelly. We drive on and on, and behold, there liesstretched before my eyes an immense lake from which the earth appears inpatches here and there, and bushes stand out: these are the floodedmeadows. In the distance stretches the steep bank of the Irtysh, on whichthere are white streaks of snow. .. . We begin driving through the lake. Wemight have turned back, but obstinacy prevented me, and an incomprehensibleimpulse of defiance mastered me--that impulse which made me bathe from theyacht in the middle of the Black Sea and has impelled me to not a few actsof folly . .. I suppose it is a special neurosis. We drive on and make forthe little islands and strips of land. The direction is indicated bybridges and planks; they have been washed away. To cross by them we had tounharness the horses and lead them over one by one. .. . The driverunharnesses the horses, I jump out into the water in my felt boots and holdthem. .. . A pleasant diversion! And the rain and wind. .. . Queen of Heaven!At last we get to a little island where there stands a hut without aroof. .. . Wet horses are wandering about in the wet dung. A peasant with along stick comes out of the hut and undertakes to guide us. He measures thedepth of the water with his stick, and tries the ground. He led us out--Godbless him for it!--on to a long strip of ground which he called "theridge. " He instructs us that we must keep to the right--or perhaps it wasto the left, I don't remember--and get on to another ridge. This we do. Myfelt boots are soaking and squelching, my socks are snuffling. The driversays nothing and clicks dejectedly to his horses. He would gladly turnback, but by now it was late, it was dark. .. . At last--oh, joy!--we reachthe Irtysh. .. . The further bank is steep but the near bank is sloping. Thenear one is hollowed out, looks slippery, hateful, not a trace ofvegetation. .. . The turbid water splashes upon it with crests of white foam, and dashes back again as though disgusted at touching the uncouth slipperybank on which it seems that none but toads and the souls of murderers couldlive. .. . The Irtysh makes no loud or roaring sound, but it sounds as thoughit were hammering on coffins in its depths. .. . A damnable impression! Thefurther bank is steep, dark brown, desolate. .. . 

There is a hut; the ferry-men live in it. One of them comes out andannounces that it is impossible to work the ferry as a storm has come up. The river, they said, was wide, and the wind was strong. And so I had tostay the night at the hut. .. . I remember the night. The snoring of theferry-men and my driver, the roar of the wind, the patter of the rain, themutterings of the Irtysh. .. . Before going to sleep I wrote a letter toMarya Vladimirovna; I was reminded of the Bozharovsky pool. 

In the morning they were unwilling to ferry me across: there was a highwind. We had to row across in the boat. I am rowed across the river, whilethe rain comes lashing down, the wind blows, my luggage is drenched and myfelt boots, which had been dried overnight in the oven, become jelly again. Oh, the darling leather coat! If I did not catch cold I owe it entirely tothat. When I come back you must reward it with an anointing of tallow orcastor-oil. On the bank I sat for a whole hour on my portmanteau waitingfor horses to come from the village. I remember it was very slipperyclambering up the bank. In the village I warmed myself and had some tea. Some exiles came to beg for alms. Every family makes forty pounds ofwheaten flour into bread for them every day. It's a kind of forced tribute. 

The exiles take the bread and sell it for drink at the tavern. One exile, atattered, closely shaven old man, whose eyes had been knocked out in thetavern by his fellow-exiles, hearing that there was a traveller in the roomand taking me for a merchant, began singing and repeating the prayers. Herecited the prayer for health and for the rest of the soul, and sang theEaster hymn, "Let the Lord arise, " and "With thy Saints, O Lord"--goodnessknows what he didn't sing! Then he began telling lies, saying that he was aMoscow merchant. I noticed how this drunken creature despised the peasantsupon whom he was living. 

On the 11th I drove with posting horses. I read the books of complaints atthe posting station in my boredom. 

. .. On the 12th of May they would not give me horses, saying that I couldnot drive, because the River Ob had overflowed its banks and flooded allthe meadows. They advised me to turn off the track as far as Krasny Yar;then go by boat twelve versts to Dubrovin, and at Dubrovin you can getposting horses. .. . I drove with private horses as far as Krasny Yar. Iarrive in the morning; I am told there is a boat, but that I must wait alittle as the grandfather had sent the workman to row the president'ssecretary to Dubrovin in it. Very well, we will wait. .. . An hour passes, asecond, a third. .. . Midday arrives, then evening. .. . Allah kerim, what alot of tea I drank, what a lot of bread I ate, what a lot of thoughts Ithought! And what a lot I slept! Night came on and still no boat. .. . Earlymorning came. .. . At last at nine o'clock the workmen returned. .. . Thankheaven, we are afloat at last! And how pleasant it is! The air is still, the oarsmen are good, the islands are beautiful. .. . The floods caught menand cattle unawares and I see peasant women rowing in boats to the islandsto milk the cows. And the cows are lean and dejected. There is absolutelyno grass for them, owing to the cold. I was rowed twelve versts. At thestation of Dubrovin I had tea, and for tea they gave me, can you imagine!waffles. .. . I suppose the woman of the house was an exile or the wife of anexile. At the next station an old clerk, a Pole, to whom I gave someantipyrin for his headache, complained of his poverty, and said CountSapyega, a Pole who was a gentleman-in-waiting at the Austrian Court, andwho assisted his fellow-countrymen, had lately arrived there on his way toSiberia, "He stayed near the station, " said the clerk, "and I didn't knowit! Holy Mother! He would have helped me! I wrote to him at Vienna, but Igot no answer, . .. " and so on. Why am I not a Sapyega? I would send thispoor fellow to his own country. 

On the 14th of May again they would not give me horses. The Tom wasflooded. How vexatious! It meant not mere vexation but despair! Fiftyversts from Tomsk and how unexpected! A woman in my place would havesobbed. Some kind-hearted people found a solution for me. "Drive on, sir, as far as the Tom, it is only six versts from here; there they will row youacross to Yar, and Ilya Markovitch will take you on from there to Tomsk. " Ihired a horse and drove to the Tom, to the place where the boat was to be. I drove--there was no boat. They told me it had just set off with the post, and was hardly likely to return as there was such a wind. I beganwaiting. .. . The ground was covered with snow, it rained and hailed and thewind blew. .. . One hour passed, a second, and no boat. Fate was laughing atme. I returned to the station. There the driver of the mail with threeposting horses was just setting off for the Tom. I told him there was noboat. He stayed. Fate rewarded me; the clerk in response to my hesitatinginquiry whether there was anything to eat told me the woman of the househad some cabbage soup. Oh, rapture! Oh, radiant day! And the daughter ofthe house did in fact give me some excellent cabbage soup, with somecapital meat with roast potatoes and cucumbers. I have not had such adinner since I was at Pan Zalyessky's. After the potatoes I let myself go, and made myself some coffee. 

Towards evening the mail driver, an elderly man who had evidently endured agood deal in his day, and who did not venture to sit down in my presence, began preparing to set off to the Tom. I did the same. We drove off. Assoon as we reached the river the boat came into sight--a long boat: I havenever dreamed of a boat so long. While the post was being loaded on to theboat I witnessed a strange phenomenon--there was a peal of thunder, a queerthing in a cold wind, with snow on the ground. They loaded up and rowedoff. My sweet Misha, forgive me for being so rejoiced that I did not bringyou with me! How sensible it was of me not to take anyone with me! At firstour boat floated over a meadow near willow-bushes. .. . As is common before astorm or during a storm, a violent wind suddenly sprang up on the water andstirred up the waves. The boatman who was sitting at the helm advised ourwaiting in the willow-bushes till the storm was over. They answered himthat if the storm grew worse, they might stay in the willow-bushes tillnight and be drowned all the same. They proceeded to settle it by _majorityof votes_, and decided to row on. An evil mocking fate is mine. Oh, whythese jests? We rowed on in silence, concentrating our thoughts. .. . Iremember the figure of the mail-driver, a man of varied experiences. Iremember the little soldier who suddenly became as crimson as cherry juice. I thought, if the boat upsets I will fling off my fur coat and my leathercoat . .. Then my felt boots, then . .. And so on. .. . But the bank camenearer and nearer, one's soul felt easier and easier, one's heart throbbedwith joy, one heaved deep sighs as though one could breathe freely at last, and leapt on the wet slippery bank. .. . Thank God!

At Ilya Markovitch's, the converted Jew's, I was told that I could notdrive at night; the road was bad; that I must remain till next day. Verygood, I stayed. After tea I sat down to write you this letter, interruptedby the visit of the "president. " The president is a rich mixture ofNozdryov, Hlestakov and a cur. A drunkard, a rake, a liar, a singer, astory-teller, and with all that a good-natured man. He had brought with hima big trunk stuffed full of business papers, a bedstead and mattress, agun, and a secretary. The secretary is an excellent, well-educated man, aprotesting liberal who has studied in Petersburg, and is free in his ideas;I don't know how he came to Siberia, he is infected to the marrow of hisbones with every sort of disease, and is taking to drink, thanks to hisprincipal, who calls him Kolya. The representative of authority sends for acordial. "Doctor, " he bawls, "drink another glass, I beseech you humbly!"Of course, I drink it. The representative of authority drinks soundly, liesoutrageously, uses shameless language. We go to bed. In the morning acordial is sent for again. They swill the cordial till ten o'clock and atlast they go. The converted Jew, Ilya Markovitch, whom the peasants hereidolize--so I was told--gave me horses to drive to Tomsk. 

The "president, " the secretary and I got into the same conveyance. All theway the "president" told lies, drank out of the bottle, boasted that he didnot take bribes, raved about the scenery, and shook his fist at the trampsthat he met. We drove fifteen versts, then halt! The village ofBrovkino. .. . We stop near a Jew's shop and go to take "rest andrefreshment. " The Jew runs to fetch us a cordial while his wife makes ussome fish-soup, of which I have written to you already. The "president"gave orders that the _sotsky_, the _desyatsky_, and the road contractorshould come to him, and in his drunkenness began reproving them, not theleast restrained by my presence. He swore like a Tatar. 

I soon parted from the "president, " and on the evening of the 15th of Mayby an appalling road reached Tomsk. During the last two days I have onlydone seventy versts; you can imagine what the roads are like!

In Tomsk the mud was almost impassable. Of the town and the manner ofliving here I will write in a day or two, but good-bye for now--I am tiredof writing. 

 * * * * *

There are no poplars. The Kuvshinnikov General was lying. I have seen nonightingales. There are magpies and cuckoos. 

I received a telegram of eighty words from Suvorin to-day. 

Excuse this letter's being like a hotch-potch. It's incoherent, but I can'thelp it. Sitting in an hotel room one can't write better. Excuse its beinglong, It's not my fault. My pen ran away with me--besides, I wanted to goon talking to you. It's three o'clock in the night. My hand is tired. Thewick of the candle wants snuffing, I can hardly see. Write to me at Sahalinevery four or five days. It seems that the post goes there, not only by seabut across Siberia, so I shall get letters frequently. 

 * * * * *

All the Tomsk people tell me that there has not been a spring so cold andrainy as this one since 1842. Half Tomsk is under water. My luck!

I am eating sweets. 

I shall have to stay at Tomsk till the rains are over. They say the road toIrkutsk is awful. 

TOMSK, May 20. 

It is Trinity Sunday with you, while with us even the willow has not yetcome out, and there is still snow on the banks of the Tom. To-morrow I amstarting for Irkutsk. I am rested. There is no need for hurry, as steamnavigation on Lake Baikal does not begin till the 10th of June; but I shallgo all the same. 

I am alive and well, my money is safe; I have a slight pain in my righteye. It aches. 

. .. Everyone advises me to go back across America, as they say one may dieof boredom in the Volunteer Fleet; it's all military discipline and redtape regulations, and they don't often touch at a port. 

To fill up my time I have been writing some impressions of my journey andsending them to _Novoye Vremya_; you will read them soon after the 10th ofJune. I write a little about everything, chit-chat. I don't write for glorybut from a financial point of view, and in consideration of the money Ihave had in advance. 

Tomsk is a very dull town. To judge from the drunkards whose acquaintance Ihave made, and from the intellectual people who have come to the hotel topay their respects to me, the inhabitants are very dull too. 

 * * * * *

In two and a half days I shall be in Krasnoyarsk, and in seven or eight inIrkutsk. It's fifteen hundred versts to Irkutsk. I have made myself coffeeand am just going to drink it. 

. .. After Tomsk the Taiga begins. We shall see it. 

My greeting to all the Lintvaryovs and to our old Maryushka. I beg mothernot to worry and not to put faith in bad dreams. Have the radishessucceeded? There are none here at all. 

Keep well, don't worry about money--there will be plenty; don't try tospend less and spoil the summer for yourselves. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

TOMSK, May 20, 1890. 

Greetings to you at last from Siberia, dear Alexey Sergeyevitch! I havemissed you and our correspondence terribly. 

I will begin from the beginning, however. At Tyumen I was told the firststeamer to Tomsk went on the 18th of May. I had to do the journey withhorses. For the first three days every joint and sinew ached, butafterwards I got used to the jolting and felt no more aches. Only the lackof sleep, the continual worry over the luggage, the jolting and the fastingbrought on spitting of blood when I coughed, and this depressed my spirits, which were none too grand before. For the first few days it was bearablebut then a cold wind began to blow, the windows of heaven were opened, therivers flooded the meadows and roads, I was continually having to change mychaise for a boat. You'll read of my struggles with the floods and the mudin the article I enclose. I did not mention in it that my big high bootswere tight, and that I waded through the mud and the water in my feltboots, and that my felt boots were soaked to jelly. The road was soabominable that during the last two days of my journey I only did seventyversts. 

When I set off I promised to send you notes of my journey after Tomsk, since the road between Tyumen and Tomsk has been described a thousand timesalready. But in your telegram you have expressed the desire to get myimpressions of Siberia as quickly as possible, and have even had thecruelty, sir, to reproach me with lapse of memory, as though I hadforgotten you. It was absolutely impossible to write on the road. I kept abrief diary in pencil and can offer you now only what is written in thatdiary. To avoid writing at great length and getting mixed up, I divided allmy impressions into chapters. I am sending you six chapters. They arewritten _for you personally_. I wrote for you only, and so have not beenafraid of being too subjective, and have not been afraid of there beingmore of Chekhov's feelings and thoughts than of Siberia in them. If youfind some lines interesting and worth printing, give them a profitablepublicity, signing them with my name and printing them in separatechapters, a tablespoonful once an hour. The general title can be _FromSiberia_, then _From Trans-Baikalia_, then _From the Amur_, and so on. 

You shall have another helping from Irkutsk, for which I am startingto-morrow. I shall not be less than ten days on the journey--the road isbad. I shall send you a few chapters again, and shall send them whether youintend to print them or not. Read them and when you are tired of themtelegraph to me "Shut up!"

I have been as hungry as a dog the whole way. I stuffed myself with breadso as not to dream of turbot, asparagus, and suchlike. I even dreamed ofbuckwheat porridge. I have dreamed of it for hours at a time. 

At Tyumen I bought some sausage for the journey, but what sausage! When youtake a bit in your mouth there's a sniff as though you had gone into astable at the very moment when the coachmen were taking off theirleg-wrappers; when you begin chewing it, you feel as though you hadfastened your teeth into a dog's tail defiled with pitch. Tfoo! I ate someonce or twice, and threw it away. 

I have had one telegram and the letter from you in which you write that youwant to bring out an encyclopaedic dictionary. I don't know why, but thenews of that dictionary rejoiced me greatly. Do, my dear friend! If I amany use for working on it, I will devote November and December to you, andwill spend those months in Petersburg. I will sit at it from morning tillnight. 

I made a fair copy of my notes at Tomsk in horrid hotel surroundings, but Itook trouble about it and was not without a desire to please you. Ithought, he must be bored and hot in Feodosia, let him read about the cold. These notes will come to you instead of a letter which has been takingshape in my head during the whole journey. In return you must send to me atSahalin all your critical reviews except the first two, which I have read;have Peshel's "Ethnology" sent me there too, except the first twoinstalments, which I have already. 

The post to Sahalin goes both by sea and across Siberia, so if people writeto me I shall get letters often. Don't lose my address--_Island of Sahalin, Alexandrovsky Post_. 

Oh, the expense! _Gewalt!_ Thanks to the floods, I had to pay the driversdouble and almost treble, for it has been fiendishly hard work. My trunk, avery charming article, has turned out unsuitable for the journey; it takesa lot of room, pokes one in the ribs, and rattles, and worst of allthreatens to burst open. "Don't take boxes on long journeys!" good peoplesaid to me, but I remembered this advice only when I had gone half-way. Well, I am leaving my trunk to reside permanently at Tomsk, and am buyinginstead of it a sort of leather carcase, which has the advantage that itcan be tied so as to form two halves at the bottom of the chaise as onelikes. I paid sixteen roubles for it. Next point. To travel to the Amur, changing one's conveyance at every station, is torture. You shatter bothyourself and all your luggage. I was advised to buy a trap. I bought oneto-day for one hundred and thirty roubles. If I don't succeed in selling itat Sryetensk, where my horse journey ends, I shall be in a fix and shallhowl aloud. To-day I dined with the editor of the _Sibirsky Vyestnik_, alocal Nozdryov, a broad nature. .. . He drank to the tune of six roubles. 

Stop! They announce that the deputy police master wants to see me. What canit be?!?

My alarm was unnecessary. The police officer turns out to be devoted toliterature and himself an author; he has come to pay his respects to me. Hewent home to fetch his play, and I believe intends to regale me with it. Heis just coming again and preventing me from writing to you. .. . 

. .. My greetings to Nastyusha and Boris. I should be genuinely delightedfor their satisfaction to fling myself into the jaws of a tiger and callthem to my aid, but, alas! I haven't reached the tigers here: the onlyfurry animals I have seen so far in Siberia are many hares and one mouse. 

Stop! The police officer has returned. He has not read me his drama thoughhe brought it, but regaled me with a story. It's not bad, only too local. He showed me a nugget of gold. He asked for some vodka. I don't remember asingle educated Siberian who has not asked for vodka on coming to see me. He told me he had a mistress, a married woman; he gave me a petition to theTsar about divorce to read. .. . 

 * * * * *

How glad I am when I am forced to stop somewhere for the night! I no soonerroll into bed than I am asleep. Here, travelling and not sleeping at night, one prizes sleep above everything. There is no greater enjoyment in lifethan sleep when one is sleepy. In Moscow, in Russia generally, I never wassleepy as I understand the word now. I went to bed simply because one hadto. But now! Another observation. On a journey one has no desire forspirits. I can't drink. I smoke a great deal. One's mind does not workwell. I cannot put my thoughts together. Time flies rapidly, so that onescarcely notices it, from ten o'clock in the morning to seven o'clock inthe evening. Evening comes quickly after morning. It's just the same whenone is seriously ill. The wind and the rain have made my face all scaly, and when I look in the looking-glass I don't recognize my once noblefeatures. 

I am not going to describe Tomsk. All the towns are alike in Russia. Tomskis a dull and intemperate town. There are absolutely no good-looking women, and the disregard for justice is Asiatic. The town is remarkable for thefact that governors die in it. 

If my letters are short, careless, or dry, don't be cross, for one cannotalways be oneself on a journey and write as one wants to. The ink is bad, and there is always a hair or a splodge on one's pen. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

KRASNOYARSK, May 28, 1890. 

What a deadly road! It was all we could do to crawl to Krasnoyarsk and mytrap had to be repaired twice. The first thing to be broken was thevertical piece of iron connecting the front of the carriage with the axle;then the so-called circle under the front broke. I have never in all mylife seen such a road--such impassable mud and such an utterly neglectedroad. I am going to write about its horrors to the _Novoye Vremya_, and sowon't talk about it now. 

The last three stations have been splendid; as one comes down toKrasnoyarsk one seems to be getting into a different world. You come out ofthe forest into a plain which is like our Donets steppe, but here themountain ridges are grander. The sun shines its very best and thebirch-trees are out, though three stations back the buds were not evenbursting. Thank God, I have at last reached a summer in which there isneither rain nor a cold wind. Krasnoyarsk is a picturesque, cultured town;compared with it, Tomsk is "a pig in a skull-cap and the acme of _mauvaiston_. " The streets are clean and paved, the houses are of stone and large, the churches are elegant. 

I am alive and perfectly well. My money is all right, and so are my things;I lost my woollen stockings but soon found them again. 

Apart from my trap, everything so far has been satisfactory and I havenothing to complain of. Only I am spending an awful lot of money. Incompetence in the practical affairs of life is never felt so much as on ajourney. I pay more than I need to, I do the wrong thing, and I say thewrong thing, and I am always expecting what does not happen. 

. .. I shall be in Irkutsk in five or six days, shall spend as many daysthere, then drive on to Sryetensk--and that will be the end of my journeyon land. For more than a fortnight I have been driving without a break, Ithink about nothing else, I live for nothing else; every morning I see thesunrise from beginning to end. I've grown so used to it that it seems asthough all my life I had been driving and struggling with the muddy roads. When it does not rain, and there are no pits of mud on the road, one feelsqueer and even a little bored. And how filthy I am, what a rapscallion Ilook! What a state my luckless clothes are in!

. .. For mother's information: I have still a jar and a half of coffee; Ifeed on locusts and wild honey; I shall dine to-day at Irkutsk. The furthereast one gets the dearer everything is. Rye flour is seventy kopecks a_pood_, while on the other side of Tomsk it was twenty-five andtwenty-seven kopecks per _pood_, and wheaten flour thirty kopecks. Thetobacco sold in Siberia is vile and loathsome; I tremble because mine isnearly done. 

. .. I am travelling with two lieutenants and an army doctor who are all ontheir way to the Amur. So my revolver is after all quite superfluous. Insuch company hell would have no terrors. We are just having tea at thestation, and after tea we are going to have a look at the town. 

I should have no objection to living in Krasnoyarsk. I can't think why thisis a favourite place for sending exiles to. 

 * * * * *

 Your Homo Sachaliensis, A. CHEKHOV. 

TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. 

IRKUTSK, June 5, 1890. 

MY EUROPEAN BROTHER, It is, of course, unpleasant to live in Siberia; but better to live inSiberia and feel oneself a man of moral worth, than to live in Petersburgwith the reputation of a drunkard and a scoundrel. No reference to presentcompany. 

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Siberia is a cold and long country. I drive on and on and see no end to it. I see little that is new or of interest, but I feel and experience a greatdeal. I have contended with flooded rivers, with cold, with impassable mud, hunger and sleepiness: such sensations as you could not get for a millionin Moscow! You ought to come to Siberia. Ask the authorities to exile you. 

The best of all Siberian towns is Irkutsk. Tomskis not worth a brassfarthing, and the district towns are no better than the Kryepkaya in whichyou were so heedlessly born. What is most provoking, there is nothing toeat in the district towns, and oh dear, how conscious one is of that on thejourney! You get to a town and feel ready to eat a mountain; you arriveand--alack!--no sausage, no cheese, no meat, no herring even, but the sameinsipid eggs and milk as in the villages. 

On the whole I am satisfied with my expedition, and don't regret havingcome. The travelling is hard, but the resting after it is delightful. Irest with enjoyment. 

From Irkutsk I shall make for Baikal, which I shall cross by steamer; it'sa thousand versts from the Baikal to the Amur, and thence I shall go bysteamer to the Pacific, where the first thing I shall do is to have a bathand eat oysters. 

I got here yesterday and went first of all to have a bath, then to bed. Oh, how I slept! I never understood what sleep meant till now. 

 * * * * *

I bless you with both hands. 

 Your Asiatic brother, A. CHEKHOV. 

TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. 

IRKUTSK, June 5, 1890. 

A thousand greetings to you, dear Alexey Nikolaevitch. At last I havevanquished the most difficult three thousand versts; I am sitting in adecent hotel and can write. I have rigged myself out all in new things and, as far as possible, smart ones, for you cannot imagine how sick I was of mybig muddy boots, of my sheepskin smelling of tar, of my overcoat coveredwith bits of hay, of dust and crumbs in my pockets, and of my extremelydirty linen. I looked such a ragamuffin on the journey that even the trampseyed me askance; and then, as ill luck would have it, the cold winds andrain chapped my face and made it scaly like a fish. Now at last I am aEuropean again, and I am conscious of it all over. 

Well, what am I to write to you? It's all so long and so vast that onedoesn't know where to begin. All my experiences in Siberia I divide intothree periods. (1) From Tyumen to Tomsk, fifteen hundred versts, terriblecold, day and night, sheepskin, felt boots, cold rains, winds and adesperate life-and-death struggle with the flooded rivers. The rivers hadflooded the meadows and roads, and I was constantly exchanging my trap fora boat and floating like a Venetian on a gondola; the boats, the waiting onthe bank for them, the rowing across, etc. , all that took up so much timethat during the last two days before reaching Tomsk, in spite of all myefforts, I only did seventy versts instead of four or five hundred. Therewere, moreover, some very uneasy and unpleasant moments, especially whenthe wind rose and began to buffet the boat. (2) From Tomsk to Krasnoyarsk, five hundred versts, impassable mud, my chaise and I stuck in the mud likeflies in thick jam. How many times I broke my chaise (it's my ownproperty!) how many versts I walked! how bespattered my countenance and myclothes were! It was not driving but wading through mud. How I swore at itall! My brain would not work, I could do nothing but swear. I was utterlyexhausted, and was very glad to reach the posting station at Krasnoyarsk. (3) From Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk, fifteen hundred and sixty-six versts, heat, smoke from the burning woods, and dust--dust in one's mouth, inone's nose, in one's pockets; when you look at yourself in the glass, youthink your face has been painted. When, on reaching Irkutsk, I washed atthe baths, the soapsuds off my head were not white but of an ashen browncolour, as though I were washing a horse. 

When I get home I will tell you about the Yenissey and the Taiga--veryinteresting and curious, for it is something quite new to a European;everything else is ordinary and monotonous. Roughly speaking, the sceneryof Siberia is not very different from that of European Russia; there aredifferences, but they are not very noticeable. Travelling is perfectlysafe. 

Robbers and highwaymen are all nonsense and fairy tales. A revolver isutterly unnecessary, and you are as safe at night in the forest as you areby day on the Nevsky Prospect. It's different for anyone travelling onfoot. .. . 

TO N. A. LEIKIN. 

IRKUTSK, June 5, 1890. 

Greetings, dear Nikolay Alexandrovitch!

I send you heartfelt good wishes from Irkutsk, from the depths of Siberia. I reached Irkutsk last night and was very glad to have arrived, as I wasexhausted by the journey and missed friends and relations, to whom I hadnot written for ages. Well, what is there of interest to write to you? Iwill begin by telling you that the journey is extraordinarily long. FromTyumen to Irkutsk I have driven more than three thousand versts. FromTyumen to Tomsk I had cold and flooded rivers to contend with. The cold wasawful; on Ascension Day there was frost and snow, so that I could not takeoff my sheepskin and felt boots until I reached the hotel at Tomsk. As forthe floods, they were a veritable plague of Egypt. The rivers rose abovetheir banks and overflowed the meadows, and with them the roads, for dozensof versts around. I was continually having to exchange my chaise for aboat, and one could not get a boat for nothing--for a good boat one had topay with one's heart's blood, for one had to sit waiting on the bank fortwenty-four hours at a stretch in the cold wind and the rain. .. . From Tomskto Krasnoyarsk was a desperate struggle through impassable mud. Mygoodness, it frightens me to think of it! How often I had to mend mychaise, to walk, to swear, to get out of my chaise and get into it again, and so on! It sometimes happened that I was from six to ten hours gettingfrom one station to another, and every time the chaise had to be mended ittook from ten to fifteen hours. From Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk was fearfullyhot and dusty. Add to all that hunger, dust in one's nose, one's eyes gluedtogether with sleep, the continual dread that something would get broken inthe chaise (it is my own), and boredom. .. . Nevertheless I am well content, and I thank God that He has given me the strength and opportunity to makethis journey. I have seen and experienced a great deal, and it has all beenvery new and interesting to me not as a literary man, but as a human being. The Yenissey, the Taiga, the stations, the drivers, the wild scenery, thewild life, the physical agonies caused by the discomforts of the journey, the enjoyment I got from rest--all taken together is so delightful that Ican't describe it. The mere fact that I have been for more than a month inthe open air is interesting and healthy; every day for a month I have seenthe sunrise. .. . 

TO HIS SISTER. 

IRKUTSK, June 6, 1890. 

Greetings to you, dear mother, Ivan, Masha and Misha, and all of you!

In my last long letter I wrote to you that the mountains near Krasnoyarskare like the Donets Ridge, but that's not true; when I looked at them fromthe street I saw they were like high walls surrounding the city, and I wasvividly reminded of the Caucasus. And when towards evening I left the townand was crossing the Yenissey, I saw on the other bank mountains that wereexactly like the Caucasus, as misty and dreamy. The Yenissey is a broad, swift, winding river, beautiful, finer than the Volga. And the ferry acrossit is wonderful, ingeniously constructed, moving against the current; Iwill tell you when I am home about the construction of it. And so themountains and the Yenissey are the first things original and new that Ihave met in Siberia. The mountains and the Yenissey have given mesensations which have made up to me a hundredfold for all the trials andtroubles of the journey, and which have made me call Levitan a fool forbeing so stupid as not to come with me. 

The Taiga stretches unbroken from Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk. The trees are notbigger than in Sokolniki, but not one driver knows how far it goes. Thereis no end to be seen to it. It stretches for hundreds of versts. No oneknows who or what is in the Taiga, and it only happens in winter thatpeople come through the Taiga from the far north with reindeer for bread. When you get to the top of a mountain and look down, you see a mountainbefore you, then another, mountains at the sides too--and all thicklycovered with forest. It makes one feel almost frightened. That's the secondthing original and new. 

From Krasnoyarsk it began to be hot and dusty. The heat was terrible. Mysheepskin and cap lie buried away. The dust is in my mouth, in my nose, down my neck--tfoo! We were approaching Irkutsk--we had to cross theAngara by ferry. As though to mock us a high wind sprang up. My militarycompanions and I, after dreaming for ten days of a bath, dinner, and sleep, stood on the bank and turned pale at the thought that we should have tospend the night not at Irkutsk, but in the village. The ferry could notsucceed in reaching the bank. We stood an hour, a second, and--ohHeavens!--the ferry made an effort and reached the bank. Bravo, we shallhave a bath, we shall have supper and sleep! Oh, how sweet to steamoneself, to eat, to sleep!

Irkutsk is a fine town. Quite a cultured town. There is a theatre, amuseum, a town garden with a band, a good hotel. .. . No hideous fences, noabsurd shop-signs, and no waste places with warming placards. There is atavern called "Taganrog"; sugar costs twenty-four kopecks a pound, pinekernels six kopecks a pound. 

 * * * * *

I am quite well. My money is safe. I am saving up my coffee for Sahalin. Ihave splendid tea here, after which I am aware of an agreeable excitement. I see Chinamen. They are a good-natured and intelligent people. At theSiberian bank they gave me money at once, received me cordially, regaled mewith cigarettes, and invited me to their summer villa. There is amagnificent confectioner's but everything is fiendishly dear. The pavementsare of wood. 

Last night I drove with the officers about the town. We heard someone cry"help" six times. It must have been someone being murdered. We went tolook, but could not find anyone. 

The cabs in Irkutsk have springs. It is a better town than Ekaterinburg orTomsk. Quite European. 

Have a Mass celebrated on June 17th, [Footnote: The anniversary of thedeath of his brother Nikolay. ] and keep the 29th [Footnote: His father'sname-day. ] as festively as you can; I shall be with you in thought and youmust drink my health. 

 * * * * *

Everything I have is crumpled, dirty, torn! I look like a pickpocket. 

I shall not bring you any furs most likely. I do not know where they aresold, and I am too lazy to ask. 

One must take at least two big pillows for a journey and dark pillow casesare essential. 

What is Ivan doing? Where has he been? Has he been to the south? I am goingfrom Irkutsk to Baikal. My companions are preparing for sea-sickness. 

My big boots have grown looser with wearing, and don't hurt my heels now. 

I have ordered buckwheat porridge for to-morrow. On the journey here Ithought of curds and began having them with milk at the stations. 

Did you get my postcards from the little towns? Keep them: I shall be ableto judge from them how long the post takes. The post here is in no hurry. 

IRKUTSK, June 7, 1890. 

. .. The steamer from Sryetensk leaves on June 20th. Good Christians, whatam I to do till the 20th? How am I to dispose of myself? The journey toSryetensk will only take five or six days. I have greatly altered the routeof my journey. From Habarovsk (look at the map [Footnote: Chekhov's familyhad, during his absence, a map of Siberia on the wall by means of whichthey followed his progress. ]) I am going not to Nikolaevsk, but by theUssuri to Vladivostok, and from there to Sahalin. I must have a look at theUssuri region. At Vladivostok I shall bathe in the sea and eat oysters. 

It was cold till I reached Kansk; from Kansk (see map) I began to go downto the south. Everything is as green as with you, even the oaks are out. The birches here are darker than in Russia, the green is not sosentimental. There are masses of the Russian white service-tree, which heretakes the place of both the lilac and the cherry. They say they make anexcellent jam from the service-tree. I tasted some of the fruit pickled; itwas not bad. 

Two lieutenants and an army doctor are travelling with me. They havereceived their travelling expenses three times over, but have spent all themoney, though they are travelling in one carriage. They are sitting withouta farthing, waiting for the pay department to send them some money. Theyare nice fellows. They have had from fifteen hundred to two thousandroubles each for travelling expenses, and the journey will cost them nextto nothing (excluding, of course, the cost of the stopping places). They donothing but pitch into everybody at hotels and stations so that people arepositively afraid to present their bills. In their company I pay less thanusual. .. . To-day for the first time in my life I saw a Siberian cat. It haslong soft fur, and a gentle disposition. 

. .. I felt homesick and sent you a telegram today asking you to subscribetogether and send me a long telegram. It would be nothing to all of you, inhabitants of Luka, to fling away five roubles. 

. .. With whom is Mishka in love? To what happy woman is Ivanenko tellingstories of his uncle? . .. I must be in love with _Jamais_ as I dreamedof her yesterday. In comparison with all the "jeunes Siberiennes" withtheir Yakut-Buriat physiognomies, who do not know how to dress, to sing, and to laugh, our _Jamais_, Drishka, and Gundassiha are simply queens. The Siberian girls and women are like frozen fish; one would have to be awalrus or a seal to get up a flirtation with them. 

I am tired of my companions. It is much nicer travelling alone. I likesilence better than anything on the journey and my companions talk and singwithout stopping, and they talk of nothing but women. They borrowed ahundred and thirty-six roubles from me till to-morrow and have alreadyspent it. They are regular sieves. 

. .. The stations are sometimes thirty to thirty-five versts apart. Youdrive by night, you drive and drive, till you feel silly and light-headed, and if you venture to ask the driver how far it is to the next station, hewill never say less than seventeen versts. That's particularly agonizingwhen you have to go at a walking pace along a muddy road full of holes, andwhen you are thirsty. I have learned to do without sleep; I don't mind abit when they wake me. As a rule one does not sleep for one day and night, and then the next day at dinner-time there is a strained feeling in one'seyelids; in the evening and in the night towards daybreak of the third day, one dozes in the chaise and sometimes falls asleep for a minute as onesits; at dinner and after dinner at the stations, while the horses arebeing harnessed, one lolls on the sofa, and the real torture only begins atnight. In the evening, after drinking five glasses of tea, one's facebegins to burn, one's body feels limp all over and longs to bend backwards;one's eyes close, one's feet ache in one's big boots, one's brain is in atangle. If I allow myself to put up for the night I fall into a dead sleepat once; if I have strength of will to go on, I drop asleep in the chaise, however violent the jolting may be; at the stations the drivers wake oneup, as one has to get out of the chaise and pay for the journey. They wakeone not so much by shouting and tugging at one's sleeve, as by the stink ofgarlic that issues from their lips; they smell of garlic and onion tillthey make me sick. I only learned to sleep in the chaise after Krasnoyarsk. On the way to Irkutsk I slept for fifty-eight versts, and was only oncewoken up. But the sleep one gets as one drives makes one feel no better. It's not real sleep, but a sort of unconscious condition, after which one'shead is muddled and there's a bad taste in one's mouth. 

Chinamen are like those decrepit old gentlemen dear Nikolay [Footnote:Chekhov's brother. ] used to like drawing. Some of them have splendidpigtails. 

The police came to see me at Tomsk. Towards eleven o'clock the waitersuddenly announced to me that the assistant police-master wanted to see me. What was this for? Could it be politics? Could they suspect me of being aVoltairian? I said to the waiter, "Ask him in. " A gentleman with longmoustaches walks in and introduces himself. It appears he is devoted toliterature, writes himself, and has come to me in my hotel room as thoughto Mahomed at Mecca to worship. I'll tell you why I thought of him. Late inthe autumn he is going to Petersburg, and I have foisted my trunk upon himand asked him to leave it at the _Novoye Vremya_ office. You might keepthat in mind in case any one of us or our friends goes to Petersburg. 

You might, by the way, look out for a place in the country. When I get backto Russia I shall take five years' rest--that is, stay in one place andtwiddle my thumbs. A place in the country will come in very handy. I thinkthe money will be found, for things don't look bad. If I work off the moneyI have had in advance (half of it is worked off already) I shall certainlyborrow two or three thousand in the spring, to be paid off over a period offive years. That will not be against my conscience, as I have already letthe publishing department of the _Novoye Vremya_ make two or three thousandout of my books, and I shall let them make more. 

I think I shall not begin on any serious work till I am five and thirty. .. . I want to try personal life, of which I have had some before, but have notnoticed it owing to various circumstances. 

To-day I rubbed my leather coat with grease. It's a splendid coat. It hassaved me from catching cold. My sheepskin is a capital thing, too: itserves me as a coat and a mattress, both. One is as warm in it as on astove. It's wretched without pillows. Hay does not take the place of them, and with the continual friction there's a lot of dust from it which ticklesone's face and prevents one from dozing. I haven't a single sheet. That'shorrid too. And I ought to have taken some more trousers. The more luggageone has the better--there's less jolting and more comfort. 

Good-bye, though. I have got nothing more to write about. My greetings toall. 

STATION LISTVENITCHNAYA, ON LAKE BAIKAL, June 13. 

I am having an idiotic time. On the evening of the 11th of June, the daybefore yesterday, we set off from Irkutsk, in the fond hope of catching theBaikal steamer, which leaves at four o'clock in the morning. From Irkutskto Baikal there are only three stations. At the first station they informedus that all the horses were exhausted and that it was therefore impossibleto go. We had to put up for the night. Yesterday morning we set off fromthat station, and by midday we reached Baikal. We went to the harbour, andin answer to our inquiries were told that the steamer did not go tillFriday the fifteenth. This meant that we should have to sit on the bank andlook at the water and wait. As there is nothing that does not end in time, I have no objection to waiting, and always wait patiently; but the point isthe steamer leaves Sryetensk on the 20th and sails down the Amur: if wedon't catch it we must wait for the next steamer, which does not go tillthe 30th. Merciful Heavens, when shall I get to Sahalin!

We drove to Baikal along the bank of the Angara, which rises out of LakeBaikal and flows into the Yenissey. Look at the map. The banks arepicturesque. Mountains and mountains, and dense forests on the mountains. The weather was exquisite still, sunny and warm; as I drove I felt I wasexceptionally well; I felt so happy that I cannot describe it. It wasperhaps the contrast after the stay at Irkutsk, and because the scenery onthe Angara is like Switzerland. It is something new and original. We drovealong the river bank, came to the mouth of the river, and turned to theleft; then we came upon the bank of Lake Baikal, which in Siberia is calledthe sea. It is like a mirror. The other side, of course, is out of sight;it is ninety versts away. The banks are high, steep, stony, and coveredwith forest, to right and to left there are promontories which jut into thesea like Au-dag or the Tohtebel at Feodosia. It's like the Crimea. Thestation of Listvenitchnaya lies at the water's edge, and is strikingly likeYalta: if the houses were white it would be exactly like Yalta. Only thereare no buildings on the mountains, as they are too overhanging and it isimpossible to build on them. 

We have taken a little barn of a lodging that reminds one of any of theKraskovsky summer villas. Just outside the window, two or three yards fromthe wall, is Lake Baikal. We pay a rouble a day. The mountains, theforests, the mirror-like Baikal are all poisoned for me by the thought thatwe shall have to stay here till the fifteenth. What are we to do here? Whatis more, we don't know what there is for us to eat. The inhabitants feedupon nothing but garlic. There is neither meat nor fish. They have given usno milk, but have promised it. For a little white loaf they demandedsixteen kopecks. I bought some buckwheat and a piece of smoked pork, andasked them to make a thin porridge of it: it was not nice, but there wasnothing to be done, I had to eat it. All the evening we hunted about thevillage to find someone who would sell us a hen, and found no one. .. . Butthere is vodka. The Russian is a great pig. If you ask him why he doesn'teat meat and fish he justifies himself by the absence of transport, waysand communications, and so on, and yet vodka is to be found in the remotestvillages and as much of it as you please. And yet one would have supposedthat it would have been much easier to obtain meat and fish than vodka, which is more expensive and more difficult to transport. .. . Yes, drinkingvodka must be much more interesting than fishing in Lake Baikal or rearingcattle. 

At midnight a little steamer arrived; we went to look at it, and seized theopportunity to ask if there was anything to eat. We were told thatto-morrow we should be able to get dinner, but that now it was late, thekitchen fire was out, and so on. We thanked them for "to-morrow"--it wassomething to look forward to anyway! But alas! the captain came in and toldus that at four o'clock in the morning the steamer was setting off forKultuk. We thanked him. In the refreshment bar, where there was not room toturn round, we drank a bottle of sour beer (thirty-five kopecks), and sawon a plate some amber beads--it was salmon caviare. We returned home, andto sleep. I am sick of sleeping. Every day one has to put down one'ssheepskin with the wool upwards, under one's head one puts a foldedgreatcoat and a pillow, and one sleeps on this heap in one's waistcoat andtrousers. .. . Civilization, where art thou?

To-day there is rain and Lake Baikal is plunged in mist. "Interesting, "Semaskho would say. It's dull. One ought to sit down and write, but one cannever work in bad weather. One has a foreboding of merciless boredom; if Iwere alone I should not mind but there are two lieutenants and an armydoctor with me, who are fond of talking and arguing. They don't understandmuch but they talk about everything. One of the lieutenants, moreover, is abit of a Hlestakov and a braggart. When one is travelling one absolutelymust be alone. To sit in a chaise or in a room alone with one's thoughts ismuch more interesting than being with people. 

 * * * * *

Congratulate me: I sold my own carriage at Irkutsk. How much I gained on itI won't say, or mother would fall into a faint and not sleep for fivenights. 

 Your Homo Sachaliensis, A. CHEKHOV. 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

STEAMER "YERMAK, "June 20, 1890. 

Greeting, dear ones at home!

At last I can take off my heavy muddy boots, my shabby breeches, and myblue shirt which is shiny with dust and sweat; I can wash and dress like ahuman being. I am not sitting in a chaise but in a first-class cabin of thesteamer _Yermak_. This change took place ten days ago, and this is how ithappened. I wrote to you from Listvenitchnaya that I was late for theBaikal steamer, that I had to cross Lake Baikal on Friday instead ofTuesday, and that owing to this I should only be able to catch the Amursteamer on the 30th. But fate is capricious, and often plays us tricks wedo not expect. On Thursday morning I went out for a walk on the shores ofLake Baikal; behold--the funnel of one of the little steamers is smoking. Iinquire where the steamer is going. They tell me, "Across the sea" toKlyuevo; some merchant had hired it to take his waggons of goods across theLake. We, too, wanted to cross "the sea" and to go to Boyarskaya station. Iinquire how many versts from Klyuevo to Boyarskaya. They tell metwenty-seven. I run back to my companions and beg them to take the risk ofgoing to Klyuevo. I say the "risk" because, going to Klyuevo where there isnothing but a harbour and a watchman's hut, we ran the risk of not findinghorses, having to stay on at Klyuevo, and being late for Friday's steamer, which for us would be worse than Igor's death, as we should have to waittill Tuesday. My companions consented. We gathered together our belongings, with cheerful legs stepped on to the steamer and straight to therefreshment bar: soup, for the love of God! Half my kingdom for a plate ofsoup! The refreshment bar was very nasty and cramped; but the cook, GrigoryIvanitch, who had been a house-serf at Voronezh, turned out to be at thetip-top of his profession. He fed us magnificently. The weather was stilland sunny. The water of Lake Baikal is the colour of turquoise, moretransparent than the Black Sea. They say that in deep places you can seethe bottom over a verst below; and I myself have seen to such a depth, withrocks and mountains plunged in the turquoise-blue, that it sent a shiverall over me. Our journey over Lake Baikal was wonderful. I shall neverforget it as long as I live. But I will tell you what was not nice. Wetravelled third class, and the whole deck was occupied by thewaggon-horses, which were wild as mad things. These horses gave a specialcharacter to our crossing: it seemed as though we were in a brigand'ssteamer. At Klyuevo the watchman undertook to convey our luggage to thestation; he drove the cart while we walked along the very picturesqueshore. Levitan was an ass not to come with me. The way was through woods:on the right, woods running uphill; on the left, woods running down to theLake. Such ravines, such crags! The colouring of Lake Baikal is soft andwarm. It was, by the way, very warm. After walking eight versts we reachedthe station of Myskan, where a Kyahtan official, who was also on histravels, regaled us with excellent tea, and where we got the horses forBoyarskaya; and so we set off on Thursday instead of Friday; what is more, we got twenty-four hours in advance of the post, which usually takes allthe horses at the station. We began driving as fast as we could, cherishinga faint hope of reaching Sryetensk by the 20th. I will tell you when wemeet about my journey along the bank of the Selenga and acrossTransbaikalia. Now I will only say that Selenga is one continuousloneliness, and in Transbaikalia I found everything I wanted: the Caucasus, and the valley of the Psyol, and the Zvenigorod district, and the Don. Byday you gallop through the Caucasus, at night along the steppe of the Don;in the morning, rousing yourself from slumber, behold the province ofPoltava--and so for the whole thousand versts. Verhneudinsk is a nicelittle town. Tchita is a wretched place, in the style of Sumy. I needhardly say that we had no time to think of sleep or dinner. One gallops onthinking of nothing but the chance that at the next station we might notget horses, and might be kept five or six hours. We did two hundred verstsin twenty-four hours--one can't do more than that in the summer. We werestupefied. The heat was fearful by day, while at night it was so cold thatI had to put on my leather coat over my cloth one. One night I even wore mysheepskin. Well, we drove on and on, and reached Sryetensk this morningjust an hour before the steamer left, giving the drivers from the last twostations a rouble each for themselves. 

And so my horse-journey is over. It has lasted two months (I set out on the21st of April). If we exclude the time spent on the railway and thesteamer, the three days spent in Ekaterinburg, the week in Tomsk, the dayin Krasnoyarsk, the week in Irkutsk, the two days on the shores of LakeBaikal, and the days wasted in waiting for boats to cross the floods, youcan judge of the rate at which I have driven. My journey has been mostsuccessful, I wish nothing better for anyone. I have not once been ill, andof the mass of things I had with me I have lost nothing but a penknife, thestrap off my trunk, and a little jar of carbolic ointment. My money issafe. It is not often that anyone succeeds in travelling a thousand verstsso well. 

I have grown so used to driving that now I don't feel like myself, andcannot believe that I am not in a chaise and that I don't hear the rattlingand the jingling of the bells. It seems strange that when I go to bed I canstretch out my legs full length, and that my face is not covered with dust. But what is stranger still is that the bottle of brandy Kuvshinnikov gaveme has not been broken, and that the brandy is still in it, every drop ofit. I have vowed not to uncork it except on the shore of the Pacific. 

I am sailing down the Shilka, which runs into the Amur at the PokrovskayaStanitsa. The river is not broader than the Psyol, it is even narrower. Theshores are stony: there are crags and forests. It is absolutely wild. .. . Wetack about to avoid foundering on a sandbank, or running our helm into thebanks: steamers and barges often do so in the rapids. It's stifling. Wehave just stopped at Ust-Kara, where we have landed five or six convicts. There are mines here and a convict prison. 

Yesterday we were at Nertchinsk. The little town is nothing to boast of, but one could live there. 

And how are you, messieurs and mesdames? I know positively nothing aboutyou. You might subscribe twopence each and send me a full telegram. 

The steamer will stay the night at Gorbitsa. The nights here are foggy, sailing is dangerous, I shall send off this letter at Gorbitsa. 

. .. I am going first class because my companions are in the second. I havegot away from them. We have driven together (three in one chaise), we haveslept together and are sick of each other, especially I of them. 

 * * * * *

My handwriting is very bad, shaky. That is because the steamer rocks. It'sdifficult to write. 

I broke off here. I went to my lieutenants and had tea. They have both hada long sleep and were in a very cordial mood. One of them, Lieutenant N. (the surname jars upon my ear), is in the infantry; he is a tall, well-fed, loud-voiced Courlander, a great braggart and Hlestakov, who sings songsfrom every opera, but has no more ear than a smoked herring, an unluckyfellow who has squandered all the money for his travelling expenses, knowsall Mickiewicz by heart, is ill-bred, far too unreserved, and babbles tillit makes you sick. Like me, he is fond of talking about his uncles andaunts. The other lieutenant, M. , a geographer, is a quiet, modest, thoroughly well-educated fellow. If it were not for N. , I could travel withthe other for a million versts without being bored. But with N. , whointrudes into every conversation, the other bores me too. .. . I believe weare reaching Gorbitsa. 

To-morrow I will make up the form of a telegram which you must send me toSahalin. I will try to put all I want to know in thirty words, and you musttry and keep strictly to the pattern. 

The gad-flies bite. 

TO N. A. LEIKIN. 

GORBITSA, June 20, 1890. 

Greetings, dear Nikolay Alexandrovitch!

I wrote you this as I approached Gorbitsa, one of the Cossack settlementson the banks of the Shilka, a tributary of the Amur. This is where I havegot to. I am sailing down the Amur. 

I sent you a letter from Irkutsk. Did you get it? Since then more than aweek has passed, in the course of which I have crossed Lake Baikal anddriven through Transbaikalia. Lake Baikal is wonderful, and the Siberiansmay well call it a sea instead of a lake. The water is extraordinarilytransparent, so that one can see through it as through air; the colour is asoft turquoise very agreeable to the eye. The banks are mountainous, andcovered with forests; it is all impenetrable wildness without a breakanywhere. 

There are great numbers of bears, wild goats, and wild creatures of allsorts, who spend their time living in the Taiga and eating one another. Ispent two days and nights on the shore of Lake Baikal. 

It was still and hot when I was sailing. 

Transbaikalia is splendid. It is a mixture of Switzerland, the Don, andFinland. 

I have driven with horses more than four thousand versts. My journey wasentirely successful. I was in good health all the time, and lost nothing ofmy luggage but a penknife. I can wish no one a better journey. The journeyis absolutely free from danger, and all the tales of escaped convicts, ofnight attacks, and so on are nothing but legends, traditions of the remotepast. A revolver is an entirely superfluous article. Now I am sitting in afirst-class cabin, and feel as though I were in Europe. I feel in the moodone is in after passing an examination. A whistle!--that's Gorbitsa. 

 * * * * *

The banks of the Shilka are picturesque like stage scenes but, alas! thereis something oppressive in this complete absence of human beings. It islike a cage without a bird. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

June 21, 1890. 

6 o'clock in the evening, not far from the Stanitsa Pokrovskaya. 

We ran upon a rock, stove a hole in the steamer, and are now undergoingrepairs. We are aground on a sandbank and pumping out water. On the left isthe Russian bank, on the right the Chinese. If I were back at home now Ishould have the right to boast: "Though I have not been in China I haveseen China only twenty feet off. " We are to stay the night in Pokrovskaya. We shall make up a party to see the place. 

If I were a millionaire I should certainly have a steamer of my own on theAmur. It is a fine, interesting country. I advise Yegor Mihailovitch not togo to Tuapse but here; there are here by the way neither tarantulas norphalangas. On the Chinese side there is a sentry post--a small hut; sacksof flour are piled up on the bank, ragged Chinamen are dragging the sackson barrows to the hut. And beyond is the dense, endless forest. 

Some schoolgirls are travelling with us from Irkutsk--Russian faces, butnot good-looking. 

POKROVSKAYA STANITSA, June 23, 1890. 

I have told you already we are aground on a sandbank. At Ust-Stryelka, where the Shilka joins the Argun (see map), the steamer went aground in twoand a half feet of water, struck a rock, and stove in several holes in itsside and, the hold filling with water, the steamer sank to the bottom. Theybegan pumping out water and putting on patches; a naked sailor crawled intothe hold, stood up to his neck in water, and tried the holes with hisheels. Each hole was covered on the inside with cloth smeared with grease:they lay a board on the top, and stuck a support upon the latter whichpressed against the ceiling like a column. Such is the repairing. They werepumping from five o'clock in the evening till night, but still the waterdid not abate: they had to put off the work till morning. In the morningthey discovered some more holes, and began patching and pumping again. Thesailors pump while we, the general public, pace up and down the decks, criticize, eat, drink, and sleep; the captain and his mate do the same asthe general public, and seem in no hurry. On the right is the Chinese bank, on the left is the stanitsa, Pokrovskaya, with the Cossacks of the Amur; ifone likes one can stay in Russia, if one likes one can go into China, thereis nothing to hinder one. It is insufferably hot in the daytime, so thatone has to put on a silk shirt. They give us dinner at twelve o'clock, supper at seven. 

Unluckily the steamer _Vyestnik_ coming the other way with a crowd ofpassengers is approaching the stanitsa. The _Vyestnik_ cannot go on either, and both steamers stay stock-still. There is a military band on the_Vyestnik_, consequently there has been a regular festival. All yesterdaythe band was playing on deck to the entertainment of the captain andsailors, and consequently to the delay of the repairing. The feminine halfof the public were highly delighted; a band, officers, naval men . .. Oh!The schoolgirls were particularly pleased. Yesterday evening we walkedabout the Cossack settlement, where the same band, hired by the Cossacks, was playing. Today we are continuing the repairs. 

The captain promises that we shall start after dinner, but he promises itlistlessly, gazing away into space--obviously he does not mean it. We arein no haste. When I asked a passenger, "Whenever are we going on?" heasked, "Why, aren't you all right here!"

And that's true. Why not stay, as long as we are not bored?

The captain, his mate, and his agent are the acme of politeness. TheChinese in the third class are good-natured and funny. Yesterday a Chinamansat on the deck and sang something very mournful in a falsetto voice; as hedid so his profile was funnier than any caricature. Everybody looked at himand laughed, while he took not the slightest notice. He sang falsetto andthen began singing tenor. My God, what a voice! It was like the bleat of asheep or a calf. The Chinese remind me of good-natured tame animals, theirpigtails are long and black like Natalya Mihailovna's. Apropos of tameanimals, there's a tame fox cub living in the toilet-room. It sits andlooks on as one washes. If it sees no one for a long time it begins towhine. 

What strange conversations one hears! They talk of nothing but gold, themines, the Volunteer Fleet and Japan. In Pokrovskaya all the peasants andeven the priests mine for gold. The exiles follow the same occupation andgrow rich as quickly as they grow poor. There are people who look likeartizans and who never drink anything but champagne, and walk to the tavernon red baize which is laid down from their hut to the tavern. 

 * * * * *

The Amur country is exceedingly interesting. Highly original. The life hereis such as people have no conception of in Europe. It reminds me ofAmerican stories. The shores of the Amur are so wild, original, andluxuriant that one longs to live there all one's life. I am writing theselast few lines on the 25th of June. The steamer rocks and prevents mywriting properly. We are moving again. I have come a thousand versts downthe Amur already, and have seen a million gorgeous landscapes; I feel giddywith ecstasy. .. . It's marvellous scenery, and how hot! What warm nights!There is a mist in the mornings but it is warm. 

I look through an opera-glass at the shore and see a prodigious number ofducks, geese, grebes, herons and all sorts of creatures with long beaks. This would be the place to take a summer villa in! At a little place calledReinov a goldminer asked me to see his sick wife. As I was leaving him hethrust into my hands a roll of notes. I felt ashamed. I was beginning torefuse and thrust it back, saying that I was very rich myself; we talkedtogether for a long time trying to persuade each other, and yet in the endfifteen roubles remained in my hands. Yesterday a goldminer with the faceof Petya Polevaev dined in my cabin; at dinner he drank champagne insteadof water, and treated us to it. 

The villages here are like those on the Don. There is a difference in thebuildings but nothing to speak of. The inhabitants don't keep the fasts, and eat meat even in Holy Week; the girls smoke cigarettes, and old womensmoke pipes--it is the correct thing. It's strange to see peasants withcigarettes! And what liberalism! Oh, what liberalism!

The air on the steamer is positively red-hot with the talk that goes on. People are not afraid to talk aloud here. There's no one to arrest them andnowhere to exile them to, so you can be as liberal as you like. The peoplefor the most part are independent, self-reliant, and logical. If there isany misunderstanding at Ust-Kara, where the convicts work (among them manypoliticals who don't work), all the Amur region is in revolt. It is not thething to tell tales. An escaped convict can travel freely on the steamer tothe ocean, without any fear of the captain's giving him up. This is partlydue to the absolute indifference to everything that is done in Russia. Everybody says: "What is it to do with me?"

I forgot to tell you that in Transbaikalia the drivers are not Russians butBuriats. A funny people! Their horses are regular vipers; they could neverbe harnessed without trouble--more furious than fire-brigade horses. Whilethe trace-horse is being harnessed, its legs are hobbled; as soon as theyare set free the chaise goes flying to the devil, so that one holds one'sbreath. If one does not hobble a horse while it is being harnessed, itkicks, knocks bits out of the shaft with its hoofs, tears the harness, andbehaves like a young devil that has been caught by the horns. 

June 26. 

We are getting near Blagoveshtchensk. Be well and merry, and don't get usedto being without me. No doubt you have already? Respectful greetings toall, and a friendly kiss. 

I am perfectly well. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

BLAGOVESHTCHENSK, June 27, 1890. 

The Amur is a very fine river; I have gained more from it than I could haveexpected, and I have been wishing for a long time to share my transportswith you, but the rascally steamer has been rocking all the seven days Ihave been on it, and prevents me writing properly. Moreover, I am quiteincapable of describing anything so beautiful as the shores of the Amur; Iam at a complete loss before them, and recognise my bankruptcy. How is oneto describe them? . .. Rocks, crags, forests, thousands of ducks, herons andall sorts of beaked gentry, and absolute wilderness. On the left theRussian shore, on the right the Chinese. I can look at Russia or China as Iplease. China is as deserted and wild as Russia: villages and sentinels'huts are rare. Everything in my head is muddled; and no wonder, yourExcellency! I have come more than a thousand versts down the Amur and seena million landscapes, and you know before the Amur there was Lake Baikal, Transbaikalia. .. . Truly I have seen such riches and had so much enjoymentthat death would have no terrors now. The people on the Amur are original, their life is interesting, unlike ours. They talk of gold, gold, gold, andnothing else. I am in a stupid state, I feel no inclination to write, and Iwrite shortly, piggishly; to-day I sent you four papers about Yenissey andthe Taiga, later on I will send you something about Lake Baikal, Transbaikalia, and the Amur. Don't throw away these sheets; I will collectthem, and they will serve as notes from which I can tell you what I don'tknow how to put on paper. 

To-day I changed into the steamer _Muravyov_, which they say does not rock;maybe I shall write. 

I am in love with the Amur; I should be glad to spend a couple of years onit. There is beauty, space, freedom and warmth. Switzerland and France havenever known such freedom. The lowest convict breathes more freely on theAmur than the highest general in Russia. If you lived here, you would writea great deal of good stuff and delight the public, but I am not equal toit. 

One begins to meet Chinamen at Irkutsk, and here they are common as flies. They are the most good-natured people. If Nastya and Borya made theacquaintance of the Chinese, they would leave donkeys alone, and transfertheir affection to the Chinese. They are charming tame animals. 

. .. When I invited a Chinaman to the refreshment bar to treat him to vodka, before drinking it he held out the glass to me, the bar-keeper, thewaiters, and said: "Taste. " That's the Chinese ceremonial. He did not drinkit off as we do, but drank it in sips, eating something between each sip, and then, to express his gratitude, gave me several Chinese coins. Anawfully polite people. They are dressed poorly, but beautifully; they eatdaintily, with ceremony. .. . 

TO HIS SISTER. 

THE STEAMER "MURAVYOV, "June 29, 1890. 

Meteors are flying in my cabin--these are luminous beetles that look likeelectric sparks. Wild goats swim across the Amur in the day-time. The flieshere are huge. I am sharing my cabin with a Chinaman--Son-Luli--who isconstantly telling me how in China for the merest trifle it is "off withhis head. " Last night he got drunk with opium, and was talking in his sleepall night and preventing me from sleeping. On the 27th I walked about theChinese town Aigun. Little by little I seem gradually to be stepping into afantastic world. The steamer rocks, it is hard to write. 

To-morrow I shall reach Habarovsk. The Chinaman began to sing from musicwritten on his fan. 

TELEGRAM TO HIS MOTHER. 

SAHALIN, July 11, 1890. 

Arrived well, telegraph Sahalin. --CHEKHOV. 

TELEGRAM TO HIS MOTHER. 

SAHALIN, September 27, 1890. 

Well. Shall arrive shortly. --CHEKHOV. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

THE STEAMER "BAIKAL, "September 11, 1890. 

Greetings! I am sailing on the Gulf of Tartary from the north of Sahalin tothe south. I am writing; and don't know when this letter will reach you. Iam well, though I see on all sides glaring at me the green eyes of cholerawhich has laid a trap for me. In Vladivostok, in Japan, in Shanghai, Tchifu, Suez, and even in the moon, I fancy--everywhere there is cholera, everywhere quarantine and terror. .. . They expect the cholera in Sahalin andkeep all vessels in quarantine. In short, it is a bad lookout. Europeansare dying at Vladivostok, among others the wife of a general has died. 

I have spent just two months in the north of Sahalin. I was received by thelocal administration very amicably, though Galkin had not written a singleword about me. Neither Galkin nor the Baroness V. , nor any of the othergenii I was so foolish as to appeal to for help, turned out of theslightest use to me; I had to act on my own initiative. 

The Sahalin general, Kononovitch, is a cultivated and gentlemanly man. Wesoon got on together, and everything went off well. I am bringing somepapers with me from which you will see that I was put on the most agreeablefooting from the first. I have seen _everything_, so that the question isnot now _what_ I have seen, but how I have seen it. 

I don't know what will come of it, but I have done a good deal. I have gotenough material for three dissertations. I got up every morning at fiveo'clock and went to bed late; and all day long was on the strain from thethought that there was still so much I hadn't done; and now that I havedone with the convict system, I have the feeling that I have seeneverything but have not noticed the elephants. 

By the way, I had the patience to make a census of the whole Sahalinpopulation. I made the round of all the settlements, went into every hutand talked to everyone; I made use of the card system in making the census, and I have already registered about ten thousand convicts and settlers. Inother words, there is not in Sahalin one convict or settler who has nottalked with me. I was particularly successful with the census of thechildren, on which I am building great hopes. 

I dined at Landsberg's; I sat in the kitchen of the former BaronessGembruk. .. . I visited all the celebrities. I was present at a flogging, after which I dreamed for three or four nights of the executioner and therevolting accessories. I have talked to men who were chained to trucks. Once when I was drinking tea in a mine, Borodavkin, once a Petersburgmerchant who was convicted of arson, took a teaspoon out of his pocket andgave it to me, and the long and the short of it is that I have upset mynerves and have vowed not to come to Sahalin again. 

I should write more to you, but there is a lady in the cabin who gigglesand chatters unceasingly. I haven't the strength to write. She has beenlaughing and cackling ever since yesterday evening. 

This letter will go across America, but I shall go probably not acrossAmerica. Everyone says that the American way is duller and more expensive. 

To-morrow I shall see Japan, the Island of Matsmai. Now it is twelveo'clock at night. It is dark on the sea, the wind is blowing. I don'tunderstand how the steamer can go on and find its direction when one can'tsee a thing, and above all in such wild, little-known waters as those inthe Gulf of Tartary. 

When I remember that I am ten thousand versts away from my world I amovercome with apathy. It seems I shall not be home for a hundred years. .. . God give you health and all blessings. I feel dreary. 

 * * * * *

TO HIS MOTHER. 

SAHALIN, October 6, 1890. 

My greetings, dear mother!

I write you this letter almost on the eve of my departure for Russia. Everyday we expect a steamer of the Volunteer Fleet, and cherish hopes that itwill not come later than the 10th of October. I send this letter to Japan, whence it will go by Shanghai or America. I am living at the station ofKorsakovo, where there is neither telegraph nor post, and which is notvisited by ships oftener than once a fortnight. Yesterday a steamer arrivedand brought me from the north a pile of letters and telegrams. From theletters I learn that Masha likes the Crimea, I believe she will like theCaucasus better still. .. . 

 * * * * *

Strange, with you it has been cold and rainy, while in Sahalin from the dayof my arrival till to-day it has been bright warm weather: there is slightcold with hoar-frost in the mornings, the snow is white on one of themountains, but the earth is still green, the leaves have not fallen, andall the vegetation is still as flourishing as at a summer villa in May. There you have Sahalin!

 * * * * *

At midnight yesterday I heard the roar of a steamer. Everybody jumped outof bed: hurrah! the steamer has arrived! We dressed and went out withlanterns to the harbour; we gazed into the distance; there really was asteamer. .. . The majority of voices decided that it was the _Petersburg_, onwhich I am to go to Russia. I was overjoyed. We got into a boat and rowedto the steamer. We went on and on, till at last we saw in the mist the darkhulk of a steamer. One of us shouted in a hoarse voice asking the name ofthe vessel. And we received the answer "the _Baikal_. " Tfoo! anathema! whata disappointment! I am I homesick, and weary of Sahalin. Here for the lastthree months I have seen no one but convicts or people who can talk ofnothing but penal servitude, the lash, and the convicts. A depressingexistence. One longs to get quickly to Japan and from there to India. 

I am quite well, except for flashes in my eye from which I often suffernow, after which I always have a bad headache. I had the flashes in my eyeyesterday and to-day, and so I am writing this with a headache andheaviness all over. 

At the station the Japanese General Kuse-San lives with his twosecretaries, good friends of mine. They live like Europeans. To-day thelocal authorities visited them in state to present decorations that hadbeen conferred on them; and I, too, went with my headache and had to drinkchampagne. 

Since I have been in the south I have three times driven to Nay Race wherethe real ocean waves break. Look at the map and you will see at once on thesouth coast that poor dismal Nay Race. The waves cast up a boat with sixAmerican whalefishers, who had been shipwrecked off the coast of Sahalin;they are living now at the station and solemnly walk about the streets. They are waiting for the _Petersburg_ and will sail with me. 

I am not bringing you furs, there are none in Sahalin. Keep well and Heavenguard you all. 

I am bringing you all presents. The cholera in Vladivostok and Japan isover. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MALAYA DMITROVKA, MOSCOW, December 9. 

. .. Hurrah! Here at last I am sitting at my table at home! I pray to myfaded penates and write to you. I have now a happy feeling as though I hadnot been away from home at all. I am well and thriving to the marrow of mybones. Here's a very brief report for you. I was in Sahalin not two months, as you have printed, but three months plus two days. I worked at highpressure. I made a full and minute census of the whole of Sahalin'spopulation, and saw _everything_ except the death penalty. When we see eachother I will show you a whole trunkful of stuff about the convicts which isvery valuable as raw material. I know a very great deal now, but I havebrought away a horrid feeling. While I was staying in Sahalin, I only had abitter feeling in my inside as though from rancid butter; and now, as Iremember it, Sahalin seems to me a perfect hell. For two months I workedintensely, putting my back into it; in the third month I began to feel illfrom the bitterness I have spoken of, from boredom, and the thought thatthe cholera would come from Vladivostok to Sahalin, and that so I was indanger of having to winter in the convict settlement. But, thank God! thecholera ceased, and on the 13th of October the steamer bore me away fromSahalin. I have been in Vladivostok. About the Primorsky Region and ourEastern sea-coast with its fleets, its problems, and its Pacific dreamsaltogether, I have only one thing to tell of: its crying poverty! Poverty, ignorance, and worthlessness, that might drive one to despair. One honestman for ninety-nine thieves, that are blackening the name of Russia. .. . Wepassed Japan because the cholera was there, and so I have not bought youanything Japanese, and the five hundred you gave me for your purchases Ihave spent on my own needs, for which you have, by law, the right to sendme to a settlement in Siberia. The first foreign port we reached was HongKong. It is an exquisite bay. The traffic on the sea was such as I hadnever seen before even in pictures; excellent roads, trams, a railway tothe mountains, a museum, botanical gardens; wherever you look you see thetenderest solicitude on the part of the English for the men in theirservice; there is even a club for the sailors. I went about in ajinrickshaw--that is, carried by men--bought all sorts of rubbish of theChinese, and was moved to indignation at hearing my Russianfellow-travellers abuse the English for exploiting the natives. I thought:Yes, the English exploit the Chinese, the Sepoys, the Hindoos, but they dogive them roads, aqueducts, museums, Christianity, and what do you givethem?

When we left Hong Kong the boat began to rock. The steamer was empty andlurched through an angle of thirty-eight degrees, so that we were afraid itwould upset. I am not subject to sea-sickness: that discovery was veryagreeable to me. On the way to Singapore we threw two corpses into the sea. When one sees a dead man, wrapped in sailcloth, fly, turning somersaults inthe water, and remembers that it is several miles to the bottom, one feelsfrightened, and for some reason begins to fancy that one will die oneselfand will be thrown into the sea. Our horned cattle have fallen sick. Through the united verdict of Dr. Stcherbak and your humble servant, thecattle have been killed and thrown into the sea. 

I have no clear memory of Singapore as, for some reason, I felt very sadwhile I was driving about it, and was almost weeping. Next after it comesCeylon--an earthly Paradise. There in that Paradise I went more than ahundred versts on the railway and gazed at palm forests and bronze women tomy heart's content. .. . After Ceylon we sailed for thirteen days and nightswithout stopping and were all stupid from boredom. I bear the heat well. The Red Sea is depressing; I felt touched as I gazed at Sinai. 

God's world is a good place. The one thing not good in it is we. How littlejustice and humility there is in us. How little we understand truepatriotism! A drunken, broken-down debauchee of a husband loves his wifeand children, but of what use is that love? We, so we are told in our ownnewspapers, love our great motherland, but how does that love expressitself? Instead of knowledge--insolence and immeasurable conceit; insteadof work--sloth and swinishness; there is no justice, the conception ofhonour does not go beyond "the honour of the uniform"--the uniform which isso commonly seen adorning the prisoner's dock in our courts. Work is whatis wanted, and the rest can go to the devil. First of all we must be just, and all the rest will be added unto us, I have a passionate desire to talk to you. My soul is in a ferment. I wantno one else but you, for it is only with you I can talk. 

 * * * * *

How glad I am that everything was managed without Galkin-Vrasskoy's help. He didn't write one line about me, and I turned up in Sahalin utterlyunknown. 

 * * * * *

MOSCOW, December 24, 1890. 

I believe in Koch and in spermine and praise God for it. All that--that isthe kochines, spermines, and so on--seem to the public a kind of miraclethat leaped forth from some brain, after the fashion of Pallas Athene; butpeople who have a closer acquaintance with the facts know that they areonly the natural sequel of what has been done during the last twenty years. A great deal has been done, my dear fellow! Surgery alone has done so muchthat one is fairly dumbfoundered at it. To one who is studying medicinenow, the time before twenty years ago seems simply pitiable. My dearfriend, if I were offered the choice between the "ideals" of the renowned"sixties, " or the very poorest Zemstvo hospital of to-day, I should, without a moment's hesitation, choose the second. 

Will kochine cure syphilis? It's possible. But as for cancer, you mustallow me to have my doubts. Cancer is not a microbe; it's a tissue, growingin the wrong place, and like a noxious weed smothering all the neighbouringtissues. If N. 's uncle feels better, that is, because the microbes oferysipelas--that is, the elements that produce the disease of erysipelas--form a component part of kochine. It was observed long ago that with thedevelopment of erysipelas, the growth of malignant tumours is temporarilychecked. 

 * * * * *

It's a strange business--while I was travelling to Sahalin and back I feltperfectly well, but now, at home, the devil knows what is happening to me. My head is continually aching, I have a feeling of languor all over, I amquickly exhausted, apathetic, and worst of all, my heart is not beatingregularly. My heart is continually stopping for a few seconds. .. . 

MOSCOW, January, 1891. 

I shall probably come to Petersburg on the 8th of January. .. . Since byFebruary I shall not have a farthing, I must make haste and finish thenovel [Footnote: "The Duel. "] I've begun. There is something in the novelabout which I must talk to you and ask your advice. 

I spent Christmas in a horrible way. To begin with, I had palpitations ofthe heart; secondly, my brother Ivan came to stay and was ill with typhoid, poor fellow; thirdly, after my Sahalin labours and the tropics, my Moscowlife seems to me now so petty, so bourgeois, and so dull, that I feel readyto bite; fourthly, working for my daily bread prevents my giving up my timeto Sahalin; fifthly, my acquaintances bother me, and so on. 

The poet Merezhkovsky has been to see me twice; he is a very intelligentman. 

How sorry I am you did not see my mongoose. It is a wonderful creature. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

ST. PETERSBURG, January 14, 1891. 

Unforeseen circumstances have kept me a few days longer. I am alive andwell. There is no news. I saw Tolstoy's "The Power of Darkness" the otherday, though. I have been to Ryepin's studio. What else? Nothing else. It'sdull, in fact. 

I went to-day to a dog-show; I went there with Suvorin, who at the moment Iam writing these lines is standing by the table and asking me to write andtell you that I have been to the dog-show with the famous dog Suvorin. .. . 

January, later. 

I am alive and well, I have no palpitations, I've no money either, andeverything is going well. 

I am paying visits and seeing acquaintances. I have to talk about Sahalinand India. It's horribly boring. 

. .. Anna Ivanovna is as nice as ever, Suvorin talks as incessantly as ever. 

I receive the most boring invitations to the most boring dinners. It seemsI must make haste and get back to Moscow, as they won't let me work here. 

Hurrah, we are avenged! To make up for our being so bored, the cotton ballhas yielded 1, 500 roubles clear profit, in confirmation of which I enclosea cutting from a newspaper. 

If anything is collected for the benefit of the Sahalin schools, let meknow at once. 

How is my mongoose? Don't forget to give him food and drink, and beat himwithout mercy when he jumps on the table. Does he eat people? [Footnote: Anaive question asked by a lady of Chekhov's acquaintance. ]

Write how Ivan is. .. . 

January, later. 

I am tired as a ballet dancer after five acts and eight tableaux. Dinners, letters which I am too lazy to answer, conversations and imbecilities ofall sorts. I have to go immediately to dine in Vassilyevsky Ostrov, and Iam bored and ought to work. 

I'll stay another three days and see whether the ballet will go on thesame, then I shall go home, or to see Ivan. 

I am surrounded by a thick atmosphere of ill-feeling, extremely vague andto me incomprehensible. They feed me with dinners and pay me the vulgarestcompliments, and at the same time they are ready to devour me. What for?The devil only knows. If I were to shoot myself I should thereby providethe greatest gratification to nine-tenths of my friends and admirers. Andhow pettily they express their petty feelings!

. .. My greetings to Lydia Yegorovna Mizinov. I expect a programme from her. Tell her not to eat farinaceous food and to avoid Levitan. A better admirerthan me she will not find in her Town Council nor in higher society. 

January 16, 1891. 

I have the honour to congratulate you and the hero of the name-day;[Footnote: It was the name-day of Chekhov himself. ] I wish you and himhealth and prosperity, and above all that the mongoose should not break thecrockery or tear the wall-paper. I shall celebrate my name-day at the MalyYaroslavets restaurant, from the restaurant to the benefit performance, from the benefit performance to the restaurant again. 

I am working, but with very great difficulty. No sooner have I written aline than the bell rings and someone comes in to talk to me about Sahalin. It's simply awful! . .. 

I have found Drishka. It appears that she is living in the same house as Iam. She ran away from Moscow to Petersburg under romantic circumstances:she meant to marry a lawyer, plighted her troth to him, but an army captainturned up, and so on; she had to run away or the lawyer would have shotboth Drishka and the captain with a pistol loaded with cranberries. She isprospering and is the same lively rogue as ever. I went to Svobodin'sname-day party with her yesterday. She sang gipsy songs, and created such asensation that all the great men kissed her hand. 

Rumours have reached me that Lidia Stahievna is going to be married _pardepit_. Is it true? Tell her that I shall carry her off from her husband_par depit_. I am a violent man. 

Has not anything been collected for the benefit of the Sahalin schools? Letme know. .. . 

TO A. F. KONI. 

PETERSBURG, January 16, 1891. 

DEAR SIR, ANATOLY FYODOROVITCH, I did not hasten to answer your letter because I am not leaving Petersburgbefore next Saturday. I am sorry I have not been to see Madame Naryshkin, but I think I had better defer my visit till my book has come out, when Ishall be able to turn more freely to the material I have. My brief Sahalinpast looms so immense in my imagination that when I want to speak about itI don't know where to begin, and it always seems to me that I have not saidwhat was wanted. 

I will try and describe minutely the position of the children and youngpeople in Sahalin. It is exceptional. I saw starving children, I saw girlsof thirteen prostitutes, girls of fifteen with child. Girls begin to liveby prostitution from twelve years old, sometimes before menstruation hasbegun. Church and school exist only on paper, the children are educated bytheir environment and the convict surroundings. Among other things I havenoted down a conversation with a boy of ten years old. I was making thecensus of the settlement of Upper Armudano; all the inhabitants arepoverty-stricken, every one of them, and have the reputation of beingdesperate gamblers at the game of shtoss. I go into a hut; the people arenot at home; on a bench sits a white-haired, round-shouldered, bare-footedboy; he seems lost in thought. We begin to talk. 

I. "What is your father's second name?"

He. "I don't know. "

I. "How is that? You live with your father and don't know what his name is?Shame!"

He. "He is not my real father. "

I. "How is that?"

He. "He is living with mother. "

I. "Is your mother married or a widow?"

He. "A widow. She followed her husband here. "

I. "What has become of her husband, then?"

He. "She killed him. "

I. "Do you remember your father?"

He. "No, I don't, I am illegitimate. I was born when mother was at Kara. "

On the Amur steamer going to Sahalin, there was a convict with fetters onhis legs who had murdered his wife. His daughter, a little girl of six, waswith him. I noticed wherever the convict moved the little girl scrambledafter him, holding on to his fetters. At night the child slept with theconvicts and soldiers all in a heap together. I remember I was at a funeralin Sahalin. Beside the newly dug grave stood four convict bearers exofficio; the treasury clerk and I, in the capacity of Hamlet and Horatio, wandering about the cemetery; the dead woman's lodger, a Circassian, whohad come because he had nothing better to do; and a convict woman who hadcome out of pity and had brought the dead woman's two children, one a baby, and the other, Alyoshka, a boy of four, wearing a woman's jacket and bluebreeches with bright-coloured patches on the knees. It was cold and damp, there was water in the grave, the convicts were laughing. The sea was insight. Alyoshka looked into the grave with curiosity; he tried to wipe hischilly nose, but the long sleeve of his jacket got into his way. When theybegan to fill in the grave I asked him: "Alyoshka, where is your mother?"He waved his hand with the air of a gentleman who has lost at cards, laughed, and said: "They have buried her!"

The convicts laughed, the Circassian turned and asked what he was to dowith the children, saying it was not his duty to feed them. 

Infectious diseases I did not meet with in Sahalin. There is very littlecongenital syphilis, but I saw blind children, filthy, covered witheruptions--all diseases that are evidence of neglect. Of course I am notgoing to settle the problem of the children. I don't know what ought to bedone. But it seems to me that one will do nothing by means of philanthropyand what little is left of prison and other funds. To my thinking, to makesomething of great importance dependent upon charity, which in Russiaalways has a casual character, and on funds which do not exist, ispernicious. I should prefer it to be financed out of the governmenttreasury. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, January 31, 1891. 

At home I found depression. My nicest and most intelligent mongoose hadfallen ill and was lying very quietly under a quilt. The little beast eatsand drinks nothing. The climate has already laid its cold claw on it andmeans to kill it. What for?

We have received a dismal letter. In Taganrog we were on friendlyterms with a well-to-do Polish family. The cakes and jam I ate in theirhouse when I was a boy at school arouse in me now the most touchingreminiscences; there used to be music, young ladies, home-made liqueurs, and catching goldfinches in the immense courtyard. The father had a post inthe Taganrog customs and got into trouble. The investigation and trialruined the family. There were two daughters and a son. When the elderdaughter married a rascal of a Greek, the family took an orphan girl intothe house to bring up. This little girl was attacked by disease of the kneeand they amputated the leg. Then the son died of consumption, a medicalstudent in his fourth year, an excellent fellow, a perfect Hercules, thehope of the family. .. . Then came terrible poverty. .. . The father took towandering about the cemetery, longed to take to drink but could not: vodkasimply made his head ache cruelly while his thoughts remained the same, just as sober and revolting. Now they write that the younger daughter, abeautiful, plump young girl, is consumptive. .. . The father writes to me ofthat and writes to me for a loan of _ten roubles_. .. . Ach!

I felt awfully unwilling to leave you, but still I am glad I did not remainanother day--I went away and showed that I had strength of will. I amwriting already. By the time you come to Moscow my novel [Footnote: "TheDuel. "] will be finished, and I will go back with you to Petersburg. 

Tell Borya, Mitya, and Andrushka that I vituperate them. In the pocket ofmy greatcoat I found some notes on which was scrawled: "Anton Pavlovitch, for shame, for shame, for shame!" O pessimi discipuli! Utinam vos lupusdevoret!

Last night I did not sleep, and I read through my "Motley Tales" for thesecond edition. I threw out about twenty stories. 

MOSCOW, February 5, 1891. 

My mongoose has recovered and breaks crockery again with unfailingregularity. 

I am writing and writing! I must own I was afraid that my Sahalinexpedition would have put me out of the way of writing, but now I see thatit is all right. I have written a great deal. I am writing diffusely a laYasinsky. I want to get hold of a thousand roubles. 

I shall soon begin to expect you. Are we going to Italy or not? We oughtto. 

In Petersburg I don't sleep at night, I drink and loaf about, but I feelimmeasurably better than in Moscow. The devil only knows why it is so. 

I am not depressed, because in the first place I am writing, and in thesecond, one feels that summer, which I love more than anything, is close athand. I long to prepare my fishing tackle. .. . 

February 23. 

Greetings, my dear friend. 

Your telegram about the Tormidor upset me. I felt dreadfully attracted toPetersburg: now for the sake of Sardou and the Parisian visitors. Butpractical considerations pulled me up. I reflected that I must hurry onwith my novel; that I don't know French, and so should only be taking upsomeone else's place in the box; that I have very little money, and so on. In short, as it seems to me now, I am a poor comrade, though apparently Iacted sensibly. 

My novel is progressing. It's all smooth, even, there is scarcely anythingthat is too long. But do you know what is very bad? There is no movement inmy novel, and that frightens me. I am afraid it will be difficult to readto the middle, to say nothing of reading to the end. Anyway, I shall finishit. I shall bring Anna Pavlovna a copy on vellum paper to read in thebathroom. I should like something to sting her in the water, so that shewould run out of the bathroom sobbing. 

I was melancholy when you went away. .. . 

Send me some money. I have none and seem to have nowhere to borrow. By myreckoning I cannot under favourable circumstances get more than a thousandroubles from you before September. But don't send the money by post, as Ican't bear going to post offices. .. . 

March 5. 

We are going!!! I agree to go, where you like and when you like. My soul isleaping with delight. It would be stupid on my part not to go, for whenwould an opportunity come again? But, my dear friend, I leave you to weighthe following circumstances. 

(1) My work is still far from being finished; if I put it by till May, Ishall not be able to begin my Sahalin work before July, and that is risky. For my Sahalin impressions are already evaporating, and I run the risk offorgetting a great deal. 

(2) I have absolutely no money. If without finishing my novel I takeanother thousand roubles for the tour abroad, and then for living after thetour, I shall get into such a tangle that the devil himself could not pullme out by the ears. I am not in a tangle yet because I am up to all sortsof dodges, and live more frugally than a mouse; but if I go abroadeverything will go to the devil. My accounts will be in a mess and I shallget myself hopelessly in debt. The very thought of a debt of two thousandmakes my heart sink. 

There are other considerations, but they are all of small account besidethat of money and work. And so, thoroughly digest my objections, putyourself into my skin for a moment, and decide, wouldn't it be better forme to stay at home? You will say all this is unimportant. But lay asideyour point of view? and look at it from mine. 

I await a speedy answer. 

My novel [Footnote: "The Duel. "] is progressing, but I have not got far. 

I have been to the Kiselyovs'. The rooks are already arriving. 

TO MADAME KISELYOV. 

MOSCOW, March 11, 1891. 

As I depart for France, Spain, and Italy, I beseech you, oh, Heavens, keepBabkino in good health and prosperity!

Yes, Marya Vladimirovna! As it is written in the scripture: he had not timeto cry out, before a bear devoured him. So I had not time to cry out beforean unseen power has drawn me again to the mysterious distance. To-day I amgoing to Petersburg, from there to Berlin, and so further. Whether I climbVesuvius or watch a bull-fight in Spain, I shall remember you in my holiestprayers. Good-bye. 

I have been to a seminary and picked out a seminarist for Vassilisa. Therewere plenty with delicate feelings and responsive natures, but not onewould consent. At first, especially when I told them that you sometimes hadpeas and radishes on your table, they consented; but when I accidentallylet out that in the district captain's room there was a bedstead on whichpeople were flogged, they scratched their heads and muttered that they mustthink it over. One, however, a pockmarked fellow called Gerasim Ivanovitch, with very delicate feelings and a responsive nature, is coming to see youin a day or two. I hope that Vassilisa and you will make him welcome. Snatch the chance: it's a brilliant match. You can flog Gerasim Ivanovitch, for he told me: "I am immensely fond of violent sensations;" when he iswith you you had better lock the cupboard where the vodka is kept and keepthe windows open, as the seminary inspiration and responsiveness isperceptible at every minute. 

"What a happy girl is Vassilisa!"

Idiotik has not been to see me yet. 

The hens peck the cock. They must be keeping Lent, or perhaps the virtuouswidows don't care for their new suitor. 

They have brought me a new overcoat with check lining. 

Well, be in Heaven's keeping, happy, healthy and peaceful. God give you alleverything good. I shall come back in Holy Week. Don't forget your trulydevoted, ANTON CHEKHOV. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

PETERSBURG, March 16. Midnight. 

I have just seen the Italian actress Duse in Shakespeare's _Cleopatra_. I don't know Italian, but she acted so well that it seemed to me Iunderstood every word. A remarkable actress! I have never seen anythinglike it before. I gazed at that Duse and felt overcome with misery at thethought that we have to educate our temperaments and tastes on such woodenactresses as N. And her like, whom we call great because we have seennothing better. Looking at Duse I understood why it is that the Russiantheatre is so dull. 

I sent three hundred roubles to-day, did you get them?

After Duse it was amusing to read the address I enclose. [Footnote: Anewspaper cutting containing an address: From the Students of theTechnological Institute of Harkov to M. M. Solovtsov, was enclosed. ] MyGod, how low taste and a sense of justice have sunk! And these are thestudents--the devil take them! Whether it is Solovtsov or whether it isSalvini, it's all the same to them, both equally "stir a warm response inthe hearts of the young. " They are worth a farthing, all those hearts. 

We set off for Warsaw at half-past one to-morrow. My greetings to all, eventhe mongooses, though they don't deserve it. I will write. 

VIENNA, March 20, 1891. 

MY DEAR CZECHS, I write to you from Vienna, which I reached yesterday at four o'clock inthe afternoon. Everything went well on the journey. From Warsaw to Vienna Itravelled like a railway Nana in a luxurious compartment of the "SocieteInternationale des Wagons-Lits. " Beds, looking-glasses, huge windows, rugs, and so on. 

Ah, my dears, if you only knew how nice Vienna is! It can't be comparedwith any of the towns I have seen in my life. The streets are broad andelegantly paved, there are numbers of boulevards and squares, the houseshave always six or seven storeys, and shops--they are not shops, but aperfect delirium, a dream! There are myriads of neckties alone in thewindows! Such amazing things made of bronze, china, and leather! Thechurches are huge, but they do not oppress one by their hugeness; theycaress the eye, for it seems as though they are woven of lace. St. Stephenand the Votiv-Kirche are particularly fine. They are not like buildings, but like cakes for tea. The parliament, the town hall, and the universityare magnificent. It is all magnificent, and I have for the first timerealized, yesterday and to-day, that architecture is really an art. Andhere the art is not seen in little bits, as with us, but stretches overseveral versts. There are numbers of monuments. In every side street thereis sure to be a bookshop. In the windows of the bookshops there are Russianbooks to be seen--not, alas, the works of Albov, of Barantsevitch, and ofChekhov, but of all sorts of anonymous authors who write and publishabroad. I saw "Renan, " "The Mysteries of the Winter Palace, " and so on. Itis strange that here one is free to read anything and to say what onelikes. Understand, O ye peoples, what the cabs are like here! The deviltake them! There are no droshkys, but they are all new, pretty carriageswith one and often two horses. The horses are splendid. On the box sitdandies in top-hats and reefer jackets, reading the newspaper, allpoliteness and readiness to oblige. 

The dinners are good. There is no vodka; they drink beer and fairly goodwine. There is one thing that is nasty: they make you pay for bread. Whenthey bring the bill they ask, _Wie viel brodchen?_--that is, how many rollshave you devoured? And you have to pay for every little roll. 

The women are beautiful and elegant. Indeed, everything is diabolicallyelegant. 

I have not quite forgotten German. I understand, and am understood. 

When we crossed the frontier it was snowing. In Vienna there is no snow, but it is cold all the same. 

I am homesick and miss you all, and indeed I am conscience-stricken, too, at deserting you all again. But there, never mind! I shall come back andstay at home for a whole year. I send my greetings to everyone, everyone. 

I wish you all things good; don't forget me with my many transgressions. Iembrace you, I bless you, send my greetings and remain, Your loving A. CHEKHOV. 

Everyone who meets us recognises that we are Russians, and stares not at myface, but at my grizzled cap. Looking at my cap they probably think I am avery rich Russian Count. 

TO HIS BROTHER IVAN. 

VENICE, March 24, 1891. 

I am now in Venice. I arrived here two days ago from Vienna. One thing Ican say: I have never in my life seen a town more marvellous than Venice. It is perfectly enchanting, brilliance, joy, life. Instead of streets androads there are canals; instead of cabs, gondolas. The architecture isamazing, and there is not a single spot that does not excite somehistorical or artistic interest. You float in a gondola and see the palaceof the Doges, the house where Desdemona lived, homes of various painters, churches. And in the churches there are sculptures and paintings such as wehave never dreamed of. In fact it is enchantment. 

All day from morning till night I sit in a gondola and glide along thestreets, or I saunter about the famous St. Mark's Square. The square is aslevel and clean as a parquet floor. Here there is St. Mark's--somethingimpossible to describe--the Palace of the Doges, and other buildings whichmake me feel as I do listening to part singing--I feel the amazing beautyand revel in it. 

And the evenings! My God! One might almost die of the strangeness of it. One goes in a gondola . .. Warmth, stillness, stars. .. . There are nohorses in Venice, and so there is a silence here as in the open country. Gondolas flit to and fro, . .. Then a gondola glides by, hung withlanterns. In it are a double-bass, violins, a guitar, a mandolin andcornet, two or three ladies, several men, and one hears singing andmusic. They sing from operas. What voices! One goes on a little furtherand again meets a boat with singers, and then again, and the air isfull, till midnight, of the mingled strains of violins and tenor voices, and all sorts of heart-stirring sounds. 

Merezhkovsky, whom I have met here, is off his head with ecstasy. For uspoor and oppressed Russians it is easy to go out of our minds here in aworld of beauty, wealth, and freedom. One longs to remain here for ever, and when one stands in the churches and listens to the organ one longs tobecome a Catholic. 

The tombs of Canova and Titian are magnificent. Here they bury greatartists like kings in churches; here they do not despise art as with us;the churches provide a shelter for pictures and statues however naked theymay be. 

In the Palace of the Doges there is a picture in which there are about tenthousand human figures. 

To-day is Sunday. There will be a band playing in St. Mark's Square. .. . 

If you ever happen to come to Venice it will be the best thing in yourlife. You ought to see the glass here! Your bottles [Footnote: His brotherIvan was teaching in a school attached to a glass factory. ] are so hideouscompared with the things here, that it makes one sick to think of them. 

I will write again; meanwhile, good-bye. 

TO MADAME KISELYOV. 

VENICE, March 25. 

I am in Venice. You may put me in a madhouse. Gondolas, St. Mark's Square, water, stars, Italian women, serenades, mandolins, Falernian wine--in factall is lost!

Don't remember evil against me. 

The shade of the lovely Desdemona sends a smile to the District Captain. 

Greetings to all. ANTONIO. 

The Jesuits send their love to you. 

TO HIS SISTER, VENICE, March 25, 1891. 

Bewitching blue-eyed Venice sends her greetings to all of you. Oh, signoriand signorine, what an exquisite town this Venice is! Imagine a townconsisting of houses and churches such as you have never seen; anintoxicating architecture, everything as graceful and light as the birdlikegondola. Such houses and churches can only be built by people possessed ofimmense artistic and musical taste and endowed with a lion-liketemperament. Now imagine in the streets and alleys, instead of pavement, water; imagine that there is not one horse in the town; that instead ofcabmen you see gondoliers on their wonderful boats, light, delicatelong-beaked birds which scarcely seem to touch the water and tremble at thetiniest wave. And all from earth to sky bathed in sunshine. 

There are streets as broad as the Nevsky, and others in which you can barthe way by stretching out your arms. The centre of the town is St. Mark'sSquare with the celebrated cathedral of the same name. The cathedral ismagnificent, especially on the outside. Beside it is the Palace of theDoges where Othello made his confession before the senators. 

In short, there is not a spot that does not call up memories and touch theheart. For instance, the little house where Desdemona lived makes animpression that is difficult to shake off. The very best time in Venice isthe evening. First the stars; secondly, the long canals in which the lightsand stars are reflected; thirdly, gondolas, gondolas, and gondolas; when itis dark they seem to be alive. Fourthly, one wants to cry because on allsides one hears music and superb singing. A gondola glides up hung withmany-coloured lanterns; there is light enough for one to distinguish adouble-bass, a guitar, a mandolin, a violin. .. . Then another gondola likeit. .. . Men and women sing, and how they sing! It's quite an opera. 

Fifthly, it's warm. 

In short, the man's a fool who does not go to Venice. Living is cheap here. Board and lodging costs eighteen francs a week--that is, six roubles eachor twenty-five roubles a month. A gondolier asks a franc for an hour-thatis, thirty kopecks. Admission to the academies, museums, and so on, isfree. The Crimea is ten times as expensive, and the Crimea beside Venice isa cuttle-fish beside a whale. 

I am afraid Father is angry with me for not having said good-bye to him. Iask his forgiveness. 

What glass there is here! what mirrors! Why am I not a millionaire! . .. Next year let us all take a summer cottage in Venice. 

The air is full of the vibration of church bells: my dear Tunguses, let usall embrace Catholicism. If only you knew how lovely the organs are in thechurches, what sculptures there are here, what Italian women on their kneeswith prayer-books!

Keep well and don't forget me, a sinner. 

A picturesque railway line, of which I have been told a great deal, runsfrom Vienna to Venice. But I was disappointed in the journey. Themountains, the precipices, and the snowy crests I have seen in the Caucasusand Ceylon are far more impressive than here. _Addio_. 

VENICE, March 26, 1891. 

It is pelting cats and dogs. _Venetia bella_ has ceased to be _bella_. The water excites a feeling of dejected dreariness, and one longs to hastensomewhere where there is sun. 

The rain has reminded me of my raincoat (the leather one); I believe therats have gnawed it a little. If they have, send it to be mended as soon asyou can. .. . 

How is Signor Mongoose? I am afraid every day of hearing that he is dead. 

In describing the cheapness of Venetian life yesterday, I overdid it a bit. It is Madame Merezhkovsky's fault; she told me that she and her husbandpaid only six francs per week each. But instead of per week, read per day. Anyway, it is cheap. The franc here goes as far as a rouble. 

We are going to Florence. 

May the Holy Mother bless you. 

I have seen Titian's Madonna. It's very fine. But it is a pity that herefine works are mixed up side by side with worthless things, that have beenpreserved and not flung away simply from the spirit of conservatismall-present in such creatures of habit as _messieurs les hommes_. There aremany pictures the long life of which is quite incomprehensible. 

The house where Desdemona used to live is to let. 

BOLOGNA, March 28, 1891. 

I am in Bologna, a town remarkable for its arcades, slanting towers, andRaphael's pictures of "Cecilia. " We are going on to-day to Florence. 

FLORENCE, March 29, 1891. 

I am in Florence. I am worn out with racing about to museums and churches. I have seen the Venus of Medici, and I think that if she were dressed inmodern clothes she would be hideous, especially about the waist. 

The sky is overcast, and Italy without sun is like a face in a mask. 

P. S. --Dante's monument is fine. 

FLORENCE, March 30, 1891. 

I am in Florence. To-morrow we are going to Rome. It's cold. We have thespleen. You can't take a step in Florence without coming to a picture-shopor a statue-shop. 

P. S. --Send my watch to be mended. 

TO MADAME KISELYOV. 

ROME, April 1, 1891. 

The Pope of Rome charges me to congratulate you on your name-day and wishyou as much money as he has rooms. He has eleven thousand! Strolling aboutthe Vatican I was nearly dead with exhaustion, and when I got home I feltthat my legs were made of cotton-wool. 

I am dining at the table d'hote. Can you imagine just opposite me aresitting two Dutch girls: one of them is like Pushkin's Tatyana, and theother like her sister Olga. I watch them all through dinner, and imagine aneat, clean little house with a turret, excellent butter, superb Dutchcheese, Dutch herrings, a benevolent-looking pastor, a sedate teacher, . .. And I feel I should like to marry a Dutch girl and be depicted with her ona tea-tray beside the little white house. 

I have seen everything and dragged myself everywhere I was told to go. Whatwas offered me to sniff at, I sniffed at. But meanwhile I feel nothing butexhaustion and a craving for cabbage-soup and buckwheat porridge. I wasenchanted by Venice, beside myself; but since I have left it, it has beennothing but Baedeker and bad weather. 

Good-bye for now, Marya Vladimirovna, and the Lord God keep you. Humblerespects from me and the other Pope to his Honour, Vassilisa and ElizavetaAlexandrovna. 

Neckties are marvellously cheap here. I think I may take to eating them. They are a franc a pair. 

To-morrow I am going to Naples. Pray that I may meet there a beautifulRussian lady, if possible a widow or a divorced wife. 

In the guide-books it says that a love affair is an essential condition fora tour in Italy. Well, hang them all! I am ready for anything. If theremust be a love affair, so be it. 

Don't forget your sinful, but sincerely devoted, ANTON CHEKHOV, My respects to the starlings. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

ROME, April 1, 1891. 

When I got to Rome I went to the post-office and did not find a singleletter. Suvorin has got several letters. I made up my mind to pay you out, not to write to you at all--but there, God bless you! I am not so very fondof letters, but when one is travelling nothing is so bad as uncertainty. How have you settled the summer villa question? Is the mongoose alive? Andso on and so on. 

I have been in St. Peter's, in the Capitol, in the Coliseum, in theForum--I have even been in a _cafe'-chantant_, but did not derive fromit the gratification I had expected. The weather is a drawback, it israining. I am hot in my autumn overcoat, and cold in my summer one. 

Travelling is very cheap. One may pay a visit to Italy with only fourhundred roubles and go back with purchases. If I were travelling aloneor with Ivan, I should have brought away the conviction that travellingin Italy was much cheaper than travelling in the Caucasus. But alas! Iam with the Suvorins. .. . In Venice we lived in the best of hotels likeDoges; here in Rome we live like Cardinals, for we have taken a salon ofwhat was once the palace of Cardinal Conti, now the Hotel Minerva; twohuge drawing-rooms, chandeliers, carpets, open fireplaces, and all sortsof useless rubbish, costing us forty francs a day. 

My back aches, and the soles of my feet burn from tramping about. It'sawful how we walk!

It seems odd to me that Levitan did not like Italy. It's a fascinatingcountry. If I were a solitary person, an artist, and had money, I shouldlive here in the winter. You see, Italy, apart from its natural scenery andwarmth, is the one country in which you feel convinced that art is reallysupreme over everything, and that conviction gives one courage. 

NAPLES, April 4, 1891. 

I arrived in Naples, went to the post-office and found there five lettersfrom home, for which I am very grateful to you all. Well done, relations!Even Vesuvius is so touched it has gone out. 

Vesuvius hides its top in clouds and can only be seen well in the evening. By day the sky is overcast. We are staying on the sea-front and have a viewof everything: the sea, Vesuvius, Capri, Sorrento. .. . We drove in thedaytime up to the monastery of St. Martini: the view from here is such as Ihave never seen before, a marvellous panorama. I saw something like it atHong Kong when I went up the mountain in the railway. 

In Naples there is a magnificent arcade. And the shops!! The shops make mequite giddy. What brilliance! You, Masha, and you, Lika, would be rabidwith delight. 

 * * * * *

There is a wonderful aquarium in Naples. There are even sharks and squids. When a squid (an octopus) devours some animals it's a revolting sight. 

I have been to a barber's and watched a young man having his beard clippedfor a whole hour. He was probably engaged to be married or else acardsharper. At the barber's the ceiling and all the four walls were madeof looking-glass, so that you feel that you are not at a hairdresser's butat the Vatican where there are eleven thousand rooms. They cut your hairwonderfully. 

I shan't bring you any presents, as you don't write to me about the summervilla and the mongoose. I bought you a watch, Masha, but I have cast it tothe swine. But there, God forgive you!

P. S. --I shall be back by Easter, come and meet me at the station. 

NAPLES, April 7, 1891. 

Yesterday I went to Pompeii and went over it. As you know, it is a Romantown buried under the lava and ashes of Vesuvius in 79 A. D. I walked aboutthe streets of the town and saw the houses, the temples, the theatre, thesquares. .. . I saw and marvelled at the faculty of the Romans for combiningsimplicity with convenience and beauty. After viewing Pompeii, I lunched ata restaurant and then decided to go to Vesuvius. The excellent red wine Ihad drunk had a great deal to do with this decision. I had to ride onhorseback to the foot of Vesuvius. I have in consequence to-day a sensationin some parts of my mortal frame as though I had been in the ThirdDivision, and had there been flogged. What an agonising business it isclimbing up Vesuvius! Ashes, mountains of lava, solid waves of moltenminerals, mounds of earth, and every sort of abomination. You take one stepforward and fall half a step back, the soles of your feet hurt you, yourbreathing is oppressed. .. . You go on and on and on, and it is still a longway to the top. You wonder whether to turn back, but you are ashamed toturn back, you would be laughed at. The ascent began at half-past two, andended at six. The crater of Vesuvius is a great many yards in diameter. Istood on its edge and looked down as into a cup. The soil around, coveredby a layer of sulphur, was smoking vigorously. From the crater rose whitestinking smoke; spurts of hot water and red-hot stones fly out while Satanlies snoring under cover of the smoke. The noise is rather mixed, you hearin it the beating of breakers and the roar of thunder, and the rumble ofthe railway line and the falling of planks. It is very terrible, and at thesame time one has an impulse to jump right into the crater. I believe inhell now. The lava has such a high temperature that copper coins melt init. 

Coming down was as horrid as going up. You sink up to your knees in ashes. I was fearfully tired. I went back on horseback through a little villageand by houses; there was a glorious fragrance and the moon was shining. Isniffed, gazed at the moon, and thought of _her_--that is, of Lika L. 

All the summer, noble gentlemen, we shall have no money, and the thought ofthat spoils my appetite. I have got into debt for a thousand for a tour, which I could have made _solo_ for three hundred roubles. All my hopesnow are in the fools of amateurs who are going to act my "Bear. "

Have you taken a house for the holidays, signori? You treat me piggishly, you write nothing to me, and I don't know what's going on, and how thingsare at home. 

Humble respects to you all. Take care of yourselves, and don't completelyforget me. 

MONTE CARLO, April 13, 1891. 

I am writing to you from Monte Carlo, from the very place where they playroulette. I can't tell you how thrilling the game is. First of all I woneighty francs, then I lost, then I won again, and in the end was left witha loss of forty francs. I have twenty francs left, I shall go and try myluck again. I have been here since the morning, and it is twelve o'clock atnight. If I had money to spare I believe I should spend the whole yeargambling and walking about the magnificent halls of the casino. It isinteresting to watch the ladies who lose thousands. This morning a younglady lost 5000 francs. The tables with piles of gold are interesting too. In fact it is beyond all words. This charming Monte Carlo is extremely likea fine . .. Den of thieves. The suicide of losers is quite a regular thing. 

Suvorin _fils_ lost 300 francs. 

We shall soon see each other. I am weary of wandering over the face of theearth. One must draw the line. My heels are sore as it is. 

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

NICE, Monday in Holy Week, April, 1891. 

We are staying in Nice, on the sea-front. The sun is shining, it is warm, green and fragrant, but windy. An hour's journey from Nice is the famousMonaco. There is Monte Carlo, where roulette is played. Imagine the roomsof the Hall of Nobility but handsomer, loftier and larger. There are bigtables, and on the tables roulette--which I will describe to you when I gethome. The day before yesterday I went over there, played and lost. The gameis fearfully fascinating. After losing, Suvorin _fils_ and I fell tothinking it over, and thought out a system which would ensure one'swinning. We went yesterday, taking five hundred francs each; at the firststaking I won two gold pieces, then again and again; my waistcoat pocketsbulged with gold. I had in hand French money even of the year 1808, as wellas Belgian, Italian, Greek, and Austrian coins. .. . I have never before seenso much gold and silver. I began playing at five o'clock and by ten I hadnot a single franc in my pocket, and the only thing left me was thesatisfaction of knowing that I had my return ticket to Nice. So there itis, my friends! You will say, of course: "What a mean thing to do! We areso poor, while he out there plays roulette. " Perfectly just, and I give youpermission to slay me. But I personally am much pleased with myself. Anyway, now I can tell my grandchildren that I have played roulette, andknow the feeling which is excited by gambling. 

Beside the Casino where roulette is played there is another swindle--therestaurants. They fleece one frightfully and feed one magnificently. Everydish is a regular work of art, before which one is expected to bow one'sknee in homage and to be too awe-stricken to eat it. Every morsel is riggedout with lots of artichokes, truffles, and nightingales' tongues of allsorts. And, good Lord! how contemptible and loathsome this life is with itsartichokes, its palms, and its smell of orange blossoms! I love wealth andluxury, but the luxury here, the luxury of the gambling saloon, reminds oneof a luxurious water-closet. There is something in the atmosphere thatoffends one's sense of decency and vulgarizes the scenery, the sound of thesea, the moon. 

Yesterday--Sunday--I went to the Russian church here. What was peculiar wasthe use of palm-branches instead of willows; and instead of boy choristersa choir of ladies, which gives the singing an operatic effect. They putforeign money in the plate; the verger and beadle speak French, and soon. .. . 

Of all the places I have been in hitherto Venice has left me the loveliestmemories. Rome on the whole is rather like Harkov, and Naples is filthy. And the sea does not attract me, as I got tired of it last November andDecember. 

I feel as though I have been travelling for a whole year. I had scarcelygot back from Sahalin when I went to Petersburg, and then to Petersburgagain, and to Italy. .. . 

If I don't manage to get home by Easter, when you break the fast, rememberme in your prayers, and receive my congratulations from a distance, and myassurance that I shall miss you all horribly on Easter night. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

PARIS, April 21, 1891. 

To-day is Easter. So Christ is risen! It's my first Easter away from home. 

I arrived in Paris on Friday morning and at once went to the Exhibition. Yes, the Eiffel Tower is very very high. The other exhibition buildings Isaw only from the outside, as they were occupied by cavalry brought therein anticipation of disorders. On Friday they expected riots. The peopleflocked in crowds about the streets, shouting and whistling, greatlyexcited, while the police kept dispersing them. To disperse a big crowd adozen policemen are sufficient here. The police make a combined attack, andthe crowd runs like mad. In one of these attacks the honour was vouchsafedto me--a policeman caught hold of me under my shoulder, and pushed me infront of him. 

There was a great deal of movement, the streets were swarming and surging. Noise, hubbub. The pavements are filled with little tables, and at thetables sit Frenchmen who feel as though they were at home in the street. Amagnificent people. There is no describing Paris, though; I will put offthe description of it till I get home. 

I heard the midnight service in the Church of the Embassy. .. . 

I am afraid you have no money. 

Misha, get my pince-nez mended, for the salvation of your soul! I am simplya martyr without spectacles. I went to the Salon and couldn't see half thepictures, thanks to my short sight. By the way, the Russian artists are farmore serious than the French. .. . In comparison with the landscape paintersI saw here yesterday Levitan is a king. .. . 

PARIS, April 24. 

A change again. One of the Russian sculptors living in Paris has undertakento do a bust of Suvorin, and this will keep us till Saturday. 

. .. How are you managing without money? Bear it till Thursday. 

Imagine my delight. I was in the Chamber of Deputies just at the time ofthe sitting when the Minister for Internal Affairs was called to accountfor the irregularities which the government had ventured upon in puttingdown the riots in Fourmis (there were many killed and wounded). It was astormy and extremely interesting sitting. 

Men who tie boa-constrictors round their bodies, ladies who kick up to theceiling, flying people, lions, _cafe'-chantants_, dinners and lunches beginto sicken me. It is time I was home. I am longing to work. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

ALEXIN, May 7, 1891. 

The summer villa is all right. There are woods and the Oka: it is far awayin the wilds, it is warm, nightingales sing, and so on. It is quiet andpeaceful, and in bad weather it will be dull and depressing here. Aftertravelling abroad, life at a summer villa seems a little mawkish. I feel asthough I had been taken prisoner and put into a fortress. But I amcontented all the same. In Moscow I received from the Society of DramaticAuthors not two hundred roubles, as I expected, but three hundred. It'svery kind on the part of fortune. 

Well, my dear sir, I owe you, even if we adopt your reckoning, not lessthan eight hundred roubles. In June or July, when my money will be at theshop, I will write to Zandrok to send all that comes to me to you inFeodosia, and do not try and prevent me. I give you my word of honour thatwhen I have paid my debts and settled with you, I'll accept a loan of 2, 000from you. Do not imagine that it is disagreeable to me to be in your debt. I lend other people money, and so I feel I have the right to borrow money, but I am afraid of getting into difficulties and the habit of being indebt. You know I owe your firm a devilish lot. 

There is a fine view from my window. Trains are continually passing. Thereis a bridge across the Oka. 

ALEXIN, May 10, 1891. 

Yes, you are right, my soul needs balsam. I should read now with pleasure, even with joy, something serious, not merely about myself but things ingeneral. I pine for serious reading, and recent Russian criticism does notnourish but simply irritates me. I could read with enthusiasm something newabout Pushkin or Tolstoy. That would be balsam for my idle mind. 

I am homesick for Venice and Florence too, and am ready to climb Vesuviusagain; Bologna has been effaced from my memory and grown dim. As for Niceand Paris, when I recall them "I look on my life with loathing. "

In the last number of _The Messenger of Foreign Literature_ there is astory by Ouida, translated from the English by our Mihail. Why don't I knowforeign languages? It seems to me I could translate magnificently. When Iread anyone else's translation I keep altering and transposing the words inmy brain, and the result is something light, ethereal, like lacework. 

On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays I write my Sahalin book, on the otherdays, except Sunday, my novel, and on Sundays, short stories. I work withzest. The weather has been superb every day; the site of our summer villais dry and healthy. There is a lot of woodland. There are a lot of fish andcrayfish in the Oka. I see the trains and the steamers. Altogether if itwere not for being somewhat cramped I should be very very much pleased withit. 

 * * * * *

I don't intend to get married. I should like to be a little bald old mansitting at a big table in a fine study. .. . 

ALEXIN, May 13, 1891. 

I am going to write you a Christmas story--that's certain. Two, indeed, ifyou like. I sit and write and write . .. ; at last I have set to work. I amonly sorry that my cursed teeth are aching and my stomach is out of order. 

I am a dilatory but productive author. By the time I am forty I shall havehundreds of volumes, so that I can open a bookshop with nothing but my ownworks. To have a lot of books and to have nothing else is a horribledisgrace. 

My dear friend, haven't you in your library Tagantsev's "Criminal Law"?If you have, couldn't you send it me? I would buy it, but I am now "apoor relation"--a beggar and as poor as Sidor's goat. Would you telephoneto your shop, too, to send me, on account of favours to come, two books:"The Laws relating to Exiles, " and "The Laws relating to Persons underPolice Control. " Don't imagine that I want to become a procurator; Iwant these works for my Sahalin book. I am going to direct my attackchiefly against life sentences, in which I see the root of all theevils; and against the laws dealing with exiles, which are fearfully outof date and contradictory. 

TO L. S. MIZINOV. 

ALEXIN, May 17, 1891. 

Golden, mother-of-pearl, and _fil d'Ecosse_ Lika! The mongoose ran away theday before yesterday, and will never come back again. It is dead. That isthe first thing. 

The second thing is, that we are moving our residence to the upper storeyof the house of B. K. --the man who gave you milk to drink and forgot to giveyou strawberries. We will let you know the day we move in due time. Come tosmell the flowers, to walk, to fish, and to blubber. Ah, lovely Lika! Whenyou bedewed my right shoulder with your tears (I have taken out the spotswith benzine), and when slice after slice you ate our bread and meat, wegreedily devoured your face and head with our eyes. Ah, Lika, Lika, diabolical beauty! . .. 

When you are at the Alhambra with Trofimov I hope you may accidentally jabout his eye with your fork. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

ALEXIN, May 18, 1891. 

. .. I get up at five o'clock in the morning; evidently when I am old Ishall get up at four. My forefathers all got up very early, before thecock. And I notice people who get up very early are horribly fussy. So Isuppose I shall be a fussy, restless old man. .. . 

BOGIMOVO, May 20. 

. .. The carp bite capitally. I forgot all my sorrows yesterday; first I satby the pond and caught carp, and then by the old mill and caught perch. 

. .. The last two proclamations--about the Siberian railway and theexiles--pleased me very much. The Siberian railway is called a nationalconcern, and the tone of the proclamation guarantees its speedy completion;and convicts who have completed such and such terms as settlers are allowedto return to Russia without the right to live in the provinces ofPetersburg and Moscow. The newspapers have let this pass unnoticed, and yetit is something which has never been in Russia before--it is the first steptowards abolishing the life sentence which has so long weighed on thepublic conscience as unjust and cruel in the extreme. .. . 

BOGIMOVO, May 27, 4 o'clock in the Morning. 

The mongoose has run away into the woods and has not come back. It is cold. I have no money. But nevertheless, I don't envy you. One cannot live intown now, it is both dreary and unwholesome. I should like you to besitting from morning till dinner-time in this verandah, drinking tea andwriting something artistic, a play or something; and after dinner tillevening, fishing and thinking peaceful thoughts. You have long ago earnedthe right which is denied you now by all sorts of chance circumstances, andit seems to me shameful and unjust that I should live more peacefully thanyou. Is it possible that you will stay all June in town? It's reallyterrible. .. . 

. .. By the way, read Grigorovitch's letter to my enemy Anna Ivanovna. Lether soul rejoice. "Chekhov belongs to the generation which has perceptiblybegun to turn away from the West and concentrate more closely on their ownworld. .. . " "Venice and Florence are nothing else than dull towns for a manof any intelligence. .. . " _Merci_, but I don't understand persons of suchintelligence. One would have to be a bull to "turn away from the West" onarriving for the first time in Venice or Florence. There is very littleintelligence in doing so. But I should like to know who is taking thetrouble to announce to the whole universe that I did not like foreignparts. Good Lord! I never let drop one word about it. I liked even Bologna. Whatever ought I to have done? Howled with rapture? Broken the windows?Embraced Frenchmen? Do they say I gained no ideas? But I fancy I did. .. . 

We must see each other--or more correctly, I must see you. I am missing youalready, although to-day I caught two hundred and fifty-two carp and onecrayfish. 

BOGIMOVO, June 4, 1891. 

Why did you go away so soon? I was very dull, and could not get back intomy usual petty routine very quickly afterwards. As luck would have it, after you went away the weather became warm and magnificent, and the fishbegan to bite. 

. .. The mongoose has been found. A sportsman with dogs found him on thisside of the Oka in a quarry; if there had not been a crevice in the quarrythe dogs would have torn the mongoose to pieces. It had been astray in thewoods for eighteen days. In spite of the climatic conditions, which areawful for it, it had grown fat--such is the effect of freedom. Yes, my dearsir, freedom is a grand thing. 

I advise you again to go to Feodosia by the Volga. Anna Ivanovna and youwill enjoy it, and it will be new and interesting for the children. If Iwere free I would come with you. It's snug now on those Volga steamers, they feed you well and the passengers are interesting. 

Forgive me for your having been so uncomfortable with us. When I am grownup and order furniture from Venice, as I certainly shall do, you won't havesuch a cold and rough time with me. 

TO L. S. MIZINOV. 

BOGIMOVO, June 12, 1891. 

Enchanting, amazing Lika!

Captivated by the Circassian Levitan, you have completely forgotten thatyou promised my brother Ivan you would come on the 1st of June, and you donot answer my sister's letter at all. I wrote to you from Moscow to inviteyou, but my letter, too, remained a voice crying in the wilderness. Thoughyou are received in aristocratic society, you have been badly brought upall the same, and I don't regret having once chastised you with a switch. You must understand that expecting your arrival from day to day not onlywearies us, but puts us to expense. In an ordinary way we only have fordinner what is left of yesterday's soup, but when we expect visitors wehave also a dish of boiled beef, which we buy from the neighbouring cooks. 

We have a magnificent garden, dark avenues, snug corners, a river, a mill, a boat, moonlight, nightingales, turkeys. In the pond and river there arevery intelligent frogs. We often go for walks, during which I usually closemy eyes and crook my right arm in the shape of a bread-ring, imagining thatyou are walking by my side. 

. .. Give my greetings to Levitan. Please ask him not to write about you inevery letter. In the first place it is not magnanimous on his part, and inthe second, I have no interest whatever in his happiness. 

Be well and happy and don't forget us. I have just received your letter, itis filled from top to bottom with such charming expressions as: "The devilchoke you!" "The devil flay you!" "Anathema!" "A good smack, " "rabble, ""overeaten myself. " Your friends--such as Trophim--with their cabmen'stalk certainly have an improving influence on you. 

You may bathe and go for evening walks. That's all nonsense. All my insideis full of coughs, wet and dry, but I bathe and walk about, and yet I amalive. .. . 

TO L. S. MIZINOV. 

(Enclosing a photograph of a young man inscribed "To Lida from Petya. ")

PRECIOUS LIDA!

Why these reproaches! I send you my portrait. To-morrow we shall meet. Do not forget your Petya. A thousand kisses!!!

I have bought Chekhov's stories. How delightful! Mind you buy them. Remember me to Masha Chekhov. What a darling you are!

TO THE SAME. 

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

 Marshal of Nobility, GOLOVIN RTISHTCHEV. 

P. S. --Answer me by signs. You do squint. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

BOGIMOVO, June, 1891. 

Masha! Make haste and come home, as without you our intensive culture isgoing to complete ruin. There is nothing to eat, the flies are sickening. The mongoose has broken a jar of jam, and so on, and so on. 

All the summer visitors sigh and lament over your absence. There is nonews. .. . The spiderman is busy from morning to night with his spiders. Hehas already described five of the spider's legs, and has only three left todo. When he has finished with spiders he will begin upon fleas, which hewill catch on his aunt. The K's sit every evening at the club, and no hintsfrom me will prevail on them to move from the spot. 

It is hot, there are no mushrooms. Suvorin has not come yet. .. . 

Come soon for it is devilishly dull. We have just caught a frog and givenit to the mongoose. It has eaten it. 

TO MADAME KISELYOV. 

ALEXIN, July 20, 1891. 

Greetings, honoured Marya Vladimirovna. 

For God's sake write what you are doing, whether you are all well and howthings are in regard to mushrooms and gudgeon. 

We are living at Bogimovo in the province of Kaluga. .. . It's a huge house, a fine park, the inevitable views, at the sight of which I am for somereason expected to say "Ach!" A river, a pond with hungry carp who love toget on to the hook, a mass of sick people, a smell of iodoform, and walksin the evenings. I am busy with my Sahalin; and in the intervals, that Imay not let my family starve, I cherish the muse and write stories. Everything goes on in the old way, there is nothing new. I get up every dayat five o'clock, and prepare my coffee with my own hands--a sign that Ihave already got into old bachelor habits and am resigned to them. Masha ispainting, Misha wears his cockade creditably, father talks about bishops, mother bustles about the house, Ivan fishes. On the same estate with usthere is living a zoologist called Wagner and his family, and someKisilyovs--not the Kisilyovs, but others, not the real ones. 

Wagner catches ladybirds and spiders, and Kisilyov the father sketches, ashe is an artist. We get up performances, _tableaux-vivants_, and picnics. It is very gay and amusing, but I have only to catch a perch or find amushroom for my head to droop, and my thoughts to be carried back to thepast, and my brain and soul begin in a funereal voice to sing the duet "Weare parted. " The "deposed idol and the deserted temple" rise up before myimagination, and I think devoutly: "I would exchange all the zoologists andgreat artists in the world for one little Idiotik. " [Footnote: MadameKisilyov's son. ] The weather has all the while been hot and dry, and onlyto-day there has been a crash of thunder and the gates of heaven are open. One longs to get away somewhere--for instance, to America, or Norway. .. . Bewell and happy, and may the good spirits, of whom there are so many atBabkino, have you in their keeping. 

TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. 

ALEXIN, July, 1891. 

MY PHOTOGRAPHIC AND PROLIFIC BROTHER!

I got a letter from you a long time ago with the photographs of Semashko, but I haven't answered till now, because I have been all the time trying toformulate the great thoughts befitting my answer. All our people are aliveand well, we often talk of you, and regret that your prolificness preventsyou from coming to us here where you would be very welcome. Father, as Ihave written to you already, has thrown up Ivanygortch, and is living withus. Suvorin has been here twice; he talked about you, and caught fish. I amup to my neck in work with Sahalin, and other things no less wearisome andhard labour. I dream of winning forty thousand, so as to cut myself offcompletely from writing, which I am sick of, to buy a little bit of landand live like a hermit in idle seclusion, with you and Ivan in theneighbourhood--I dream of presenting you with fifteen acres each as poorrelations. Altogether I have a dreary existence, I am sick of toiling overlines and halfpence, and old age is creeping nearer and nearer. 

Your last story, in my opinion, shared by Suvorin, is good. Why do youwrite so little?

The zoologist V. A. Wagner, who took his degree with you, is staying in thesame courtyard. He is writing a very solid dissertation. Kisilyov, theartist, is living in the same yard too. We go walks together in theevenings and discuss philosophy. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

BOGIMOVO, July 24, 1891. 

. .. Thanks for the five kopecks addition. Alas, it will not settle mydifficulties! To save up a reserve, as you write, and extricate myself fromthe abyss of halfpenny anxieties and petty terrors, there is only oneresource left me--an immoral one. To marry a rich woman or give out AnnaKarenin as my work. And as that is impossible I dismiss my difficulties indespair and let things go as they please. 

You once praised Rod, a French writer, and told me Tolstoy liked him. Theother day I happened to read a novel of his and flung up my hands inamazement. He is equivalent to our Matchtet, only a little moreintelligent. There is a terrible deal of affectation, dreariness, strainingafter originality, and as little of anything artistic as there was salt inthat porridge we cooked in the evening at Bogimovo. In the preface this Rodregrets that he was in the past a "naturalist, " and rejoices that thespiritualism of the latest recruits of literature has replaced materialism. Boyish boastfulness which is at the same time coarse and clumsy. .. . "If weare not as talented as you, Monsieur Zola, to make up for it we believe inGod. " . .. 

July 29. 

Well, thank God! To-day I have received from the bookshop notice that thereis 690 roubles 6 kopecks coming to me. I have written in answer that theyare to send five hundred roubles to Feodosia and the other one hundred andninety to me. And so I am left owing you only one hundred and seventy. Thatis comforting, it's an advance anyway. To meet the debt to the newspaper Iam arming myself with an immense story which I shall finish in a day or twoand send. I ought to knock three hundred roubles off the debt, and get asmuch for myself. Ough! . .. 

August 6. 

. .. The death of a servant in the house makes a strange impression, doesn'tit? The man while he was alive attracted attention only so far as he wasone's "man"; but when he is dead he suddenly engrosses the attention ofall, lies like a weight on the whole house, and becomes the despotic masterwho is talked of to the exclusion of everything. 

. .. I shall finish my story to-morrow or the day after, but not to-day, forit has exhausted me fiendishly towards the end. Thanks to the haste withwhich I have worked at it, I have wasted a pound of nerves over it. Thecomposition of it is a little complicated. I got into difficulties andoften tore up what I had written, and for days at a time was dissatisfiedwith my work--that is why I have not finished it till now. How awful it is!I must rewrite it! It's impossible to leave it, for it is in a devil of amess. My God! if the public likes my works as little as I do those of otherpeople which I am reading, what an ass I am! There is something asinineabout our writing. .. . 

To my great pleasure the amazing astronomer has arrived. She is angry withyou, and calls you for some reason an "eloquent gossip. " To begin with, sheis free and independent; and then she has a poor opinion of men; andfurther, according to her, everyone is a savage or a ninny--and you daredto give her my address with the words "the being you adore lives at . .. , "and so on. Upon my word, as though one could suspect earthly feelings inastronomers who soar among the clouds! She talks and laughs all day, is acapital mushroom-gatherer, and dreams of the Caucasus to which she isdeparting today. 

August 18. 

At last I have finished my long, wearisome story [Footnote: "The Duel. "]and am sending it to you in Feodosia. Please read it. It is too long forthe paper, and not suitable for dividing into parts. Do as you think best, however. .. . 

There are more than four signatures of print in the story. It's awful. I amexhausted, and dragged the end, like a train of waggons on a muddy night inautumn, at a walking pace with halts--that is why I am late with it. .. . 

August 18. 

Speaking of Nikolay and the doctor who attends him, you emphasize that"all that is done without love, without self-sacrifice, even in regardto trifling conveniences. " You are right, speaking of people generally, but what would you have the doctors do? If, as your old nurse says, "Thebowel has burst, " what's one to do, even if one is ready to give one'slife to the sufferer? As a rule, while the family, the relations, andthe servants are doing "everything they can" and are straining everynerve, the doctor sits and looks like a fool, with his hands folded, disconsolately ashamed of himself and his science, and trying to preserveexternal tranquillity. .. . 

Doctors have loathsome days and hours, such as I would not wish my worstenemy. It is true that ignoramuses and coarse louts are no rarity amongdoctors, nor are they among writers, engineers, people in general; butthose loathsome days and hours of which I speak fall to the lot of doctorsonly, and for that, truly, much may be forgiven them. .. . 

The amazing astronomer is at Batum now. As I told her I should go to Batumtoo, she will send her address to Feodosia. She has grown cleverer thanever of late. One day I overheard a learned discussion between her and thezoologist Wagner, whom you know. It seemed to me that in comparison withher the learned professor was simply a schoolboy. She has excellent logicand plenty of good common sense, but no rudder, . .. So that she drifts anddrifts, and doesn't know where she is going. .. . 

A woman was carting rye, and she fell off the waggon head downwards. Shewas terribly injured: concussion of the brain, straining of the vertebraeof the neck, sickness, fearful pains, and so on. She was brought to me. Shewas moaning and groaning and praying for death, and yet she looked at theman who brought her and muttered: "Let the lentils go, Kirila, you canthresh them later, but thresh the oats now. " I told her that she could talkabout oats afterwards, that there was something more serious to talk about, but she said to me: "His oats are ever so good!" A managing, vigilantwoman. Death comes easy to such people. .. . 

August 28. 

I send you Mihailovsky's article on Tolstoy. Read it and grow perfect. It'sa good article, but it's strange; one might write a thousand such articlesand things would not be one step forwarder, and it would still remainunintelligible why such articles are written. .. . 

I am writing my Sahalin, and I am bored, I am bored. .. . I am utterly sickof life. 

Judging from your telegram I have not satisfied you with my story. Youshould not have hesitated to send it back to me. 

Oh, how weary I am of sick people! A neighbouring landowner had a nervousstroke and they trundled me off to him in a scurvy jolting britchka. Mostof all I am sick of peasant women with babies, and of powders which it isso tedious to weigh out. 

There is a famine year coming. I suppose there will be epidemics of allsorts and risings on a small scale. .. . 

August 28. 

So you like my story? [Footnote: "The Duel. "] Well, thank God! Of late Ihave become devilishly suspicious and uneasy. I am constantly fancying thatmy trousers are horrid, and that I am writing not as I want to, and that Iam giving my patients the wrong powders. It must be a special neurosis. 

If Ladzievsky's surname is really horrible, you can call him somethingelse. Let him be Lagievsky, let von Koren remain von Koren. The multitudeof Wagners, Brandts, and so on, in all the scientific world, make a Russianname out of the question for a zoologist--though there is Kovalevsky. Andby the way, Russian life is so mixed up nowadays that any surnames will do. 

Sahalin is progressing. There are times when I long to sit over it fromthree to five years, and work at it furiously; but at times, in moments ofdoubt, I could spit on it. It would be a good thing, by God! to devotethree years to it. I shall write a great deal of rubbish, because I am nota specialist, but really I shall write something sensible too. It is such agood subject, because it would live for a hundred years after me, as itwould be the literary source and aid for all who are studying prisonorganization, or are interested in it. 

You are right, your Excellency, I have done a great deal this summer. Another such summer and I may perhaps have written a novel and bought anestate. I have not only paid my way, but even paid off a thousand roublesof debt. 

. .. Tell your son that I envy him. And I envy you too, and not because yourwives have gone away, but because you are bathing in the sea and living ina warm house. I am cold in my barn. I should like new carpets, an openfireplace, bronzes, and learned conversations. Alas! I shall never be aTolstoyan. In women I love beauty above all things; and in the history ofmankind, culture, expressed in carpets, carriages with springs, andkeenness of wit. Ach! To make haste and become an old man and sit at a bigtable! . .. 

P. S. --If we were to cut the zoological conversations out of "The Duel"wouldn't it make it more living? . .. 

MOSCOW, September 8. 

I have returned to Moscow and am keeping indoors. My family is busy tryingto find a new flat but I say nothing because I am too lazy to turn round. They want to move to Devitchye Polye for the sake of cheapness. 

The title you recommend for my novel--"Deception"--will not do: it wouldonly be appropriate if it were a question of conscious lying. Unconsciouslying is not deception but a mistake. Tolstoy calls our having money andeating meat lying--that's too much. .. . 

Death gathers men little by little, he knows what he is about. One mightwrite a play: an old chemist invents the elixir of life--take fifteen dropsand you live for ever; but he breaks the phial from terror, lest suchcarrion as himself and his wife might live for ever. Tolstoy denies mankindimmortality, but my God! how much that is personal there is in it! The daybefore yesterday I read his "Afterword. " Strike me dead! but it is stupiderand stuffier than "Letters to a Governor's Wife, " which I despise. Thedevil take the philosophy of the great ones of this world! All the greatsages are as despotic as generals, and as ignorant and as indelicate asgenerals, because they feel secure of impunity. Diogenes spat in people'sfaces, knowing that he would not suffer for it. Tolstoy abuses doctors asscoundrels, and displays his ignorance in great questions because he's justsuch a Diogenes who won't be locked up or abused in the newspapers. And soto the devil with the philosophy of all the great ones of this world! Thewhole of it with its fanatical "Afterwords" and "Letters to a Governor'sWife" is not worth one little mare in his "Story of a Horse. .. . "

TO E. M. S. 

MOSCOW, September 16. 

So we old bachelors smell of dogs? So be it. But as for specialists infeminine diseases being at heart rakes and cynics, allow me to differ. Gynaecologists have to do with deadly prose such as you have never dreamedof, and to which perhaps, if you knew it, you would, with the ferocitycharacteristic of your imagination, attribute a worse smell than that ofdogs. One who is always swimming in the sea loves dry land; one who forever is plunged in prose passionately longs for poetry. All gynaecologistsare idealists. Your doctor reads poems, your instinct prompted you right; Iwould add that he is a great liberal, a bit of a mystic, and that he dreamsof a wife in the style of the Nekrassov Russian woman. The famous Snyegirevcannot speak of the "Russian woman" without a quiver in his voice. Anothergynaecologist whom I know is in love with a mysterious lady in a veil whomhe has only seen from a distance. Another one goes to all the firstperformances at the theatre and then is loud in his abuse, declaring thatauthors ought to represent only ideal women, and so on. You have omitted toconsider also that a good gynaecologist cannot be a stupid man or amediocrity. Intellect has a brighter lustre than baldness, but you havenoticed the baldness and emphasized it--and have flung the intellectoverboard. You have noticed, too, and emphasized that a fat man--brrr!--exudes a sort of greasiness, but you completely lose sight of the fact thathe is a professor--that is, that he has spent several years in thinking anddoing something which sets him high above millions of men, high above allthe Verotchkas and Taganrog Greek girls, high above dinners and wines ofall sorts. Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. Ham only noticedthat his father was a drunkard, and completely lost sight of the fact thathe was a genius, that he had built an ark and saved the world. 

Writers must not imitate Ham, bear that in mind. 

I do not venture to ask you to love the gynaecologist and the professor, but I venture to remind you of the justice which for an objective writer ismore precious than the air he breathes. 

The girl of the merchant class is admirably drawn. That is a good passagein the doctor's speech in which he speaks of his lack of faith in medicine, but there is no need to make him drink after every sentence. .. . 

Then from the particular to the general! Let me warn you. This is not astory and not a novel and not a work of art, but a long row of heavy, gloomy barrack buildings. Where is your construction which at first soenchanted your humble servant? Where is the lightness, the freshness, thegrace? Read your story through: a description of a dinner, then adescription of passing ladies and girls, then a description of a company, then a description of a dinner, . .. And so on endlessly. Descriptions anddescriptions and no action at all. You ought to begin straight away withthe merchant's daughter, and keep to her, and chuck out Verotchka and theGreek girls and all the rest, except the doctor and the merchant family. 

Excuse this long letter. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, October 16, 1891. 

I congratulate you on your new cook, and wish you an excellent appetite. Wish me the same, for I am coming to see you soon--sooner than I hadintended--and shall eat for three. I simply must get away from home, ifonly for a fortnight. From morning till night I am unpleasantly irritable, I feel as though someone were drawing a blunt knife over my soul, and thisirritability finds external expression in my hurrying off to bed early andavoiding conversation. Nothing I do succeeds. I began a story for the_Sbornik_; I wrote half and threw it up, and then began another; I havebeen struggling for more than a week with this story, and the time when Ishall finish it and when I shall set to work and finish the first story, for which I am to be paid, seems to me far away. I have not been to theprovince of Nizhni Novgorod yet, for reasons not under my control, and Idon't know when I shall go. In fact it's a hopeless mess--a silly muddleand not life. And I desire nothing now so much as to win two hundredthousand. .. . 

Ah, I have such a subject for a novel! If I were in a tolerable humour Icould begin it on the first of November and finish it on the first ofDecember. I would make five signatures of print. And I long to write as Idid at Bogimovo--i. E. , from morning till night and in my sleep. 

Don't tell anyone I am coming to Petersburg. I shall live incognito. In myletters I write vaguely that I am coming in November. .. . 

Shall I remind you of Kashtanka, or forget about her? Won't she lose herchildhood and youth if we don't print her? However, you know best. .. . 

P. S. --If you see my brother Alexandr, tell him that our aunt is dying ofconsumption. Her days are numbered. She was a splendid woman, a saint. 

If you want to visit the famine-stricken provinces, let us go together inJanuary, it will be more conspicuous then. .. . 

MOSCOW, October 19, 1891. 

What a splendid little letter has come from you! It is warmly andeloquently written, and every thought in it is true. To talk now oflaziness and drunkenness, and so on, is as strange and tactless as tolecture a man on the conduct of life at a moment when he is being sick orlying ill of typhus. There is always a certain element of insolence inbeing well-fed, as in every kind of force, and that element findsexpression chiefly in the well-fed man preaching to the hungry. Ifconsolation is revolting at a time of real sorrow, what must be the effectof preaching morality; and how stupid and insulting that preaching mustseem. These moral people imagine that if a man is fifteen roubles inarrears with his taxes he must be a wastrel, and ought not to drink; butthey ought to reckon up how much states are in debt, and prime ministers, and what the debts of all the marshals of nobility and all the bishopstaken together come to. What do the Guards owe! Only their tailors couldtell us that. .. . 

You have told them to send me four hundred? Vivat dominus Suvorin! So Ihave already received from your firm 400 + 100 + 400. Altogether I shallget for "The Duel" as I calculated, about fourteen hundred, so five hundredwill go towards my debt. Well, and for that thank God! By the spring I mustpay off all my debt or I shall go into a decline, for in the spring I wantanother advance from all my editors. I shall take it and escape to Java. .. . 

Ah, my friends, how bored I am! If I am a doctor I ought to have patientsand a hospital; if I am a literary man I ought to live among people insteadof in a flat with a mongoose, I ought to have at least a scrap of socialand political life--but this life between four walls, without nature, without people, without a country, without health and appetite, is notlife, but some sort of . .. And nothing more. 

For the sake of all the perch and pike you are going to catch on yourZaraish estate, I entreat you to publish the English humorist Bernard. [Translator's Note: ? Bernard Shaw. ] . .. 

TO MADAME LINTVARYOV. 

MOSCOW, October 25, 1891. 

HONOURED NATALYA MIHAILOVNA, I have not gone to Nizhni as I meant to, but am sitting at home, writingand sneezing. Madame Morozov has seen the Minister, he has absolutelyprohibited private initiative in the work of famine relief, and actuallywaved her out of his presence. This has reduced me to apathy at once. Addto that, complete lack of money, sneezing, a mass of work, the illness ofmy aunt who died to-day, the indefiniteness, the uncertainty infact--everything has come together to hinder a lazy person like me. I haveput off my going away till the first of December. 

We felt dull without you for a long time, and when the Shah of Persia[Footnote: A. I. Smagin. ] went away it was duller still. I have givenorders that no one is to be admitted, and sit in my room like a heron inthe reeds; I see no one, and no one sees me. And it is better so, or thepublic would pull the bell off, and my study would be turned into a smokingand talking room. It's dull to live like this, but what am I to do? I shallwait till the summer and then let myself go. 

I shall sell the mongoose by auction. I should be glad to sell N. And hispoems too, but no one would buy him. He dashes in to see me almost everyevening as he used to do, and bores me with his doubts, his struggles, hisvolcanoes, slit nostrils, atamans, the life of the free, and such tosh, forwhich God forgive him. 

Russkiya Vyedomosti is printing a _Sbornik_ for the famine fund. With yourpermission, I shall send you a copy. 

Well, good health and happiness to you; respects and greetings to all yoursfrom

 the Geographer, A. CHEKHOV. 

P. S. --All my family send their regards. 

We are all well but sorrowful. Our aunt was a general favourite, and wasconsidered among us the incarnation of goodness, kindness, and justice, ifonly all that can be incarnated. Of course we shall all die, but still itis sad. 

In April I shall be in your parts. By the spring I hope I shall have heapsof money. I judge by the omen: no money is a sign of money coming. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, October 25, 1891. 

Print "The Duel" not twice a week but only once. To print it twice isbreaking a long-established custom of the paper, and it would seem asthough I were robbing the other contributors of one day a week; andmeanwhile it makes no difference to me or my novel whether it is printedonce a week or twice. The literary brotherhood in Petersburg seems to talkof nothing but the uncleanness of my motives. I have just received the goodnews that I am to be married to the rich Madame Sibiryakov. I get a lot ofagreeable news altogether. 

I wake up every night and read "War and Peace. " One reads it with the sameinterest and naive wonder as though one had never read it before. It'samazingly good. Only I don't like the passages in which Napoleon appears. As soon as Napoleon comes on the scene there are forced explanations andtricks of all sorts to prove that he was stupider than he really was. Everything that is said and done by Pierre, Prince Andrey, or theabsolutely insignificant Nikolay Rostov--all that is good, clever, natural, and touching; everything that is thought and done by Napoleon is notnatural, not clever, inflated and worthless. 

When I live in the provinces (of which I dream now day and night), I shallpractice as a doctor and read novels. 

I am not coming to Petersburg. 

If I had been by Prince Andrey I should have saved him. It is strange toread that the wound of a prince, a rich man spending his days and nightswith a doctor and being nursed by Natasha and Sonya, should have smelt likea corpse. What a scurvy affair medicine was in those days! Tolstoy couldnot help getting soaked through with hatred for medicine while he waswriting his thick novel. .. . 

MOSCOW, November 18, 1891. 

. .. I have read your letter about the influenza and Solovyov. I wasunexpectedly aware of a dash of cruelty in it. The phrase "I hate" does notsuit you at all; and a public confession "I am a sinner, a sinner, asinner, " is such pride that it made me feel uncomfortable. When the popetook the title "holiness, " the head of the Eastern church, in pique, calledhimself "The servant of God's servants. " So you publicly expatiate on yoursinfulness from pique of Solovyov, who has the impudence to call himselforthodox. But does a word like orthodoxy, Judaism, or Catholicism containany implication of exceptional personal merit or virtue? To my thinkingeverybody is bound to call himself orthodox if he has that word inscribedon his passport. Whether you believe or not, whether you are a prince ofthis world or an exile in penal servitude, you are, for practical purposes, orthodox. And Solovyov made no sort of pretension when he said he was noJew or Chaldean but orthodox. .. . 

I still feel dull, blighted, foolish, and indifferent, and I am stillsneezing and coughing, and I am beginning to think I shall not get back tomy former health. But that's all in God's hands. Medical treatment andanxiety about one's physical existence arouse in me a feeling not far fromloathing. I am not going to be doctored. I will take water and quinine, butI am not going to let myself be sounded. .. . 

I had only just finished this letter when I received yours. You say that ifI go into the wilds I shall be quite cut off from you. But I am going tolive in the country in order to be nearer Petersburg. If I have no flat inMoscow you must understand, my dear sir, I shall spend November, December, and January in Petersburg: that will be possible then. I shall be able tobe idle all the summer too; I shall look out for a house in the country foryou, but you are wrong in disliking Little Russians, they are not childrenor actors in the province of Poltava, but genuine people, and cheerful andwell-fed into the bargain. 

Do you know what relieves my cough? When I am working I sprinkle the edgeof the table with turpentine with a sprayer and inhale its vapour. When Igo to bed I spray my little table and other objects near me. The fine dropsevaporate sooner than the liquid itself. And the smell of turpentine ispleasant. I drink Obersalzbrunnen, avoid hot things, talk little, and blamemyself for smoking so much. I repeat, dress as warmly as possible, even athome. Avoid draughts at the theatre. Treat yourself like a hothouse plantor you will not soon be rid of your cough. If you want to try turpentine, buy the French kind. Take quinine once a day, and be careful to avoidconstipation. Influenza has completely taken away from me any desire todrink spirituous liquors. They are disgusting to my taste. I don't drink mytwo glasses at night, and so it is a long time before I can get to sleep. Iwant to take ether. 

I await your story. In the summer let us each write a play. Yes, by God!why the devil should we waste our time. .. . 

TO E. M. S. 

MOSCOW, November 19, 1891. 

HONOURED ELENA MIHAILOVNA, I am at home to all commencing, continuing, and concluding authors--that ismy rule, and apart from your authorship and mine, I regard a visit from youas a great honour to me. Even if it were not so, even if for some reason Idid not desire your visit, even then I should have received you, as I haveenjoyed the greatest hospitality from your family. I did not receive you, and at once asked my brother to go to you and explain the cause. At themoment your card was handed me I was ill and undressed--forgive thesehomely details--I was in my bedroom, while there were persons in my studywhose presence would not have been welcome to you. And so--to see you wasphysically impossible, and this my brother was to have explained to you, and you, a decent and good-hearted person, ought to have understood it; butyou were offended. Well, I can't help it. .. . 

But can you really have written only fifteen stories?--at this rate youwon't learn to write till you are fifty. 

I am in bad health; for over a month I have had to keep indoors--influenzaand cough. 

All good wishes. 

Write another twenty stories and send them. I shall always read them withpleasure, and practice is essential for you. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, November 22, 1891. 

My health is on the road to improvement. My cough is less, my strength isgreater. My mood is livelier, and there is sunrise in my head. I wake up inthe morning in good spirits, go to bed without gloomy thoughts, and atdinner I am not ill-humoured and don't say nasty things to my mother. 

I don't know when I shall come to you. I have heaps of work _pour manger_. Till the spring I must work--that is, at senseless grind. A ray of libertyhas beamed upon my horizon. There has come a whiff of freedom. Yesterday Igot a letter from the province of Poltava. They write they have found me asuitable place. A brick house of seven rooms with an iron roof, latelybuilt and needing no repairs, a stable, a cellar, an icehouse, eighteenacres of land, an excellent meadow for hay, an old shady garden on the bankof the river Psyol. The river bank is mine; on that side there is amarvellous view over a wide expanse. The price is merciful. Three thousand, and two thousand deferred payment over several years. Five in all. Ifheaven has mercy upon me, and the purchase comes off, I shall move there inMarch _for good_, to live quietly in the lap of nature for nine months andthe rest of the year in Petersburg. I am sending my sister to look at theplace. 

Ach! liberty, liberty! If I can live on not more than two thousand ayear, which is only possible in the country, I shall be absolutely freefrom all anxieties over money coming in and going out. Then I shall workand read, read . .. In a word it will be marmelad. [Translator's Note:A kind of sweetmeat made by boiling down fruit to the consistency ofdamson cheese. ] . .. 

MOSCOW, November 30, 1891. 

I return you the two manuscripts you sent me. One story is an IndianLegend--The Lotus Flower, Wreaths of Laurel, A Summer Night, The HummingBird--that in India! He begins with Faust thirsting for youth and ends with"the bliss of the true life, " in the style of Tolstoy. I have cut outparts, polished it up, and the result is a legend of no great value, indeed, but light, and it may be read with interest. The other story isilliterate, clumsy, and womanish in structure, but there is a story and acertain raciness. I have cut it down to half as you see. Both stories couldbe printed. .. . 

I keep dreaming and dreaming. I dream of moving from Moscow into thecountry in March, and in the autumn coming to Petersburg to stay till thespring. I long to spend at least one winter in Petersburg, and that's onlypossible on condition I have no perch in Moscow. And I dream of how I shallspend five months talking to you about literature, and do as I think bestin the _Novoye Vremya_, while in the country I shall go in for medicineheart and soul. 

Boborykin has been to see me. He is dreaming too. He told me that he wantsto write something in the way of the physiology of the Russian novel, itsorigin among us, and the natural course of its development. While he wastalking I could not get rid of the feeling that I had a maniac before me, but a literary maniac who put literature far above everything in life. I sorarely see genuine literary people at home in Moscow that a conversationwith Boborykin seemed like heavenly manna, though I don't believe in thephysiology of the novel and the natural course of its development--that is, there may exist such a physiology in nature, but I don't believe withexisting methods it can be detected. Boborykin dismisses Gogol absolutelyand refuses to recognize him as a forerunner of Turgenev, Gontcharov, andTolstoy. .. . He puts him apart, outside the current in which the Russiannovel has flowed. Well, I don't understand that. If one takes thestandpoint of natural development, it's impossible to put not only Gogol, but even a dog barking, outside the current, for all things in natureinfluence one another, and even the fact that I have just sneezed is notwithout its influence on surrounding nature. .. . 

Good health to you! I am reading Shtchedrin's "Diary of a Provincial. " Howlong and boring it is! And at the same time how like real life!

TO N. A. LEIKIN. 

MOSCOW, December 2, 1891. 

I am writing to ask you a great favour, dear Nikolay Alexandrovitch. Thisis what it is. Until last year I have always lived with my universitydiploma, which by land and by sea has served me for a passport; but everytime it has been _vise_ the police have warned me that one cannot live witha diploma, and that I ought to get a passport from "the proper department. "I have asked everyone what this "proper department" means, and no one hasgiven me an answer. A year ago the Moscow head police officer gave me apassport on the condition that within a year I should get a passport from"the proper department. " I can't make head or tail of it! The other day Ilearned that as I have never been in the government service and byeducation am a doctor, I ought to be registered in the class ofprofessional citizens, and that a certain department, I believe theheraldic, will furnish me with a certificate which will serve me as apassport for all the days of my life. I remembered that you had latelyreceived the grade of professional citizen, and with it a certificate, andthat therefore you must have applied somewhere and to someone and so, in asense, are an old campaigner. For God's sake advise me to what department Iought to apply. What petition ought I to write, and how many stamps ought Ito put on it? What documents must be enclosed with the petition? and so on, and so on. In the town hall there is a "passport bureau. " Could not thatbureau reveal the mystery if it is not sufficiently clear to you?

Forgive me for troubling you, but I really don't know to whom to apply, andI am a very poor lawyer myself. .. . 

Your "Medal" is often given at Korsh's Theatre, and with success. It isplayed together with Myasnitsky's "Hare. " I haven't seen them, but friendstell me that a great difference is felt between the two plays: that "TheMedal" in comparison with "The Hare" seems something clean, artistic, andhaving form and semblance. There you have it! Literary men are swept out ofthe theatre, and plays are written by nondescript people, old and young, while the journals and newspapers are edited by tradesmen, governmentclerks, and young ladies. But there, the devil take them! . .. 

TO E. P. YEGOROV. 

MOSCOW, December 11, 1891. 

HONOURED EVGRAF PETROVITCH, I write to explain why my journey to you did not come off. I was intendingto come to you not as a special correspondent, but on a commission from, ormore correctly by agreement with, a small circle of people who want to dosomething for the famine-stricken peasants. The point is that the publicdoes not trust the administration and so is deterred from subscribing. There are a thousand legends and fables about the waste, the shamelesstheft, and so on. People hold aloof from the Episcopal department and areindignant with the Red Cross. The owner of our beloved Babkino, the ZemskyNatchalnik, rapped out to me, bluntly and definitely: "The Red Cross inMoscow are thieves. " Such being the state of feeling, the government canscarcely expect serious help from the public. And yet the public wants tohelp and its conscience is uneasy. In September the educated and wealthyclasses of Moscow formed themselves into circles, thought, talked, andapplied for advice to leading persons; everyone was talking of how to getround the government and organize independently. They decided to send tothe famine-stricken provinces their own agents, who should makeacquaintance with the position on the spot, open feeding centres, and soon. Some of the leaders of these circles, persons of weight, went toDurnovo to ask permission, and Durnovo refused it, declaring that theorganization of relief must be left to the Episcopal department and the RedCross. In short, private initiative was suppressed at its first efforts. Everyone was cast down and dispirited; some were furious, some simplywashed their hands of the whole business. One must have the courage andauthority of Tolstoy to act in opposition to all prohibitions andprevailing sentiments, and to follow the dictates of duty. 

Well, now about myself. I am in complete sympathy with individualinitiative, for every man has the right to do good in the way he thinksbest; but all the discussion concerning the government, the Red Cross, andso on, seemed to me inopportune and impractical. I imagined that withcoolness and good humour, one might get round all the terrors and delicacyof the position, and that there was no need to go to the Minister about it. I went to Sahalin without a single letter of recommendation, and yet I dideverything I wanted to. Why cannot I go to the famine-stricken provinces? Iremembered, too, such representatives of the government as you, Kiselyov, and all the Zemsky Natchalniks and tax inspectors of my acquaintance--allextremely decent people, worthy of complete confidence. And I resolved--ifonly for a small region--to combine the two elements of officialdom andprivate initiative. I want to come and consult you as soon as I can. Thepublic trusts me; it would trust you, too, and I might reckon onsucceeding. Do you remember I wrote to you? Suvorin came to Moscow at thetime; I complained to him that I did not know your address. He telegraphedto Baranov, and Baranov was so kind as to send it to me. Suvorin was illwith influenza; as a rule when he comes to Moscow we spend whole daystogether discussing literature, of which he has a wide knowledge; we didthe same on this occasion, and in consequence I caught his influenza, waslaid up, and had a raging cough. Korolenko was in Moscow, and he found meill. Lung complications kept me ill for a whole month, confined to thehouse and unable to do anything. Now I am on the way to recovery, though Istill cough and am thin. There is the whole story for you. If it had notbeen for the influenza we might together perhaps have succeeded inextracting two or three thousand or more from the public. 

Your exasperation with the press I can quite understand. The lucubrationsof the journalists annoy you who know the true position of affairs, in thesame way as the lucubrations of the profane about diphtheria annoy me as adoctor. But what would you have? Russia is not England and is not France. Our newspapers are not rich and they have very few men at their disposal. To send to the Volga a professor of the Petrovsky Academy or an Engelhardtis expensive: to send a talented and business-like member of the staff isimpossible too--he is wanted at home. The _Times_ could organize a censusin the famine-stricken provinces at its own expense, could settle a Kennanin every district, paying him forty roubles a day, and then somethingsensible could be done; but what can the _Russkiya Vyedomosti_ or the_Novoye Vremya_ do, who consider an income of a hundred thousand as thewealth of Croesus? As for the correspondents themselves, they are townsmenwho know the country only from Glyeb Uspensky. Their position is an utterlyfalse one, they must fly into a district, sniff about, write, and dash onfurther. The Russian correspondent has neither material resources, norfreedom, nor authority. For two hundred roubles a month he gallops on andon, and only prays they may not be angry with him for his involuntary andinevitable misrepresentations. He feels guilty--though it is not he that isto blame but Russian darkness. The newspaper correspondents of the westhave excellent maps, encyclopaedias, and statistics; in the west they couldwrite their reports, sitting at home, but among us a correspondent canextract information only from talk and rumour. Among us in Russia onlythree districts have been investigated: the Tcherepov district, the Tambovdistrict, and one other. That is all in the whole of Russia. The newspaperstell lies, the correspondents are duffers, but what's to be done? If ourpress said nothing the position would be still more awful, you'll admitthat. 

Your letter and your scheme for buying the cattle from the peasants hasstirred me up. I am ready with all my heart and all my strength to followyour lead and do whatever you think best. I have thought it over for a longtime, and this is my opinion: it is no use to reckon upon the rich. It istoo late. Every wealthy man has by now forked out as many thousands as heis destined to. Our one resource now is the middle-class man who subscribesby the rouble and the half-rouble. Those who in September were talkingabout private initiative will by now have found themselves a niche invarious boards and committees and are already at work. So only themiddle-class man is left. Let us open a subscription list. You shall writea letter to the editors, and I will get it printed in _Russkiya Vyedomosti_and _Novoye Vremya_. To combine the two elements above mentioned, we mightboth sign the letter. If that is inconvenient to you from an official pointof view, one might write in the third person as a communication that in thefifth section of the Nizhni Novgorod district this and that had beenorganized, that things were, thank God! going successfully and thatsubscriptions could be sent to the Zemsky Natchalnik, E. P. Yegorov, or toA. P. Chekhov, or to the editor of such and such papers. We need only towrite at some length. Write in full detail, I will add something, and thething will be done. We must ask for subscriptions and not for loans. No onewill come forward with a loan; it is uncomfortable. It is hard to give, butit is harder still to take back. 

I have only one rich acquaintance in Moscow, V. A. Morozov, a ladywell-known for her philanthropy. I went to see her yesterday with yourletter. I talked with her and dined with her. She is absorbed now in thecommittee of education, which is organizing relief centres for theschool-children, and is giving everything to that. As education and horsesare incommensurables, V. A. Promised me the co-operation of the committeeif we would start centres for feeding the school-children and send detailedinformation about it. I felt it awkward to ask her for money on the spot, for people beg and beg of her and fleece her like a fox. I only asked herwhen she had any committees and board meetings not to forget us, and shepromised she would not. .. . 

If any roubles or half-roubles come in I will send them on to you withoutdelay. Dispose of me and believe me that it would be a real happiness to meto do at least something, for so far I have done absolutely nothing for thefamine-stricken peasants and for those who are helping them. 

TO A. I. SMAGIN. 

MOSCOW, December 11, 1891. 

. .. Well, now I have something to tell you, my good sir. I am sitting athome in Moscow, but meantime my enterprise in the Nizhni Novgorod provinceis in full swing already! Together with my friend the Zemsky Natchalnik, anexcellent man, we are hatching a little scheme, on which we expect to spenda hundred thousand or so, in the most remote section of the province, wherethere are no landowners nor doctors, nor even well-educated young ladieswho are now to be found in numbers even in hell. Apart from famine reliefof all sorts, we are making it our chief object to save the crops of nextyear. Owing to the fact that the peasants are selling their horses for nextto nothing, there is a grave danger that the fields will not be ploughedfor the spring corn, so that the famine will be repeated next year. So weare going to buy up the horses and feed them, and in spring give them backto their owners; our work is already firmly established, and in January Iam going there to behold its fruits. Here is my object in writing to you. If in the course of some noisy banquet you or anyone else should chance tocollect, if only half a rouble, for the famine fund, or if some Korobotchkabequeaths a rouble for that object, or if you yourself should win a hundredroubles, remember us sinners in your prayers, and spare us a part of yourwealth! Not at once but when you like, only not later than in thespring. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, December 11, 1891. 

. .. I am coming to you. My lying is unintentional. I have no money at all. I shall come when I get the various sums owing to me. Yesterday I got onehundred and fifty roubles, I shall soon get more, then I shall fly to you. 

In January I am going to Nizhni Novgorod province: there my scheme isworking already. I am very, very glad. I am going to write to AnnaPavlovna. 

Ah, if you knew how agonizingly my head aches to-day! I want to come toPetersburg if only to lie motionless indoors for two days and only go outto dinner. For some reason I feel utterly exhausted. It's all this cursedinfluenza. 

How many persons could you and would you undertake to feed? Tolstoy! ah, Tolstoy! In these days he is not a man but a super-man, a Jupiter. In the_Sbornik_ he has published an article about the relief centres, and thearticle consists of advice and practical instructions. So business-like, simple, and sensible that, as the editor of _Russkiya Vyedomosti_ said, itought to be printed in the _Government Gazette_, instead of in the_Sbornik_. .. . 

December 13, 1891. 

Now I understand why you don't sleep well at night. If I had written astory like that I should not have slept for ten nights in succession. Themost terrible passage is where Varya strangles the hero and initiates himinto the mysteries of the life beyond the grave. It's terrifying andconsistent with spiritualism. You mustn't cut out a single word fromVarya's speeches, especially where they are both riding on horseback. Don'ttouch it. The idea of the story is good, and the incidents are fantasticand interesting. .. . 

But why do you talk of our "nervous age"? There really is no nervous age. As people lived in the past so they live now, and the nerves of to-day areno worse than the nerves of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Since you havealready written the ending I shall not put you out by sending you mine. Iwas inspired and could not resist writing it. You can read it if you like. Stories are good in this way, that one can sit over them, pen in hand, fordays together, and not notice how time passes, and at the same time beconscious of life of a sort. That's from the hygienic point of view. Andfrom the point of view of usefulness and so on, to write a fairly goodstory and give the reader ten to twenty interesting minutes--that, asGilyarovsky says, is not a sheep sneezing. .. . 

I have a horrible headache again to-day. I don't know what to do. Yes, Isuppose it's old age, or if it's not that it's something worse. 

A little old gentleman brought me one hundred roubles to-day for thefamine. 

TO A. I. SMAGIN. 

MOSCOW, December 16, 1891. 

. .. Alas! if I don't move into the country this year, and if the purchaseof the house and land for some reason does not come off, I shall be playingthe part of a great villain in regard to my health. It seems to me that Iam dried and warped like an old cupboard, and that if I go on living inMoscow next season, and give myself up to scribbling excesses, Gilyarovskywill read an excellent poem to welcome my entrance into that country placewhere there is neither sitting nor standing nor sneezing, but only lyingdown and nothing more. Do you know why you have no success with women?Because you have the most hideous, heathenish, desperate, tragichandwriting. .. . 

TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV. 

MOSCOW, December 25, 1891. 

DEAR ALEXEY NIKOLAEVITCH, Yesterday I chanced to learn your address, and I write to you. If you havea free minute please write to me how you are in health, and how you aregetting on altogether. Write, if only a couple of lines. 

I have had influenza for the last six weeks. There has been a complicationof the lungs and I have a cruel cough. In March I am going south to theprovince of Poltava, and shall stay there till my cough is gone. My sisterhas gone down there to buy a house and garden. 

Literary doings here are quiet but life is bustling. There is a great dealof talk about the famine, and a great deal of work resulting from the saidtalk. The theatres are empty, the weather is wretched, there are no frostsat all. Jean Shteheglov is captivated by the Tolstoyans. Merezhkovsky sitsat home as of old, lost in a labyrinth of deep researches, and as of old isvery nice; of Chekhov they say he has married the heiress Sibiryakov andgot five millions dowry--all Petersburg is talking of it. For whosebenefit and for what object this slander, I am utterly unable to imagine. It's positively sickening to read letters from Petersburg. 

I have not seen Ostrovsky this year. .. . 

We shall probably not meet very soon, as I am going away in March and shallnot return to the North before November. I shall not keep a flat in Moscow, as that pleasure is beyond my means. I shall stay in Petersburg. 

I embrace you warmly. By the way, a little explanation in private. One dayat dinner in Paris, persuading me to remain there, you offered to lend memoney. I refused, and it seemed to me my refusal hurt and vexed you, and Ifancied that when we parted there was a touch of coldness on your side. Possibly I am mistaken, but if I am right I assure you, my dear friend, onmy word of honour, that I refused not because I did not care to be under anobligation to you, but simply from a feeling of self-preservation; I wasbehaving stupidly in Paris, and an extra thousand francs would only havebeen bad for my health. Believe me that if I had needed it, I would haveasked you for a loan as readily as Suvorin. 

God keep you. 

TO V. A. TIHONOV. 

MOSCOW, February 22, 1892. 

. .. You are mistaken in thinking you were drunk at Shtcheglov's name-dayparty. You had had a drop, that was all. You danced when they all danced, and your jigitivka on the cabman's box excited nothing but general delight. As for your criticism, it was most likely far from severe, as I don'tremember it. I only remember that Vvedensky and I for some reason roaredwith laughter as we listened to you. 

Do you want my biography? Here it is. I was born in Taganrog in 1860. Ifinished the course at Taganrog high school in 1879. In 1884 I took mydegree in medicine at the University of Moscow. In 1888 I gained thePushkin prize. In 1890 I made a journey to Sahalin across Siberia and backby sea. In 1891 I made a tour in Europe, where I drank excellent wine andate oysters. In 1892 I took part in an orgy in the company of V. A. Tihonovat a name-day party. I began writing in 1879. The published collections ofmy works are: "Motley Tales, " "In the Twilight, " "Stories, " "Surly People, "and a novel, "The Duel. " I have sinned in the dramatic line too, thoughwith moderation. I have been translated into all the languages with theexception of the foreign ones, though I have indeed long ago beentranslated by the Germans. The Czechs and the Serbs approve of me also, andthe French are not indifferent. The mysteries of love I fathomed at the ageof thirteen. With my colleagues, doctors, and literary men alike, I am onthe best of terms. I am a bachelor. I should like to receive a pension. Ipractice medicine, and so much so that sometimes in the summer I performpost-mortems, though I have not done so for two or three years. Of authorsmy favourite is Tolstoy, of doctors Zaharin. 

All that is nonsense though. Write what you like. If you haven't facts makeup with lyricism. 

TO A. S. KISELYOV. 

MELIHOVO, STATION LOPASNYA, MOSCOW-KURSK LINE. March 7, 1892. 

This is our new address. And here are the details for you. If a peasantwoman has no troubles she buys a pig. We have bought a pig, too, a bigcumbersome estate, the owner of which would in Germany infallibly be made a_herzog_. Six hundred and thirty-nine acres in two parts with land notours in between. Three hundred acres of young copse, which in twenty yearswill look like a wood, at present is a thicket of bushes. They call it"shaft wood, " but to my mind the name of "switch wood" would be moreappropriate, since one could make nothing of it at present but switches. There is a fruit-garden, a park, big trees, long avenues of limes. Thebarns and sheds have been recently built, and have a fairly presentableappearance. The poultry house is made in accordance with the latestdeductions of science, the well has an iron pump. The whole place is shutoff from the world by a fence in the style of a palisade. The yard, thegarden, the park, and the threshing-floor are shut off from each other inthe same way. The house is good and bad. It's more roomy than our Moscowflat, it's light and warm, roofed with iron, and stands in a fine position, has a verandah into the garden, French windows, and so on, but it is bad innot being lofty, not sufficiently new, having outside a very stupid andnaive appearance, and inside swarms with bugs and beetles which could onlybe got rid of by one means--a fire: nothing else would do for them. 

There are flower-beds. In the garden fifteen paces from the house is a pond(thirty-five yards long, and thirty-five feet wide), with carp and tench init, so that you can catch fish from the window. Beyond the yard there isanother pond, which I have not yet seen. In the other part of the estatethere is a river, probably a nasty one. Two miles away there is a broadriver full of fish. We shall sow oats and clover. We have bought cloverseed at ten roubles a pood, but we have no money left for oats. The estatehas been bought for thirteen thousand. The legal formalities cost aboutseven hundred and fifty roubles, total fourteen thousand. The artist whosold it was paid four thousand down, and received a mortgage for fivethousand at five per cent, for five years. The remaining four thousand theartist will receive from the Land Bank when in the spring I mortgage theestate to a bank. You see what a good arrangement. In two or three years Ishall have five thousand, and shall pay off the mortgage, and shall be leftwith only the four thousand debt to the bank; but I have got to live thosetwo of three years, hang it all! What matters is not the interest--that issmall, not more than five hundred roubles a year--but that I shall beobliged all the time to think about quarter-days and all sorts of horrorsattendant on being in debt. Moreover, your honour, as long as I am aliveand earning four or five thousand a year, the debts will seem a trifle, andeven a convenience, for to pay four hundred and seventy interest is mucheasier than to pay a thousand for a flat in Moscow; that is all true. Butwhat if I depart from you sinners to another world--that is, give up theghost? Then the ducal estate with the debts would seem to my parents intheir green old age and to my sister such a burden that they would raise awail to heaven. 

I was completely cleaned out over the move. 

Ah, if you could come and see us! In the first place it would be verydelightful and interesting to see you; and in the second, your advice wouldsave us from a thousand idiocies. You know we don't understand a thingabout it. Like Raspluev, all I know about agriculture is that the earth isblack, and nothing more. Write. How is it best to sow clover?--among therye, or among the spring wheat? . .. 

TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV. 

MELIHOVO, March 9, 1892. 

. .. Yes, such men as Ratchinsky are very rare in this world. I understandyour enthusiasm, my dear fellow. After the suffocation one feels in theproximity of A. And B. --and the world is full of them--Ratchinsky with hisideas, his humanity, and his purity, seems like a breath of spring. I amready to lay down my life for Ratchinsky; but, dear friend, --allow me that"but" and don't be vexed--I would not send my children to his school. Why?I received a religious education in my childhood--with church singing, withreading of the "apostles" and the psalms in church, with regular attendanceat matins, with obligation to assist at the altar and ring the bells. And, do you know, when I think now of my childhood, it seems to me rathergloomy. I have no religion now. Do you know, when my brothers and I used tostand in the middle of the church and sing the trio "May my prayer beexalted, " or "The Archangel's Voice, " everyone looked at us with emotionand envied our parents, but we at that moment felt like little convicts. Yes, dear boy! Ratchinsky I understand, but the children who are trained byhim I don't know. Their souls are dark for me. If there is joy in theirsouls, then they are happier than I and my brothers, whose childhood wassuffering. 

It is nice to be a lord. There is plenty of room, it's warm, people are notcontinually pulling at the bell; and it is easy to descend from one'slordship and serve as concierge or porter. My estate, sir, cost thirteenthousand, and I have only paid a third, the rest is a debt which will keepme long years on the chain. 

Come and see me, Jean, together with Suvorin. Make a plan with him. I havesuch a garden! Such a naive courtyard, such geese! Write a little oftener. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, March 17, 1892. 

. .. Ah, my dear fellow, if only you could take a holiday! Living in thecountry is inconvenient. The insufferable time of thaw and mud isbeginning, but something marvellous and moving is taking place in nature, the poetry and novelty of which makes up for all the discomforts of life. Every day there are surprises, one better than another. The starlings havereturned, everywhere there is the gurgling of water, in places where thesnow has thawed the grass is already green. The day drags on like eternity. One lives as though in Australia, somewhere at the ends of the earth; one'smood is calm, contemplative, and animal, in the sense that one does notregret yesterday or look forward to tomorrow. From here, far away, peopleseem very good, and that is natural, for in going away into the country weare not hiding from people but from our vanity, which in town among peopleis unjust and active beyond measure. Looking at the spring, I have adreadful longing that there should be paradise in the other world. In fact, at moments I am so happy that I superstitiously pull myself up and remindmyself of my creditors, who will one day drive me out of the Australia Ihave so happily won. .. . 

TO MADAME AVILOV. 

MELIHOVO, March 19, 1892. 

HONOURED LIDYA ALEXYEVNA, I have read your story "On the Road. " If I were the editor of anillustrated magazine, I should publish the story with great pleasure; buthere is my advice as a reader: when you depict sad or unlucky people, andwant to touch the reader's heart, try to be colder--it gives their grief asit were a background, against which it stands out in greater relief. As itis, your heroes weep and you sigh. Yes, you must be cold. 

But don't listen to me, I am a bad critic. I have not the faculty offorming my critical ideas clearly. Sometimes I make a regular hash ofit. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, March, 1892. 

The cost of labour is almost nil, and so I am very well off. I begin to seethe charms of capitalism. To pull down the stove in the servants' quartersand build up there a kitchen stove with all its accessories, then to pulldown the kitchen stove in the house arid put up a Dutch stove instead, costs twenty roubles altogether. The price of two men to dig, twenty-fivekopecks. To fill the ice cellar it costs thirty kopecks a day to theworkmen. A young labourer who does not drink or smoke, and can read andwrite, whose duties are to work the land and clean the boots and look afterthe flower-garden, costs five roubles a month. Floors, partitions, paperingwalls--all that is cheaper than mushrooms. And I am at ease. But if I wereto pay for labour a quarter of what I get for my leisure I should be ruinedin a month, as the number of stove-builders, carpenters, joiners, and soon, threatens to go for ever after the fashion of a recurring decimal. Aspacious life not cramped within four walls requires a spacious pocket too. I have bored you already, but I must tell you one thing more: the cloverseed costs one hundred roubles a _pood_, and the oats needed for seed costmore than a hundred. Think of that! They prophesy a harvest and wealth forme, but what is that to me! Better five kopecks in the present than arouble in the future. I must sit and work. I must earn at least fivehundred roubles for all these trifles. I have earned half already. And thesnow is melting, it is warm, the birds are singing, the sky is bright andspring-like. 

I am reading a mass of things. I have read Lyeskov's "LegendaryCharacters, " religious and piquant--a combination of virtue, piety, andlewdness, but very interesting. Read it if you haven't read it. I have readagain Pisarev's "Criticism of Pushkin. " Awfully naive. The man pullsOnyegin and Tatyana down from their pedestals, but Pushkin remains unhurt. Pisarev is the grandfather and father of all the critics of to-day, including Burenin--the same pettiness in disparagement, the same cold andconceited wit, and the same coarseness and indelicacy in their attitude topeople. It is not Pisarev's ideas that are brutalizing, for he has none, but his coarse tone. His attitude to Tatyana, especially to her charmingletter, which I love tenderly, seems to me simply abominable. The critichas the foul aroma of an insolent captious procurator. 

We have almost finished furnishing; only the shelves for my books are notdone yet. When we take out the double windows we shall begin paintingeverything afresh, and then the house will have a very presentableappearance. 

There are avenues of lime-trees, apple-trees, cherries, plums, andraspberries in the garden. .. . 

MELIHOVO, April 6, 1892. 

It is Easter. There is a church here, but no clergy. We collected elevenroubles from the whole parish and got a priest from the Davydov Monastery, who began celebrating the service on Friday. The church is very old andchilly, with lattice windows. We sang the Easter service--that is, myfamily and my visitors, young people. The effect was very good andharmonious, particularly the mass. The peasants were very much pleased, andthey say they have never had such a grand service. Yesterday the sun shoneall day, it was warm. In the morning I went into the fields, from which thesnow has gone already, and spent half an hour in the happiest frame ofmind: it was amazingly nice! The winter corn is green already, and there isgrass in the copse. 

You will not like Melihovo, at least at first. Here everything is inminiature; a little avenue of lime-trees, a pond the size of an aquarium, alittle garden and park, little trees; but when you have walked about itonce or twice the impression of littleness goes off. There is great feelingof space in spite of the village being so near. There is a great deal offorest around. There are numbers of starlings, and the starling has theright to say of itself: "I sing to my God all the days of my life. " Itsings all day long without stopping. .. . 

MELIHOVO, April 8, 1892. 

If Shapiro were to present me with the gigantic photograph of which youwrite, I should not know what to do with it. A cumbersome present. You saythat I used to be younger. Yes, imagine! Strange as it may seem, I havepassed thirty some time ago, and I already feel forty close at hand. I havegrown old not in body only, but in spirit. I have become stupidlyindifferent to everything in the world, and for some reason or other thebeginning of this indifference coincided with my tour abroad. I get up andgo to bed feeling as though interest in life had dried up in me. This iseither the illness called in the newspapers nervous exhaustion, or someworking of the spirit not clear to the consciousness, which is called innovels a spiritual revulsion. If it is the latter it is all for the best, Isuppose. 

 * * * * *

The artist Levitan is staying with me. Yesterday evening I went out withhim shooting. He shot at a snipe; the bird, shot in the wing, fell into apool. I picked it up: a long beak, big black eyes, and beautiful plumage. It looked at me with surprise. What was I to do with it? Levitan scowled, shut his eyes, and begged me, with a quiver in his voice: "My dear fellow, hit him on the head with the butt-end of your gun. " I said: "I can't. " Hewent on nervously, shrugging his shoulders, twitching his head and beggingme to; and the snipe went on looking at me in wonder. I had to obey Levitanand kill it. One beautiful creature in love the less, while two fools wenthome and sat down to supper. 

Jean Shtcheglov, in whose company you were so bored for a whole evening, isa great opponent of every sort of heresy, and amongst others of feminineintellect; and yet if one compares him with K. , for instance, beside her heseems like a foolish little monk. By the way, if you see K. , give her mygreetings, and tell her that we are expecting her here. She is veryinteresting in the open air and far more intelligent than in town. .. . 

TO MADAME AVILOV. 

MELIHOVO, April 29, 1892. 

. .. Yes, it is nice now in the country, not only nice but positivelyamazing. It's real spring, the trees are coming out, it is hot. Thenightingales are singing, and the frogs are croaking in all sorts of tones. I haven't a halfpenny, but the way I look at it is this: the rich man isnot he who has plenty of money, but he who has the means to live now in theluxurious surroundings given us by early spring. Yesterday I was in Moscow, but I almost expired there of boredom and all manner of disasters. Wouldyou believe it, a lady of my acquaintance, aged forty-two, recognizedherself in the twenty-year-old heroine of my story, "The Grasshopper" andall Moscow is accusing me of libelling her. The chief proof is the externallikeness. The lady paints, her husband is a doctor, and she is living withan artist. 

I am finishing a story ("Ward No. 6"), a very dull one, owing to a completeabsence of woman and the element of love. I can't endure such stories. Iwrite it as it were by accident, thoughtlessly. 

Yes, I wrote to you once that you must be unconcerned when you writepathetic stories. And you did not understand me. You may weep and moan overyour stories, you may suffer together with your heroes, but I consider onemust do this so that the reader does not notice it. The more objective, thestronger will be the effect. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, May 15, 1892. 

. .. I have got hold of the peasants and the shopkeepers here. One had ahaemorrhage from the throat, another had his arm crushed by a tree, a thirdhad his little daughter sick. .. . It seems they would be in a desperate casewithout me. They bow respectfully to me as Germans do to their pastor, I amfriends with them, and all goes well. .. . 

May 28, 1892. 

Life is short, and Chekhov, from whom you are expecting an answer, wouldlike it to flash by brilliantly and with dash. He would go to Prince'sIsland, to Constantinople, and again to India and Sahalin. .. . But in thefirst place he is not free, he has a respectable family who need hisprotection. In the second, he has a large dose of cowardice. Lookingtowards the future I call nothing but cowardice. I am afraid of gettinginto a muddle, and every journey complicates my financial position. No, don't tempt me without need. Don't write to me of the sea. 

It is hot here. There are warm rains, the evenings are enchanting. Three-quarters of a mile from here there is a good bathing place and goodsport for picnics, but no time to bathe or go to picnics. Either I amwriting and gnashing my teeth, or settling questions of halfpence withcarpenters and labourers. Misha was cruelly reprimanded by his superiorsfor coming to me every week instead of staying at home, and now there is noone but me to look after the farming, in which I have no faith, as it is ona petty scale, and more like a gentlemanly hobby than real work. I havebought three mousetraps, and catch twenty-five mice a day and carry themaway to the copse. It is lovely in the copse. .. . 

Our starlings, old and young, suddenly flew away. This puzzled us, for itwon't be time for their migration for ever so long; but suddenly we learnthat the other day clouds of grasshoppers from the south, which were takenfor locusts, flew over Moscow. One wonders how did our starlings find outthat on precisely such a day and so many miles from Melihovo these insectswould fly past? Who told them about it? Truly this is a great mystery. .. . 

June 16. 

. .. You want me to write my impressions to you. 

My soul longs for breadth and altitude, but I am forced to lead a narrowlife spent over trashy roubles and kopecks. There is nothing more vulgarthan a petty bourgeois life with its halfpence, its victuals, its futiletalk, and its useless conventional virtue; my heart aches from theconsciousness that I am working for money, and money is the centre of all Ido. This aching feeling, together with a sense of justice, makes my writinga contemptible pursuit in my eyes: I don't respect what I write, I amapathetic and bored with myself, and glad that I have medicine which, anyway, I practise not for the sake of money. I ought to have a bath insulphuric acid and flay off my skin, and then grow a new hide. .. . 

MELIHOVO, August 1. 

My letters chase you, but do not catch you. I have written to you often, and among other places to St. Moritz. Judging from your letters you havehad nothing from me. In the first place, there is cholera in Moscow andabout Moscow, and it will be in our parts some day soon. In the secondplace, I have been appointed cholera doctor, and my section includestwenty-five villages, four factories, and one monastery. I am organizingthe building of barracks, and so on, and I feel lonely, for all the cholerabusiness is alien to my heart, and the work, which involves continualdriving about, talking, and attention to petty details, is exhausting forme. I have no time to write. Literature has been thrown aside for a longtime now, and I am poverty-stricken, as I thought it convenient for myselfand my independence to refuse the remuneration received by the sectiondoctors. I am bored, but there is a great deal that is interesting incholera if you look at it from a detached point of view. I am sorry you arenot in Russia. Material for short letters is being wasted. There is moregood than bad, and in that cholera is a great contrast to the famine whichwe watched in the winter. Now all are working--they are working furiously. At the fair at Nizhni they are doing marvels which might force even Tolstoyto take a respectful attitude to medicine and the intervention of culturedpeople generally in life. It seems as though they had got a hold on thecholera. They have not only decreased the number of cases, but also thepercentage of deaths. In immense Moscow the cholera does not exceed fiftycases a week, while on the Don it is a thousand a day--an impressivedifference. We district doctors are getting ready; our plan of action isdefinite, and there are grounds for supposing that in our parts we tooshall decrease the percentage of mortality from cholera. We have noassistants, one has to be doctor and sanitary attendant at one and the sametime. The peasants are rude, dirty in their habits, and mistrustful; butthe thought that our labours are not thrown away makes all that scarcelynoticeable. Of all the Serpuhovo doctors I am the most pitiable; I have ascurvy carriage and horses, I don't know the roads, I see nothing byevening light, I have no money, I am very quickly exhausted, and worst ofall, I can never forget that I ought to be writing, and I long to spit onthe cholera and sit down and write to you, and I long to talk to you. I amin absolute loneliness. 

Our farming labours have been crowned with complete success. The harvest isconsiderable, and when we sell the corn Melihovo will bring us more than athousand roubles. The kitchen garden is magnificent. There are perfectmountains of cucumbers and the cabbage is wonderful. If it were not for theaccursed cholera I might say that I have never spent a summer so happily asthis one. 

Nothing has been heard of cholera riots yet. There is talk of some arrests, some manifestoes, and so on. They say that A. , the writer, has beencondemned to fifteen years' penal servitude. If the socialists are reallygoing to exploit the cholera for their own ends I shall despise them. Revolting means for good ends make the ends themselves revolting. Let themget a lift on the backs of the doctors and feldshers, but why lie to thepeasants? Why persuade them that they are right in their ignorance and thattheir coarse prejudices are the holy truth? If I were a politician I couldnever bring myself to disgrace my present for the sake of the future, eventhough I were promised tons of felicity for an ounce of mean lying. Writeto me as often as possible in consideration of my exceptional position. Icannot be in a good mood now, and your letters snatch me away from choleraconcerns, and carry me for a brief space to another world. .. . 

August 16. 

I'll be damned if I write to you again. I have written to Abbazzio, to St. Moritz. I have written a dozen times at least, so far you have not sent meone correct address, and so not one of my letters has reached and my longdescription and lectures about the cholera have been wasted. It'smortifying. But what is most mortifying is that after a whole series ofletters from me about our exertions against the cholera, you all at oncewrite me from gay Biarritz that you envy my leisure! Well, Allah forgiveyou!

Well, I am alive and in good health. The summer was a splendid one, dry, warm, abounding in the fruits of the earth, but its whole charm was fromJuly onwards, spoilt by news of the cholera. While you were inviting me inyour letters first to Vienna, and then to Abbazzio I was already one of thedoctors of the Serpuhovo Zemstvo, was trying to catch the cholera by itstail and organizing a new section full steam. In the morning I have to seepatients, and in the afternoon drive about. I drive, I give lectures to thenatives, treat them, get angry with them, and as the Zemstvo has notgranted me a single kopeck for organizing the medical centres I cadge fromthe wealthy, first from one and then from another. I turn out to be anexcellent beggar; thanks to my beggarly eloquence, my section has twoexcellent barracks with all the necessaries, and five barracks that are notexcellent, but horrid. I have saved the Zemstvo from expenditure even ondisinfectants. Lime, vitriol, and all sorts of stinking stuff I have beggedfrom the manufacturers for all my twenty-five villages. In fact Kolominought to be proud of having been at the same high school with me. My soulis exhausted. I am bored. Not to belong to oneself, to think about nothingbut diarrhoea, to start up in the night at a dog's barking and a knock atthe gate ("Haven't they come for me?"), to drive with disgusting horsesalong unknown roads; to read about nothing but cholera, and to expectnothing but cholera, and at the same time to be utterly uninterested inthat disease, and in the people whom one is serving--that, my good sir, isa hash which wouldn't agree with anyone. The cholera is already in Moscowand in the Moscow district. One must expect it from hour to hour. Judgingfrom its course in Moscow one must suppose that it is already declining andthat the bacillus is losing its strength. One is bound to think, too, thatit is powerfully affected by the measures that have been taken in Moscowand among us. The educated classes are working vigorously, sparing neitherthemselves nor their purses; I see them every day, and am touched, and whenI remember how Zhitel and Burenin used to vent their acrid spleen on thesesame educated people I feel almost suffocated. In Nizhni the doctors andthe cultured people generally have done marvels. I was overwhelmed withenthusiasm when I read about the cholera. In the good old times, whenpeople were infected and died by thousands, the amazing conquests that arebeing made before our eyes could not even be dreamed of. It's a pity youare not a doctor and cannot share my delight--that is, fully feel andrecognize and appreciate all that is being done. But one cannot tell aboutit briefly. 

The treatment of cholera requires of the doctor deliberation before allthings--that is, one has to devote to each patient from five to ten hoursor even longer. As I mean to employ Kantani's treatment--that is clystersof tannin and sub-cutaneous injection of a solution of common salt--myposition will be worse than foolish; while I am busying myself over onepatient, a dozen can fall ill and die. You see I am the only man fortwenty-five villages, apart from a feldsher who calls me "your honour, "does not venture to smoke in my presence, and cannot take a step withoutme. If there are isolated cases I shall be capital; but if there is anepidemic of only five cases a day, then I shall do nothing but be irritableand exhausted and feel myself guilty. 

Of course there is no time even to think of literature. I am writingnothing. I refused remuneration so as to preserve some little freedom ofaction for myself, and so I have not a halfpenny. I am waiting till theyhave threshed and sold the rye. Until then I shall be living on "The Bear"and mushrooms, of which there are endless masses here. By the way, I havenever lived so cheaply as now. We have everything of our own, even our ownbread. I believe in a couple of years all my household expenses will notexceed a thousand roubles a year. 

When you learn from the newspapers that the cholera is over, you will knowthat I have gone back to writing again. Don't think of me as a literary manwhile I am in the service of the Zemstvo. One can't do two things at once. 

You write that I have given up Sahalin. I cannot abandon that child ofmine. When I am oppressed by the boredom of belles-lettres I am glad toturn to something else. The question when I shall finish Sahalin and when Ishall print does not strike me as being important. While Galkin-Vrasskoyreigns over the prison system I feel very much disinclined to bring out mybook. Of course if I am driven to it by need, that is a different matter. 

In all my letters I have pertinaciously asked you one question, which ofcourse you are not obliged to answer: "Where are you going to be in theautumn, and wouldn't you like to spend part of September and October withme in Feodosia or the Crimea?" I have an impatient desire to eat, drink, and sleep, and talk about literature--that is, do nothing, and at the sametime feel like a decent person. However, if my idleness annoys you, I canpromise to write with or beside you, a play or a story. .. . Eh? Won't you?Well, God be with you, then. 

The astronomer has been here twice. I felt bored with her on bothoccasions. Svobodin has been here too. He grows better and better. Hisserious illness has made him pass through a spiritual metamorphosis. 

See what a long letter I have written, even though I don't feel surethat the letter will reach you. Imagine my cholera-boredom, mycholera-loneliness, and compulsory literary inactivity, and write to memore, and oftener. Your contemptuous feeling for France I share. TheGermans are far above them, though for some reason they are calledstupid. And the Franco-Russian Entente Cordiale I am as fond of asTolstoy is. There's something nastily suggestive about these cordialities. On the other hand I was awfully pleased at Virchow's visit to us. 

We have raised a very nice potato and a divine cabbage. How do you manageto get on without cabbage-soup? I don't envy you your sea, nor yourfreedom, nor the happy frame of mind you are in abroad. The Russian summeris better than anything. And by the way, I don't feel any great longing tobe abroad. After Singapore, Ceylon, and perhaps even our Amur, Italy andeven the crater of Vesuvius do not seem fascinating. After being in Indiaand China I did not see a great difference between other European countriesand Russia. 

A neighbour of ours, the owner of the renowned Otrad, Count X, is stayingnow at Biarritz, having run away from the cholera; he gave his doctor onlyfive hundred roubles for the campaign against the cholera. His sister, thecountess, who is living in my section, when I went to discuss the provisionof barracks for her workmen, treated me as though I had come to apply for asituation. It mortified me, and I told her a lie, pretending to be a richman. I told the same lie to the Archimandrite, who refuses to providequarters for the cases which may occur in the monastery. To my questionwhat would he do with the cases that might be taken ill in his hostel, heanswered me: "They are persons of means and will pay you themselves. .. . " Doyou understand? And I flared up, and said I did not care about payment, asI was well off, and that all I wanted was the security of the monastery. .. . There are sometimes very stupid and humiliating positions. .. . Before thecount went away I met his wife. Huge diamonds in her ears, wearing abustle, and not knowing how to hold herself. A millionaire. In the companyof such persons one has a stupid schoolboy feeling of wanting to be rude. 

The village priest often comes and pays me long visits; he is a very goodfellow, a widower, and has some illegitimate children. 

Write or there will be trouble. .. . 

MELIHOVO, October 10, 1892. 

Your telegram telling me of Svobodin's death caught me just as I was goingout of the yard to see patients. You can imagine my feelings. Svobodinstayed with me this summer; he was very sweet and gentle, in a serene andaffectionate mood, and became very much attached to me. It was evident tome that he had not very long to live, it was evident to him too. He had thethirst of the aged for everyday peace and quiet, and had grown to detestthe stage and everything to do with the stage and dreaded returning toPetersburg. Of course I ought to go to the funeral, but to begin with, yourtelegram came towards evening, and the funeral is most likely tomorrow, andsecondly the cholera is twenty miles away, and I cannot leave my centre. There are seven cases in one village, and two have died already. Thecholera may break out in my section. It is strange that with winter comingon the cholera is spreading over a wider and wider region. 

I have undertaken to be the section doctor till the fifteenth ofOctober--my section will be officially closed on that day. I shall dismissmy feldsher, close the barracks, and if the cholera comes, I shall cutrather a comic figure. Add to that the doctor of the next section is illwith pleurisy and so, if the cholera appears in his section, I shall bebound, from a feeling of comradeship, to undertake his section. 

So far I have not had a single case of cholera, but I have had epidemics oftyphus, diphtheria, scarlatina, and so on. At the beginning of summer I hada great deal of work, then towards the autumn less and less. 

 * * * * *

The sum of my literary achievement this summer, thanks to the cholera, hasbeen almost nil. I have written little, and have thought about literatureeven less. However, I have written two small stories--one tolerable, onebad. 

Life has been hard work this summer, but it seems, to me now that I havenever spent a summer so well as this one. In spite of the turmoil of thecholera, and the poverty which has kept tight hold of me all the summer, Ihave liked the life and wanted to live. How many trees I have planted!Thanks to our system of cultivation, Melihovo has become unrecognizable, and seems now extraordinarily snug and beautiful, though very likely it isgood for nothing. Great is the power of habit and the sense of property. And it's marvellous how pleasant it is not to have to pay rent. We havemade new acquaintances and formed new relations. Our old terrors in facingthe peasants now seem ludicrous. I have served in the Zemstvo, havepresided at the Sanitary Council and visited the factories, and I liked allthat. They think of me now as one of themselves, and stay the night with mewhen they pass through Melihovo. Add to that, that we have bought ourselvesa new comfortable covered carriage, have made a new road, so that now wedon't drive through the village. We are digging a pond. .. . Anything else?In fact hitherto everything has been new and interesting, but how it willbe later on, I don't know. There is snow already, it is cold, but I don'tfeel drawn to Moscow. So far I have not had any feeling of dulness. 

 * * * * *

The educated people here are very charming and interesting. What mattersmost, they are honest. Only the police are unattractive. 

We have seven horses, a broad-faced calf, and puppies, called Muir andMerrilees. .. . 

November 22, 1892. 

Snow is falling by day, while at night the moon is shining its utmost, agorgeous amazing moon. It is magnificent. But nevertheless, I marvel at thefortitude of landowners who spend the winter in the country; there's solittle to do that if anyone is not in one way or another engaged inintellectual work, he is inevitably bound to become a glutton or adrunkard, or a man like Turgenev's Pigasov. The monotony of the snowdriftsand the bare trees, the long nights, the moonlight, the deathlike stillnessday and night, the peasant women and the old ladies--all that disposes oneto indolence, indifference, and an enlarged liver. .. . 

November 25, 1892. 

It is easy to understand you, and there is no need for you to abuseyourself for obscurity of expression. You are a hard drinker, and I haveregaled you with sweet lemonade, and you, after giving the lemonade itsdue, justly observe that there is no spirit in it. That is just what islacking in our productions--the alcohol which could intoxicate andsubjugate, and you state that very well. Why not? Putting aside "WardNo. 6" and myself, let us discuss the matter in general, for that ismore interesting. Let ms discuss the general causes, if that won't boreyou, and let us include the whole age. Tell me honestly, who of mycontemporaries--that is, men between thirty and forty-five--have giventhe world one single drop of alcohol? Are not Korolenko, Nadson, and allthe playwrights of to-day, lemonade? Have Ryepin's or Shishkin'spictures turned your head? Charming, talented, you are enthusiastic; butat the same time you can't forget that you want to smoke. Science andtechnical knowledge are passing through a great period now, but for oursort it is a flabby, stale, and dull time. We are stale and dullourselves, we can only beget gutta-percha boys, [Footnote: An allusionto Grigorovitch's well-known story. ] and the only person who does notsee that is Stassov, to whom nature has given a rare faculty for gettingdrunk on slops. The causes of this are not to be found in our stupidity, our lack of talent, or our insolence, as Burenin imagines, but in adisease which for the artist is worse than syphilis or sexual exhaustion. We lack "something, " that is true, and that means that, lift the robe ofour muse, and you will find within an empty void. Let me remind you thatthe writers, who we say are for all time or are simply good, and whointoxicate us, have one common and very important characteristic; theyare going towards something and are summoning you towards it, too, andyou feel not with your mind, but with your whole being, that they havesome object, just like the ghost of Hamlet's father, who did not comeand disturb the imagination for nothing. Some have more immediateobjects--the abolition of serfdom, the liberation of their country, politics, beauty, or simply vodka, like Denis Davydov; others haveremote objects--God, life beyond the grave, the happiness of humanity, and so on. The best of them are realists and paint life as it is, but, through every line's being soaked in the consciousness of an object, youfeel, besides life as it is, the life which ought to be, and thatcaptivates you. And we? We! We paint life as it is, but beyond that--nothing at all. .. . Flog us and we can do no more! We have neitherimmediate nor remote aims, and in our soul there is a great empty space. We have no politics, we do not believe in revolution, we have no God, weare not afraid of ghosts, and I personally am not afraid even of deathand blindness. One who wants nothing, hopes for nothing, and fearsnothing, cannot be an artist. Whether it is a disease or not--what it isdoes not matter; but we ought to recognize that our position is worsethan a governor's. I don't know how it will be with us in ten or twentyyears--then circumstances may be different, but meanwhile it would berash to expect of us anything of real value, apart from the questionwhether we have talent or not. We write mechanically, merely obeying thelong-established arrangement in accordance with which some men go intothe government service, others into trade, others write. .. . Grigorovitchand you think I am clever. Yes, I am at least so far clever as not toconceal from myself my disease, and not to deceive myself, and not tocover up my own emptiness with other people's rags, such as the ideas ofthe sixties, and so on. I am not going to throw myself like Garshin overthe banisters, but I am not going to flatter myself with hopes of abetter future either. I am not to blame for my disease, and it's not forme to cure myself, for this disease, it must be supposed, has some goodpurpose hidden from us, and is not sent in vain. .. . 

February, 1893. 

My God! What a glorious thing "Fathers and Children" is! It is positivelyterrifying. Bazarov's illness is so powerfully done that I felt ill and hada sensation as though I had caught the infection from him. And the end ofBazarov? And the old men? And Kukshina? It's beyond words. It's simply awork of genius. I don't like the whole of "On the Eve, " only Elena's fatherand the end. The end is full of tragedy. "The Dog" is very good, thelanguage is wonderful in it. Please read it if you have forgotten it. "Acia" is charming, "A Quiet Backwater" is too compressed and notsatisfactory. I don't like "Smoke" at all. "The House of Gentlefolk" isweaker than "Fathers and Children, " but the end is like a miracle, too. Except for the old woman in "Fathers and Children"--that is, Bazarov'smother--and the mothers as a rule, especially the society ladies, who are, however, all alike (Liza's mother, Elena's mother), and Lavretsky's mother, who had been a serf, and the humble peasant woman, all Turgenev's girls andwomen are insufferable in their artificiality, and--forgive my sayingit--falsity. Liza and Elena are not Russian girls, but some sort of Pythianprophetesses, full of extravagant pretensions. Irina in "Smoke, " MadameOdintsov in "Fathers and Children, " all the lionesses, in fact, fiery, alluring, insatiable creatures for ever craving for something, are allnonsensical. When one thinks of Tolstoy's "Anna Karenin, " all these youngladies of Turgenev's, with their seductive shoulders, fade away intonothing. The negative types of women where Turgenev is slightlycaricaturing (Kukshina) or jesting (the descriptions of balls) arewonderfully drawn, and so successful, that, as the saying is, you can'tpick a hole in it. 

The descriptions of nature are fine, but . .. I feel that we have alreadygot out of the way of such descriptions and that we need somethingdifferent. .. . 

April 26, 1893. 

. .. I am reading Pisemsky. His is a great, very great talent! The best ofhis works is "The Carpenters' Guild. " His novels are exhausting in theirminute detail. Everything in him that has a temporary character, all hisdigs at the critics and liberals of the period, all his criticalobservations with their assumption of smartness and modernity, and all theso-called profound reflections scattered here and there--how petty andnaive it all is to our modern ideas! The fact of the matter is this: anovelist, an artist, ought to pass by everything that has only a temporaryvalue. Pisemsky's people are living, his temperament is vigorous. Skabitchevsky in his history attacks him for obscurantism and treachery, but, my God! of all contemporary writers I don't know a single one sopassionately and earnestly liberal as Pisemsky. All his priests, officials, and generals are regular blackguards. No one was so down on the old legaland military set as he. 

By the way, I have read also Bourget's "Cosmopolis. " Rome and the Pope andCorreggio and Michael Angelo and Titian and doges and a fifty-year-oldbeauty and Russians and Poles are all in Bourget, but how thin and strainedand mawkish and false it is in comparison even with our coarse and simplePisemsky! . .. 

What a good thing I gave up the town! Tell all the Fofanovs, Tchermnys, _et tutti quanti_ who live by literature, that living in the countryis immensely cheaper than living in the town. I experience this now everyday. My family costs me nothing now, for lodging, bread, vegetables, milk, butter, horses, are all our own. And there is so much to do, there is nottime to get through it all. Of the whole family of Chekhovs, I am the onlyone to lie down, or sit at the table: all the rest are working from morningtill night. Drive the poets and literary men into the country. Why shouldthey live in starvation and beggary? Town life cannot give a poor man richmaterial in the sense of poetry and art. He lives within four walls andsees people only at the editors' offices and in eating-shops. .. . 

MELIHOVO, January 25, 1894. 

I believe I am mentally sound. It is true I have no special desire to live, but that is not, so far, disease, but something probably passing andnatural. It does not follow every time that an author describes someonementally deranged, that he is himself deranged. I wrote "The Black Monk"without any melancholy ideas, through cool reflection. I simply had adesire to describe megalomania. The monk floating across the country was adream, and when I woke I told Misha about it. So you can tell Anna Ivanovnathat poor Anton Pavlovitch, thank God! has not gone out of his mind yet, but that he eats a great deal at supper and so he dreams of monks. 

I keep forgetting to write to you: read Ertel's story "The Seers" in"Russkaya Mysl. " There is poetry and something terrible in theold-fashioned fairy-tale style about it. It is one of the best new thingsthat has come out in Moscow. .. . 

YALTA, March 27, 1894. 

I am in good health generally, ill in certain parts. For instance, a cough, palpitations of the heart, haemorrhoids. I had palpitations of the heartincessantly for six days, and the sensation all the time was loathsome. Since I have quite given up smoking I have been free from gloomy andanxious moods. Perhaps because I am not smoking, Tolstoy's morality hasceased to touch me; at the bottom of my heart I take up a hostile attitudetowards it, and that of course is not just. I have peasant blood in myveins, and you won't astonish me with peasant virtues. From my childhood Ihave believed in progress, and I could not help believing in it since thedifference between the time when I used to be thrashed and when they gaveup thrashing me was tremendous. .. . But Tolstoy's philosophy touched meprofoundly and took possession of me for six or seven years, and whataffected me was not its general propositions, with which I was familiarbeforehand, but Tolstoy's manner of expressing it, his reasonableness, andprobably a sort of hypnotism. Now something in me protests, reason andjustice tell me that in the electricity and heat of love for man there issomething greater than chastity and abstinence from meat. War is an eviland legal justice is an evil; but it does not follow from that that I oughtto wear bark shoes and sleep on the stove with the labourer, and so on, andso on. But that is not the point, it is not a matter of _pro and con_;the thing is that in one way or another Tolstoy has passed for me, he isnot in my soul, and he has departed from me, saying: "I leave this yourhouse empty. " I am untenanted. I am sick of theorizing of all sorts, andsuch bounders as Max Nordau I read with positive disgust. Patients in afever do not want food, but they do want something, and that vague cravingthey express as "longing for something sour. " I, too, want something sour, and that's not a mere chance feeling, for I notice the same mood in othersaround me. It is just as if they had all been in love, had fallen out oflove, and now were looking for some new distraction. It is very possibleand very likely that the Russians will pass through another period ofenthusiasm for the natural sciences, and that the materialistic movementwill be fashionable. Natural science is performing miracles now. And it mayact upon people like Mamay, and dominate them by its mass and grandeur. Allthat is in the hands of God, however. And theorizing about it makes one'shead go round. 

TO L. S. MIZINOV. 

YALTA, March 27, 1894. 

DEAR LIKA, Thanks for your letter. Though you do scare me in your letter saying youare soon going to die, though you do taunt me with having rejected you, yetthank you all the same; I know perfectly well you are not going to die, andthat no one has rejected you. 

I am in Yalta and I am dreary, very dreary indeed. The aristocracy, so tocall it, are performing "Faust, " and I go to the rehearsals and there Ienjoy the spectacle of a perfect flower-bed of black, red, flaxen, andbrown heads; I listen to the singing and I eat. At the house of theprincipal of the high school I eat tchibureks, and saddle of lamb withboiled grain; in various estimable families I eat green soup; at theconfectioner's I eat--in my hotel also. I go to bed at ten and I get up atten, and after dinner I lie down and rest, and yet I am bored, dear Lika. Iam not bored because "my ladies" are not with me, but because the northernspring is better than the spring here, and because the thought that I must, that I ought to write never leaves me for an instant. To write and writeand write! It is my opinion that true happiness is impossible withoutidleness. My ideal is to be idle and to love a plump girl. My loftiesthappiness is to walk or to sit doing nothing; my favourite occupation is togather up what is not wanted (leaves, straws, and so on) and to do what isuseless. Meanwhile, I am a literary man, and have to write here in Yalta. Dear Lika, when you become a great singer and are paid a handsome salary, then be charitable to me, marry me, and keep me at your expense, that I maybe free to do nothing. If you really are going to die, it might beundertaken by Varya Eberly, whom, as you know, I love. I am so all topieces with the perpetual thought of work I ought to do and can't avoidthat for the last week I have been continually tormented with palpitationsof the heart. It's a loathsome sensation. 

I have sold my fox-skin greatcoat for twenty roubles! It cost sixty, but asforty roubles' worth of fur has peeled off it, twenty roubles was not toolow a price. The gooseberries are not ripe here yet, but it is warm andbright, the trees are coming out, the sea looks like summer, the youngladies are yearning for sensations: but yet the north is better than thesouth of Russia, in spring at any rate. In our part nature is moremelancholy, more lyrical, more Levitanesque; here it is neither one thingnor the other, like good, sonorous, but frigid verse. Thanks to mypalpitations I haven't drunk wine for a week, and that makes thesurroundings seem even poorer. .. . 

M. Gave a concert here, and made one hundred and fifty roubles clearprofit. He roared like a grampus but had an immense success. I am awfullysorry I did not study singing; I could have roared too, as my throat isrich in husky elements, and they say I have a real octave. I should haveearned money, and been a favourite with the ladies. .. . 

TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. 

MELIHOVO, April 15, 1894. 

. .. I have come back from the flaming Tavrida and am already sitting on thecool banks of my pond. It's very warm, however: the thermometer runs up totwenty-six. .. . 

I am busy looking after the land: I am making new avenues, plantingflowers, chopping down dead trees, and chasing the hens and the dogs out ofthe garden. Literature plays the part of Erakit, who was always in thebackground. I don't want to write, and indeed, it's hard to combine adesire to live and a desire to write. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, April 21, 1894

Of course it is very nice in the country; in fine weather Russia is anextraordinarily beautiful and enchanting country, especially for those whohave been born and spent their childhood in the country. But you will neverbuy yourself an estate, as you don't know what you want. To like an estateyou must make up your mind to buy it; so long as it is not yours it willseem comfortless and full of defects. My cough is considerably better, I amsunburnt, and they tell me I am fatter, but the other day I almost felldown and I fancied for a minute that I was dying. I was walking along theavenue with the prince, our neighbour, and was talking when all at oncesomething seemed to break in my chest, I had a feeling of warmth andsuffocation, there was a singing in my ears, I remembered that I had beenhaving palpitations for a long time and thought--"they must have meantsomething then. " I went rapidly towards the verandah on which visitors weresitting, and had one thought--that it would be awkward to fall down and diebefore strangers; but I went into my bedroom, drank some water, andrecovered. 

So you are not the only one who suffers from staggering!

I am beginning to build a pretty lodge. .. . 

May 9. 

I have no news. The weather is most exquisite, and in the foliage near thehouse a nightingale is building and shouting incessantly. About twelvemiles from me there is the village of Pokrovskoe-Meshtcherskoe; the oldmanor house there is now the lunatic asylum of the province. The Zemskydoctors from the whole Moscow province met there on the fourth of May, tothe number of about seventy-five; I was there too. There are a great manypatients but all that is interesting material for alienists and not forpsychologists. One patient, a mystic, preaches that the Holy Trinity hascome upon earth in the form of the metropolitan of Kiev, Ioannikiy. "Alimit of ten years has been given us; eight have passed, only two years areleft. If we do not want Russia to fall into ruins like Sodom, all Russiamust go in a procession with the Cross to Kiev, as Moscow went to Troitsa, and pray there to the divine martyr in the noble form of the metropolitanIoannikiy. " This queer fellow is convinced that the doctors in the asylumare poisoning him, and that he is being saved by the miraculousintervention of Christ in the form of the metropolitan. He is continuallypraying to the East and singing, and, addressing himself to God, invariablyadds the words, "in the noble form of the metropolitan Ioannikiy. " He has alovely expression of face. .. . 

From the madhouse I returned late at night in my troika. Two-thirds of theway I had to drive through the forest in the moonlight, and I had awonderful feeling such as I have not had for a long time, as though I hadcome back from a tryst. I think that nearness to nature and idleness areessential elements of happiness; without them it is impossible. .. . 

TO MADAME AVILOV. 

MELIHOVO, July, 1894. 

I have so many visitors that I cannot answer your last letter. I want towrite at length but am pulled up at the thought that any minute they maycome in and hinder me. And in fact while I write the word "hinder, " a girlhas come in and announced that a patient has arrived; I must go. .. . I havegrown to detest writing, and I don't know what to do. I would gladly takeup medicine and would accept any sort of post, but I no longer have thephysical elasticity for it. When I write now or think I ought to write Ifeel as much disgust as though I were eating soup from which I had justremoved a beetle--forgive the comparison. What I hate is not the writingitself, but the literary entourage from which one cannot escape, and whichone takes everywhere as the earth takes its atmosphere. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, August 15, 1894. 

Our trip on the Volga turned out rather a queer one in the end. Potapenkoand I went to Yaroslav to take a steamer from there to Tsaritsyn, then toKalatch, from there by the Don to Taganrog. The journey from Yaroslav toNizhni is beautiful, but I had seen it before. Moreover, it was very hot inthe cabin and the wind lashed in our faces on deck. The passengers were anuneducated set, whose presence was irritating. At Nizhni we were met by N. , Tolstoy's friend. The heat, the dry wind, the noise of the fair and theconversation of N. Suddenly made me feel so suffocated, so ill at ease, andso sick, that I took my portmanteau and ignominiously fled to the railwaystation. .. . Potapenko followed me. We took the train for Moscow, but wewere ashamed to go home without having done anything, and we decided to gosomewhere if it had to be to Lapland. If it had not been for his wife ourchoice would have fallen on Feodosia, but . .. Alas! we have a wife livingat Feodosia. We thought it over, we talked it over, we counted over ourmoney, and came to the Psyol to Suma, which you know. .. . Well, the Psyol ismagnificent. There is warmth, there is space, an immensity of water and ofgreenery and delightful people. We spent six days on the Psyol, ate anddrank, walked and did nothing: my ideal of happiness, as you know, isidleness. Now I am at Melihovo again. There is a cold rain, a leaden sky, mud. 

 * * * * *

It sometimes happens that one passes a third-class refreshment room andsees a cold fish, cooked long before, and wonders carelessly who wants thatunappetising fish. And yet undoubtedly that fish is wanted, and will beeaten, and there are people who will think it nice. One may say the same ofthe works of N. He is a bourgeois writer, writing for the unsophisticatedpublic who travel third class. For that public Tolstoy and Turgenev are tooluxurious, too aristocratic, somewhat alien and not easily digested. Thereis a public which eats salt beef and horse-radish sauce with relish, anddoes not care for artichokes and asparagus. Put yourself at its point ofview, imagine the grey, dreary courtyard, the educated ladies who look likecooks, the smell of paraffin, the scantiness of interests and tasks--andyou will understand N. And his readers. He is colourless; that is partlybecause the life he describes lacks colour. He is false because bourgeoiswriters cannot help being false. They are vulgar writers perfected. Thevulgarians sin together with their public, while the bourgeois arehypocritical with them and flatter their narrow virtue. 

MELIHOVO, February 25, 1895. 

. .. I should like to meet a philosopher like Nietzsche somewhere in a trainor a steamer, and to spend the whole night talking to him. I consider hisphilosophy won't last long, however. It's more showy than convincing. .. . 

MELIHOVO, March 16, 1895. 

Instead of you, heaven has sent me N. , who has come to see me with E. AndZ. , two young duffers who never miss a single word but induce in the wholehousehold a desperate boredom. N. Looks flabby and physically slack; he hasgone off, but has become warmer and more good-natured; he must be going todie. When my mother was ordering meat from the butcher, she said he mustlet us have better meat, as N. Was staying with us from Petersburg. 

"What N. ?" asked the butcher in surprise--"the one who writes books?" andhe sent us excellent meat. So the butcher does not know that I write books, for he never sends anything but gristle for my benefit. .. . 

Your little letter about physical games for students will do good if onlyyou will go on insisting on the subject. Games are absolutely essential. Playing games is good for health and beauty and liberalism, since nothingis so conducive to the blending of classes, et cetera, as public games. Games would give our solitary young people acquaintances; young peoplewould more frequently fall in love; but games should not be institutedbefore the Russian student ceases to be hungry. No skating, no croquet, cankeep the student cheerful and confident on an empty stomach. 

MELIHOVO, March 23, 1895. 

I told you that Potapenko was a man very full of life, but you did notbelieve me. In the entrails of every Little Russian lie hidden manytreasures. I fancy when our generation grows old, Potapenko will be thegayest and jolliest old man of us all. 

By all means I will be married if you wish it. But on these conditions:everything must be as it has been hitherto--that is, she must live inMoscow while I live in the country, and I will come and see her. Happinesscontinued from day to day, from morning to morning, I cannot stand. Whenevery day I am told of the same thing, in the same tone of voice, I becomefurious. I am furious, for instance, in the society of S. , because he isvery much like a woman ("a clever and responsive woman") and because in hispresence the idea occurs to me that my wife might be like him. I promiseyou to be a splendid husband, but give me a wife who, like the moon, won'tappear in my sky every day; I shan't write any better for being married. .. . 

Mamin-Sibiryak is a very nice fellow and an excellent writer. His lastnovel "Bread" is praised; Lyeskov was particularly enthusiastic about it. There are undoubtedly fine things in his work, and in his more successfulstories the peasants are depicted every bit as well as in "Master and Man. "

This is the fourth year I have been living at Melihovo. My calves haveturned into cows, my copse has grown at least a yard higher, my heirs willmake a capital bargain over the timber and will call me an ass, for heirsare never satisfied. 

MELIHOVO, March 30, 1895. 

. .. We have spring here but there are regular mountains of snow, and thereis no knowing when it will thaw. As soon as the sun hides behind a cloudthere begins to be a chill breath from the snow, and it is horrible. Mashais already busy in the flower-beds and borders. She tires herself out andis constantly cross, so there is no need for her to read Madame Smirnov'sarticle. The advice given is excellent; the young ladies will read it, andit will be their salvation. Only one point is not clear: how are they goingto get rid of the apples and cabbages if the estate is far from the town, and of what stuff are they going to make their own dresses if their ryedoes not sell at all, and they have not a halfpenny? To live on one's landby the labour of one's own hands and the sweat of one's brow is onlypossible on one condition; that is, if one works oneself like a peasant, without regard for class or sex. There is no making use of slaves nowadays, one must take the scythe and axe oneself, and if one can't do that, nogardens will help one. Even the smallest success in farming is only gainedin Russia at the price of a cruel struggle with nature, and wishing is notenough for the struggle, you need bodily strength and grit, you wanttraditions--and have young ladies all that? To advise young ladies to takeup farming is much the same as to advise them to be bears, and to bendyokes. .. . 

I have no money, but I live in the country: there are no restaurants and nocabmen, and money does not seem to be needed. 

MELIHOVO, April 13, 1895. 

I am sick of Sienkiewicz's "The Family of the Polonetskys. " It's the PolishEaster cake with saffron. Add Potapenko to Paul Bourget, sprinkle withWarsaw eau-de-Cologne, divide in two, and you get Sienkiewicz. "ThePolonetskys" is unmistakably inspired by Bourget's "Cosmopolis, " by Romeand by marriage (Sienkiewicz has lately got married). We have the catacombsand a queer old professor sighing after idealism, and Leo XIII, with theunearthly face among the saints, and the advice to return to theprayer-book, and the libel on the decadent who dies of morphinism afterconfessing and taking the sacrament--that is, after repenting of his errorsin the name of the Church. There is a devilish lot of family happiness andtalking about love, and the hero's wife is so faithful to her husband andso subtly comprehends "with her heart" the mysteries of God and life, thatin the end one feels mawkish and uncomfortable as after a slobbering kiss. Sienkiewicz has evidently not read Tolstoy, and does not know Nietzsche, hetalks about hypnotism like a shopman; on the other hand every page ispositively sprinkled with Rubens, Borghesi, Correggio, Botticelli--and thatis done to show off his culture to the bourgeois reader and make a longnose on the sly at materialism. The object of the novel is to lull thebourgeoisie to sleep in its golden dreams. Be faithful to your wife, praywith her over the prayer-book, save money, love sport, and all is well withyou in this world and the next. The bourgeoisie is very fond of so-calledpractical types and novels with happy endings, since they soothe it withthe idea that one can both accumulate capital and preserve innocence, be abeast and at the same time be happy. .. . 

I wish you every sort of blessing. I congratulate you on the peace betweenJapan and China, and hope we may quickly obtain a Feodosia free from ice onthe East Coast, and may make a railway to it. 

The peasant woman had not troubles enough so she bought a pig. And I fancywe are saving up a lot of trouble for ourselves with this ice-free port. [Footnote: Prophetic of Port Arthur and the Japanese War. ] It will cost usdearer than if we were to take it into our heads to wage war on all Japan. However, _futura sunt in manibus deorum. _

MELIHOVO, October 21, 1895. 

Thanks for your letter, for your warm words and your invitation. I willcome, but most likely not before the end of November, as I have a devilishlot to do. First in the spring I am going to build a new school in thevillage where I am school warden; before beginning I have to make a planand calculations, and to drive off here and there, and so on. Secondly--canyou imagine it--I am writing a play which I shall probably not finishbefore the end of November. I am writing it not without pleasure, though Iswear fearfully at the conventions of the stage. It's a comedy, there arethree women's parts, six men's, four acts, landscapes (view over a lake); agreat deal of conversation about literature, little action, tons of love. [Footnote: "The Seagull. "] I read of Ozerova's failure and was sorry, fornothing is more painful than failing. .. . I have read of the success of the"Powers of Darkness" in your theatre. .. . When I was at Tolstoy's in August, he told me, as he was wiping his hands after washing, that he wouldn'talter his play. And now, remembering that, I fancy that he knew even thenthat his play would be passed by the censor _in toto_. I spent two days anda night with him. He made a delightful impression, I felt as much at easeas though I were at home, and our talks were easy. .. . 

MOSCOW, October 26, 1895. 

Tolstoy's daughters are very nice. They adore their father and have afanatical faith in him and that means that Tolstoy really is a great moralforce, for if he were insincere and not irreproachable his daughters wouldbe the first to take up a sceptical attitude to him, for daughters are likesparrows: you don't catch them with empty chaff. .. . A man can deceive hisfiancee or his mistress as much as he likes, and, in the eyes of a woman heloves, an ass may pass for a philosopher; but a daughter is a differentmatter. .. . 

MELIHOVO, November 21, 1895. 

Well, I have finished with the play. I began it _forte_ and ended it_pianissimo_--contrary to all the rules of dramatic art. It has turned intoa novel. I am rather dissatisfied than satisfied with it, and reading overmy new-born play, I am more convinced than ever that I am not a dramatist. The acts are very short. There are four of them. Though it is so far onlythe skeleton of a play, a plan which will be altered a million times beforethe coming season, I have ordered two copies to be typed and will send youone, only don't let anyone read it. .. . 

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

PETERSBURG, October 15, 1896. 

. .. My "Seagull" comes on on the seventeenth of October. MadameKommissarzhevsky acts amazingly. There is no news. I am alive and well. Ishall be at Melihovo about the twenty-fifth or towards the end of October. On the twenty-ninth is the meeting of the Zemstvo, at which I must bepresent as there will be a discussion about roads. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

PETERSBURG, October 18, 1896. 

I am off to Melihovo. All good wishes. .. . Stop the printing of the plays. Ishall never forget yesterday evening, but still I slept well, and amsetting off in a very tolerable good humour. 

Write to me. .. . I have received your letter. I am not going to produce theplay in Moscow. I shall _never_ either write plays or have them acted. 

TO HIS SISTER. 

PETERSBURG, October 18, 1896. 

I am setting off to Melihovo. I shall be there tomorrow between one or twoo'clock in the afternoon. Yesterday's adventure did not astonish or greatlydisappoint me, for I was prepared for it by the rehearsals--and I don'tfeel particularly bad. 

When you come to Melihovo bring Lika with you. 

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

PETERSBURG, October 18, 1896. 

The play has fallen flat, and come down with a crash. There was anoppressive strained feeling of disgrace and bewilderment in the theatre. The actors played abominably stupidly. The moral of it is, one ought not towrite plays. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, October 22, 1896. 

In your last letter (of October 18) you three times call me womanish, andsay that I was in a funk. Why this libel? After the performance I hadsupper at Romanov's. On my word of honour. Then I went to bed, sleptsoundly, and next day went home without uttering a sound of complaint. If Ihad been in a funk I should have run from editor to editor and actor toactor, should have nervously entreated them to be considerate, shouldnervously have inserted useless corrections and should have spent two orthree weeks in Petersburg fussing over my "Seagull, " in excitement, in acold perspiration, in lamentation. .. . When you were with me the night afterthe performance you told me yourself that it would be the best thing for meto go away; and next morning I got a letter from you to say good-bye. Howdid I show funk? I acted as coldly and reasonably as a man who has made anoffer, received a refusal, and has nothing left but to go. Yes, my vanitywas stung, but you know it was not a bolt from the blue; I was expecting afailure, and was prepared for it, as I warned you with perfect sinceritybeforehand. 

When I got home I took a dose of castor oil, and had a cold bath, and now Iam ready to write another play. I no longer feel exhausted and irritable, and am not afraid that Davydov and Jean will come to me and talk about theplay. I agree with your corrections, and a thousand thanks for them. Onlyplease don't regret that you were not at the rehearsals. You know there wasin reality only one rehearsal, at which one could make out nothing. Onecould not see the play at all through the loathsome acting. 

I have got a telegram from Potapenko--"A colossal success. " I have had aletter from Mlle. Veselitsky (Mikulitch) whom I don't know. She expressesher sympathy in a tone as if one of my family were dead. It's really quiteinappropriate; that's all nonsense, though. 

My sister is delighted with you and Anna Ivanovna, and I am inexpressiblyglad of it, for I love your family like my own. She hastened home fromPetersburg, possibly imagining that I would hang myself. .. . 

TO E. M. S. 

MELIHOVO, November, 1896. 

If, O honoured "One of the Audience", you are writing of the firstperformance, then allow--oh, allow me to doubt your sincerity. You hastento pour healing balsam on the author's wounds, supposing that, under thecircumstances, that is more necessary and better than sincerity; you arekind, very kind, and it does credit to your heart. At the first performanceI did not see all, but what I did see was dingy, grey, dismal and wooden. Idid not distribute the parts and was not given new scenery. There were onlytwo rehearsals, the actors did not know their parts--and the result was ageneral panic and utter depression; even Madame Kommissarzhevsky's actingwas not up to much, though at one of the rehearsals she acted marvellously, so that people sitting in the stalls wept with bowed heads. 

In any case I am grateful and very, very much touched. All my plays arebeing printed, and as soon as they are ready I shall send you a copy. .. . 

TO A. F. KONI. 

MELIHOVO, November 11, 1896. 

You cannot imagine how your letter rejoiced me. I saw from the front onlythe two first acts of my play. Afterwards I sat behind the scenes and feltthe whole time that "The Seagull" was a failure. After the performance thatnight and next day, I was assured that I had hatched out nothing butidiots, that my play was clumsy from the stage point of view, that it wasnot clever, that it was unintelligible, even senseless, and so on and soon. You can imagine my position--it was a collapse such as I had neverdreamed of! I felt ashamed and vexed, and I went away from Petersburg fullof doubts of all sorts. I thought that if I had written and put on thestage a play so obviously brimming over with monstrous defects, I had lostall instinct and that, therefore, my machinery must have gone wrong forgood. After I had reached home, they wrote to me from Petersburg that thesecond and third performances were a success; several letters, some signed, some anonymous, came praising the play and abusing the critics. I read themwith pleasure, but still I felt vexed and ashamed, and the idea forceditself upon me that if kind-hearted people thought it was necessary tocomfort me, it meant that I was in a bad way. But your letter has actedupon me in a most definite way. I have known you a long time, I have a deeprespect for you, and I believe in you more than in all the critics takentogether--you felt that when you wrote your letter, and that is why it isso excellent and convincing. My mind is at rest now, and I can think of theplay and the performance without loathing. Kommissarzhevskaia is awonderful actress. At one of the rehearsals many people were moved to tearsas they looked at her, and said that she was the first actress in Russiato-day; but at the first performance she was affected by the generalattitude of hostility to my "Seagull, " and was, as it were, intimidated byit and lost her voice. Our press takes a cold tone to her that doesn't dojustice to her merits, and I am sorry for her. Allow me to thank you withall my heart for your letter. Believe me, I value the feelings thatprompted you to write it far more than I can express in words, and thesympathy you call "unnecessary" at the end of your letter I shall nevernever forget, whatever happens. 

TO V. I. NEMIROVITCH-DANTCHENKO. 

MELIHOVO, November 26, 1896. 

DEAR FRIEND, I am answering the chief substance of your letter--the question why we sorarely talk of serious subjects. When people are silent, it is because theyhave nothing to talk about or because they are ill at ease. What is thereto talk about? We have no politics, we have neither public life nor clublife, nor even a life of the streets; our civic existence is poor, monotonous, burdensome, and uninteresting--and to talk is as boring ascorresponding with L. You say that we are literary men, and that of itselfmakes our life a rich one. Is that so? We are stuck in our profession up toour ears, it has gradually isolated us from the external world, and theupshot of it is that we have little free time, little money, few books, weread little and reluctantly, we hear little, we rarely go anywhere. Shouldwe talk about literature? . .. But we have talked about it already. Everyyear it's the same thing again and again, and all we usually say aboutliterature may be reduced to discussing who write better, and who writeworse. Conversations upon wider and more general topics never catch on, because when you have tundras and Esquimaux all round you, general ideas, being so inappropriate to the reality, quickly lose shape and slip awaylike thoughts of eternal bliss. Should we talk of personal life? Yes, thatmay sometimes be interesting and we might perhaps talk about it; but thereagain we are constrained, we are reserved and insincere: we are restrainedby an instinct of self-preservation and we are afraid. We are afraid ofbeing overheard by some uncultured Esquimaux who does not like us, and whomwe don't like either. I personally am afraid that my acquaintance, N. , whose cleverness attracts us, will hold forth with raised finger, in everyrailway carriage and every house about me, settling the question why Ibecame so intimate with X. While I was beloved by Z. I am afraid of ourmorals, I am afraid of our ladies. .. . In short, for our silence, for thefrivolity and dulness of our conversations, don't blame yourself or me, blame what the critics call "the age, " blame the climate, the vastdistances, what you will, and let circumstances go on their own fateful, relentless course, hoping for a better future. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, January 11, 1897. 

We are having a census. They have served out to the numerators detestableinkpots, detestable clumsy badges like the labels of a brewery, andportfolios into which the census forms will not fit--giving the effect of asword that won't go into its sheath. It is a disgrace. From early morning Igo from hut to hut, and knock my head in the low doorways which I can't getused to, and as ill-luck will have it my head aches hellishly; I havemigraine and influenza. In one hut a little girl of nine years old, boardedout from the foundling hospital, wept bitterly because all the other littlegirls in the hut were Mihailovnas while she was called Lvovna after hergodfather. I said call yourself Mihailovna. They were all highly delighted, and began thanking me. That's what's called making friends with the Mammonof Unrighteousness. 

The "Journal of Surgery" has been sanctioned by the Censor. We arebeginning to bring it out. Be so good as to do us a service--have theenclosed advertisement printed on your front page and charge it to myaccount. The journal will be a very good one, and this advertisement canlead to nothing but unmistakable and solid benefit. It's a great benefit, you know, to cut off people's legs. 

While we are on medical topics--a remedy for cancer has been found. Foralmost a year past, thanks to a Russian doctor Denisenko, they have beentrying the juice of the celandine, and one reads of astonishing results. Cancer is a terrible unbearable disease, the death from it is agonizing;you can imagine how pleasant it is for a man initiated into the secrets ofAesculapius to read of such results. .. . 

MOSCOW, February 8, 1897. 

The census is over. I was pretty sick of the business, as I had both toenumerate and to write till my fingers ached, and to give lectures tofifteen numerators. The numerators worked excellently, with a pedanticexactitude almost absurd. On the other hand the Zemsky Natchalniks, to whomthe census was entrusted in the districts, behaved disgustingly. They didnothing, understood little, and at the most difficult moments used toreport themselves sick. The best of them turned out to be a man who drinksand draws the long bow _a la_ Hlestakov [Translator's Note: A character inGogol's "Inspector General. "]--but was all the same a character, if onlyfrom the point of view of comedy, while the others were colourless beyondwords, and it was annoying beyond words to have anything to do with them. 

I am in Moscow at the Great Moscow Hotel. I am staying a short time, tendays, and then going home. The whole of Lent and the whole of April afterit, I shall have to be busy again with carpenters and so on. I am buildinga school again. A deputation came to me from the peasants begging me forit, and I had not the courage to refuse. The Zemstvo is giving a thousandroubles, the peasants have collected three hundred, and that is all, whilethe school will not cost less than three thousand. So again I shall haveall the summer to be thinking about money, and scraping it together hereand there. Altogether life in the country is full of work and care. .. . 

The police have made a raid upon Tchertkov, the well-known Tolstoyan, havecarried off all that the Tolstoyans had collected relating to the Duhoborsand sectarians--and so all at once as though by magic all evidence againstPobyedonostsev and his angels has vanished. Goremykin called uponTchertkov's mother and said: "Your son must make the choice--either theBaltic Province where Prince Hilkov is already living in exile, or aforeign country. " Tchertkov has chosen London. 

He is setting off on the thirteenth of February. L. N. Tolstoy has gone toPetersburg to see him off; and yesterday they sent his winter overcoatafter him. A great many are going to see him off, even Sytin, and I amsorry that I cannot do the same. I don't cherish tender sentiments forTchertkov, but the way he has been treated fills me with intense, intenseindignation. .. . 

MOSCOW, April 1, 1897. 

The doctors have diagnosed tuberculosis in the upper part of the lungs, andhave ordered me to change my manner of life. I understand their diagnosisbut I don't understand their prescription, because it is almost impossible. They tell me I must live in the country, but you know living permanently inthe country involves continual worry with peasants, with animals, withelementary forces of all kinds, and to escape from worries and anxieties inthe country is as difficult as to escape burns in hell. But still I willtry to change my life as far as possible, and have already, through Masha, announced that I shall give up medical practice in the country. This willbe at the same time a great relief and a great deprivation to me. I shalldrop all public duties in the district, shall buy a dressing-gown, bask inthe sun, and eat a great deal. They tell me to eat six times a day and areindignant with me for eating, as they think, very little. I am forbidden totalk much, to swim, and so on, and so on. 

Except my lungs, all my organs were found to be healthy. Hitherto I fanciedI drank just so much as not to do harm; now it turns out on investigationthat I was drinking less than I was entitled to. What a pity!

The author of "Ward No. 6" has been moved from Ward No. 16 to Ward No. 14. There is plenty of room here, two windows, lighting a la Potapenko, threetables. There is very little haemorrhage. After the evening when Tolstoywas here (we talked for a long time) at four o'clock in the morning I hadviolent haemorrhage again. 

Melihovo is a healthy place; it stands exactly on a watershed, on highground, so that there is never fever or diphtheria in it. They havedecided, after general consultation, that I am not to go away anywhere butto go on living at Melihovo. I must only arrange the house somewhat morecomfortably. .. . 

MOSCOW, April 7, 1897. 

. .. You write that my ideal is laziness. No, it is not laziness. I despiselaziness as I despise weakness and lack of mental and moral energy. I wasnot talking of laziness but of leisure, and I did not say leisure was anideal but only one of the essential conditions of personal happiness. 

If the experiments with Koch's new serum give favourable results, I shallgo of course to Berlin. Feeding is absolutely no use to me. Here for thelast fortnight they have been feeding me zealously, but it's no use, I havenot gained weight. 

I ought to get married. Perhaps a cross wife would cut down the number ofmy visitors by at least a half. Yesterday they were coming all day long, itwas simply awful. They came two at a time--and each one begs me not tospeak and at the same time asks me questions. .. . 

TO A. I. ERTEL. 

MELIHOVO, April 17, 1897. 

DEAR FRIEND ALEXANDR IVANOVITCH, I am now at home. For a fortnight before Easter I was lying in Ostroumov'sclinic and was spitting blood. The doctor diagnosed tuberculosis in thelungs. I feel splendid, nothing aches, nothing is uneasy inside, but thedoctors have forbidden me _vinum_, movement, and conversation, they haveordered me to eat a great deal, and forbidden me to practise--and I feel asit were dreary. 

I hear nothing about the People's Theatre. At the congress it was spoken ofapathetically, without interest, and the circle that had undertaken towrite its constitution and set to work have evidently cooled off a little. It is due to the spring, I suppose. The only one of the circle I saw wasGoltsev, and I had not time to talk to him about the theatre. 

There is nothing new. A dead calm in literature. In the editor's officesthey are drinking tea and cheap wine, drinking it without relish as theywalk about, evidently from having nothing to do. Tolstoy is writing alittle book about Art. He came to see me in the clinic, and said that hehad flung aside his novel "Resurrection" as he did not like it, and waswriting only about Art, and had read sixty books about Art. His idea is nota new one; all intelligent old men in all the ages have sung the same tunein different keys. Old men have always been prone to see the end of theworld, and have always declared that morality was degenerating to theuttermost point, that Art was growing shallow and wearing thin, that peoplewere growing feebler, and so on, and so on. 

Lyov Nikolaevitch wants to persuade us in his little book that at thepresent time Art has entered upon its final phase, that it is in a blindalley, from which it has no outlet (except retreat). 

I am doing nothing, I feed the sparrows with hemp-seed and prune arose-tree a day. After my pruning, the roses flower magnificently. I am notlooking after the farming. 

Keep well, dear Alexandr Ivanovitch, thank you for your letter and friendlysympathy. Write to me for the sake of my infirmity, and don't blame me toomuch for my carelessness in correspondence. 

In future I am going to try and answer your letters as soon as I have readthem. Warmest greetings. 

TO SUVORIN. 

MELIHOVO, July 12, 1897. 

. .. I am reading Maeterlinck, I have read his "Les Aveugles, " "L'Intrus, "and am reading "Aglavaine et Selysette. " They are all strange wonderfulthings, but they make an immense impression, and if I had a theatre Ishould certainly stage "Les Aveugles. " There is, by the way, a magnificentscenic effect in it, with the sea and a lighthouse in the distance. Thepublic is semi-idiotic, but one might avoid the play's failing by writingthe contents of the play--in brief, of course--on the programme, saying theplay is the work of Maeterlinck, a Belgian author and decadent, and thatwhat happens in it is that an old man, who leads about some blind men, hasdied in silence and that the blind men, not knowing this, are sitting andwaiting for his return. .. . 

TO MADAME AVILOV. 

NICE, October 6, 1897. 

. .. You complain that my heroes are gloomy--alas! that's not my fault. Thishappens apart from my will, and when I write it does not seem to me that Iam writing gloomily; in any case, as I work I am always in excellentspirits. It has been observed that gloomy, melancholy people always writecheerfully, while those who enjoy life put their depression into theirwritings. And I am a man who enjoys life; the first thirty years of my lifeI have lived as they say in pleasure and content. .. . 

TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. 

NICE, December 15, 1897. 

. .. In one of your letters you expressed a desire that I should send you aninternational story, taking for my subject something from the life here. Such a story I can write only in Russia from reminiscences. I can onlywrite from reminiscences, and I have never written directly from Nature. Ihave let my memory sift the subject, so that only what is important ortypical is left in it as in a filter. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

NICE, January 4, 1898. 

. .. Judging from the extract printed in _Novoye Vremya_, Tolstoy's articleon Art does not seem interesting. All that is old. He says about Art thatit is decrepit, that it has got into a blind alley, that it is not what itought to be, and so on, and so on. That's just like saying the desire toeat and drink has grown old, has outlived its day, and is not what it oughtto be. Of course hunger is an old story, in the desire to eat we have gotinto a blind alley, but still eating is necessary, and we shall go oneating however the philosophers and irate old men moralise. .. . 

TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. 

NICE, January 28, 1898. 

. .. We talk of nothing here but Zola and Dreyfus. The immense majority ofeducated people are on Zola's side and believe that Dreyfus is innocent. Zola has gained immensely in public esteem; his letters of protest are likea breath of fresh air, and every Frenchman has felt that, thank God! thereis still justice in the world, and that if an innocent man is condemnedthere is still someone to champion him. The French papers are extremelyinteresting while the Russian are worthless. _Novoye Vremya_ is simplyloathsome. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

NICE, February 6, 1898. 

. .. You write that you are annoyed with Zola, and here everyone has afeeling as though a new, better Zola had arisen. In his trial he has beencleansed as though in turpentine from grease-spots, and now shines beforethe French in his true brilliance. There is a purity and moral elevationthat was not suspected in him. You should follow the whole scandal from thevery beginning. The degradation of Dreyfus, whether it was just or not, made on all (you were of the number I remember) a painful and depressingimpression. It was noticed that at the time of the sentence Dreyfus behavedlike a decent well-disciplined officer, while those present at thesentence, the journalists for instance, shouted at him, "Hold your tongue, Judas, "--that is, behaved badly and indecently. Everyone came back from thesentence dissatisfied and with a troubled conscience. Dreyfus' counselDemange, an honest man, who even during the preliminary stages of the trialfelt that something shifty was being done behind the scenes, wasparticularly dissatisfied--and then the experts who, to convince themselvesthat they had not made a mistake, kept talking of nothing but Dreyfus, ofhis being guilty, and kept wandering all over Paris! . .. 

Of the experts one turned out to be mad, the author of a monstrously absurdproject; two were eccentric creatures. 

People could not help talking of the Intelligence Department at the WarOffice, that military consistory which is employed in hunting for spies andreading other people's letters; it began to be said that the head of thatDepartment, Sandhen, was suffering from progressive paralysis; Paty de Clamhas shown himself to be something after the style of Tausch of Berlin;Picquart suddenly took his departure mysteriously, causing a lot of talk. All at once a series of gross judicial blunders came to light. By degreespeople became convinced that Dreyfus had been condemned on the strength ofa secret document, which had been shown neither to the accused man nor hisdefending counsel, and decent law-abiding people saw in this a fundamentalbreach of justice. If the latter were the work not simply of Wilhelm, butof the centre of the solar system, it ought to have been shown to Demange. All sorts of guesses were made as to the contents of this letter, the mostimpossible stories circulated. Dreyfus was an officer, the military weresuspect; Dreyfus was a Jew, the Jews were suspect. People began talkingabout militarism, about the Jews. Such utterly disreputable people asDrumont held up their heads; little by little they stirred up a regularpother on a substratum of anti-semitism, on a substratum that smelt of theshambles. When something is wrong with us we look for the causes outsideourselves, and readily find them. "It's the Frenchman's nastiness, it's theJews', it's Wilhelm's. " Capital, brimstone, the freemasons, the Syndicate, the Jesuits--they are all bogeys, but how they relieve our uneasiness! Theyare of course a bad sign. Since the French have begun talking about theJews, about the Syndicate, it shows they are feeling uncomfortable, thatthere is a worm gnawing at them, that they feel the need of these bogeys tosoothe their over-excited conscience. 

Then this Esterhazy, a duellist, in the style of Turgenev's duellists, aninsolent ruffian, who had long been an object of suspicion, and was notrespected by his comrades; the striking resemblance of his handwriting withthat of the _bordereau, _ the Uhlan's letters, his threats which for somereason he does not carry out; finally the judgment, utterly mysterious, strangely deciding that the _bordereau_ was written in Esterhazy'shandwriting but not by his hand! . .. And the gas has been continuallyaccumulating, there has come to be a feeling of acute tension, ofoverwhelming oppression. The fighting in the court was a purely nervousmanifestation, simply the hysterical result of that tension, and Zola'sletter and his trial are a manifestation of the same kind. What would youhave? The best people, always in advance of the nation, were bound to bethe first to raise an agitation--and so it has been. The first to speak wasScherer-Kestner, of whom Frenchmen who know him intimately (according toKovalevsky) say that he is a "sword-blade, " so spotless and without blemishis he. The second is Zola, and now he is being tried. 

Yes, Zola is not Voltaire, and we are none of us Voltaires, but there arein life conjunctions of circumstances when the reproach that we are notVoltaires is least of all appropriate. Think of Korolenko, who defended theMultanovsky natives and saved them from penal servitude. Dr. Haas is not aVoltaire either, and yet his wonderful life has been well spent up to theend. 

I am well acquainted with the case from the stenographers' report, whichis utterly different from what is in the newspapers, and I have a clearview of Zola. The chief point is that he is sincere--that is, he baseshis judgments simply on what he sees, and not on phantoms like theothers. And sincere people can be mistaken, no doubt of it, but suchmistakes do less harm than calculated insincerity, prejudgments, orpolitical considerations. Let Dreyfus be guilty, and Zola is stillright, since it is the duty of writers not to accuse, not to prosecute, but to champion even the guilty once they have been condemned and areenduring punishment. I shall be told: "What of the political position?The interests of the State?" But great writers and artists ought to takepart in politics only so far as they have to protect themselves frompolitics. There are plenty of accusers, prosecutors, and gendarmeswithout them, and in any case, the role of Paul suits them better thanthat of Saul. Whatever the verdict may be, Zola will anyway experience avivid delight after the trial, his old age will be a fine old age, andhe will die with a conscience at peace, or at any rate greatly solaced. The French are very sick. They clutch at every word of comfort and atevery genuine reproach coming to them from outside. That is whyBernstein's letter and our Zakrevsky's article (which was read here inthe Novosti) have had such a great success here, and why they are sodisgusted by abuse of Zola, such as the gutter press, which theydespise, flings at him every day. However neurotic Zola may be, still hestands before the court of French common sense, and the French love himfor it and are proud of him, even though they do applaud the Generalswho, in the simplicity of their hearts, scare them first with the honourof the army, then with war. .. . 

TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDR. 

NICE, February 23, 1898. 

. .. _Novoye Vremya_ has behaved simply abominably about the Zola case. Theold man and I have exchanged letters on the subject (in a tone of greatmoderation, however), and have both dropped the subject. 

I don't want to write and I don't want his letters, in which he keepsjustifying the tactlessness of his paper by saying he loves the military: Idon't want them because I have been thoroughly sick of it all for a longtime past. I love the military too, but I would not if I had a newspaperallow the _cactuses_ to print Zola's novel _for nothing_ in the Supplement, while they pour dirty water over this same Zola in the paper--and what for?For what not one of the cactuses has ever known--for a noble impulse andmoral purity. And in any case to abuse Zola when he is on his trial--thatis unworthy of literature. .. . 

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

YALTA, October 26, 1898. 

. .. I am buying a piece of land in Yalta and am going to build so as tohave a place in which to spend the winters. The prospect of continualwandering with hotel rooms, hotel porters, chance cooking, and so on, andso on, alarms my imagination. Mother will spend the winter with me. Thereis no winter here; it's the end of October, but the roses and other flowersare blooming freely, the trees are green and it is warm. 

There is a great deal of water. Nothing will be needed apart from thehouse, no outbuildings of any sort; it will all be under one roof. Thecoal, wood and everything will be in the basement. The hens lay the wholeyear round, and no special house is needed for them, an enclosure isenough. Close by there is a baker's shop and the bazaar, so that it will bevery cosy for Mother and very convenient. By the way, there arechanterelles and boletuses to be gathered all the autumn, and that will bean amusement for Mother. I am not doing the building myself, the architectis doing it all. The houses will be ready by April. The grounds, for a townhouse, are considerable. There will be a garden and flowerbeds, and avegetable garden. The railway will come to Yalta next year. .. . 

As for getting married, upon which you are so urgent--what am I to say toyou? To marry is interesting only for love; to marry a girl simply becauseshe is nice is like buying something one does not want at the bazaar solelybecause it is of good quality. 

The most important screw in family life is love, sexual attraction, oneflesh, all the rest is dreary and cannot be reckoned upon, however cleverlywe make our calculations. So the point is not in the girl's being nice butin her being loved; putting it off as you see counts for little. .. . 

My "Uncle Vanya" is being done all over the province, and everywhere withsuccess. So one never knows where one will gain and where one will lose; Ihad not reckoned on that play at all. .. . 

TO GORKY. 

YALTA, December 3, 1898. 

Your last letter has given me great pleasure. I thank you with all myheart. "Uncle Vanya" was written long, long ago; I have never seen it onthe stage. Of late years it has often been produced at provincial theatres. I feel cold about my plays as a rule; I gave up the theatre long ago, andfeel no desire now to write for the stage. 

You ask what is my opinion of your stories. My opinion? The talent isunmistakable and it is a real, great talent. For instance, in the story "Inthe Steppe" it is expressed with extraordinary vigour, and I actually felta pang of envy that it was not I who had written it. You are an artist, aclever man, you feel superbly, you are plastic--that is, when you describea thing you see it and you touch it with your hands. That is real art. There is my opinion for you, and I am very glad I can express it to you. Iam, I repeat, very glad, and if we could meet and talk for an hour or twoyou would be convinced of my high appreciation of you and of the hopes I ambuilding on your gifts. 

Shall I speak now of defects? But that is not so easy. To speak of thedefects of a talent is like speaking of the defects of a great tree growingin the garden; what is chiefly in question, you see, is not the tree itselfbut the tastes of the man who is looking at it. Is not that so?

I will begin by saying that to my mind you have not enough restraint. Youare like a spectator at the theatre who expresses his transports with solittle restraint that he prevents himself and other people from listening. This lack of restraint is particularly felt in the descriptions of naturewith which you interrupt your dialogues; when one reads those descriptionsone wishes they were more compact, shorter, put into two or three lines. The frequent mention of tenderness, whispering, velvetiness, and so on, give those descriptions a rhetorical and monotonous character--and theymake one feel cold and almost exhaust one. The lack of restraint is feltalso in the descriptions of women ("Malva, " "On the Raft") and love scenes. It is not vigour, not breadth of touch, but just lack of restraint. Thenthere is the frequent use of words quite unsuitable in stories of yourtype. "Accompaniment, " "disc, " "harmony, " such words spoil the effect. Youoften talk of waves. There is a strained feeling and a sort ofcircumspection in your descriptions of educated people; that is not becauseyou have not observed educated people sufficiently, you know them, but youdon't seem to know from what side to approach them. 

How old are you? I don't know you, I don't know where you came from or whoyou are, but it seems to me that while you are still young you ought toleave Nizhni and spend two or three years rubbing shoulders with literatureand literary people; not to learn to crow like the rest of us and tosharpen your wits, but to take the final plunge head first into literatureand to grow to love it. Besides, the provinces age a man early. Korolenko, Potapenko, Mamin, Ertel, are first-rate men; you would perhaps at firstfeel their company rather boring, but in a year or two you would grow usedto them and appreciate them as they deserve, and their society would morethan repay you for the disagreeableness and inconvenience of life in thecapital. .. . 

YALTA, January 3, 1899. 

. .. Apparently you have misunderstood me a little. I did not write to youof coarseness of style, but only of the incongruity of foreign, notgenuinely Russian, or rarely used words. In other authors such words as, for instance, "fatalistically, " pass unnoticed, but your things aremusical, harmonious, and every crude touch jars fearfully. Of course it isa question of taste, and perhaps this is only a sign of excessivefastidiousness in me, or the conservatism of a man who has adopted definitehabits for himself long ago. I am resigned to "a _collegiate assessor_, "and "a _captain_ of the second _rank_" in descriptions, but "_flirt_" and"_champion_" when they occur in descriptions excite repulsion in me. 

Are you self-educated? In your stories you are completely an artist and atthe same time an "educated" man in the truest sense. 

Nothing is less characteristic of you than coarseness, you are clever andsubtle and delicate in your feelings. Your best things are "In the Steppe, "and "On the Raft, "--did I write to you about that? They are splendidthings, masterpieces, they show the artist who has passed through a verygood school. I don't think that I am mistaken. The only defect is the lackof restraint, the lack of grace. When a man spends the least possiblenumber of movements over some definite action, that is grace. One isconscious of superfluity in your expenditure. 

The descriptions of nature are the work of an artist; you are a reallandscape painter. Only the frequent personification (anthropomorphism)when the sea breathes, the sky gazes, the steppe barks, nature whispers, speaks, mourns, and so on--such metaphors make your descriptions somewhatmonotonous, sometimes sweetish, sometimes not clear; beauty andexpressiveness in nature are attained only by simplicity, by such simplephrases as "The sun set, " "It was dark, " "It began to rain, " and so on--andthat simplicity is characteristic of you in the highest degree, more soperhaps than of any other writer. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

YALTA, January 17, 1899. 

. .. I have been reading Tolstoy's son's story: "The Folly of the Mir. " Theconstruction of the story is poor, indeed it would have been better towrite it simply as an article, but the thought is treated with justice andpassion. I am against the Commune myself. There is sense in the Communewhen one has to deal with external enemies who make frequent invasions, andwith wild animals; but now it is a crowd artificially held together, like acrowd of convicts. They will tell us Russia is an agricultural country. That is so, but the Commune has nothing to do with that, at any rate at thepresent time. The commune exists by husbandry, but once husbandry begins topass into scientific agriculture the commune begins to crack at every seam, as the commune and culture are not compatible ideas. Our nationaldrunkenness and profound ignorance are, by the way, sins of the communesystem. .. . 

TO HIS BROTHER MIHAIL. 

YALTA, February 6, 1899. 

. .. Being bored, I am reading "The Book of my Life" by Bishop Porfiry. Thispassage about war occurs in it:

"Standing armies in time of peace are locusts devouring the people's breadand leaving a vile stench in society, while in time of war they areartificial fighting machines, and when they grow and develop, farewell tofreedom, security, and national glory! . .. They are the lawless defendersof unjust and partial laws, of privilege and of tyranny. " . .. 

That was written in the forties. .. . 

TO I. I. ORLOV. 

YALTA, February 22, 1899. 

. .. In your letter there is a text from Scripture. To your complaint inregard to the tutor and failures of all sorts I will reply by another text:"Put not thy trust in princes nor in any sons of man" . .. And I recallanother expression in regard to the sons of man, those in particular who soannoy you: they are the sons of their age. 

Not the tutor but the whole educated class--that is to blame, my dear sir. While the young men and women are students they are a good honest set, theyare our hope, they are the future of Russia, but no sooner do thosestudents enter upon independent life and become grown up than our hope andthe future of Russia vanishes in smoke, and all that is left in the filteris doctors owning house property, hungry government clerks, and thievingengineers. Remember that Katkov, Pobyedonostsev, Vishnegradsky, werenurselings of the Universities, that they were our Professors--not militarydespots, but professors, luminaries. .. . I don't believe in our educatedclass, which is hypocritical, false, hysterical, badly educated andindolent. I don't believe in it even when it's suffering and complaining, for its oppressors come from its own entrails. I believe in individualpeople, I see salvation in individual personalities scattered here andthere all over Russia--educated people or peasants--they have strengththough they are few. No prophet is honoured in his own country, but theindividual personalities of whom I am speaking play an unnoticed part insociety, they are not domineering, but their work can be seen; anyway, science is advancing and advancing, social self-consciousness is growing, moral questions begin to take an uneasy character, and so on, and so on-andall this is being done in spite of the prosecutors, the engineers, and thetutors, in spite of the intellectual class en masse and in spite ofeverything. .. . 

TO MADAME AVILOV. 

YALTA, March 9, 1899. 

I shall not be at the writers' congress. In the autumn I shall be in theCrimea or abroad--that is, of course, if I am alive and free. I am going tospend the whole summer on my own place in the Serpuhov district. [Footnote:Melihovo. ]

By the way, in what district of the Tula province have you bought yourestate? For the first two years after buying an estate one has a hard time, at moments it is very bad indeed, but by degrees one is led to Nirvana, bysweet habit. I bought an estate and mortgaged it, I had a very hard timethe first years (famine, cholera). Afterwards everything went well, and nowit is pleasant to remember that I have somewhere near the Oka a nook of myown. I live in peace with the peasants, they never steal anything from me, and when I walk through the village the old women smile and crossthemselves. I use the formal address to all except children, and nevershout at them; but what has done most to build up our good relations ismedicine. You will be happy on your estate, only please don't listen toanyone's advice and gloomy prognostications, and don't at first bedisappointed, or form an opinion about the peasants. The peasants behavesullenly and not genuinely to all new-comers, and especially so in the Tulaprovince. There is indeed a saying: "He's a good man though he is fromTula. "

So here's something like a sermon for you, you see, madam. Are yousatisfied?

Do you know L. N. Tolstoy? Will your estate be far from Tolstoy's? If it isnear I shall envy you. I like Tolstoy very much. 

Speaking of new writers, you throw Melshin in with a whole lot. That's notright. Melshin stands apart. He is a great and unappreciated writer, anintelligent, powerful writer, though perhaps he will not write more than hehas written already. Kuprin I have not read at all. Gorky I like, but oflate he has taken to writing rubbish, revolting rubbish, so that I shallsoon give up reading him. "Humble People" is good, though one could havedone without Buhvostov, whose presence brings into the story an element ofstrain, of tiresomeness and even falsity. Korolenko is a delightful writer. He is loved--and with good reason. Apart from all the rest there issobriety and purity in him. 

You ask whether I am sorry for Suvorin. Of course I am. He is payingheavily for his mistakes. But I'm not at all sorry for those who aresurrounding him. .. . 

TO GORKY. 

MOSCOW, April 25, 1899. 

. .. The day before yesterday I was at L. N. Tolstoy's; he praised you veryhighly and said that you were "a remarkable writer. " He likes your "TheFair" and "In the Steppe" and does not like "Malva. " He said: "You caninvent anything you like, but you can't invent psychology, and in Gorky onecomes across just psychological inventions: he describes what he has neverfelt. " So much for you! I said that when you were next in Moscow we wouldgo together to see him. 

When will you be in Moscow? On Thursday there will be a privateperformance--for me--of "The Seagull. " If you come to Moscow I will giveyou a seat. .. . 

From Petersburg I get painful letters, as it were from the damned, [Footnote: From Suvorin. ] and it's painful to me as I don't know what toanswer, how to behave. Yes, life when it is not a psychological inventionis a difficult business. .. . 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, September 30, 1899. 

At your command I hasten to answer your letter in which you ask me aboutAstrov's last scene with Elena. 

You write that Astrov addresses Elena in that scene like the most ardentlover, "clutches at his feeling like a drowning man at a straw. "

But that's not right, not right at all! Astrov likes Elena, she attractshim by her beauty; but in the last act he knows already that nothing willcome of it, and he talks to her in that scene in the same tone as of theheat in Africa, and kisses her quite casually, to pass the time. If Astrovtakes that scene violently, the whole mood of the fourth act--quiet anddespondent--is lost. .. . 

TO G. I. ROSSOLIMO. 

YALTA, October 11, 1899. 

. .. Autobiography? I have a disease--Auto-biographophobia. To read any sortof details about myself, and still more to write them for print, is averitable torture to me. On a separate sheet I send a few facts, very bald, but I can do no more. .. . 

I, A. P. Chekhov, was born on the 17th of January, 1860, at Taganrog. I waseducated first in the Greek School near the church of Tsar Constantine;then in the Taganrog high school. In 1879 I entered the Moscow Universityin the Faculty of Medicine. I had at the time only a slight idea of theFaculties in general, and chose the Faculty of Medicine I don't remember onwhat grounds, but did not regret my choice afterwards. I began in my firstyear to publish stories in the weekly journals and newspapers, and theseliterary pursuits had, early in the eighties, acquired a permanentprofessional character. In 1888 I took the Pushkin prize. In 1890 Itravelled to the Island of Sahalin, to write afterwards a book upon ourpenal colony and prisons there. Not counting reviews, feuilletons, paragraphs, and all that I have written from day to day for the newspapers, which it would be difficult now to seek out and collect, I have, during mytwenty years of literary work, published more than three hundred signaturesof print, of tales, and novels. I have also written plays for the stage. 

I have no doubt that the study of medicine has had an important influenceon my literary work; it has considerably enlarged the sphere of myobservation, has enriched me with knowledge the true value of which for meas a writer can only be understood by one who is himself a doctor. It hasalso had a guiding influence, and it is probably due to my closeassociation with medicine that I have succeeded in avoiding many mistakes. 

Familiarity with the natural sciences and with scientific method has alwayskept me on my guard, and I have always tried where it was possible to beconsistent with the facts of science, and where it was impossible I havepreferred not to write at all. I may observe in passing that the conditionsof artistic creation do not always admit of complete harmony with the factsof science. It is impossible to represent upon the stage a death frompoisoning exactly as it takes place in reality. But harmony with the factsof science must be felt even under those conditions--i. E. , it must beclear to the reader or spectator that this is only due to the conditions ofart, and that he has to do with a writer who understands. 

I do not belong to the class of literary men who take up a scepticalattitude towards science; and to the class of those who rush intoeverything with only their own imagination to go upon, I should not like tobelong. .. . 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, October 30, 1899. 

. .. You ask whether I shall be excited, but you see I only heard properlythat "Uncle Vanya" was to be given on the twenty-sixth from your letterwhich I got on the twenty-seventh. The telegrams began coming on theevening of the twenty-seventh when I was in bed. They send them on to me bytelephone. I woke up every time and ran with bare feet to the telephone, and got very much chilled; then I had scarcely dozed off when the bell rangagain and again. It's the first time that my own fame has kept me awake. The next evening when I went to bed I put my slippers and dressing-gownbeside my bed, but there were no more telegrams. 

The telegrams were full of nothing but the number of calls and thebrilliant success, but there was a subtle, almost elusive something in themfrom which I could conclude that the state of mind of all of you was notexactly of the very best. The newspapers I have got to-day confirm myconjectures. 

Yes, dear actress, ordinary medium success is not enough now for all youartistic players: you want an uproar, big guns, dynamite. You have beenspoiled at last, deafened by constant talk about successes, full and notfull houses: you are already poisoned with that drug, and in another two orthree years you will be good for nothing! So much for you!

How are you getting on? How are you feeling? I am still in the same place, and am still the same; I am working and planting trees. 

But visitors have come, I can't go on writing. Visitors have been sittinghere for more than an hour. They have asked for tea. They have sent for thesamovar. Oh, how dreary!

Don't forget me, and don't let your friendship for me die away, so that wemay go away together somewhere again this summer. Good-bye for the present. We shall most likely not meet before April. If you would all come in thespring to Yalta, would act here and rest--that would be wonderfullyartistic. A visitor will take this letter and drop it into the post-box. .. . 

P. S. --Dear actress, write for the sake of all that's holy, I am so dull anddepressed. I might be in prison and I rage and rage. .. . 

YALTA, November 1, 1899. 

I understand your mood, dear actress, I understand it very well; but yet inyour place I would not be so desperately upset. Both the part of Anna[Footnote: In Hauptmann's "Lonely Lives. "] and the play itself are notworth wasting so much feeling and nerves over. It is an old play. It isalready out of date, and there are a great many defects in it; if more thanhalf the performers have not fallen into the right tone, then naturally itis the fault of the play. That's one thing, and the second is, you mustonce and for all give up being worried about successes and failures. Don'tlet that concern you. It's your duty to go on working steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes which are inevitable, forfailures--in short, to do your job as actress and let other people countthe calls before the curtain. To write or to act, and to be conscious atthe time that one is not doing the right thing--that is so usual, and forbeginners so profitable!

The third thing is that the director has telegraphed that the secondperformance went magnificently, that everyone played splendidly, and thathe was completely satisfied. .. . 

TO GORKY. 

YALTA, January 2, 1900. 

PRECIOUS ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, I wish you a happy New Year! How are you getting on? How are you feeling?When are you coming to Yalta? Write fully. I have received the photograph, it is very good; many thanks for it. 

Thank you, too, for the trouble you have taken in regard to our committeefor assisting invalids coming here. Send any money there is or will be tome, or to the executive of the Benevolent Society, no matter which. 

My story (i. E. , "In the Ravine") has already been sent off to _Zhizn_. Did I tell you that I liked your story "An Orphan" extremely, and sent itto Moscow to first-rate readers? There is a certain Professor Foht in theMedical Faculty in Moscow who reads Slyeptsov capitally. I don't know abetter reader. So I have sent your "Orphan" to him. Did I tell you how muchI liked a story in your third volume, "My Travelling Companion"? There isthe same strength in it as "In the Steppe. " If I were you, I would take thebest things out of your three volumes and republish them in one volume at arouble--and that would be something really remarkable for vigour andharmony. As it is, everything seems shaken up together in the threevolumes; there are no weak things, but it leaves an impression as thoughthe three volumes were not the work of one author but of seven. 

Scribble me a line or two. 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, January 2, 1900. 

My greetings, dear actress! Are you angry that I haven't written for solong? I used to write often, but you didn't get my letters because ourcommon acquaintance intercepted them in the post. 

I wish you all happiness in the New Year. I really do wish you happinessand bow down to your little feet. Be happy, wealthy, healthy, and gay. 

We are getting on pretty well, we eat a great deal, chatter a great deal, laugh a great deal, and often talk of you. Masha will tell you when shegoes back to Moscow how we spent Christmas. 

I have not congratulated you on the success of "Lonely Lives. " I stilldream that you will all come to Yalta, that I shall see "Lonely Lives" onthe stage, and congratulate you really from my heart. I wrote to Meierhold, [Footnote: An actor at the Art Theatre at that time playing Johannes inHauptmann's "Lonely Lives. "] and urged him in my letter not to be tooviolent in the part of a nervous man. The immense majority of people arenervous, you know: the greater number suffer, and a small proportion feelacute pain; but where--in streets and in houses--do you see people tearingabout, leaping up, and clutching at their heads? Suffering ought to beexpressed as it is expressed in life--that is, not by the arms and legs, but by the tone and expression; not by gesticulation, but by grace. Subtleemotions of the soul in educated people must be subtly expressed in anexternal way. You will say--stage conditions. No conditions allow falsity. 

My sister tells me that you played "Anna" exquisitely. Ah, if only the ArtTheatre would come to Yalta! _Novoye Vremya_ highly praised your company. There is a change of tactics in that quarter; evidently they are going topraise you all even in Lent. My story, a very queer one, will be in theFebruary number of _Zhizn_. There are a great number of characters, thereis scenery too, there's a crescent moon, there's a bittern that cries far, far away: "Boo-oo! boo-oo!" like a cow shut up in a shed. There'severything in it. 

Levitan is with us. Over my fireplace he has painted a moonlight night inthe hayfield, cocks of hay, forest in the distance, a moon reigning on highabove it all. 

Well, the best of health to you, dear, wonderful actress. I have beenpining for you. 

And when are you going to send me your photograph? What treachery!

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

YALTA, January 8, 1900. 

. .. My health is not so bad. I feel better than I did last year, but yetthe doctors won't let me leave Yalta. I am as tired and sick of thischarming town as of a disagreeable wife. It's curing me of tuberculosis, but it's making me ten years older. If I go to Nice it won't be beforeFebruary. I am writing a little; not long ago I sent a long story to_Zhizn_. Money is short, all I have received so far from Marks for theplays is gone by now. .. . 

If Prince Baryatinsky is to be judged by his paper, I must own I was unjustto him, for I imagined him very different from what he is. They will shutup his paper, of course, but he will long maintain his reputation as a goodjournalist. You ask me why the _Syeverny Kurier_ is successful? Because oursociety is exhausted, hatred has turned it as rank and rotten as grass in abog, and it has a longing for something fresh, free, light--a desperatelonging. 

 * * * * *

I often see the academician Kondakov here. We talk of the Pushkin sectionof belles-lettres. As Kondakov will take part in the elections of futureacademicians, I am trying to hypnotize him, and suggest that they shouldelect Barantsevitch and Mihailovsky. The former is broken down and wornout. He is unquestionably a literary man, is poverty-stricken in his oldage. .. . An income and rest would be the very thing for him. Thelatter--that is Mihailovsky--would make a good foundation for the newsection, and his election would satisfy three-quarters of the brotherhood. But my hypnotism failed, my efforts came to nothing. The supplementaryclauses to the statute are like Tolstoy's After-word to the KreutzerSonata. The academicians have done all they can to protect themselves fromliterary men, whose society shocks them as the society of the Russianacademicians shocked the Germans. Literary men can only be honoraryacademicians, and that means nothing--it is just the same as being anhonorary citizen of the town of Vyazma or Tcherepovets, there is no salaryand no vote attached. A clever way out of it! The professors will beelected real academicians, and those of the writers will be electedhonorary academicians who do not live in Petersburg, and so cannot bepresent at the sittings and abuse the professors. 

I hear the muezzin calling in the minaret. The Turks are very religious;it's their fast now, they eat nothing the whole day. They have no religiousladies, that element which makes religion shallow as the sand does theVolga. 

You do well to print the martyrology of Russian towns avoided by theextortionate railway contractors. Here is what the famous author Chekhovwrote on the subject in his story "My Life. " [Footnote: Appended to theletter was a printed cutting. ] Railway contractors are revengeful people;refuse them a trifle, and they will punish you for it all your life--andit's their tradition. 

Thanks for your letter, thanks for your indulgence. 

TO P. I. KURKIN. 

YALTA, January 18, 1900. 

DEAR PYOTR IVANOVITCH, Thank you for your letter. I have long been wanting to write to you, but have never had time, under the load of business and officialcorrespondence. Yesterday was the 17th of January--my name-day, andthe day of my election to the Academy. What a lot of telegrams! Andwhat a lot of letters still to come! And I must answer all of them, orposterity will accuse me of not knowing the laws of good manners. 

There is news, but I won't tell you it now (no time), but later on. I amnot very well. I was ailing all yesterday. I press your hand heartily. Keepwell. 

TO V. M. SOBOLEVSKY. 

YALTA, January 19, 1900. 

DEAR VASSILY MIHAILOVITCH, In November I wrote a story [Footnote: "In the Ravine. "] fully intending tosend it to _Russkiya Vyedomosti_, but the story lengthened out beyondthe sixteen pages, and I had to send it elsewhere. Then Elpatyevsky and Idecided to send you a telegram on New Year's Eve, but there was such a rushand a whirl that we let the right moment slip, and now I send you my NewYear wishes. Forgive me my many transgressions. You know how deeply I loveand respect you, and if the intervals in our correspondence are prolongedit's merely external causes that are to blame. 

I am alive and almost well. I am often ill, but not for long at a time; andI haven't once been kept in bed this winter, I keep about though I am ill. I am working harder than I did last year, and I am more bored. It's badbeing without Russia in every way. .. . All the evergreen trees look asthough they were made of tin, and one gets no joy out of them. And one seesnothing interesting, as one has no taste for the local life. 

Elpatyevsky and Kondakov are here. The former has run up a huge house forhimself which towers above all Yalta; the latter is going to Petersburg totake his seat in the Academy--and is glad to go. Elpatyevsky is cheerfuland hearty, always in good spirits, goes out in all weathers, in a summerovercoat; Kondakov is irritably sarcastic, and goes about in a fur coat. Both often come and see me and we speak of you. 

V. A. Wrote that she had bought a piece of land in Tuapse. Oy-oy! but theboredom there is awful, you know. There are Tchetchentsi and scorpions, andworst of all there are no roads, and there won't be any for a long time. Ofall warm places in Russia the best are on the south coast of the Crimea, there is no doubt of that, whatever they may say about the natural beautiesof the Caucasus. I have been lately to Gurzufa, near Pushkin's rock, andadmired the view, although it rained and although I am sick to death ofviews. In the Crimea it is snugger and nearer to Russia. Let V. A. Sell herplace in Tuapse or make a present of it to someone, and I will find her abit of the sea-front with bathing, and a bay, in the Crimea. 

When you are in Vosdvizhenka give my respects and greetings to VarvaraAlexyevna, Varya, Natasha, and Glyeb. I can fancy how Glyeb and Natashahave grown. Now if only you would all come here for Easter, I could have alook at you all. Don't forget me, please, and don't be angry with me. Isend you my warmest good wishes. I press your hand heartily and embraceyou. 

TO G. I. ROSSOLIMO. 

YALTA, January 21, 1900. 

DEAR GRIGORY IVANOVITCH, . .. I send you in a registered parcel what I have that seems suitable forchildren--two stories of the life of a dog. And I think I have nothing elseof the sort. I don't know how to write for children; I write for them oncein ten years, and so-called children's books I don't like and don't believein. Children ought only to be given what is suitable also for grown-uppeople. Andersen, "The Frigate Pallada, " Gogol, are easily read by childrenand also by grown-up people. Books should not be written for children, butone ought to know how to choose from what has been written for grown-uppeople--that is, from real works of art. To be able to select among drugs, and to administer them in suitable doses, is more direct and consistentthan trying to invent a special remedy for the patient because he is achild. Forgive the medical comparison. It's in keeping with the moment, perhaps, as for the last four days I have been occupied with medicine, doctoring my mother and myself. Influenza no doubt. Fever and headache. 

If I write anything, I will let you know in due time, but anything I writecan only be published by one man--Marks! For anything published by anyoneelse I have to pay a fine of 5, 000 roubles (per signature). .. . 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, January 22, 1900. 

DEAR ACTRESS, On January 17th I had telegrams from your mother and your brother, fromyour uncle Alexandr Ivanovitch (signed Uncle Sasha), and from N. N. Sokolovsky. Be so good as to give them my warm thanks and the expression ofmy sincere feeling for them. 

Why don't you write?--what has happened? Or are you already so fascinated?. .. Well, there is no help for it. God be with you!

I am told that in May you will be in Yalta. If that is settled, whyshouldn't you make inquiries beforehand about the theatre? The theatre hereis let on lease, and you could not get hold of it without negotiating withthe tenant, Novikov the actor. If you commission me to do so I wouldperhaps talk to him about it. 

The 17th, my name-day and the day of my election to the Academy, passeddingily and gloomily, as I was unwell. Now I am better, but my mother isailing. And these little troubles completely took away all taste andinclination for a name-day or election to the Academy, and they, too, havehindered me from writing to you and answering your telegram at the propertime. 

Mother is getting better now. 

I see the Sredins at times. They come to see us, and I go to them very, very rarely, but still I do go. .. . 

So, then, you are not writing to me and not intending to write very sooneither. .. . X. Is to blame for all that. I understand you!

I kiss your little hand. 

TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. 

YALTA, January 24, 1900. 

MUCH RESPECTED F. D. , Roche asks me to send him the passages from "Peasants" which were cut outby the Censor, but there were no such passages. There is one chapter whichhas not appeared in the magazine, nor in the book. It was a conversation ofthe peasants about religion and government. But there is no need to sendthat chapter to Paris, as indeed there was no need to translate "Peasants"into French at all. 

I thank you most sincerely for the photograph; Ryepin's illustration is anhonour I had not expected or dreamed of. It will be very pleasant to havethe original; tell Ilya Efimovitch [Footnote: Ryepin, who was, at therequest of Roche, the French translator, illustrating the French edition ofChekhov's "Peasants. "] that I shall expect it with impatience, and that hecannot change his mind now, as I have already bequeathed the original tothe town of Taganrog--in which, by the way, I was born. 

In your letter you speak of Gorky: how do you like Gorky? I don't likeeverything he writes, but there are things I like very, very much, and tomy mind there is not a shadow of doubt that Gorky is made of the dough ofwhich artists are made. He is the real thing. He's a fine man, clever, thinking, and thoughtful. But there is a lot of unnecessary ballast uponhim and in him--for example, his provincialism. .. . 

Thanks very much for your letter, for remembering me. I am dull here, I amsick of it, and I have a feeling as though I have been thrown overboard. And the weather's bad too, and I am not well. I still go on coughing. Allgood wishes. 

TO M. O. MENSHIKOV. 

YALTA, January 28, 1900. 

. .. I can't make out what Tolstoy's illness is. Tcherinov has sent me noanswer, and from what I read in the papers and what you write me now I candraw no conclusion. Ulcers in the stomach and intestines would givedifferent indications: they are not present, or there have been a fewbleeding wounds caused by gall-stones which have passed and lacerated thewalls. There is no cancer either. It would have shown itself first in theappetite, in the general condition, and above all the face would havebetrayed cancer if he had had it. The most likely thing is that L. N. Is ingood health (apart from the gall-stones), and will live another twentyyears. His illness frightened me, and kept me on tenter-hooks. I am afraidof Tolstoy's death. If he were to die there would be a big empty place inmy life. To begin with, because I have never loved any man as much as him. I am not a believing man, but of all beliefs I consider his the nearest andmost akin to me. Secondly, while Tolstoy is in literature it is easy andpleasant to be a literary man; even recognizing that one has done nothingand never will do anything is not so dreadful, since Tolstoy will do enoughfor all. His work is the justification of the enthusiasms and expectationsbuilt upon literature. Thirdly, Tolstoy takes a firm stand, he has animmense authority, and so long as he is alive, bad tastes in literature, vulgarity of every kind, insolent and lachrymose, all the bristling, exasperated vanities will be in the far background, in the shade. Nothingbut his moral authority is capable of maintaining a certain elevation inthe moods and tendencies of literature so called. Without him they would bea flock without a shepherd, or a hotch-potch, in which it would bedifficult to discriminate anything. 

To finish with Tolstoy, I have something to say about "Resurrection, " whichI have read not piecemeal, in parts, but as a whole, at one go. It is aremarkable artistic production. The least interesting part is all that issaid of Nehludov's relations with Katusha; and the most interesting theprinces, the generals, the aunts, the peasants, the convicts, the warders. The scene in the house of the General in command of the Peter-PaulFortress, the spiritualist, I read with a throbbing heart--it is so good!And Madame Kortchagin in the easy chair; and the peasant, the husband ofFedosya! The peasant calls his grandmother "an artful one. " That's justwhat Tolstoy's pen is--an artful one. There's no end to the novel, whatthere is you can't call an end. To write and write, and then to throw thewhole weight of it on a text from the Gospel, that is quite in thetheological style. To settle it all by a text from the Gospel is asarbitrary as dividing the convicts into five classes. Why into five and notinto ten? He must make us believe in the Gospel, in its being the truth, and then settle it all by texts. 

. .. They write about Tolstoy as old women talk about a crazy saint, allsorts of unctuous nonsense; it's a mistake for him to talk to thosepeople. .. . 

They have elected Tolstoy [Footnote: An honorary Academician. ]--againstthe grain. According to notions there, he is a Nihilist. Anyway, that'swhat he was called by a lady, the wife of an actual privy councillor, and Iheartily congratulate him upon it. .. . 

TO L. S. MIZINOV. 

YALTA, January 29, 1900. 

DEAR LIRA, They have written to me that you have grown very fat and become dignified, and I did not expect that you would remember me and write to me. But youhave remembered me--and thank you very much for it, dear. You write nothingabout your health: evidently it's not bad, and I am glad. I hope yourmother is well and that everything is going on all right. I am nearly well;I am ill from time to time, but not often, and only because I am old--thebacilli have nothing to do with it. And when I see a lovely woman now Ismile in an aged way, and drop my lower lip--that's all. 

 * * * * *

Lika, I am dreadfully bored in Yalta. My life does not run or flow, butcrawls along. Don't forget me; write to me now and then, anyway. In yourletters just as in your life you are a very interesting woman. I press yourhand warmly. 

TO GORKY. 

YALTA, February 3, 1900. 

DEAR ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, Thank you for your letter, for the lines about Tolstoy and about "UncleVanya, " which I haven't seen on the stage; thanks altogether for notforgetting me. Here in this blessed Yalta one could hardly keep alivewithout letters. The idleness, the idiotic winter with the temperaturealways above freezing-point, the complete absence of interesting women, thepig-faces on the sea-front--all this may spoil a man and wear him out in avery short time. I am tired of it; it seems to me as though the winter hadbeen going on for ten years. 

You have pleurisy. If so, why do you stay on in Nizhni. Why? What do youwant with that Nizhni, by the way? What glue keeps you sticking to thattown? If you like Moscow, as you write, why don't you live in Moscow? InMoscow there are theatres and all the rest of it, and, what matters most ofall, Moscow is handy for going abroad; while living in Nizhni you'll stickin Nizhni, and never go further than Vasilsursk. You want to see more, toknow more, to have a wider range. Your imagination is quick to seize andhold, but it is like a big oven which is not provided with fuel enough. Onefeels this in general, and in particular in the stories: you present two orthree figures in a story, but these figures stand apart, outside the mass;one sees that these figures are living in your imagination, but only thesefigures--the mass is not grasped. I except from this criticism your Crimeanthings (for instance, "My Travelling Companion"), in which, besides thefigures, there is a feeling of the human mass out of which they have come, and atmosphere and background--everything, in fact. See what a lecture Iam giving you--and all that you may not go on staying in Nizhni. You are ayoung man, strong and tough; if I were you I should make a tour in Indiaand all sorts of places. I would take my degree in two or more faculties--Iwould, yes, I would! You laugh, but I do feel so badly treated at beingforty already, at having asthma and all sorts of horrid things whichprevent my living freely. Anyway, be a good fellow and a good comrade, anddon't be angry with me for preaching at you like a head priest. 

Write to me. I look forward to "Foma Gordeyev, " which I haven't yet readproperly. 

There is no news. Keep well, I press your hand warmly. 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, February 10, 1900. 

DEAR ACTRESS, The winter is very cold, I am not well, no one has written to me for nearlya whole month--and I had made up my mind that there was nothing left for mebut to go abroad, where it is not so dull; but now it has begun to bewarmer, and it's better, and I have decided that I shall go abroad only atthe end of the summer, for the exhibition. 

And you, why are you depressed? What are you depressed about? You areliving, working, hoping, drinking; you laugh when your uncle reads aloud toyou--what more do you want? I am a different matter. I am torn up by theroots, I am not living a full life, I don't drink, though I am fond ofdrinking; I love noise and don't hear it--in fact, I am in the condition ofa transplanted tree which is hesitating whether to take root or to begin towither. If I sometimes allow myself to complain of boredom, I have somegrounds for doing so--but you? And Meierhold is complaining of the dulnessof his life too. Aie, aie!

By the way, about Meierhold--he ought to spend the whole summer in theCrimea. His health needs it. Only it must be for the whole summer. 

Well, now I am all right again. I am doing nothing because I intend to setto work. I dig in the garden. You write that for you, little people, thefuture is wrapped in mystery. I had a letter from your chief Nemirovitchnot long ago. He writes that the company is going to be in Sevastopol, thenin Yalta at the beginning of May: in Yalta there will be five performances, then evening rehearsals. Only the precious members of the company willremain for the rehearsals, the others can have a holiday where they please. I trust that you are precious. To the director you are precious, to theauthor you are priceless. There is a pun for a titbit for you. I won'twrite another word to you till you send me your portrait. 

Thank you for your good wishes in regard to my marriage. I have informed my_fiancee_ of your design of coming to Yalta in order to cut her out alittle. She said that if "that horrid woman" comes to Yalta, she will holdme tight in her embrace. I observed that to be embraced for so long in hotweather was not hygienic. She was offended and grew thoughtful, as thoughshe were trying to guess in what surroundings I had picked up this _faconde parler_, and after a little while said that the theatre was an eviland that my intention of writing no more plays was extremely laudable--andasked me to kiss her. To this I replied that it was not proper for me to beso free with my kisses now that I am an academician. She burst into tears, and I went away. 

In the spring the company will be in Harkov too. I will come and meet youthen, only don't talk of that to anyone. Nadyezhda Ivanovna has gone off toMoscow. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

YALTA, February 12, 1900. 

I have been racking my brains over your fourth act, and have come to noconclusion except, perhaps, that you must not end it up with Nihilists. It's too turbulent and screaming; a quiet, lyrical, touching ending wouldbe more in keeping with your play. When your heroine begins to grow oldwithout arriving at anything or deciding anything for herself, and seesthat she is forsaken by all, that she is uninteresting and superfluous, when she understands that the people around her were idle, useless, badpeople (her father too), and that she has let her life slip--is not thatmore dreadful than the Nihilists?

Your letters about "The Russalka" and Korsh are very good. The tone isbrilliant, and they are wonderfully written. But about Konovalov and thejury, I think you ought not to have written, however alluring the subject. Let A---t write as much as he likes about it, but not you, for it is notyour affair. To treat such questions boldly and with conviction, one mustbe a man with a single purpose, while you would go off at a tangent halfwaythrough the letter--as you have done--saying suddenly that we allsometimes desire to kill someone, and desire the death of our neighbours. When a daughter-in-law feels sick and tired of an invalid mother-in-law, aspiteful old woman, she, the daughter-in-law, feels easier at the thoughtthat the old woman will soon die: but that's not desiring her death, butweariness, an exhausted spirit, vexation, longing for peace. If thatdaughter-in-law were ordered to kill the old woman, she would sooner killherself, whatever desire might have been brooding in her heart. 

Why, of course jurymen may make a mistake, but what of that? It does happenby mistake that help is given to the well-fed instead of to the hungry, butwhatever you write on that subject, you will reach no result but harm tothe hungry. Whether from our point of view the jury are mistaken or notmistaken, we ought to recognize that in each individual case they form aconscious judgment and make an effort to do so conscientiously; and if acaptain steers his steamer conscientiously, continually consulting thechart and the compass, and if the steamer is shipwrecked all the same, would it not be more correct to put down the shipwreck not to the captain, but to something else--for instance, to think that the chart is out of dateor that the bottom of the sea has changed? Yes, there are three points thejury have to take into consideration: (1) Apart from the criminal law, thepenal code and legal procedure, there is a moral law which is always inadvance of the established law, and which defines our actions preciselywhen we try to act on our conscience; thus, for instance, the heritage of adaughter is laid down by law as a seventh part. But you, acting on thedictates of purely moral principle, go beyond the law and in opposition toit, and bequeath her the same share as your sons, for you know that to actotherwise would be acting against your conscience. In the same way itsometimes happens to the jury to be put in a position in which they feelthat their conscience is not satisfied by the established law, that in thecase they are judging there are fine shades and subtleties which cannot bebrought under the provisions of the penal code, and that obviouslysomething else is needed for a just judgment, and that for the lack of that"something" they will be forced to give a judgment in which something islacking. (2) The jury know that acquittal is not pardon, and that acquittaldoes not deliver the prisoner from the day of judgment in the other world, from the judgment of his conscience, from the judgment of public opinion;they decide the question only so far as it is a judicial question, andleave A----t to decide whether it is good to kill children or bad. (3) Theprisoner comes to the court already exhausted by prison and examination, and he is in an agonizing position at his trial, so that even if he isacquitted he does not leave the court unpunished. 

Well, be that as it may, my letter is almost finished, and I seem to havewritten nothing. We have the spring here in Yalta, no news of interest. .. . 

"Resurrection" is a remarkable novel. I liked it very much, but it ought tobe read straight off at one sitting. The end is uninteresting and false--false in a technical sense. 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, February 14, 1900. 

DEAR ACTRESS, The photographs are very, very good, especially the one in which you areleaning in dejection with your elbows on the back of a chair, which givesyou a discreetly mournful, gentle expression under which there lies hid alittle demon. The other is good too, but it looks a little like a Jewess, avery musical person who attends a conservatoire, but at the same time isstudying dentistry on the sly as a second string, and is engaged to bemarried to a young man in Mogilev, and whose fiance is a person like M----. Are you angry? Really, really angry? It's my revenge for your not signingthem. 

Of the seventy roses I planted in the autumn only three have not takenroot. Lilies, irises, tulips, tuberoses, hyacinths, are all pushing out ofthe ground. The willow is already green. By the little seat in the cornerthe grass is luxuriant already. The almond-tree is in blossom. I have putlittle seats all over the garden, not grand ones with iron legs, but woodenones which I paint green. I have made three bridges over the stream. I amplanting palms. In fact, there are all sorts of novelties, so much so thatyou won't know the house, or the garden, or the street. Only the owner hasnot changed, he is just the same moping creature and devoted worshipper ofthe talents that reside at Nikitsky Gate. [Footnote: O. L. Knipper wasliving at Nikitsky Gate. ] I have heard no music nor singing since theautumn, I have not seen one interesting woman. How can I help beingmelancholy?

I had made up my mind not to write to you, but since you have sent thephotographs I have taken off the ban, and here you see I am writing. I willeven come to Sevastopol, only I repeat, don't tell that to anyone, especially not to Vishnevsky. I shall be there incognito, I shall putmyself down in the hotel-book Count Blackphiz. 

I was joking when I said that you were like a Jewess in your photograph. Don't be angry, precious one. Well, herewith I kiss your little hand, andremain unalterably yours. 

TO GORKY. 

YALTA, February 15, 1900. 

DEAR ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, Your article in the Nizhni-Novgorod Listok was balm to my soul. What atalented person you are! I can't write anything but belles-lettres, youpossess the pen of a journalist as well. I thought at first I liked thearticle so much because you praise me in it; afterwards it came out thatSredin and his family and Yartsev were all delighted with it. So peg awayat journalism. God bless you!

Why don't they send me "Foma Gordeyev"? I have read it only in bits, andone ought to read it straight through at a sitting as I have just read"Resurrection. " Except the relations of Nehludov and Katusha, which aresomewhat obscure and made up, everything in the novel made the impressionof strength, richness, and breadth, and the insincerity of a man afraid ofdeath and refusing to admit it and clutching at texts and holy Scripture. 

Write to them to send me "Foma. "

"Twenty-six Men and a Girl" is a good story. There is a strong feeling ofthe environment. One smells the hot rolls. 

They have just brought your letter. So you don't want to go to India?That's a pity. When India is in the past, a long sea voyage, you havesomething to think about when you can't get to sleep. And a tour abroadtakes very little time, it need not prevent your going about in Russia onfoot. 

I am bored, not in the sense of _weltschmerz_, not in the sense ofbeing weary of existence, but simply bored from want of people, from wantof music which I love, and from want of women, of whom there are none inYalta. I am bored without caviare and pickled cabbage. 

I am very sorry that apparently you have given up the idea of coming toYalta. The Art Theatre from Moscow will be here in May. It will give fiveperformances and then remain for rehearsals. So you come, study the stageat the rehearsals, and then in five to eight days write a play, which Ishould welcome joyfully with my whole heart. 

Yes, I have the right now to insist on the fact that I am forty, that I ama man no longer young. I used to be the youngest literary man, but you haveappeared on the scene and I became more dignified at once, and no one callsme the youngest now. 

TO V. A. POSSE. 

YALTA, February 15, 1900. 

MUCH RESPECTED VLADIMIR ALEXANDROVITCH, "Foma Gordeyev" and in a superb binding too is a precious and touchingpresent; I thank you from the bottom of my heart. A thousand thanks! I haveread "Foma" only in bits, now I shall read it properly. Gorky should not bepublished in parts; either he must write more briefly, or you must put himin whole as the _Vyestnik Evropy_ does with Boborykin. "Foma, " by theway, is very successful, but only with intelligent well-read people--withthe young also. I once overheard in a garden the conversation of a lady(from Petersburg) with her daughter: the mother was abusing the book, thedaughter was praising it. .. . 

YALTA, February 29, 1900. 

"Foma Gordeyev" is written all in one tone like a dissertation. All thecharacters speak alike, and their way of thinking is alike too. They allspeak not simply but intentionally; they all have some idea in thebackground; as though there is something they know they don't speak out:but in reality there is nothing they know, and it is simply their _faconde parler_. 

There are wonderful passages in "Foma. " Gorky will make a very great writerif only he does not weary, does not grow cold and lazy. 

TO A. S. SUVORIN, YALTA, March 10, 1900. 

No winter has ever dragged on so long for me as this one, and time merelydrags and does not move, and now I realize how stupid it was of me to leaveMoscow. I have lost touch with the north without getting into touch withthe south, and one can think of nothing in my position but to go abroad. After the spring, winter has begun here again in Yalta--snow, rain, cold, mud--simply disgusting. 

The Moscow Art Theatre will be in Yalta in April; it will bring its sceneryand decorations. All the tickets for the four days advertised were sold inone day, although the prices have been considerably raised. They will giveamong other things Hauptmann's "Lonely Lives, " a magnificent play in myopinion. I read it with great pleasure, although I am not fond of plays, and the production at the Art Theatre they say is marvellous. 

There is no news. There is one great event, though: N. 's "Socrates" isprinted in the _Neva_ Supplement. I have read it, but with great effort. Itis not Socrates but a dull-witted, captious, opinionated man, the whole ofwhose wisdom and interest is confined to tripping people up over words. There is not a trace or vestige of talent in it, but it is quite possiblethat the play might be successful because there are words in it such as"amphora, " and Karpov says it would stage well. 

How many consumptives there are here! What poverty, and how worried one iswith them! The hotels and lodging-houses here won't take in those who areseriously ill. You can imagine the awful cases that may be seen here. People are dying from exhaustion, from their surroundings, from completeneglect, and this in blessed Taurida!

One loses all relish for the sun and the sea. .. . 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, March 26, 1900. 

There is a feeling of black melancholy about your letter, dear actress; youare gloomy, you are fearfully unhappy--but not for long, one may imagine, as soon, very soon, you will be sitting in the train, eating your lunchwith a very good appetite. It is very nice that you are coming first withMasha before all the others; we shall at least have time to talk a little, walk a little, see things, drink and eat. But please don't bring with you. .. 

I haven't a new play, it's a lie of the newspapers. The newspapers never dotell the truth about me. If I did begin a play, of course the first thing Ishould do would be to inform you of the fact. 

There is a great wind here; the spring has not begun properly yet, but wego about without our goloshes and fur caps. The tulips will soon be out. Ihave a nice garden but it is untidy, moss-grown--a dilettante garden. 

Gorky is here. He is warm in his praises of you and your theatre. I willintroduce you to him. 

Oh dear! Someone has arrived. A visitor has come in. Good-bye for now, actress!

TO HIS SISTER. 

YALTA, March 26, 1900. 

DEAR MASHA, . .. There is no news, there is no water in the pipes either. I am sick todeath of visitors. Yesterday, March 25, they came in an incessant streamall day; doctors keep sending people from Moscow and the provinces withletters asking me to find lodgings, to "make arrangements, " as though Iwere a house-agent! Mother is well. Mind you keep well too, and make hasteand come home. 

TO O. L. KNIPPER. 

YALTA, May 20, 1900. 

Greetings to you, dear enchanting actress! How are you? How are youfeeling? I was very unwell on the way back to Yalta. [Footnote: Chekhovwent to Moscow with the Art Theatre Company on their return from Yalta. ] Ihad a bad headache and temperature before I left Moscow. I was wickedenough to conceal it from you, now I am all right. 

How is Levitan? I feel dreadfully worried at not knowing. If you haveheard, please write to me. 

Keep well and be happy. I heard Masha was sending you a letter, and so Ihasten to write these few lines. [Footnote: Chekhov's later letters to O. L. Knipper have not been published. ]

TO HIS SISTER. 

YALTA, September 9, 1900. 

DEAR MASHA, I answer the letter in which you write about Mother. To my thinking itwould be better for her to go to Moscow now in the autumn and not afterDecember. She will be tired of Moscow and pining for Yalta in a month, youknow, and if you take her to Moscow in the autumn she will be back in Yaltabefore Christmas. That's how it seems to me, but possibly I am mistaken; inany case you must take into consideration that it is much drearier in Yaltabefore Christmas than it is after--infinitely drearier. 

Most likely I will be in Moscow after the 20th of September, and then wewill decide. From Moscow I shall go I don't know where--first to Paris, andthen probably to Nice, from Nice to Africa. I shall hang on somehow to thespring, all April or May, when I shall come to Moscow again. 

There is no news. There's no rain either, everything is dried up. At homehere it is quiet, peaceful, satisfactory, and of course dull. 

"Three Sisters" is very difficult to write, more difficult than my otherplays. Oh well, it doesn't matter, perhaps something will come of it, nextseason if not this. It's very hard to write in Yalta, by the way: I aminterrupted, and I feel as though I had no object in writing; what I wroteyesterday I don't like to-day. .. . 

Well, take care of yourself. 

My humblest greetings to Olga Leonardovna, to Vishnevsky, and all the restof them too. 

If Gorky is in Moscow, tell him that I have sent a letter to him inNizhni-Novgorod. 

TO GORKY. 

YALTA, October 16, 1900. 

DEAR ALEXEY MAXIMOVITCH, . .. On the 21st of this month I am going to Moscow, and from there abroad. Can you imagine--I have written a play; but as it will be produced notnow, but next season, I have not made a fair copy of it yet. It can lie asit is. It was very difficult to write "Three Sisters. " Three heroines, yousee, each a separate type and all the daughters of a general. The action islaid in a provincial town, as it might be Perm, the surroundings military, artillery. 

The weather in Yalta is exquisite and fresh, my health is improving. Idon't even want to go away to Moscow. I am working so well, and it is sopleasant to be free from the irritation I suffered from all the summer. Iam not coughing, and am even eating meat. I am living alone, quite alone. My mother is in Moscow. 

Thanks for your letters, my dear fellow, thanks very much. I read them overtwice. My warmest greetings to your wife and Maxim. And so, till we meet inMoscow. I hope you won't play me false, and we shall see each other. 

God keep you. 

MOSCOW, October 22, 1901. 

Five days have passed since I read your play ("The Petty Bourgeois"). Ihave not written to you till now because I could not get hold of thefourth act; I have kept waiting for it, and--I still have not got it. And so I have only read three acts, but that I think is enough to judgeof the play. It is, as I expected, very good, written a la Gorky, original, very interesting; and, to begin by talking of the defects, Ihave noticed only one, a defect incorrigible as red hair in a red-hairedman--the conservatism of the form. You make new and original people singnew songs to an accompaniment that looks second-hand, you have fouracts, the characters deliver edifying discourses, there is a feeling ofalarm before long speeches, and so on, and so on. But all that is notimportant, and it is all, so to speak, drowned in the good points of theplay. Pertchihin--how living! His daughter is enchanting, Tatyana andPyotr are also, and their mother is a splendid old woman. The centralfigure of the play, Nil, is vigorously drawn and extremely interesting!In fact, the play takes hold of one from the first act. Only Godpreserve you from letting anyone act Pertchihin except Artyom, whileAlexeyev-Stanislavsky must certainly play Nil. Those two figures will dojust what's needed; Pyotr--Meierhold. Only Nil's part, a wonderfulpart, must be made two or three times as long. You ought to end the playwith it, to make it the leading part. Only do not contrast him withPyotr and Tatyana, let him be by himself and them by themselves, allwonderful, splendid people independently of each other. When Nil triesto seem superior to Pyotr and Tatyana, and says of himself that he is afine fellow, the element so characteristic of our decent working man, the element of modesty, is lost. He boasts, he argues, but you know onecan see what sort of man he is without that. Let him be merry, let himplay pranks through the whole four acts, let him eat a great deal afterhis work--and that will be enough for him to conquer the audience with. Pyotr, I repeat, is good. Most likely you don't even suspect how good heis. Tatyana, too, is a finished figure, only (a) she ought reallyto be a schoolmistress, ought to be teaching children, ought to comehome from school, ought to be taken up with her pupils and exercise-books, and (b) it ought to be mentioned in the first or second act thatshe has attempted to poison herself; then, after that hint, the poisoningin the third act will not seem so startling and will be more in place. Telerev talks too much: such characters ought to be shown bit by bitbetween others, for in any case such people are everywhere merelyincidental--both in life and on the stage. Make Elena dine with all therest in the first act, let her sit and make jokes, or else there is verylittle of her, and she is not clear. Her avowal to Pyotr is too abrupt, on the stage it would come out in too high relief. Make her a passionatewoman, if not loving at least apt to fall in love. .. . 

July 29, 1902. 

I have read your play. [Footnote: "In the Depths. "] It is new andunmistakably fine. The second act is very good, it is the best, thestrongest, and when I was reading it, especially the end, I almost dancedwith joy. The tone is gloomy, oppressive; the audience unaccustomed to suchsubjects will walk out of the theatre, and you may well say good-bye toyour reputation as an optimist in any case. My wife will play Vassilisa, the immoral and spiteful woman; Vishnevsky walks about the house andimagines himself the Tatar--he is convinced that it is the part for him. Luka, alas! you must not give to Artyom. He will repeat himself in thatpart and be exhausted; but he would do the policeman wonderfully, it is hispart. The part of the actor, in which you have been very successful (it isa magnificent part), should be given to an experienced actor, Stanislavskyperhaps. Katchalev will play the baron. 

You have left out of the fourth act all the most interesting characters(except the actor), and you must mind now that there is no ill effect fromit. The act may seem boring and unnecessary, especially if, with the exitof the strongest and most interesting actors, there are left only themediocrities. The death of the actor is awful; it is as though you gave thespectator a sudden box on the ear apropos of nothing without preparing himin any way. How the baron got into the doss-house and why he is a baron isalso not sufficiently clear. 

 * * * * *

Andreyev's "Thought" is something pretentious, difficult to understand, andapparently no good, but it is worked out with talent. Andreyev has nosimplicity, and his talent reminds me of an artificial nightingale. Skitalets now is a sparrow, but he is a real living sparrow. .. . 

TO S. P. DYAGILEV. 

YALTA, December 30, 1902. 

. .. You write that we talked of a serious religious movement in Russia. Wetalked of a movement not in Russia but in the intellectual class. I won'tsay anything about Russia; the intellectuals so far are only playing atreligion, and for the most part from having nothing to do. One may say ofthe cultured part of our public that it has moved away from religion, andis moving further and further away from it, whatever people may say andhowever many philosophical and religious societies may be formed. Whetherit is a good or a bad thing I cannot undertake to decide; I will only saythat the religious movement of which you write is one thing, and the wholetrend of modern culture is another, and one cannot place the second in anycausal connection with the first. Modern culture is only the firstbeginning of work for a great future, work which will perhaps go on fortens of thousands of years, in order that man may if only in the remotefuture come to know the truth of the real God--that is not, I conjecture, by seeking in Dostoevsky, but by clear knowledge, as one knows twice twoare four. Modern culture is the first beginning of the work, while thereligious movement of which we talked is a survival, almost the end of whathas ceased, or is ceasing to exist. But it is a long story, one can't putit all into a letter. .. . 

TO A. S. SUVORIN. 

MOSCOW, June 29, 1903. 

. .. One feels a warm sympathy, of course, for Gorky's letter about theKishinev pogrom, as one does for everything he writes; the letter is notwritten though, but put together, there is neither youthfulness in it norconfidence, like Tolstoy's. 

 * * * * *

July 1, 1903. 

You are reading belles-lettres now, so read Veresaev's stories. Begin witha little story in the second volume called "Lizar. " I think you will bevery much pleased with it. Veresaev is a doctor; I have got to know himlately. He makes a very good impression. .. . 

TO S. P. DYAGILEV. 

YALTA, July 12, 1903. 

. .. I have been thinking over your letter for a long time, and alluring asyour suggestion or offer is, yet in the end I must answer it as neither younor I would wish. 

I cannot be the editor of _The World of Art_, as I cannot live inPetersburg, . .. That's the first point. And the second is that just as apicture must be painted by one artist and a speech delivered by one orator, so a magazine must be edited by one man. Of course I am not a critic, and Idare say I shouldn't make a very good job of the reviews; but on the otherhand, how could I get on in the same boat with Merezhkovsky, who definitelybelieves, didactically believes, while I lost my faith years ago and canonly look with perplexity at any "intellectual" who does believe? I respectMerezhkovsky, and think highly of him both as a man and as a writer, but weshould be pulling in opposite directions. .. . 

Don't be cross with me, dear Sergey Pavlovitch: it seems to me that if yougo on editing the magazine for another five years you will come to agreewith me. A magazine, like a picture or a poem, must bear the stamp of onepersonality and one will must be felt in it. This has been hitherto thecase in the _World of Art_, and it was a good thing. And it must bekept up. .. . 

TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. 

YALTA, July 28, 1903. 

. .. My play "The Cherry Orchard" is not yet finished; it makes slowprogress, which I put down to laziness, fine weather, and the difficulty ofthe subject. .. . 

I think your part [Translator's Note: Stanislavsky acted Lopahin. ] is allright, though I can't undertake to decide, as I can judge very little of aplay by reading it. .. . 

TO MADAME STANISLAVSKY. 

YALTA, September 15, 1903. 

. .. Don't believe anybody--no living soul has read my play yet; I havewritten for you not the part of a "canting hypocrite, " but of a very nicegirl, with which you will, I hope, be satisfied. I have almost finished theplay, but eight or ten days ago I was taken ill, with coughing andweakness--in fact, last year's business over again. Now--that isto-day--it is warmer and I feel better, but still I cannot write, as myhead is aching. Olga will not bring the play; I will send the four actstogether as soon as it is possible for me to set to work for a whole day. It has turned out not a drama, but a comedy, in parts a farce, indeed, andI am afraid I shall catch it from Vladimir Ivanitch [Footnote: NemirovitchDantchenko. ]. .. . 

I can't come for the opening of your season, I must stay in Yalta tillNovember. Olga, who has grown fatter and stronger in the summer, willprobably come to Moscow on Sunday. I shall remain alone, and of courseshall take advantage of that. As a writer it is essential for me to observewomen, to study them, and so, I regret to say, I cannot be a faithfulhusband. As I observe women chiefly for the sake of my plays, in my opinionthe Art Theatre ought to increase my wife's salary or give her a pension!. .. 

TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. 

YALTA, October 30, 1903. 

. .. Many thanks for your letter and telegram. Letters are very precious tome now--in the first place, because I am utterly alone here; and in thesecond, because I sent the play three weeks ago and only got your letteryesterday, and if it were not for my wife, I should know nothing at all andmight imagine any mortal thing. When I was writing Lopahin, I thought of itas a part for you. If for any reason you don't care for it, take the partof Gaev. Lopahin is a merchant, of course, but he is a very decent personin every sense. He must behave with perfect decorum, like an educated man, with no petty ways or tricks of any sort, and it seemed to me this part, the central one of the play, would come out brilliantly in your hands. .. . In choosing an actor for the part you must remember that Varya, a seriousand religious girl, is in love with Lopahin; she wouldn't be in love with amere money-grubber. .. . 

TO V. I. NEMIROVITCH DANTCHENKO. 

YALTA, November 2, 1903. 

. .. About the play. 

1. Anya can be played by anyone you like, even by a quite unknown actress, so long as she is young and looks like a girl, and speaks in a youthfulsinging voice. It is not an important part. 

(2) Varya is a more serious part. .. . She is a character in a black dress, something of a nun, foolish, tearful, etc. 

. .. Gorky is younger than you or I, he has his life before him. .. . As forthe Nizhni theatre, that's a mere episode; Gorky will try it, "sniff it andreject it. " And while we are on this subject, the whole idea of a"people's" theatre and "people's" literature is foolishness and lollipopsfor the people. We mustn't bring Gogol down to the people but raise thepeople up to Gogol. .. . 

TO A. L. VISHNEVSKY. 

YALTA, November 7, 1903. 

. .. As I am soon coming to Moscow, please keep a ticket for me for "ThePillars of Society"; I want to see the marvellous Norwegian acting, and Iwill even pay for my seat. You know Ibsen is my favourite writer. .. . 

TO K. S. STANISLAVSKY. 

YALTA, November 10, 1903. 

DEAR KONSTANTIN SERGEYITCH, Of course the scenery for III. And IV. Can be the same, the hall and thestaircase. Please do just as you like about the scenery, I leave itentirely to you; I am amazed and generally sit with my mouth wide open atyour theatre. There can be no question about it, whatever you do will beexcellent, a hundred times better than anything I could invent. .. . 

TO F. D. BATYUSHKOV. 

MOSCOW, January 19, 1904. 

. .. At the first performance of "The Cherry Orchard" on the 17th ofJanuary, they gave me an ovation, so lavish, warm, and really sounexpected, that I can't get over it even now. .. . 

TO MADAME AVILOV. 

MOSCOW, February 14, 1904. 

. .. All good wishes. Above all, be cheerful; don't look at life so much asa problem--it is, most likely, far simpler. And whether it--life, of whichwe know nothing--is worth all the agonizing reflections which wear out ourRussian wits, is a question. 

TO FATHER SERGEY SHTCHUKIN. 

MOSCOW, May 27, 1904. 

DEAR FATHER SERGEY, Yesterday I talked to a very well-known lawyer about the case in which youare interested, and I will tell you his opinion. Let Mr. N. Immediately puttogether _all_ the necessary documents, let his fiancee do the same, and gooff to another province, such as Kherson, and there get married. When theyare married let them come home and live quietly, saying nothing about it. It is not a crime (there is no consanguinity), but only a breach of a longestablished tradition. If in another two or three years someone informsagainst them, or finds out and interferes, and the case is brought intocourt, anyway the children would be legitimate. And when there is a lawsuit(a trivial one anyway), then they can send in a petition to the Sovereign. The Sovereign does not sanction what is forbidden by law (so it is no useto petition for permission for the marriage), but the Sovereign enjoys thefullest privilege of pardon and does as a rule pardon what is inevitable. 

I don't know whether I am putting it properly. You must forgive me, I am inbed, ill, and have been since the second of May, I have not been able toget up once all this time. I cannot execute your other commissions. .. . 

TO HIS SISTER. 

BERLIN, Sunday, June 6, 1904. 

. .. I write to you from Berlin, where I have been now for twenty-fourhours. It turned very cold in Moscow after you went away; we had snow, andit was most likely through that that I caught cold. I began to haverheumatic pains in my arms and legs, I did not sleep for nights, got verythin, had injections of morphia, took thousands of medicines of all sorts, and remember none of them with gratitude except heroin, which was onceprescribed me by Altschuller. .. . 

On Thursday I set off for foreign parts, very thin, with very lean skinnylegs. We had a good and pleasant journey. Here in Berlin we have taken acomfortable room in the best hotel. I am enjoying being here, and it is along time since I have eaten so well, with such appetite. The bread here iswonderful, I eat too much of it. The coffee is excellent and the dinnersbeyond description. Anyone who has not been abroad does not know what goodbread means. There is no decent tea here (we have our own), there are nohors d'oeuvres, but all the rest is magnificent, though cheaper than withus. I am already the better for it, and to-day I even took a long drive inthe Thiergarten, though it was cool. And so tell Mother and everyone who isinterested that I am getting better, or indeed have already got better; mylegs no longer ache, I have no diarrhoea, I am beginning to get fat, and amall day long on my legs, not lying down. .. . 

BERLIN, June 8. 

. . . The worst thing here which catches the eye at once is the dress ofthe ladies. Fearfully bad taste, nowhere do women dress so abominably, withsuch utter lack of taste. I have not seen one beautiful woman, nor one whowas not trimmed with some kind of absurd braid. Now I understand why tasteis so slowly developed in Germans in Moscow. On the other hand, here inBerlin life is very comfortable. The food is good, things are not dear, thehorses are well fed--the dogs, who are here harnessed to little carts, arewell fed too. There is order and cleanliness in the streets. .. . 

BADENWEILER, June 12. 

I have been for three days settled here, this is my address--Germany, Badenweiler, Villa Fredericke. This Villa Fredericke, like all the housesand villas here, stands apart in a luxuriant garden in the sun, whichshines and warms us till seven o'clock in the evening (after which I goindoors). We are boarding in the house; for fourteen or sixteen marks a daywe have a double room flooded with sunshine, with washing-stands, bedsteads, etc. , with a writing-table, and, best of all, with excellentwater, like Seltzer water. The general impression: a big garden, beyond thegarden, mountains covered with forest, few people, little movement in thestreet. The garden and the flowers are splendidly cared for. But to-day, apropos of nothing, it has begun raining; I sit in our room, and alreadybegin to feel that in another two or three days I shall be thinking of howto escape. 

I am still eating butter in enormous quantities and with no effect. I can'ttake milk. The doctor here, Schworer, married to a Moscow woman, turns outto be skilful and nice. 

We shall perhaps return to Yalta by sea from Trieste or some other port. Health is coming back to me not by ounces but by stones. Anyway, I havelearned here how to feed. Coffee is forbidden to me absolutely, it issupposed to be relaxing; I am beginning by degrees to eat eggs. Oh, howbadly the German women dress!

I live on the ground floor. If only you knew what the sun is here! It doesnot scorch, but caresses. I have a comfortable low chair in which I can sitor lie down. I will certainly buy the watch, I haven't forgotten it. How isMother? Is she in good spirits? Write to me. Give her my love. Olga isgoing to a dentist here. .. . 

June 16. 

I am living amongst the Germans and have already got used to my room and tothe regime, but can never get used to the German peace and quiet. Not asound in the house or outside it; only at seven o'clock in the morning andat midday there is an expensive but very poor band playing in the garden. One feels there is not a single drop of talent in anything nor a singledrop of taste; but, on the other hand, there is order and honesty to spare. Our Russian life is far more talented, and as for the Italian or theFrench, it is beyond comparison. 

My health has improved. I don't notice now as I go about that I am ill; myasthma is better, nothing is aching. The only trace left of my illness isextreme thinness; my legs are thin as they have never been. The Germandoctors have turned all my life upside down. At seven o'clock in themorning I drink tea in bed--for some reason it must be in bed; at half-pastseven a German by way of a masseur comes and rubs me all over with water, and this seems not at all bad. Then I have to lie still a little, get up ateight o'clock, drink acorn cocoa and eat an immense quantity of butter. Atten o'clock, oatmeal porridge, extremely nice to taste and to smell, notlike our Russian. Fresh air and sunshine. Reading the newspaper. At oneo'clock, dinner, at which I must not taste everything but only the thingsOlga chooses for me, according to the German doctor's prescription. At fouro'clock the cocoa again. At seven o'clock supper. At bedtime a cup ofstrawberry tea--that is as a sleeping draught. In all this there is a lotof quackery, but a lot of what is really good and useful--for instance, theporridge. I shall bring some oatmeal from here with me. .. . 

June 21. 

Things are going all right with me, only I have begun to get sick ofBadenweiler. There is so much German peace and order here. It was differentin Italy. To-day at dinner they gave us boiled mutton--what a dish! Thewhole dinner is magnificent, but the maitres d'hotel look so important thatit makes one uneasy. 

June 28. 

. .. It has begun to be terribly hot here. The heat caught me unawares, as Ihave only winter suits here. I am gasping and dreaming of getting away. Butwhere to go? I should like to go to Italy, to Como, but everyone is runningaway from the heat there. It is hot everywhere in the south of Europe. Ishould like to go from Trieste to Odessa by steamer, but I don't know howfar it is possible now, in June and July. .. . If it should be rather hot itdoesn't matter; I should have a flannel suit. I confess I dread the railwayjourney. It is stifling in the train now, particularly with my asthma, which is made worse by the slightest thing. Besides, there are no sleepingcarriages from Vienna right up to Odessa; it would be uncomfortable. And weshould get home by railway sooner than we need, and I have not had enoughholiday yet. It is so hot one can't bear one's clothes, I don't know whatto do. Olga has gone to Freiburg to order a flannel suit for me, there areneither tailors nor shoemakers in Badenweiler. She has taken the suitDushar made me as a pattern. 

I like the food here very much, but it does not seem to suit me; my stomachis constantly being upset. I can't eat the butter here. Evidently mydigestion is hopelessly ruined. It is scarcely possible to cure it byanything but fasting--that is, eating nothing--and that's the end of it. And the only remedy for the asthma is not moving. 

There is not a single decently dressed German woman. The lack of tastemakes one depressed. 

Well, keep well and happy. My love to Mother, Vanya, George, and all therest. Write!

I kiss you and press your hand. 

 Yours, A. 

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: In the Biographical Sketch, "Chekhov wasfound of hearing Potapenko" was changed to "Chekhov was fond ofhearing Potapenko". ]