THE SELECTED LETTERS OF

ANTON CHEKHOV
 THE

SELECTED LETTERS OF

ANTON CHEKHOV

EDITED BY LILLIAN HELLMAN

TRANSLATED BY SID ONIE LEDERER

NEW YORK

FARRAR, STRAUS AND COMPANY

 ©

First printing, 1955

Copyright 1955 by Lillian Hellman

All rights reserved, including the right

to reproduce this book in any form

Library of Congress catalog card number 55-5563

Manufactured in the United States of America

American Book-Stratford Press, Inc., New York
 TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

For the most part the translator has used the excellent and
definitive text of the new edition of Chekhov's works, in twenty
volumes, published in the USSR from 1944 to 195 1 , of which
volumes 1 3 through 20 are devoted to his letters. These eight
volumes contain 4,200 communications (mostly letters, plus
a few postcards and telegrams) , a number of which are pub­
lished here for the first time in English, along with many pre­
viously known letters that contain passages not previously
printed.
In a few letters appearing in the Soviet edition, certain pas­
sages found in earlier editions have been deleted; in such cases
the translator has, of course, used the older edition and has
restored the omitted words. On the whole, however, the new
Soviet edition returns to the letters much that older texts had
left out. \Vhere brackets occur, they contain explanatory re­
marks on the part of the editor, or indicate by [ . . .] omissions
common to both old and new texts. Sometimes, from their con­
text, it is plain that these brackets refer to deletions of "four
letter" words; at other times it is not possible to determine
whether words, sentences or even paragraphs have been sup­
pressed.
 C ONTENTS

Translator's Note
v

Introduction by Lillian Hellman

ix

Biographical Notes
XXIX

The Selected Letters

I 1885 - 1890
3
II 1890- 1897
87

III 1897 - 1904

20 1

Index
32 7
 INTRODUCTION

WHEN I was young we used to play a game called what-famous­

writer-would-you-most-like-to-have-dinner-with? and a lot of our
choices seem surprising to me now, though we stuck pretty close
to serious writers as a rule and had sense enough to limit our
visiting time to the dinner table. Maybe we knew even then
that writers are often difficult people and a Tolstoy--on too
big a scale-might become tiresome, and a Dickens unpleasant ,
and a Stendhal-with his nervous posturing-hard to stand, and
a Proust too special, and a Dostoevski too complex. You can
argue that greatness and simplicity often go hand in hand, but
simple people can be difficult too and by and large the quality
of a man's work seems to have little to do with the pleasure of
his company. There are exceptions to this-thank God-and
Anton Chekhov seems to have been one of them. I'd like to
think I had picked him for dinner back in those young days.
Or, better still, for many, many dinners.
Chekhov was a pleasant man, witty and wise and tolerant and
kind, with nothing wishywashy in his kindness nor self righteous
in his tolerance, and his wit was not ill-humored. He would
have seen through you, of course, as he did through everybody,
but being seen through doesn't hurt too much if it's done with
affection. He was neurotic, but unlike most neurotic men he
had few crotchets and no nuisance irritabilities, nor pride, nor
side, nor aimless vanity, was unlikely to mistake scorched
potatoes for high tragedy, didn't boast, had fine manners and
was generous and gay. It is true that he complained a lot about
his ailments and his lack of money, but if you had laughed at
[ ix J
 INTRODUCTION

him he would have laughed with you. Such a nature is rare at

all times, but it is particularly remarkable in a period when
maudlin soul-searching was the intellectual fashion. Chekhov
lived in the time that gave us our comic-strip picture of the
Russian. 'Vhile many of his contemporaries were jabbering
out the dark days and boozing away the white nights, turning
revolutionary for Christmas and police spy for Easter, attacking
too loudly here and worshiping too loudly there, wasting youth
and talent in futile revolt against anything and everything with
little thought and no selection, Anton Chekhov was a man of
balance, a man of sense.
This is probably the most important thing to know about
Chekhov. He was a man of sense, of common sense, in a place
and time where only the bourgeoisie were proud of having com­
mon sense, and they, of course, for the wrong reasons. To them
the words meant the sense to conform, the sense to concur, the
sense to reject all other ways of thinking as inferior or comic
or dangerous. This wasn't Chekhov's kind of common sense­
he tried to see things as they were and to deal with them as
he saw them-but it was the kind of common sense that most
nineteenth century intellectuals were in revolt against, and in
revolting they did a lot of good. In Russia they helped get rid
of serfdom and in America of slavery, in England they were
changing life and laws and in France they were coping with a
more difficult enemy than their eighteenth century parents had
had to face. They were valuable men and fools; heroes and
clowns; for every five sincere competent idealists there were five
incompetent sick children. Together, good and bad, they floun­
dered through the heavy seas they themselves had helped stir
up, sometimes trying to meet new waves with a new twist of the
body, sometimes deciding the waves had become too dangerous
and i t was time to make for shore. Conscience was their only
guide and conscience is not a scientific instrument, at least not
in the hands of intellectuals who are inclined to think their own
consciences superior to others. The high-minded are often ad-
[x]
 INTRODUCTION

mirable people but they are too often messy and noisy and
confused, and this was their big day: a day of noble acts and
silly high jinks, all at once, in the same group, in the same man.
The winds and waters of the nineteenth century social hurri­
cane blew especially high in Russia and the scenery had gone
hog wild. There was the magnificent side where the cliffs rose
straight to Tolstoy and there were ugly places where men lay
preaching gibberish to each other in the mud. Men screamed
men down in Moscow and St. Petersburg with anti-Orthodox
reason that sounded very like Orthodox prayers. Students were
in an uproar, society in a dither, dandies contradicted each other
in French so elegant that it would not have been understood
in the Boulevard St. Germain. Priests led their villages in angry
revolt, rich young men gave their property to the poor, men
threw bombs in the belief that murder solved tyranny. The
reaction was as violent as the uproar: universities cruelly pun­
ished their students, the government sent even the mildest
protestants into exile and penal colonies.
I t is not easy to understand nineteenth century Russia. Few
of us know the language or have roots in it. Nor do many of us
know much Russian history, and our schools teach us very little.
There were few good observers or critics or historians; and few
casual travelers, l ike a grandmother who might have visited
Florence or Athens, or been born in Frankfort or Dublin, and
lived to tell us a little of what she saw. Even late in the century
-a period close to us everywhere else in the \Vestern world­
Russian life and Russian thought seemed to spring from sources
more mysterious than seventeenth century England or France
or Italy. Hamlet is closer to us than Papa Karamazov. \Ve walk
through the doors of Elsinore, but we have to be shoved into
the Karamazov house, even though the doors were put into
place by a man no older than our own grandfather. The agony
of Othello could be our agony, but the agony of Raskolnikov
is not ours and we give ourselves over to it with an effort. The
space between America-Europe and Russia has always been
[ xi ]
 INTRODUcriON

wide. It is probably no wider now than it was seventy-five years

ago.
The histories of \Vestem Europe and Russia have seldom run
parallel: similar things don't seem to have happened at the same
time. Our society in the last half of the nineteenth century had
finished with its revolutions and was entering upon the fattest
and smuggest period of modern times. It was a secure and neat
world for the \Vestern middle and upper classes and they settled
back to enjoy it. In many places the social and cultural standards
were high, in many places the breeding and the manners were
good, and sometimes even taste. There were new standards of
living for large numbers of people, and science was making life
easier. But this was not true in Russia. Royal money and trad­
ing money were there in great quantities, and sugar money and
cotton money, but Russian culture, great as it had been in many
places, was spotty now, and the ancient culture of Kiev was
almost as unknown to St. Petersburg as it was to us. Great feudal
landlords and princes and upper-class sons were learning the
refinements of the \Vest-they admired and envied them at the
same time that they patriotically rejected them-but they were
mixing the good things up and tossing them about. No sooner
had the aristocracy learned to play a pretty waltz than the new
merchant gentry bought the piano from under them. Fine linens
were sent off to Holland to be cleaned, but the owner of the
linen forgot to bathe. \Vine was \Vestern-fashionable, but all­
night vodka was still preferred. It was not enough to be reli­
gious, it was necessary to be priest-ridden. Intellectuals bewailed
the lot of the peasant, and cried over the filth of his village, his
house, h is life, and they cried so hard that they couldn't see the
cockroaches above their own beds. There was no ordinary youth­
ful mooning about life: there were great inner storms that left
men broken or dead, or just too tired. "There's hardly a single
Russian landowner or University man who doesn't brag about
his past. The present is always worse than the past. \Vhy? Be­
cause Russian excitability quickly gives way to fatigue . . .
[ xii J
 INTRODUCTION

before he has left his school bench, a man picks up a load he

can't carry, takes up schools, the peasant and rational agricul­
ture . . . makes speeches, writes to ministers, battles with evil,
applauds good, falls in love not simply or any old way . . . it must
be a blue stocking or a neurotic or a Jewess or even a prostitute,
whom he rescues . . . . He's hardly reached the age of thirty or
thirty-five when he starts feeling fatigue and boredom." So
Chekhov wrote of his Ivan in Ivanov and it was so accurate a
picture of the Russian estate gentleman that the play has been
called a "medical tragedy." (It is not a tragedy. It is not even a
good play, but it is a remarkable picture of upper-class nine­
teenth century society).
In some strange way-in whatever manner it is that unrest
and excitement communicate themselves from one layer of
society to another, so that what is felt in one place is mysteri­
ously transmitted to another two thousand miles away-a whole
people were on the go. But it is doubtful that the unrest started
with the intellectual or the educated rich. It is more likely that
the liberalism of nineteenth century Russia came sweeping, in­
coherent and unformed, from below. Perhaps the Russian in­
tellectual whirled in so many directions just because the pressure
did come from a direction that was strange to him and from a
class that was seldom his own class. Whatever the cause, men
were thinking in the light and acting in the dark. But the con­
fusion worked a kind of catharsis, and from it came a few artists
of the very first rank, and m,any of the second rank, and the
second rank in art is a high rank indeed.
Chekhov wrote: "A reasoned life without a definite outlook
is not a life, but a burden and a horror." This was a strange
idea for the day it was written and "a reasoned life" were words
that had not been heard for a long time. But they are the key
words to Chekhov's life and work. They would not have been
surprising words from a man of Bernard Shaw's background,
but they are startling from a nineteenth century Russian in­
tellectual, born in the middle of social uproar. Chekhov was
[ xiii ]
 INTRODUCTION

out of line with his time and his country. It is true that he kept
the almost religious kindness of most Russians, the forgiving
nature that so often comes with oppression and poverty, the
humor of a people who are used to trouble. But he brought to
these inherited gifts a toughness of mind and spirit that was new
to his world and his time. 'Ve can account for some of the
forces that made the man, and give them names.
Chekhov's birth certificate reads: "January 17th, t86o born
and January 27th baptized, boy Antonius. His parents: the
Taganrog merchant of the third guild Pavel Yegorovich
Chekhov and his lawful wife Evgenia Yakovlevna, both of the
Orthodox faith . . . . " Merchant of the third guild was a fancy
way of saying that Pavel Chekhov owned a miserable grocery
store which he had been able to buy after marrying Evgenia
Morozov. (Morozov is a common name in Russia and Anton
Chekhov's mother was no relation to the fabulously rich
Moscow merchant family.) Pavel's father had been a serf who,
by terrible labor and deprivation, had bought the freedom of
his family in 1 84 1 , twenty years before the abolition of serfdom,
in a period when such families found their new freedom almost
as hard as their old slavery.
Six children were born to Pavel and Evgenia, of whom Anton
was the third. Life was hard, money was short, and Pavel
Chekhov was a man far more devoted to Orthodox ritual and
church music than he was to his family or to his business. He
was more than a devout Christian: he was a fanatic whose
ambition was to have the finest family choir in Taganrog. Anton
and his brothers worked long hours in the store after school
and were then made to serve in the choir. The Greek Orthodox
Church has a strange ritual, long services often occur late at
night or very early in the morning, and this meant that the boys
led a weary life of too little sleep and too much prayer. It was
not unusual for the Chekhov boys to rise at three in the morning
to be hustled off to an unheated church in the miserable cold
of a Russian winter. Pavel was, indeed, a strange fellow: a good
[ xiv ]
 INTRODUCTION

ikon painter, a good violinist, a genial host, and a man of

terrifying temper who believed in the whip when he couldn't
drive his children fast enough without it. He was also a schle­
miel, which is not true of most terrifying men, and it was prob­
ably the schlemiel side of his nature that made it possible to
live around him at all. Evgenia Chekhova was a kind woman
who did her best to alter the iron discipline of the household
and to stand between the children and their father. Many biog­
raphers have accepted a conventional picture of a sweet, un­
educated and simple woman. Evgenia must have been more than
that, although she does not come clear. And her relationship
with Anton must have been more complex than Anton realized,
or, realizing, than he was willing to talk or write about. Anton
was devoted to her-or so it seems. Most certainly he was always
very good to her. But there are many contradictions in the story
of Evgenia and Anton Chehkov. A loving son, long after he is
able to live alone, stays on with his family and, almost at the
end of his life, plans a house with an eye to pleasing his mother.
And yet when he does marry-an important step in his life
because he waited so long to take it-he does not consult her,
or even tell her of the ceremony until after it is over. What­
ever the relationship was between Anton and Evgenia Chekhova
-and we do not know much about it-it does not bear the
sometimes ugly signs of over-devoted son to over-devoted
mother.
Other pieces of the Chekhov family record are m1ssmg.
Evgenia Chekhova is not the only member of Anton's family
who does not come out clearly in his letters or reminiscences.
The formal history of the Chekhov brothers and sister is there,
but somehow they are not there as people. They lived close
to Anton, but they are less close to us than many of the char­
acters in his stories and plays. Perhaps he accepted his family
without any of that romanticism that makes so many creative
people either hate their background with a hate that is destruc­
tive, or cling to their parents and their past with a love so little
( XV )
 INTRODUCTION

different from hate that its destructiveness is only of another

nature.
By 1 876, Pavel Chekhov, merchant of the third guild, was
bankrupt and lost his grocery store for good. There was nothing
more to hope for in Taganrog and so he decided to move his
family to Moscow. The family picked up and pushed on, leav­
ing An ton behind to earn his own way through school by tutor­
ing other boys. He was lonely and he was very poor, but life
was better without Pavel and choir practice. Now there was
time for fishing and bathing and an occasional cheap ticket to
the local theatre, and sometimes there were nice visits to his
grandfather who was the overseer of a large country estate.
Pavel's father was as vigorous and cheerful a man as his son
was mean and narrow: he was a good fellow for a boy to spend
time with. These three years of being entirely on his own were
important years to Anton Chekhov. He came out of them a
young man equipped to deal with a tough world, and unfright­
ened by it.
In 1 879 he left Taganrog to join his family and to enter the
University of Moscow as a medical student. He arrived in
Moscow knowing, of course, that things had not gone well with
his father, and that his family had, as always, been having a
tough time. But he was shocked to find that they were living
in a filthy basement in the brothel section of the city. City
poverty had made its usual ugly marks on lower middle-class
provincial people. Pavel, the menacing figure of Anton's child­
hood, was not even living in the family basement. He had a
thirty-ruble-a-month job and he mushed out his lonely life on
the other side of town. Anton's older brothers, Alexander and
I\'ikolai, were interesting and talented young men. In revolt,
perhaps, against the misery in which they lived, they were, by
the time of Anton's arrival, involved in the shabbiest, talkiest,
hardest-drinking side of Moscow Bohemia. Chekhov's lifelong
contempt for wasters and boasters, his occasional bitter preachi­
ness to his brothers, came from this period of watching Alex-
[ xvi ]
 INTRODUCriON

ander and Nikolai and their friends. He felt affection for his
brothers, he was good to them all his life, but it was here he took
their measure and there was never, unfortunately, any need
to alter it.
The money for Chekhov's university scholarship went to pay
the family debts. Supporting himself through medical school
would have been hard enough, but it was now obvious that the
whole family had to be supported, and he sat down to do it. In
t88o his first piece for a h umorous magazine was accepted. In
the next seven years Chekhov wrote more than four hundred
short stories, sketches, novels, one-act plays, fillers, jokes, law
reports, picture captions, one-line puns and half-page tales. The
days were medical school, the nights were work, and work that
had to be done in an apartment filled with a large family, noisy
neighbors and casual guests. It was not easy then, as it is not
easy now, to earn a living as a free lance writer. Chekhov was
pushed around and cheated by editors, made to beg for the few
rubles they owed him. He had to pay ten visits to one editor to
collect three rubles, and another editor offered him a pair of
pants in exchange for a short story. Hack literary work is very
hard work, and the study of medicine is very hard work, but
hack literary work, the study of medicine, and the support of a
large family can be killing. Men who take on such burdens are
never the men who write easy checks for the family food and
rent and think their responsibility finished. Men like Chekhov
take on as well the moral and spiritual burdens of the people
around them, and those are the heavy burdens and take the
largest due. Chekhov, from his days as a student, became the
father of his family and remained their father for the rest of his
life. In time, with success, the burdens became easier, but this
period, this very young man period, in which terrible work
had to be done against terrible odds, deprived him forever of
much that he wanted:
"A young man, the son of a serf, who had worked in a shop,
been a choir boy . . . was brought up to defer to rank, to kiss the
[ xvii ]
 INTRODUCTION

hands of priests and to submit to other people's ideas; who was

thankful for every bite of food, was often beaten . . . who fought,
tormented animals, liked to have dinner with his rich relations;
who played the hypocrite before God and man without needing
to do so . . . this young man squeezed the slave out of himself,
drop by drop, and woke up one fine morning to realize that it
was not the blood of a slave, but real h uman blood, that ran
through his veins." Again, in contrasting his background with
Tolstoy's and Turgenev's, he wrote: "They receive as a gift what
we lower-class writers buy with our youth." He bought it high :
he had his first hemorrhage at the age of twenty-four.
And at twenty-four he graduated from the medical college of
Moscow University. He says that he thought of medicine as his
wife and literature as his mistress, but that could not have been
so because he acted the other way round. By the time he gradu­
ated, he was earning money as a \vriter and he was a fairly well
known name to Moscow magazines. He did work in a hospital
the first summer after he left the university, but after that we
hear less and less of medicine and nothing of the practice of
medicine as we know it. It is doubtful if he ever amounted to
much as a doctor although many times throughout his life he
speaks of treating his neighbors or the peasants or prescribing
for his friends. But one suspects that it wasn't much more than
a well-trained pharmacist might have done. His relations with
medicine were courtesy relations: he acted toward medicine as if
it were a famous and distinguished cousin, a kind of hero he
didn't get to see as often as he would have liked.
But the study of medicine was of great importance to Chekhov
and perhaps that is what he meant when he spoke of medicine
as his wife. Chekhov is a special kind of creative artist, a \\TI"iter
who finds no conflict between the imagination and the scien­
tific fact, who sees the one as part of the other in a dependent
and happy brotherhood. He said: "Science and letters should
go hand in hand. Anatomy and elegant letters have the same
enemy-the devil. . . . In Goethe the naturalist lived in harmony
[ xviii ]
 INTRODUCTION

with the poet." Of course many writers think they feel that way
but literary people often resent science as if science were a
gruff Philistine intruder in a meeting of cultured men, an
aggressive guest who says the things that nobody wants to hear.
In Chekhov science not only lived in harmony with literature,
but i t was the very point of the writer, the taking-off place, the
color of the eye, the meat, the marrow, the blood. It is every­
where in Chekhov's work and in his life: in his dislike of
theorizing, his impatience with metaphysical or religious gen­
eralizations, his dislike of 4 A.M. philosophy. (He rejected high­
sounding emptiness even when it came from a man he loved
and respected: he said of a new Tolstoy theory, "To hell with
the philosophy of the great of this world.") It is in his contempt
for self-deception and hypocrisy: "You hold that I am intel­
ligent. Yes, I am intelligent in that I . . . don't lie to myself
and don't cover my own emptiness with other people's intel­
lectual rags." He was intelligent, he believed in intelligence,
and intelligence for Chekhov meant that you called a spade a
spade: laziness was simply not working; too much drink was
drunkenness; whoring had nothing to do with love; health was
when you felt good and brocaded words could not cover empti­
ness or pretensions or waste. He was determined to see life as
it was.
Was he this kind of a man because he was a doctor? Or had he
become a doctor because he was this kind of a man? I t doesn't
matter. We only need to know that as a writer he was a good
doctor, a sort of family physician to his characters. An honest
physician tries hard to make a correct diagnosis: his whole being
depends upon his ability to recognize the symptoms and name
the disease. Such men are not necessarily more dedicated to the
truth than the rest of us but their profession requires that they
bear it more closely in mind. Chekhov bore it close.
There is no work of Chekhov's that better illustrates his
determination to see things as they are than the short story, "A
Tiresome Tale." A famous and distinguished scientist, knowing
[ xix J
 INTRODUCTION

that he is soon to die, takes a long last look at his family, his
pupils, his assistants. He had lived in the hope of leaving some­
thing behind: it is now clear to him that his career has been a
waste and all his official medals cannot cover the waste. "A Tire­
some Tale" is not only a wonderful short story but, coming in
t88g, it was a clear, fresh statement of life. The story has in it
most of Chekhov, good and bad. Dr. Stepanovich is a new figure
in Russian literature: a man who must see the world for what
it is, without tears, without turmoil, because he believes that
only truth can bring hope for the future. But Katya, the roman­
tic young actress of the story, is a literary throwback. She seeks
the answer to the meaning of life in the same tiresome way
that so many like her have sought it before. Katya is, of course,
Nina in The Seagull. The characters in "A Tiresome Tale"
appear over and over again in the stories and plays. It has been
said that while Chekhov was sorry for the Ninas of the world,
he was also making fun of them, and never meant their troubles
to be mistaken for lofty tragedy. That is true, but it is more
likely that writers who walk fast always have twigs from dead
wood on their clothes, always have old stones, like Katya, in
their shoes. But the twigs and the stones are of no importance
to the creative artist: it's the length and speed of his journey
that counts. He has very little time, no matter how fast he runs,
and he cannot stop along the way to sort out the good mer­
chandise from the bad, the old from the new, as if he were a
peddler.
In Chekhov, the conflicts and contradictions of the old with
the new have led to an unusual number of opinions about the
man himself and to many different interpretations of his plays.
People see in him what they wish to see, even if they have to
ignore his words; or, more frequently, they ignore the dates on
which the words were written. Some critics see Chekhov as a
political radical, a man who desired the overthrow of a rotting
society. Other critics see him as a non-political man, an observer
of the scene, a writer who presented the problem but refused
[ XX J
 INTRODUCTION

to give the answer. Still others see a man who, far from criticiz­
ing anything or anybody, was only saddened by a world that
destroyed the delicate and punished the finely made. None of
these points of view is the truth, although each has in it some­
thing of the truth. But the truth about Chekhov, if you keep
prejudiced hands off, is not hard to find. The words are there
and they are dated.
Chekhov, like all men who grow, sometimes changed his
mind. H e had grown up in a time of social unrest. He was a
student when student riots broke out all over the land and he
saw many of the boys he knew carted off to jail or banished to
Siberia. H is school was rigidly controlled by the Czar's repre­
sentatives and his writing was rigidly censored by the Czar's
literary bureaucrats. It was a time of revolt and feelings ran
high on both sides. Chekhov took little part in the revolt-of
that there can be no question-and many Russian intellectuals
criticized h im for what he didn't do or say. But he went his own
way, he took his own method. In a time when it was dangerous
to hint that Russia was not the most blessed of lands he was
sharply critical, in his stories, of the society around him. H e
condemned the rotten life o f the peasant, the filth and squalor
of village life, the meanness of the bureaucracy, the empty
pretensions of the landed gentry, the lack of any true spiritual
guidance from the church, the cruelty and degradation that were
implicit in poverty. He needed no political party, no group, no
platform to dictate these themes. As a young man he felt the
needle of his more radical friends, and he answered them: "I
should like to be a free artist and that is all . . . . I consider a
label or a trademark to be a prej udice." But when, two years
later, a Moscow magazine took him too literally and called him
a "writer without principles," he got into one of the few angry
passions of his life. The letter to Lavrov, the editor of the mag­
azine, has a kind of illogic, and a pettish, defensive quality
which is unlike Chekhov. Magarshack, in his good book,
Chekhov the Dramatist, says: "This letter is important in that
[ xxi J
 1:-.:TRODUCTION

it reveals the inner conflict that was going on in Chekhov's

mind at that particular time. Indeed, his defense against Lav­
rov's criticism is rather lame, and the fury of the letter must be
ascribed to his own realization of its lameness. Chekhov defends
himself against an accusation which obviously hurt him to the
quick . . . and he advanced the curious plea that he was really
a doctor and not a writer at all, and that even as a writer he
had so far got along excellently with his friends. " Lavrov's
charge struck something painful. The youthful "I should like
to be a free artist" was no longer true, but he didn't know how
to say so. The desire to be a free artist was always to be with
him, but the "that is all" period was over forever. At the age
of thirty-two he wrote to Suvorin that the Russian artist lacked
something. "\Vriters who are immortal or just plain good . . .
have one very important trait in common: they are going some­
where and they call you with them . . . . Some of them, accord­
ing to how great they are, have aims that concern their own
times more closely, such as the abolition of serfdom, the libera­
tion of their country, politics, beauty, or simply vodka. Others
have more remote aims, such as God, life beyond the grave,
human happiness and so on. (In) the best of them . . . every
line is permeated, as with j uice, by a consciousness of an aim,
you feel in addition to life as it is, also life as it should be . . . .
But what about us? \Ve have neither near nor remote aims and
our souls are as flat and bare as a billiard table. \Ve have no
politics, we do not believe in revolution, we deny the existence
of God . . . . But he who wants nothing, hopes for nothing and
fears nothing cannot be an artist."
These two letters are so far apart in feeling because the times
had changed. N ow, in the 1 8go's, the intellectuals were disillu­
sioned and resigned. Chekhov disliked these men and disap­
proved of their cowardice and their callous social irresponsi­
bility. He was growing older and his requirements for himself
and for others hung on a higher peg, and were of a different
nature. (It is not a disgrace in Europe to grow older, and the
l xxii ]
 INTRODUCTION

European artist need not cling to the ideas and ideals of his
youth.) Truth was still the goal, but now Chekhov knew it
could be bare and impotent standing by itself. He had found
out that the writer must not only find the truth but he must
wrap it up and take it somewhere. Chekhov, like most natural
writers, never knew how he got it there, nor why, nor what
made him take it in a given direction. Nor did he ever bother
to find out. But somewhere he was taking his own kind of truth,
and the somewhere was increasingly good.
There can be no doubt, on the evidence, that Chekhov was
a man of deep social ideals and an uncommon sense of social
responsibility. This has been true of almost every good writer
who ever lived and it does not matter that the ideal sometimes
seems to be a denial of ideal, or that it springs from hate, or has
roots in snobbishness, or insanity, or alcohol, or j ust plain
meanness. What comes out in the work is all that matters. The
great work of art has always had what Chekhov called the aim,
the ideal, and none of us coming after the artist has the right
to define or limit his ideal by imposing upon him the moral and
political standards of our time. We have the right to find in
books what we need to find, but certainly we have no right to
refashion the writer's beliefs to suit our own. This happens too
often with us, and is a form of vanity.
If Chekhov had written only short stories or novels or poetry
the opinions of his critics and his interpreters wouldn't matter
very much. The printed work would be there and nobody could
stand between it and us unless we allowed them to. It would
be interesting to know that Mr. X. from Moscow disagreed with
Mr. Y. from New York, but, in the end, the biographer, the
critic, the teacher, and those who write such introductions as
this, cannot do permanent harm to a printed work.
But this is not true of plays. People do read plays, but not
very much, and most of us j udge them by what we see on the
stage. If the literary world has a handful of interpreters who
mistake themselves for the author, the theatrical world has only
[ xxiii J
 INTRODUCTION

a handful who do not mistake themselves for the playwright.

'\Ve all need to see ourselves as a little more important than we
are, but people in the theatre need to see themselves as a lot
more important than anybody else.
Stanislavski, a great director, is probably most responsible for
the frequent misinterpretations of the Chekhov plays. '\Ve have
taken his prompt scripts for the Moscow Art Theatre produc­
tions and used them as our bible, adding our own misinter­
pretations, of course, until now we seldom see a Chekhov play
that is pure Chekhov. Most of us, therefore, do not know the
plays. We know only something that we call "Chekhovian," and
by that we mean a stage filled with sweet, soupy, frustrated
people, created by a man who wept for their fate. This inter­
pretation holds very little of the truth: it is based on the com­
mon assumption that the writer shares the viewpoint of those
he writes about. One forgives the dinner-party ladies and gen­
tlemen who say, "You must think people terribly evil or you
wouldn't write about villains," or, "I am sure you are an aw­
fully nice person because you write about such nice people,"
but it is hard to forgive the serious critic or reader, or the
teacher, or Stanislavski, or the followers of Stanislavski, for
this kind of foolishness.
Chekhov fought long and hard against this interpretation of
his plays. He lost the battle and he knew it, but, fortunately, he
could not have known that it would still be lost fifty years later.
Stanislavski was a theatre king by divine right, his actors chil­
dren of the line, and it is always hard to convince royalty.
Chekhov did argue over the plays, but he was a sick man and
he was living in Yalta, far away from the theatre world of
Moscow and St. Petersburg. He admired the Moscow Art
Theatre and felt close to it, though he was critical of it, and
sometimes sharp and bitter. He was tied to Stanislavski and
Nemirovich-Danchenko by affection and gratitude but Chekhov
acted like a father who is forced to sit in impotent disapproval
[ xxiv ]
 INTRODUCTION

of his child's adopted home lest if he take the child away a new
set of foster parents might prove worse than the old.
Stanislavski was a man of intelligence and great ability, and
one can wonder why he did not present the plays as Chekhov
wished them to be presented. The answer is simple: Stanislav­
ski's interpretation had made the plays popular. ·what Stanis­
lavski put upon the stage was what the public wanted, or at
least what the avant-garde section of the public wanted. It was
their mood, the state of their disillusioned lives, their lack of
hope, their tragic reading of life that was responsible for the
popular conception of Chekhov as a playwright. Chekhovian
came to mean something drear and wintry, a world filled with
puff-ball people lying on a dusty table waiting for a wind to
roll them off.
It has been forgotten that Chekhov said The Seagull and The
Cherry Orchard were comedies. Trigorin, in The Seagull, has
been interpreted in many ways, but he has almost never been
played as he was intended: a third-rate writer, a man who was
neither good nor bad, an aging and disappointed fellow who
floundered around hoping that the next small selfish act would
bring him pleasure. Nina is usually played with a certain high­
minded foolishness, a virgin with her head in the air, too simple
to understand the worldliness of the man who seduces her.
Certainly Chekhov meant her to be a sweet and charming young
woman, but the head that was in the air was not meant to be
too bright, and it was filled with nonsense. She is a sad, lost,
hopeless girl whose punishment springs from her own second­
rate standards of life. She could never have been intended as
the tragic figure that actresses and directors prefer.
And it is so with The Cherry Orchard. One of Chekhov's
favorite themes is the need that shallow people have for emo­
tional fancy dress, their desire to deck out ordinary trouble in
gaudy colors, and to teeter around life like children in their
mother's high-heeled shoes. Chekhov makes it very clear that
the lovable fools in The Cherry Orchard are not even worth the
[ xxv ]
 1:-\TRODUCrJO:-\

trees that are the symbol of their end. But the play is usually
presented as a drama of delicate, charming, improvident aris­
tocrats pushed around by a vulgar, new-risen bourgeoisie.
(Chekhov took great pains to point out that Lophakin was not
a vulgar man and should not be played like a lout.) Mme.
Ranevskaya is a woman who has dribbled away her life on
trifles. Chekhov pitied her and liked her-it still seems to be
news to most people that writers end up liking all their charac­
ters-but he was making fun of her. In real life it is possible
to like a foolish woman, but this viewpoint is frowned upon
in the theatre: it allows for no bravura, gets no sympathy for
the actress, and is complex because foolishness is complex. It is
thus easier, in such cases, to ignore the author's aim, or to
change it. The Cherry Orchard is sharp comedy. Nowhere else
does Chekhov say so clearly that the world these people made
for themselves would have to end in a whimper.
He foresaw the end of their world, but he had the artist­
scientist hope for a better world. He says so over and over
again. It is doubtful, however, that he would have liked or
would have fitted into the social revolution that was so shortly
to follow him. It is one thing to know what is wrong with the
old order, it is another to be comfortable in the new. But hu­
man personality is extraordinarily complex and is dependent
upon so many factors and grows from so many different roots
that one such guess is as worthless as the next. And the roots
from which Chekhov grew were very special : his place of birth,
his education, his family, his religion, his sexual nature, the
whole niveau of his life was very different from ours.
Then, too, Chekhov was not a simple man and much of his
life is still not known to us and much of what is known is not
understood. He was a nineteenth century man and he shared
with the intellectuals of his time and his country a kind of
Christian ideal of life, although he divorced the ideal from the
church he was born into. Human life was of very great impor­
tance to these men: they were, in the deepest sense, reformers,
[ xxvi]
 INTRODUCTION

and they wished to reform not from busybody zeal, but from
their anguish that the individual human being cease to suffer
hunger and disease. It was easy for such men to become senti­
mentalists, and many of them did. Chekhov was a sweet man, a
generous man, a tolerant man, and he gave pity where it was
due, but he was a tough, unsentimental man with a tough mind,
and thus he had tough tools to write with.
His friend Tolstoy, comparing him to Shakespeare, said :
"Chekhov doesn't have the real nerve of a dramatist." In the
end, Tolstoy is probably right, although the comparison is harsh
and hasn't much point.
But then I am not a critic of writers, nor do I wish to be.
Chekhov said: "When people talk to me of what is artistic or
inartistic . . I am at my wit's end. I divide all productions into
.

two categories: those I like and those I don't like." I like

Chekhov, I like these letters, and I hope you will, too.

[ xxvii ]
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

SHOLOM ALEICHEM (1859-1916) was the pseudonym of Solomon

Rabinowitz, a humorous writer who emigrated to the United
States in 1906.
MARIA ANDREYEVA ( ? -1953) was an actress in the Moscow
Art Theatre. She played Irina in the first performances of "The
Three Sis ters."
LYDIA AVILOVA (1865-1943) was a writer. The nature of her
relationship to Chekhov is unknown. They were probably in
love, and Chekhov's friends believed that one of his reasons for
going to Sakhalin was to break off w i th Avilova. In 194 7 her
memoirs were published in the Soviet Union, and were trans­
lated into English as "Chekhov in My Life."
FYODOR BATUSHKOV (1857-1920) was a teacher and an author­
ity on Western European literature, and editor of several maga­
zines to which Chekhov contributed. After Chekhov's death,
Batushkov wrote his memoirs of Chekhov and a great number of
critical articles on the stories and plays.
PYOTR BYKOV (1843-1930) was a magazine writer.
ALEXANDER CHEKHOV (1855-1913) was the oldest of Chekhov's
brothers. He studied mathematics and physics at i\Ioscow Univer­
sity and, while still a s tudent, began writing humorous pieces for
magazines and newspapers. He started out as a brilliant and
talented young man and ended as a hack writer. Chekhov's letters
to Alexander were often wri tten in a kind of teasing, insulting
tone, but he had great affection for Alexander and often used
him as a business agent.
EVGENIA CHEKHOVA (1835-1919), Chekhov's mother, was born
Morozova. It is almost impossible to find any reliable material on

[ xxix J
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

her family. Her grandfather was a serf who managed to buy his
own freedom and the freedom of her father, Yakov. They were
peddlers and small merchants who eventually settled in Taganrog.
IVAN CHEKHOV (I861-1922), the fourth Chekhov brother, was a
teacher. He taught for many years in Moscow at a city school. He
was a hard-working, conscientious man.
MARIA CHEKHOVA (1863- ) was Chekhov's only sister. The
family managed, somehow, to find enough money to give her a
good education. She became a teacher of history and geography in
a private school for girls. She was deeply devoted to Anton and
was closer to him than any other member of the family. Her
whole life was given over to him and, after his death, she became
his literary executor and editor.
MIKHAIL CHEKHOV (1865·1936) was Chekhov's youngest
brother. He translated Upton Sinclair and Jack London into
Russian.
NIKOLAI CHEKHOV (1858-1889)• the second Chekhov brother,
was a gifted artist. During the 188o's Nikolai did a great deal of
work for humorous magazines, often in illustration of Anton's
sketches and stories. He died of tuberculosis.
OLGA HERMANOVNA CHEKHOVA (no dates) was the wife of
Mikhail.
ALEXANDER ERTEL (1855-1908), a writer, was a good friend of
Chekhov'[Link] a young man he had been banished from St. Peters­
burg for revolutionary activities.
MAXIM GORKI (1868-1936) was born in Nizhni-Novgorod as
Alexei Pyeshkov. His famous autobiography opens with a de­
scription of his mother preparing the body of his father for the
burial services. Gorki went to work when he was nine years old
and, for the next fifteen years, travelled around sou thern Russia
taking any job he could get and educating himself with books
borrowed from everywhere. In 1895 a St. Petersburg magazine
published one of his short stories: fame and success came fast.
\Vithin two years he became a great literary figure, not only in
Russia, but in Europe as well. His early romantic stories of
hoboes and tramps made Gorki a hero to the working class; his
persecution by the Czarist police made him an idol to most of

[ XXX ]
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Russia. After the failure of the 1905 revolution, in which he

played an active part, Gorki left the country and continued his
political activities from Capri. In 1917, although he had not
previously been a member of the party, he gave his support to
Lenin and the Bolsheviks. After the revolution he became a kind
of cultural arbiter for the new regime. His best known books and
plays are "Twenty-six Men and a Girl," "Mother," "The Lower
Depths," and "Yegor Bulichev." Gorki's reminiscences of Tolstoy,
Chekhov and Andreyev are wonderful records of the three men.
DMITRI GRIGOROVICH (1822-1899) was a popular and re­
spected Russian novelist. Chekhov dedicated his collected stories,
"In the Twilight," to Grigorovich in 1887. In 1889, Chekhov re­
ceived the Pushkin Prize for Literature largely through Grigoro­
vich's efforts.
MARIA KISELEVA ( ? -1922) was a member of a distinguished
family and the wife of a rich and cultured country gentleman. In
the 188o's the Chekhov's rented a cottage on the Kiselev estate.
Chekhov and the Kiselevs were close friends, but many years
later Chekhov said that Mme. Kiselev had become old and reac­
tionary and that he was sick of her.
OLGA KNIPPER (1870- ) came from an Alsatian family of
German background who had settled in Russia. Her father died
young and her mother earned a living as a music teacher. Knip­
per grew up on the fringes of the cultural high-life of l\loscow.
She was a talented young actress with the Moscow Art Theatre
when Chekhov fell in love with her. She was known as the unoffi­
cial hostess of his house in Yalta long before their marriage in 1901.
In 1904 she played Madame Ranevskaya in "The Cherry Or­
chard"; in 1943, at the 30oth anniversary performance of the play,
she was stili at it.
ANATOLI KONI (1844-1927) was a liberal lawyer, public official,
and an old admirer of Chekhov's.
VLADIMIR KOROLENKO (1853-1921) was a popular novelist. He
was a left wing liberal who defended the peasant against the land­
owner and took a courageous stand against anti-Semitism. He and
Chekhov were elected honorary academicians in 1900, but in 1902
they both resigned in protest over the Academy's refusal of Gorki.
[ xxxi ]
 BIOGRAPHICAL :'I:OTES

Gorki's reminiscences contain a warm and channing picture of

Korolenko.
PYOTR KURKIN (1858-1934) was a doctor and an old friend of
Chekhov's.
VUKOL L-\ VROV (1852-1912) was one of the editors of a high­
brow magazine, "Russian Thought . " He called Chekhov an "un­
principled " \\Titer and Chekhov answered with a famous, angry
letter. But, a few years later, they patched up the fight and be­
came good friends.
NIKOUI LEIKIN (1841-1906) was a writer who lived in St. Peters­
burg. He was the editor of the humorous magazine, "Fragments."
IVAN LEO�TIEV (1856-1911) was a play>Hight and novelist who
used the pen name of Shcheglov.
MARIA LILI�A (Mme. Alexeyeva) (1866-1923), Stanislavski's wife,
was a talented actress of the Moscow Art Theatre.
MARL-\ �fALKIEL (no dates) was the daughter of a rich �foscow
family. She and her sister were close friends of l\faria Chekhova's
and she was a frequent guest at Melikhm·o.
ADOLF MARX (1838-1904) was a prominent publisher in St.
Petersburg. He put out the first complete edition of Chekhm·'s
works. He was also the publisher of Turgenev, Dostoyevski and
Korolenko.
MIKHAIL ME�SHIKOV (1859·1919) was a sailor who became a
journalist and editor of "This \Veek. " He started out in life as
a liberal and ended up as a reactionary. He \\TOte constantly to
Chekhov, but Chekhov in the last three years of his life ne•·er
answered the letters.
VICTOR ;\flROLUBOV (�HROV) (1860-1939) was the editor and
publisher of a popular monthly, "E,·erybody's Magazine. "
LYDL\ MIZIKOVA (18io-1937) was a good friend of Chekhov's
sister. She was an interesting and attractive young woman who
was in love with Chekhov. Chekhov liked her and liked to flirt
with her, but there is no evidence that he loved her.
VL\DL\flR NE�flROVICH-DANCHEXKO (1858-1943) was a
well known novelist and play>Hight long before he and Stanis­
lavski founded the Moscow Art Theatre. He was a brilliant and
highly cultivated man and, although his name has never been as

[ xxxi i ]
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

famous as Stanislavski's, it is possible that he most deserves

credit for the high quality of the plays produced by the theatre.
It was he who recognized the talents of Chekhov as a playwright
and it was he who insisted upon the production of "The Seagull."
After the revolution, while the Moscow Art Theatre was making
a European tour, Nemirovich-Danchenko established a famous
musical studio where he developed a new style for the production
of opera and operetta. In 1942, shortly before his death, he re­
ceived a Stalin award for "Kremlin Chimes," a play about Lenin.
The Chekhov-Nemirovich-Danchenko friendship went back to
the 188o's, when they were both grinding out a living as writers
of jokes and humorous pieces. Chekhov was always closer to
Nemirovich-Danchenko than he was to Stanislavski and, over the
years, they wrote many letters to each other. Unfortunately, much
of the correspondence has been lost or destroyed.
IVAN ORLOV (1851-1917) was a doctor. He and Chekhov became
friends in the Melikhovo period.
ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV (1825-1893) was a poet and essayist. He
was an early admirer of Chekhov's. He started out as a radical,
inherited a fortune and moved to Paris.
GRIGORI ROSSOLIMO (186o-1928), a fellow student of Chekhov's
at medical school, was a neuropathologist who taught at Moscow
University. Chekhov had great respect for him as a scientist and
great affection for him as a man.
PYOTR SERGEYENKO (1854-1930) is best known for his book on
Tolstoy. He went to school with Chekhov in Taganrog.
ELENA SHAVROVA (1874-1937), Mme. Just, was a writer and
an actress. She met Chekhov at a picnic in 1889 and asked him
to read a story she had written. Chekhov sent the story to Suvorin,
who printed it in "New Times."
VASIL! SOBOLEVSKI (1846-1913) was the author of a number of
articles on finance, economics and diplomacy. His common-law
wife was the millionaire patroness of the arts, Varvara Morozova.
KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI (1863-1938) was born Konstan­
tin Alexeyev. (The Russians were great name changers.) His
father, and his father's friends, were the rich upper class Mus­
covites who were rapidly taking over the prerogatives of the
[ xxxi ii J
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Russian aristocracy. The Alexeyevs were theatre and opera

patrons-one grandmother had been the famous French actress,
Varley-and Stanislavski made his first appearance at the age of
three in family theatricals. He organized his brothers and sisters
into an acting group of rather extraordinary standards: when, for
example, they planned to produce "The l\Iikado," Japanese acro­
bats were invited to live on the family estate and give instruction
in military drill, Japanese dancing, proper use of the fan, etc.
Stanislavski was deeply influenced, as was most of Europe, by the
l\Ieiningen court theatre and, shortly after the Russian tour of
that great company, he and Nemirovich-Danchenko founded the
l\Ioscow Art Theatre "... against bathos, overacting ... the star
system ... the farcical repertoire which was ... the Russian
stage." The brilliance of the Moscow Art Theatre's productions
of Chekhov, Tolstoy, Gorki, Shakespeare, Ibsen and Hauptmann
changed the modern theatre. The revolution they brought about
in acting, stage lighting, stage music and stage designing is the
proof that Stanislavski and Nemirovich-Danchenko were the two
great theatre men of modern times. On the night of the Kazanski
Square massacre in St. Petersburg, Stanislavski was playing Dr.
Stockman in "The Enemy of the People." He was so convincing
an actor that when he reached the famous line, "You can't put on
a new coat when you go out to fight for freedom and truth," the
entire audience rose from their seats and rushed upon the stage to
thank him for his bravery.
LEOPOLD (LEV) SULERJITSKI (1872-1916) was an artist and
writer. He was thrown out of the Academy for revolutionary
speeches. He was sent to an insane asylum for refusing to take
the oath of allegiance to the Czar, and was then exiled to Central
Asia. He organized, with Tolstoy, the emigration of the Dukho­
bors to Canada.
ALEXEI SUVORIN (1834-1912) was the editor of the powerful,
conser\·ative, St. Petersburg newspaper, "New Times." He was an
interesting, worldly man, a close friend of Chekhov's, although
Chekhov never seemed to have any illusions about Suvorin's love
of money and power. The friendship broke up in a fight over
Zola and the Dreyfus case.

[ xxxiv ]
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

ANNA SUVORINA (no dates), Suvorin's second wife, was a lively

and imaginative wom an. She wrote a book about Chekhov.
MODEST TCHAIKOVSKI (1850-1916), brother of the composer,
wrote librettos. He was a great admirer of Chekhov's and called
himself a "Chekhist."
JOASAPH TIKHOMIROV ( ? -1908) was an actor in the Moscow
Art Theatre.
VLADIMIR TIKHONOV (1857-1914) was a dramatist, fiction
wri ter, and editor of several li terary m agazines.
ALEXANDER VISHNEVSKI (1863-1943) was an actor in the Mos­
cow Art Theatre. He was a schoolmate of Chekhov's in the early
Taganrog days.
VLADIMIR YAKOVENKO ( 1 857-1 923) was a distinguished psy­
chiatrist. He and Chekhov were very much interested in local
government councils (zemstvos).
YEVGRAF YEGOROV (no dates) was the leader of a community
in the Nizhni-Novgorod district.

[ xxxv ]
THE SELECTED LETTERS OF

ANTON CHEKHOV
 I

1 88s- 1 8go

THis collection of letters begins in 1 885 when Chekhov was

twenty-five years old. His literary output was already enormous
and while the early work cannot be compared with what came
later, many of the early stories are very good and all of them
are interesting comments on Russian life.
Chekhov had been doing every kind of grubby literary work
to support his family. He had even been writing a kind of gos­
sip column. But in 1 885 he began to move away from hack
work. He gave up the pseudonym of Antosha Chekhonte with
which he had signed the early humorous stories and came forth
as Anton Chekhov, a modest and earnest young man who was
about to take his first steps as a serious writer.
St. Petersburg was the cultural center of Russia-Moscow was
the merchants' city-and to be published in St. Petersburg was
of great importance to a young writer. Chekhov was already
known to the St. Petersburg magazines by his humorous stories,
but ,now the serious stories began to be commented on and
praised. Chekhov, on his first visit to St. Petersburg in t 885, was
surprised to find himself the literary toast of the town. It was
on this visit that Alexei Suvorin, editor of the powerful, con­
servative, pro-government New Times, invited Chekhov to be­
come a regular contributor. The newspaper was important, the
pay was better than Chekhov had ever had before and his new
friend, Suvorin, was a man of great prestige and influence.
[3]
 r885-r8go
The year 1 885 marked other changes in his life. Financially,
things were a little easier and his social life was pleasanter. He
liked his friends, the Kiselevs, and when they offered to rent
him a small house on their beautiful estate at Babkino he
j umped at the chance. The Kiselevs were cultured people and
they kept open house for the most interesting intellectuals in
Russia. The summer guests came and went through days and
evenings of charming picnics and brilliant talk and excellent
music. Life on the Kiselev estate was on a far higher level than
Chekhov had ever known before and he flourished in it.
The years 1 885 to 1 8go were probably the most important of
Chekhov's life. They do not include his most important work,
but they lay the pattern for everything that was to come. It was
in these years that the stones of the character were set into
place, the design of the man took shape. The future was in these
years, the good and the bad of it. The first signs of tuberculosis
appeared, he became a serious writer and a serious man, and
he became famous. The extravagant early praise of the critics
and the literary public turned, as it usually does, into extrav­
agant attack. Now they said that he had no philosophy, that he
reported life without interpreting it. A critic of great impor­
tance, Mikhailovsky, accused him of aimlessness. His connec­
tion with Suvorin and the reactionary, anti-Semitic New Times
was looked upon with suspicion and distaste.
But nobody had taken the measure of the man as well as the
man himself. Chekhov looked at his work with clarity and
humility. He was on his way to himself, so to speak, and because
he knew he would find himself, he was not to be hurried or
pushed or bullied. True, the charge of aimlessness bit deep and
he turned this way and that, smarting under i t.
One of the ways he turned-and then turned back again­
was toward Tolstoyism. Chekhov was never a member of the
Tolstoy inner circle and even in his most enthusiastic period he
disliked the ascetic side of Tolstoy's teachings, but many of the
[4]
stories written at this time are under the influence of the Mas­
ter: the vanity-of-earthly-goods theme in "The Bet," and the
non-resistance-to-evil theme in "The Meeting." These were also
the years of his first full-length play. The short plays, the vaude­
villes, were already popular-they showed the great instinctive
knowledge he had for theatre technique-but Ivanov was his
first attempt at a large work for the stage. Much of Ivanov is
interesting, particularly the first half of the play, but most of i t
i s muddled and overstated and repetitive. It was written by a
man . who thought clearly, but the play is without clarity.
Chekhov discovered-his later plays show how well he learned
from the mistakes of Ivanov-that characters in a play cannot
be written as if they were characters in a story or a novel. He
learned, too, that writing for the stage is primarily the tech­
nique of paring down.
The Chekhov controversy, the Chekhov legend, roughly dates
from Ivanov. "For a long time," Bunin wrote many years later,
"nobody called Chekhov anything but a 'gloomy' writer . . . a
man who looked at everything with hopelessness and indiffer­
ence . . . . Now they've gone to the opposite extreme . . . they've
been going on about Chekhov's 'tenderness and wannth,'
'Chekhov's love of humanity. . . .' All this makes intolerable
reading. What would he have felt if he had read about his
'tenderness'? This is a word which one must use very rarely and
very carefully about Chekhov." And Ringley in his biography
makes it simple: he says that those who are pessimists think
Chekhov is a pessimist and those who are optimists think he is
an optimist.
I do not understand the pessimist theory. I know of no writer
who ever made it more clear that he believed in the future.
There is every difference between sadness and despair. Chekhov
was often sad but basically he was a gay and cheerful man, calm,
pleasant, full of fun. He liked pretty women, he l iked wine and
a party, he kept open house for his friends, he enjoyed music

[5]
 To !':IKOLAI LEIKI:"': [r885]
and fishing and bathing and gardening and money and fame.
He took the good with the bad.

In 1 88g Chekhov's brother, Nikolai, died of tuberculosis.

Chekhov was deeply depressed by his brother's death and his
great short story, "A Tiresome Tale," was wri tten immediately
aften,·ard. Then, as if to break with the past, he began to pre­
pare for a long and dangerous journey.

To N IKOLAI LEIKIN
October r2, r885, .Moscow
Dear Nikolai A lexandrovich,
Your letter found me in my new apartment. It is near the
:Moscow Ri,·er and in real country: clean, quiet, cheap and­
dullish. The massacre of the latest issue of "Fragments" 1 struck
me like a bolt from the blue. On the one hand I regret all the
work I put in, on the other hand, I feel a kind of frustration
and disgust. Of course, you are right: i t is better to tone down
gradually and eat humble pie than to imperil the future of the
magazine by getting on your high horse. One must wait and
be patient. But I think you will ha,·e to tone down continually.
What is permitted today will be subjected to the censorship of
the committee tomorrow, and the time is near at hand when
even the rank of "merchant" will constitute forbidden fruit.
Yes indeed, literature supplies a thin crust of bread, and you
did a clever thing in being born before me, when both breath­
ing and \\Titing were easier. . . .
You ad,·ise me to take the trip to St. Pete . . . and you tell
me that St. Pete is not China. I myself know that it isn't, and, as
you are aware, have long realized the usefulness of such a
journey, but what am I to do? Living as I do in a large family
1 The censor came down hea,ily on this issue of Fragmen ts, tossing out, among
other pieces, two sketches by Chekhov. Leikin was told that he must stop pub·
lishing satirical articles or the magazine "·ould be banned from the newsstands.

[6]
 To NIKOLAI LEIKIN [z885]
group I can never expect to have a ten-ruble note to spare, and
even the most uncomfortable and beggarly trip would stand
me a minimum of fifty rubles. Where can I get that kind of
money? I just can' t squeeze it out of my family and I ought not.
If I were to cut down on food, I would pine away from pangs
of conscience. I had earlier hoped it would be possible to
snatch enough for the trip out of the payment received from
the "St. Petersburg Gazette"; now it turns out that in starting
work for this paper I will not earn a bit more than I had pre­
viously, and that I will be giving the aforementioned gazette all
that I formerly gave to "Diversion," "Alarm Clock" and the
others. Allah alone knows how hard it is to maintain my equi­
librium, and how easy to slip and lose my balance. Just let me
earn twenty or thirty rubles less during the coming month and
my balance, it seems to me, will go to the devil and I'll find
myself in a mess. Financially I am terribly timid, and as a result
of this financial, totally uncommercial cowardice I avoid loans
and advances. It is not hard to move me to action. If I had any
money I would fly continually from city to city.
I received payment from the "St. Petersburg Gazette" two
weeks after I sent the bill.
If you are in Moscow in October, I will manage to pull my­
self together and leave with you. Money for the Petersburg trip
will turn up somehow, and for the return trip I can get funds
(earned) from Khudekov.
It is not possible for me to write more than I do at present,
for medicine is not like the bar: if you don't practice you cool
off. Accordingly, my literary earnings are a constant quantity;
they can diminish but not increase .
. . . Tuesday evenings we have parties with girls, music, sing­
ing and literature. I want to take our poet out into the world,
or he'll sour on it.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

[ 7]
 To DMITRI GRIGOROVICH [r886]
To DM ITRI GRIGOROVICH
March 28, r886, Moscow
Your letter, my kind, warmly loved bearer of good tidings,
struck me like a bolt of lightning. I was deeply moved, almost
to tears, and now feel it has left a deep imprint on my soul. May
God bestow the same kind serenity upon your old age as you
have lavished on my youth. I can really find neither words nor
deeds to thank you. You know how ordinary people look upon
such a member of the elite as you ; you may therefore j udge
what your letter means to me. It means more than any diploma,
and for a beginning writer it is a reward both for now and the
future. I am in a daze, as it were. I lack the ability to judge
whether I deserve this high award or not. I can only repeat that
it has overwhelmed me.
If I do have a gift to be respected, I can confess to you who
have a pure heart that I have hitherto not given it any respect.
I felt I had some talent, but had fallen into the habit of con­
sidering it trifling. Reasons of a purely external character suffice
to render one unjust, extremely distrustful and suspicious to­
ward oneself. And, as I now recollect, I have had plenty of
such reasons. All my intimates have always referred condescend­
ingly to my writing and have kept advising me in friendly
fashion not to change a genuine profession for mere scribbling.
I have hundreds of friends in Moscow, among them a score of
writers, and I cannot recall one who would read me or consider
me a talented writer. There is a so-called "literary circle" in
Moscow; talents and mediocrities of all ages and kinds gather
together once a week in the private room of a restaurant and
give their tongues a good workout. If I were to go there and
read j ust a short excerpt from your letter, they would laugh in
my face. During the five years of my roving from paper to
paper I have adopted this general view of my own literary insig­
nificance, have quickly got used to regarding my own labors
condescendingly, and consider writing a minor matter. That is
the first reason. The second is that I am a physician and have
[8]
 To DMITRI GRIGOROVICH [r886J
been sucked into medicine up to my neck, so that the saying
about hunting two rabbits at one time never could have wor­
ried anybody more than it worries me.
I am writing all of this in an attempt to j usti fy, in some
small degree, my faults. H itherto my attitude toward my liter­
ary work has been extremely frivolous, negligent, and casual.
I don't recall a single story upon which I have spent more than
twenty-five hours; I wrote "The Huntsman," which you liked,
in a bath house! I have composed my stories as reporters write
their accounts of fires, mechanically, half unconsciously, with
no concern either for the reader or myself. In doing so I tried
in every possible way not to expend on the story those images
and scenes which I held dear and which, God knows why, I
have set aside and carefully hidden away.
The first impulse toward self-criticism carne from Suvorin's
kind, and as far as I can j udge, sincere letter. I began gathering
my energies to write something purposeful, but I still had no
faith in my own power to guide myself.
But then your unexpected, undreamed-of letter arrived. For­
give me the comparison, but it affected me like a governor's
order to leave town in twenty-four hours! i.e., I suddenly felt
an impelling obligation to make haste and tear myself free as
soon as I could from the rut I was in.
I am in agreement with you on all points. The cynicisms
which you point out to me I myself felt when I saw "The
Witch" in print. They would not have been there had I taken
three or four days to write this story, instead of one.
I am going to stop doing work that must be done in a hurry,
but not just yet. There is no possibility of my getting out of the
routine I have been following. I am not averse to going hungry,
an experience I have already had, but this is not a matter con­
cerning me alone. I give to writing my leisure hours-two or
three during the day and a small part of the night, i.e., hours
suited only for minor efforts. In the summer, when I have more
[ g]
 To NIKOLAI CHEKHOV [z886]
spare time and living costs are lower, I shall take up serious
work.
I cannot put my real name on the book because it is too
late: the cover design is ready and the book printed. Even be­
fore you said so, many Petersburgers advised me not to hurt
the book with a pen name, but I paid no attention, probably
out of vanity. I do not like my little book at all. It is a hotch­
potch, a disorderly ragbag of feeble essays written at the univer­
sity, slashed by the censors and editors of humorous publica­
tions. I believe many people will be disappointed after they
read it. Had I known that people were reading me and that you
were following my career I would not have had the book pub­
lished.
All hope is for the future. I am still only 26. Perhaps I shall
manage to accomplish something, although time does run out
fast.
Excuse my long letter and do not hold it against a man for
daring to indulge himself for the first time in his life in such a
delight as writing to Grigorovich.
Please send me your photograph, if possible. I have been so
flattered and stimulated by your letter that I seem to want to
write you not a sheet, but a whole ream. God grant you health
and happiness. Please believe in the sincerity of your deeply
respectful and grateful
A. Chekhov

To N IKOLAI CHEKHOV
March z886, Moscow
Dear young Zabelin 1
I hear that remarks passed by Schechtel and me have offended
you . . . . The capacity for taking offense is a quality confined
to elevated minds, yet if Ivanenko, Misha, N elly and I are fit
I Za beli n was a Zvenigorod landowner. H e was a n alcoholic. Chekhov used him
as the character Bortsov in On the High Road ( 1885) .

[ 10 ]
 To NIKOLAI CHEKHOV ( r886]
subjects for laughter, why can't we make fun of you? It wouldn't
be fair otherwise . . . . However, if you aren't joking and really
think you've been insulted, I hasten to beg your pardon.
People make fun of what is funny, or of what they don't
understand. Choose your own interpretation.
The second is more flattering, but alas! you are no riddle to
me. It isn't hard to understand a person with whom one has
shared the sweet delights of childhood . . . Latin classes and,
last but not least, life together in Moscow. Besides, your life
happens to be so uncomplicated psychologically that it would
even be comprehensible to simple souls who had never so much
as seen the inside of a seminary. Out of respect for you I shall
be frank. You are angry and insulted . . . but not because of
my gibes . . . . The fact of the matter is that you yourself, as a
fundamentally decent person, feel you are living a lie; and he
who has a guilty feeling always seeks j ustification outside of
himself. The drunkard attributes everything to some tragedy
in his life, Putyata blames it on the censor, the individual
running away from Yakimanki out of sheer lechery pleads the
coldness of his quarters, the sneering attitude of his acquaint­
ances and so on . . . . If I were now to cast my family upon the
mercy of fate, I would try to find j ustification for my act in my
mother's character, my blood-spitting and so forth. That is
natural and excusable. Such is the quality of human nature.
I know that you sense the falsity of your position, for otherwise
I would not have called you a decent person. Were that decency
to depart, the matter would stand differently, for then you
would make your peace with yourself and cease to be aware of
the falsity. . . .
Besides being no mystery to me, it is true, too, that some­
times you are rather barbarously funny. You are just a plain
human being, and all of us humans are puzzles only when we
are stupid, and funny for forty-eight weeks of the year. Am I
right?
You have often complained that you are "not understood."
[ 11 ]
 To NIKOLAI CHEKHOV (r886J
Not even Goethe or Newton did that. . . . It was only Christ
who complained, and then he did not allude to himself person­
ally, but rather to his teachings. You are easy enough to under-
stand . . . . Others are not to blame if you do not understand
yourself . . .
.

I assure you, as your brother and as one who has close ties
with you, that I understand and sympathize with all my
heart. . . . I know all your good qualities as well as my own
five fingers, I value those qualities and regard them with the
very deepest respect. If you want proof that I understand you,
I can even enumerate them. In my estimation you are good to
a fault, generous, not an egoist; you will share your last kopek
with others, you are sincere; you are free from envy and hatred,
open-hearted, have pity on men and beasts, are not malicious or
spiteful, are trusting . . . . You have been gifted from above with
something most others lack : you have talent. That talent sets
you above millions of people, for here on earth there is only
one artist to every two million men . . . . That talent puts you
on a plane apart, and even if you were a toad or a tarantula
you would still be respected, for all is forgiven to talent.
You have only one failing. But in it lies the source of your
false position, your misery, and even of your intestinal catarrh.
That failing is your utter lack of culture. Do excuse me-but
veritas magis amicitiae. . . . For life imposes certain condi­
tions . . . . To feel at ease among intelligent folk, not to be out
of place in such company, and not to feel this atmosphere to be
a burden upon oneself, one must be cultured in a particular
way . . . . Your talent has thrust you i nto this charmed circle,
you belong to it, but . . . you are impelled away from it and
find yourself forced to waver between these cultured people and
your neighbors. The vulgar flesh cries out in you, that flesh
raised on the birch rod, in the beer cellar, on free meals. . . . To
overcome this background is difficult-terribly difficult.
In my opinion people of culture must meet the following
requisites:
 To NIKOLAI CHEKHOV [I886J
1 . They respect the human personality and are therefore
always forbearing, gentle, courteous and compliant . . . . They
don't rise up in arms over a misplaced hammer or a lost rubber
band; they do not consider they are conferring a favor upon
the person they may be living with, and when they leave that
person they don't say, "You're impossible to get along with ! "
They will overlook noise, and cold, and overdone meat, and
witticisms, and the presence of strangers in their houses . . . .
2 . They sympathize not only with beggars and stray cats;
they are also sick at heart with what is not visible to the naked
eye. Thus, for instance, if Peter knows his father and mother
are haggard with care and do not sleep nights because they see
him so seldom (and then, only in a drunken state), Peter will
spurn the vodka bottle and hasten to them. They themselves do
not sleep nights because they want to . . . pay for their brother's
upkeep at college and keep their mother properly clothed.
3· They respect the property of others and therefore pay
their debts.
4· They are sincere and fear untruth l ike the very devil.
They will not lie even in small matters. A lie is insulting to the
one who hears it and cheapens the speaker in the latter's eyes.
They do not pose, they behave on the street as they would at
home and do not throw dust in the eyes of their humbler
brethren. . . . They are not garrulous and don't intrude their
confidences where they are not sought. . . . Out of respect for
people's ears they are more often silent than not.
5· They do not make fools of themselves in order to arouse
sympathy. They do not play upon the heartstrings of people so
that these will have pity and make a fuss over them. They don't
say, "I am misunderstood! " or "I've made a mess of every­
thing! " because all this is striving after cheap effect, vulgar,
stale, false . . . .
6. They are not vain. They don't traffic in such imitation
diamonds as pursuing acquaintance with celebrities . . . listen­
ing to the raptures of a casual spectator at the Salon, earning
 To N IKOLAI CHEKHOV [r886]
notoriety in the taverns of the town. . . . If they accomplish
a kopek's worth of good work they don't make a hundred
rubles' worth of fuss over it and don't boast they can get into
places from which others are excluded . . . . The truly gifted
always remain in obscurity amongst the crowd and shun as
much as possible the display of their talents . . . . Even Krylov2
said that an empty barrel makes more noise than a full one . . . .
7· If they have talent, they regard it with respect. To it they
will sacrifice their repose, women, wine and vanity . . . . They
are proud of that talent. Because of it they won't go on drunken
sprees with superintendents of low-class buildings and with
Skvortsov's guests, for they are aware that they aren't called
upon to associate with them, but rather to influence them to a
higher cultural level. Besides, they are fastidious . . . .
8. They develop an aesthetic sense. They cannot bring them­
selves to go to sleep in their clothes, to look with indifference
upon bugs crawling from cracks in the wall, to breathe foul air,
or step upon a floor covered with spit, or feed themselves off a
kerosene stove. They try as best they can to subdue and ennoble
the sexual instinct . . . . Truly cultured people don't cheapen
themselves. ·what they need from a woman is not j ust pleasure
in bed, not horse sweat . . . not the kind of cleverness that con­
sists in pretending to be pregnant and in constant lying. . . .
Artists in particular require from their women companions
freshness, elegance, humanity; not a whore, but a woman who
can be a mother . . . . They don't swill vodka all the time, or
sniff cupboards-because they realize they are not pigs. They
drink only when they are free, on some special occasion . . . for
they need to have mens sana in corpore sano.
And so on. Such are cultured people. To educate yourself
not to fall below the level of your environment, it is not enough
to have read the "Pickwick Papers" or to have memorized the
monologue from Faust . . . .
2 Krylov was the famous writer of fables.
 To MARIA KISELEVA [r886J
What you need is constant work, day and night, eternal read­
ing, study, will power. . . . Every hour is precious .
. . . You must spurn this way of life once and for all, tear
yourself away with a wrench . . . . Come to us, smash the vodka
decanter and lie down with a book. . . . Turgenev, if you will,
whom you haven't read. . . .
. . . you must rid yourself of vanity, for you are no longer a
child. You are getting close to thirty. Time to make a change!
I'm expecting you-so are we all.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA KISELEVA
September 2r, r886, Moscow
. . . To begin with, thank you very much for the passages
copied out of "Russian Thought." I kept thinking as I read:
"I thank thee, God, that the great writers have not yet been
translated in Mother Russia ! " Yes indeed, our homeland is still
rich on its own. From your letter to my sister I see that you too
are trying to be a celebrity. (I am speaking of St. Pete and the
samples of mythology stories I have seen.) Good Lord, literature
is not a fisi1, and so I am not envious.
By the way, being an eminent author is not so great a delight.
For one thing, it's a gloomy life. Work from morning to night,
and not much sense to it. . . . Money-as scarce as hen's teeth.
I don't know how things are with Zola and Schedrin,l but my
place is smoky and cold. I get cigarettes, as before, only on holi­
days. And impossible cigarettes! They are tough and damp, like
little sausages. Before smoking I turn up the lamp wick, dry the
cigarette over it and only then light it; while the lamp sputters
and reeks, the cigarette cracks and darkens, and I scorch my
fingers. . . . you feel that death might be a welcome release.
1 Schedrin was a famous satirist.
 To MARIA KISELEVA [r886]
Let me repeat, money is scarcer than poetic talent. My receipts
don't start coming in until the first of October and in the mean­
time I stand at the church doors and beg for alms. I work, ex­
pressing myself in Sergey's words, terr-rr-ibly hard-honest to
God cross my heart-very hard ! I'm writing a play for Korsh
(hm!) , a long story for "Russian Thought," tales for "New
Times," the "St. Petersburg Gazette," "Fragments," "The Alarm
Clock" and similar organs of the press. I write a great deal and
at great length, but I run around in circles, starting one thing
before I've finished another. . . . Since I've begun, I haven't
allowed my doctor's shingle to be put up, but just the same I've
got to continue my practice! Br-r-r!
I'm scared of typhus!
I am never quite well and little by little am turning into a
mummified insect. If I die before you, be so good as to give the
cupboard to my direct descendants, who will be putting their
dentures on its shelves.
I'm quite the rage now, but, judging from the critical glances
of the lady cashier in "The Alarm Clock" office, my clothes are
not of the latest cut and are not spotless. I don't travel by cab,
but on the trolley cars.
However, the writing business has its good points too. First,
according to the latest information, my book is not going badly;
second, I'll be getting some money in October; third, I am al­
ready beginning to reap some laurels: people point me out in
restaurants, pursue me j ust the least little bit and treat me to
sandwiches. Korsh nabbed me in his theatre and then and there
handed me a season pass. . . . Belousov, the tailor, bought my
book, is reading it aloud at home and prophesies a brilliant
future for me. ·when medical colleagues meet me they heave a
sigh, turn the conversation to literature and assure me that
medicine disgusts them, etc.
As to the question you put to my sister about my having
married: the reply is no, and I'm proud of it. I am above mar-
 To MARIA KISELEVA [r887]
riage! The widow Khludova2 has arrived in Moscow. Save me,
0 Seraphim of H eaven ! . . .
A few days ago I was at the Hermitage and ate oysters for the
first time. Not very good. If you were to omit the Chablis and
lemon, they'd be absolutely revolting. The end of this letter
is in sight. . . . . Another six or seven months and-spring!
Time to get the fishing tackle ready. Farewell, and believe the
hypocritical A. Ch. when he says he is devoted heart and soul
to your whole family.
I had barely finished this paragraph when the bell tinkled and
I beheld the genius Levitan. Cocky hat, clothing of a dandy, thin
as a rail. He went to see Aida twice, Rusalka once, ordered some
picture frames, almost sold some sketches. . . . Says life is nothing
but anguish and more anguish.
God knows what I would give to be in Babkino for a couple
of days, says he, probably forgetting how bored he was the last
few days there.
A. Chekhov

To MARIA KISELEVA
January r4, r887, Moscow
Dear Maria Vladimirovna,
Your "Larka" is very nice; it has some roughness, but its con­
ciseness and masculine style redeem it entirely. Since I don't
want to set myself up as sole judge of your literary child, I am
sending it to Suvorin, an extremely understanding person. I
will send you his opinion in due course. And now permit me to
dig into your criticism of me. Even your praise of my "On the
Road" has not appeased the wrath I feel as an author, and I
hasten to avenge myself for "Mire." Be careful and hold fast to
your chair so as not to fall into a faint. \Veil, here goes.
Every critical article, even an unjustifiably abusive one, is
customarily met with a silent nod-that is literary etiquette.
2 Khludova was a wealthy widow.
 To MARIA KISELEVA [r887]
Answering is not admissible and those who do so are properly
reproached for inordinate vanity. But since your criticism is, as
you said, a sort of "conversation in the evening at Babkino, on
the porch, or the terrace of the main house, with Ma-Pa,1 your
dog Counterfeiter and Levitan present." And because you pass
over the story's literary aspects and because you carry the ques­
tion onto general ground, I am therefore not sinning against
etiquette if I allow myself to continue our conversation.
Let me say first of all that I, even as you, do not like literature
of the kind we are discussing. As a reader and a man on the
street, I am inclined to shy away from it, but if you ask my
honest and sincere opinion, I will tell you that the question of
its right to exist is still a moot one and not decided by anyone.
Neither you, nor I, nor all the world's critics have any reliable
data on which to base their right to reject such literature. I do
not know who is right: Homer, Shakespeare, Lope de Vega, the
ancient classical writers generally, who were not afraid of bur­
rowing in the "manure pile," but who were morally better
balanced than we; or our contemporary writers, who are strait­
laced on paper but coldly cynical in their souls and lives. I
don't know who i t is that has bad taste: the Greeks maybe, who
were not ashamed to sing of love as it really exists in all the
beauty of nature, or the readers of Gaboriau, Marlitt and Pierre
Bobo.2 Like questions concerning non-resistance to evil, free
will and so on, this one can only be decided in the future. \Ve
can only make mention of it, but we can't settle it because it is
outside the limits of our sphere of competence. Quoting chapter
and verse from Turgenev and Tolstoy, who avoided the "ma­
nure pile," does not clarify this question. Their fastidiousness
does not demonstrate anything, for certainly even before their
time there was a generation of writers who considered as beneath
1 �la-Pa was a nickname of !\[aria Padovna, Chekhov's sister. He usually
called her l\lasha.
2 Gaboriau, French writer of crime stores; Marlitt, pen-name of a German
writer of popular novels; Bobo, nickname for Boborykin, Russian playwright and
novelist.

[ t8 ]
 T0 MARIA KISELEVA [I 8 87]
their notice not only "male and female scoundrels" but even
descriptions of peasants or officials lower in rank than the head
of a small department. Yes indeed, a single period, no matter
how fruitful, does not give us the right to draw a conclusion in
favor of one or another trend. Talk about the degenerating in­
fluence of that trend does not resolve the question either. Every­
thing in this world is relative and approximate. There are peo­
ple who can be corrupted even by children's literature, who
with particular pleasure skim through the Psalms and Proverbs
on the lookout for piquant passages; there are also some who,
the more they acquaint themselves with the sordidness of life,
become all the cleaner. Publicists, jurists and physicians, ab­
sorbed in all the secrets of human frailty, are not regarded as
immoral; and very often realistic writers are more moral than
highly placed ecclesiastics. Yes, and in the last analysis no sort
of literature can surpass real life in its cynicism; you cannot
intoxicate with one glassful a person who has already drunk
his way through a whole barrel.
2. I t is true that the world teems with "scoundrels-male
and female." Human nature is imperfect and it would there­
fore be strange to observe only the righteous in this world. Cer­
tainly, to believe that literature bears the responsibility for
digging up the "pearls" from the heap of muck would mean
rejecting literature itself. Literature is called artistic when it
depicts life as it actually is. Its aim is absolute and honest truth.
To constrict its function to such a specialty as digging for
"pearls" is as fatal for it as if you were to require Levitan to
draw a tree and ami t the dirty bark and yellowing foliage. I
agree that the "pearl" theory is a good thing, but surely a man
of letters is not a pastry cook, nor an expert on cosmetics, nor
an entertainer; he is a responsible person, under contract to his
conscience and the consciousness of his duty; being in for a
penny he has to be in for a pound, and no matter how distress­
ing he finds it, he is in duty bound to battle with his fastidious­
ness and soil his imagination with the grime of life. He is like
 To MARIA K ISELEVA [r887]
any ordinary reporter. What would you say if a reporter, out of a
feeling of squeamishness or from the desire to give pleasure to
his readers, would describe only honest city administrators,
high-minded matrons and virtuous railroad magnates?
To chemists there is nothing unclean in this world. A man of
letters should be as objective as a chemist; he has to renounce
ordinary subjectivity and realize that manure piles play a very
respectable role in a landscape and that evil passions are as in­
herent in life as good ones.
3· Literary men are the children of their age, and so like all
the rest of the lot must subordinate themselves to external con­
ditions of living together. They must be absolutely decent. That
is all we have the right to require from the realists. However,
you have nothing to say against the presentation and form of
"Mire." Accordingly, I must have been decent.
4· I confess that I rarely commune with my conscience when
I write. This can be explained by habit and the triviality of my
efforts. And that is why I don't take myself into consideration
when I express this or that opinion on literature.
5· You write: "Were I the editor, I would have returned the
article to you for your own good." Then why don't you go
further? Why don't you hold responsible the editors who print
such stories? Why not sternly take to task the Government Press
Administration for not banning immoral papers?
Sad would be the fate of literature (whether serious or trivial)
if it were delivered over to the mercy of personal views. That's
first. Second, there is no police body which could consider i tself
competent on matters of literature. I agree that one cannot get
along without restraint and the big stick, for sharpers will crawl
even into literature, but no matter how you try, you can devise
no better police for literature than criticism and the consciences
of the authors themselves. People have been trying to invent
some such thing since the creation of the world, but no one has
yet discovered anything better.
[ 20 ]
 To MARIA KISELEVA [r887]
Here you would wish me to suffer a loss of 1 1 5 rubles and
have the editor humiliate me. Others, among them your father,
are ecstatic over the story. Still others send Suvorin abusive
letters, slandering the paper, me, etc., in every possible way.
Who is right? Who is the real j udge?
6. Further you write, "Leave the writing of such stuff to poor­
spirited and unfortunate scribblers like . . . " May Allah forgive
you if you wrote those lines in earnest! A condescendingly
scornful tone toward little people merely because they are little
does no honor to the human heart. In literature the low ranks
are as indispensable as they are in the army--one's good sense
says so, and the heart should repeat it even more emphatically.
Ooof! I have been wearying you with my fiddle-faddle. If I
had known my criticism would have reached such length I
would not have started the letter. Please forgive! . . .
Have you read my "On the Road?" "\Veil, how do you like my
courage? I am writing of "intellectual" things and am un­
daunted. In St. Pete it produced a resounding furore. Somewhat
earlier I had treated of "non-resistance to evil" and had also
astounded the reading public. Compliments have been heaped
on me in the New Year's numbers of all the papers and in the
December number .of " Russian Wealth," which publishes Leo
Tolstoy, there is an article by Obolenski (32 pages) entitled
"Chekhov and Korolenko." The fellow is in raptures over me
and argues that I am more of an artist than Korolenko. He is
undoubtedly lying, but nevertheless I am beginning to feel that
I possess one distinction : I am the sole person not being printed
in the serious journals and writing journalistic trash who has
gained the attention of the lop-eared critics. This is the only
instance on record of such a case. The "Observer" scolded me
-and did they get it! At the end of 1 886 I felt like a bone that
had been thrown to the dog. . . .
I have written a play on four sheets of paper.3 It will run for
· 3 The play was Swan Song.
 To ALEXA!"DER CHEKHOV [r887]
1 5 or 20 minutes. The smallest drama in existence . . . . It is
being published in "The Season" and will therefore be avail­
able e\·erywhere. On the whole, little things are much better to
write than big ones: there is very little pretension and sure suc­
cess . . . what more does one need? I wrote my drama in an hour
and fi,·e minutes. I started another, but didn't finish, for I had
no time . . . .
Best regards to all. You will of course forgive me for writing
you such a long letter. My pen has run away with me . . . .
Devotedly and respectfully,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
February 3 or 4, r887, Moscow
My worthy friend,
Since you are a rentier and belong to the idle gilded youth of
St. Pete, I find it desirable to give you a bit of work. See here, I
need 20 (twenty) copies of Pushkin's works, Suvorin edition.
They are absolutely unobtainable in Moscow-the edition was
sold out in no time.
If you can intercede for me and buy the abovementioned
copies from your benefactor and protector (whom you should
respect, as you do me) , and send them via the conductor of the
express train (with a letter) , let me know at once and I'll send
the money. Do what you can, for the Pushkin is needed urgently.
You are not our oldest brother, but a rascal: why didn't you
restrain your younger brothers from taking such a shameful
step as subscribing to the "Sun"? I hope it gives you a good
burn!
I haven't seen Nikolai. You're the one who corresponds with
him, so please write and tell him to send or bring my new black
trousers.
[ 22 ]
 To DMITRI GRIGOROVICH [r887)
We are all well and send regards. Mother is dying to know
whether your Kokosha has begun to talk.
With greetings to all,
Your talented brother,
A. Chekhov

To DMITRI GRIGOROVICH
February r2, r887, Moscow
I have j ust read "Karelin's Dream" and am now seriously
concerned with the question as to what extent the dream you
portray is a dream. It seems to me, too, that the action of the
brain and the general feeling of a person asleep are rendered
with marvelous artistry and physiological fidelity. Of course, a
dream is a subjective phenomenon and its inner aspect can be
observed only in oneself, but since the process of dreaming is
the same for all people, i t seems to me that every reader must
measure Karelin by his own yardstick, and every critic must
of necessity be subjective. I am judging on the basis of my own
dreams, which are frequent.
To begin with, the feeling of cold you convey is wonderfully
subtle. ·when my blanket falls off at night, in my dreams I
begin seeing enormous slippery boulders, cold autumnal water,
bleak, barren shores-all this is vague, misty, without a patch
of blue in the sky; I am dejected and melancholy, as if I had
gone astray or been deserted, and I gaze upon the stones and feel
a sort of compulsion to cross a deep river; at this time I see little
rowboats pulling huge barges, floating logs, rafts and such. All
of this is endlessly grim, raw and depressing. Then as I run
from the shore, I encounter on my way the crumbling gates of a
cemetery, funeral processions, my high school teacher. . . . And
all this time I am utterly pervaded with that peculiar night­
marish cold which is impossible in reality and experienced only
by sleepers. This all comes to mind very distinctly when one
reads the first page of "Karelin," and particularly the top half
 To DMITRI GRIGOROVICH [z887]
of the fifth page, where you mention the cold and loneliness of
the grave.
I believe that if I had been born and brought up in St. Peters­
burg I would certainly dream of the banks of the Neva, Senate
Square and the massive masonry.
When I feel cold in my dream, I always see people. I hap­
pened to read the critic in the "St. Petersburg Reports," who
scolds you for having portrayed a would-be cabinet officer, thus
impairing the generally elevated tone of the story. I do not
agree. It is not the people who spoil the tone, but the way you
characterize them, which interrupts the picture of sleep in some
places. The people one meets in dreams are bound to be un­
pleasant. During the sensation of cold, for example, I always
dream of the good-looking and learned ecclesiastic who in­
sulted my mother when I was a little boy; I dream of evil, per­
sistently intriguing, maliciously smiling, vulgar people whom
one never sees in one's waking hours. Laughter at the windows
of a railway coach is a characteristic symptom of a Karelin night­
mare. \Vhen you feel the pressure of an evil will during your
dream and the inevitable ruin caused by some power over whom
you have no control, there is always something like this kind of
laughter. . . . I also dream of those I love, but usually they are
suffering along with me.
\Vhen my body gets accustomed to the cold, or when some­
one in the family covers me up, the sensation of cold, loneliness
and oppressive evil gradually vanishes. Along with the warmth
I begin to feel as though I were treading on soft carpets or on
green grass, I see the sun, women and children. The pictures
change continually, more sharply than in real life, though, so
that when I wake up it is hard to recollect the shifting from one
picture to another. . . . This brusqueness comes through very
well in your story and strengthens the impression of dreaming.
A natural phenomenon you have noted is also thrust force­
fully before one's eyes: dreamers express their spiritual moods
impulsively, in acute form, child-fashion. How true to life this
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I887]
is! People dreaming weep and cry out oftener than they do
when they are awake.
I ask your pardon, Dmitri Vasilyevich, but I liked your story
so much that I was prepared to run along for a dozen pages,
although I am perfectly aware that I cannot tell you anything
new, valuable or to the point. For fear of boring you and talk­
ing nonsense I am restraining myself and cutting my words
short. Let me only say that I think your story is magnificent.
The reading public finds it "misty," but for the writing man,
who savors every line, such mists are more limpid than holy
water. Despite all my efforts I could detect only two spotty
places, both unimportant, and even these by dint of straining
the interpretation : ( 1 ) the descriptions of the characters break
up the picture of sleep and give the impression of explanatory
notes of the sort which learned horticulturists tack on to trees
in gardens, thus spoiling the landscape; ( 2 ) at the beginning of
the story the feeling of cold is somewhat blunted for the reader
and becomes monotonous through frequent repetition of the
word "cold."
I can find nothing more, and acknowledge that when I feel an
urgent need for refreshing little images in my literary work,
" Karelin's Dream" provides a glittering example. That is why
I could not restrain myself and had the temerity of imparting
some of my impressions and thoughts to you.
Forgive the length of this letter and please accept the sincere
good wishes of your devoted
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
April 7-I9, I88J, Taganrog.
Gentle readers and devout listeners,
I am continuing with some trepidation, observing chrono­
logical order.
2nd of A pril. Traveling from Moscow to Serpukhov was
[ 25 ]
 To MARlA CHEKHOVA [r887]
dull. . . . I arrived in Serpukhov at seven. The Oka is nice and
clean . . . .
At eleven I arrived in Tula, that pearl of cities . . . . In Tula
schnapps-trinken, a mild bun, and schlafen. I slept twisted into
a pretzel . . . with my boot tops next to my nose. Nice
weather. . ..

At twelve o'clock, Kursk. There was an hour's wait, a glass

of vodka, a wash in the gent's room and some cabbage soup.
Change of trains. The coach is full to bursting. Immediately
after Kursk I strike up acquaintances: a Kharkov country
gentleman, playful, like Yasha K[orneyev], a lady who was
operated on in St. Petersburg, a Tomsk police officer, a Little
Russian officer and a general wearing the insignia of a provost
marshal. \Ve settle social problems. The general thinks in a
sane, terse and liberal manner; the police officer is a type of old,
hard-drinking hussar sinner, homesick for his sweethearts-he
puts on airs like a governor: before uttering a word, he keep his
mouth open for a long time, and having pronounced the word
he gives a long whine like a dog: e-e-e-e. The lady injects her­
self with morphine and sends the men out for ice at every
station . . . .
Little burial mounds, water towers, buildings, all familiar
and memorable. At the lunch counter a plate of unsually deli­
cious and luscious sorrel soup. Then a stroll along the platform.
Young ladies. At the last window of the second storey of the
station building sits a young lady (or a young matron, for all I
know) in a white blouse, languid and lovely. I look at her, she
at me. I put on my glasses, she hers. . . 0 wondrous vision! I
.

contracted catarrh of the heart and travelled on. The weather is

diabolically, shockingly fine. Little Russians, oxen, kites, white
cottages, the southern rivulets, branch lines of the Donets rail­
road with one telegraph wire, daughters of country gentlemen
and lease-holders, rust-colored dogs, greenery-all this flashes by
like a vision . . . . Hot. The inspector becomes wearisome. The
meat patties and pirojki are only half disposed of and are begin-
[ 26 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r88J]
ning to acquire a slight sour odor. I thrust them under some­
body else's seat with the remainder of the vodka.
Five o'clock. The sea is in sight. There it is, the Rostov line,
twisting beautifully; there is the jail, the poorhouse, the country
boys, the freight cars . . . . Belov's hotel, St. Michael's Church
with its clumsy architecture. . . . I am in Taganrog. I am
"meeted" by Yegorushka,1 a mighty young lad, dressed to kill:
a hat, gloves costing one ruble fifty, a cane and all the rest. I
don't recognize him, but he recognizes me. He hires a carriage
and off we go. An impression as of Herculaneum and Pompeii:
no people, but instead of mummies, sleepy local yokels and
pumpkinheads. . . . \Ve finally reach the house.
Why, it's-it's-Antoshichka!
Da-a-rr-rr-11-ing!
Next to the house is a bench resembling the box that toilet
soap comes in. The porch is in the last stages of decay. Of the
front door only one quality has remained-an exemplary clean­
liness. Uncle is just as he was, but has grayed considerably. As
always he is kind, mild and sincere. Ludmila Pavlovna is so "aw­
ful glad" she plumb forgot to sprinkle the expensive tea into the
pot and generally finds she has to make excuses and prattle
when there is no need. She looks me over suspiciously: am I
passing j udgment? But still she is happy to make me welcome
and at home. Yegorushka is a good lad and very proper accord­
ing to Taganrog standards. He acts the dandy and likes to look
at himself in the mirror. Bought himself a lady's gold watch for
twenty-five rubles and goes out with nice young girls. . . .
Vladimirchik2 • is gentle and reserved, and is evidently a fine
• •

type of lad. He is preparing himself for the church, is entering

a theological school and aspires to the career of metropolitan .
. . . Sasha is unchanged. And Lelia is hardly distinguishable
from Sasha. \Vhat is immediately apparent is the unusual gentle­
ness of the children toward their parents and in their relations
1 Yegorushka was Chekhov's cousin.

2 Vlauimirchik, Sasha, Lelia were young cousins.

 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I887]
with one another. . . . The rooms themselves are as they always
have been: very bad prints and Coates and Clarke's posters
tacked up everywhere. There is as little taste in their glaring
pretensions to luxury and refinement as there is daintiness in a
muddy boot. Crowding, heat, insufficient table space, and a lack
of all conveniences. Irina, Volodya and Lelia sleep in one room;
Uncle, Ludmila Pavlovna and Sasha in another. Yegor sleeps
on a trunk in the vestibule; they probably don't have supper
on purpose for fear that the extra heat might blow up the house.
Hot air emanates both from the kitchen and from the stoves,
which are still heated despite the warm weather. The toilet is
miles off, beside a fence, and since occasionally rascally prank­
sters lurk thereabouts, going at night is more dangerous to life
and limb than taking poison. There are no tables, if you do not
count card tables and little round ones set up merely as orna­
ments. There aren't any cuspidors, nor a decent washbasin. The
napkins are gray, Irinushka is flabby and slovenly . . . in a word,
it's enough to drive a man wild! I don't like Taganrog manners,
can't bear them, and, I think, would run to the ends of the
earth to avoid them.
Selivanov's house is empty and deserted. Looking at it de­
presses me and I wouldn't have it at any price. How could we
have lived in it, I wonder? . . .
At night I am home again. Uncle arrays himself in the uni­
form he wears as a church beadle. I help him put on his big
medal, which he had never once worn previously. Laughter. 'Ve
walk to St. Michael's. It is dark and there are no cabs. Walking
along the streets you catch glimpses of the local yokels and dock­
workers, roaming from church to church. Many people carry
lanterns. Mitrofan's church is illuminated very effectively, with
crosses from top to bottom. Loboda's home with its brightly lit
windows stands out sharply in the shadows.
'Ve reach the church. Gray, ordinary and drab. Little candles
stuck in the windows are the extent of the display of illumina­
tions. The avuncular countenance is lit with a most beatific
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (r887]
smile-which takes the place of electric lighting. The church
decorations are nothing to go wild about, and remind one of
the Voskresensk church. \Ve sell candles. Yegor, as a dandy and
liberal, does not do so, but stands to one side and regards every­
one with an indifferent eye. But Vladimirchik feels in his
element.
The procession of the cross. Two foolish individuals walk
ahead, waving fiery torches, which reek and sprinkle the cele­
brants with sparks. The congregation is pleased. In the vestibule
of the temple stand the founders, benefactors and worshippers
of the said edifice, with uncle at their head, and with icons in
their hands await the return of the procession. Vladimirchik
sits on top of the wardrobe where the vestments are kept,
sprinkling incense into the brazier. There is so much smoke you
can scarcely breathe. But now the priests and icon bearers enter.
The moment of triumphant silence is at hand. All glances are
turned toward Father Vasili.
"Pappy, shall I sprinkle in some more?" suddenly pipes
Vladimirchik from aloft.
Matins begin. I pick up Yegor and we go to the cathedral
together. There are no cabs and so we are obliged to go on foot.
In the cathedral all is seemly, decorous and exultant. The choir
is magnificent. The voices are glorious, though the discipline is
good for nothing. . . .
We walk home from the cathedral. My legs ache and are
numb. \Ve break our fast in Irinusha's room : excellent Easter
cake [kulich ], abominable salami, gray napkins, closeness and
the smell of children's clothing. Uncle is breaking his at Father
Vassily's. After eating my fill and drinking some of our good
local wine, I lie down and fall asleep to the sound of the "blah­
blah-blah" of the women.
In the morning the invasion of priests and singers gets under
way. I go to the Agalis'. Paulina Ivanovna is in a happy mood.
Lipochka didn't come near me because her jealous husband
won't let her. N ikolai Agali is a healthy idiot who is forever
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I887]
taking exams, doesn't pass them and hopes to attend Zurich
University. Stupid. From the Agalis' I went to Mme. Savelyev's
on Kon torskaya St., where she lives in the creaking wing of a
decrepit house. In two tiny rooms are two virginal couches and
a cradle . . . . Eugenia Jasonovna is living apart from her hus­
band. She has two children and has become terribly ugly and
like a bag of bones. From all appearances she is unhappy. Her
Mitya is in the service in a Cossack village somewhere in the
Caucasus and lives a bachelor's life. An unmitigated swine . . . .
Threading my way through the New Bazaar, I become aware
of how dirty, drab, empty, lazy and illiterate is Taganrog. There
isn't a single grammatical signboard and there is even a " Rushian
Inn"; the streets are deserted; the dumb faces of the dock­
workers are smugly satisfied; the dandies are arrayed in long
overcoats and caps. Novostroyenka is decked out in olive-colored
dresses; cavaliers, young ]eddies, peeling plaster, universal lazi­
ness, satisfaction with a futile present and an uncertain future
-all this thrust before the eyes is so disheartening that even
Moscow with its grime and typhus seems attractive . . . .
"I say, old man, how about coming over to my place?" asks
one of the local clowns who pops in on me. "I always read your
weekly articles. My old man is quite a type! Co111 e on and look
him over. I bet you forgot I'm married ! I've got a little girl now.
Ye gods, how you've changed! " and so on.
After dinner (soup with hard rice and chicken) I go over to
Khodakovski's. Mr. K. doesn't live badly at all, although not on
the luxurious scale he used to maintain when we knew him.
His fair Manya is a fat, well-cooked Polish lump of flesh, agree­
able in profile but unpleasant in full face. Bags under the eyes
and intensified activity of the sebaceous glands. Obviously up to
tricks. Later I learned that this past season she all but ran off
with an actor and even sold her rings, earrings and so on. Of
course, this is all being told you in confidence. I would say it's
the fashion here in Taganrog to run off with actors. Many are
they who find their wives and daughters missing. . . .
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r887]
On my way home from Laboda's I meet Mme. Savelyeva and
her daughter. The daughter takes right after her daddy; giggles
a lot and is already a good talker. When I helped her put on an
overshoe which had fallen off, as a token of gratitude she looked
at me languidly and said, "Do come and spend the night with
us."
At home I found Father John Yakimovski, an obese, over­
stuffed priest who graciously deigned to interest himself in my
medical career and, to Uncle's great satisfaction, condescend­
ingly expressed himself, "It's very nice for parents to have such
good children."
A reverend deacon who was present also deigned to interest
himself in me and said that their choir at St. Michael's (a
rabble of hungry jackals headed by a hard-drinking choir­
master) was considered the best in town. I agreed with him,
although I knew that Father John and the deacon don't under­
stand a damned thing about singing. A little country deacon
sat at a respectable distance and cast longing glances at the
preserves and wine with which the priest and reverend deacon
were regaling themselves. . . .
I sleep on a couch in the living room. The couch has not
grown any bigger, is still as short as it used to be, and so, getting
into bed, I had to poke my feet indecently into the air or put
them down on the floor. It brings to mind Procrustes and his
bed. I cover myself with a pink quilt, stiff and stuffy, which be­
comes intolerably obnoxious at night when the stoves lit by
Irina make their presence felt. A Yakov Andreyevich3 is a fond
but unattainable dream. Only two persons permit themselves
this luxury in Taganrog: the mayor and Alferaki. All the rest
must either pee in bed or take a trip to God's outdoors.
6th of April. I awaken at 5 A.M. The sky is clouded, and a
cold, disagreeable wind, reminiscent of Moscow, is blowing. I
am weary. I wait for the cathedral chimes and go to late mass.
It is lovely, dignified and thrilling in the cathedral. The choir
3 Chekhov's name for a chamber pot.
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I887]
sings well, not like tradespeople and Philistines, while the
listeners consist wholly of young ladies in olive dresses and
chocolate jackets. There are many pretty ones, so many that I
am sorry I am not l\lishka, who needs pretty faces so badly. The
majority of the local girls are well built, have splendid profiles
and are not averse to making a little amour. Of cavaliers there
are none, if you don't take into account the Greek brokers and
shady local sparks, and for that reason officers and male new­
comers here live in clover.
From the cathedral to Yeremeyev's. I find his wife at home, a
very nice little lady. Yeremeyev has set himself up not half bad,
in Moscow style, and looking at his huge apartment, I cannot
believe Alexander's statement that it is not possible to live
decently in Taganrog. A flock of visitors, including all the local
aristocrats-insignificant, cheap little people, amongst whom,
however, one can make a tolerable selection . . . . At 3 o'clock
Yeremeyev comes home, drunk as a lord. He is ecstatic over my
arrival, and swears eternal friendship; I was never on very good
terms with him but he swears he has only two true friends in
the world: Korobov and me. ·we sit down to eat and split a
bottle. A very decent dinner: good soup without hard rice, and
broilers. Despite the cold wind we visit Quarantine after dinner.
There are many summer cottages in this section, cheap and
comfortable; they can be rented for next year, but I am taken
aback by the abundance of places: wherever you have so many
of them, you are bound to have lots of people and noise. . . .
Many people advise me to drive out five miles from Taganrog to
Meeus, where there are more summer cottages. I'll write you
if I do . . . .
7th, 8th, 9th and wth of April. The most boring days pos­
sible, cold and overcast. I "have to go" continually every day.
I run outside day and night. The nights are pure torture: pitch
darkness, wind, hard-to-open, creaking doors, groping through
dark yards, a suspicious quietness, no newspaper in the toilet.
. . . Every night I am constrained to swear at myself for volun-
[ 32 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r88J]
tarily accepting torture, for having left Moscow for the land of
. . . pitch darkness, and toilets next to fences. The constant feel­
ing of uncomfortable camping out, accompanied by the ceaseless
"blah-blah-blah," "you don't eat much, you should eat more,"
"but you forgot to use the good tea . . . " Only one consolation :
Yeremeyev and his wife and their comfortable apartment. Fate
has had mercy on me: I haven't run into Anisim Vasilich and
not once yet have I been forced to talk politics. I£ I meet him
I 'll pop a bullet through my head.
I've "got to go" and so I rarely leave the house. It isn't pos­
sible to leave here right now, for it's coldish, and anyway I
would like to have a look at the procession through the ceme­
tery. The 1 gth and 2oth I shall be having a big time as best
man at a wedding in N ovocherkassk, while before and after
those dates I 'll be at Kravtsov's, where the daily discomforts are
a thousand times more comfortable than the Taganrog com­
forts.
rrth of A pril. A drunken party at Yeremeyev's, then a trip
in gay company to the cemetery and Quarantine . . . .
I have been making the acquaintance of young girls every day,
i.e., the young girls visit Yeremeyev's to have a look at what kind
of bird this writer Chekhov is. Most o£ them are not bad-look­
ing or stupid, but I am indifferent, for I have intestinal catarrh,
which stifles all tender emotions . . . .
Father Pavel is as always the somewhat soiled dandy and
never will say die; he informs on everyone, swears and finds
fault. . . .
Pokrovski is an archdeacon. He is cock of the roost on his
own dungheap. Comports himself like a bishop. His mamma
cheats at cards and doesn't pay up when she loses.
r4th of A pril. Alas! the bitter cup has not passed me by:
yesterday that small potato, the asinine police officer Anisim
Vasilich stopped in. He spoke with a strong local accent, but as
loudly and shrilly as hundreds of local yokels together are not
in a condition to do.
[ 33 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r887]
"Wa-al, for the Lord's sake, I been telling your friend here
where I live, so why ain't ya dropped in to see me? My little
boy Firs, he's been sailin' all over the ocean. Has that brother
Nikolai of yours finished that picture of his? He been showing
them at these here exhibitions, ain't he?"
He told us that the police chief had made him give his word
of honor that he wouldn't scribble for the newspapers, that the
head of the entire police department had promised to send him
beyond the Urals in twenty-four hours if he dared write even
one line, etc. Further he discoursed on the weather, Socialists,
Italy, immorality, marmots, spoke ceaselessly, with modulations
and interjections and so loud that I almost had a fit, and I
edged him out into the yard. He sat there until evening: to get
rid of him I went to the park, and he after me; from the park
I dashed to Yeremeyev's-he following. I didn't find Yeremeyev
in, so I went home with the police scum in tow, etc. He prom­
ised to call for me today and accompany me to the cemetery . . . .
My intestinal catarrh continues to carry me from the room to
the grassy spot and back again. l\Iy head cold is gone and in its
place a new ailment has put in its appearance-phlebitis of the
left shin. Three or four inches of the vein are as hard as a slate
pencil, and it aches. My infirmities are endless! In me is being
fulfilled what was written in Holy Scripture, that in sorrow
thou shalt bring forth children. But my children are not Yegor,
nor Vladimirchik, but tales and stories, which I cannot even
think about now. \Vriting is repugnant to me.
Two of my stories are appearing in the "Petersburg Gazette,"
i.e., 65-70 rubles' worth. Sometime this April I 'll be sending
another, so you'll be receiving 1 00 rubles from the "Petersburg
Gazette." As for "New Times," I can't tell you anything yet.
Father Vasili is dangerously ill. . . .
Laboda's business is very slow; Uncle's sales amount to a few
kopeks apiece, and e\·en those don't come easily. The choristers
and church workers who get their wages from him are under
some sort of obligation to buy merchandise in his shop . . . .
[ 34 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r887 )
On Tuesday I was at the cemetery procession. This procession
is so original that it merits a special description and for that
reason I won't describe it now but put it off for another time.
On Wednesday I should have been on my way but the phlebitis
in my leg prevented my leaving. From Wednesday to Saturday
I gadded about in the park, the club, and with the young ladies.
Regardless of the tedium and boredom of life in Taganrog, it
absorbs one remarkably and is not hard to get used to. During
all the time I spent in Taganrog I could praise only the follow­
ing: the wonderfully delicious ring rolls at the market, the
local wine, fresh caviar, the excellent cabmen and Uncle's genu­
ine hospitality. All the rest is inferior and unenviable. The
local girls, true, are not bad-looking, but you have to get used
to them. They are awkward in their movements, frivolous in
their relations with men, run away from home with actors,
giggle loudly, are oversexed, whistle like men, drink wine, and
so on. Amongst them there are even cynics, like the fair-haired
Manya Khodakovskaya. This individual makes fun not only of
the living but of the dead as well. When I took her for a stroll
in the cemetery she kept on laughing at the dead and their
epitaphs, at the priests, deacons, etc.
What I detest about Taganrog is the way they keep their
shutters closed. However, in the morning, when the shutters
are opened and the sunlight bursts into the room, one's soul
becomes joyful again.
On Saturday I traveled further. At Morskaya Station the air
was wonderful and the very best caviar seventy kopeks a pound.
In Rostov there was a two hours' wait; in Novocherkassk twenty
hours to wait. I spent the night with an acquaintance. Come to
think of it, I've spent nights in every damned place imaginable :
on beds with bedbugs, on sofas, on couches, on trunks . . . . Last
night I slept in a long and narrow room on a divan under a
mirror . . . . I am now in Novocherkassk. I have just lunched:
caviar, butter, divine "Chimpagne" and luscious meat cro­
quettes with scallions.
[ 35 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r887]
The young lady for whom I am being best man has postponed
her wedding until Friday. On Thursday I have to be in Novo­
cherkassk again, and today at four I am on my way . . . . In the
meantime, goodbye.
A. Ch.
I'm off tomorrow morning.

To l\IARIA CHEKHOVA
April 25, r887, Cherkassk
. . . Yesterday and the day before that the wedding took place,
a real Cossack affair, with music, old women bleating like goats
and scandalous carousing. One gets such a mass of diverse im­
pressions that it is impossible to give them to you in a letter, so
I will put off any descriptions until I get back to Moscow. The
bride is sixteen. The couple got married in the local cathedral.
I was best man in somebody else's frock coat, with the very
widest of trousers and without studs. Such a best man would be
a laughing stock in Moscow, but out here I made more of an
impression than anybody.
I saw lots of rich prospective brides. An enormous choice, but
I was so drunk all the time that I took bottles for girls, and girls
for bottles. Owing to my drunken condition, probably, the local
girls found I was witty and "sarcastical." The girls here are
absolute sheep: if one gets up to leave a room, the others follow
after. The boldest and "smartest" of them, who wanted to show
that she was not unaware of subtle niceties of behavior and the
social graces, kept tapping me on the arm with her fan and say­
ing, "You bad boy!" though she kept on darting timid glances
at me all the time. I taught her to repeat to the local cavaliers,
"How naive you are ! " [with a Ukrainian accent].
The bridal pair, probably because of the force of local custom,
kept exchanging resounding kisses every minute, their lips
producing a minor explosion each time, as the air compressed;
my own mouth acquired a taste as of oversweet raisins, and a
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I88J]
spasm afflicted my left calf. My phlebitis in the left leg got
worse what with all the kissing.
I cannot tell you how much fresh caviar I ate and how much
liquor I drank. I don't know what kept me from bursting wide
open . . . .
My intestinal catarrh left me the moment I left Uncle's. Evi­
dently the odor of sanctity has a weakening effect on my in­
sides.
Yesterday I sent the "Petersburg Gazette" a story. If you have
no money by the fifteenth of May, you can get my fee from
them without waiting until the end of the month by sending
a bill for the two stories. It's dreadfully hard for me to write .
. . . I have many themes in mind for "New Times" but the
heat is such that even letter writing is a chore.
My money is coming to an end, and I have to live like a pimp.
Wherever I go I live on other people's money and am begin­
ning to resemble a Nizhni-Novgorod swindler who retains his
sleekness even while sponging on others . . . .
Goodbye. I hope you're all well.
The cherry and apricot trees are in bloom.
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
May II, I88J, Taganrog
. . . It is a superb morning. Because of the holiday (6th of
May) the cathedral bells are pealing. I meet people on their way
from mass, and see police officers, j ustices of the peace, military
men and other ranks of the heavenly hierarchy issuing from the
church. For two kopeks I buy some sunflower seeds and for six
rubles hire a rubber-tired carriage to take me to Holy Mts. and
back ( 2 days later). I leave town through some lanes literally
submerged in the green of cherry, apricot and apple trees. The
birds sing indefatigably. The passing Ukrainians, probably tak­
ing me for Turgenev, doff their caps; my coachman, Grigori
[ 37 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [1887]
Polenichka, keeps jumping down from his seat to adj ust the
harness or flick the whip at the little boys running behind us .

. . . A file of pilgrims stretches along the road. The mountains

and hills are pale in color, and the horizon a bluish white; the
rye stands high, oak forests nit past-and the only things lacking
are crocodiles and rattlesnakes.
I reach Holy Mts. at twelve. The place is unique and re­
markably beautiful; the monastery lies on the bank of the
Donets River, at the foot of an enormous white rock on which,
huddled together and suspended one above another are gardens,
oaks and century-old pines. It is as if the trees cannot find
enough room on the cliff and some power thrusts them higher
and higher. The pines literally hang in the air and look as
though they will topple over. The cuckoos and nightingales
never hush night or day.
The monks, extremely agreeable people, gave me an ex­
tremely disagreeable room with a mattress as flat as a pancake.
I spent two nights there and came away with a mass of impres­
sions. During my sojourn, because of St. Nicholas Day, about
fifteen thousand pilgrims thronged there, of whom nine-tenths
were old women. If I had known there were so many old ladies
in the world I would have shot myself a long time ago. Con­
cerning the monks and my contact with them, the medical
treatment I gave them and the old ladies, I will inform you in
the pages of "New Times," and when we meet. The services are
never-ending: at twelve midnight the bells ring for matins, at
five A . M . for early mass, at nine for late mass, at three for the
song of praise, at five for vespers, at six for canons. Before each
service the pealing of bells may be heard in the corridors, and
a scurrying monk exclaims in the voice of a creditor begging
his debtor to pay him at least a measly five kopeks on the ruble:
"Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us! Time for matins!"
Remaining in one's room is awkward, so you get up and go
out. I found a favored haunt on the banks of the Donets and
sat out all the services there.
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [ r887]
I bought Aunty Feodosia Yakovlevna an icon.
The monastic food was offered free to all the 1 5,ooo: soup
with dried fish and thin gruel. Both dishes, as well as the rye
bread, were delicious.
The chimes are wonderful. The choir is bad. I took part in
the procession of the cross on boats.
I am cutting short my description of Holy Mts. as it can't
all be put down at one time, and only makes a hash.
On the return journey there was a six-hour wait at the station.
I felt dejected. I saw Sozia Khodakovskaya in one of the coaches;
she daubs and paints herself all the colors of the rainbow and
looks like a mangy alley-cat.
Then followed a whole night in the third-class coach of an
odious, broken-down, dragging freight and passenger train. I
was all in.
Now I am in Taganrog. Once again "blah-blah-blah . . . "
is with me, again the exiguous couch, Coates' pictures, the stink­
ing water in the washbasin. . . .
A sign on the main street proclaims: "Artesia! fruit sodas
sold." In other words, the dunce had heard the word "arti­
ficial" but hadn't heard it right and so put it down as "artesia!."

I get a nauseous feeling when I write. I have no money and

if I didn't have the faculty of living off other people I don't
know what I 'd do.
You can smell the acacias. Ludmila Pavlovna has gotten
stout and resembles [. ] very much. No intelligence can fathom
. .

the profundities of her intellect. When I listen to her, I am

lost in wonder before the inscrutable fates which sometimes
create such rare pearls.
Incomprehensible creation ! I haven't yet forgotten my
anatomy, but contemplating her skull I begin to disbelieve in
the existence of the substance termed brain.
Uncle is delightful and just about the best of anyone in town.
A. Chekhov
[ 39 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [r887]
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
November 20, r887, Moscow
'Veil, the first night1 is over. . . . I'll describe everything in
order. To start with, Korsh promised ten rehearsals and gave
me only four, and of those only two could properly be called
rehearsals, since the other two were in the nature of tourna­
ments where the lady and gentlemen actors practiced the art of
controversy and abuse. Only Davidov and Glama knew their
parts, while the rest followed the prompter and their inner con­
victions.
A ct O ne. I sit behind the scenes in a little box resembling a
police cell. The family is in an upper tier box and on edge.
Contrary to expectations I myself am cool and feel no agitation.
The actors are atremble, tense, and cross themselves. Curtain.
Enter the benefit performer. Lack of assurance, the way he for­
gets his lines and the wreath brought in and presented to him
combine to make the play unrecognizable to me from the very
first words. Kiselevski, on whom I had placed great hopes, did
not pronounce one phrase as he should have. Literally: n ot one.
He just spoke his own lines. Despite this and the stage man­
ager's blunders the first act went off successfully. Lots of curtain
calls.
A ct Two. A mass of people on the stage. Guests. They don't
know their lines, mix everything up, and talk nonsense. Every
word cuts like a knife thrust in the back. llut--oh l\I use!-This
act was also a success. Everybody was called out, me too, twice.
General congratulations all around.
A ct Three. Not badly done. Enormous success. I am called
before the curtain three times, with Davidov shaking my hand
and Glama, in the style of Manilov, pressing my other hand to
her heart. A triumph of talent and virtue.
A ct Four. Scene One. Doesn't go badly. Curtain calls. Next
a very, very long, wearisome intermission. The audience, which
is unaccustomed to getting up and going to the refreshment bar
1 The first night of Ivanov.
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [r887]
between scenes, mutters. The curtain rises. Beautiful : in the
archway, a supper table (the wedding) . The orchestra plays
flourishes. Out come the best men : they are drunk, and so, you
see, they have to clown and kick up their heels. The side show
and tavern atmosphere fills me with horror. At this point Kisel­
evski enters: this is a poetic interlude which grips the soul, but
my Kiselevski does not know his part, is drunk as a sailor and
something distressing and odious happens to the short, poetic
dialogue. The audience is bewildered. At the end the hero dies
because he cannot endure the insult hurled at him. The cooling
and exhausted audience cannot make head or tail out of this
death (which the actors had wrested out of me; I have another
version). The actors and I are called before the curtain. During
one of the curtain calls frank hissing can be heard, stifled in
applause and the stamping of feet.
On the whole, I feel a sense of weariness and irritation. Dis­
gusting, although the play had a solid success (denied by Kiche­
yev and Co.2 ).
The theatre people say they have never seen such turmoil,
such general applause and hissing, and never had they ever had
occasion to l isten to such hot words as they heard that night.
And there had never before been an occasion at Karsh's when
the author had been called before the curtain after the second
act.
The second performance is on the twenty-third, with the
other version and with changes: I am taking out a couple of the
actors in the wedding scene.
Details when we meet.
Your
A. Chekhov
Tell Burenin that after the play I snapped right back into my
routine and sat myself down to my weekly piece.

2 Kicheyev was the critic on a Moscow newspaper who denounced the play
as "coldly cynical," "profoundly immoral," etc.
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV (I887]
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
November 24, I887, Moscow
Well, dearest Gooseyev,
The dust has finally settled, and the clouds dispersed, and
once again I sit at my desk composing stories with my mind at
ease. You cannot imagine what went on! Heaven only knows
what meaning they read into my poor little trashy play1 (I sent
one print to Maslov). I already wrote you that the first perform­
ance stirred up such excitement in the audience and behind the
scenes as the prompter, who has worked in the theatre for
thirty-two years, had never before witnessed. They shouted,
raised Cain, clapped and hissed: in the refreshment bar they
almost came to blows, while in the gallery the students wanted
to chuck out somebody and the police escorted two people to
the street. The place was in an uproar. Sister was on the verge
of fainting. Dyukovski, who got palpitations of the heart, ran
out of the theatre, while Kiselev for no good reason clutched his
head in his hands and cried out in all sincerity, "Now what am
I going to do?"
The actors were nel\lously tense. Everything I have written
to you and Maslov about their playing and their attitude to­
ward their parts should of course go no further than my letters.
A great deal may be explained and excused. It seems that the
little daughter of the actress who played the lead was close to
death-what could acting mean to her?
The day after the performance Pyotr Kicheyev's review in the
"Moscow News" called my play brashly cynical, immoral trash.
It was praised in "Moscow Reports."
The second performance came off not too badly, although
with surprises. Instead of the actress with the sick daughter,
another one went on (without rehearsal). Again there were
curtain calls after the third act (n\lice) and the fourth, but this
time without the hissing.
There you have it. My "Ivanov" is on again on \Vednesday.
1 Ivanov.
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV (I887]
Now everything has calmed down and is back to normal. \Ve
have marked the nineteenth of November with a red letter and
will celebrate it every year with a spree, for the said day will
certainly be memorable to the family.
More I won't write about the play. If you want to have some
understanding of i t, ask Maslov to let you read his copy. A
reading won't throw any light on the commotion I 've described;
you won't find anything in particular. Nikolai, Schechtel and
Levitan, i.e., artists-assure me that on the stage the play is so
original as to make it strange to look upon. In reading it,
though, you won't notice anything of the sort.
See here, if anybody on "New Times" wants to scold the actors
who took part in the play, do ask them to refrain from censure.
At the second performance they were splendid.
\Veil, sir, I'll be off to St. Pete in a few days. I 'll try to make
it by the first of December. In any case we'll celebrate the birth­
day of your eldest together. \Varn him there will be no cake.
Congratulations on your promotion. If you are indeed the
secretary, insert a notice that " 'Ivanov' was given a second per­
formance on November 23 at the Karsh Theatre. The actors,
especially Davidov, Kiselevski, Gradov-Sokolov and Kosheva,
had to take numerous curtain calls. The author was called out
after the third and fourth acts." Something like that. If you put
this note in they'll give my play an extra performance and I 'll
get an extra 50 or 100 rubles. If you find it inexpedient to
insert a notice of that kind, don't do so.
·what's wrong with Anna lvanovna? Allah Keriml The St.
Petersburg climate is not for her.
I received the 4 0 rubles-thanks.
Have I wearied you? It seems to me I acted like a psychopath
during all of November. . . .
Keep well and forgive my psychopathy. I won't do it again.
Today I am normal. .
Yours,
Schiller Shakespearovich Goethe
[ 43 ]
 To ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV ( I888]
To ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV
February 91 I8881 Moscow
. . . In return for your promise to print "The Steppe" in its
entirety and to send me your magazine, I am replying with an
offer to treat you to some of the very finest Don wine when we
take our trip on the Volga next summer. Unfortunately Koro­
lenko is no drinker; and on such a journey, when the moon
gleams and the crocodiles gaze forth at you from the water,
not knowing how to drink is as uncomfortable as not being able
to read. \Vine and music have always served me as a most effi­
cient corkscrew. ·when, during my travels, I have felt stopped
up, in the head or in the heart, one little glass of wine would
be enough to send me soaring aloft, a free soul.
So Korolenko will be with me tomorrow; he is a good soul.
It's a pity the censor hacked at his "Along the Way." An artistic
but obviously bald thing (not the censor, but "Along the Way").
But why did he send it to a censored magazine? Secondly, why
did he entitle it a Christmas story?
I must get busy at once with some minor work, but am itch­
ing to undertake something big again. If you only knew what a
subject for a novel I've got in my noodle! What marvelous
women! What funerals, and what weddings! If I had the money
I'd be off for the Crimea, sit myself under a cypress and write
a novel in one or two months. I have 4 8 pages done already,
imagine ! However, I'm lying: if I had any money, I would em­
bark upon such a mad whirl that all my novels would be shot
to hell.
After writing the first part of this novel, if you allow me I will
send it to you for reading, but not to the "Northern Herald,"
as it won't do for a publication which is subject to censorship.
I am insatiable. I love crowds of people in my productions, and
for that reason my novel will be a long one. Besides, I love the
people I portray and find them attractive, and I like to fool
around with attractive people for as long as I can . . . .
[ 44 ]
 To M I KHAIL CHEKHOV [r888]
You write that you liked Dymov. 1 Life creates such na­
• • •

tures as this arrogant Dymov-not to be heretics or hoboes, nor

to lead settled lives, but as out-and-out revolutionists. . . .
There will never be a revolution in Russia, and Dymov will
wind up by drinking himself to death or landing in prison.
He is a superfluous man . . . .
Tomorrow I am having a high time at the wedding of a
tailor who writes verse not too badly and has mended a jacket
of mine out of respect for my talent (honoris causa). I have
wearied you with my nonsense, and so I shall stop. Keep well.
I hope your creditors will vanish into Never-Never land.
An importunate breed, worse than mosquitoes.
Yours in spirit,
A. Chekhov

To MIKHAI L CHEKHOV
March r5, r888, St. Petersburg
. . . I reached here safely but had a miserable trip, thanks
to Leikin, the prattler. He kept me from reading, eating and
sleeping. . . . The wretch kept boasting continually and pester­
ing me with questions. I would just begin to drowse when he
would nudge me and ask, "Did you know that my 'Bride of
Christ' has been translated into I talian?"
I have been stopping at the Moscow Hotel, but am moving
today to the "New Times" building, where Mme. Suvorina has
offered me two rooms complete with grand piano and couch in
an alcove. Taking up residence with the Suvorins will cramp
my style a lot.
The biscuits have been given to Alexander. H is family is in
good health, well nourished and cleanly dressed. He does not
touch liquor, which surprised me quite a bit.
It is cold and snowy. Wherever I go people talk about my
1 Dymov is a character in "The Steppe."

[ 45 ]
 To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV [z888]
"The Steppe." I visited the Pleshcheyevs, Shcheglovs and some
others and tonight I am going to Polanski's.
I have moved to my new diggings. Grand piano, harmonium,
the couch in the alcove, a valet named Vasili, a bed, fireplace,
an elegant desk-these are my conveniences. As for the incon­
veniences, you can't begin to count them. To begin with the
least of them, there's not the remotest chance of my appearing
home half drunk and with a lady guest. . . .
Before dinner-a lengthy conversation with Mme. S. on how
she detests the human race, and that she bought herself a jacket
today for 1 20 rubles.
After dinner, talk about migraine headaches, while the kid­
dies stare at me goggle-eyed, waiting for me to say something
real clever. That's because they consider me a genius, as the
author of "Kashtanka." . . .
From dinner to teatime I indulge in pacing back and forth
in the Suvorin study, plus philosophy; the spouse injects her­
self into the conversation, but inappropriately, putting on a
bass voice or yapping like a dog.
Tea. There is medical talk at the table. Finally I am free, and
sit in my study in blessed silence. Tomorrow I am running
away for the whole day: am going to Pleshcheyev's, Sabashni­
kov's "Messenger," Polanski's and Palkin's, and will return late
at night worn to a frazzle. By the way: I have a special toilet and
a separate exit-without it one might as well lie down and die.
My Vasili is dressed more decently than I and has a wel l-bred
physiognomy; it feels a bit strange to have him walking around
me reverently on tiptoe and trying to anticipate my every wish.
On the whole, being a literary man has its inconveniences.
I am sleepy, but mine hosts retire at three. They don't have
late supper and I'm too lazy to go to the Palkins.
I have the honor to send my compliments to all.
I 'm too lazy to write, and there is too much going on anyway.
Votre a tous
A. Chekhov
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [I888]
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOVl
April 26, I888, Moscow
Mr. Goosekov!
This is an answer to your last letter. Before all else I invite
you to compose yourself and reflect upon the roots of things.
Secondly, may I inform you of the following:
You can settle your children in Moscow, but only under the
one condition that you guarantee before whomever or whatever
you choose that neither cowardice, nor deluge, nor fire, nor
sword, nor even pestilence, will prevent you from being punc­
tual, i.e., from dispatching a definite number of rubles at a
definite date each month. The substance of the matter lies in
money. Neither Grandfather's piety nor Grandmother's good­
ness, neither Daddy's tender feelings nor the generosity of the
uncles nothing can take its jJlace. Bear the above words in
-

mind, as I do every moment. If you feel that the proposed con­

dition is within your power to fulfill, read on.
Fifty rubles a month is enough. Less is impossible. The chil­
dren will come under the sway of one of the grandmas, but
which of them? . . . My place is crowded and there is positively
no room for children. I pay 75 0 rubles for the apartment. If I
were to add two rooms to accommodate the children, nurse, and
juvenile paraphernalia, the apartment would cost goo. However,
we would be crowded no matter how spacious the apartment
might be. You know my place has a multitude of adults living
under one roof only because we cannot separate, in view of cer­
tain incomprehensible circumstances. With me are Mother,
Sister, Mishka2 (who won't leave until he is graduated) , N iko­
lai, drunk and half undressed, who does nothing whatever and
has been abandoned by his objet, Auntie, and Alyosha3 (the last
two only use the apartment). Add to this that Ivan is around
1 Alexander Chekhov's wife was dying and he had written Lo ask if he could
send his children to Moscow.
2 i\Iishka was the son of a family friend who was attending the University of
Moscow.
3 Alyosha was Alexei Doljenko, a cousin.
[ 47 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [r888]
from three in the afternoon until late at night and on all holi­
days, and that Papa comes evenings. They are all nice people,
jolly but egoistic, pretentious, unusually talkative, prone to
stamping their feet, impecunious. My head is in a whirl. . . .
If you were to add two more beds for the children and a nurse,
I would have to pour wax into my ears and put on dark
glasses . . . . If I had a wife and children I would gladly take
unto myself even a dozen youngsters, but with my present
family, which is weighed down by abnormal communal life,
which is noisy, financially irresponsible and held together unna­
turally I cannot decide to take on any more people, let alone
those who require educating and setting on their feet. More­
over, my little family group is southward bound at the begin­
ning of May. To drag children there and back would be incon­
venient and expensive.
The children can live with Auntie Feodosia Yakovlevna. I've
already spoken to her on the subject, informed her of your
motives and mine, and she has gladly consented. Alexei is a
good man, and he too will probably have nothing against it.
Living with her will offer the children a number of comforts:
( 1 ) a quiet atmosphere, ( 2 ) the good will of their hosts, ( 3 )
the absence of annoyances, such as music, guests, and pious folks
looking down their noses at the fruits of your irregular marriage
and so on.
For fifty rubles Auntie will give the children lodging, food,
servants and my medical care (apartment--eighteen to twenty­
five rubles; Alex's fuel; nursemaid-five to six rubles, the rest
to go for victuals and emergencies) . Stipulations: the children
must be brought from St. Pete by you or a servant; there is
nobody here to call for them. An apartment must be found by
the first of September. Until then the youngsters will stay with
Auntie in my apartment (so twenty-five rubles a month will be
enough for you to send until then) .
My head is killing me; this letter is probably written incoher­
ently. If such is the case, it's a pity. Generally speaking my head
 To IVAN LEONTIEV (SHCHEGLOV] [z888]
is in a bad state. I think you will understand me, i.e., you may
not understand me and what goes on inside of me, but you will
understand the reasons and considerations. vVrite to me, not to
Auntie. \Vhen we have reached an understanding you may write
to her, otherwise there will be many unnecessary conversations.
Conversations have been driving me frantic. Keep well and as
cheerful as you can.
Your A. Chekhov.
Tear up this letter. On the whole, get into the habit of tear­
ing up letters, otherwise you will have them thrown around all
over the apartment.
Come to see us in the south this summer. It doesn't cost much.

To IVAN LEONTIEV [SHCHEGLOV]

May ;, r888, Moscow
Dear A lba,
. . . Pleshcheyev is arriving sometime after the tenth. How
about your making the trip? Yes, you! In any event, I'll wait for
you all summer. Perhaps you'll make up your mind to come. By
the by, I won't expect you in J une, when I'll be traveling. If
you do come, bring along three pounds of good pork bologna,
the very best (I'll pay you back) .
. . . I sent a story to the "Northern Herald" and am slightly
ashamed of it. Very dull and dripping with fancy philosophy.
I hated to do it, but had to, for we run through money like
water. Tomorrow I am finishing a story for "New Times." All
summer I'll be writing only small things.
I had a letter from Lehman : he informs that "we" (i.e., all of
you St. Petersburgers) "have agreed to carry announcements of
one another's works in our books," invites me to concur in this
proposal and warns that "only those persons more or less in
solidarity with us" can be included in this elite. In reply I sent
my consent and inquired as to how he knew who was or was
[ 49 ]
 To IVA:\' LEO:\'TIEV [sHCHEGLOv] [1888]
not in solidarity with me. How smug all of you are in St. Pete !
Don't tell me you aren't all oppressed by such words as solidar­
ity, the unity of young writers, community of interest, and so
on? Solidarity and such stuff I understand on the stock ex­
change, in politics, in religious affairs (of a sect), etc., but soli­
darity in young literary men is impossible and unnecessary. 'Ve
cannot think and feel the same way, our aims are various or
nonexistent, we know one another slightly or not at all, and so
there isn't anything to which this solidarity might fasten itself
securely. Is there any need for it? No. To lend a helping hand
to one's colleague, to respect his personality and labors, not to
gossip about him or em·y him, not to lie or play the hypocrite
before him-to act thus you've got to be not so much the young
literary figure as just a plain human being. Let us be ordinary
people, let us adopt the same attitude toward all and then an
artificially \Haught solidarity is not needed. This persistent
striving to set up the private, professional, solid little group that
you people want, would only mean unconscious spying on one
another and suspicion and control ; and without meaning to, we
would turn ourselves into something like a Jesuit society. I am
not in solidarity with you, dear Jan, but I promise you to the
death full freedom as a writer; i.e., you can \Hite where and
how you like . . . change your convictions and tendencies a thou­
sand times, and so forth and so on, but my human relations
with you will not change one iota, and I'll always print an­
nouncements of your books in mine. I can promise the same to
all my other colleagues, and would wish the same for myself. To
my way of thinking these are the most normal relations. It is
only thus that we can ha,·e mutual respect and even friendship,
and compassion in life's bitter moments.
However, I have let my tongue run away with me. God keep
you !
Your A. Chekhov

[ so ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
May JO, r888, Sumy
Lintvareva's summer place
. . . I am living on the banks of the Psel in the wing of an
old feudal country home. I hired the place sight unseen, hoping
for the best, and thus far have not regretted it. The river is
wide, deep, teeming with islands, fish and crayfish, the banks
are beautiful and there is much greenery. But its chief virtue
is its sense of spaciousness, which is s uch that it seems to me
my hundred rubles have given me the right to live amidst a
limitless expanse. Nature and life hereabouts are of a pattern
that editors are rejecting as old-fashioned, let alone the nightin­
gales, which sing day and night, the distant barking of dogs. the
old neglected gardens, the tightly boarded, very sad and poetic
country places, where dwell the souls of beautiful women, the
venerable, doddering feudal retainers and the young girls athirst
for the most conventional type of love; not far from here we
even have such a worn-out device of romance as a watermill
(sixteen wheels), along with a miller and his daughter who
keeps sitting at her window, obviously waiting for something to
happen. Everything I see and hear about me seems like the an­
cient tales and fairy stories I have known for so long. The only
novelty is the presence of a mysterious bird-the water-bittern
-that hides amongst the reeds in the distance and day and
night utters a cry that is a cross between a blow on an empty
barrel and the bellowing of a cow locked in a bam. Every Little
Russian claims to have seen this bird during his lifetime, but
each describes it differently, so actually no one has seen it.
There is another novelty, too, but a superficial one, and maybe
not so new, either.
Every day I row my boat to the mill, while evenings I make
for the islands with fishermen fans from the Kharitonenko
works to catch fish. The talk is interesting. \Vhitsunday Eve all
the addicts are spending the night on the island to fish the night
through : me too. There are some superb types.
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1888]
My landlords have proved to be very fine, hospitable people.
It is a family worth studying, and consists of six persons. The
old mother is a very kind, rather faded and long-suffering
woman; she reads Schopenhauer and goes to church to hear the
Song of Praise, conscientiously cons every issue of the " Herald
of Europe" and "Northern Herald," is acquainted with writers
I never dreamed existed; considers it noteworthy that the artist
Makovski once lived in the wing of her house and that now it
houses a young man of letters; in conversing with Pleshcheyev
feels a sacred tremor throughout her body and rejoices every
instant that she has been "found worthy" to behold the great
poet.
Her oldest daughter, a woman physician, is the pride of the
whole household, and a saint, as the peasants call her, a truly
unusual figure. She has a tumor on the brain which has ren­
dered her completely blind; she suffers from epilepsy and con­
stant headaches. She knows what awaits her, and speaks of her
imminent death stoically in astounding cold blood. In my prac­
tice I have become accustomed to see people near death and
have always had a sort of queer feeling when those about to die
speak, smile, or cry in my presence, but here, when I see this
blind figure on the terrace laughing, joking or listening to my
"In the Twilight" being read to her, I always have a queer
feeling not about this good lady doctor's dying, but about our
own unawareness of approaching death, and writing "In the
Twilight" as though we would never die.
The second daughter is also a woman doctor and an old
maid, a quiet, shy, infinitely good, tender and homely being.
Sick people are an absolute torment to her, and she is practi­
cally psychotic in her anxiety about them. At consultations we
never agree: I am the messenger of cheer where she sees death,
and I double the doses she gives. \Vhere death is indeed obvious
and inevitable my lady doctor's reaction is quite undoctorlike.
One day I took over the sick from her at the medical clinic; a
young Little Russian woman appeared with a malignant tumor
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [ r888]
of the glands on her cheek and at the nape of her neck. The
affliction had spread to so many areas that any treatment would
have been futile. And because this farm woman now felt no
pain, but would die six months hence in frightful torment, the
lady doctor looked at her with such a guilty expression that she
seemed to be apologizing for her own health, ashamed of the
helplessness of medical science. She attends to the housekeeping
conscientiously and understands it in all its smallest details.
She even knows horses. For example, when the side horse won't
pull or starts getting restless, she will advise the coachman how
to take care of the matter. She dearly loves family life, which it
has not been her fate to enjoy, and dreams of it, I think; on
nights when there are games and songs in the big house, she
strides up and down along the dark avenue of trees quickly and
nervously like a caged animal. I don't believe she would ever
harm a fly, and to my mind never has been or will be happy
for a single minute.
The third daughter, who was graduated from the college in
Bestuzhevka, is a young girl of masculine frame, strong, bony
as a shad, well muscled, tanned and vociferous . . . . She laughs
so loud you can hear her half a mile off. A super-Ukrainimaniac.
She has built a school on the estate at her own expense and
teaches little Little Russians Krylov's fables translated into
Little Russian. . . . She hasn't cut her hair, wears a corset and
a bustle, busies herself with domestic duties, loves to sing and
roar with laughter and doesn't deny herself the most conven­
tional sort of love, despite her having read Marx; but it's
scarcely likely she'll get married, she is so homely.
The oldest son is a quiet, modest, bright, unlucky and hard­
working young person, unpretentious and apparently satisfied
with what life has given him. He does not boast of his being
expelled for political activity during his fourth year at the
university. 1 He says little, loves domestic life and the earth and
1 Undergraduate political activity, always radical, was considered, in those
days, a mark of intellectual and moral distinction.

[ 53 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN ( z888]
lives peaceably with his Little Russian neighbors.
The second son is a young man and a fanatic on the subject
of Tchaikovski's genius. A pianist. He aspires to the Tolstoyan
life . . . .
Pleshcheyev is my guest now. People regard him as a demi­
god, envy the great good fortune of some bumpkin who hap­
pens to attract his attention, bring him flowers, invite him
everywhere and so on. Young Vata, a boarding school girl from
Poltava who is visiting our landlady, is paying particular court
to him. He "listens and eats" and smokes cigars which give his
worshipers a headache. He is stiff in his movements and senilely
indolent, but this does not deter the fair sex from taking boat­
rides with him, bearing him off to neighboring estates and sing­
ing him romantic bal lads. He cuts the same figure here as he
does in St. Petersburg, i.e., an icon which is worshipped because
it happens to be old and once hung in the company of miracle­
working icons. Personally I regard him as a receptacle full of
traditions, interesting memoirs and platitudes, but at the same
time a very kind, warm, sincere person . . . .
What you write about "The Lights" is perfectly true. Nikolai
and 1\Iasha are overemphasized, but what can I do? Unaccus­
tomed as I am to writing lengthily I become overanxious; when
I do, the thought that my tale is disproportionately long always
scares me and I attempt to write as tersely as I can. Kisochka's
last scene with the engineer seemed to me an insignificant detail
encumbering the story, and so I threw it out, substituting
Nikolai and l\fasha for it.
You write that the talk about pessimism and Kisochka's story
in no way develop or solve the problem of pessimism. It seems
to me that it is not up to writers to solve such quesLions as God,
pessimism and so on. The job of the writer is to depict only
who, how and under what circumstances people have spoken or
thought about God or pessimism. The artist should not be a
judge of his characters or of what they say, but only an objec­
tive observer. I heard a confused, indecisive talk by two Rus-
[ 54 ]
 To ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV [r888]
sians on pessimism and so must convey this conversation in the
same form in which I heard it, but it is up to the jury, i.e., the
readers, to give it an evaluation. My job is only to be talented,
i.e., to be able to throw light upon some figures and speak their
language. Shcheglov-Leontiev finds fault with me for having
ended my story with the sentence: "You can't appraise anything
in this world! " In his opinion the artist-psychologist must anal­
yze-that's why he's a psychologist. But I don't agree with him.
It is high time for writing folk, especially artists, to admit you
can't appraise anything in this world, as Socrates did in his day,
and Voltaire. The crowd thinks it knows and understands every­
thing: and the more stupid it is, the broader seems to be its
scope. If the artist, in whom the crowd believes, dares to declare
that he does not understand what he sees, that alone comprises
deep knowledge in the domain of thought and a good step
ahead. . . .
What a letter I've concocted! I must end. Give my regards
to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya . . . . Goodbye, keep well,
and may God be good to you.
Your sincerely devoted
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV
October 4, r888, Moscow
. . . I would be glad to read what Merejkowski 1 has to say.
In the meantime, goodbye for now. \Vrite me once you have
read my story. You won't like it, but I am not afraid of you, nor
of Anna Mikhailovna. Those I am afraid of are the ones who
look for tendencies between the lines and want to put me down
definitely as a liberal or conservative. I am not a liberal and not
a conservative, not an evolutionist, nor a monk, nor indifferent
1 Merejkowski, the author of The Life of Leonardo Da Vinci, i n 1 888 wrote
an article, "An Old Question on New Talent," about Chekhov"s short stories.

[ 55 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [z888)
to the world. I would like to be a free artist-and that is all­
and regret that God has not given me the strength to be one.
I hate lies and coercion in all their aspects . . . . Pharisaism,
stupidity and idle whim reign not only in the homes of the
merchant class and within prison walls; I see them in science,
in literature, amongst young people. I cannot therefore nurture
any particularly warm feelings toward policemen, butchers,
savants, writers, or youth. I consider trademarks or labels to be
prejudices.
My holy of holies are the human body, health, intelligence,
talent, inspiration, love, and the most absolute freedom-free­
dom from force and falsity, in whatever form these last may be
expressed. This is the program I would maintain, were I a great
artist.
However, I've run on too much as it is. Keep well,
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 27, z888, Moscow
. . . I sometimes preach heresies, but have never once gone
as far as the absolute negation of problems in art. In talks with
the writing fraternity I always insist it is not the business of
the artist to solve narrowly specialized questions. It is bad for
an artist to tackle what he does not understand. For special
problems we have specialists: it is their business to judge the
community, the fate of capitalism, the evil of drunkenness,
boots, female maladies . . . . The artist, though, must pass judg­
ment only on what he understands; his circle is as limited as
that of any other specialist-this I repeat and on this I always
insist. Only one who has never written and has had no business
with images can say there are no problems in his sphere, only
answers. The artist observes, chooses, guesses, combines-these
acts in themselves presuppose a problem; if he has not put
[ s6 J
 To ALEXEI SUVORI:-1 [ 1888]
this problem to himself from the very beginning, then there
will be nothing to guess and no choice to make. To be more
concise, let me finish with psychiatry; if one denies problem and
purpose in creative work, then one must concede that the artist
is creating undesignedly, without intention, temporarily de­
ranged; and therefore, if some author were to boast to me that
he had written a story without a previously considered inten­
tion, guided by inspiration, I would call him insane.
You are right to require a conscious attitude from the artist
toward his work, but you mix up two ideas: the solution of the
problem and a conect jJresentation of the jJroblem. Only the
latter is obligatory for the artist. In "Anna Karenina" and
"Onegin" not a single problem is solved, but they satisfy you
completely j ust because all their problems are correctly pre­
sented. The court is obliged to submit the case fairly, but let
the jury do the deciding, each according to its own j udg­
ment. . . .
Tomorrow my "Bear" is on at Korsh's theatre. I have written
another one-act play; two male parts, one female.
You write that the hero of my "The Party" is a figure which
it would be well for me to develop further. Good Lord, surely
I am not an unfeeling brute, I understand that. I know that I
deface and even murder my characters, and that good material
perishes needlessly . . . . I would gladly have sat half a year over
"The Party." And that is speaking the truth. I love to relax
at my ease, and see no delight in hasty bursting into print.
Gladly, with pleasure, with feeling and with deliberation would
I describe all of my hero. I would depict his spirit while h is wife
was giving birth, his trial, his miserable state of mind after
he was exonerated, I would portray the midwife and doctor
drinking tea at night, I would describe the rain. This would
afford me only pleasure, because I love to fool around and
fuss. But what am I to do? I begin the story on the tenth of
September with the thought that it must be completed by the
fifth of October, which is the deadline; if I put it off, I'll be
[ 57 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (r888]
tricking the publisher and will remain without money. I write
the beginning serenely, let myself go, but in the middle I have
already begun cowering and fearing lest my story turn out to
be long; I have to remember that the "Northern Herald" hasn't
much money and that I am one of its expensive contributors.
My start, therefore, is full of promise, as though I were begin­
ning a novel; the middle section is difficult and broken up,
while the end, as in a short short story, is like fireworks. In
writing, therefore, one is bound to concentrate first of all upon
the story's framework; from the mass of greater and lesser fig­
ures you pick one particular person-the husband or wife­
place him in the foreground, draw him in and underscore him
alone, then you throw the others about the background like
loose change, and the result is not unlike the vault of heaven:
one big moon and around it a mass of very small stars. The
moon, however, cannot come through successfully, because it
can only be interpreted properly when the other stars are under­
stood; and the stars in the meantime have not been clearly
explained. So what emerges is not literature, but something on
the order of the sewing of Trishkin's coat. What shal l I do?
I simply don't know. I put my trust in all-healing time.
If I may again speak of my conscience, well then, I haven't
yet begun my literary career, despite the receipt of a prize.
Subjects for five big stories and two novels swarm in my head.
One of the novels was conceived a long time ago, so that several
in the cast of characters have grown old without ever having
been put down on paper. There is a regular army of people in
my brain begging to be summoned forth and only waiting for
the word to be given. All I have written hitherto is trash in
comparison with what I would like to write and what I would
write exultantly. It's all the same to me whether I write "The
Party" or "The Lights" or a one-act comedy, or a letter to a
friend-it is all tedious, mechanical, faded; I feel aggrieved
against the critic who, let us say, attributes some significance
to "The Lights," for it seems to me that I am misleading him,
[ ss J
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [ I888]
as I have misled many people with my immoderately serious or
merry face. I am not pleased that I am successful ; the subjects
that sit in my head are vexatiously jealous of those already on
paper; it is insulting that the trash is already on view while the
good stuff lies about in the storehouse, like discarded books.
Of course, there is much in this lamentation of mine that is
exaggerated, much that only seems so to me, but there is some
portion of truth, and a big one. ·what do I call good? Those
images which seem best to me, which I love and jealously guard
so as not to waste and trample them down on account of some
"The Party," written to meet a deadline . . . . If my love is mis­
taken, then I am not right, but surely it is possible that it may
not be mistaken! I am either a fool and a presumptuous person
or I am actually an organism capable of being a good writer;
all that now issues from my pen does not please me and causes
me weariness, but all that sits in my head interests me, touches
and stirs me. "Wherefore I conclude that nobody knows the
secret of doing the right thing but me. It is very likely that
everyone who writes reasons thus. However, the devil himself
would break his neck on questions such as these.
In determining what kind of person I should be and what I
should do money will not heljJ. An extra thousand rubles does
not solve the problem, while a hundred thousand is a pipe
dream. Moreover, when I have money (perhaps this is from
want of habit, I don't know) I become extremely heedless and
lazy; the world is my oyster then. I need solitude and time.
Forgive me for forcing my personality on you. My pen has
run away with me. Somehow I cannot work now.
Thanks for placing my little articles. For the love of God,
don't stand on ceremony with them; abridge, lengthen, alter,
throw out or do with them what you will. I give you, as Karsh
says, carte blanche. I will be happy if my articles do not usurp
somebody else's place . . . .
Tell me what Anna Ivanovna's eye disease is called in Latin.
I will let you know how senous it is. If she was prescribed

[ 59 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN ( r888)
atropin it is serious, though not categorically so. And what is
wrong with Nastya? If you are thinking of curing your boredom
in Moscow, a journey will prove fruitless: there is frightful
tedium here. Many literary men have been arrested, among
them, too, old busybody Goltsev, author of the "Ninth Sym­
phony." V. S. Mamyshev, who visited me today, is interceding
for one of them.
Greetings to all your family.
Your A. Chekhov
A mosquito is Hying about in my room. How did he ever get
here? Thank you for the striking ads of my books.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
November 3, r888, Moscow
Greetings, A lexei Sergeyevich,
I am now arraying myself in a frock coat to attend the open­
ing evening of the "Society of Arts and Literature" to which
I have been specially invited. There's going to be a formal ball.
'Vhat the aims and resources of this society are, who constitu tes
the membership and so on, I don't know. . . . I have not been
elected to membership, and am very glad of it since contribut­
ing twenty-five rubles for the right to be bored is far from my
desire. . . .
In the "Northern Herald" for November there is an article
devoted to yours truly by Merejkowski, the poet. A long one.
I recommend its conclusion to your attention. It is character­
istic. Merejkowski is still very young and a student-! believe
he is a naturalist. People who have mastered the wisdom of the
scientific method and who therefore know how to reason scien­
tifically are subject to a number of irresistible temptations.
Archimedes wanted to turn the earth upside down, and nowa­
days the hotheads want to embrace the scientifically unembrace­
able, to discover physical laws for the creative impulse, to bring
to light a general law and formulae which the artist feels and
[ 6o ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I888]
follows instinctively in composing music, painting landscapes,
writing novels and so on. These formulae probably exist in na­
ture. We know that there is A, B, C, do, re, mi, fa and sol in
nature, there is the curve, the straight line, the circle, the
square, green, red and blue . . . we know that these factors in
some particular combination produce a melody or verse or a
picture, just as simple chemical bodies in some particular com­
bination produce wood, or stone, or the sea, but the only thing
we know is that there is a combination, and that the working
of this combination is unknown to us. Those who have assimi­
lated the scientific method are deeply aware that there is some­
thing in common between the piece of music and the tree, that
both are created as a result of equally true and simple laws.
So the question arises : what are these laws? . . . Reasoning
scientifically is always a good idea, but the trouble is that this
scientific reasoning on the subject of creative power is in the
end certain to degenerate into looking for "cells" or "centres"
which control the creative impulse; then some ponderous Ger­
man will discover these cellules somewhere in the occipital
lobes, another countryman of his will dissent, a third will con­
cur, and the Russian will skim through an article on cells and
dash off an essay for the "Northern Herald"; the "Herald of
Europe" will set to work picking this essay to pieces, and for about
three years after that an epidemic of nonsense will hover in the
Russian air which will provide earnings and popularity for the
dunces, and inspire nothing but annoyance in intelligent
people.
For those whom the scientific method has wearied, to whom
God has given the rare gift of reasoning scientifically, there is,
in my opinion, a single way out, and that is the philosophy of
creative power. You can heap together all the best that has
been created by artists throughout the centuries, and, utilizing
the scientific method, extract from them the qualities they have
in common with one another and which condition their value.
That common quality will be the criterion. The works called
 To ALEXEI SUVORI:-1 [r888]
immortal have a great deal in common; if you omit from each
of them this common quality) the work loses its value and de­
light. In other words, this common quality is indispensable, and
constitutes the condition sine qua non of every work with
pretensions to immortality.
For the younger generation, writing criticism is more useful
than composing poems. l\Ierejkowski writes smoothly and youth­
fully, but on every page he quavers, makes reservations and ad­
vances concessions-this is a sign that he himself has not clari­
fied the question in his own mind. . . . He calls me a poet, my
stories are novellas, my heroes-ill-starred, that is to say, he
has nothing new to offer. It is about time he discarded these
\·ictims of fate, superfluous people and so on, and thought up
something of his own. l\Ierejkowski calls my monk, the com­
poser of the "Song of Praise," an unfortunate. But in what re­
spect was he a failure? God grant that all may live as he: he
believed in God, was well fed and could write creatively. . . .
Dividing people into successes and failures means looking upon
human nature from the narrow, preconceived point of view. . . .
Are you a failure or not? Am I? Napoleon? Your servant Vasili?
\Vhere is the criterion? One must be God to be able to distin­
guish successes from failures and not make mistakes . . . . I'm
going to the ball.
I have returned. The aim of the society is "unity." A learned
German taught a cat, a mouse, a hawk and a sparrow to eat out
of one plate . . . . Deathly boredom reigned. People sauntered
through the rooms and made believe they weren't bored. A
young lady sang. Lenski read my story (one of the listeners re­
marked: "A rather weak story ! " and Levinski had the stupidity
and cruelty to interrupt him with, "And here is the author h im­
self! Allow me to introduce him," while the listener almost
sank into the floor in embarrassment), people danced, ate a bad
supper, were held up for tips by the flunkies. If actors, artists
and men of letters really constitute the best part of society, what
a pity it is! A fine type of society it must be with an elite so
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888]
poor in desires, intentions, taste, beautiful women, and initia­
tive. A Japanese stuffed animal had been placed in the foyer,
a Chinese parasol thrust into a corner, a rug hung over the ban­
isters, and this they consider artistic. They have a Chinese para­
sol, but no newspapers. If an artist decorates his apartment with
nothing more than a stuffed mummy, a halberd, escutcheons,
and fans on the wall, if all of this is not unplanned, but care­
fully thought out and emphasized, he is not an artist, but a
pompous monkey.
I had a letter from Leikin today. He writes that he paid you
a visit. He is a genial and harmless person, but a bourgeois to
the marrow of his bones. If he goes anywhere or says anything
it is always with an ulterior motive. Every one of his words is
seriously pondered and every one of your words, no matter how
casually pronounced, he puts into h is pipe for a smoking in the
full assurance that he, Leikin, must do things this way; if he
doesn't his books won't sell, h is enemies will triumph, his
friends will desert him and his credit union won't re-elect him
to its board of directors. The fox constantly fears for his skin,
and so does he. A subtle diplomat! . . .
There is confusion at Korsh's. A steam coffeepot burst and
scalded Rybchinskaya's face . . . . There is nobody here to per­
form, no one follows orders, everybody shouts and quarrels.
Evidently the spectacular costume play will be a horrible
flop . . . though I would like to have them present "The Seducer
of Seville."1 • We must strive with all our power to see to it
• •

that the stage passes out of the hands of the grocers and into
literary hands, otherwise the theatre is lost.
The coffeepot killed my "Bear." Rybchinskaya is ill and
there's no one to play her part.
All our folks ask to be remembered. My hearty regards to
Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
I By Maslov-Bejetski.
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888)
One-act comedies can be published in the summer; winter is
not suitable, though. I'm going to compose a one-acter every
month during the summer season, but must deny myself this
pleasure in the winter.
Please enter me as a member of the Literary Society. . . . I'll
attend the meetings when I arrive.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
November 20-25, r888, Moscow
. . . You write that authors are God's elect. I won't bother
disputing. Shcheglov calls me the Potemkin of literature, and so
it is not for me to speak of the thorny path, disappointments
and so on. I don't know whether I have ever suffered more than
shoemakers, mathematicians or train conductors; I don't know
who it is that prophesies through my lips, God or somebody
worse. I allow myself to mention only one little unpleasantness
I have experienced with which you, too, are undoubtedly
familiar. This is it. Both of us like ordinary people; we, on the
other hand, are liked because people regard us as extraordinary.
I am invited everywhere, for example am wined and dined like
a general at a wedding; my sister is aggrieved because she is
invited everywhere as the writer's sister.
Nobody wants to like what is ordinary in us. The conse­
quence is that were we tomorrow to appear like ordinary mor­
tals in the eyes of our good acquantances, people would stop
liking us and only pity us. This is very bad. And it's bad because
what people like in us is often what we ourselves do not like
or respect in ourselves. It is too bad that I was right when I
wrote "The First-Class Passenger," wherein my engineer and
professor discourse on glory.
I am going to the farm. The devil with them! You have
Feodosia.
Incidentally, as to Feodosia and the Tatars. Although the
Tatars' land was stolen from them, nobody is concerned with
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [z888]
their welfare. Schools for the Tatars are badly needed. Write
an article saying that the ministry should assign the money
wasted on sausage-like Derpt University, which is full of useless
Germans, to schools for Tatars, who are of use to Russia. I my­
self would write on the subject but don't know how.
Leikin sent me a very amusing one-act comedy that he has
written. This man is the only one of his kind.
Be well and happy.
Your A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 23, z888, Moscow
Dear A lexei Sergeyevich,
. . . I have read your play again. In it there is a great deal
that is good and original which has not previously appeared in
dramatic literature, and much that is not good (for example,
the language). Its merits and defects constitute a capital from
which we could derive much profit, if we had any criticism.
But this capital will lie about u nproductively to no purpose
until it becomes obsolete and goes out of print. There is no
criticism. Tatischev, who follows the beaten path, the donkey
Mikhnevich and the indifferent Burenin-comprise the entire
Russian critical battery. And it is not worth the trouble to
write for this battery, just as it is no use thrusting flowers at the
nose of somebody who has a head cold. There are moments
when I positively lose heart. For whom and what do I write?
For the public? But I don't see it and don't believe in it any
more than I do in spirits: it is u ncultured and badly educated,
while its best elements are not conscientious or sincere toward
us. I cannot figure out whether or not I am needed by this
public. Burenin says that I am not and that I occupy myself
with trifles, but the Academy has awarded me a prize-the
devil himself wouldn't be able to make head or tail of the rights
of the matter. Do I write for money? But I never have any, and
[ 6s J
 To ALEXEI SUVORI� [1888]
from chronic lack of it I am almost indifferent in my attitude
toward it. I work for money sluggishly. Do I write for praise?
But praise only irritates me. The literary society, the students,
Yevreinova, Pleshcheyev, the young girls and so on extolled my
"Nervous Breakdown" to the skies, but it was only Grigorovich
who remarked upon my description of the first snowfall. Etc.,
etc. Had we any criticism, I would know that I provide material
to work with-good or bad, it doesn't matter-and that to peo­
ple devoting themselves to the study of life I am as necessary as
a star to an astronomer. Then I would work painstakingly, and
would know wherefore I was working. As it is now, you, I,
Muravlin and the rest resemble maniacs writing books and plays
for their own satisfaction. One's own personal satisfaction is,
of course, a fine thing: one senses it during the writing process,
but what of it? But . . . I must call a halt. . . .
l\Iany races, religions, languages and cultures have vanished
without a trace-vanished because there were no historians and
biologists. J ust so a mass of lives and works of art is vanishing
before our eyes, owing to the complete absence of criticism.
People may say there is nothing for our critics to do, that all
our contemporary works are meaningless and inferior. But that
is a narrow view. Life must be observed not only on the plus
side, but also on the minus. The conviction in itself that the
eighties have not produced a single worthwhile writer may
serve as material for five volumes . . . .
l\Iy " Bear" is going into a second edition. And you say I am
not a superb dramatist. I have cooked up a one-act comedy
entitled "Thunder and Lightning" for Savina, Davidov and the
other ministers of cul ture. One night during a thunderstorm I
have the district doctor Davidov pay a call upon the maiden
Savina. Davidov has a toothache, and Savina has an odious
disposition. Interesting conversations, interrupted by the thun­
der. At the end I marry them off. \Vhen I write myself out I'm
going to turn to composing one-acters and making my living
off them. I believe I could write about a hundred a year. Sub-
[ 66 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [ 1888]
jects for one-act plays sprout out of me like oil from Baku soil.
Why can't I give my oil-bearing plot of ground to Shcheglov?
I sent Khudekov a story for a hundred rubles which I ask you
not to read. I'm ashamed of it. Last night I sat down to write
a tale for "New Times," but some dame appeared and bore me
off to Pluschikha to see Palmin the poet, who in a state of drunk­
enness fell and fractured his forehead. I fooled around with this
drunken character for a good one-and-a-half to two hours, wore
myself out, stank of iodoform, got into a bad temper and re­
turned home tired to death. Today it would be too late to do
the story. On the whole I lead a tedious life and am beginning
to feel hatred from time to time, something that has never hap­
pened to me before. Long, silly conversations, guests, people
asking for help, to the tune of one-, two- and three-ruble con­
tributions, money spent on cabs to visit patients who don't pay
me a kopek-in short, everything is in such a muddle that one
feels like running out of the house. People get loans and don't
repay them, take away my books, have no regard for my
time . . . . All I lack is an unhappy love affair. . . .
You will get this letter on the first day of Christmas, and
may I wish you a merry one. Have a good rest. My sister sends
her compliments to you, Anna Ivanovna and the chi ldren. I
also salute you most humbly and remain your bored
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 26J 1888) l\1oscow
. . . You write that one should work not for criticism but for
the public, and that it's too soon for me to complain. It is
pleasant to think that one works for the public, of course, but
how do I know that I am actually doing so? What with its
scantiness and some other qualities, I myself do not feel any
satisfaction in my work; the public, though (I did not call it
ignoble), is unscrupulous and insincere in its attitude toward
[ 67 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888]
us; you will never hear the truth from it and so you can't figure
out whether or not it needs me. It may be early for me to com­
plain, but never too early to ask myself whether I am engaged
in serious business or nonsense. Criticism is silent, the public
lies and my own instinct tells me I am busying myself with
trash. Do I complain? I don't recall the tone of my letter, but
if I did so, I complained not on my own behalf but for all our
writing fraternity, whom I pity infinitely.
All week I have been as mean as a son of a bitch. Hemorr­
hoids accompanied by itching and bleeding, visitors, Palmin
and his fractured skull, tedium. On the first evening of the
holiday I hovered over a sick man who died before my eyes.
On the whole, there have been plenty of morbid motifs. Spite­
fulness is a type of pusillanimity. I confess it and curse myself.
Above all I am vexed with myself for letting you into the secrets
of my melancholy, very uninteresting and shameful for one of
my years, which the poets have exalted as a time of bloom.
I will try to do a story for you by the New Year, and soon
after the first will send "The Princess."
You should print one-act plays in the summertime only, not
in winter.
You wish me to turn Sasha loose at all costs. But surely
"Ivanov" can hardly be put on in that form. If it can be done,
then by all means I will do as you wish, but please excuse me
if I give it to her properly, the nasty creature! (You say that
women love out of compassion and marry out of compassion.
And how about men? I don't care to have realistic novelists
slander women, but I don' t like it either when people like
Yuzhin lift womankind onto their shoulders and attempt to
show that even when she is worse than a man, the man is
nevertheless a scoundrel and the woman an angel. Both men
and women are a dime a dozen, except that man is more intel­
ligent and just.)
. . . My painter continues in the same condition.
In the autumn I am moving to Petersburg and am taking
[ 68 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (r888]
my mother and sister along. I have to do some serious work . . . .
Don't be angry with me and forgive my melancholy, which
I don't find attractive either. It has been evoked in me by cir­
cumstances over which I had no control.
Read me a moral lecture and don't apologize. If you knew
how often I read moral lectures to young people in my letters!
I have even made a habit of it. I have long, redundant, over­
fancy phrases, while you have short ones. Yours come out better .
. . . Goodbye. My greetings to Anna lvanovna and all your
family.
Heartily yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 30) r888J Moscow
. . . The producer considers lvanov1 a superfluous man in the
Turgenev tradition; and Savina asks why Ivanov is a scoundrel.
You write: "You have to endow Ivanov with some sort of
quality which will make it apparent why he has two women
hanging onto him and why he is a scoundrel, and why the doc­
tor is a great man." IE you three people have understood me in
this fashion, it means that my play is no good. My wit and
reason have probably deserted me and I have not put down on
paper what I have wished to write. If Ivanov emerges as a rogue
or superfluous man, and the doctor as a great person, Sara's and
Sasha's love for Ivanov is incomprehensible, obviously my play
hasn't been properly realized and there can be no question of
producing it.
I Ivanov. The main character of this play is a well-educated, liberal, humane
man who, in spite of his excellent intentions, brings ruin on himself and those
who love him. His wife, a Jewess, has given up her family and her fortune to
marry him and, as the play opens, she is dying. Ivanov is in love with Sasha, a
young girl who lives in the neighborhood. As Chekhov says, Sasha "is a woman
who loves men in the period of their decline," and she loves the romantic chance
to redeem a lost man. But he is a lost man, and in the end of the play he
commits suicide.

[ 6g ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [z888]
This is how I understand my characters. Ivanov, an upper­
class gentleman and a university man, was not remarkable in
any way; he had an easily excitable nature, was fervent, with a
strong bent for distractions, and honest and straightforward,
like the majority of the educated upper class. He has been liv­
ing in his country home and serving in the district council.
What he has been doing and how he has been behaving, what
has engrossed and fascinated him, is evident from these follow­
ing words of his, addressed to the doctor (Act I, scene 5), "Don't
marry a Jewess, or a psychopath, or a bluestocking . . . don't
battle alone against thousands, don't tilt against windmills,
don't knock your head against a wall . . . and may God save you
from all kinds of scientific farming, progressive schools, im­
passioned talk . . . . " That's h is past. Sara, who was witness to
his scientific farming and other such ventures, speaks of him to
the doctor: "He is a remarkable man, Doctor, and I am sorry
you did not know him as he was two or three years ago. Now
he is depressed and silent, he doesn't do anything, but . . .
what a charmer he was then! " (Act I, scene 7 ). His past was
admirable, as is the case with the majority of Russian intellec­
tuals. There is scarcely a Russian gentleman or university grad­
uate who could not boast of his past. The present is always
worse than the past; and why? Because our excitability has one
specific quality: it quickly gives way to exhaustion. A man who
has hardly clambered off the school bench, rashly takes on a
burden beyond his powers, simultaneously takes up schools,
peasants, scientific farming and the "Herald of Europe," makes
speeches, writes to the minister, struggles with evil, applauds
the good, does not fall in love simply and any old way, but in­
evitably with either bluestockings or psychopaths . . . or even
prostitutes whom he tries to save from their fate, and so on and
so forth. But hardly has he reached the age of thirty or thirty­
five when he begins to feel weariness and ennui. He hasn't
even cultivated decent moustaches but he says in a tone of
 To ALEXEI SUVORI N [I888]
authority, "Don't get married, old man. You'd better trust my
experience." Or, "After all, in essence what is liberalism?" . . .
Such is the tone of these prematurely exhausted people. Fur­
ther, sighing very positively, he advises, "Don't marry thus and
so (see one of the passages above), but choose something run-of­
the-mill, grayish, without bright colors, without extra flour­
ishes . . . . On the whole, try to plan a quiet life for yourself.
The grayer, the more monotonous the background, the better.
. . . But the life I have been leading, how wearing it has been !­
how wearing!"
Though he feels physical weariness and boredom, he does not
understand what the trouble is and what has happened. In
terror he says to the doctor (Act I, scene 3), "You tell me she is
dying, but I don't feel any love, or pity, but a sort of loneliness
and weariness. If you just judge me as a stranger, you would
probably think this horrible. I myself do not understand what
is happening to me."
When narrow and unconscientious people find themselves in
such a situation, they usually place the blame on their environ­
ment, or enter the ranks of the unwanted and unneeded Ham­
lets, and then their minds are at rest . . . . But Ivanov, who is
straightforward, openly declares to the doctor and audience
that he does not understand himself. "I don't understand, don't
understand . . . " That he really does not understand himself is
apparent from the long monologue in Act III, where, speaking
directly to the audience, he confesses to it, and even weeps!
The change taking place within him outrages his integrity.
He seeks reasons from within and doesn't find them; he begins
to seek outside of himself and finds only an undefined feeling
of guilt. This feeling is Russian. If someone dies in a Russian's
house, or falls sick, or if somebody owes him money, or if he
wants to make a loan-the Russian always feels a sense of guilt.
Ivanov is continually discoursing on some fault or other that
he has, and every jolt increases the sense of guilt. In Act I he
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888]
says, "Probably I am terribly guilty, but my thoughts have be­
come confused, my soul is shackled with a kind of indolence,
and I am not in a strong enough state to understand myself.
. . . " In Act II he says to Sasha, "Day and night my conscience
aches, I feel I am profoundly to blame, but I do not under­
stand where I have done anything wrong."
To exhaustion, boredom and the sense of guilt add still an­
other enemy. That is solitude. \Vere Ivanov a government
official, an actor, a priest or professor, he would get used to his
situation. But he lives on an estate in the country, in a rural
district. The people there are either drunkards or card players,
or such as the doctor. They are not concerned with his feelings
and with the changes occurring within him. He is lonely. The
long winters, the long evenings, the empty garden, the empty
rooms, the morose count, the ailing wife . . . There is nowhere
to go. Hence he is continually tormented by the question of
what to do with himself.
Now for the fifth enemy. Ivanov is tired, doesn't understand
himself, but life is not concerned with these things. It sets its
legitimate demands before him and he-like it or not-must
solve the problems. The sick wife is a problem. It should be
plain from the monologue in Act III and from the contents
of the last two acts how he resolves these problems. Such people
as Ivanov do not settle questions, they are crushed by them.
They are at their wit's end, throw up their hands, their nerves
are on edge, they complain, commit stupidities and in the last
analysis, in giving way to their loose, flabby nerves, the ground
slips from under their feet and they join the ranks of the
"broken" and "misunderstood."
Disillusion, apathy, nervousness and exhaustion are the in­
evitable consequences of inordinate excitability, and this char­
acteristic is inherent in our young people to an extreme degree.
Take literature. Take the present day . . . . Socialism is one
aspect of excitability. . . Where is liberalism? Even Mikhailovski
says there is nothing worth fighting for. And what do all these
[ 72 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I888]
Russian enthusiasms come to? The war has wearied, Bulgaria
has degenerated into a joke . . . .
This weariness (and Dr. Bertenson will corroborate it) doesn't
only express itself in grumbling or in the sensation of boredom.
You cannot chart the life of a tired man this way [here Chekhov
drew a gently undulating line] , for it is very uneven. All these
tired people don' t lose their capacity for emotional stimulation,
but they aren't able to remain at that pitch for any length of
time; rather an ever greater apathy follows every state of ex­
citement: Graphically you can represent it this way [here
Chekhov drew an undulating line interrupted by peaks and
valleys] :
As you can see, the depressed condition doesn't show up as a
gradual drop, but follows a rather different course. When
Sasha declares her love, Ivanov cries in ecstasy, "A new life!"
but by next morning his belief in this life is as sincere as his
belief in fairies (monologue in Act III) ; when his wife's words
outrage him, he is beside himself and in a fit of nerves he flings
a cruel insult at her. People call him a scoundrel. Either this
will prove fatal to his crumbling brain or else will arouse him
to fresh heights and he is done for.
So as not to weary you to a state of exhaustion, I'll transfer
my attention to Dr. Lvov. He is a type of honest, straight­
forward, ardent but narrow and strait-laced person. Clever peo­
ple refer to his kind like this: "He may be stupid, but he's got a
good heart." Anything that resembles breadth of view or spon­
taneity of feeling is foreign to Lvov. He is a stereotype in­
carnate, a walking tendency. He looks out of his narrow frame
on every phenomenon and face, and judges everything precon­
ceivedly. He idolizes the man who exclaims, "Make way for
honest toil!" and anyone who does not echo these sentiments is
a rascal and a kulak. There is no middle way. He was educated
on the novels of Mikhailov; 2 he has seen "new people" on the
stage, i .e., kulaks and children of the age depicted by the new
2 Mikhailov was the author of social-political novels.
[ 73 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888]
playwrights, "moneygrubbers" . . . . He has turned all of this
over in his mind and done it so forcibly that when he reads
"Rudin" he is bound to ask himself, "Is Rudin a scoundrel or
isn't he?" Literature and the stage have so educated him that he
applies this question to every person he meets in life or litera­
ture . . . .
He arrived in the country district already convinced. He
could immediately discern that all the well-to-do peasants were
kulaks, and that Ivanov, whom he couldn't figure out, was a
knave. The man's wife is ill and he visits a rich woman neigh­
bor-isn't he a villain? He is obviously killing his wife in order
to marry the rich woman.
Lvov is honest, direct, and hits straight from the shoulder,
whatever the consequences. If necessary he would throw a bomb
under a carriage, punch an official in the puss, call a man a
scoundrel to his face. He stops at nothing. He never feels pangs
of conscience-he is an "honest toiler" with a mission, and is
out to battle with "the powers of darkness."
We need people like him and for the most part they are lik­
able. It is dishonest as well as pointless to portray them in
caricature, merely to heighten the dramatic interest. True, a
caricature is sharper and therefore easier to understand, but it is
better to blur the portrait than to overdo it .
. . . Now as to the women. \Vhy do they love him? Sara loves
Ivanov because he is a good man, ardent, brilliant and quite as
fervent a talker as Lvov (Act I, scene 7 ) . She loves him as long
as he is high-spirited and attractive; but when his personality
becomes shrouded in gloom and loses its distinctive quality,
she can no longer understand him and at the end of the third
act she unburdens herself directly and sharply.
Sasha is a maiden poured from the newest mold. She is cul­
ti\'atcd, intelligent, honest and so on. Among the blind the
one-eyed is king, and that is why she makes much of the thirty­
five-year-old Ivanov. He is the best person she knows. She knew
him when she was small and observed his activities at close
[ 74 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1888]
range at a period when he was not yet exhausted. He is a friend
of her father's.
She is the type of female whom males do not conquer with the
brilliance of their plumage, nor with their suppleness, nor with
their courage, but with their laments, whimpers and recitals
of failure. This is a woman who loves men in the period of their
decline. Ivanov hardly had time to become disheartened before
the young lady was Johnny-on-the-spot. She was only waiting
for this moment. Goodness, she has such a noble, sacred prob­
lem! She will raise the fallen, get him up onto his feet, give
him happiness . . . . It is not Ivanov she loves, but this prob­
lem . . . . Sasha struggles with Ivanov a whole year but he just
will not rise from the dead and keeps sinking lower.
My fingers ache, and so I'll conclude . . . . If all the above­
mentioned points are not in the play, then there's no sense even
talking about producing it. It would mean I had not written
what I had intended. Take the play back. I do not wish to
preach heresy on the stage. If the audience leaves the theatre
with the consciousness that Ivanovs are villains, while the Doc­
tor Lvovs are great people, I will be forced to resign from the
theatre and send my pen to hell. And you can't accomplish any­
thing with revisions and interpolations. No revisions can make
a great man step down from h is pedestal and no interpolations
can turn a scoundrel into an ordinary mortal. Sasha can be
brought on at the final curtain, but I simply cannot add any
more to Ivanov and Lvov. I don't know why. If I add anything,
I merely feel that I will spoil it even more. Please believe my
instincts, which after all are those of an author.
. . . Don't for any reason whatever allow Kiselevski to play
the count! My play caused him a good deal of grief in Moscow!
Wherever he went he complained he had been forced to act
this son-of-a-bitch role. Why should I distress him again?
. . . God, how I must have wearied you with this letter!
Enough, basta!
Happy N ew Year! Hurrah!
[ 75 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r888]
You lucky ones, you will be drinking, or have already drunk,
champagne, while I indulge in slops!
. . . My compliments to you all, and I kiss Anna Ivanovna's
hand. Keep well.
Your
A. Chekhov

If the audience does not understand "blood and iron," then

the hell with it, i.e., with the blood in which there is no iron.
I have read over this letter. In characterizing Ivanov the
word "Russian" occurs frequently. Don't be angry on its ac­
count. When I wrote the play I had in view only what really
mattered, that is, only typical Russian traits. In that l ight, ex­
cessive excitability, the sense of guilt, and the inclination to
weariness are purely Russian. Germans never get worked up
and therefore Germany knows neither disillusioned people nor
superfluous and overweary ones. . . . The excitation of the
French always remains at the same level, without acute rises or
falls, and therefore the Frenchman, until advanced senility sets
in, is normally excited. In other words, the Frenchman doesn't
have to waste his energy on inordinate excitement; he dispenses
his strength with common sense, and that is why he never goes
bankrupt.
In my play, naturally I did not employ such terms as Russian,
excitability, exhaustion and so on-in full confidence that the
reader and spectator would be attentive and would not require
a sign reading: Dis ain't no melon, dis is a plum." I tried to
express myself simply, did not resort to deceptions and had no
suspicion that my readers and spectators would trip up my
characters in every phrase they uttered, stress the talks about
the dowry, etc.
I was not able to write the play I wished to write. Of course
it's a pity. In my imagination Ivanov and Lvov appear as living
people. I am telling you in all sincerity and in accordance with
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r88g]
the dictates of my conscience that these people were born in my
head and not out of ocean spray, or preconceived ideas, not out
of "intellectuality," and not by sheer accident. They are the
result of observation and the study of life. They are still in my
brain and I feel I have not lied, not by a single centimetre, nor
have I been too smart-alecky by a single iota. If these figures
have emerged on paper l ifeless and indistinct, it is not they
who are to blame, but my lack of ability to convey my ideas.
Seems as though it's too soon for me to take up play writing.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
january 7 J r889J Moscow
. . . Davidov is playing Ivanov. ·which is to say I must write
as tersely and colorlessly as possible, remembering that all
subtleties and "nuances" will merge into a gray mass and pro­
duce nothing but tedium. Can Davidov actually be first tender
and then raging? \Vhen he plays serious roles, a little grinding
machine sits in his throat, monotonous and weak voiced, and
performs in his stead. . . .
Ivanov has two long monologues which are decisive for the
play: one in Act III and the other at the end of Act IV. The
first should be sung, the second read savagely. Both are im­
possible for Davidov. He will deliver both monologues "in­
telligently," i.e., with overwhelming languor.
. . . I would with great pleasure read an essay before the
Literary Society whence carne the idea of writing "Ivanov."
I would make a public confession. I have long cherished the
audacious notion of summing up all that has hitherto been writ­
ten about complaining and melancholy people, and would have
my Ivanov proclaim the ultimate in such writing. It seems to
me that all Russian novelists and playwrights have felt a need
to depict the mournful man and that they have all written in-
[ 77 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I889]
stinctively, without having definite images or a point of view.
I tried consciously to get on the right track, and practically did
so, but my manner of presentation is not worth a hoot in hell.
It would have ben much better to wait! I rejoice that I did not
heed Grigorovich's advice two or three years ago and write a
nm·el! I can imagine how much good stuff I would have spoiled
if I had listened to him. He says "talent and freshness will over­
come everything." Talent and freshness can spoil a great deal­
that would be more true. Besides an abundance of material and
talent, other qualities of no less importance are also required.
"\Vhat you must have is maturity-that's one; second, you must
have a feeling of personal freedom, and this feeling began
kindling within me only a short time ago. I hadn't had it pre­
Yiously; frivolity, carelessness and lack of respect for my work
had successfully served instead.
Self-made intellectuals buy at the price of their youth what
gently born and bred writers have been endowed with by
nature. Go ahead and write a story about a young man, the son
of a serf, an ex-small shopkeeper, a choir boy, high school and
university student, brought up on respect for rank, kissing
priests' hands, and the worship of others' ideas, offering thanks
for every mouthful of bread, often whipped, going to school
without shoes, fighting, torturing animals, fond of dining with
rich relatives, playing the hypocrite before God and people
without any cause, except out of a consciousness of his own
insignificance-then tell how this young man presses the slave
out of himself one drop at a time and how he wakes up one fine
morning to feel that in his veins flows not the blood of a slave,
but real human blood. . . .
Keep well then, and forgive the long letter.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

[ 78 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [z889]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
March I I, z889, Moscow
. . . What do you know? I am writing a novel ! ! I am keeping
at it, but can't see the end in sight. I have begun doing it, i.e.,
the novel, all over again, revising and abridging considerably
what had already been written. I have already clearly sketched
in nine individuals. What a plot! I have called it "Tales from
the Life of my Friends" and am writing it in the form of sepa­
rate, complete stories, tightly held together by the common
basis of plot, idea and characters. There is a special chapter
for each story. Don't think that the novel will consist of odds
and ends. N o indeed. I t will be a real novel, a complete whole,
in which each person will be organically indispensable . . . .
I am having a hard time coping with technical problems. I
am still weak in this quarter and have the feeling I am making
loads of mistakes. There are going to be overlong passages, and
inanities. Faithless wives, suicides, kulaks, virtuous peasants,
devoted slaves, moralizing old ladies, kind old nurses, rustic
wits, red-nosed captains and "new" people I shall endeavor to
avoid, although in spots I do stray into conventional types. . . .
By the way, amongst your papers and magazines there was a
quotation from some newspaper praising German housemaids
for working all day long, like convict labor, and getting only
two or three rubles a month pay for it. "New Times" endorses
this praise and adds as its own commentary that one of our mis­
fortunes is that we keep many unnecessary servants. In my opin­
ion the Germans are scoundrels and bad political economists.
In the first place one should not talk about servants in a tone
implying they are criminals; in the second place, servants are
worthy people and composed of the same flesh and blood as
Bismarck; they are not slaves, but free workers; in the third
place, the better labor is paid, the happier the country is, and
each of us should strive to see that labor is paid better. Not to
speak of the Christian point of view! As to unnecessary servants,
well, they are kept only where there is plenty of money and
[ 79 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I889]
are paid more than the heads of departments. They should not
be taken into account, for they constitute an accidental phe­
nomenon and not an organic one.
\Vhy don't you come to Moscow? How well we would get
along together!
Your
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN

Dear A lexei Sergeyevich,

I am writing you upon my return from a crabbing expedition.
The weather is superb. Everything sings, blooms and gleams
with beauty. The garden is already completely green, and even
the oaks have blossomed forth. The busy worms have given a
white coat to the trunks of the apple, pear, cherry and plum
trees. All these trees bloom white, which makes them startlingly
like brides in their wedding dresses: white frocks, white flowers
and a look of innocence, as though they were ashamed to have
people stare at them. Every day billions of beings are born.
Nightingales, bitterns, cuckoos and other winged creatures lift
their voices night and day, with frogs to accompany them. Every
hour of the day and night has some particular quality. Thus,
at nine in the evening the garden literally roars with May
beetles. The nights are moonlit, the days bright. What with all
the foregoing I am in a good mood, and were it not for the
coughing artist and the mosquitoes, against which even Elpe's
prescription is no help, I would be a perfect Potemkin. Nature
is an excellent sedative. It pacifies, i.e., makes a man carefree.
And being carefree is of the essence in this world. Only such
people are able to look upon things clearly, to be just and to
work properly--of course, this pertains only to clever and
[ So ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I889]
generous people; egoists and empty heads are indifferent enough
as it is.
You write that I have grown lazy. This doesn't mean I have
become any lazier than I used to be. I do as much work now as
I did three or five years ago. Working and looking like a work­
ing person at intervals from nine in the morning to dinner and
from evening tea until retiring have become habits with me,
and in this respect I am like a regular official. If two stories a
month don't emerge out of my efforts, or 1 0,ooo yearly income,
it is not laziness that is to blame, but my basic psychological
makeup; for medicine I am not fond enough of money, and for
literature I don't have sufficient passion, and, consequently,
talent. My creative fire burns at a slow, even pace, without flash
and crackle, although sometimes I may write fifty or sixty pages
at one swoop in one night or, absorbed by my work, I will keep
myself from going to bed when I feel sleepy; for the same rea­
son I am not remarkable either for stupidity or brilliance. I am
afraid that in this respect I am very like Goncharov,1 whom I
don't l ike although he stands miles above me in talent. I don't
have much passion; add to this fact the following symptom of a
psychopathic condition: for the past two years and for no
earthly reason I have become sick of seeing my works in print,
have grown indifferent to reviews, talks on literature, slanders,
successes, failures, and big fees-in short, I have become an
utter fool. There is a sort of stagnation in my soul. I explain
this by the stagnation in my personal life. I am not disillusioned,
not weary, not dispirited, but everything has j ust become less
interesting somehow. I must add some gunpowder to my
makeup.
Imagine, the first act of my "\Vood Demon" is ready. It's a
fair piece of work, though long. I feel a much greater sense of
power than I did while I was writing "Ivanov." The play will
be ready by the beginning of J une. Look out, you directors, the
s .ooo are mine! The play is awfully queer, and I am amazed
1 Goncharov was best known as the author of the famous novel Oblomov.
 To ALEXEI SUVORil' [r889]
that such peculiar things can issue from my pen. My one fear
is that the censor won't allow it. I am also writing a novel that
is more to my liking and closer to my heart than the ""Wood
Demon," which obliges me to resort to slyness and act like an
idiot. Last night I recalled that I had promised Varlamov I'd
write him a one-act comedy. I did so today and sent it off. You
see what a ferment goes on within me! And you write that I've
grown lazy!
. . . My brother writes that he has tortured himself with his
play. I am glad. Let him. He viewed "Tatiana Repina" and
"Ivanov" at the theatre with frightful condescension and during
the intermissions drank cognac and deigned to criticize graci­
ously. All these people judge plays in a manner which supposes
they are ,·ery easy to write. They aren' t aware, either, that writ­
ing a good play is difficult, and writing a bad one is twice as
hard and a horrible job. I would like the entire public merged
into a single person and ha\·e it write a play, whereupon you
and I would sit in a box and hiss it. . . .
Please bring me some forbidden books and newspapers from
abroad. ·were it not for our artist, I would go with you . . . .
If you should play roulette, put twenty-five francs on for me
just for luck.
Well, God grant you health and all the best.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
kfay I), r889, Sumy
If you haven't left yet for abroad, I will reply to your letter
on Bourget, ! and will be brief. Among other things you write :
"Let us pursue the science of matter as usual, but let us also
1 Paul Bourget, the French novelist.
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r889]
keep for ourselves a place of refuge from this everlasting con­
cern with matter." The science of matter is being pursued as
usual, and the places of refuge are also on hand, and I don't
think anybody is intruding there. If there is any intrusion, it
will certainly be that of the natural sciences and not of the
sacred places where one can take refuge from them. In my letter
the problem was put more correctly and inoffensively than in
yours, and I am closer to the "life of the spirit" than you. You
speak of the right of one or another field of learning to exist,
while I, on the other hand, speak not of any right, but of peace.
I don't want people to see war where there isn't any. Branches
of knowledge have always got along peaceably. Anatomy and
elegant letters have an equally illustrious ancestry, the same
aims, the same enemy-the devil-and there is no reason for
them to battle with each other. They don't struggle against each
other for existence. If a man understands the circulatory system,
he is rich; if in addition he also studies the h istory of religion
and knows the ballad "I Recall the \Vond'rous Moment," he is
the gainer thereby; accordingly we are treating only of plus
quantities. That is why geniuses have never struggled and in
Goethe the naturalist lived in harmony along with the poet.
It is not that branches of knowledge fight with one another,
not poetry with anatomy, but fallacies, i.e., people. When a man
does not understand a thing, he feels discord within himself: he
seeks causes for this dissonance not in himself, as he should, but
outside himself, and the result is war with something he does
not understand. During the Middle Ages alchemy developed
gradually, naturally and peacefully into chemistry; astrology
into astronomy; the monks did not understand what was taking
place, saw the process as war, and so gave battle . . . .
Bourget is fascinating to the Russian reader, like thunder
after a drought, and it is easy to understand why. The reader of
his novel saw that the characters and author were wiser than
he, and observed a life richer than his own; whereas Russian
[ 83 ]
 To MIKHAIL GALKIN-VRASKI [1890]
fiction writers are stupider than the readers, their characters
are pale and unimportant, the life of which they treat is barren
and uninteresting. The Russian writer lives in a miserable hole,
eats mold, is fond of low creatures and laundresses, doesn't
know history, or geography, or the natural sciences, or the reli­
gion of his own country, or administration, or navigation . . .
in short, doesn't know beans. In comparison with Bourget he is
a web-footed goose and that's all. One can understand why
people should be fond of Bourget. . . .
. . . I am bored. . . .
I'll soon be sending you a letter in French and German. My
compliments to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya.
Have a fine trip.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MIKHAIL GALKIN-VRASKJl
january 20} r89o} St. Petersburg
Dear Sir}
As I propose in the spring of the present year to take a trip
to Eastern Siberia with scientific and literary aims in view, and
as I desire among other things to visit the island of Sakhalin,
both in its central and southern portions, I have made so bold as
to request most humbly that Your Excellency lend any support
in my behalf you may find possible toward the attainment of
the aims I have mentioned above.
1 Chekhov took this letter to the office of the Main Prison Administration, of
which Galkin -Vraski was the head. He explained to Galkin-Vraski, in great
detail, the aims o[ his journey and asked permission to inspect prisons and
industries. Galkin-Vraski was so agreeable and polite that Chekhov felt sure he
would get the aid he needed. But Galkin-Vraski did not help him and, after
the Bolshevik government opened the Prison Administration's archives, it was
found that he had given orders that Chekhov was not to be allowed to see
certain categories of political prisoners and exiles.
 To ALEXEI PLESCHCHEYEV [r890]
With sincere respect and devotion, I have the honor to be
the most humble servant of Your Excellency,
Anton Chekhov

To ALEXEI PLESHCH EYEV

February IJ, r89o, Moscow
. . . You really didn't like the " Kreutzer Sonata"? I won't
say it is a work of genius, or a work for all eternity, for I am no
judge of these matters, but in my opinion, amongst the mass
of things being written here and abroad, you will hardly find
anything its equal in seriousness of conception and beauty of
execution, not to mention its artistic merits, which in spots are
astounding. You must thank the story for just the one point
that it is extremely thought-provoking. As I read it I could
hardly keep myself from exclaiming, "That's true! " or "That's
ridiculous! " Of course it does have some very annoying defects.
Besides those you enumerated, there is still another point that
one won't readily forgive its author, to wit, Tolstoy's stubborn
brashness in treating of things he doesn't know and doesn't
understand. Thus, his pronouncements on syphilis, foundling
homes, women's repugnance to cohabitation and so on are not
only debatable but also show him to be an ignoramus who has
never taken the trouble during the course of his long life to
read two or three books written by specialists. Still, these defects
fly like feathers before the wind; considering the story's great
qualities you just do not notice them, or if you do, it is only to
be peeved that the story did not avoid the fate of all works cre­
ated by man, none of which are perfect or free from error.
So my Petersburg friends and acquaintances are all angry
with me? Why? Because I didn't bore them much with my
presence, which has been a bore to myself for so long! Calm
their minds, tell them that I ate a lot of dinners and suppers
there, but did not captivate a single lady, that every day I felt
[ ss ]
 To ALEXEI PLESCHCHEYEV [I8go]
sure I would be leaving on that evening's express, but that I was
detained by my friends and "The Marine Miscellany" which I
had to lea£ through in its entirety, going back to I 8:J2. I did
as much in one month in St. Pete as my young friends would
not be able to do in a year. However, let them rave! . . .
Goodbye, dear fellow, please pay us a visit. Regards to your
family. My sister and mother send their compliments.
A. Chekhov

[ 86 ]
 II

1 8go- 1 897

Sakhalin was a half forgotten island off the Pacific coast of

Siberia, used by the Czarist government as a colony for crim­
inals and political prisoners. Chekhov decided in 1 8go to make
a trip to Sakhalin. Up to that time he had shown no interest in
penology, had not belonged to any organizations doing re­
habilitation work or prison reform, had little interest in Siberia.
The climate of the flat lands of Siberia in early spring was
obviously too harsh for a man with tuberculosis, the trip was
expensive and Chekhov didn't have much money, and the three
months' journey from Moscow to Sakhalin had to be made
under incredibly primitive and uncomfortable condition. 1
Why did he go? He gave many answers to his bewildered and
protesting friends. Sometimes he said he was worried about his
work: "Sketches, stupidities, vaudevilles, 'A Tiresome Tale' . . .
paper filled with writing, the P ushkin Prize2 • • and all the
•

time not a single line which has any serious literary importance
in my own eyes." Sometimes he said he was worried about the
staleness of his life in Moscow: "Even if I get nothing out of i t
all there are bound t o be two o r three days which I will re­
member all my life with joy or grief."Sometimes he said he was
going to Sakhalin to pay his debt to medicine, but some of his
1 Fifty years later, I made almost the same trip across Siberia. Even though
I went in a good airplane and took only fourteen days, it was still rough going.
2 Chekhov had won the l'ushkin Prize but the judges had made the whole
thing mingy by cutting the money award in half.
 z8go-z897
friends thought he was running away from a love affair that he
was afraid of.
There is nothing in the Chekhov letters or notes or in the
memoirs of his friends that truly explains the reasons for this
daring journey. Perhaps it was undertaken simply out of pity
for the people on Sakhalin and a humane desire to help them,
but, on the other hand, the trip was made at a time when many
intellectuals were accusing him of being a man without con­
victions, without social ideals. Perhaps he felt--certainly he
said it often enough in other places-that ideals are proved in
action and not in fireplace chit-chat. \Vhatever the reasons, or
mixture of reasons, he took off for Sakhalin in the spring of
1 Sgo.

The letters about the journey speak for themselves. The trip
proved to be a kind of catharsis for Chekhov. The misery of the
people on Sakhalin put his own physical-social-literary problems
in their proper place. He said, for example, that before he went
to Sakhalin the publication of The Kreutzer Sonata was a
tremendous event, but that after the trip the book made him
laugh.
Chekhov's book, Sakhalin Island, is said to be an excellent ex­
ample of a creative writer making use of research material. The
book did ha,·e influence: it caused so much comment that a
special government investigating committe was sent to Sakhalin.
There is no record that the committee accomplished anything,
and Chekhov's book was soon forgotten. But what he had seen
on the island of Sakhalin was important to Chekhov for the
rest of his life.

In 1 Sg2 Chekhov bought a country house for his family in

the village of Melikhovo, about fifty miles from Moscow. The
i\lelikhm·o letters are happy letters. Even his father, Pavel
Chekhov, finally found a niche for himself: he became the vil­
lage choirmaster and the peasants understood and accepted this
[ ss ]
 I8go-I89]
old man who was so like themselves. Chekhov, as the years went
on, took an active part in village life. He doctored the peasants,
he was a man of importance in local government, he built three
schools with his own money, and he worked hard on projects
for new roads and new housing. These were good and fruitful
years in Melikhovo. Much of his very best work was done in this
period.
In 1 894 • with Suvorin, he took his second trip to Europe.
\Vestern Europe was an impressive place for a Russian. The
beauty of the cities, the comfort of hotels and railroads and
houses, the easy freedom of intellectual life lived without the
fears and pressures of censorship--C hekhov was enchanted with
all of it. But it is amusing to watch the enchantment wear off.
He soon begins to tire of the beauties of Vienna and Venice
and to remember the rough virtues of home. It has been said
that Russians are the greatest complainers in history, but what­
ever it is that holds them to their land holds them forever.
Homesick, Chekhov went back to Melikhovo.
Melikhovo, like all the houses of the Chekhov family, was
always full of guests. One of the frequent visitors was Lydia
Mizinova, a beautiful and charming young girl, a friend of
Maria Chekhova's. Letters from Lydia Mizinova, found in re­
cently opened archives, are said to prove that she was very much
in love with Chekhov. But he was not in love with her. His
letters to her are affectionate and flirtatious but they make clear
that whatever she wanted, he wanted nothing. Lydia consoled
herself with the painter Levitan. But Levitan, a famous beau,
never consoled any woman for very long and so, in time, Lydia
moved from Levitan to the novelist Potapenko. Chekhov
watched this affair carefully and when he sat down to write
The Seagull,3 he very possibly made use of the Lydia-Potapenko
relationship. Trigorin, in The Seagull, was so like Potapenko
3 The Seagull was, of course, a famous failure in its first production in
St. Petersburg. Two years later the newly formed Moscow Art Theatre produced
it with great success.

[ 8g ]
 r8go-r897
that Suvorin spotted the resemblance immediately. Chekhov
altered Trigorin in the next version of the play.
The Seagull was Chekhov's third full length play. (The
earlier Wood Demon would later become Uncle Vanya. ) The
play does not reach the artistic purity and depth of The Three
Sisters, but it is full of good things, and a daring departure in
stage technique.
The serious theatre can be uncomfortable. How often we go
to a play with high expectations which, as the evening wears on,
turn into a kind of impatient discomfort. \Ve grow conscious
of strains and stresses, and something irritates us although we
do not know its name. But sometimes we go to a play and after
the curtain has been up five minutes we have a sense of being
able to settle back in the arms of the playwright. Instinctively
we know that the playwright knows his business. Neatness in
design and execution is, after all, only the proper use of ma­
terial, but it has a beauty of its own. It is exhilarating to watch
a good workman at work, to see each detail fall into useful place,
to know that the shortest line, the smallest stage movement, has
an end in view and is not being used to trick us or deceive or
pull fashionable wool over our eyes. It is then that we say to
ourselves, this writer knows what he is doing, he has paid us the
compliment of learning his trade. To such writers, in whatever
field they be, we give our full attention and they deserve it.
It is that way with Chekhov. The smallest detail has meaning.
In The Seag11ll, for example, Arkadina, many years before the
play begins, married a man whose social standing she consid­
ered too low. This seems of no importance-the line about it is
thrown away-until the third act when the whole Hamlet­
Gertrude theme of the play is given new meaning: Arkadina,
turning on her son, calls him a "Kiev artisan," which is what she
had once called his father. And suddenly we understand that
the son never had a chance: his father was not a gentleman to
Arkadina and the child was made to pay for it from the day he
was born. Chekhov knew all there was to know about his char-
[ go ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [z890]
acters and every line he wrote advanced the play and moved
it to its end. It is strange that neither his interpreters nor his
imitators have been impressed with the fine, hard core of the
design.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
March 9, z89o, Moscow
March gth, 40 Martyrs
and 1 o,ooo skylarks
We are both mistaken about Sakhalin, but you probably
more than I. I am leaving in the firm conviction that my ex­
pedition will not yield anything valuable in the way of either
literature or science, as I haven't enough knowledge, time or
pretensions. I haven't the plans of a Humboldt 1 or even of a
Kennan.2 I want to write a couple of hundred pages and thereby
atone in some degree for my medicine, which, as you know, I
have piggishly neglected.
Perhaps I shall not be able to write anything worthwhile, but
the trip still has not lost its allure for me: in reading, looking
about and listening, my researches will teach me a great deal.
Although I have not yet left, thanks to the books I have gone
through, I have been forced to learn much that people should
be beaten for not knowing and which in my ignorance I had
not known before this. Moreover, I am of the opinion that the
trip will turn out to be six months at hard labor, physical and
mental, and for me this is also essential, as I am a Little Russian
and have already begun to get lazy. I have to discipline myself.
Though the trip may be nonsense, stubbornness, a whim, still,
think it over and tell me what I have to lose by going. Time?
1 Alexander H umboldt, the German scientist, made a journey to Asiatic
Russia in 1829 to get geological and geophysical data.
2 George Kennan (1845-1924) , an American engineer and explorer who, i n
1 886, made a famous tour o f Siberian prisons. He was a great-uncle of George
Kennan, former U. S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union.
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r8go]
Money? Will I have to undergo hardships? My time isn't worth
anything, I'll never have any money anyway; as to hardships,
I'll be traveling by horse for twenty-five or thirty days, not
longer, and all the rest of the time I'll be sitting on the deck
of a steamer or in a room and will be bombarding you with
letters. Let's say I find the trip absolutely unrewarding. I still
feel there are bound to be two or three days which I'll remem­
ber all my life with the greatest pleasure or the greatest pain,
etc. That's how I figure it, my dear sir. All I say may be uncon­
vincing, but certainly you too write just as unconvincingly.
For example, you write that Sakhalin is of no use or interest
to anybody. Do you really think that's so? Sakhalin is useless and
uninteresting only to a society that does not exile thousands of
people to it and spends millions maintaining it. Except for
Australia in the old days and Cayenne today, Sakhalin is the
only place where one can study convict colonization: all Europe
is interested in it, but it's no use to us? No more than twenty­
five or thirty years back our Russian researchers in Sakhalin did
a tremendous job, a job that should make us proud of being
men, but we have no use for this sort of thing, have we, nor do
we know what kind of people we've got there; so we just sit
shut within our four walls and complain of the bad job that
God has made of man. Sakhalin is a place of intolerable suffer­
ings, the kind that only free and unfree people together can in­
flict. Men there and elsewhere have solved terribly serious prob­
lems and are doing so now. I regret I am not sentimental, or I
would say that we ought to journey to places like Sakhalin to
worship as Turks go to Mecca; while sailors and penologists in
particular ought to look upon Sakhalin as military men regard
Sevastopol. From the books I have read and am now reading it
is evident that we have let millions of people rot in prison, let
them rot to no good purpose, barbarously, without giving the
matter a thought; we have driven people in chains through
the cold thousands of miles, infected them with syphilis, de­
praved them, multiplied criminals and shifted the blame onto
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I8go]
the red-nosed prison overseers. Now, all educated Europe knows
it is not the overseers who are the guilty parties, but all of us;
but this does not interest us in the slightest. The celebrated
sixties did nothing for the sick and imprisoned, thereby trans­
gressing against the most important commandment of Christian
civilization. In our times something is being done for the sick,
but nothing at all for the imprisoned; penology just doesn't
interest our jurists. No, I assure you, Sakhalin is of use and of
interest and my sole regret is that it is I who goes there and not
someone else who knows more about the business and is more
capable of arousing public interest. My going won't mean very
much . . . .
We have been having tremendous student riots. They began
at Petrovski Academy, where the authorities banned the admis­
sion of young ladies into student quarters, suspecting these lat­
ter not only of prostitution but also of political activity. From
the academy it spread to the university where, surrounded by
Hectors and Achilleses heavily armed and mounted, and equip­
ped with lances, the students are making the following demands:
1. Complete autonomy of the universities.
2. Complete freedom of teaching.
3· Free access to the university without distinction of creed,
nationality, sex and social background.
4 · Admission of Jews to the u niversity without restrictions
and equal rights for them with the other students.
5· Freedom of assemblage and recognition of student asso-
ciations.
6. Establishment of a university and student tribunal.
7 · Abolition of the police function of the inspectors.
8 . Lowering of fees for courses.
This I have copied from a manifesto, with some abridge­
ments. I think most of the fuss has been kicked up by the bunch
of [ . ] and the sex that craves admission to the university,
. .

although it is five times worse prepared than the male. The lat-
[ 93 ]
 To :\lODEST TCHAIKOVSKI [18go]
ter is miserably enough prepared as it is, and its university
career is, with rare exceptions, inglorious.
. . . I sympathize with Hay 3 with all my heart, but he is
grieving needlessly. Syphilis is now treated very easily and we
will cure him-no doubt of that.
Along with the books please send my one-acter "The ·wed­
ding." That's all. . . .
Keep well and happy. I put as much credence in old age
creeping up on you as I do in the fourth dimension. First, you
are not yet an old man; you think and work enough for ten and
your ability to reason is certainly far from senile; second, and
this I am prepared to state under oath, you have no illnesses
except migraine headaches; third, old age is bad only for bad
old people, and wearisome only to the weary, while you are
good and anything but weary. Fourth, the difference between
youth and age is extremely relative and conditional. Saying
which, allow me to express my admiration for you by throwing
myself into a deep pit and knocking out my brains.
Your
A. Chekhov
The other day I wrote you of Ostrovski. He has been to see
me again. What shall I tell him? . . .

To MODEST TCHAIKOVSKI
JHarch 16, 18go, Aioscow
. . . I have been staying horne without budging and reading
about the price of Sakhalin coal per ton in 1 86 3 and the price
of coal in Shanghai, reading of latitudes and NO, NW, SO and
other winds that will be whistling about my head when I ob­
serve my own seasickness along the Sakhalin shores. I am read­
ing about the soil, subsoil, sandy clay and clayey sand. However,
I haven't yet gone out of my mind and even sent a story yester-
3 Hay, a contribu tor to New Times.

[ 94 ]
 To IVA:-� LEO:-JTIEV [I8go]
day to "New Times" and will soon be dispatching the "Wood
Demon" to the "Northern Herald"-and doing so most un­
willingly, as I don't like seeing my plays in print.
In a week and a half or two weeks my little book 1 dedicated
to Pyotr Ilich will be coming out. I would feel it an honor to
stand on guard, night and day, in front of any house where he
happened to be living, so profoundly do I esteem him. If one
were to speak of ranks in Russian art, he now occupies the
place next to Leo Tolstoy, who has long stood at its head. (Third
place I bestow on Repin2 and take N o. g8 for myself.) I have
long held within me the daring dream of dedicating something
to him. Such a step, I thought, would be the least I could do,
inadequate as it might be, to express the tremendous critical
approval in which I, a writing man, hold his magnificent talent;
an approval I canot commit to paper because of my lack of a
musical gift. To my regret I had to realize this dream through
the medium of a book that I do not consider my best. It is
composed of especially gloomy psychopathological sketches and
bears a gloomy title that makes my dedication alien to Peter
Ilich's taste and that of his admirers.
You are a Chekhist? I thank you humbly. No, you are not a
Chekhist, but simply indulgent. Keep well. My best wishes.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To IVAN LEONTIEV (SHCHEGLOV)

March 22, I8go, .i\Ioscow
How are you, dear Johnchik,
Thanks for your long letter and for its true kindness. I shall
be glad to read your war story. Is it appearing in the Easter
1 Gloomy People, a collection of Chekhov stories.
2 Repin, the most famous of Russian painters, the man whose traditional and
conservative work is still overrated in the Soviet Union.

[ 95 ]
 To IVA:'�� LEO:'\TIEV [r89o]
issue? I haven't read anything of yours, or of mine, for a long
time.
You write that you wish to pick a violent quarrel with me
"especially on matters of morality and artistry," you speak
vaguely of certain crimes I have committed which merit a
friendly reproach and threaten me even "with influential news­
paper criticism." If you cross out the word "artistry," the entire
phrase between quotation marks becomes clearer, but acquires
a significance which, to speak frankly, perplexes me consider­
ably. John, what is it all about? How is this matter to be under­
stood? Do you mean to say my understanding of morality puts
me in a different camp from people like you and even to such
an extent as to merit a reproach and the special attention of
influential criticism? I cannot suppose you have in view some
sort of abstruse lofty morality, since there are no low, high or
medium moralities, but only one, namely, that given us in his
day by Jesus Christ and which now deters you, and me . . .
from stealing, offending, lying and so on. In all my life, if I
can rely upon the repose of my own conscience, neither by word,
deed or intention, nor in my stories or plays have I coveted my
neighbor's wife, or his manservant, or his ox or his ass, or any­
thing that is my neighbor's; I have not stolen, dissembled,
flattered the powerful or sought their favor, have not black­
mailed or lived on other people. It is true that in idleness I
have wasted by substance, laughing madly, overeating, drinking
to excess, have played the prodigal, but surely all of this is per­
sonal to me and does not deprive me of the right to think that
in the morality section I do not deviate much either up or down
from the normal. No notable feats, no mean acts-that is how
I am, like the majority; my sins are many, but in morality we
are quits, since I am atoning lavishly for those sins through the
discomforts they bring in their wake. If you really wish to quar­
rel with me violently because I am not a hero, then throw your
savagery out of the window and substitute for the harsh words
your amiable tragic laugh-that would be better.
[ g6 ]
 To IVAN LEONTIEV [z890]
But that word "artistry" I fear as merchants' wives are sup­
posed to fear bogey men. When people talk to me of what is
artistic or inartistic, of what is stageable or not stageable, of
tendency, realism and so forth I am at my wit's end, assent
irresolutely and reply with banal half-truths that aren't worth
a hoot. I divide all productions into two categories : those I like
and those I don't like. I have no other criterion, and if you
ask me why I like Shakespeare and don't like Zlatovratskil, I
cannot tell you. Perhaps in time, when I get smarter, I will
acquire a criterion, but in the meantime all talks about "ar­
tistry" only weary me and seem a continuation of those scholas­
tic polemics with which people wore themselves out during the
Middle Ages.
If criticism, whose authority you refer to, knows what you
and I do not know, why has it been silent until now, why
doesn't it reveal the truth and the immutable laws to us? If it
knew, then believe me, it would long since have shown us the
way and we would know what to do, Fofanov2 would not be in
an insane asylum, Garshin 3 would still be alive . . . and we
wouldn't find existence as boring and tedious as it is now. You
wouldn't be lured into the theatre and I to Sakhalin. But crit­
icism is solidly silent or actually disposes of us with idle, rub­
bishy prattle. If it seems influential to you, it is only because it
is stupid, immodest, arrogant and noisy, because it rumbles like
an empty barrel which you can't avoid hearing.
However, let's spit on all this and sing a tune from another
opera. Please do not have any literary hopes for my Sakhalin
expedition. I am not going to observe or get impressions, but
simply to be able to live for a half year as I have not lived
hitherto. Don't expect anything from me, old man; if I have
the time and ability to achieve anything, then glory be to
1 Zlatovratski, a popular author of the period.
2 Fofanov, the poet, was a contributor to New Times.
3 Garshin, a well·known writer who had committed suicide.

[ 97 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (r8go]
God-if not, don't find fault. I'll be leaving after Easter
Week. . . .
Be a nice little staff captain with moustachios and keep well
and happy.
Your
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
April r, r8go, 1\Ioscow
Christ has risen ! Happy Easter, dear fellow, to all of you,
and every good wish for your happiness.
I am leaving during St. Thomas week or somewhat later,
depending on when the Kama opens for traffic. I am soon going
to make the round of farewell visits. Before my departure I
shall be asking you for a correspondent's blank and some money.
Please send the first, but as for the second I must wait a little
since I don't know how much I'll require. I am now gathering
all the capital I have any claim to from the far ends of the
earth, have not got it together yet, but when I do I'll be able
to tell how much more I need.
My family is taken care of until October-in this regard my
mind is already at ease . . . .
You scold me for objectivity, calling it indifference to good
and evil, lack of ideals and ideas and so on. ·when I portray
horse thieves, you would want me to say that stealing horses is
an evil. But certainly this has always been obvious without my
saying so. Let the jury pass judgment on them; it is my business
solely to show them as they are. Here is the way I write: you
are considering the subject of horse thieves, so bear in mind
they are not beggars out well-fed people, that they are members
of a cult and that with them stealing horses is not just theft
but a passion. Of course it would be nice to combine art with
sermonizing, but that kind of thing I find extraordinarily diffi­
cult and well-nigh impossible because of technical considera-
[ g8 ]
 To VUKOL LAVROV [z8go]
tions. Certainly if I am to depict horse thieves in seven hundred
lines, I must speak and think as they would and feel with their
feelings; I add a subjective point of view if I don't and then
my characters will grow dim and the story won't be as compact
as all little short stories should be. When I write I count upon
my reader fully, assuming that he himself will add the subjec­
tive elements that are lacking in the telling.
All good wishes.
Your
A. Chekhov

To VUKOL LAVROV
April zo, z8go, Moscow
Vukol Mikhailovich,
In the March issue of "Russian Thought," on page 1 47 of
the biographical section, I happened to come upon the follow­
ing sentence : "Only yesterday even the pontiffs of unprincipled
writing, such as Messrs. Yasinski and Chekhov, whose names
. . . " etc. Generally one does not reply to criticism, but in the
present instance the question is perhaps not one of criticism
but simply of calumny. As a matter of fact I would not even
reply to slander, except that in a few days I shall be leaving
Russia for a long period, perhaps never to return, and I do not
have the will power to refrain from a reply.
I have never been an unprincipled writer, or what amounts
to the same thing, an unscrupulous person.
True, my literary career has consisted of an uninterrupted
series of mistakes, sometimes crude ones, but this can be ex­
plained by the dimensions of my talent, and certainly not by
whether I am good or bad. I have never blackmailed, written
lampoons, informed on others; I have not toadied, or lied, or
insulted anyone, in short, I am the author of a great number of
stories and editorial articles that I would gladly throw out
because of their worthlessness, but there is not a single line of
[ 99 ]
 To VUKOL LAVROV [r890]
which I need be ashamed. Let us say you subscribe to the
theory of considering as lack of principle the grievous circum­
stance that I, a well-educated, popular writer, have not exerted
myself at all in behalf of those I admire, that my literary
endeavors have left no trace, for example in promoting local
self-government, the new court procedure, freedom of the
press, freedom in general and so on; in this respect " Russian
Thought" should in all fairness look upon me as its comrade
and not point a finger at me, since up until the present it has
not done any more than I have in this field-and neither you
nor I am to blame for the omission.
Let us say you are judging me as a writer from the external
point of view; even then I do not merit a public dressing-down
for lack of principle. I have always led a reserved life, within
the four walls of my home. . . . I have always persistently
avoided participation in literary evenings, evening parties,
meetings, etc., have never shown myself without an invitation
in any editorial office, have always striven to have my acquaint­
ances consider me a physician rather than a writer; in brief, I
have been a modest writing man and the letter I am now writ­
ing is the first immodesty committed during ten years of activ­
ity. ·with my comrades I maintain excellent relations; I have
never taken upon myself the role of judging them or the news­
papers and magazines on which they work, as I do not consider
myself competent, and find the present dependent position of
the press is such that every word uttered against a paper or a
writer is not only merciless and tactless, but in point of fact
criminal. I have always clung to my decision to turn down
offers from newspapers and magazines whose bad quality has
been apparent and proved; and when it came to choosing
among them, I have given the preference to those which have
been in greater need of my services because of material or other
circumstances, and that is why I have worked not for you and
not for the "European Herald," but for the "Northern Herald"
[ 1 00 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [z8go]
and consequently have received half as much as I might have,
had I another point of view toward my obligations.
Your accusation is a slander. I cannot request you to take it
back, since the damage has already been done and can't be cut
out with an axe. I cannot explain it as carelessness, frivolity or
anything of that sort either, as I know your editorial office to be
staffed by undoubtedly decent, cultured people who read and
write articles, I trust, not casually but with a consciousness of
responsibility for every word. It only remains for me to point
out your error and ask you to believe in the sincerity of the
unhappy feeling that caused me to write you this letter. It is of
course obvious that in view of your accusation, not only busi­
ness dealings between us, but even formal social relations are
out of the question.
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
A pril 23, z8go, on the Volga
aboard the S.S. A lexander
Nevsky early in the morning.
Dear clan of Tunguses,
. . . My first impression of the Volga was spoiled by the rain,
the tear-stained cabin windows and the wet nose of Gurland
who came to meet me at the station . . . .
Once on the boat I paid first honors to my special talent, i.e.,
I went to sleep. ·when I awoke it was to behold the sun. The
Volga is not bad, with water-drenched meadows, monasteries
flooded with sunlight, white churches; a wonderful sense of
expansive ease, and wherever you look you see nice places to
sit and fish . . . .
The steamer itself is not so wonderful. The best thing about
it is the toilet. This stands on high, four steps leading to it, so
that an inexperienced person, say Ivanenko, might easily mis­
take it for a royal throne. The boat's worst feature is the dinner
[ 101 ]
 T0 MARIA CHEKHOVA [I 890J
it serves. Here is the menu, with original spelling retained:
veg. soupe, frankfurts and cab, sturgon frit, baked kat pudding;
kat, it develops, means kasha. Since my money has been earned
by blood and sweat, I should have wished the reverse order of
things, i.e., to have the dinner better than the toilet facilities,
all the more so since after the wine I drank at Korneyev's my
insides have become completely clogged and I'll be doing with­
out the toilet all the way through to Tomsk.
:Madame Kundasova 1 is traveling on this boat. I haven't any
idea where she is going, or why. ·when I start asking questions,
she launches into extremely hazy conjectures on the subject of
somebody who was supposed to meet her in a ravine near
Kineshma, then bursts into furious laughter and stamps her
foot or pokes her elbow into whatever is handy, not sparing [. .] .

ribs. ·we have sailed past Kineshma, and the ravines as well,
but she has continued on the boat, which has been very nice as
far as I am concerned. By the way: yesterday, for the first time
in my life, I saw her eat. She doesn't eat less than other folks,
but she eats mechanically, as though she were champing oats . . . .
It's coldish and somewhat tiresome-but on the whole inter­
esting.
The boat whistles every few minutes, sounding halfway be­
tween a donkey's bray and an Aeolian harp. In five or six hours
I'll be in Nizhni-Novgorod. The sun is rising. I slept artistically
all night. My money is intact-because I'm always clutching at
my stomach . . . .
The sun has hidden behind a cloud, the sky is overcast and
the broad Volga wears a dismal look. Levitan should not be liv­
ing on the Volga. The river sheds gloom on the soul. Although
a nice little estate along i ts banks would not be too bad.
Best regards to all. Hearty greetings and a thousand salu­
tations. . . .
If the steward were awake, I should have some coffee, but as
1 Kundasova was a friend of the Chekhov family, a mathematician and
astronomer.

[ 1 02 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r8go]
it is I must drink water disconsolately. Greetings to Maryusha
and Olga. 2
Keep well and happy. I'll write regularly.
Your bored Volgaman,
Homo Sakhaliensis,
A. Chekhov
Greetings to Grandma.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
April 24, r8go, Kama
S.S. Perm
My dear Tungus friends)
I am sailing on the Kama, but cannot tell you exactly where
we are; around Chistopol, I think. Nor can I extol the beauty
of the banks since it is devilishly cold; the birches haven't yet
put forth their leaves, here and there lie patches of snow, ice
floats in the river, in brief, all aesthetic considerations are shot
to hell. I am sitting in the deck cabin where people of all classes
are at table and am listening to conversations and asking myself
whether it isn't time for some tea. If it were up to me I would
do nothing but eat from morning to night; but as I haven't the
money for continuous eating I sleep or wait for sleep. I haven't
been going out on deck-it's too cold. It rains at night and
daytime an unpleasant wind blows.
Ah, caviar! I keep on eating it, but can never get my fill. Like
olives. It's a lucky thing it's not salty.
I t's a shame I didn't think of sewing myself a little bag for
tea and sugar. I have to order i t one glass at a time, which is a
bore and expensive to boot. This morning I wanted to buy some
tea and sugar in Kazan but slept too late.
Rejoice, Mother! It seems I'll be spending twenty-four hours
in Ekaterinburg and am [Link] to see our relatives. Perhaps their
2 Maryusha and Olga were servants i n the Chekhov household.

[ 103 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r8go]
hearts have grown tender and they will give me three rubles
and a little packet of tea.
From the conversations now under way, I take it that a cir­
cuit court. is making the trip with us. These people are not
overburdened with intellect and so the merchants who only
rarely put in a word seem very clever. You run across frightfully
rich people everywhere.
Small sturgeon are cheaper than dirt, but you get tired of
them very fast. ·what more is there to write? Nothing. Oh yes,
we have a general on board and an emaciated man with fair
hair. The former rushes back and forth from his cabin to the
deck and keeps sending photos to people; the latter . . . seeks to
give the impression that he is a writer; today at dinner he lied
to some lady that Suvorin had published a little book of his; I,
of course, expressed the proper awe on my face.
My money is intact with the exception of what I've eaten up.
The scoundrels won't feed me free !
I am neither gay nor sad b u t seem to have a soul o f gelatin.
I am content to sit motionless and silent. Today, for example,
I hardly spoke five words. Hold on, I'm not telling the truth:
I had a talk with a priest on deck.
·we are starting to meet up with natives. There are great
numbers of Tatars, who appear to be a respectable and decorous
people . . . .
I send my humblest greetings to all of you. I plead with
Mama and Papa not to worry about me and not to imagine
dangers that do not exist. . . .
Keep well and happy.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

Forgive me for writing only of food. If I didn't write of it

I would have to write of the cold; there are no other themes.
The circuit court has decreed that we are to have tea. It has
picked up somewhere along the line two candidates for court
[ 1 04 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r890]
duties who are now serving as the office staff. One looks like our
sartorial poet Byelousov and the other like Yezhov. Both re­
spectfully listen to Messrs. the bosses. They don't dare have an
opinion of their own and try to look as though they themselves
were acquiring wisdom in listening to these sage speeches. I like
model young people.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
April 29, r89o, Ekaterinburg
Dear Tungus friends,
The Kama is the very dullest of rivers; to grasp its beauty
one should be a Pecheneg, sit motionless on a barge near a
barrel fi lled with oil or a sack with fish from the Caspian and
continually take swigs of liquor. The banks are bare, the trees
bare, the earth a mat-brown, patches of snow stretch ahead and
the wind is such that even the devil himself couldn't blow as
sharply or unpleasantly. When the cold wind blows and ripples
the water, which after the spring's flooding has taken on the
color of coffee slops, everything turns cold and lonely and
wretched; the accordion sounds on the shore seem mournful
and the figures in torn sheepskin coats standing motionless on
the barges we encounter appear permanently stiff with sorrow.
The cities of the Kama are gray; it looks as though their inhab­
itants occupied themselves exclusively in the manufacture of
lowering clouds, boredom, wet fences and s treet filth. The
quays swarm with intelligentsia, for whom the arrival of a boat
is an event . . . .
I have already written that a circuit court is aboard: presid­
ing officer, j udge and public prosecutor. The presiding officer
is a healthy, sturdy old German fellow converted to Orthodoxy,
pious, a homeopath, and obviously an assiduous ladies' man;
the judge is an old fellow of the type our departed N ikolai
used to draw; he walks badly bent, coughs and likes comic
[ 1 05 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I890]
themes; the prosecutor is a man of forty-three, dissatisfied with
life, a liberal, skeptic and really big-hearted fellow. During the
entire trip this judicial group has employed its time eating,
deciding important questions, eating, reading and eating. There
is a library on board, and I saw the prosecutor reading my "In
the Twilight." The talk was about me. Around this part of the
world their favorite is Sibiryak-Mamin and his descriptions of
the Urals. They have more to say about him than they do about
Tolstoy. . . .
[Later]
After awakening yesterday morning and looking out of the
coach window I felt an aversion to nature; the ground was
white-covered, trees were cloaked in hoar frost and a genuine
blizzard was catching up with the train. "rasn't it revolting!
'What sons of bitches these natural phenomena are! I had no
overshoes, so I drew on my big boots and on my trip to the re­
freshment bar for coffee I perfumed the whole Ural region
with tar. Upon arriving in Ekaterinburg I found rain, snow and
hail and put on my leather coat. The cabs are inconceivable as
far as their squalor is concerned-filthy, dripping, no springs;
the horses' front feet are arranged this way (drawing], their
hoofs are enormous and their spines spindly. . . . The local
droshkis are a clumsy parody of our surreys . . . .
All cities look alike in Russia. Ekaterinburg is just exactly
like Perm or Tula. The bells chime magnificently, in velvet
tones. I put up at the American Hotel (not half bad) and im­
mediately let Alexander Simonov know of my arrival, inform­
ing him that I intended sitting tight in my rooms for about
two days and drinking Hunyadi water, which I am taking,
and-! mention this not without pride-with great success.
The people here inspire the newcomer with something like
horror; they are high-cheekboned, with jutting foreheads,
broad-shouldered, have little eyes and enormously big fists.
They are born at the local iron foundries and it is a mechanic,
and not a midwife, who officiates. One of them will walk into
[ 1 06 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r8go]
your room with a samovar or water carafe and you may well
fear he will murder you. I steer clear of them. This morning
one such creature entered-high cheekbones, bulging brow,
morose, almost as tall as the ceiling, shoulders five feet across
and, to top it all, wearing a sheepskin coat.
\Veil, I think to myself, this one will certainly murder me.
He turned out to be Alexander Sirnonov! \Ve had a long talk.
He serves as a member of the local government council, is man­
ager of his cousin's mill, which is lit by electricity, is the editor
of the "Ekaterinburg \Veekly," which is censored by Police
Chief Baron Taube, is married, has two children, is getting rich
and fat, is aging, and lives "substantially." Says he has no time
to be bored. He advised me to visit the museum, factories and
mines; I thanked him for the advice. Then he invited me to
take tea with him tomorrow; I invited him to have dinner with
me. He did not ask me for dinner and generally did not insist
on my visiting him. From this Marna may conclude that the
heart of her relative has not softened and that both of us­
Sirnonov and I-have no use for each other. . . .
There is snow on the streets and I have purposely pulled the
curtains over the window so as not to have to look out upon all
Asiatica . . . .
All night long sheets of iron are struck at every corner. People
have to have iron heads not to go out of their minds with the
incessant hammering. Today I attempted to boil myself some
coffee; the result was like our cheap Taganrog wine. I drank it
and shrugged it off. . . .
Keep well and happy, all of you, and may God look after
you . . . . My money is intact. If Marna has a screen made in
Nikolai's memory, I shall have nothing against i t. I would
like it.
Will I find a letter from you in Irkutsk!!
Your Homo Sakhaliensis,
A. Chekhov

[ 107 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [z89o]
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
May I4-I7, z89o, Krasni Yar to Tomsk
May 1 4 , 1 8go, Village of Krasni Yar,
30 miles from Tomsk
My wonderfu l Mama, excellen t Masha,
sweet Misha and everybody at home,
. . . I left Tyumen on May the third after a stop of two or
three days in Ekaterinburg, which I applied to the repair of
my coughing and hemorrhoidal personage. Both post and pri­
vate drivers make the trans·Siberian trip. I elected to use the
latter, as it was all the same to me. They put your humble ser­
vant into a vehicle resembling a little wicker basket and off we
drove with a pair of horses. You sit in the basket, and look out
upon God's earth like a bird in a cage, without a thought on
your mind.
It looks to me as if the Siberian plain commences right at
Ekaterinburg and ends the devil knows where ; I would say it is
very like our South Russian steppe, were it not for the small
birch groves encountered here and there and the cold wind
stinging one's cheeks. Spring hasn't yet arrived here. There is
absolutely no greenery, the forests are bare, the snow has not
all melted and lusterless ice sheathes the lakes. On the ninth of
May, St. Nicholas Day, there was a frost, and today, the four­
teenth, we had a snowfall of about three inches. Only the ducks
hint of spring. How many of them there are! I have never i n
my life seen such a superabundance of ducks. They fl y over
your head, take wing over the carriage, swim the lakes and
pools, in short, I could have shot a thousand of them in one day
with a poor gun. You can hear the wild geese honking; they are
also numerous here. Often files of cranes and swans head our
way. . . . In the birch groves flutter grouse and woodcock. Rab­
bits, which are not eaten or shot here, sit up on their hind
paws in a relaxed way and prick up their ears as they stare
inquisitively at all comers. They run across the road so often
that here it is not considered bad luck.
[ 1 08 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I89o]
Traveling is a cold business. I am wearing my sheepskin
jacket. I don't mind my body, that's all right, but my feet are
always freezing. I wrap them in my leather coat but it doesn't
help. I am wearing two pairs of trousers. "\Veil, you go on and
on. Road signs flash by, ponds, little birch groves . . . . Now we
drive past a group of new settlers, then a file of prisoners . . . .
We've met tramps with pots on their backs; these gentlemen
promenade all over the Siberian plain without hindrance. On
occasion they will murder a poor old woman to obtain her skirt
for leg puttees; or they will tear off the tin numbers from the
road signs, on the chance they may find them useful; another
time they will bash in the head of a passing beggar or knock
out the eyes of one of their own banished brotherhood, but they
won't touch people in vehicles. On the whole, as far as robbery
is concerned, traveling hereabouts is absolutely safe. From
Tyumen to Tomsk neither the drivers of the post coaches nor
the independent drivers can recall anything ever having been
stolen from a traveler; when you get to a station, you leave your
things outside; when you ask whether they won't be stolen you
get a smile in reply. It is not good form to mention burglaries
and murders on the road. I really believe that were I to lose my
money at a station or in a vehicle the driver would return it to
me without fail if he found it and wouldn't boast of his honesty.
On the whole, the people here are good, kind, and have splen­
did traditions. Their rooms are furnished simply, but cleanly,
with some pretension to luxury; the beds are soft, with feather
mattresses and big pillows, the floors are painted or covered
with handmade linen rugs. All this is due, of course, to their
prosperity, to the fact that a family gets an allotment of about
50 acres of good black earth, and that good wheat grows on it
(wheat flour here is 30 kopeks for 36 pounds). But not every­
thing can be explained by comfortable circumstances and plenty
to eat, some reference must be made to their way of life as well.
When you enter a room full of sleeping people at night your
nose isn't assailed, especially not by that notorious Russian
[ 1 09 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [1890]
smell. I must say, one old lady wiped a teaspoon on her hind­
side before handing it to me, but still you do not sit down to
tea without a tablecloth, people do not bekh in your presence
and don't search for things in their heads; when they hand you
water or milk, they don't put their fingers inside the glass, the
dishes are clean, the kvas is as transparent as beer-in fact,
they practice cleanliness of a sort our Little Russians can only
dream about, and certainly Little Russians are far and away
cleaner than Great Russians! They bake the most delicious
bread; the first few days I made a pig of myself. Delicious also
are the pies and pancakes, the fritters and dinner rolls which
remind one of Little Russian spongy ring rolls. The pancakes
are thin . . . . On the other hand, the rest of their cuisine is not
for the European stomach. For instance, I have been treated
everywhere to "duck soup." This is absolutely awful, consisting
of a muddy liquid in which float bits of wild duck and un­
cooked onion; the duck stomachs haven't been entirely cleaned
of their contents and so, when you bite into them, cause you to
think your mouth and rectum have changed places. One time
I asked for soup cooked with meat and some fried perch. The
soup was served oversal ted, dirty, with weatherbeaten bits of
skin instead of meat, and the perch arrived complete with
scales. They cook cabbage soup here with corned beef; they
also roast corned beef. I've just been served some of the latter;
it's vile stuff and after chewing a little of it I pushed it aside.
Brick tea is their beverage. This is an infusion of sage and
cockroaches-both in taste and color-not tea but something
like our horrible Taganrog wine. I might mention that I
brought a quarter of a pound of tea with me from Ekaterin­
burg, five pounds of sugar and three lemons. I've run out of
tea and now there's no place to buy any. In the dumpy little
towns even the officials drink brick tea and the very best shops
don' t sell any more expensive than 1 ruble 50 a pound. So I've
just had to drink sage.
The distance between stations is determined by the distance
[ 1 10 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I890]
between the villages, usually 14 to 2 8 miles. The villages here
are large, and there are no hamlets or farms. Churches and
schools are everywhere. You see wooden cabins, some of them
of two storeys.
Toward evening the pools and roads begin freezing, and at
night there is a regular frost; an extra fur coat would not be
amiss. Br-r-r-1 The vehicle jolts because the mud has turned
into hillocks. It is heartbreaking. By dawn you are terribly tired
with the cold, the jolting and the j ingle of the bells on your
horses; you passionately crave warmth and a bed. While the
horses are being changed, you curl up in some corner and im­
mediately fall asleep, but a moment later your driver is already
tugging at your sleeve and saying, "Get up, friend, time to
leave! " On the second night I began feeling a sharp toothache
in my heels. It was intolerably painful and I wondered whether
they hadn't got frost-bitten . . . .

Tomsk, May I6
The guilty party turned out to be my jack boots, too
narrow in the back. Sweet Misha, if you ever have children,
which I don't doubt will happen, advise them not to look for
cheapness. A cheap price on Russian merchandise is a guarantee
of its worthlessness. In my opinion going barefoot is preferable
to wearing cheap boots . . . . I had to buy felt boots in Ishim. . . .
So I have been traveling in felt boots until they decompose on
me from dampness and mud.
Tea drinking in the cabins goes on at five or six in the morn­
ing. Tea on the road is a true boon. . . . It warms you up,
dispels sleep and with it you eat a lot of bread; in the absence
of other food, bread should be eaten in large amounts and that
is why the peasant eats such a quantity of bread and starchy
things. You drink tea and talk with the peasant women, who
here are sensible, home-loving, tenderhearted, hard-working
and more free than they are in Europe; their husbands do not
curse or beat them because they are just as tall, and strong, and
[ 111 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r8go]
clever as their lords; when their husbands are not at home it is
they who do the driving. They are great punsters. They do not
raise their children strictly but are inclined to indulge them.
The children sleep in comfortable beds for as long as they like,
drink tea, ride with the peasants and use swear words when the
latter tease them playfully. There is no diphtheria. Smallpox is
widespread but curiously enough it is not as contagious here
as it is elsewhere; two or three will come down with it and
die-and that's the end of the epidemic. There are no hospitals
or doctors. The doctoring is done by medical assistants. They
go in for bloodletting and cupping on a grandiose, brutal scale.
On the road I examined a Jew with cancer of the liver. The
Jew was emaciated and hardly breathing, but this did not deter
the medical assistant from putting twelve cupping glasses on
him. By the way, on the subject of Jews. Here they work the
land, drive, run ferryboats, trade and call themselves peasants, 1
because they actually are de jure and de facto peasants. They
enjoy universal respect and according to the police officer are
not infrequently elected village elders. I saw a tall, thin Jew
scowling in revulsion and spitting when the police officer told
obscene stories; he had a clean mind and his wife cooked excel­
lent fish soup. The wife of the Jew with the cancer treated me
to some pike roe and the most delicious white bread. Exploita·
tion by Jews is unheard of.
By the way, about the Poles. You run across exiles sent here
from Poland in 1 8G4. They are kind, hospitable and most con­
siderate. Some enjoy real wealth, others are poverty-stricken
and work as clerks at the stations. After the amnesty the former
returned to their homeland, but soon came back to Siberia,
where life is more opulent; the latter dream of their native
land, although they are already old and ailing. In Ishim a cer­
tain Pan Zalesski, who is rich and whose daughter resembles
Sasha Kiseleva, served me an excellent dinner for a ruble and
1 The Russian word for peasant derives from the word "Christian" because
it was taken for granted that all peasants were Christians.

[ 1 12 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I890]
gave me a room where I slept very well; he keeps a tavern, has
become a kulak to the marrow of his bones, swindles every­
body, but nevertheless the gentleman makes itself felt in his
manners, in the table he sets, in everything. He won't go back
home out of greed, out of greed he puts up with snow on St.
N icholas Day; when he dies his daughter, born in !shim, will
remain here forever, and so black eyes and delicate features
will keep on multiplying in Siberia! These random mixtures of
blood are all to the good, since Siberians are not handsome.
There are absolutely no brunettes. Perhaps you'd like to hear
about the Tatars as well? Here goes. They are not numerous
here. Good people. In Kazan Province even the priests speak
well of them, and in Siberia they are "better than the Russians"
-so stated the police officer in the presence of Russians, whose
silence gave assent. My God, how rich Russia is in good people!
If it were not for the cold which deprives Siberia of summer,
and were it not for the officials who corrupt the peasants and
exiles, Siberia would be the very richest and happiest of terri­
tories.
D inners are nothing in particular. . . . During the entire
trip I have only had a real dinner twice, if you don't count the
Yiddish fish soup which I ate after having filled up on tea.
I haven't been drinking any vodka; the Siberian brand is vile,
and besides I had got out of the habit of drinking before reach­
ing Ekaterinburg. One should drink vodka, though. It acts as
a stimulant on the brain, which, flabby and inert with the con­
tinual movement, makes one stupid and weak. . . .
The first three days of the voyage, what with the shaking and
jolting, my collarbones, shoulders and vertebrae started aching.
I couldn't sit, walk or lie down. On the other hand, though, all
my chest and head aches disappeared, my appetite took an un­
believable spurt and the hemorrhoids-keep your fingers
crossed-have given up the ghost. The strain, the continual
worry over trunks and such, and perhaps the farewell drinking
bouts in Moscow, gave rise to some blood-spitting in the morn-
[ 1 13 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r89o]
ings, and this infected me with a kind of despondency and
stirred up gloomy thoughts; but it ceased toward the end of the
trip and now I don't even have a cough; it is a long time since
I have coughed as little as now, after two weeks spent in the
fresh air. After the first three days of the trip my body accus­
tomed itself to the jolts and the time arrived when I began not
to notice the way midday arrived after morning, followed by
evening and night. The days flitted by quickly, as in a linger­
ing illness . . . .
Now let me tell you of an adventure for which I am indebted
to Siberian driving. Except that I ask Mama not to groan or
lament, for everything came out all right. On the sixth of May,
before dawn, I was being driven by a very nice old man with
a team of horses. I was in a little buggy. I was drowsing and to
make time pass was observing the tongues of flame darting
about the fields and birch groves; people here burn the pre­
vious year's grass this way. Suddenly I heard the broken thud
of wheels. Coming toward us at full tilt, like a bird, dashed a
three-horse carriage. My old man quickly turned to the right,
the post carriage sailed past and then I discerned in the shadows
an enormous, heavy three-horse post wagon with a driver mak­
ing the return trip. Behind this wagon I could see another
tearing along, also at full speed. \Ve hurried to turn right . . . .
To my great bewilderment and alarm the cart turned to the
left, not the right. I scarcely had time to think to myself, "My
God, we'll collide ! " when there was a desperate crash, the
horses mingled into one dark mass, the yokes fell, my buggy
stood on end, I lay on the ground and my baggage on top of
me. But that wasn't all. . . . A third cart dashed upon us . . . .
Verily, this should have crushed me and my suitcases, but
thank God, I was not sleeping, didn't fracture any bones and
managed to jump up quickly enough to run to one side. "Stop ! "
I yelled a t the third cart, "Stop!" It hurled itself upon the
second one and came to a halt. Of course, if I had been able to
sleep in my buggy, or if the third wagon had flung itself im-
[ 1 14 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I8go]
mediately upon the second, I would have returned home a
cripple or a headless horseman. Results of the collision: broken
shafts, torn harness, yokes and baggage on the ground, scared,
exhausted horses and terror at the thought of having expe­
rienced a moment of peril. It seemed that the first driver had
urged on his horses, while the drivers of the other two wagons
were asleep; nobody was steering. After recovering from the
tumu lt my old fellow and the drivers of all three vehicles
began swearing furiously at one another. How they cursed!
I thought it would wind up in a free-for-all. You cannot con­
ceive how alone you feel in the midst of this wild, cursing
horde, in the open country, at dawn, in sight of flames lapping
up the grass in the distance and close at hand, but not throw­
ing off a bit of heat into the frigid night air! How grief-stricken
was my soul! You listen to the swearing, look down at the
broken shafts and your own torn baggage and you seem to be
thrust into another world, about to be trampled down. After
an hour long of cursing, my old man began tying up the shafts
and harness with cord; my straps were pressed into service too.
We dragged ourselves to the station somehow, with plenty of
stops in between, and barely made it.
After the fifth or sixth day the rains began, accompanied by
a stiff wind. It poured day and night. Out came the leather
coat to save me from the rain and wind. It is a marvelous
coat. The mud became practically impassable and the drivers
were unwilling to drive by night. But the most terrible busi­
ness of all, which I won't ever forget, were the river crossings.
You reach a river at night. You and the driver both start shout­
ing. . . . Rain, wind, sheets of ice creep along the river, you
hear a splash. To enliven things appropriately, we hear a bit­
tern screeching. These birds live on Siberian rivers. That
means they don't recognize climate, but geographical position.
Well, sir, in an hour a massive ferryboat in the form of a
barge looms in the shadows; it has immense oars resembling
the pincers of a crab. The ferrymen are a mischievous lot, for
[ 1 15 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I8go]
the most part exiles, deported here by society to atone for
their sins. They use foul language to an intolerable degree,
shout, demand money for vodka . . . . It is a long, long trip
across the river . . . one long agony! . . .
The seventh of May, when I asked the driver for horses, he
told me the Irtish had overflown its banks and flooded the
meadows, that yesterday Kuzma had gone that way and had
scarcely managed to return, and that it was impossible to go
on, that we would have to wait. I asked until when. Reply: "The
Lord only knows ! " Here was an indefinite answer for me, and
besides, I had promised myself to get rid of two vices en route
which had caused me considerable expense, trouble and incon­
venience: a readiness to comply and let myself be talked into
things. I would quickly come to terms with a driver and find
myself riding on the devil knows what, sometimes paying twice
the usual price, and waiting for hours on end. I decided not to
give in and not to believe what was told me and I've had less
aches and pains. For instance, they would get out a plain,
jolting wagon instead of a carriage. I'd refuse to ride in it, lay
down the law, and a carriage would inevitably appear, although
previously I had been assured there wasn't a single one in the
whole village, etc.
Well, sir, suspecting that the flood on the Irtish had been
dreamed up expressly to avoid driving through the mud at
night, I protested and gave orders to go on . . . . Off we went.
:Mud, rain, a furious wind, cold . . . and felt boots on. Do you
know what wet felt boots are like? They are footwear made of
gelatin. \Ve kept on and suddenly before my vision spread an
immense lake, with mounds of earth and bushes jutting out in
clumps-these were the inundated meadows. In the distance
ranged the Irtish's steep bank and on it the patches of snow lay
white. \Ve started negotiating the lake. \Ve should have turned
back, but my obstinacy stood in the way, I was in a sort of
defiant fervor, that same fervor that compelled me to bathe in
the midst of the Black Sea from the yacht, and which has led
[ 1 16 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [z89o]
me to perform all sorts of foolish acts. It's probably a psychotic
condition. On we went, picking out little islets and strips of
land. Big and little bridges are supposed to show the way, but
they had been washed out. To get past them the horses had to
be unharnessed and led one at a time. The driver did so, and
I j umped into the water-in my felt boots-to hold the
horses. . . . ·what sport! And with it the rain, the wind. Save us,
Heavenly Mother! Finally we made our way to an islet with a
roofless cabin. \Vet horses were wandering about in wet man­
ure. A mujik with a long stick came out of the cabin and volun­
teered to show us the way. He measured the depth of the
water with his stick and tested the ground. God bless him, he
steered us to a long strip of ground which he called a "ridge."
He showed us how to get our bearings from this ridge and
take the road to the right, or maybe the left, I don't remember
exactly, and land on another ridge. This we did.
On we went. . . . Finally-0 J oy-we reached the Irtish.
The other bank was steep, on our side it sloped . . . The Irtish
does not murmur, or roar, but resigns itself to its fate, which,
as it were, is to hammer as though coffins were reposing on its
bottom. Cursed impression ! The other bank was high, mat­
brown, desolate.
\Ve came to the cabin where the ferrymen lived. One of them
came out to announce it was impossible to allow a ferry across,
as a storm was brewing. The river, they told us, was wide and
the wind strong. What to do? \Ve had to spend the night in
the cabin. I recall that night, the snoring of the ferrymen, and
of my driver, the howl of the wind, the patter of the rain, the
growling of the Irtish. . . .
In the morning they were reluctant to ferry us across because
of the wind. So we had to row our way over. There I was sail­
ing across the river, with the rain beating down, the wind
blowing, the baggage getting drenched, the felt boots, which
had been dried overnight in the stove, again turning into
jelly . . . .
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r8go]
. . . Seated on my suitcase I spent a full hour waiting for
horses to be sent from the village. As I recall, climbing the
bank was very slippery business. In the village I warmed up
and had some tea. Some exiles approached me for alms. Every
family makes about forty pounds of wheat flour into bread for
them every day, as a sort of compulsory service.
The exiles sell the bread for liquor in the taverns. One such,
a ragged, shaven old fellow, whose eyes his fellow prisoners
had knocked out in the tavern, upon hearing there was a trav­
eler in the room, and taking me for a merchant, began chanting
and saying prayers. Prayers for health, requiescats, the Easter
"God Has Risen," and "Peace 'Vith the Saints"-what didn't
he sing! Then he began lying that he came of a Moscow mer­
chant fami ly. I noticed that this sot held in contempt the
mujiks on whose necks he hung!
On the 1 1 th I travelled on post horses. To pass the time I
read the complaint book at the stations. I made a discovery
that astounded me and which in the rain and dampness con­
stitutes a pearl beyond price : and that is that there are toilets
in the entrance halls of the post stations. You cannot put too
high a value on them !
. . . In Tomsk the mud is impassable. Of the city and way of
life here I will write in a few days, but so long for now. I have
worn myself out writing . . . .
. . . I embrace you all, kiss and bless you.
Your
A. Chekhov
l\Iisha's letter has arrived. Thanks.
Excuse the letter's resembling a hotchpotch. It rambles, but
what can I do? One can't do better sitting in a hotel room.
Excuse its length, but I am not to blame. :My pen has run away
with me, and besides, I wanted to be talking to you for as long
as I could. It's three in the morning, and my hand has wearied.
The wick has burned down on the candle and I can scarcely
make things out. 'Vrite me at Sakhalin every four or five days.
[ 1 18 ]
 T0 ALEXEI S UVORIN [I 890)
It seems the mails reach there not only by the sea route, but
also across Siberia, which means I will be receiving them in
good time and often . . . .

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
May 20, r89o, Tomsk
Greetings at last! Greetings from your Siberian, dear Alexei
Sergeyevich. I have missed you and our correspondence ter­
ribly. . . .
When I left I promised to send you my travel notes, begin­
ning with Tomsk, as the road between Tyumen and Tomsk has
long since been described and exploited a thousand times over.
But in your telegram you expressed the desire of having some
Siberian impressions as soon as possible and even, sir, had the
cruelty to reproach me with a lapse of memory, i.e., of having
forgotten you. It was absolutely out of the question writing on
the road: I kept up a short diary in pencil and can only now
offer you what has been set down in it. So as not to write at
great length and make a muddle, I divided all my written im­
pressions into chapters. I am sending you six of them. They
are written for you personally; I wrote only for you and so
haven't been afraid of being too subjective in my remarks and
of putting in more of Chekhov's feelings and thoughts than of
Siberia. If you find some parts interesting and deserving of
print, give them beneficent publicity, sign my name and pub­
lish them, also in separate chapterlets, one tablespoon an hour.
They could be given a general title: "From Siberia," later,
"From the Trans-Baikal," then "From the Amur" and so
on . . . .
I starved like a dog all along the way. I crammed my belly
with bread in order not to think of turbot, asparagus and the
like. I even dreamt of kasha. Reveries for hours on end.
In Tyumen I bought some sausage to eat along the way, but
what an abomination ! ·when you put a piece in your mouth,
[ 1 19 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r89o]
the odor was as if you had entered a stable at the moment the
coachman was unwinding his leg puttees; when you started
chewing the stuff you experienced a sensation like sinking your
teeth in to a tar-smeared dog's tail. Phew! I tried some twice
and then threw it away.
I got a telegram and letter from you in which you say
you would like to publish an encyclopedic dictionary. I don't
know why, but the news of this dictionary gave me great
pleasure. Go on with it, dear man! If I would do for the job,
I would give you November and December; I'd spend those
months in St. Pete and sit at my work from morning to night.
I made a fair copy of my notes in Tomsk, in the utterly
vile surroundings of a hotel room, but with application and
not without the desire of pleasing you. I thought to myself,
he must find it somewhat hot and tiresome in Feodosia, so
let him read about the cold. These notes are going to you in
lieu of the letter which was storing itself up in my head all
through the trip. In return you must send to Sakhalin all your
critical articles except the first two, which I have read; arrange
also that I be sent Peshel's "Ethnology," except for the first
two installments, which I already have.
God, what expenses! On account of the floods I had to keep
paying my drivers almost double and sometimes triple, for their
work is hellish, as bad as penal servitude. My suitcase, my
adorable little trunk, turned out to be unsuitable for the road;
takes up a lot of room, pushes into your side, clatters, and
most important-threatens to fall apart. Kind people counseled
me not to take a trunk on a long journey, but this advice was
only recalled when I had gone half the way. Now what? I am
deporting it to Tomsk and instead have bought a piece of
leather trash which has the convenience of flattening itself
into any shape you please on the floor of the carriage. I paid
r G rubles for it. Further . . . galloping to the Amur on post
horses is torture. You shatter both yourself and your baggage.
I had been advised to purchase a small carriage and bought
[ 120 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [z8go]
one today for 1 30 rubles. If I do not manage to sell it in
Sretensk where my trip by horse comes to an end, I will be
flat broke and will set up a howl. I dined today with the editor
of the "Siberian Herald," Kartamyshev. The local Nozdrev,
and an expansive soul . . . he drank up 6 rubles' worth.
Stop! I have been informed that the Assistant Chief of Police
wishes to see me. What now?
False alarm. The arm of the law turned out to be a devotee
of literature and even a writing man; came to pay his respects.
He went back home for his drama and I think he wants to
treat me to a reading of it. He'll be returning presently and
interfering with my writing to you.
Write me of Feodosia, Tolstoy, the sea, the bulls, of mutual
acquaintances. . . .
S top! Our policeman has returned. He did not read his
drama, although he did bring it along, but regaled me with a
story. Not bad, only too localized. He showed me a gold nugget
and asked for some vodka. I cannot recall one Siberian intel­
lectual who has called on me and not asked for vodka. Told
me he was in the midst of a "little affair" with a married
woman; let me read a petition to the All Highest regarding a
divorce. Then he offered to drive me downtown to look over
the Tomsk houses of prostitution.
I have returned from these houses. Revolting. Two o'clock
in the morning.
. . . From now on I shall be writing you punctually, from
every city and every station where I am not given horses, i.e.,
where I am forced to spend the night. And how delighted I am
when I am compelled to remain somewhere overnight! I hardly
have time to plop into bed before I am already asleep. Living
as I am at the moment, where one keeps on going and doesn't
sleep nights, one values sleep above all else; there is no higher
felicity on earth than sleep, when sleep is desired. In Moscow
and in Russia generally I never really desired sleep, as I now
understand the word. I went to bed only because i t was the
[ 121 ]
 To EVGEN IA CHEKHOVA [1890]
thing to do. But now! Here's another observation : traveung
like this you don't crave liquor. I haven't been able to drink,
but have smoked a great deal. Thinking coherently is difficult;
somehow your thoughts don't knit together. Time runs on rap·
idly, so that you don't notice the interval between 10 A.M. and
7 P.:<-1 . Evening follows morning in a twinkling. This sort of
thing occurs during a lingering illness. The wind and rain have
made my face scaly, and looking at myself in the mirror I can­
not recognize my former noble lineaments . . . .
I embrace you warmly. I kiss Anna Ivanovna's both hands
and bow to the ground before her. It is raining. So long, and
be well and happy. If my letters are short, negligent or dry,
don't grumble, for one cannot always be oneself on one's
travels and write as one would wish. The ink is miserable, and
little hairs and lumps are eternally sitting on my pen.
Your
A. Chekhov

To EVGENIA CHEKH OVA

june 7, 1890, Irkutsk
. . . I have changed my route drastically. From Khabarovsk
(see map) I am journeying not to Nikolayevsk but to Vladivos­
tok along the Ussuri and from there to Sakhalin. I must have
a look at the Ussuri region. In Vladivostok I'm going to do
some sea bathing and eat oysters.
It was cold until Kansk; starting from there we began head­
ing south. The greenery is just as dense as at your place, and
even the oaks have put forth their leaves. The birches are
darker here than in Russia and in their foliage not as sentimen­
tal. There are masses of sweet cherries, which here take the
place of lilacs and sour cherries. They say they make excellent
preserves. I ate some, pickled; nothing special.
I have two lieutenants and a medical corps doctor as company
on the trip. They got a travel allowance three times the usual
[ 1 22 ]
 To EVGENIA CHEKHOVA [I8go]
amount but have gone through it, although the three of them
are making the trip in only one carriage. They are without a
sou and waiting for fresh funds. N ice people. Each of them has
had an allowance of around 1 500-2000 rubles, with the expenses
of the road [Link] to practically nothing (not counting
stopovers, of course). They pass their time calling down people
in hotels and at stations, so that everybody is terribly afraid to
ask them for payments. I spend less than usual when in their
company.
It would be best to request an accounting from the bookstore
in August, around the tenth or twentieth; then send the letter
to Kondratiev. . . .
For the first time in my life I saw a Siberian cat today. It has
long, soft fur and a gentle disposition.
I felt lonesome for you and sent off a wire today, asking you
to pool your funds and answer me at greater length. It wouldn't
be a tragedy for all you Luka residents to ruin yourself to the
extent of five rubles.
How do matters stand with regard to civilian admirers and
psychic influence? With whom has Misha fallen in love and
what lucky girl is Ivanenko telling about his uncle? And what
about Vata? I must be in love with Jamais, for I saw her in
my dreams last night. In comparison . . . with all these oafs
who don't know how to dress, sing, or laugh, our J amais, Drish­
kas and Gundasikhas are virtual queens. Siberian women and
misses are frozen fish. You'd have to be a walrus or seal to have
an affair with them . . . .
Mama, how are your legs? Are you following the advice of
Kuzmin, who charged you five rubles for it? How are Auntie
and Alyosha? Send my regards when you write. . . .
The Siberian highways have their scurvy little stations, like
the Ukraine. They pop up every 20 or 2 5 miles. You drive at
night, on and on, until you feel giddy and ill, but you keep on
going, and if you venture to ask the driver how many miles it
is to the next station, he invariably says not less than twelve.
[ 1 23 ]
 To EVGE:\'IA CHEKHOVA [r890]
This is particularly agonizing when you have to drive at a
walk along a muddy, rutted road, and when you are thirsty.
I have taught myself how to get along without sleep and don't
care a bit if I am awakened. Ordinarily you won't sleep for a
day and a night, then at dinnertime of the following day you
begin feeling tension in the eyelids; that evening and late at
night, particularly at daybreak and the morning of the follow­
ing day, you drowse in the carriage and you may happen to
fall asleep in a sitting position for a moment; at dinner and
after dinner, while the horses are being harnessed at the sta­
tions, you loll about on the sofa and it is only that night that
the ordeal begins. In the evening, after having drunk five
glasses of tea, your face starts naming and your entire body
suddenly droops with fatigue and wants to bend backward;
your eyelids stick together, your feet itch in your big boots,
your brain is in confusion. If you allow yourself to spend the
night somewhere you immediately fall into a dead stupor; if
you have sufficient will power to continue, you fall asleep in
the carriage, no matter how strong the jolting is; at the stations
the drivers wake you up, as you have to crawl out of the car­
riage and pay the charges; they wake you not so much with
their voices and tugging at your sleeve as with the stench of
garlic emanating from their mouths; they stink of onion and
garlic to a point of nausea. I taught myself to sleep in a vehicle
only after Krasnoyarsk. On the way to Irkutsk I once slept
through 4 0 miles, during which I was awakened only once. But
slumber in a vehicle does not refresh. It is not sleep, but a
sort of unconscious situation which results in a muddy head
and vile-tasting mouth . . . .
"By the way, you ought to be looking for a farm. Upon my
return to Russia I am going to have a rest for five years or so,
i.e., am going to stay put and take it easy. A farm would be
most appropriate. I believe money can be found, for my affairs
are not going badly. If I work off the advance I have had (I'm
halfway there), next spring I shall certainly take two or three
[ 1 24 ]
 To NIKOLAI LEIKIN [r890]
thousands' advance to be paid off in installments over a five­
year period. This won't trouble my conscience, as my books
have already earned the "New Times" bookstore more than
two or three thousands, and will earn even more. I plan not
to take up anything serious until I am thirty-five; I'd like to
have a try at personal life, which I once had but didn't have
any regard for owing to various circumstances . . . .
Anyway, keep well. There's nothing more to ·write about. My
regards to all.
Your
A. Chekhov

To N IKOLAI LEI KIN

june 20, r89o, The A mur near Gorbitza
Greetings, my dear Nikolai A lexeyevich,
I write the above lines as I approach Gorbitza, one of the
Cossack settlements on the banks of the Shilka, a tributary of
the Amur. So this is where I have got to ! I am sailing the Amur.
I sent you a letter from Irkutsk. Did you get it? More than
a week has elapsed since then, during which I made the
crossing of the Baikal and traversed the Baikal region. The
Baikal is astonishing, and it is with good cause that the Siber­
ians entitle it not a lake, but a sea. The water is unusually
limpid, so that you can see through it as. you do through air;
its color is tenderly turquoise, pleasant to the eye. The shores
are mountainous and wooded; all about are impenetrable, sun­
less thickets. There is an abundance of bears, sables, wild goats
and all kinds of wild game, which occupies itself in existing in
the taiga and making meals out of one another. I spent two
days on the banks of the Baikal.
It was quiet and hot during the sailing.
The Baikal area is magnificent; it is a mixture of Switzerland,
the Don and Finland.
I covered over 26oo miles on horses. The trip was entirely
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r89o]
satisfactory. I was wel l throughout and of all my baggage lost
only a penknife. God grant that everyone make as good a
journey. Traveling is absolutely safe, and all those stories
about runaways, night assaults and such are nothing but fairy
tales, legends of days gone by. A revolver is a completely super­
fluous article. I am now sitting in a first-class cabin and feel I
am in Europe. My spirits are as high as if I had just passed an
examination.
A whistle. That's Gorbitza. So long, then, keep healthy and
happy. If I am lucky I will post this letter, if not, I will wait
until we reach the Cossack village of Pokrovsk, where I expect
to be tomorrow. The mails go but seldom from the Amur,
scarcely more than three times a month.
Regards to Praskovya Nikiforovna and Fedya.
Your
A. Chekhov
The banks of the Shilka are exqulSlte, like a stage setting,
but alas! the utter absence of human beings depresses me. The
place is like a cage without a bird.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
june 27, r89o, Blagoveshchensk
GTeetings, my dear friend,
The Amur is a very fine river; I derived more pleasure from
it than I had a right to expect, and have for a long time been
wishing to share my delight with you, but the villainous boat
quivered for all seven days of the trip and hindered me from
writing. In addition, I am absolutely unable to convey such
beauty as one finds on the banks of the Amur; I confess I am
bankrupt before beauty which is beyond my powers to describe.
How can I, though? Imagine the Suram Pass transformed into
Lhe bank of a river-that is the Amur for you. Cliffs, crags,
forests, thousands of ducks, herons and assorted long-nosed
[ 1 26 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I89o]
rascals, and utter wilderness. To the left the Russian bank, to
the right the Chinese. I can look at Russia or China, whichever
suits me. China is just as wild and desolate as Russia; villages
and sentry boxes are few. My head is in a whirl, and small
wonder, Your Excellency! I sailed the Amur for more than
650 miles, in the process of which I gazed upon millions of
landscapes; and as you are aware, the Amur was preceded by
the Baikal and Trans-Baikal. Verily, I saw such wealth and
derived such enjoyment that I can now look upon death with
equanimity. The Amur people are singular, the life they lead
interesting and unlike ours. All the talk is about gold. Gold,
gold and more gold. . . .
I am in love with the Amur and would be delighted to
remain here a couple of years. It is beautiful, and expansive,
and free and warm. Switzerland and France have never known
such freedom. The lowliest exile breathes more freely on the
Amur than the top general in Russia. If you had spent some
time here you would have set down a lot of good material of
interest to readers, but I am not up to it.
You begin running across Chinese from Irkutsk on, and
here they are thicker than flies. They are a most good-natured
race . . . .
From Blagoveshchensk on you meet Japanese, or, more pre­
cisely, J apanese women. They are petite brunettes with big,
complicated hair-dos, handsome torsos and, the way it looks to
me, short thighs. They dress beautifully. The sound "ts" pre­
dominates in their language. . . .

·when I asked a Chinese to join me at the refreshment coun­

ter in a glass of vodka, he extended his glass to me, the
bartender and the flunkies before drinking and said, "Taste!"
This is a Chinese ritual. He did not drain the glass at one gulp
as we do, but in small sips, nibbling a bite of food after each
one and then, to thank me, gave me a few Chinese coins. They
are terribly polite people. They dress poorly but beautifully,
eat delicious food in ceremonious fashion.
[ 1 27 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (r890]
The Chinese are going to take the Amur from us-no doubt
of it. They themselves may not do so, but it will be given
them by others, the English, for example, who are the ruling
group there and are even building forts. The people living
along the Amur are a scoffing lot; they remark jeeringly that
Russia is making a fuss over Bulgaria, which isn't worth a
damn, and is forgetting the Amur entirely. This is neither
prudent nor intelligent. However, more about politics later,
when we meet.
You have wired me to return via America. I myself was
thinking of doing so. But people frighten me with the expenses
involved. A transfer of money can be arranged not only in
New York but also in Vladivostok, via the Siberian Bank i n
Irkutsk, which treated m e with overwhelming courtesy. My
money has not all disappeared yet, although I spend it god­
lessly. I took a loss of more than 1 60 rubles on the carriage and
my fellow-traveling lieutenants did me out of more than 1 50
rubles. But still I will hardly require a transfer of funds. If
the need arises I will apply to you in due course. I am com­
pletely well. You can judge for yourself; here it is more than
two months that I have been living day and night under the
open skies. What exercise! . . .
I am treating patients along the way. In the village of Reinov
on the Amur, inhabited exclusively by gold miners, a husband
asked me to have a look at his pregnant wife. As I left he thrust
a wad of bills into my hand; I was ashamed and started pro­
testing, assuring him I was a very rich man who didn't need
the money. The patient's spouse began assuring me he was
also a very rich man. We wound up by giving him back the
wad, but still fifteen rubles remained with me.
Yesterday I treated a little boy and refused six rubles which
his Mama shoved into my hand. I regret I did so.
Be well and happy. Forgive me for writing so badly and
without giving details. Have you sent letters to Sakhalin for
me?
[ 1 28 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r89o]
I am bathing in the Amur. Bathing in the river, conversing
and dining with gold smugglers-don't you find it interesting?
I must hurry now to the "Yennak." So long! Thanks for the
news of your family.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
September I I, I89o, S.S. Baikal, Tatar Straits
Greetings!
I am sailing along Tatar Sound from North Sakhalin to
South. I write this letter though I am not sure it will reach
you. I am well, although green-eyed cholera, which is all set
to trap me, gazes at me everywhere. In Vladivostok, Japan,
Shanghai, Chifu, Suez and even on the moon, I suppose, there
is cholera; everywhere there is quarantine and fear. They are
waiting for it in Sakhalin and holding all boats in quarantine.
To put it briefly, it's a bad business. Europeans are dying in
Vladivostok, among others a general's wife.
I spent exactly two months in North Sakhalin. I was wel­
comed with extreme cordiality by the local administration,
although Galkin had not sent ahead a word about me. Neither
Galkin nor Baroness Muskrat 1 nor the other genii to whom I
had the stupidity to turn for help gave me any assistance; I
had to proceed on my own hook.
The General of Sakhalin, Kononovich, is an intelligent and
honorable man. \Ve quickly hit it off and everything went
along smoothly. I am bringing some papers with me which
will show you that the conditions under which I worked from
the very beginning were most favorable. I saw everything; now
the question is not what I saw, but how I saw it.
I do not know what will come of it, but I have done quite
a bit. The material gathered would be sufficient for three
1 Chekhov's nickname for the Baroness Barbara Ichschul von Hildeband.

[ 1 29 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r8go]
dissertations. I rose every morning at five, went to bed late and
every day felt under intense strain in the realization that a
great deal had not yet been done, and now that I have already
finished my study of the penal system my feeling is that I have ·
seen the trees but missed the forest.
By the way, let me tell you that I was patient enough to take
a census of the entire population of Sakhalin. I made the
rounds of every settlement, entered every cabin and spoke with
every individual; I used a card system and have already ac­
counted for approximately ten thousand convicts and penal
settlers. In other words, there is not a single convict or penal
settler on Sakhalin with whom I have not had a word. My
inventory of the children was particularly successful, and I lay
a great deal of hope in it.
I had dinner at Landsberg's and sat in the kitchen of eX··
Baroness Hembruck . . . . I paid cal ls on all the celebrities. I
witnessed a flogging, after which I had nightmares for three or
four nights about the flogger and his horrible accessories.
I spoke with people chained to their wheelbarrows. One day
when I was having tea in a mine, the former Petersburg mer­
chant Borodavkin,2 sent up for arson, pulled a teaspoon out of
his pocket and presented it to me, with the result that my
nerves were upset and I vowed I would never more visit Sak­
halin.
I would write you more, but in the cabin sits a lady roaring
away with laughter and prattling without mercy. I haven't the
strength to continue. She hasn't stopped laughing boisterously
and chattering since last night.
This letter is traveling across America, but I probably won't.
Everybody says the American trip is more expensive and more
tiresome.
Tomorrow I shall see Japan from afar-Matsmai Island. It
is now twelve midnight. The sea is dark and a wind is blowing.
2 Landsberg was an ex-army officer, Hembruck an aristocrat, Borodavkin a
prominent businessman. They were all exiled to Sakhalin for criminal offenses.

[ 1 30 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I890]
I cannot understand how this boat can keep on going and
orient itself when it is pitch-dark, and moreover in such wild,
little-known waters as Tatar Sound.
When I remind myself that six thousand miles separate me
from my world, apathy overcomes me. I feel as though I won't
get home for ·a hundred years.
Respectful salutations and hearty greetings to Anna Ivanovna
and all of you. God grant you happiness and all the best.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
I'm lonesome.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 9, I89o, Moscow
Greetings, my very dear friend,
Hurrah! Well, here I am, back at my own desk at last, with a
prayer to my fading penates and a letter to you. I feel very well,
as if I had never left home, healthy and happy to the very mar­
row of my bones. Now for a very brief report. I stayed in
Sakhalin not two months, as was reported in your paper, but
three months plus two days. It was high-pressure work; I made
a full, detailed census of the entire Sakhalin population and
saw everything except capital punishment. \Vhen we get to­
gether I will show you a whole trunkful of penal colony para­
phernalia which should be unusually valuable as raw material.
I know a lot now, but brought back a nasty feeling. While I
was on the island I felt a kind of bitter taste, as of rancid butter,
in the pit of my stomach, but now in retrospect Sakhalin seems
a regular hell. I worked intensively for two months without
sparing myself, but the third month, began giving way to the
bitter taste I mention above, to the tedium and to thinking
about the cholera due by way of Vladivostok, so that I stood the
risk of wintering in the convict colony. But thank heaven the
cholera came to an end and on the thirteenth of October the
 T0 ALEXEI SUVORIN (I 890]
steamer bore me off from Sakhalin. I stopped in Vladivostok.
Of the Maritime Province and our eastern shore generally, with
its fleets, problems and Pacific Ocean aspirations, I have but one
thing to say: crying poverty! Poverty, ignorance and nothing­
ness, enough to drive one to despair. There is one honest man
for ninety-nine thieves befouling the name of Russia. . . . 'Ve
sailed past Japan, as it has some cholera cases, and so I didn't
buy you anything Japanese, and the five hundred rubles you
gave me for the purpose I spent on myself, for which reason you
have a legal right to have me transported to Siberia. The first
foreign port on my journey was Hong Kong. It has a glorious
bay, the movement of ships on the ocean is beyond anything I
have seen even in pictures, excellent roads, trolleys, a railway to
the mountains, museums, botanical gardens; wherever you turn
you will note evidences of the most tender solicitude on the part
of the English for men in their service; there is even a sailors'
club. I drove around in a rickshaw, i.e., was borne by humans,
bought all sorts of rubbish from the Chinese and got indignant
listening to my Russian traveling companions abusing the Eng­
lish for exploiting the natives. Thought I to myself, yes, the
English exploit the Chinese, the Sepoys and the Hindus, but
they do give them roads, plumbing and Christianity; you ex­
ploit them too, but what do you give them?
As we left Hong Kong the sea got really rough. The steamer
wasn't carrying a load and dipped at a 3 8° angle, so that we were
afraid it might turn over. The discovery that I am not sus­
ceptible to seasickness surprised me pleasantly. On our way to
Singapore two dead bodies were flung into the sea. 'Vhen you
look at a corpse sewed into canvas flying head over heels into the
water and when you realize it is a couple of miles to the bottom,
your sensation is one of horror, as if, somehow, you yourself
were about to die and be thrown into the ocean. Our cattle got
sick and upon the sentence of Dr. Shcherbak and your h umble
sen•ant were killed and thrown into the sea.
I recall Singapore only vaguely as I was sad somehow, close to
[ 1 32 ]
 To ALE..XEI SUVORIN [r8go]
tears, as I traveled past it. But then Ceylon followed, a heavenly
place. In this paradise I made more than seventy miles by train
and steeped myself in palm forests and bronze-hued women up
to the neck [. . .] From Ceylon we sailed thirteen days and nights
without a halt and were stupefied with boredom. I stand the
heat very well. The Red Sea is dismal; looking upon Mt. Sinai
I was moved.
God's earth is good. It is only we on it who are bad. How little
justice and humility we have, how poor our understanding of
patriotism! A drunken, worn-out, good-for-nothing husband
loves his wife and children, but what good is this love? The
newspapers tell us we love our mighty land, but how does this
love express itself? Instead of knowledge, there is insolence and
boundless conceit, instead of labor, idleness and caddishness;
there is no justice, the understanding of honor does not go be­
yound "the honor of the uniform," a uniform usually adorning
our prisoners' dock. We must work, the hell with everything
else. The important thing is that we must be just, and all the
rest will be added unto us.
I want terribly to speak with you. My soul is in upheaval. I
don't want to see anyone but you, because you are the only one I
can talk to. The hell with Pleshcheyev. And the hell with the
actors, too.
I got your telegrams in deplorable condition, all of them
torn . .
_ .

God keep you.

Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 24, r8go, 1\foscow
We felicitate you and all your respected family on the occa­
sion of the holidays and wish you many more of them to be
enjoyed in good health and happiness.
[ 1 33 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r8go]
I believe both in Koch and in sperm and praise God I do.
The public regards all this, i.e., Kochini, spermini, etc., as some
miracle leaping without warning from the brain of a Pallas
Athene, but people in the know see it only as a logical result
of everything that has been done during the past twenty years.
And much has been done, my dear man ! Surgery alone has ac­
complished so much that the very thought of it is frightening.
The period of twenty years ago appears just pitiful to anybody
studying medicine nowadays. My dear man, if I were presented
the choice of one of the two: the "ideals" of the celebrated
sixties, or the worst community hospital of the present time, I
wouldn't hesitate a moment in choosing the latter.
Do Kochini cure syphilis? Possibly. As to cancer, permit me
to have my doubts. Cancer is not a microbe; it is tissue growing
in the wrong place which, like a weed, chokes all the tissues in
its vicinity. If Hay's uncle shows improvement, it would be
merely because the erysipelas germ, i.e., the elements producing
the disease of erysipelas-are also elements of the Kochini. It has
long been noted that the growth of malignant tumors halts for a
time when this disease is present . . . .
'
I brought some utterly fascinating an imals with me from
India. They are called mongooses and are the natural enemies
of cobras; they are very inquisitive, are fond of humans and
break dishes. . . . During the day the mongoose wanders through
the rooms and sticks close to people, at night he sleeps on any
bed handy and purrs like a kitten. He might bite through
Tresor's throat, or vice versa . . . . He cannot stand animals.
Following your custom of previous years, would you send me
some stories for polishing. I like this occupation.
Funny-journeying to Sakhalin and back I felt absolutely
well, but now that I am home the devil only knows what goes
on within me. I have a continual slight headache, a general feel­
ing of lassitude, I tire easily, am apathetic, and the thing that
bothers me most-have palpitations of the heart. Every minute
my heart stops for several seconds and does not beat.
[ 1 34 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r89I]
Misha got himself the uniform of a Grade VI official and is
wearing it tomorrow on his round of holiday calls. Mother and
Father look at him with tender pride, with expressions on their
faces like those in paintings of the Blessed St. Simeon when he
says, "Now absolve the sins of thy slave, 0 Lord . . .
"

Baroness Ichschul (Madam Muskrat) is printing little books

for popular consumption. Every booklet is adorned with the
slogan "Truth"; and the price for truth runs from three to five
kopeks a copy. Here you will find Uspenski, and Korolenko, and
Potapenko, and other eminent personages. She asked my advice
on what to publish. I couldn't reply to her question but in pass­
ing recommended that she poke around in old papers, almanacs,
etc . . . . When she complained that it was hard for her to ob­
tain books, I promised to get your help. If she comes with a
request, don't refuse it. The Baroness is an honest lady and
won't muss or soil the books. She'll return them and will re­
ward you with an enchanting smile at the same time.
Alexei Alexeyevich sent me some elegant wine. According
to the testimony of all who have drunk it, it is good enough to
warrant your being boldly proud of your son. He also sent me a
letter in Latin. Splendid.
I mailed you a story yesterday. I'm afraid I was late. It's a
choppy affair, but the hell with i t.
Our medical circles in Moscow have adopted a cautious at­
titude toward Koch, and nine tenths of the doctors don't believe
in him.
God grant you the best of everything, and, principally, good
health.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
january r4, r89r, St. Petersburg
I am as weary as a ballerina after five acts and eight tableaux.
Dinners. letters I am too lazy to answer, conversations and as-
[ 1 35 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I89I]
sorted nonsense. Right now I must drive to Vassili Island for
dinner, but I am bored and ought to be at work . . . .
I am enveloped in a heavy aura of bad feeling, extremely
vague and to me incomprehensible. People feed me dinners and
sing me vulgar hymns of praise, but at the same time are ready
to devour me, the devil only knows why. If I were to shoot my­
self I would afford great pleasure to nine-tenths of my friends
and admirers. And how pettily they express their petty feelings!
Burenin's1 article abuses me, although abusing one's colleagues
in print just isn't done; Maslov [Bejetski] won't have dinner
with the Suvorins; Shcheglov gossips about me to everyone he
meets, etc. All this is terribly stupid and dreary. They are not
people, but a sort of fungus growth . . . .
My "Children" has come out in a second edition. I got one
hundred rubles on the occasion.
I am well but go to bed late . . . .
I spoke to Suvorin about you : you are not to work with him­
I have decreed it. He is terribly well disposed toward you, and
enamored of Kundasova . . . .
My respects to Lydia . . . . Tell her not to eat starchy things
and to avoid Levitan. She won't find a more devoted admirer
than me in the Duma or in high society.
Shcheglov has arrived.
Yesterday Grigorovich came to see me; he kissed me fondly,
lied, and kept begging me to tell him about Japanese women.

My greetings to all.
Your
A. Chekhov.

1 Burenin was a critic on New Times who seldom had a good word for any­
body. In one article he said that it would be a good idea for Chekhov to return
to Sakhalin and stay there.
 To A;>;ATOL K0:'-11 [1891]
To ANATOL KON I
january 26) 1891) St. Petersburg
Dear Sir)
I have not answered your letter in a hurry, as I am not leav­
ing St. Petersburg before Saturday.
I shall attempt to describe in detail the situation of Sakhalin
children and adolescents. It is extraordinary. I saw hungry
children, thirteen-year-old mistresses, girls of fifteen pregnant.
Little girls enter upon prostitution at the age of twelve, some­
times before the coming of menstruation. The church and the
school exist only on paper, the children are educated instead
by their environment and convict atmosphere. By the way, I
wrote down a conversation I had with a ten-year old boy. I was
taking the census of the village of Upper Armudan; its inhab­
itants are to a man beggars, and notorious as reckless stoss play­
ers. I entered a hut: the parents were not at home, and on a
bench sat a towheaded little fellow, round-shouldered, bare­
footed, in a brown study. \Ve started talking:
I. \Vhat is your father's middle name?
He. I don't know.
I. How's that? You live with your father and don't know his
name? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
He. He isn't my real father.
I. "What do you mean-not real?
He. He's living with Mom.
I. Does your mother have a h usband or is she a widow?
He. A widow. She came here on account of her husband.
I. What do you mean by that?
He. She killed him.
I. Do you remember your father?
He. No. I'm illegitimate. She gave birth to me on Kara.
A prisoner, in foot shackles, who had murdered his wife, was
with us on the Amur boat to Sakhalin. His poor half-orphaned
daughter, a little girl of about six, was with him. I noticed that
[ 1 37 ]
 To ANATOL KONI [r8gr]
when the father went down from the upper to the lower deck,
where the toilet was, his guard and daughter followed; while
the former sat in the toilet the armed soldier and the little girl
stood at the door. ·when the prisoner climbed the staircase on
his way back, the little girl clambered up and held on to his
fetters. At night the little girl slept in a heap with the convicts
and soldiers. Then I remember attending a funeral in Sakhalin.
The wife of a transported cri minal, who had left for N ikolay­
evsk, was being buried. Around the open grave stood four con­
victs as pallbearers-ex officio; the island treasurer and I in the
capacity of Hamlet and Horatio, roamed about the cemetery;
the dead woman's lodger, a Circassian, who had nothing else to
do; and a peasant woman prisoner, who was here out of pity;
she had brought along two children of the deceased-one an
infant and the other little Alyosha, a boy of four dressed in a
woman's jacket and blue pants with brightly colored patches on
the knees. It was cold, raw, there was water in the grave, and
the convicts stood around laughing. The sea was visible. Alyosha
looked at the grave with curiosity; he wanted to wipe his chilly
nose, but the long sleeves of the jacket got in the way. ·while the
grave was being filled I asked him, "Where is your mother,
Alyosha?"
He waved his arm like a gentleman who had lost at cards,
laughed and said, "Buried!"
The prisoners laughed; the Circassian turned to us and asked
what he was to do with the children, as he was not obliged to
take care of them.
I did not come upon infectious diseases in Sakhalin, there
was very little congenital syphilis, but I did see children blind,
filthy, covered with rashes-all maladies symptomatic of neglect.
Of course I shall not solve the children's problem, and I don't
know what should be done. But it seems to me you will not get
anywhere with charity and leftovers from prison appropriations
and other sums. To my way of thinking, it is harmful to ap-
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (r89r]
proach this important problem by depending upon charity,
which in Russia is a casual affair, or upon nonexistent funds.
I should prefer to have the government be financially respon­
sible.
My Moscow address is cjo Firgang, M. Dmitrovka Street.
Permit me to thank you for your cordiality and for your
promise to visit me and to remain,
Your sincerely respectful and devoted,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
March r7, r89r, St. Petersburg
I have j ust seen Duse, the I talian actress, in Shakespeare's
"Cleopatra." I don't understand Italian, but she performed so
brilliantly I seemed to understand every word. What an actress!
I have never seen anything like her. [I looked at Duse and
worked myself into a state of anguish at the thought that we
have to educate our temperaments and tastes through the med­
ium of such wooden actresses as X and her like, whom we con­
sider great because we haven't any better. After Duse I could
understand why the Russian theatre is so dreary.] 1
I sent you a draft today for three h undred rubles. Did you
• ;> . . .
get It.
Tomorrow at half past one we leave for Warsaw. All of you
keep alive and well. My regards to all and sundry, even to the
mongoose, who doesn't deserve to be remembered.
I will write.
Yours entirely,
A. Chekhov
1 For reasons known only to bureaucrats and to scholars who come under
their influence, the section in brackets was omitted in the new Soviet edition of
Chekhov's complete works.

[ 139 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r89r]
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
March 20, r89r, Vienna
My Czech friends,
I write this from Vienna, where I arrived yesterday afternoon
at four. The trip came off very well. From 'Varsaw to Vienna I
traveled like a railway Nana in a luxurious compartment of the
"International Sleeping Car Company"; beds, mirrors, huge
windows, carpets and so on.
Ah, my good Tungus friends, if you could only know how
fine Vienna is! Comparing it with any of the cities I have seen
in my lifetime is out of the question. The streets are broad,
elegantly paved, there is a quantity of boulevards and squares,
the apartment houses are all six or seven storeys high, and the
shops-they are not shops but utter dizziness, dreams! They
have millions of neckties alone in the windows! 'Vhat stunning
things of bronze, china, leather! The churches are huge, yet
they do not overpower one with their immensity, but caress the
sight, because they seem to be spun out of lace. Particularly
exquisite are St. Stephen's Cathedral and the Votivkirche. They
are not buildings, but petits fours. The Parliament, the Town
Hall and the University are splendid . . . . Everything is splen­
did, and only yesterday and today have I truly realized that
architecture is an art. And here this art doesn't show up in
isolated examples, as it does at home, but extends miles on end.
There are numerous monuments. Every little side-street is sure
to have its bookshop. You can see Russian books, too, in their
windows, but alas! not the works of Albov, or Barantsevich, or
Chekhov, but of assorted anonymities who write and get their
stuff printed abroad. I saw "Renan," "The Secrets of the 'Vin­
ter Palace," etc. Funny, you can read and say whatever you like.
Try to realize, 0 ye of little faith, 'what the cabs are like here,
devil take them ! They don't have droshkis, but spic-and-span,
pretty little carriages drawn by one, or oftener by two horses.
The horses are admirable. In the coachman's seat repose dandies
[ qo ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [1891]
in jackets and derbies reading newspapers. The soul of courtesy
and service.
The meals are superlative. There is no vodka, but people
drink beer and very decent wine. One thing grates: you have to
pay for the bread served. When you get your bill you are asked,
"Wieviel Brodchen?" i.e., how many rolls did you gobble? And
they charge you for every rol l you've eaten.
The women are beautiful and elegant. On the whole I would
say everything is fiendishly elegant.
I haven't entirely forgotten my German; I understand what
people say and people understand me.
Snow was falling as we crossed the border, but there is no
snow in Vienna, though it remains cold.
I am lonesome for home and miss you all; besides, my con­
science bothers me for having deserted you. Though it's not so
terrible, for when I return I'll sit glued to one spot a whole
year. My regards to all and everyone!
Papa, be so good as to buy for me at Sytin's or anywhere you
like a popular print of St. Varlaam in which the saint is de­
picted riding on a sleigh, and on a little balcony in the distance
stands the bishop; underneath the drawing is a picture of St.
Varlaam's dwelling. Please put it on my desk . . . .
My very best wishes. Don't forget this miserable sinner. My
deepest respects to all, I embrace you, bless you and remain,
Your loving
A. Chekhov

Everybody we meet recognizes us as Russians and doesn't

look at my face but at my grizzly-furred cap. From i t they
probably figure I am a very wealthy Russian count . . . .
My compliments to handsome Levitan.

[ 141 ]
 To IVA� CHEKHOV [z8gz]
To IVAN CHEKHOV
l\1arch 24, zBgz, Venice
I am now in Venice, where I arrived the day before yesterday
from Vienna. I can say one thing: never in my life have I seen
a more remarkable town than Venice. It is full of enchantment,
glitter, the joy of life. There are canals instead of streets and
lanes, gondolas instead of cabs, the architecture is amazing, and
there isn't a spot that doesn't stir either historical or artistic
interest. You skim along in a gondola and gaze upon the palaces
of the doges, the house where Desdemona lived, the homes of
celebrated artists, temples of religion . . . . These temples con­
tain sculptures and paintings magnificent beyond our wildest
dreams. In a word, enchantment.
All day long, from morning to night, I loll in a gondola and
float through the streets or else wander about the famous St.
Mark's Square, which is as smooth and clean as a parquet floor.
Here is St. Mark's Cathedral-something impossible to describe
-the palaces of the doges and buildings that give me the same
feeling I get listening to music; I am aware of astounding
beauty and revel in it.
And the evenings! Good God in heaven! Then you feel like
dying with the strangeness of it all. You move along in your
gondola. It is warm, calm, the stars gleam . . . . There are no
horses in Venice, and so the silence is that of the countryside.
All about you drift other gondolas . . . . Here is one hung about
with little lanterns. In it sit bass viol, violin, guitar, mandolin
and cornet players, two or three ladies, a couple of men-and
you hear singing and instrumental music. They sing operatic
arias. What voices! You glide on a bit farther and again come
upon a boat with singers, then another; and until midnight the
air is filled with a blend of tenor voices and violin music and
sounds that melt one's heart.
Merejkowski, whom I met here, has gone wild with rapture.
It is not hard for a poor and humble Russian to lose his mind
in this world of beauty, wealth and freedom. You feel like
[ 142 ]
 To MARIA KISELEVA [I89I]
remaining here forever, and when you go to church and listen
to the organ you feel like becoming a Catholic.
The tombs of Canova and Titian are superb. Here eminent
artists are buried in churches like kings; here art is not despised,
as it is with us; the churches offer a refuge to statues and pic­
tures, no matter how naked they may be.
There is a picture hanging in the palace of the doges that
portrays about ten thousand human figures.
Today is Sunday. A band is to play on St. Mark's Square.
At any rate, keep well, and my best wishes to you all. If you
ever happen to be in Venice, you will consider it the best time
of your life. You should have a look at the glass manufac­
tures! . . .
I 'll write some more, but so long for now.
Your
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
March 29 or ;o, I8gi, Florence
I am in Florence and have exhausted myself running through
museums and churches. I saw the Medici Venus and find that
if she were dressed in modern clothing she would look ugly,
especially around the waist. I am well. The sky is overcast, and
Italy without sunshine is like a person in a mask. Keep well.
Your
Antonio
The monument to Dante is beautiful.

To MARIA KISELEVA
A pril I, I8gi, Rome
The Pope of Rome directs me to congratulate you on your
birthday and wish you as much money as he has rooms. And he
has eleven thousand of them! Staggering through the Vatican
[ 1 43 ]
 To M IKHAIL CHEKHOV (r89r]
I almost dropped with weariness, and when I got home I felt
my legs were stuffed with cotton.
I dine at a table d'hote. Just picture it, opposite me sit two
Dutch girls, one of them looking like Pushkin's Tatiana, and
the other like her sister Olga.1 I stare at them all through dinner
and visualize a clean little white house with a little turret,
excellent butter, prime Dutch cheese, Dutch herrings, a good­
looking pastor, a sedate teacher . . .and I feel like marrying the
little Dutch girl and then having both of us painted on a tray
as we stand by the clean little house.
I have seen and climbed into everything as ordered. 'Vhen
I was told to smell, I smelled. But meanwhile I experience
nothing but weariness and a desire to eat cabbage soup with
kasha. Venice fascinated me, infatuated me, but after I left it,
on came Baedeker and bad weather.
Goodbye for now, Maria Vladimirovna, and the Lord God
protect you. A most respectful bow from me and the Pope of
Rome to His Honor, Vasilissa and Elisaveta Alexandrovna.
Neckties are wonderfully cheap here. Terribly cheap, so that
I daresay I'll start eating them. A franc a pair.
Tomorrow I leave for Naples. Please hope I meet a handsome
Russian lady there, if possible a widow or divorcee.
The guidebooks state that a love affair is indispensable in
contemplating a trip to Naples. 'Veil, I don't care-I'm ready
for anything. If it's to be a love affair, let's have it.
Don't forget your miserably sinning, sincerely devoted and
respectful,
A. Chekhov

To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV
April I)J r89r) Nice
Monday of Holy Week
• "1e are living at the seaside in Nice. The sun shines, it is
• •

warm and green and the air is like perfume, but it is windy.
1 Tatiana and Olga are characters in Pushkin's Eugene Or1egin.

[ 144 ]
 To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV [I89I]
We are one hour away from the celebrated Monaco with its
town of Monte Carlo, where roulette is played. J ust imagine the
ballrooms of our House of Nobles, but even more beautiful,
high-ceilinged and even larger. These rooms are furnished with
large tables with roulette wheels placed on them, which I will
describe to you upon my return. I played there three days ago
and lost. The game tempts one terribly. After counting our
losses, Suvorin fils and I began putting on our thinking caps
and after due thought devised a system whereby we couldn't
help winning. Last night we went there again, each of us with
sao francs; my first bet netted me a couple of gold pieces, and
then I won more and more; my vest pockets were weighted
down with gold; I was even handed some 1 808 French coins,
Belgian, Italian, Greek and Austrian coins. . . . I had never
seen so much gold and silver. I started playing at five in the
afternoon and by ten at night there wasn't a single franc left in
my pocket and the only satisfaction left was the thought that I
had previously purchased a return ticket to Nice. So there you
have it, my friends! You will of course say, "\Vhat baseness! We
are poverty-stricken and he plays roulette." You are absolutely
right and have my permission to kill me. But personally I am
very well satisfied with myself. At any rate I can now tell my
grandchildren I have played roulette and experienced the sensa­
tion that this game arouses.
N ext to the casino where roulette is played there is another
form of roulette-the restaurants. They fleece you here un­
mercifully and feed you magnificently. Whatever dish you order
is a regular composition before which one should bend the knee
in reverence, but by no means have the daring to consume.
Every mouthful is abundantly garnished with artichokes,
truffles, an assortment of nightingales' tongues . . . . Yet good
God, how contemptible and loathsome is this life with its
artichokes, palms and the aroma of orange blossoms! I like
luxury and wealth, but the local roulette type of luxury affects
me like a luxurious toilet. You feel there is something in the
[ 145 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r89r]
air that offends your sense of decency, vulgarizes the charm of
nature, the roar of the sea, the moon.
This past Sunday I attended the local Russian church. Peculi­
arities: palm branches instead of pussy willows, women in the
choir instead of boys, so that the singing has an operatic tinge,
people put foreign money in the collection plates, the verger
and beadle speak French, etc. They sang Bortnianski's Cherubim
No. 7 splendidly, and a plain Our Father.
Of all the places I have visited up to now, my loveliest mem­
ories are of Venice. Rome bears a general resemblance to Khar­
kov, and Naples is filthy. The sea does not fascinate me, though,
as I had already wearied of it in November and December. The
devil only knows what goes on, I seem to have been on the go
for a whole year. I hardly managed to get back from Sakhalin
when I left for St. Pete, then another trip to St. Pete and to
Italy . . . .
If I don't manage to return by Easter, when you celebrate
remember me in your prayers, and accept my good wishes sight
unseen and the assurance that I shall be terribly lonesome with­
out you on Easter eve.
Are you saving the newspapers for me?
. . . Do keep well, and may the Heavens preserve you. I have
the honor to give an accounting of myself and remain,
Your homesick
Antonio

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
April 2I, r89r, Paris
It is Easter today, so Christ has risen ! This is my first Easter
spent away from home.
I arrived in Paris Friday morning and immediately went to
the Exposition.1 The Eiffel Tower is really very, very high. I
1 The Exposition of 189 1 .

[ 14 6 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (1891]
saw the other exposition buildings only from the outside, as the
cavalry was stationed inside in case of riots.2 Disorders were
expected on Friday. People surged through the streets, shouted,
whistled, flared up and were dispersed by the police. A dozen
policemen are enough to break up a big mob. They rush them
in a body and the crowd runs like crazy. During one of these
rushes I had the honor of being grabbed by the shoulder by a
policeman and shoved forward.
The streets swarm and seethe with continual movement . . . .
The noise and uproar is general. The sidewalks are set out with
little tables, behind which sit the French, who feel very much
at home on the streets. An excellent people. However, there's
no describing Paris, so I'll postpone descriptions until I get
home.
I heard midnight mass at the Embassy church . . . . -

We leave for Russia tomorrow or the day after. I will be in

Moscow either Friday or Saturday. I am returning via Smolensk
and so if you want to meet me, go to the Smolensk station . . . .
I am afraid you have no money.
Misha, I implore you by all that's holy to have my glasses
repaired, using the same lenses as in yours. I am simply a martyr
without eyeglasses. I was at a picture exhibition (The Salon)
and didn't see half of them on account of my short-sightedness.
I may say in passing that Russian artists are far more serious
than the French. In comparison with the local landscapists I saw
yesterday, Levitan is a king.
This is my last letter, so goodbye for now. I left with an
empty trunk and am returning with a full one. You will all
receive something according to your merits.
Good health to you.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

2 Chekhov referred to the demonstrations of the First of May. He used the

old Russian calendar.

[ 147 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1891]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
May 10, 1891, A lexin
. . . Yes, you are right, my soul needs balm. I would with
pleasure, even with joy, read something weighty not only about
myself but about things in general. I yearn for serious reading;
Russian criticism of the present time does not help me. It irri­
tates me. I would be delighted to read something new about
Pushkin or Tolstoy-that would be balm for my idle mind.
I also miss Venice and Florence and would be ready to climb
Vesuvius again; Bologna has been wiped out and become a dim
memory, and as for N ice and Paris, when I think of them "I
look with loathing upon my life." 1
The last number of the "Foreign Literature Herald" contains
a story by Ouida translated from the English by our 1\Iikhail,
the assessor. 'Vhy don't I know languages? It seems to me I
would translate fiction superbly; when I read other people's
translations I am always changing and shifting the words around
mentally, and I get something light and ethereal, like lace.
Mondays, Tuesdays and "'ednesdays I work at my book on
Sakhalin, the rest of the week, except Sunday, on my novel,2
and on Sundays I write short stories. I work enthusiastically but
alas! my family is a numerous one, and here I am, a writing
man, resembling a crayfish in a net along with others of the
species: quite a crowd. Every day the weather is glorious, our
country place stands on dry, healthy ground, with lots of
woods . . . . There are plenty of fish and crayfish in the Oka. I
can see trains and steamers passing. On the whole I would be
very, very content if only we weren't so cramped. "'hen will
you be in Moscow? Please write.
You won't like the French Exposition-be prepared for that
reaction . . . .
I have no intention of getting married. I would like to be a
1 A line from Pushkin's " Remembrances."
2 The novel turned into the long short story called "The Duel."
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1891]
little bald old man and sit at a big desk in a well-appointed
study.
Keep well and calm. My respectful compliments to your fam­
ily. Please write.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
May 20, r8gr, Bogimovo
. . . The carp here bite with all their might. Yesterday I for­
got all my woes. First I sat beside the brook reeling in carp and
then alongside the deserted mill catching perch. Details of
everyday life are also of interest.
The last two proclamations--on the Siberian railway and
exiles-! liked very much. The Siberian railway is called a
national matter and the tone of the proclamation assures its
speedy completion; while prisoners who have served their terms
either as transported criminals or peasant exiles will be per­
mitted to return to Russia, without the right to live in Moscow
or St. Petersburg provinces. The newspapers just haven't paid
any attention to this, but actually it is something that has never
happened in Russia, a serious step toward the abolition of the
life sentence, which has for so long weighed upon the public
conscience as being to the highest degree unjust and cruel. . . .
I shall expect you. You would do well to hurry, as the night­
ingales will soon stop singing and the lilacs blooming. . . . I
can find rooms and beds for an entire division.
Keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

[ 149 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1891]
To LYDIA MIZI� OVA
june-july 18gi, Bogimovo
Dear Lida,
Why the reproaches?
I am sending you my ugly face. \Ve'll be seeing each other
tomorrow. Don't forget your l ittle Pete. A thousand kisses! ! !
I ha\'e bought Chekhov's stories : how delightful they are!
You buy them, too.
My regards to Masha Chekhova.
\Vhat a sweetheart you are!

To LYDIA :MIZIN OVA

june-july 1891, Bogimovo
Dear Lydia Stakhievna,
I love you passionately, like a tiger, and offer you my hand.
Leader of Mongrel Breeds1
Golovin-Rtishchev.
P. S. Give me your answer in gestures, as you squint.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
A ugust 18, I8gi, Bogimovo
I sent you a letter today with my story, and now here is
another in reply to the one just received from you. Speaking of
N ikolai and the doctor who is attending him you keep stressing
that "all this is done without love, without self-sacrifice, even as
regards his little comforts." You are right to say this about
people in general, but what would you have the doctors do? If,
as our nurse puts it, "his bowel busted," what are you going to

1 A "Leader o[ :\'obility" was a chosen representath·e of well-born country

families and a title of distinction_ The Russian words for "nobility" and "mon­
grel breeds" are similar at first glance.

[ 150 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I89I]
do, even if you want to give up your life for the patient? As a
rule, when the household, relatives and servants take "all pos­
sible measures" and practically crawl out of their skins, the
doctor just looks like a fool, the picture of discouragement,
blushing gloomily for himself and h is science and striving to
maintain outer calm . . . . Doctors go through execrable days and
hours, God protect you from anything like them. Among physi­
cians, it is true, ignorant fools and cads are no rarity, as is also
the case amongst writers, engineers and people generally; but
those odious days and hours I mention occur only to doctors,
and because of them, in all conscience, you must forgive them
a great deal. . . .
My teacher-brother has received a medal and an appointment
in Moscow for his conscientious efforts. He is stubborn in the
good sense of the word and will get what he aims for. He is not
yet thirty but is already considered a model pedagogue in
Moscow.
I woke last n ight and started thinking of the story I sent you.
My head was in utter confusion while I wrote it in fiendish
haste, and it wasn't my brain that functioned, but a rusty wire.
Hurrying is no good, for what results is not creative writing but
muck. If you don't reject the story, defer its publication until
autumn, when it will be possible to read proof. . . .
A peasant woman was carting some rye and fell out of her
wagon, head first. She was horribly injured: concussion of the
brain, dislocation of the neck vertebrae, vomiting, acute pains
and so on. She was brought to me. She groaned, moaned, prayed
God to let her die, but at the same time she turned to the mujik
who had brought her and mumbled, "Cyril, don't bother with
the lentils, you can thresh them aftenvard, but you'd better
thresh the oats right now." I told her she could worry about the
oats afterward, but now there were more serious things to con­
sider, and she comes back with, "But his oats are so good!" A
bustling peasant woman, to be envied. That type doesn't find it
hard to die.
[ 15 I ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r8gr]
I am leaving for Moscow the fifth of September as I have to
look for a new apartment.
Best wishes!
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
September 8, r8gr, Moscow
M. Dmitrovka, cjo Firgang
I have already moved to Moscow and am staying indoors . . . .
"The Lie," the title you recommended for my long story,
won't do. It would be appropriate only in cases where the lie is
a conscious one. An unconscious lie really isn't a lie, but an
error. Having money and eating meat Tolstoy calls a lie­
which is going too far.
Yesterday I was informed that Kurepin is hopelessly ill with
cancer of the neck. Before he dies the cancer will have eaten up
half his head and torment him with neuralgic pains. I was told
his wife has written you.
Little by little death takes its toll. It knows its job. Try writing
a play along these lines: an old chemist has concocted an elixir
of immortality-a dose of fifteen drops and one lives eternally;
but the chemist breaks the vial with the elixir out of fear that
such carrion as he and his wife will continue to live forever.
Tolstoy denies immortality to mankind, but good God, how
much there is that's personal in his denial ! The day before yes­
terday I read his "Epilogue."1 Strike me dead, but this is
stupider and stuffier than " Letters to a Governor's \Vife."2
which I despise. The hell with the philosophy of the great of
this world! All eminent sages are as despotic as generals, as dis­
courteous and lacking in delicacy as generals, because they
know they are safe from punishment. Diogenes spat into peo-
1 The "Epilogue" to Tolstoy's Kreutzer Sonata,
2 Gogol's Letters to a Govemor's Wife.

[ 1 52 ]
 To ELENA SIIAVROVA [I8gi]
pies' beards, sure that nothing would happen to him; Tolstoy
abuses doctors as scoundrels and shows his ignorance in regard
to weighty questions because he is another Diogenes, whom
you can't take to the police station or cal l down in the news­
papers. And so, the hell with the philosophy of the great of this
world! All of it, with all its beggarly epilogues and letters to
governors' ladies isn't worth a single filly in his "Story of a
Horse." . . .
Keep well and don't forget this miserable sinner. I miss you
very much.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ELENA SHAVROVA
September I6, I8gi, Moscow
So we old bachelors smell like dogs? Very well, but let me
dispute your thesis that specialists in women's diseases are
Lotharios and cynics at heart. Gynecologists arc concerned with
a kind of violent prose you have never even dreamed of, and to
which, were you aware of it, you would attribute an odor even
worse than that of dogs, with the harshness characteristic of
your imagination. He who always sails the seas loves dry land;
he who is eternally absorbed in prose passionately pines for
poetry. All gynecolologists are idealists. Your doctor reads
verses, and your instinct has served you well; I would add that
he is a great liberal, something of a mystic, and muses of a wife
along the lines of Nekrasov's Russian ·woman. The eminent
Snegirev never speaks of "the Russian woman" without a tremor
in his voice. Another gynecologist I know is in love with a
mysterious unknown who wears a veil, and whom he has seen
from a distance. Still another attends all the first nights-and
stands next to the coatroom swearing loudly and assuring people
that authors haven't the right to depict women who aren't ideal,
etc.
[ 1 53 ]
 To ELENA SHAVROVA [r8gr]
You have also lost sight of the fact that a good gynecologist
cannot be stupid or a mediocrity. His mind, even if it has had
only moderate training, shines more brightly than his bald
spot; you, however, noticed the bald spot and stressed i t and
threw the mind overboard. You noted and stressed as well that
a kind of grease oozes out of this fat man-brrr!-and com­
pletely lost sight of the fact that he is a professor, i.e., has
thought and done things for some years that set him above mil­
lions of people, above all the little Veras and Taganrog Greek
young ladies, above all meals and wines. Noah had three sons,
Shem, Ham and, I think, J apheth. The only thing Ham noted
was that his father was a drunkard, he completely lost sight of
the fact that Noah was a genius, that he built an ark and saved
the world. Writing people ought not imitate Ham. Put that in
your pipe and smoke it. I don't dare ask you to be fond of
gynecologists and professors, but I venture to remind you of
justice, which is more precious than air to the objective writer.
The little girl in the merchant's family is done beautifully.
The passage in the doctor's speech where he talks of his disbe­
lief in medicine is good, but it isn't necessary for him to take a
drink after every sentence. The fondness for corpses shows your
exasperation with your captive thought. You have not seen
corpses.
Now to move from the particular to the general. Let me ad­
vise you to watch your step. \Vhat you have here is not a short
story or a novel, not a piece of artistry, but a long row of heavy,
dismal barracks.
\\'here is the architectural construction that once so en­
chanted your humble servant? \Vhere is the airiness, the fresh­
ness, the grace? Read your story through : a description of a
dinner, then a description of passing women and misses-then
a description of a party-then one of a dinner . . . and so on
and on--endlessly. Descriptions, descriptions and more descrip­
tions-and no action at all. You should start right off with the
merchant's daughter, stick to her, and throw out the little
[ 1 54 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I89I]
Veras, throw out the Greek girls, throw out everything . . .
except for the doctor and the merchant's spawn.
We must have a talk. So it seems you are not moving to St.
Petersburg. I was counting on seeing you, as Misha assured me
you intended settling there. Keep well, then. The heavenly
angels guard you. Your imagination is becoming an interesting
thing.
Forgive the long letter.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 25, I89I, Moscow
. . . Run "The Duel" only once a week, not twice. If you
carry it twice a week you will be violating an old established
custom and it will look as if I were usurping someone else's
space in the paper; as a matter of fact it's all the same to me
and my story whether it appears once or twice weekly.
Among the St. Petersburg writing fraternity the only topic of
conversation is the impurity of my motives. I have just had the
agreeable news that I am getting married to rich Madame Sibir­
yakova. I've been getting lots of good news generally.
I wake up every night and read "War and Peace." One reads
with such curiosity and naive enthusiasm as though one had
never read anything previously. I t is wonderfully good. Except
that I don't care for the passages where Napoleon makes an
appearance. Wherever Napoleon comes on the scene, you get
a straining after effect and all manner of devices to prove that
he was stupider than he actually was in reality. Everything that
Pierre, Prince Andrei, or even the utterly insignificant N ikolai
Rostov say or do--is good, clever, natural and touching; every­
thing that Napoleon thinks and does is not natural, not clever,
but inflated and lacking in significance. When I live in the
provinces (and I dream of it day and night), I intend to practice
medicine and read novels.
 To YEVGRAF YEGOROV [1891]
I won't be going to St. Petersburg.
If I had treated Prince Andrei I would have cured him. I t is
extraordinary to read that the wound of the prince, a rich man,
with a physician in attendance all the time and Natasha and
Sonia to look after him, should emit the odor of a corpse. How
scurvy medicine was at the time! Tolstoy must have had an un­
conscious hatred of medicine while writing this tremendous
novel.
Keep well. Auntie died.
Your
A. Chekhov

To YEVGRAF YEGOROV
December II, 1891, 1\tloscow
Dear l'evgraf Petrovich,
Here is the story of my trip to your place which did not come
off. I intended visiting you not as a newspaper correspondent,
but on a mission, or rather at the bidding of a small circle of
people who wanted to do something for the famine-stricken.
The fact of the matter is that the public has no faith in official­
dom and therefore refrains from donating its money. There are
thousands of fantastic tales and fables going the rounds of em­
bezzling, outright thievery and so on. People keep away from
the Diocesan Office and are indignant at the Red Cross. The
owner of my unforgettable Babkino, the head of the community
there, cut me short sharply and categorically, "The Moscow
Red Cross people are thieves ! " In the face of such a mood the
officials can scarcely expect any serious aid from the public.
Yet at the same time the public wants to do good and its con­
science is aroused. In September the Moscow educated class
and plutocracy met together, thought, spoke, bestirred them­
selves, invited people who knew the situation for advice; every­
body discussed how to get around the officials and organize help
independently. They decided to send their own agents to the
 T0 YEVGRAF YEGOROV ( I 89 I)
famine-stricken provinces, to get acquainted with the state of
affairs on the spot, set up soup kitchens and so on. Several
leaders of these groups, people with a good deal of weight, asked
Durnovo's permission to operate, but Durnovo turned them
down, declaring that the organization of aid belonged wholly
to the Diocesan Office and the Red Cross. In short, personal
initiative was nipped in the bud. Everyone was crestfallen and
depressed; some flew into a rage, others simply washed their
hands of the project. It needed the daring and the authority of
Tolstoy to act in defiance of bans and official sentiments and do
what one's sense of duty directed.
Well, sir, now about myself. My attitude was one of complete
sympathy with private initiative, as everyone ought to be free
to do good as he wishes; but judging officialdom, the Red Cross
and so on seemed to me inopportune and impractical. I assumed
that with a certain amount of equanimity and good nature it
would be possible to avoid whatever was unpleasant or ticklish,
and that under such circumstances, approaching the Minister
was unnecessary. I went all the way to Sakhalin without a single
letter of recommendation, and yet accomplished whatever I
deemed necessary; why then should I not do the same in the
case of the famine-stricken provinces? I also recalled such admin­
istrators as you, Kiselev and all my community-leader friends
and officials-people honorable in the extreme and deserving of
the most implicit confidence. And I decided, starting with a
small district, of course, to try to unite the two elements of
officialdom and private initiative. I wanted to call upon you for
advice as soon as possible. The public believes in me, it would
also believe in you, and I could count upon success. I sent you
a letter, you will recall.
Then Suvorin arrived in Moscow. . . . Suvorin had influenza;
usually when he comes to Moscow we spend days on end to­
gether discussing literature, which he knows admirably. This
time, too, we had discussions and it wound up with my catching
his influenza, going to bed and coughing furiously. Korolenko
[ 1 57 ]
 To YEYGRAF YEGOROV [ I8gi]
was in Moscow and found me suffering. A lung complication
kept me languishing indoors a whole month doing absolutely
nothing. 1\'ow my affairs are looking up, but I am still coughing
and am very thin. Here you have my story. If it were not for
the inOucnza, perhaps we together would have managed to
wrest two or three thousands, or even more, from the public,
depending upon circumstances.
Your exasperation with the press is entirely understandable.
The snap judgments of newspaper writers vex you, who are
familiar with the true state of affairs, as much as the snap judg­
ments of laymen on diphtheria vex me, a medical man. But
what would you have one do, I ask you? Russia is not England,
nor France. Our newspapers are not rich and have very few
people at their disposal. Sending an academy professor or Engel­
hardt to the Volga is expensive; sending a well-equipped, gifted
newspaperman is also impossible-he is needed in the home
office. The "New York Times" could arrange for a census of
the famine provinces at its own expense, could put a Kennan
into every district, paying him forty rubles a day-and some­
thing purposeful would come of it; but what can "Russian Re­
ports" or "New Times" do, newspapers that consider a hundred­
thousand-ruble profit as the wealth of Croesus? As to the corre­
spondents themselves, you know these are city folks who are
acquainted with rural life solely through the works of Gleb
Uspenski. Their position is untenable in the extreme. Make a
quick dash into a district, sniff around, give it a writeup and
get going to the next. The man has neither material means,
freedom of action nor authority. For two hundred rubles a
month he keeps dashing around and praying God people won't
get mad at him for his unintentional and unavoidable misrep­
resentations. He feels he is to blame. But you know it is not he
who should be blamed, but Russian black ignorance. At the
service of the 'Vestern correspondent are excellent maps, en­
cyclopedias, statistical studies; in the 'Vest you can write up
your report without leaving your house. But here? Our cor-
[ 1 58 ]
 To YEVGRAF YEGOROV [r8gr]
respondent can dredge up information only from conversations
and rumors. ·why, in all of our Russia only three districts have
been investigated thus far: Cherepov, Tambov and one other.
That is for all Russia! The newspapers lie that correspondents
are roisterers, but what can they do? A nd not writing is impos­
sible. If our press were silent you will agree with me the situa­
tion would be even more horrible.
Your letter and your project regarding the purchase of cattle
from the peasants galvanized me into action. I am ready with all
my heart and all my energies to carry out whatever you propose.
I have given the matter much thought and here is my opinion.
You cannot count upon the rich. It is too late. Every rich man
has already shelled out the thousands he had set aside for the
purpose. All the power is now in the hands of the middle-class
man who will donate his half-rubles or rubles. . . . That means
only the average man is left. Let us set up a subscription list.
You write a letter to the editor and I will have it published in
"Russian Reports" and "New Times." In order to combine the
above-mentioned elements, we might both sign the letter. If
you find this unacceptable because of your official duties, the
letter might be written in the third person, stating that in Sec­
tion 5 of Nizhni-Novgorod District, such and such work has
been organized, that, praise God, things are going well, and it
is requested that contributions be sent to the head of the com­
munity, Y. P. Yegorov, residing at such and such an address, or
to A. P. Chekhov, or to the editorial office of such and such
newspapers. But the letter must be a good long one. ·write in as
much detail as possible, I will add a thing or two-and we can't
lose. We must ask for contributions, not loans. Nobody will go
along with a loan: it is horrible. It is hard to give, but it is
even harder to take back.
I know only one wealthy person in Moscow, and that is Mme.
Morozova, 1 the well-known philanthropist. I called on her yes-
1 Varvara Morozova was an extremely wealthy woman who had a famous
salon in Moscow.

[ 1 59 ]
 To VLAD i l\I J R TIKHO:\'OV [ 1892]
terday with your letter, talked and ate. At the moment she is
keen on the Committee on Literacy, which is establishing soup
kitchens for schoolchildren and she is giving everything to this
group. Since literacy and horses are incompatible, the lady
promised me the co-operation of her committee only in the
event that you wished to set up soup kitchens for schoolchildren
and sent detailed information. It was awhward for me to ask
her for money then and there, since people keep taking money
from her endlessly and flay her like a fox. My sole request to her
was that in case she intended donating to other commissions
and committees, she not forge t us either, and she promised not
to. Your letter and your idea have also been communicated to
Sobolevski, editor of "Russian Reports"-just in case. I am
busy shouting that the project is already under way.
If any rubles or half-rubles come my way, I shall send them
on to you without delay. Please consider me at your disposal
and believe me when I say I would be truly happy to do some­
thing, as I have thus far done nothing at all for the famine­
stricken and for those helping them.
We are all in good health, except that Nick died of consump­
tion in t 88g . . . . Ivan is teaching in Moscow, Misha is an
assessor.
Keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR TIKHONOV
February 22, 1892, [Link]
Forgive me, my dear Vladimir Alexeyevich, for not having
answered your letter for so long. To start with, I have only
just recently returned from Voronej Province, and secondly, I
am buying an estate (keep your fingers crossed) and spend entire
days in assorted notary, bank, insurance and similar parasitical
establishments. This purchase of mine has reduced me to a
state of frenzy. I am like a person who has entered an inn just
[ 1 60 ]
 To VLADIMIR TI KHONOV [r892]
for some chopped beef with onions, but meeting good pals, has
gone to work on the bottle, got as drunk as a pig and must
settle a bill for 1 4 2 rubles and 75 kopeks . . . .
You mistakenly think you were drunk at Shcheglov's birthday
party. You were fairly high, that was all. You danced when
everybody danced and your jigging on the cabman's box gave
nothing but general pleasure. As to the criticism, it couldn't
have been severe, as I don't recall it. I only remember that
Vedenski and I laughed long and loud at you.
So you need my biography? Here goes. I was born in Tagan­
rog in 1 86o. In 1 87 9 I graduated from the Taganrog Boys'
School. In 1 884 I graduated from the Medical School of Moscow
University. In 1 888 I received the Pushkin Prize. In 1 890 I took
a trip to Sakhalin across Siberia and returned by sea. In 1 89 1 I
made a European tour, during which I drank some first-rate
wine and ate oysters. In 1 8 92 I had a good time at V. A. Tikho­
nov's birthday party. I began my writing in 1 879 for "Dragon
Fly" magazine. Here in substance are my works: "Motley
Stories," "In the Twilight," "Tales," "Gloomy People," and a
novel, "The Duel." I have also sinned in the dramatic field,
though in moderation. I have been translated into all languages
except the foreign. Joking aside, I have long since been trans­
lated by the Germans. The Czechs and Serbs also approve of me.
And the French belong to our mutual admiration society. At
thirteen I probed the mysteries of love. With my colleagues,
both medical and literary, I maintain the most excellent rela­
tions. I am a bachelor. I would like a pension. I still practice
medicine, if you can call it that. Summers in the country I even
perform an autopsy every couple of years. Among writers my
preference goes to Tolstoy, among doctors-to Zakharin.
All this is nonsense, though. Write whatever you like. If you
haven't the facts, substitute lyricism.
Keep well and happy. My regards to your little daughters.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
[ 161 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r892]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
March J, r892, Moscow
. . . Every day I find out something new. What a terrible
thing it is to have business with liars! The artist who sold me
the property lies and lies and lies-needlessly, stupidly, and the
upshot is a series of daily disillusionments. Every moment I
expect him to put over another swindle and so I am continually
exasperated. \Ve are accustomed to assuming that only mer­
chants cheat in measuring and weighing, but people should
have a good look at our upper class! They are an odious spec­
tacle. They are not people but ordinary kulaks, even worse than
ku laks, for a peasant-kulak goes ahead and does some work
himself, while my artist just goes around guzzling liquor and
swearing at the servants. Just imagine, from as far back as last
summer his horses haven't seen a single grain of oats, or a wisp
of hay, but have lived off straw exclusively, although they work
hard enough for ten. The cow doesn't give any milk because she
is starving. His wife and mistress live under the same roof. The
children are dirty and ragged. There is a stench of cats. Bedbugs
and enormous cockroaches abound. The artist pretends he is de­
voted to me heart and soul and at the same time gives the peasants
lessons in the art of cheating. Since is is difficult to judge even ap­
proximately where my fields and woodlands reach to, the peasants
had been coached to point out for my benefit an extensive stand of
woods which actually belongs to the church. But they refused to
do as they were told. On the whole I am involved in a lot of
tommyrot and vulgarity. It is disgusting to realize that all this
hungry and filthy riffraff thinks that I, too, tremble for the sake
of a kopek just as it does, and that I too don't mind putting over
crooked deals. The peasants are downtrodden, frightened and
worried. I am sending you a circular on the estates and am
going to conduct an enquiry on the spot. . . .
You want to build a theatre, while I want terribly to go to
Venice and write . . . a play. How glad I am I'm not going to
 To LYDIA AVILOVA [z892]
have an apartment in Moscow! This is a sort of comfort I have
never had the pleasure of enjoying before.
How is Alexei Alexeyevich's health? I don't understand why
he had to take showers.
All the best!
Your
A. Chekhov

To LYDIA AVILOVA
March z9, z892, Melikhovo
Dear Lydia A lexeyevna,
. . . I read your "Along the Way." If I were the editor of an
illustrated magazine I would publish this story with great
pleasure. Only here is the advice of this particular reader: when
you portray miserable wretches and unlucky people and want to
stir the reader to compassion, try to be cooler-to give their
sorrow a background, as it were, against which it can stand out
in sharper relief. The way it is, the characters weep and you
sigh. Yes, you must be cold.
But don't listen to me, as I am a poor critic. I don't have the
ability to formulate my critical ideas clearly. Sometimes I just
talk frightful nonsense . . . .
Your letter distressed and bewildered me. You mention cer­
tain "strange things" that I seem to have said at Leikin's, then
you beg me in the name of respect for womankind not to speak
of you "in that spirit" and finally you even say "for having been
trustful just this once, I can find my name dragged into the
mud . . . " ·what is this dreaming of yours all about? Mud-and
me! . . . My self-esteem will not permit me to justify myself: more-
over, your accusations are too vague to allow me to decide on
what grounds I can defend myself. As far as I can j udge, it is a
question of gossip, isn't it? I earnestly implore you (if you trust
me no less than you do the gossips) , do not believe all the
nasty things people say in your St. Petersburg. Or, if you find it
 To PYOTR BYKOV [r8g2]
impossible not to believe these rumors, then don't swallow them
plain, but with a pinch of salt; both as to my marriage to some­
one with five millions and my affairs with the wives of my best
friends, etc. Calm down, for heaven's sake. If I don't sound
convincing enough, have a talk with Yasinski, who was with me
at Leikin's after the jubilee. I recall that both of us, he and I,
spoke at some length of what fine people you and your sister were.
. . . We both were somewhat high after the jubilee, but even
if I were as drunk as a sailor or had lost my mind, I would not
have lowered myself to "that spirit" or "mud" (didn't your arm
wither as you spelled out that little word!) as I would be re­
strained by my usual decency and devotion to my mother,
sister and women in general. Imagine speaking ill of you and
especially in Leikin's presence!
However, I wash my hands of the business. Defending one­
self against gossip is like begging for a loan from [ .] : useless.
. .

Think as you wish about me . . . .

I am living in the country. I throw snow into the brook and
with satisfaction ponder upon my decision-nevermore to visit
St. Petersburg.
My best wishes.
Your sincerely devoted and respectful,
A. Chekhov

To PYOTR BYKOV
May 4, r8g2, Melikhovo
Dear Pyotr Vasilievich,
Ieronym Ieronymich wrote me that you are on very friendly
terms with the editors of "\Vorld-\Vide Illustration." If you
have the opportunity would you be good enough to inform
them that the announcement in which they praise me as "highly
gifted," and the title of my story which they print in letters as
big as a signboard, have produced a most unpleasant impression
on me. The announcement resembles the advertisement of a
 To ALEXEi SUVORIN [z892]
dentist or masseur and in any case is lacking in taste. I realize
the value of publicity and am not opposed to it, but for a man
of letters, modesty and the literary approach in dealing with
readers and colleagues alike constitute the very finest and most
infallible publicity. On the whole I have had no luck with
"World-\Vide Illustration" : I requested an advance and am
regaled with publicity. They didn't send the advance-all right,
that's bad enough, but they should have had mercy on my
literary reputation. This, my first letter to you, is a peevish one
and is bound to irk you. Forgive me.
I beg you earnestly to excuse me and to believe that I have
turned to you with a complaint only because I hold you in the
sincerest esteem.
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
A ugust z, z892, Melikhovo
My letters chase after you, but you are elusive. I have written
often, and to St. Moritz, by the way. J udging by your letters,
you haven't had anything from me. To start with, cholera is
raging in and near Moscow, and will reach our area any day
now. In the second place, I have been appointed cholera doctor,
and my section includes twenty-five villages, four factories and
one monastery. I organize, put up barracks, etc., and feel like a
lonely soul, as everything connected with cholera is alien to my
nature, and the work, which requires me to take trips con­
tinually, deliver talks and attend to petty details, is exhausting.
There is no time for writing. Literature has long ago been cast
aside, and I am poverty-stricken and wretched, as I found it
proper, in the interests of independence, to turn down the com­
pensation that section doctors usually receive. I am bored, yet
there is a great deal that is interesting in cholera, looking
at it objectively. It's a pity you are not in Russia. Material for
those short letters of yours is falling by the wayside. The situa-
[ 1 65 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r892]
tion is more good than bad, and in this respect cholera differs
sharply from famine. . . . Everybody is at work now, and work­
ing feverishly. At the Nizhni Fair miracles are performed which
may cause even Tolstoy to adopt a more respectful attitude to­
ward medicine and toward the general participation of educated
people in life. It looks as if a lasso had been thrown over
cholera. The number of cases has not only been lowered, but
the percentage of mortality as well. In a huge place like Moscow
it won't go beyond fifty cases a week, though on the Don it will
fasten upon thousands every day-an imposing difference. "\Ve
country doctors are ready: we have a definite program of action
and perhaps we will lower the percentage of fatalities from
cholera in our districts.
"\Ve have no assistants, and have to act as doctors and orderlies
at the same time; the mujiks are crude, filthy, mistrustful; but
the thought that our labors won't be wasted makes all these
things practically unnoticeable. Of all the Serpukhov doctors
I am the sorriest specimen; I have a scurvy horse and carriage,
don't know the roads, can't see at night, haven't any money, get
tired very easily, and most important of all-I cannot forget
for a moment that I must write, and I feel very much like
spitting on the cholera and getting down to my work. And I
would like to have a talk with you. I am utterly lonely.
Our farming efforts have been crowned with complete suc­
cess. The harvest is a solid one, and when we sell our grain,
Melikhovo will net us more than a thousand rubles. The truck
garden is a brilliant success. "\Ve have regular mountains of
cucumbers, and wonderful cabbage. If it weren't for the damned
cholera I could say I had never spent as good a summer as this
one . . . .
Nothing is heard of cholera riots any more. There is talk of
arrests, proclamations and so on. They say Astyrev,1 the literary
man, has been sentenced to a fifteen-year prison term. If our
socialists actually exploit cholera for their own ends, I shall
1 Ast yrc\' was a sociologist.

[ 1 66 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r892]
despise them. Using vile means to attain worthy ends makes the
ends themselves vile. Let them ride on the backs of doctors and
medical assistants, but why lie to the people? ·why assure the
people they are right in their ignorance and that their crude
prej udices are sacred truth? Can any splendid future possibly
j ustify this base lie? Were I a politician, I could never make up
my mind to shame my present for the sake of the future, even
though I might be promised tons of bliss for a pinch of foul
lying.
Shall we see each other in the fall, and will we be together in
Feodosia? You, after your trip abroad, and I, after the cholera,
might have a good deal that is interesting to tell each other.
Let's spend October together in the Crimea. It wouldn't be
boring, honestly. We can write, talk, eat . . . . There is no more
cholera in Feodosia.
Write me if possible more often . . I can't be in very good
. .

spirits now, but your letters do tear me away from worries over
the cholera and carry me briefly into another world.
Keep well. My regards to my classmate, Alexei Petrovich.
Yours,
A. [Link]
I am going to treat cholera by the Cantani method : lots of
enemas with tannin at 40 degrees and injections under the
skin of a solution of sodium chloride. The fanner have an ex­
cellent effect: they wann, and decrease the diarrhea. The in­
jection sometimes produces miracles, but on other occasions
causes a stroke.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
A ugust r6) r892) JHelikhovo
I won't write any more, not if you cut me down. I wrote to
Abbazzio, to St. Moritz, wrote at least ten times . . . . It's mortify­
ing, particularly so when, after a whole group of my letters on
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r892]
our worries over cholera, you suddenly write from gay, tur­
quoise-hued Biarritz that you envy me my leisure! May Allah
forgive you!
\Veil, sir, I'm alive and well. The summer is an admirable
one, dry, warm, teeming with fruits of the earth, but all its
delight, from July on, was totally spoiled by news of a cholera
epidemic. During the time you were inviting me first to Vienna,
then to Abbazzio, I had already become the section doctor of the
Serpukhov community, was trying to catch cholera by the tail
and had organized a new section like a whirlwind. In my sec­
tion I have twenty-five villages, four factories and one mon­
astery. In the morning I hold office hours for patients, in the
afternoon I pay visits . . . . I have turned out to be a first-rate
beggar; what with my beggar-like eloquence, my section now
has two excellent barracks completely equipped and five that
are not excellent but miserable. I have even relieved the com­
munity council of expenditures for disinfection purposes. I have
begged lime, vitriol and assorted stinking junk from manu­
facturers for al l of my twenty-five villages . . . . My soul is spent
and I am weary. Not to belong to yourself, to think only of
diarrhea, to tremble at night at the bark of a dog and knock
at the gate (haven't they come to get me out of bed?) to drive
scurvy horses along unknown roads, to read only about cholera
and wait only for cholera and at the same time to be completely
indifferent to the malady and the people you are treating­
my dear sir, you can't have even a bowing acquaintance with
the stew that is going on within me. Cholera has already hit
Moscow and Moscow District. \Ve must expect it hourly. Judg­
ing by its progress in Moscow, we have reason to believe it has
already abated and the bacil lus is beginning to lose its vigor.
\Ve must also realize that it must readily give way before the
measures taken here and in Moscow. The educated class is work­
ing diligently without sparing its body or its purse; I see evi­
dence of it every day and am moved, and then when I recall
how Inhabitant and Burenin poured forth their venom on this
( 1 68 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [ I892]
class, I get a pretty choked feeling. In N izhni the doctors and
educated people generally have performed wonders. I was over­
come with delight when I read about the handling of cholera.
In the good old days, when people sickened and died by the
thousands, people couldn't even have dreamed of the astound­
ing victories that are now being won before our eyes. It is a
pity you are not a physician and cannot share my gratification,
i.e., properly feel, recognize and value all that is being done.
However, it is not possible to talk of this in a brief paragraph.
The method of treating cholera requires that the doctor,
above all else, take his time, i.e., give five to ten hours to each
patient, and sometimes more. As I mean to use the Cantani
method-enemas of tannin and injections of a solution of sodi­
um chloride under the skin-my situation will be stupider than
a fool's. \Vhile I am fussing around with one patient, ten others
will manage to get sick and die. You know I am the only one
serving twenty-five villages, aside from the medical assistant,
who calls me Your Honor, is timid about smoking in my pres­
ence and won't take a step without my advice. If we have iso­
lated cases, I will be in full control, but if the epidemic spreads
to even as few as five cases a day, I will lose my temper, worry
and feel I am to blame . . . .
\Vhen you learn from the papers that the cholera has abated,
you will know I have again taken up writing. While I serve the
community, don't consider me a literary man. I can't try to
catch two rabbits at once.
You write I have abandoned "Sakhalin." No, I cannot aban­
don my big baby. When boredom with fiction gets me down, I
find it pleasant to take up with non-fiction. I don't think the
question of when I shall finish "Sakhalin" and where I shall
publish it is important. While Galkin-Vraski is king of the
prison system I am strongly disposed against publishing the
book. Though if I am forced to it, that will be another matter.
In all my letters I have insistently put one question to you
which you don't have to answer, however: where will you be in
[ 1 69 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I892]
the fall and don't you want to pass a part of September and
October in Feodosia and Crimea with me. I feel an irresistible
desire to eat, drink, sleep and talk about literature, i.e., do
nothing and at the same time feel I am a decent person. But if
you find my indolence distasteful, I can promise to write a play
or novel with or near you. How about it? You don't want to?
Well, the hell with it. . . .
. . . Picture to yourself my cholera boredom, my cholera
solitude and forced literary idleness and write me more and
oftener. I share your squeamish feeling toward the French. The
Germans are very much above them, though for some reason we
consider them stolid. And I care for Franco-Russian under­
standings as much as I do for Tatishchev. There is something
low and suggestive in these understandings . . . .
'Ve have raised some very delicious potatoes and wonderful
cabbage. How can you get along without cabbage soup? I don't
envy you your sea, or your freedom or the good mood you en­
joy abroad. There is nothing like the Russian summer. And I
may add incidentally, I don't particularly care about going
abroad. After Singapore, Ceylon and our Amur, I daresay Italy
and even Mt. Vesuvius don't seem enticing. "\Vhen I was in
India and China, I did not see any great difference between the
rest of Europe and Russia.
My neighbor, Count Orlov-Davidov, the owner of the cele­
brated estate Consolation, who ran away from the cholera, is
now living in Biarritz; he gave his doctor only five hundred
rubles for the cholera campaign. 'Vhen I went to visit his sister,
the countess, who lives in my section, to talk about building a
barracks for her workingmen, she treated me as if I had come
to ask her to take me on as a hired hand. She just made me
sick, and I lied to her that I was a man of means. I told a
similar lie to the head of the monastery, who refused to give
me any space for patients, of whom there will probably be quite
a few. In answer to my question as to what he would do with
those that fell ill in his hostel he replied that they were substan-
[ 1 70 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r892]
tial people who would pay all charges themselves. Do you get it?
I flared up and said I didn't need a fee, as I was rich, and all I
wanted was for the monastery to be safe. Sometimes you get into
the most stupid and insulting situations. . . . Before Count
Orlov-Davidov's departure, I had an interview with his wife.
Complete with enormous diamonds in her ears, a bustle and an
inability to comport herself properly. A millionairess. With
such personages you experience a stupid schoolboy reaction,
when you feel like saying something vulgar for no good reason.
I often have visits, and long ones, from the local priest, a fine
young fellow, a widower with illegitimate children.
·write, or there will be trouble.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
November 25, r892, Melikhovo
You are not hard to understand and you abuse yourself need­
lessly for expressing yourself vaguely. You are a hard drinker
and I treated you to sweet lemonade; after downing it wryly,
you remark with entire justice that it hasn't an alcoholic kick.
That is just what our works haven't got-the kick that would
make us drunk and hold us in their grasp, and this you set
forth clearly. And why not? Leaving me and my "Ward No. 6"
out of it, let's talk in general terms, which are more interesting.
Let's talk of general causes, if i t won't bore you, and let's em­
brace the whole age. Tell me in all conscience, what writers of
my own generation, i.e., people from thirty to forty-five, have
given the world even one drop of alcohol? Aren't Korolenko,
Nadson, and all today's playwrights lemonade? Have Repin's or
Shishkin's paintings really turned your head? All this work is
just amiable and talented, and though you are delighted, you
still can't forget you'd like a smoke. Science and technical
knowledge are now experiencing great days, but for our brother-
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r892]
hood the times are dull, stale and frivolous, we ourselves are
stale and dreary. . . . The causes for it are not to be found in
our stupidity or lack of gifts and not in our insolence, as
Burenin holds, but in a disease which in an artist is worse than
syphilis or sexual impotence. Our illness is a lack of "some­
thing," that is the rights of the case, and it means that when you
lift the hem of our Muse's gown you will behold an empty void.
Bear in mind that writers who are considered immortal or just
plain good and who intoxicate us have one very important trait
in common: they are going somewhere and call you with them;
you sense, not with your mind but with all your being, that
they have an aim, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, who had a
reason for appearing and alarming the imagination. Looking
at some of them in terms of their calibre you will see that they
have immediate aims-the abolition of serfdom, the liberation
of their country, political matters, beauty, or just vodka, like
Denis Davidov; others have remote aims-God, life beyond the
grave, the happiness of mankind and so on. The best of them are
realistic and paint life as it is, but because every line is saturated
with juice, with the sense of life, you feel, in addition to life
as it is, life as it should be, and you are entranced. Now what
about us? Yes, us! \Ve paint life such as it is-that's all, there
isn't any more . . . . Beat us up, if you like, but that's as Ear as
we'll go. \Ve have neither immediate nor distant aims, and you
can rattle around in our souls. \Ve have no politics, we don't
believe in revolution, we don't believe in God, we aren't afraid
of ghosts, and personally I don't even fear death or blindness.
He who doesn't desire anything, doesn't hope for anything and
isn't afraid of anything cannot be an artist. It doesn't matter
whether we call it a disease or not, the name doesn't matter, but
we do have to admit that our situation is worse than a gover­
nor's. I don't know how it will be with us ten or twenty years
hence, perhaps circumstances may change by then, but for the
time being it would be rash to expect anything really good
from us, regardless of whether or not we are gifted. We write
[ 172 ]
 To LYDIA MIZINOVA [1892]
mechanically, in submission to the old established order where­
by some people are in government service, others in business
and still others write . . . . You and Grigorovich hold that I am
intelligent. Yes, I am intelligent in that at least I don't conceal
my illness from myself, don't lie to myself and don't cover my
own emptiness with other people's intellectual rags, like the
ideas of the sixties and so on. I won't throw myself down a flight
of stairs, like Garshin, but neither will I attempt to flatter myself
with hopes of a better future. I am not to blame for my disease,
and it is not for me to cure myself, as I have to assume this
illness has good aims which are obscure to us and not inflicted
without good reason . . . . "It wasn't just the weather that
brought them together. . . . "

Well, sir, now as to the intellect. Grigorovich believes the

mind can triumph over talent. Byron was as brilliant as a hun­
dred devils, but it was his talent that made him immortal. If
you tell me that X spoke nonsense because his intellect tri­
umphed over his talent, or vice versa, I will reply that X had
neither intellect nor talent. . . .
. . . The Heavens guard you!
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To LYDIA MIZINOVA
November r8g2, Melikhovo
Trofim!l
You son of a bitch, if you don't stop showering attentions on
Lika, I will drill a corkscrew into you, you cheap riffraff, in the
place that rhymes with brass. You-you piece of filth! Don't
tell me you don't know that Lika belongs to me and that we
already have two children ! You pig's tail! You toadstool ! Go
out into the barnyard and wash yourself in the mud puddle,
1 Trofim was an imaginary lover of Lydia Mizinova.

[ 1 73 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r8gJ]
you'll be cleaner than you are now, you son of a bitch. Feed
your mother and respect her, but leave the girls alone. You
rat! ! !
Lika's Lover

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
February 24, r8g;, Melikhovo
. . . Heavens! What a magnificent thing "Fathers and Sons"
is! It is beyond words. Bazarov's illness is done so powerfully
that I could feel myself getting weak and experiencing a sen­
sation as though I had caught his infection. And 13azarov's
death? And the old folks? And Kukshina? The devil knows how
he did it. It is simply a work of genius. I do not like anything
about "On the Eve" except Elena's father and the conclusion.
This finale is tragic. "The Dog" is very good and the language
he uses is striking. Please read it, if you have forgotten it.
"Asya" is nice, "The Lull Before the Storm" is a hotchpotch
which leaves one dissatisfied. "Smoke" I don't like at all. "A
Nest of Gentlefolk" is weaker than "Fathers and Sons," but its
finale is also in the nature of a miracle. Except for the old lady
in Bazarov, i.e., Eugene's mother, and mothers generally, par­
ticularly ladies in good society, who by the way are all alike
(Lisa's mother, Elena's mother) , as well as Lavretski's mother,
a former serf woman, and also the plain country types, all of
Turgenev's women and young girls are insufferable in their
artificiality and, if you will excuse it, their falseness. Lisa, Elena
-these are not Russian girls, but a species of female pythons,
crystal-ball gazers, crammed with high-flown notions out of
harmony with their place in society. Irina in "Smoke," Odint­
sova in "Fathers and Sons," give the general impression of being
lionesses; they arc caustic, insatiable, appetizing wenches all
looking for something or other-and they are all trash. When
you recall Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, all these Turgenev ladies
with their enticing shoulders aren't worth a hoot. His negative
[ 1 74 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [1893]
female types-where Turgenev deftly caricatures (Kukshina)
or pokes fun (description of balls) -are remarkably drawn and
so superbly managed that there isn't a flaw in the fabric, as they
say. The descriptions of nature are good, but . . . I feel we have
outgrown that sort of descriptiveness and something quite dif­
ferent is needed.
My sister is getting better, my father also. \Ve are expecting
cholera but we do not fear it because we are prepared; not to
die, however, but to spend the community's funds. If there is
an outbreak of the disease it will take away a great deal of my
time.
Keep alive, well and serene. Special regards to Anna Iva-
novna.
Yours entirely,
A. Chekhov
\Ve have been sent a lot of Little Russian lard and bologna.
Heavenly fare ! . . .

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
March 9, 1893, Melikhovo
Tuesday.
Buy a plain copper coffeepot, something like a receptacle for
holy water, the kind we used to have, holding six or seven cups.
The coffee is always undrinkable in those scientific coffeepots.
1 lb. epsom salts.
I am sending 25 rubles just in case.
It is snowing. . . .
A quarter pound of onion and horseradish.
\Ve are slaughtering a pig the week before Easter.
5 lbs. coffee.
Evening: Misha has arrived. He will be back on Thursday
and will carry half the baggage for you.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
[ 1 75 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (1893]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
April 26, IBgJ, Melikhovo
Greetings and happy homecoming!
. . . First of aJI, let me teii you about myself. I'II begin by in­
forming you that I am ill. A vile, despicable malady. Not
syphilis, but worse-hemorrhoids . . . with pain, itching, tension,
no sitting or walking and such irritation throughout the entire
body that one feels like lying down and dying. It seems to me
that nobody wants to understand me and that everybody is
stupid and unjust; I am in a bad temper and speak nonsense;
I believe my people at home breathe easier when I go out.
What a business! My malady cannot be explained either by
sedentary living, for I was and am lazy, nor by my depraved be­
havior, nor by heredity. I once had peritonitis; in consequence
the lumen of the intestines has constricted because of the in­
flammation. Sum total: an operation is necessary . . . .
\Veil sir, here is a page right out of a novel. This I am teiiing
you in confidence. My brother Misha fell in love with a little
countess, wooed her with gentle amours, and before Easter was
officially accepted as her fiance. Ardent love, dreams of splen­
dor. . . . Eastertime the countess wrote she was leaving to visit
her aunt in Kostroma. Up until these last few days there had
been no letters from her. The languishing Misha, upon hear­
ing that she was in Moscow, went to her home and-will won­
ders never cease?-saw people hanging about at the windows
and gates of the house. \Vhat was happening? Nothing less than
that a wedding was taking place within-the countess was
marrying a gold-mine owner. How do you like that? Misha came
home in despair and has been poking the countess' tender and
loving letters under my nose and begging me to solve this
psychological problem. A woman can't wear out a pair of shoes
without deceiving someone five times over. However, I think
Shakespeare has already spoken adequately on the subject. . . .
I probably will not go to America, as I have no money. I
haven't earned anything since spring, have been ill and exas-
[ 1 76 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (r894]
perated by the weather. What a good idea it was to put the town
behind me! Tell all the Fofanovs, Chermnis and tutti quanti
who exist on literature that living in the country is immeasur­
ably cheaper than in town. I experience this every day. My
family doesn't cost me anything now, since lodgings, bread,
vegetables, milk, butter and horses are all my own, not
boughten. And there is so much work that time does not suffice.
Out of the entire Chekhov family it is only I who may lie down
or sit at the table, all the rest toil from morning until night.
Drive the poets and fiction writers into the country ! \Vhy should
they exist as beggars, and on the verge of starvation? Surely city
life in the sense of poetry and art cannot offer rich material to
the poor man. People live within four walls and only see others
in editorial offices and beer houses.
There are many sick people about. For some reason, many
consumptives. But keep well, old fellow.
The drought has begun.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
March 27, r8g4, Yalta
Greetings!
Here I have been living in Yalta for almost a month in super­
boring Yalta, at the Hotel Russia, Room No. 39, with your
favorite actress, Abarinova, occupying No. 38. The weather is
springlike, it is warm and sunny, and the sea is behaving prop­
erly; but the people are utterly dull, drab and dismal. I was an
ass to have set aside all of March for the Crimea. I should have
gone to Kiev and there devoted myself to the contemplation
of the holy places and the Little Russian spring.
My cough has not left me, but still I am heading north to my
penates on the fifth of April. I cannot remain here longer and
besides I haven't any money, as I took only 3 50 rubles with me.
[ 1 77 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORI:-.; [r89-1]
If you calculate round-trip traveling expenses, you have 250
rubles left, and you can't do anything rash on that kind of
money. If I had a thousand or fifteen hundred, I would go to
Paris, which would be desirable for many reasons.
I am healthy generally speaking, but am ailing in several
particulars. As an example, I have the cough, palpitations of
the heart and hemorrhoids. This business wi th my heart went
on for six days without a stop, and the sensation was a vile one.
After cutting out smoking I no longer get into a gloomy or
anxious mood. Perhaps because of my no longer smoking, the
Tolstoyan morality has stopped stirring me, and in the depths
of my soul I feel badly disposed toward it, which is, of course,
unjust. Peasant blood flows in my veins, and you cannot astound
me with the virtues of the peasantry. From childhood I have
believed in progress and cannot help believing, as the difference
between the time when I got whipped and the time when the
whippings ceased was terrific. I liked superior mentality, sen·
sibility, courtesy, wit, and was as indifferent to people's picking
their corns and having their leg puttees emit a stench as to
young ladies who walk around mornings with their hair done
up in curl papers. But the Tolstoyan philosophy had a power­
ful effect on me, governed my life for a period of six or seven
years; i t was not the basic premises, of which I had been pre·
viously aware, that reacted on me, but the Tolstoyan manner of
expression, its good sense and probably a sort of hypnotic qual­
i ty. :i\ow something within me protests; prudence and justice
tell me there is more lm·e in natural phenomena than in chastity
and abstinence from meat. \Var is evil and the court system is
evil, but it does not therefore follow that I have to walk around
in straw slippers and sleep on a stove alongside a workman
and his wife, etc., etc. This, howe,·er, is not the crux of the
matter, not the "pro and contra"; it is that somehow or other
Tolstoy has already passed out of my life, is no longer in my
heart; he has gone away saying, behold, your house is left unto
you desolate. I ha,·e freed myself from lodging his ideas in my
 To LYDIA M IZINOVA [r894]
brain. All these theories have wearied me, and I read such
whistlers in the dark as Max Nordau with revulsion. A sick
man with a temperature won't feel like eating, but has a vague
desire for something or other, which he expresses by asking for
"something sort of sour." I want something sort of sour, too. I
am not an isolated case, as I have noted just this kind of mood
all about me. It is as though everybody had fallen in love, had
got over it and was now looking for some new distraction. It is
very possible and very likely that Russians are again becoming
enthusiastic over the natural sciences and that the materalistic
movement will once more be fashionable. The natural sciences
are now performing miracles; they can advance upon the public
like Mamai, and subject it to their massiveness and grandeur.
However, all this is in God's hands. Once you philosophize your
brain starts whirling.
A German from Stuttgart sent me fifty marks for a transla­
tion of my story. How do you like that? . . .
Keep well and calm. How is your head? Does it ache more or
less than it used to? My head doesn't ache as much-because I
don't smoke.
My profound respects to Anna Ivanovna and the children.
Your
A. Chekhov

To LYDIA MIZINOVA
March 27, r894, Yalta
Sweet Lika,
Thank you for the letter. Though you scare me by saying
you are going to die soon, and you twit me for throwing you
over, thanks anyway. I know perfectly well you aren't going to
die and nobody threw you over.
I am in Yalta and at loose ends, very much so. The local
aristocracy or whatever you call it is putting on "Faust" and I
attend rehearsals, delight in gazing upon a regular flower bed
[ 17 9 ]
 To LYDIA l\IIZINOVA [z894]
of charming black, red, flaxen and auburn heads, listen to sing­
ing and eat; I dine upon deep-fat fried lamb, onion fritters and
mutton chops with kasha in the company of the directress of the
girls' school; I eat sorrel soup with well-born families; I eat at
the pastry shop and at my own hotel as well. I go to bed at ten,
get up at ten and rest after dinner, but still I am bored, sweet
Lika. I am not bored because I don't have "my women" around,
but because the northern spring is better than this one, and the
thought that I must, that I am obliged to write, won't leave me
a single instant. I must write, write and write. I am of the
opinion that real happiness is impossible without idleness. My
ideal is to be idle and love a plump young girl. My most intense
pleasure is to walk or sit doing nothing; my favorite occupation
is picking useless stuff (leaves, straw and so on) and doing use­
less things. Meanwhile I am a literary man and must write, even
here in Yalta. Sweet Lika, when you become a great singer and
are paid enormous fees, be charitable: marry me and support me,
so that I will find it possible to live without work. If you really
are going to die, then give the job to Varvara Eberle, whom, as
you know, I love. I have worked myself into such a state by
continual worry over my obligations and the tasks I can't get
out of that I have been tormented for a week without letup by
palpitations of the heart. It is a loathesome feeling.
I sold my fox coat for twenty rubles! It cost sixty, but as forty
rubles' worth of fur has already shed, twenty rubles was no
bargain. The gooseberries haven't ripened yet but it is warm
and bright, the trees are in bloom, the sea has a summery look,
the young ladies pine for sensations, but still the north is better
than the Russian south, at least in spring. . . . Because of the
palpitations I haven't had wine now for a week, and because of
the lack of wine the local atmosphere strikes me as even sorrier.
You were lately in Paris? How are the French? Do you like
them? Fire away, then!
l\I irov gave a concert here and made a net profit of 1 50 rubles.
He roared like a lion but had an enormous success. How ter-
[ 180 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [z894]
ribly sorry I am I didn't study voice; I could have roared, too,
as my throat is full of husky notes and people say I have a real
octave. I would earn good money and be popular with the
ladies.
I won't go to Paris this J une, but want you to come to us
in Melikhovo--homesickness for Russia will drive you to it.
There's no way of getting out of a visit to Russia, even if it's
only for a day. You run into Potapenko occasionally. Well, this
summer he too is returning to Russia. If you make the trip with
him it will cost less. Have him buy your ticket and then forget
to pay him (you won't be the first) . But if you won't make the
trip, I'll go to Paris. Though I am sure you are coming. . . .
Keep well, Lika, and calm and happy and content. I wish you
success. You're a bright girl.
If you want to spoil me with a letter, direct it to Melikhovo,
where I shall soon be going. I will answer your letters regularly.
I kiss both your hands.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
May 2 I, z894, Meliklwvo
Ungrateful brother!
I haven't answered for all this time, first, because I am a snob
with property of my own, and you are poor; and second, be­
cause I didn't know how to reply to the thing you wanted most
to know. That's because the same upheavals experienced by
"The North" are now taking place at the "Artist" office, and
there is no way of figuring who the editor is. Kumanin, who was
editing it, has left, handing over the reins to Novikov; and the
office itself has moved to Arhat St. \Vhatever has happened, the
paper is still in existence and it is possible to get work on it (I
even get my forty rubles monthly) but you won't overeat; all the
new contributors are paid a fiver, i.e., fifty per sixteen pages.
[ 181 ]
 T0 ALEXEI S UVORI:'\ (I 894)
The weather is fine. If you are thinking of visiting us, I shall
be very much indebted to you ; I'll put you to work looking
after the young bull and shooing the ducks to the pond. I won't
give you a salary, but the board will be on me.
All are in good health. Father philosophizes and grumbles at
Mother because "something stuck right here in her throat,"
etc.
Greetings to the family and keep well. On the other hand,
try not to act like a nincompoop.
Your
A. Chekhov
I ha,·e put twenty-three rubles in the savings bank. My wealth
is accumulating. But you won't get a single kopek of it because
you are not mentioned in my will.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
july I I} 1894} Melikhovo
You wrote you would be here one of these days, so I waited .
. . . I don't feel drawn toward Yasnaya Polyana.1 My brain func­
tions feebly and doesn't want to get any more weighty impres­
sions. I would prefer some sea bathing and nonsensical talk.
Here is my plan. The twentieth or twenty-second of July I
am going to Taganrog to treat my uncle, who is seriously ill and
insists on my services. He is a truly fine person, the best of men,
and I would feel bad about denying him this service although
I know it will be futile . . . . After finishing my "Sakhalin"
here, and offering thanks to hea,·en, I will declare my freedom
and readiness to go where,·er I please. If there is money I will
go abroad, or to the Caucasus, or to Bukhara. But I shall doubt­
less have some financial difficu lties, so that a change of plan is
not to be a,·oided. It would be nice to speak to \Vitte, the
Minister of Finance, and tell him that instead of scattering sub-
1 Yasnaya Polyana was the Tolstoy estate.
 T0 ALEXEI SUVORIN (I 894]
sidies right and left or promising wo,ooo to the fund, he ought
to arrange for literary people and artists to travel free on the
state railways. Except for Leikin (blast his hide!) all Russian
men of letters exist in a virtual state of chronic hunger, for all
of them, even those who turn out a couple of thousand pages a
year, by some quirk of fate are weighed down by a fiendish heap
of obligations. And there is nothing more irksome or less poetic,
one may say, than the prosaic struggle for existence which takes
away the joy of life and drags one into apathy. However, all this
has nothing to do with the matter in hand. If you go to Tagan­
rog with me-a very nice city-so be it. In August I am at your
service; we'll take off then for Switzerland.
The play can be written somewhere on the shores of Lake
Como or even left unborn; there's no sense getting hot and
bothered over it and if we do-then the hell with it.
Now as to leeches. What you need, mainly, is to be in good
spirits, and not leeches. In Moscow you impressed me as being
cheerful and healthy and as I looked at you I certainly didn't
think you would be reminding me of leeches. But once you did
bring them up, very well. Leeches won't do you any harm. It is
not a matter of bloodletting, but rather a nervous counter­
reaction. They suck but little blood and don't cause pain . . . .
Write me what's new. Write about our Taganrog project, too.
. . . About ten years ago I went in for spiritualism and once
got this message from Turgenev, whose spirit I had evoked at a
session, "Your life is nearing its decline." I want so keenly to
enjoy everything as if life were a perpetual Shrove Tuesday. I
seem to have tried everything: life abroad, a good novel . . .
And some inner force, like a presentiment, nudges me to make
haste. Perhaps it is not a presentiment but simply sorrow that
life flows on in such a monotonous and pallid way. A protest
of the soul, one might say . . . .
I send my respects and pray heaven for the forgiveness of
your sins and the showering of blessings upon you.
Prior Antoni
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I894]
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
A bout September I4, I894, Odessa
I have been to Yalta and am now in Odessa. Since I probably
won't reach home until October I consider it not amiss to tell
you the following:
1 . Get the money on the first of October by presenting the
enclosed note.
2. Dig up the sword lilies and have the tulips covered with
leaves. I shall be grateful if you set out some more tulips. You
can buy peonies and such on Truba Square.
3· Handicraft courses are being given in Taganrog where
young girls from fifteen to twenty are taught the art of sew­
ing in the latest styles (modes et robes). Sasha, our deceased
uncle's daughter, a very sweet and good girl, took these courses
and according to the mayor was considered the star pupil. And
she really does sew beautifully. She has a great deal of taste. It so
happened that in a conversation with me the mayor complained
it was utterly impossible to find a teacher for these classes, that
they had to send to St. Petersburg for one and so on. I asked
him if I took this cousin of mine whom he praised so highly to
Moscow and had her apprenticed to the very best modiste there,
whether he would give her the teaching post afterward. He re­
plied he would be delighted to hire her. A teacher ordinarily
gets a salary of fifty rubles a month and this money could not be
more welcome in uncle's family, which will now be in real
need. So please think it over: isn't it possible to do something
for the little girl? She could stay in Moscow one winter; I would
give her fifteen or twenty rubles a month for her lodgings. She
might live with you, which would put you out only slightly
since, I repeat, she is a fine young girl. The important thing is
that she should be helped. Consider the matter before my re­
turn and then we'll talk it over.
4· On the fourteenth of September, Ascension Day, the
policeman ought to get a ruble. Give it to him if you have not
already done so.
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV (I894]
5· When you send the horses to call for me, don't forget to
take along a warm cap. . . .
My best regards to all. Keep well and don't get lonesome.
Your
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
December 30, I894, Melikhovo
My Lord!
I received the book and find extremely impertinent your
desire to compete with me in the literary market. Nobody will
buy it because everybody knows of your immoral behavior and
chronically drunken condition.
You are not worthy of contributing to the " Russian News,"
since the man who signs himself "Letter" (Vasilievski) -a
dignified man of character-is already writing for it from St.
Petersburg. However, I'll talk to them. I suppose they will print
the stories without doing it as a favor to me.
I have not yet received the cigars and don't need your gifts.
When I get them I'll throw them down the toilet.
Our Papa was groaning all night. When asked why, he re­
plied that he had "seen Beelzebub." . . .
Three days ago I was at a Christmas party for the insane, held
in the violent ward. Too bad you weren't there.
Since the New Year will soon be with us, may I wish your
family a Happy New Year and all the best-as for you, may you
see Beelzebub in your dreams.
The money has been given to the French girl, the one you
liked so much, in payment for your immoral conduct with her.

All the best, sir. Is everyone well, my good man?

Your, sir,
A. Chekhov
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r895]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
january 2r, r895, Melikhovo
I will telegraph you without fail. Please come, but don't "kiss
the feet of [name omitted, ed.]." She is a gifted young girl but
I doubt that you will find her attractive. I am sorry for her be­
cause I am annoyed with myself, but half the time I can't abide
her. She is as foxy as the devil, but her motives are so petty that
she turns out to be a rat rather than a devil. As for [name omit­
ted, ed.], she's another matter. She is a very good woman and a
good actress who might perhaps have developed into someone
worthwhile if she hadn't been spoiled by her schooling. She is a
bit gross, but that doesn't matter. 1
Heavens, I hadn't the slightest intention of putting Kunda­
sova2 into the story! To begin with, Kundasova looks upon
money in an entirely different light; secondly, she has never
had a home life; thirdly, regardless of all else, she is a sick
woman. Nor does the old merchant resemble my father, for
my father will remain until the end what he has been all
through life-a man of average calibre and limited imagination.
As for religion, the young merchants are disgusted with it. If
you had had beatings as a child because of religious matters,
you would understand why. And why is such disgust labeled
stupidity? Perhaps the sentiment is stupidly expressed, but in
itself it is not as stupid as you think. It has less need for j us­
tification, for instance, than the idyllic attitude toward religion
of those who worship it in feudal fashion, leisurely, as people
enjoy a snowstorm or cloudburst while seated comfortably in
their studies. I am writing to the lady astronomer [Kundasova]
today to tell her you want to see her. She will be touched and
will probably try to meet you . . . .
Phew! \Vomen take away one's youth, only not in my case.
My life has been that of the store clerk, not of the proprietor,
1 It has been impossible to identify these ladies.
2 Sumrin thought that he recognized Chekhov's father and Kundasova in the
story "Three Years."

[ 1 86 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1895]
and fate hasn't often been kind to me. I have had few romances
and am as much like Catherine as a nut is like a battleship. Silk
nightgowns means nothing to me except that they are comfort­
able, that is, soft to the touch. I am well disposed toward the
comfortable life, but debauchery does not attract me . . . .
My health requires me to go far away somewhere for eight
or ten months. I'm going to leave for Australia or the mouth of
the Yenisei-I'll croak otherwise. Very well then, I'll settle for
St. Petersburg instead, but would there be a room where I
might hide away? This is an extremely important question, be­
cause I ought to be writing all of February to earn enough for
my trip. How much I need to get away! My chest rattles all over,
my hemorrhoids are so bad that the devil himself would be
nauseated. I must have an operation. No, the hell with litera­
ture, I should be busy with my medical practice. I shouldn't be
making comparisons, though. I owe the best days of my life and
my deepest-felt emotions to literature.
My profound salutations to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and
Borya.
Yours entirely,
A. Chekhov
I'll be in Moscow on the twenty-sixth. Grand Moscow Hotel.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
A pril IJ, 1895, Melikhovo
. . . I am making my way through Sienkiewicz's "The Polanet­
skis." This book is like a Polish cheese pudding flavored with
saffron. Add Potapenko to Paul Bourget, sprinkle them with
Eau de Cologne from \Varsaw, divide in two and you get Sien­
kiewicz. "The Polanetskis" was undoubtedly composed under
the influence of "Cosmopolis," Rome and marriage (Sienkie­
wicz recently got married) ; he has the catacombs, an elderly
eccentric professor breathing idealism, the saintly Leo XIII with
[ 1 87 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I895]
a visage not of this earth, advice to return to prayer and asper­
sions on a decadent character dying of morphinism after going
to confession and taking communion, i.e., repenting his errors
in the name of the church. A devilish heap of scenes of family
happiness and discourses on love have been dragged in, and the
hero's wife is so extremely faithful to her husband and under­
stands God and life so thoroughly "by intuition" that the final
result is sickeningly cloying and clumsy, just as though you had
got a wet, slobbery kiss. Sienkiewicz apparently hasn't read
Tolstoy, is not familiar with N ietzsche, discusses hypnotism like
a middle-class householder, but still every one of his pages is
brightly colored with Rubenses, Borgheses, Correggios, llotti­
cellis-all neatly done to show off his culture to the bourgeois
reader and to make faces at materialism. The novel's aim is to
lull the bourgeoisie into golden dreams. Be faithful to your
wife, pray alongside her before the altar, make money, love
sport-and you're all set both in this world and the next. The
bourgeoisie is very fond of so-called "practical" types and novels
with happy endings, because this kind of writing soothes it into
believing that it can make lots of money and preserve its inno­
cence, act like a beast and stay happy all at the same time.
This spring is a pitiful affair. The snow still lies on the fields,
driving on runners or wheels is impossible and the cattle pine
for grass and for freedom. Yesterday a drunken old peasant un­
dressed himself and went bathing in the pond, his decrepit old
mother beat him with a stick and everybody else stood around
and laughed boisterously. After finishing his bath the peasant
went home barefoot through the snow, his old mother behind
him. One day this old lady came to me for treatment of her
bruises-her son had beaten her up. 'Vhat baseness it is to post­
pone enlightenment of our dark masses ! . . .
I wish you all happiness. I congratulate you on the Sino·
Japanese peace and trust we may acquire the eastern shore for
an ice-free Feodosia as soon as possible, and lay out a railroad
to it. The old lady had nothing to worry about, so she bought
[ t88 ]
 To ALE..XEI SUVORIN (I895]
herself a pig. And it seems to me we are laying up a heap of
troubles for ourselves with this ice-free port. It will stand us
dearer than if we had made up our minds to conquer all of
Japan. However, futura sunt in manibus deorum. . . .
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI S UVORIN
October 2I, I895, Melikhovo
Thanks for the letter, for the cordial words and the invita­
tion. I will come, but most likely not until the end of Novem­
ber, as I have a fiendish amount of stuff to take care of. To start
with, next spring I am putting up a new school in the village,
of which I am a trustee; before going about it I must work u p
a plan and budget, go here and there and so on. I n the second
place, j ust imagine, I am writing a play1 which I probably will
not finish until the end of November. I am writing it with
considerable pleasure, though I sin frightful ly against the con­
ventions of the stage. It is a comedy with three female parts, six
male, four acts, a landscape (view of a lake), lots of talk on
literature, little action and tons of love.
I read about Ozerova's flop and felt sorry, as there is nothing
more painful than failure. I can imagine how this [. .] wept
.

and grew stony as she read the "St. Petersburg Gazette," which
called her playing downright ridiculous. I read about the suc­
cess of "The Power of Darkness" at your theatre . . . . \Vhen I
was at Tolstoy's in August he told me, as he wiped his hands
after one of his washings, that he wouldn't rewrite his play. And
now, in recalling his remark, I believe he already knew his play
would be passed in toto for public presentation. I stayed with
him a day and a half. A wonderful impression. I felt as carefree
as I do at home and the talks we had were in that easy vein. I
will give you full details when we meet . . . .
1 The Seagull.

[ t 8g ]
 To ALEXEI SUVO R I :-.1 [ I89_;]
I am in a state-and this is why. There is a first-rate magazine
published in Moscow called "The Annals of Surgery," which
even enjoys popularity abroad. It is edited by the eminent
surgeon-scientists Sklifasovski and Diakonov. The number of
subscribers has grown annually, yet there is always a deficit at
the end of the year. This deficit has been made up hitherto
(until this coming January) by Sklifasovski; but as he has been
transferred to St. Petersburg, he has lost his practice and so has
no extra money. Now neither he nor anyone else in the world
knows who will meet the 1 8 9 6 debt, if there is one; and on the
basis of analogies with past years a deficit of from a thousand to
fifteen hundred rubles can be expected. \Vhen I learned the
magazine was in peril I got hot under the collar; how absurd
to witness the ruin of so essential a publication, and one that
would show a profit in three or four years, and all on account
of a paltry sum! This absurdity hit me in the face and at white
heat I promised to find a publisher, as I was firmly convinced
I could do so. And I did look diligently, begged, lowered my­
self, drove all over town, God only knows with whom I didn't
dine, but couldn't find anybody . How sorry I am your print­
. _ .

ing plant is not in Moscow! Then I wouldn't have had to take

on this grotesque role of unsuccessful broker. ·when we meet I
will draw you a true picture of the emotional upheavals I went
through. Were it not for the building of the school, which is
costing me about fifteen hundred rubles, I would undertake to
publish the magazine out of my own funds, so difficult and pain­
ful do I find it to reconcile myself to a clearly ridiculous situa­
tion. On the twenty-second of October I am going to Moscow
to see the editors and as a last resort will propose that they ask
for a subsidy of fifteen hundred or two thousand a year. If they
agree, I'll dash to St. Petersburg and begin hammering away.
How does one go about it? \Viii you instruct me? To save the
magazine I am prepared to interview just about anyone and
hang around in just anyone's outer office; if I succeed I will
heave a sigh of relief and enjoy a feeling of satisfaction, because
[ 1 90 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I895]
saving a good surgical magazine is as useful as performing
twenty thousand successful operations. At any rate, give me
some advice on what to do.
Write me in Moscow after Sunday, cjo Grand Moscow
Hotel, No. 5· . . .
My profound respects. Write, I implore you.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 26, I895, Moscow
. . . Tolstoy's daughters are very nice. They adore their
father and have a fanatic faith in him. That is a sure sign that
Tolstoy is indeed a mighty moral force, for if he were insincere
and not above reproach, the first to regard him skeptically
would be his daughters, because daughters are shrewd creatures
and you can't pull the wool over their eyes. You can fool a
fiancee or mistress as much as you please, and in the eyes of a
loving woman even a donkey may pass for a philosopher, but
daughters are another matter. . . .
As for "The Annals of Surgery," the magazine itself, all the
surgical instruments, bandages and bottles of carbolic acid send
their most profound and humble greetings to you. Their joy,
of course, is unconfined. This is what we have decided to do:
if the idea of a subsidy seems feasible, I am to take up the matter
and when we get the subsidy, we return the fifteen hundred to
you. I am going to see Sklifasovski in November and, if possible,
will actually see Witte1 in an attempt to save these very artless
people. They are like children. It would be hard to find any
with less practical sense. At any rate, your fifteen � undred will
be returned to you sooner or later. In gratitude for my en­
deavors they are operating on my hemorrhoids-an operation
I cannot avoid and which is already beginning to worry me.
They will sing your praises and when you come to Moscow will
1 Witte was the Minister of Finance.

[ 191 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r895]
show you the new clinics in the neighborhood of Novo-Deviche
Monastery. They're as much worth looking at as a cemetery or
a cucus.
Write. Send the fifteen hundred care of me, and, if possible,
not through the mails but via your store . . . .
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ELENA SHAVROVA
November r8, r8g5, Melikhovo
I will be in Moscow around the twenty-eighth, too, and re­
main six to ten days. 'Ve'll be seeing each other, I am going to
ask your pardon and perhaps will manage to convince you that
I was very, very far from consciously wishing to wound your
self-esteem. I agree I ought to be sent up for hard labor for
losing your manuscript, but I assure you even a halfhearted
apologist could find cause for going easy with me . . . .
I have finished my play. It is called "The Seagull." It's noth­
ing to ooh and ah about. On the whole I would say I am an
indifferent playwright.
I will be stopping at the Grand Hotel in Moscow, opposite
the Iverskaya clock tower, last entrance. The telephone is at
your service, messengers also. If you will let me know of your
presence in Moscow, by messenger or otherwise, I shall be most
grateful.
All my best wishes . . .
Your guilty and repentant
cher maitre,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
Decem ber 6, r8g5, Moscow
The young lady with the Remington has done me a cruel
turn. In leaving for Moscow I had counted upon my play's
[ 192 ]
 To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV (r896]
having been typed long since and sent to its destination-why,
two full weeks had elapsed since I had sent it to the young lady.
But the typing job turned out to be far from finished. I took
back the manuscript and the young lady was most apologetic.
You will have the play tomorrow, but in manuscript. If it is to
be typed, we shall have to wait again, which annoys me for my
patience has been exhausted. Read the play and tell me what
to do with it and how. There is still plenty of time until next
season, so that the most radical revisions can be undertaken . . . .
So you will get the play on Friday. Order all flags at full mast
on that day.
You write you are arriving in Moscow ten days hence. Shall
I wait for you there? Write without fail. I am anticipating your
visit with the keenest pleasure, if only you don't disappoint mel
If you are not coming I will get out of Moscow say around the
tenth or twentieth. The Moscow weather is fine, there is no
cholera and no Lesbianism either. Br-r-r! The recollection of
those people of whom you write turns my stomach, as if I had
eaten a rotten fish. So now there aren't any in Moscow­
splendid. . . .
Today is St. N icholas Day and there is a delightful sound of
bells in Moscow. I rose early, lit the candles and sat down to
write; outside the bells were ringing and very agreeable it was.
I wish you health. Salutations to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and
Borya. Happiness to you all.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MI KHAIL CHEKHOV
October r8, r896, St. Petersburg
The play fell flat and flopped with a bang.1 The audience
was bewildered. They acted as if they were ashamed to be in the
theatre. The performances were vile and stupid.
1 The first performance of The Seagul l was a sensational flop; the second per·
formance was a great success.

[ 1 93 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r896]
The moral of the story is: I shouldn't write plays.
Nevertheless and just the same I am alive and well and my
innards are in good spirit.
Your pappy,
A. Chekhov.

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 22, r896, Melihhovo
In your last letter (dated October 1 8) you thrice call me an
old woman and say I was a coward. ·why the libel? After the
play I dined at Romanov's, as was fitting, then went to sleep,
slept well and the next day left for home without pronouncing
a single syllable in complaint. If I had acted the coward I would
have dashed from one editor to another, from one actor to an­
other, nervously begged their condescension, nervously intro­
duced useless changes and would have spent another two or
three weeks in St. Petersburg, running back and forth to per­
formances of my "Seagull," in a dither, drenched in cold sweat,
complaining. . . . Why, when you visited me the night after the
show, you yourself said it would be better for me to leave; and
the next morning I had a letter from you saying goodbye. So
where is the cowardice? I acted just as reasonably and coolly as
a man who has proposed, been turned down and has nothing
left to do but leave. Yes, my vanity was wounded, but certainly
the thing wasn't a bolt from the blue; I expected a flop and had
prepared myself for it, as I told you in advance in entire
sincerity.
Back home I gave myself a dose of castor oil, took a cold
bath-and now I wouldn't even mind doing another play. I
no longer have that tired, irritated feeling. . . . I approve your
revisions-and thank you a thousand times. But please don't
be sorry you weren't at the rehearsals. Actually there was only
one genuine rehearsal, at which it was impossible to tell what
[ 1 94 ]
 To ELENA SHAVROVA [I8g6]
was going on; the play was completely lost in a fog of vile acting.
I had a telegram from Potapenko: 1 a colossal success. I had a
letter from Veselitskaya (Mikulich) 2 whom I haven't met, ex­
pressing her sympathy in the tone she would use had someone
died in my family-which was hitting pretty wide of the mark.
All this is nonsense, though.
My sister is enchanted with you and Anna Ivanovna and I
am very glad, because I am as fond of your family as of my own.
She hurried home from St. Petersburg, probably feeling that I
would hang myself.
We are having warm, damp weather, and many people are
ill. Yesterday I stuck a huge enema into a rich peasant whose
intestine had become clogged with excrement and he got better
at once. Please forgive me, I went off with your "European
H erald" deliberately, and with Filippov's "Collected Works"
unintentionally. I will return the first, and the second after I
have read them . . . .
I wish you all the blessings of heaven and earth, and thank
you with all my heart.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To E LENA SHAVROVA
November I, I8g6, Melikhovo
Esteemed lady, if, as "one of the audience" you are writing
about the first performance, permit me-yes, permit me-to
doubt your sincerity. You hurry to pour healing balm on the
author's wounds, assuming that under the circumstances this
would be better and more needed than sincerity; you are kind,
sweet Mask, very kind, and the feeling does honor to your
heart. I did not see everything at the first performance, but
what I did see was vague, dingy, dreary and wooden. I had no
1 Ignati Potapenko, a s mentioned previously, was a novelist and playwright.
2 Lydia Veselitskaya was a writer.

[ 1 95 ]
 To ANATOL KONI [I896]
hand in assigning the parts, I wasn't given any new scenery,
there were only two rehearsals, the actors didn't know their
parts-and the result was general panic, utter depression of
spirit; even Kommisarjevskaya's performance was nothing
much, though her playing at one of the rehearsals was so prodi­
gious that people in the orchestra wept and blew their noses.

\Veil ma'am, how are you getting along? Why don't you try
your hand at writing a play? You know, creating a play is like
wading into a mineral bath, certain that it will be warm, and
then being shocked by the fact that it is cold. Do drop me a line .

. . . Send me another two or three lines, for I do find life a

bore. I have a sensation of nothingness, past and present.
�ly best wishes, and again my thanks.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ANATOL KONI
November I I, I896, Melikhovo
Dear A natol Fedorovich,
You cannot imagine how happy your letter made me. I saw
only the first two acts of my play from the front, after that I
kept in the wings, feeling all the time "The Sea Gull" would be
a failure. The night of the performance and the day after peo­
ple asserted I had created nothing but idiots, that my play was
clumsy from the standpoint of staging, fatuous, unintelligible,
even senseless, etc., etc. You can imagine my situation-it was
a flop worse than a nightmare ! I was ashamed and annoyed
and left St. Petersburg brimming with doubts. I figured that if
I had written and staged a play so obviously crammed with
monstrous defects, I had lost all my senses and my machinery
had apparently broken down for good. I was back home when
I heard from St. Petersburg that the second and third perform­
ances were successful; I got several letters, signed and anon-
( 1 96 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [I8g6J
ymous, praising the play and scolding the critics; I read them
with a sense of pleasure but still I was ashamed and peeved, and
the thought lodged itself in my head that if good people found
it necessary to console me, my affairs must be going badly. But
your letter had a galvanizing effect on me. I have known you
for a long time, esteem you profoundly and have more faith
in you than in all the critics put together-you must have felt
that when you wrote your letter and that is why it is so fine
and convincing. I am quite calm now and can already think
back on the play and the performance itself without revulsion.
Kommisarjevskaya is a marvelous actress. At one of the re­
hearsals many people were teary-eyed as they watched her and
remarked that she was the best actress in Russia at the present
time; but at the performance she too succumbed to the pre­
vailing mood of hostility toward my "Sea Gull" and was intim­
idated by it, as it were, and her voice failed her. Our press treats
her coldly, an attitude she does not merit, and I am sorry
for her.
Permit me to thank you with all my heart for your letter.
Please believe that I value the feelings prompting you to write
it more profoundly than I can express in words, and the sym­
pathy that you entitle "unnecessary" at the end of your letter
I will never, never forget, whatever the future may hold.
Your sincerely respectful and devoted
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
November I6, I8g6, Melikhovo
Your parents are sick at heart that you are not doing any­
thing. I beg of you, mend your ways! Get up early in the morn­
ing, wash yourself well and go to Klochkov's bookstore at 55
Liteinaya and buy:
658. Peterson, 0. The Bronte Family (Currer, Ellis and An­
ton Bell) St. Petersburg, 1 895, 8 ° , covers ( 1 r.) With a portrait
of C. Bronte! 50 k.
[ 1 97 ]
 To VLADIMIR .:\'E:\IIROVICH-DANCHENKO [r896]
752. Renan, Historical and Religious Studies, 3rd Ed., St.
Petersburg, 1 894, covers, 1 6 ° , 75 k.
943· Rules of the St. Petersburg Slavonic Philanthropic So­
ciety, St. Petersburg, 1 877, s o , covers, 1 0 k.
945· Rules and Memoranda of the Society for the Care of
Poor and Sick Children, St. Petersburg, 1 892, 1 6 ° , covers, 1 5 k.
All these are taken from their Catalogue No. 2 1 4. 'Vrap them
in a package and if they don't weigh too much send them regis­
tered parcel post, sticking on two kopeks' postage for each 2 oz.
If you can get the second two books for nothing, so much the
better, especially as 943 is probably out of date already. The
errand is not for me but for your benefactor, His Honor the
Mayor and Chief Magistrate of Taganrog, with all his medals.
. . . I have already written you that an information section has
been opened at the Taganrog City Library. Needed are the
rules and regulations of all learned; philanthropic, bicycle,
Masonic and other societies to which you would not be ad­
mitted on account of your unseemly appearance. (Vukov knows
all.)
I'll pay any expenses incurred. Can't I send trifling sums (up
to three or five rubles) in current postage stamps? . . .
In your last letter you called me a fool. I am amazed that your
despicable hand has not withered away on you. However, to
your abuse I reply with a general pardon. No use paying any
attention to a retired office boy with illegitimate children !
A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR N EMIROVICH-DAN CHEN KO

November 26, r896, jV!elikhovo
Dear friend,
This is in reply to the main point of your letter-why we
have so few serious talks generally. 'Vhen people are silent it is
because they have nothing to talk about or are shy. What can
we discuss? "\Ve have no political interests, we haven't any social,
club, or even street life, our urban existence is poor, monoton-
[ 1 98 ]
 To VLADIMIR NEMlROVICH-DANCHENKO [I8g6]
ous, wearisome and u ninteresting-and talking about it IS as
tedious as corresponding with Lugovoi. You say we are men
of letters, which in itself enriches our life. But is that right?
We are stuck in our profession up to the ears and it has grad­
ually isolated us from the outer world; as a result we have little
free time, little money, few books, we read little and reluc­
tantly, hear little, seldom go places. _Should we talk about
_ .

literature? But we've taken that up already, you know. . . .

Every year it's the same thing over and over again and whatever
we usually take up leads inevitably to who wrote better and
who worse; talks always flag on more general or broader themes,
because when tundras and Eskimos surround you, general ideas,
so unsuited to the moment, quickly spread thin and slip away
like thoughts of everlasting bliss. Should we talk of personal
life? Yes, sometimes this can be interesting, I daresay we might
talk about it, but in this area we become shy, evasive, insincere,
the instinct of self-preservation restrains us and we get fearful.
We are afraid that some uncivilized Eskimo may overhear us,
somebody who doesn't like us and whom we don't like; per­
sonally I am afraid my friend Sergeyenko,X whose intelligence
you find pleasing, will blatantly reach a decision on why I live
with A when B is in love with me, shaking his finger in the air
meanwhile through the length and breadth of the land . . To . .

put it briefly, don't blame yourself or me for our silence and

the lack of seriousness and interest in our talks, put the blame
on what the critics call "the times" or the climate, or the vast
expanses, on whatever you wish and let circumstances take their
own fateful, inexorable course, while we put our hopes in a
better future . . . .
I thank you with all my heart for your letter and press your
hand cordially. . . . Write when you are m the mood. I will
answer with the very greatest pleasure.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
1 A writer who had gone to school with Chekhov in Taganrog.

[ 1 99 ]
 To VLADIMIR YAKOVENKO [r897]
To VLADIMIR YAKOVENKO
january 30, r8g7, Melikhovo
Dear Vladimir Ivanovich,
Having read your letter in "The Physician," I wrote to Mos­
cow to have them send you my "Sakhalin Island." There you
will find a bit about corporal punishment and transportation
for crime, and some comments, incidentally, on Yadrintsev,
which I recommend to you . . . .
It may be pointed out, relevantly, that jurists and penologists
consider as corporal punishment (in its narrow, physical sense)
not only beating with birch rods, switching or hitting with the
fist, but also shackling, the "cold" treatment, the schoolboy
"no dinner," "bread and water," prolonged kneeling, repeated
touching of the forehead to the ground and binding the anns.
This inventory has made me suffer. Never yet have I had so
little time.
I wish you all the best and warmly clasp your hand.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
. . . The reaction of corporal punishment upon physical
health can be noted in the doctors' records, which you will find
in the proceedings on tortures.

[ 2 00 ]
 III

"Since 1 884 I have been spitting blood every spring. . . . " In

the spring of 1 897, as Chekhov sat down to dinner with Suvorin
in a Moscow restaurant, he suddenly collapsed. He was carried
to Suvorin's room, became critically ill during the night and
was taken to a hospital the following morning. The diagnosis
was tuberculosis of the upper lungs. For several weeks he lay
in bed barely able to move or speak. His sister, Maria, and his
brother, Ivan, came immediately-Chekhov forbade them to
tell his mother and father the nature of the illness-but friends
and admirers were barred from the room. Tolstoy, however,
managed to get by the nurses: he came to soothe the patient
with sickroom small talk, but he stayed to argue that a work of
art only fulfilled its function if an uneducated peasant could
understand it. That must, indeed, have been a scene: the great
man pacing the floor, the sick man trying to answer from his
bed. By the time Tolstoy left, the patient had had a dangerous
relapse.
When he recovered enough to travel, Chekhov went to Nice.
(From now on he was to live not where and how he chose, but
where and how the disease dictated.) All of France, even the
refugees and pleasure lovers of the Riviera, was in ferment over
the Dreyfus case. Chekhov was convinced of Dreyfus' innocence
and h is warm defense of Zola's brave position got him into a
fight with Suvorin. For many years Chekhov had disliked the
[ 20 1 ]
politics and the anti-Semitism of Suvorin's newspaper, but he
had managed to avoid an open row with Suvorin. Now he could
no longer stomach Suvorin's position in the Dreyfus case, and
he said so in sharp words. They were never again to be close
friends.
The months of invalid exile in Nice were not lonely-the
south of France has always had a large Russian colony-and one
has the feeling that France was good for Chekhov. But, as
always, the time came when he was desperate to go home. The
doctors would not allow him to live in Moscow: they insisted
that he move to a milder climate. And so began the last years,
the Yalta years.
The Moscow Art Theatre was founded in 1 895 by Nemirov­
ich-Danchenko and Konstantin Stanislavski in revolt against a
theatre of stale domestic plays and foreign fripperies, of rhet­
oric and rant, a theatre where the star actor manipulated every­
thing to suit his own style and fancy. These two men and their
associates believed in a more natural style of acting-they called
it "spiritual realism." They believed that every side of stage
production, direction, costuming, lighting, music, was of equal
importance and should be carefully integrated into an artistic
whole. The ideas of this new group were so fresh, their meth­
ods so interesting, and their productions so remarkable that the
Moscow Art Theatre became the greatest theatre influence in
modern times. Our stage still works from the prompt books of
Stanislavski, although it sometimes treats the books as if they
were the Bible in bad translation. \Vhenever and wherever it is
curtain time in the \Vestern world, Stanislavski and :1\emirov­
ich-Danchenko are still in the theatre.
Chekhov was attracted by this new theatre group and when
they came to him he was pleased at the possibility of working
with them. Nemirovich-Danchenko had always been a great
admirer of The Seagull and now he proposed to include it in
the opening repertory program. But he had a hard time per­
suading Chekhov to allow the performance and an even harder
[ 202 ]
time persuading Stanislavski and the other actors. Stanislavski
said he didn't like the play and, at the first few meetings, didn't
like the playwright, either. He thought Chekhov arrogant and
insincere, which are two quite remarkable words from Stanis­
lavski about Chekhov. The actors of the company, in the early
meetings, were also bewildered and irritated by Chekhov. \Vhen
one of them asked him how a part should be played Chekhov
said, "As well as possible." This remark is still quoted as the
charmingly nai:ve statement of a writer who didn't know any­
thing about the stage. It is, of course, the statement of a writer
who knew a great deal about the stage but who refused to deal
in the large words of stage palaver.
The Moscow Art Theatre opened its door with an initial
success, but then went financially down hill. As the group ap­
proached the Nemirovich-Danchenko production of The Sea­
gull they were at the end of their resources. Nemirovich-Dan­
chenko had never intended the play to carry that much of a
burden. The rehearsals and the opening night were as dramatic
as they were comic. The company had enough trouble without
the sudden appearance of Maria Chekhova, who came to plead
with them to cancel the performance : she said the almost cer­
tain failure of the play would be dangerous to her brother's
health. Fortunately, Nemirovich-Danchenko was a man of sense
who knew more about Chekhov than his sister and he refused
to cancel the performance. But the sister's last-minute dramatic
plea, thrown at people who were already frightened that their
theatre was about to collapse, was enough to cause a panic.
Stanislavski said that "an inner voice"-an inner voice is as
much a part of every theatre as is the curtain or the lights­
told the cast that if they did not act well, if the play should fail,
they would be the executioners of their beloved Chekhov. (This
was, indeed, a romantic picture of a writer who had always
taken failure and success with calmness and serenity.) The cast
fortified their inner voices with valerian drops, and got ready.
Stanislavski's left foot, which had taken to violent and mysteri-
[ 203 ]
 IB97-I904
ous jerkings all on its own, was finally put under control, and
Olga Knipper and the other actors throttled down the hysterics
in plenty of time to get dressed. The curtain went up, the cur­
tain came down. The play was a great success. The Seagull had
saved the Moscow Art Theatre. To this day, a seagull is painted
on the curtain of their theatre, in gratitude to Chekhov.

Chekhov had rewritten-the date of rewriting is not clear­

Wood Demon and renamed it Uncle Vanya. Provincial reper­
tory companies had already picked up the play and were per­
forming it-Gorki wrote to Chekhov that he had seen it in
N izhni-Novgorod-before the Moscow Art Theatre was ready
with its production in the autumn of 1 8gg. Chekhov, who Stan­
islavski thought would be killed by the failure of The Seagull,
went to bed in Yalta without realizing that Uncle Vanya was
opening in Moscow. The new production of Uncle Vanya was
not a brilliant success, although it was certainly not the failure
that Olga Knipper made it in her excited report to Chekhov.
It was enough of a success to convince the Moscow Art Theatre
that their future lay in the hands of their new playwright and,
because it was difficult for him to come to Moscow, they ar­
ranged a Crimean tour in the hope of encouraging h im to write
more plays. It was a gay and charming troupe that came south
and the triumph of their tour and the pleasure of their com­
pany gave Chekhov a happy time. He sat down to write The
Three Sisters for them.
I think The Three Sisters is a great play. It is a greater play
than Uncle Vanya which, to me, is a greater play than The
Cherry Orchard. But all three plays are of such importance that
no easy and quick summary should be made of them.

It would be impossible here, and needless, since the letters

speak for themselves, to make a full report of the last five years
of Chekhov's life. They were crowded years. Chekhov, as usual,
moved around a great deal. Sometimes he was happy at Yalta,
[ 204 ]
 IB97-I904
often he fumed and yawned in the dull, provincial life of the
town. These were the years during which a new edition of his
works was published, an edition that is now considered incom­
plete and badly annotated, but which was of great importance
in its day; the years of his warm and generous and loyal rela­
tions with Maxim Gorki-Chekhov resigned from the Academy
when Gorki was refused admission and he invited Gorki to live
in his house when Gorki was under police supervision; the
years of his complex relations with the Moscow Art Theatre ;
the years of his greatest powers as a writer, and of his greatest
rewards.
And, at the age of 4 1 , he got married. Chekhov biographers
offer us a picture of Olga Knipper as a charming and intelligent
woman deeply in love with, and deeply loved by, a brilliant and
famous man. There is, of course, no tape measure for in-loveness,
but the biographers' picture cannot be the whole truth because
many of the facts do not support it. There has been a strange
lack of speculation about the relationship between Chekhov
and Knipper---every other aspect of Chekhov's life has been
rather overexplored-and it is difficult to know the reason why.
Perhaps because both people are, in a sense, of our generation,
we wish to accept Chekhov's letters to Knipper at their charm­
ing face value. Perhaps most of us do not wish to see trouble
in the marital relations of people we admire, not so much out
of kindheartedness as out of fear that we will grow depressed
about our own.
I think it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the Chekhov
marriage was not a good marriage. Indeed, it seems to me to
have been a sad marriage. Knipper was a charming and
talented young woman, but she was an ambitious woman who
covered her ambition with self-righteous talk about duty to her
art. She is one-and it is amazing how little she differs from the
rest-in a long line of ladies who want love and all the good
things that go with it, but who haven't the slightest intention of
[ 205 ]
 z897-I904
giving up much to ge t it. After the marriage she stayed on with
her career in Moscow, her husband stayed on in Yalta, and they
came together only occasionally like secret lovers on holiday
trips. True, Chekhov urged her not to sacrifice her career to his
invalid's life, but his words were laid over with loneliness and
it seems that a warmer heart would have understood the isola­
tion and the fears of a sick man. True, Knipper cried out in her
letters that she did want to come to him, but she seldom came.
Her letters are full of guilt, which is what makes them often so
boring, and sometimes her guilt makes her sound angry with
her husband. She was obviously a childish woman, not only
crying to get her own way, but demanding to be assured that
her own way was the best and only way for both of them. Her
letters tell him of the grand parties she has been to in Moscow
and then, catching herself, she says that she finds the parties
dull and foolish. She never seems to notice that Chekhov, in
answering, shows his own desire for a little pleasure, a little
party gaiety. One biographer says, "It helped him (Chekhov)
to know that despite the excitements of Moscow, Olga's
thoughts were constantly with him." It may have helped him,
but not very much. He was a man and not a saint. There have
always been Knippers in the international theatre, and they do
not change with the husband, the education, the century or the
regime. It seems as foolish to glorify Knipper as it would be to
condemn her.
It should be said that life with Chekhov at the time
Knipper married him could not have been ideal for an attrac­
tive young woman. He was a very sick man, he was famous and
she was not, his natural high spirits were completely circum­
scribed by sickness, and he had a doting and possessive family
who, under the best circumstances, would have irritated any
bride. A house of illness is always a gloomy house, and the
house of a middle-aged bridegroom is set in its ways, and Yalta
was a dull, provincial town filled with the aged and the com-
[ 2 06 ]
 I897-I904
plaining, and Knipper had a miscarriage of the child they both
wanted, and so on down a long, long list of troubles. And it is
doubtful if Chekhov was a man of passion. He was romantic
and tender and he loved women, but if he ever had been a man
of passion it was now too late.
The nature of the Chekhov marriage would not be of any
great significance if everything in it-and everything lacking
in it-were not such remarkable clues to his life and work.
Here, in the mirror of the marriage, is all of him: the gentle
pride-he would not beg or ask favors from Knipper, nor chas­
tise her for not giving them; the ability to accept what life
offered and to make the most of it; the sweetness of his nature,
and the sadness; the refusal to fool himself. In the married
Chekhov there are the thousand sides that make the work so
wonderful. Conversely, what we miss in the marriage is exactly
what we miss in the work: there is a lack of passion and of
power. Chekhov was without that final spiritual violence which
the very great creative genius has always had. And he knew it
as he knew most things about himself.
In J une, 1 904, he went to Germany with Knipper. On the
night of July 1st, for the first time in the history of his illness,
he asked to see a doctor. His conversation with the doctor had
a kind of noble humor. The doctor ordered an ice pack placed
on his heart and Chekhov said, "You don't put an ice pack on
an empty heart." Then the doctor insisted that he drink a glass
of champagne. Chekhov's last words were, "It's a long time since
I've had any champagne." They are perhaps the pleasantest last
words ever spoken.
Chekhov's body, on its way home to Russia, traveled in a
railroad coach marked "Fresh Oysters." This was an ending so
pat-ironic, so ham, that while a lesser writer might have used it
for the ending of "A Tiresome Tale," no writer as good as
Chekhov would have touched it, and biographers should not be
too sure that it would have amused him.
[ 207 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I897 ]
But Moscow paid him great honor: his death was a time of
national mourning. He was more beloved than he ever knew.
Years before, Tolstoy had said, "What a beautiful, magnificent
man. He is simply wonderful."

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
April I} I897} Moscow
The doctors diagnosed tuberculosis in the upper part of the
lungs and have prescribed a change in my way of life. I can
grasp the first but not the second, which is just about impos­
sible. I have been definitely ordered into the country, but
certainly, continual living in the country presupposes continual
trouble with peasants, animals, natural elements of various
kinds, and it is as hard to protect yourself from fuss and trouble
in rural areas as it is from burns in hell. Still, I shall try to
change my life to the fullest possible extent and have already
sent word through Masha that I am giving up medical practice.
For me this will be both a relief and a severe deprivation. I am
dropping official duties, am buying a dressing gown, will warm
my bones in the sun and eat a lot. The doctors have ordered me
to eat about six times a day and are in a state of indignation
because I eat very little. I have been forbidden to do much
talking, to swim and so forth and so on.
Except for my lungs, all my organs were found healthy. . . .
Hitherto it seemed to me I drank exactly as much as would do
me no harm; the latest checkup shows I drank less than I had a
right to. What a pity!
The author of "\Vard No. 6" has been moved from \Vard 1 6
to 14. I t is spacious here, with two windows, the lighting re­
minds one of a Potapenko play, and the room has three tables.
I am not losing much blood. After the evening Tolstoy was
here (we had a long talk) , coughed a lot of blood at four in the
morning.
[ 208 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [r897]
Melikhovo is a healthy place; it happens to be in a water­
shed and stands h igh, so fevers and diphtheria never visit it. At
a consultation a decision was taken for me not to try a new spot,
but to continue l iving in Melikhovo, except that the place
would have to be made more comfortable. When I get tired of
the house, I'll go next door to the cottage I rented for the use
of my brothers, in case they should decide to visit.
People come and go continually, bring flowers, candies, good
things to eat. In a word, bliss . . . .
I am not on my back, but am writing this sitting up, though
the minute I'm through, I'll be back on my loge.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
Please write, I implore you.

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
April 2, r897, Moscow
This is the story. Since 1 884 I have been spitting blood every
spring. That time when you accused me of being blessed by the
Most Holy Synod, and didn't believe my denial, I was so upset
that at a time when Mr. Suvorin was present I lost a lot of
blood and was put into a clinic. My case was diagnosed as tuber­
culosis in the upper part of the lungs, i.e., I acquired the right,
if I wished, to consider myself an invalid. My temperature is
normal, I don't have night sweats or any weakness, but I dream
of the saints, my future looks pretty dim and although the
lung condition is not so very advanced, a will must be drawn
up, without delay, so that you won't be able to grab all my
property. I'm being dismissed from the clinic on Wednesday
of Holy Week, will proceed to Melikhovo and then we'll see
what happens next. I have been ordered to keep myself well
nourished, so now i t's me that has to be fed, not Papa and
Mama. Nobody at home knows of my illness, so when you write
[ 209 ]
 To ALEXANDER ERTEL (r897]
don't shoot your mouth off with the malice peculiar to you . . . .
My kindest regards to your wife and children-with all my
heart, of course.
Keep well.
Your benefactor,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER ERTEL
A pril r7, r897, Melikhovo
My dear friend A lexander Ivanovich,
I am home now. J ust before the holidays I spent two weeks
in Ostroumov's clinic, bleeding, and the doctor diagnosed
tuberculosis of the upper part of the lungs. I feel fine all over,
nothing aches, nothing disturbs me inwardly, but the doctors
have forbidden me vinum, movement, talk, have ordered me to
eat a lot, have forbidden me to practice medicine-and I am at
loose ends, as it were.
I haven't heard a thing about a people's theatre. At the con­
gress it was mentioned offhand and with no entr·1siasm, and
the group that had undertaken to write a chartet ,md get work
under way has evidently cooled off somewhat. This is probably
due to the presence of spring. . . .
There is nothing new. There is a lull in literature. In the
editorial offices people drink tea and cheap wine without relish,
all as a result, evidently, of nothing to do. Tolstoy is writing a
pamphlet on art. He visited me at the clinic and said he had
tossed aside his novel "Resurrection" because he didn't like it,
writes only on art and has read sixty books about it. His ideas
on the subject are not new; all the wise old men have repeated
them throughout the centuries in various keys. Old men have
always been prone to see the end of the world, and assert that
morality has fallen to its nee plus ultra, that art has been de­
based and is out at the elbows, that people have become weak
and so on and so forth. Leo Nikolayevich's pamphlet would like
[ 210]
 To VASILI SOBOLEVSKI [z897]
to convince the world that art has now entered its final phase
and is in a blind alley from which it cannot get out except by
going backward.
1 am not doing anything, am feeding the sparrows with hemp
seeds and prune the roses, one a day. The flowers bloom luxur­
iantly afterward. 1 am not doing any farming.
Keep well, dear Alexander 1vanovich, thanks for your letter
and friendly sympathy. Write me because of the infirmities of
my flesh, and don't find too great fault with my irregularity in
corresponding. From now on 1 will try to answer your letters
right after reading them.
1 cordially press your hand.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To VAS1Ll SOBO LEVSK1

A ugust z9, z897, Melikhovo
Dear Vasili Mikhailovich,
1 have been looking for your address so as to get in touch
with you and find out whether you would be going to N ice­
and if you were, whether you couldn't take me along. From
your yesterday's letter 1 learned you were in Biarritz. Excellent,
1 will go to Biarritz too. I can't get away from horne before the
end of August (around the twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh, I
guess); furthermore, there is no need to rush, as the weather
here is warm and dry. 1n the meantime please be so good as to
let me know what is the best train for me to take out of
Moscow, whether to Berlin or Vienna, what train out of Paris,
what hotel you stopped at. 1 am asking you for this sort of de­
tailed itinerary because this is my first time in Biarritz and
1 am somewhat shy. You know 1 talk all languages except the
foreign ones; when 1 speak French or German abroad, the con­
ductors usually laugh; and for me, transferring from one station
to another in Paris is just like playing blind man's buff.
[211 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [z897]
I count upon staying in Biarritz for a month, then will be off
for some other warm spot.
So long! In anticipation of your reply let me shake your hand
and wish you all the best.
Your
A. Chekhov

To LYDIA AVILOVA
October 6, z8gj, Nice
. . . You deplore the fact that my characters are gloomy.
Alas, i t isn't my faul t! This happens involuntarily, and when I
write I don't think I am lugubrious; at any rate, I am always
in a good mood while I work. I t has been pointed out that som­
bre, melancholy people always \\Tite gaily, while the works of
cheerful souls are always depressing. And I am a joyous person;
at least I have lived the first thirty years of my life at my ease,
as they say.
My health is tolerable in the morning and excellent at night.
I am not doing anything, don't write and don't feel like writing.
I ha\·e become frightfully lazy.
Keep well and happy. I press your hand.
Your
A. Chekhov
I shall probably remain abroad all winter.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

Dear Afasha,
. . . The weather is marvelous; so incredibly bright and warm.
It is summer, really.
Here is a nice little treat for you : a French lesson. The ac­
cepted form of address is "Monsieur Antoine Tchekhoff" and
not "a l\1-r Ant. Tchekhoff." You must write "recommandee"
[ 2 12 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (I897]
and not "recommendee." The French language is a very polite
and subtle one and not a single sentence, even in conversation
with servants, policemen or cab drivers lacks its monsieur, rna­
dame, or "I beg you" and "be so kind." I t is not permissible to
say, "Give me some water," you say rather, "Be so kind as to
give me some water," or, " Give me some water, I beg of you."
But this phrase, i .e., "I beg of you," should not be "Je vous en
prie" (je vuzan pree) , as they say in Russia, but unfailingly
"S'il vous plait" (if it please you) , or, for variety, "ayez Ia
bonte de donner" (have the goodness to give), "veuillez don­
ner" (vuyay) -would you wish to give.
If someone in a shop says "J e vous en prie," you can tell he
is a Russian. The Russians pronounce the word "les gens" in
the sense of "servants" like jans, but this is not correct, one
should say, "Jon." The word "oui" must be pronounced not
"vooee" as we say it, but "ooee," so that you can hear the ee.
In wishing someone a pleasant journey the Russians say, "bon
voyage-bun vooayash," giving a distinct sound to sh, while it
should be pronounced voayazh-zh . . . Voisinage . . . vooazinazh­
zh . . . and not vooazhinash. Also "treize" ( 1 3) and "quatorze"
( 1 4) should be pronounced not tress and katorss, the way Ade­
laide says it, but trezzzz . . katorzzz-so that you get the z sound
at the end of the word. The word "sens"-feeling, is pro­
nounced sanss, the word "soit" in the sense of "so be it"­
sooatt. The word "ailleurs"--elsewhere-and "d'ailleurs"­
besides-are pronounced ayor and dayor, in which the eu
sound approximates our e.
Well, that will be enough for the first time. There is nothing
new, my health is not bad. What's with Lika? Does she want to
go to Milan?
Keep well. Kindest regards to all.
Yes, one more observation: Russians are recognized here by
their frequent use of "done" and "deja." It sounds bad, trite.
They also say "ce n'est pas vrai"-"that is not true." But for a
Frenchman such an expression is too coarse, not an expression
[ 2 13 ]
 To ANNA SUVORINA (r897]
of doubt or incredulity, as it is with us, but opprobrious. If you
wish to express doubt or incredulity you must say, "C'est im­
possible, monsieur."
I am doing a little writing.
Did Mama get the cards? If you wish me to bring or send any
cosmetics or artists' supplies when the opportunity presents,
write me what you need. I can bring in a whole box full of
paints duty free and here all of this material is first-rate and not
expensiVe.
Agreez !'assurance de rna parfaite consideration.
Antoine Tchekhoff

To ANNA SUVORINA
November ro, r897, Nice
Dear A nna Ivanovna,
Thank you very much for the letter, which I am answering
immediately upon reading. You ask about my health. I feel ex­
tremely fit, outwardly (I believe) I am completely well, my mis­
fortune is that I cough blood. I don't cough it in any quantity,
but it persists for a long time and my last attack, which is still
upon me, began about three weeks ago. Because of it I must
subject myself to various deprivations; I don't leave the house
after three in the afternoon, don't drink, don't eat anything hot,
don't walk fast, am never anywhere except on the street, i n
short, I a m not living but vegetating. This naturally annoys me
and puts me in a bad temper; and it seems to me that at dinner
the Russians here speak nonsense and banalities, and I have to
control myself not to answer impertinently.
But for the Lord's sake, don't tell anyone about the coughing,
this is between ourselves. I write home that I am entirely well;
declaring anything to the contrary would not make sense, since
I do feel fine-and if they find out at home about my losing
blood, there will be loud outcries.
Now you want to know about that little affair of mine. In
[ 214 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [1898]
Biarritz I picked up a young lady of nineteen, named Margot,
to teach me French; when we bade each other farewell she said
she would be in Nice without fail. She probably is here, but I
j ust cannot find her and so-l am not speaking French.
The weather here is heavenly. It is hot, calm, charming. The
musical competitions are under way. Bands march along the
streets, which are full of excitement, dancing and laughter. I
look at all this and think to myself how silly I was not to have
lived abroad more. I now believe, if I remain alive, I will no
longer spend winters in Moscow, no matter what the induce­
ments. The minute October comes around, out I go from Rus­
sia. I am not inspired by the natural beauty hereabouts, which
I find alien, but I passionately love warmth, and I love culture .
. . . And culture here oozes out of every shop window, every
willow basket; every dog has the odor of civilization .
. . . Don't be so proud and majestic, write me as often as you
can. I need letters. I kiss your hand a hundred hundred times,
wish you happiness and again thank you.
Yours heart and soul,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
january 4, 18gB, Nice
This is my program: the end of January (old style) or, more
likely, the beginning of February, I am going to Algeria, Tunis,
etc., then return to Nice, where I will expect you (you wrote
you were coming to Nice), then after a stay here we will go to
Paris together, if you like, whence on the "lightning" to Russia
in time to usher in Easter. Your last letter arrived here un­
sealed.
I am very rarely in Monte Carlo, say once in three or four
weeks. The first days, when Sobolevski and Nemirovich were
here, I played a very moderate game (rouge et noir) and would
return home occasionally with fifty or a hundred francs, but
then I had to give it up, as it exhausts me-physically.
[ 2 15 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORlN [r8g8]
The Dreyfus affair has seethed and died down, but hasn't yet
got back onto the right track. Zola is a noble spirit and I (a
member of the syndicate and in the pay of Jews to the extent
of a hundred francs) am in raptures over this outburst. France
is a wonderful country, and its writers are wonderful. . . .
\Ve have with us Hirshman, the Kharkov oculist, the well­
known philanthropist and friend of Koni, a saintly man who is
on a visit to his tuberculous son. I have been seeing him and
talking with him, but his wife is a nuisance, a fussy dim-witted
woman, as tedious as forty thousand wives. There is a Russian
woman artist here who draws me in caricature about ten or
fifteen times a day.
J udging from the extract published in "New Times," Leo
Tolstoy's article on art doesn't sound interesting. It is all old
stuff. Saying of art that it has grown decrepit, drifted into a
blind alley, that it isn't what i t ought to be, and so forth and so
on, is the same as saying that the desire to eat and drink has
grown obsolete, seen i ts day and isn't what it ought to be. Of
course hunger is an old story, and in our desire to eat we have
entered a blind alley, but still we have to do it and we will keep
on eating, whatever the philosophers and angry old men may
go to the trouble of saying.
Keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
February 6, r8g8, Nice
A few days ago I saw a striking announcement on the first
page of "New Times" on the forthcoming issue of "Cosmopolis,"
which will contain my story, "On A Visit." To begin with, my
story isn't called "On A Visit" but "Visiting with Friends." In
the second place, this sort of publicity goes against the grain;
let alone the fact that the story itself is far from unusual, being
one of those things you grind out one per day.
You write you are provoked with Zola, while here the gen-
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r8g8]
eral feeling is as though a new, better Zola had come into being.
In this trial o£ his he has cleaned off all his external grease spots
with turpentine, as it were, and now gleams before the French
in his true brilliance. He has a purity and moral elevation which
no one had suspected. J ust trace the whole scandal from the
very beginning. The degradation of Dreyfus, whether just or
otherwise, had a depressing, dismal effect on everyone (among
others on you, too, as I recall). At the time of his sentencing
Dreyfus conducted himself like an honorable, well-disciplined
officer, while others present, the journalists, for instance, yelled
at him, "Shut up, you Judas ! " i.e., behaved scandalously.
Everybody came away dissatisfied and left the courtroom with
a troubled conscience. Particularly dissatisfied was Dreyfus'
defense attorney, Demange, an honest man, who even during
the preliminary hearing had felt something was wrong behind
the scenes; then there were the experts, who, to convince them­
selves that they were not mistaken, spoke only of Dreyfus, of
his guilt, and kept roaming through Paris, roaming. . . . Of
the experts, one turned out to be crazy, the author of a gro­
tesque, absurd scheme, two were eccentrics. The logic of the
situation was such that one was bound to question the intelli­
gence bureau of the War Ministry, that military consistory de­
voted to spy hunting and reading other people's letters; then
people started saying that Sandher, the bureau chief, was
affli cted with progressive paralysis; Paty de Clam turned out to
be almost a counterpart of the Berliner, Tausch; and Picquart
resigned, suddenly and mysteriously. A regular series of gross
errors of justice came to light, as though p urposely arranged.
People became convinced, little by little, that Dreyfus had
really been condemned on the basis of a secret document which
had not been shown either to the defendant or to his attorney­
and law-abiding people looked upon this as a basic breach of
justice; had that letter been written even by the sun itself, not
to speak of Wilhelm, it still should have been shown to
Demange. Everyone had wild guesses as to the contents of this
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN (I898]
letter and cock-and-bull stories were current. Dreyfus was an
officer, and so the military expected the worst; Dreyfus was a
Jew-the Jews expected the worst. . . . All the talk was of mili­
tarism, of the yids . . . Such profoundly distrusted people as
_

Drumont held their heads high; an evil plant began g.-owing

in the soil of anti-Semitism, in a soil stinking of the slaughter­
house. \Vhen something does not go well with us, we look for
reasons outside of us and have no trouble finding them: "It's
the French who are ruining us, the yids, Wilhelm. . . . Capital,
bogeymen, Masons, the syndicate, the Jesuits-these are all
spectres, but hmv they do assuage our uneasy minds! These
things are a bad sign, of course. Once the French started talking
about yids, or the syndicate, it was an indication that they felt
all was not well, that some worm was gnawing underneath, that
they needed such spectres to appease their troubled consciences.
Then this Esterhazy, a brawler out of Turgenev, an insolent,
doubtful character, a man despised by his comrades, the striking
similarity of his handwriting with that of the document, the
letters of the Uhlan, the threats he chose not to carry out for
reasons of his own, finally the strange decision, made in absolute
secrecy, that the document was written in Esterhazy's handwrit­
ing but not by his hand . . . . The gases were accumulating, and
people began feeling acute tension, an oppressive closeness in
the air. The scuffle in the court was a pure manifestation of
nerves, simply a hysterical consequence of this tension. Zola's
letter and his trial are also aspects of this same situation. \Vhat
would you want? It is for the best people, always ahead of their
nations, to be the first to sound the alarm-and this is just what
happened. First to speak up was Scherer-Koestner, whom the
French, knowing him, call (in Kovalevski's1 words) a "Caucas­
ian dagger"-he is so shiningly clean and flawless. Zola was the
second. And now he is on trial.
1 KovaleYSki was a historian, sociologist and jurist. Because of his liberal views
he lost his post as pro[essor at Moscow University and emigrated to Paris, where
he taught and lectured.
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [ 1898]
Yes, Zola is not Voltaire, nor are any of us Voltaires, but life
sometimes produces such a chain of circumstances that it is very
much out of place to reproach us for not being Voltaires.
Think of Korolenko, who defended the M ultan pagans and
saved them from penal servitude. Nor was Doctor Haas a Vol­
taire, yet his wonderful life ran along to a good end.
I am acquainted with the affair from the stenographic report
and it certainly is not what you read in the newspapers. I can
see Zola plain. The important point is that he is sincere, i.e., he
builds his j udgments solely on what he sees, and not on spectres,
as others do. Sincere people can certainly make mistakes-no
doubt about that-but such mistakes cause less harm than well­
advised insincerity, prej udices or political considerations. Sup­
pose Dreyfus is guilty: Zola is right anyway, because it is the
writer's business not to accuse and not to persecute, but to
champion the guilty, once they are condemned and suffer pun­
ishment. People will say, what about politics and the interests
of the government? But great writers and artists should engage
in politics only to the extent necessary to defend themselves
against politics. Even without political considerations there are
plenty of accusers, prosecutors and policemen, and in any case
the role of Paul suits them better than that of Saul. And no
matter what the verdict may be, Zola nonethelesss will expe­
rience a vibrant joy after the trial is over, his old age will be a
good old age and when he dies it will be with a serene or at any
rate eased conscience.
The French people have sickened and they grasp at every
word of comfort and at every well-intended reproach coming
from without; that is why Bji::irnstern's letter was so popular
here, along with our Zakrevski's article (which people read in
the "News"), and why the abuse of Zola was so obnoxious, i.e.,
the stuff the yellow press, which the French despise, dishes up
for them every day. No matter how neurotic Zola may be, in
court he still represents French common sense, and so the
French love him and are proud of him, although they applaud
[ 2 19 ]
 To OLGA HERl\IANOVNA CHEKHOVA [I8g8]
the generals who, simple-minded as they are, frighten them first
with the honor of the army and then with the threat of war.
See what a long letter this is. It is spring here and the mood
is that of a Little Russian Easter: warmth, sunshine, the peal of
bells, memories of the past. Do come! By the way, Duse will be
playing here. . . .
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA HERMAN OVNA CHEKHOVA

February 2 2, IBgB, Nice
.My dear daughter and protegee,
I congratulate you on the addition to the family and hope
your daughter will be beautiful, clever, interesting, and to cap
it all will marry a good man, if possible, a tender and patient
one, who won't jump out of a window because of his mother­
in-law. I had received word of this happy event in the family
some time ago and heartily shared your joy, but haven't offered
my congratulations until now because I haven't been up to it,
I myself felt I had a young one in my belly, I've been having
such acute pain. The dentist broke a tooth, took three sessions
to extract it and probably caused an infection, as an infectious
periostitis set in in the upper jaw, my countenance became dis­
torted, and I crawled up the walls with the pain. I had a fever
like typhus. The day before yesterday I had an operation and
now the pain has eased. So saying, everything below concerns
your husband . . . .
. . . You ask my opinion regarding Zola and his trial. I reckon
first of all with the obvious facts: on Zola's side is the entire
European intelligentsia and opposed to him is everything that
is vile and of doubtful character. This is the way things are:
just suppose a university administration expelled one student
instead of another in error, you started protesting and people
shouted at you, "You are insulting knowledge! " although the
[ 220 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [z898]
university administration and knowledge have only one thing
in common, that both the administering officials and the profes­
sors wear blue frock coats; then you swear, assure, accuse, and
people shout, "Proofs!"
"See here," you say, "let's go into the administrative office
and have a look into its books."
"That's not allowed! That's an administrative secret! . . . "
Now, this is the wild-goose chase going on here. The psychol­
ogy of the French government is transparent. Like a decent
woman who has deceived her husband once, commits a number
of gross mistakes, falls prey to insolent blackmail and finally
kills herself-and all in order to conceal her initial fall from
grace-so the French government, too, will stop at nothing, but
shuts its eyes and reels to left and right, just to avoid acknowl­
edging its mistake.
"New Times" is conducting a ridiculous campaign; on the
other hand the majority of Russian papers, even though they
are not for Zola, are against his persecution. The Court of
Cassation will settle nothing, even with a favorable outcome.
The question will resolve itself, in some casual fashion, as a
result of the explosion of the steams now storing up inside of
French heads. Everything will tum out all right.
There is nothing new. Everything is running along smoothly,
if you don't count the periostitis. My countenance is still askew.
Keep well. If Mama is still with you, give her my regards. I
have sent home a lot of perfumed soap. If you were in Mel­
ikhovo you would get a piece.
Your papa,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
February 23, z898, Nice
Brother!!
. . . "New Times" behaved just abominably in the Zola affair.
The old man and I exchanged letters on the subject (in an
[ 221 ]
 To ALEXA:\'DER CHEKHOV (18g8]
extremely moderate tone, though) and now both of us have
shut up. I don't want to write to him or get his letters, wherein
he j ustifies his paper's tactlessness by saying he loves the mili­
tary-! really don't, as I have been sick and tired of the whole
business for a long time. I am fond of the military, too, but if
I owned a paper, I would not allow those cactuses to make a
supplementary printing of a novel1 of Zola's without jJaying
royalties and then pour filth over the author-and what for?­
for having qualities that not a single one of those cactuses could
ever recognize-a noble impulse and purity of spirit. At any
rate, abusing Zola when he is on trial is unworthy of literature.
I got your portrait and have presented it to a little French
girl with this inscription: . . . She will think you are discussing
one of your articles on the woman question.
Don't be bashful about writing. Greetings to Natalia Alexan­
drovna and the children.
L'homme des lettres,
A. Tchekhoff

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
A ugust 14, r8g8, Melikhovo
Your first-born, Nikolai, arrived the day before yesterday. He
will live in Melikhovo until his studies in Moscow get under
way. We have j ust had the following conversation:
I. I am going to write your father now. What shall I tell him
about you?
He. Tell him I am sitting here eating apples and that's all.
He has been telling us about Valdaika and the estate it seems
you have bought or intend to buy. If this is so, it's a good idea.
"When you walk past the theatre office, go in and tell the
young lady there that authors hafta eat. She owes me some
money and you have every right to demand it. What do you
1 Supplements were the extra section of newspapers or magazines given to
readers as premiums for subscriptions. New Times was running Zola's novel
Paris in ils supplements without paying any royalties.

[ 222 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [ I8g8]
hear about Suvorin? \Vhere is he? We are having hot weather
and are melting away pleasantly. A general has taken up resi­
dence in the country home next door, which is very flattering
to us. My greetings to Dr. Oldrogge, and write me in greater
detail of your alcoholic undertakings. Regards to your pious
family. In bad weather keep your pants dry and heed your
elders.
Your benefactor,
Antonio

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 8, z8g8, Yalta
You write that the public should not be pampered; so be it,
but still there is no need to sell my books for more money than
Potapenko's and Korolenko's. Here in Yalta my books are sold
in large numbers and I have been told in the bookshops that
the buying public is often ill-disposed toward me. I am in fear
that the ladies I meet on the streets may thrash me with their
parasols . . . .
The Crimean seashore is beautiful and comfortable and I
prefer it to the Riviera, but it has one serious drawback-there
is no culture. In the matter of civilization Yalta has even pro­
gressed beyond N ice with our splendid sewage system, but the
outskirts are pure Asia.
I read a notice on Nemirovich's and Stanislavski's theatre and
on their production of "Fyodor Ioannovich" 1 in "New Times"
and I couldn't understand what the review was driving at. You
had liked the production so much and it had been so cordially
received that only some deep misunderstanding could have led
to the writing of such a notice, something I know nothing
about. What happened?
Before my departure, I may say in passing, I attended a
rehearsal of "Fyodor Ioannovich." Its tone of culture had an
1 Czar Fyodor Ioannovich-we!l-known play by Count Alexei K. Tolstoy
(1817-1875) . The role of Fyodor was played by the to-be-famous Ivan l\l oskvin.

[ 223 ]
 To VLADIMIR l':E:>.I IROVICH-DA;o.;cHENKO [18gB]
ag.-eeable effect on me and the performance was a truly artistic
one, although no particularly dazzling talents were in evidence.
In my opinion Irina2 was admirable. Her voice, her nobility,
her quality of warmth were so superb that I felt choked with
emotion. Fyodor seemed to me not so good . . . . But Irina was
best of all. I£ I had remained in Moscow I would have fallen in
love with this Irina . . . .
Keep well and let me wish you all the best-! send my re­
spects. I am on my way to the bath house.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR N EMIROVICH-DANCHEN KO
October 2 r, r8g8, Yalta
My dear Vladimir Ivanovich,
I am in Yalta and will continue here for some time to come.
The trees and g.-ass are wearing their summer g.-een, it is warm,
bright, calm, dry, and today, for example, it is not warm, but
downright hot. I like it very much and may decide to settle here
for good.
Your teleg.-am affected me profoundly. My warm thanks to
you, Konstantin Semyonovich and the company for remember­
ing me. Please don't forget me and write, even though it isn't
often. You are now a very busy person, and a director, but still
do write now and then to this idle chap. Give me all the details,
how the company reacted to the success of the first perform­
ances, how "The Sea Gull" is going, what changes have been
made in the assignment of parts and so on and so forth. Judg­
ing by the newspapers, the start was brilliant-and I am very,
very happy, happier than you can imagine. Your success is
merely additional proof that both the public and the actors
2 I rina-this part was played by Olga Knipper. Knipper married Chekhov in
190 1 .

[ 2 24 ]
 r
To LYDIA AVILOVA [1898]
need a cultured theatre. But why is there no mention of Irina­
Knipper? Don't tell me some confusion has arisen? I didn't
like your Fyodor, but Irina seemed extraordinary; now people
talk more of Fyodor than they do of Irina.
I have become involved in the life of the community and
have been appointed a member of the board of trustees of the
girls' school. And now I walk along the school steps very sedately
and all the young girl students in their white caps drop me
curtsies. . . .
I am waiting for "Antigone" 1 and waiting because you prom­
ised to send a copy. I need it badly.
I am expecting my sister, who is coming here, according to
the wire she sent. We are going to decide what to do now. Now
that Father is dead my mother will scarcely wish to live alone
in the country. We'll have to think up something else for her.
My respects and regards to Ekaterina Nikolayevna, Roxanova
and Knipper, and my humble salutations to Vishnevski. I recall
them all with great pleasure.
Keep well and happy. Please write. A cordial handshake.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To LYDIA AVILOVA
October 2 1, 18g8, Yalta
I read your letter and could only throw up my hands in
despair. If I wished you happiness and good health in my last
letter it was not because I desired to discontinue our corre­
spondence or, Heaven help us, avoid you, but simply because
I really wished and now wish you happiness and health. That
should be plain. And if you read things in my letters that are
not there, it is probably because I don't know how to express
myself. . . .
1 Sophocles' tragedy was in rehearsal at the Moscow Art Theatre.

[ 22 5 ]
 To l\I IKHAIL CHEKHov [18gB]
I am now in Yalta, will stay on for some time to come, even
perhaps for the entire winter. The weather is marvelous, abso­
lutely summerlike . . . . Perhaps I shall even make my home in
Yalta. My father died this month and with his death the coun­
try place where I resided has lost all its delight for me; my
mother and sister do not wish to live there either and now I
must begin a new life. And since I am forbidden to spend my
winters in the north, it behooves me to weave myself a new
nest, in the south probably. My father died unexpectedly, after
a serious operation-and it had a depressing effect on me and
my whole family; I cannot pull myself together. . . .
At any rate, don't be angry with me and forgive me if in my
last letters there was really anything stiff or disagreeable. I did
not mean to cause you distress and if my letters don't please
you, it is not intentional on my part, quite the contrary.
I cordially clasp your hand and wish you all the best. My
address is Yalta. Nothing else is necessary. Just Yalta.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV
October 26, 18g8, Yalta
Dear .Michel,
I had hardly mailed my postcard when I got yours. My heart
ached when I found out what you had gone through at Father's
funeral. I learned of Father's death from Sinani only on the
evening of the thirteenth, as for some reason nobody had tele­
graphed me and if I hadn't dropped into Sinani's shop quite by
accident I would have remained in the dark a long time.
I am buying a plot of ground in Yalta and intend building,
so as to have a place to spend the winters. The prospect of a
nomadic life with its hotel rooms, doormen, hit-or-miss cookery
and so on alarms me. Mother could spend the winters with me.
Yalta has no winter; here it is the end of October and roses and
[ 226 ]
 To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV [r8g8]
other flowers are blooming with all their might, the trees are
green and the weather is mild. There is lots of water. The
house by itself will take care of all my needs, without outbuild­
ings, and everything under one roof.
The basement provides space for coal, wood, porter's quar­
ters and everything. Hens lay all the year round and don't need
special coops, as an enclosure is enough. The bakery and market
are nearby. So life will be warm and very convenient for
Mother. Incidentally, people pick various types of mushrooms
all autumn in the outlying woods-and our mother would find
this diverting. I am not going to undertake the building opera­
tions by myself but will let the architect take care of every­
thing. By April the house will be ready. It is a sizeable plot for
the city, with enough ground for orchard, flower bed and veg­
etable garden. Next year Yalta is to have a railway. . . .
As for your insistence on marriage-how can I explain it to
you? Getting married is interesting only when one is in love;
marrying a girl simply because she is attractive is like buying
something you don't need just because it is nice. The most im­
portant thing that holds family life together is love, sexual
attraction, "and they two shall be one flesh"-all the rest is
dreary and unreliable, no matter how cleverly we may have
calculated the factors. Accordingly it is not a question of an
attractive girl but of a dearly loved one; so you see, delaying
the matter doesn't make any difference. . . .
My "Uncle Vanya" is playing everywhere in the provinces
with universal success. So you never can tel l where you are
going to find something good or where you may lose it. I cer­
tainly was not counting on that play. Keep well and write.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
It was a very good idea to have Father buried in Novodevichi
Monastery. I wanted to telegraph about burying him there but
thought I was too late; you anticipated my wishes.
[ 227 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI (r898]
To MAXIM GORKI
December ;, r898, Yalta
Dear A lexei 1\Iaximoviclz,
Your last letter afforded me great pleasure. Thank you with
all my heart. " Uncle Vanya" was written long ago, a very long
time ago; I have never seen it on the stage. During these past
few years it has been presented often on provincial stages-per­
haps because a collection of my plays has been published. On
the whole I react coolly toward my plays, have long ago lost
touch with the theatre and don't feel like writing for it any
more.
You ask for my opinion of your stories. My opinion? You
have undoubted talent, truly a genuine, immense talent. In
your story "On the Steppe," for example, your talent is shown
as extraordinarily powerful, and I even experienced a moment
of envy that it was not I who had written it. You are an artist
and a brilliant man. You feel things magnificently; you are
plastic, i.e., when you depict a thing, you see it and touch it
with your hands. That is true art. There you have my opinion,
and I am very glad that I can come out with it. I repeat, I am
very glad, and if we could meet and chat for an hour or two,
you would be convinced how highly I value you and what hope
I have in your gifts.
Now shall I speak of your defects? This is not so easy,
though. Referring to shortcomings in the way of talent is like
talking of the defects of a fine tree in an orchard; in the main it
is certainly not a question of the tree itself but of the tastes of
those who look at it. Isn't that so?
I will begin by pointing out that in my opinion you have no
restraint. You are like a spectator in a theatre who expresses
his rapture so unrestrainedly that he prevents himself and
others from hearing. This lack of restraint is especially evident
in your descriptions of nature, which break up the continuity
of your dialogues; one would like these descriptions to be more
compact and concise, just two or three lines or so. The frequent
[ 228 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [I8g8]
references to voluptuousness, whispering, velvet softness and so
on lend a certain rhetorical quality and monotony to these de­
scriptions, and they dampen one's enthusiasm and almost
fatigue the reader. This lack of restraint is also evident in your
characterizations of women ("Malva," "On the Rafts") and in
love scenes. The effect you create is not of expansiveness nor
of a broad sweep of your brush, but merely lack of restraint.
Then, you make frequent use of words entirely unsuited to
your kind of story. Accompaniment, disk, harmony-these
words stand in the way of the narrative. You speak often of
waves. There is a strained, circumspect effect in your portrayals
of people of culture; it is not because you haven't observed
them closely enough, for you do know them; it is that you don't
exactly know how to tackle them.
How old are you? I don't know you or where you come from
or who you are, but it seems to me that you should quit N izhni
while you are still young and really live for two or three years,
lose yourself, so to speak, among literature and literary people;
it would not be in order to learn to crow like the rest of our
cocks or to acquire even more sharpness, but rather to plunge
head over heels into literature and fall in love with it; in addi­
tion, the provinces cause one to age early. Korolenko, Potap­
enko, Mamin and Ertel are all excellent people; at the outset,
perhaps, their company may seem somewhat dull, but after a
year or two you will get used to them and esteem them accord­
ing to their merits; their society will pay you back with interest
for the unpleasantness and inconvenience of life in the capital.
I am hurrying to the post office. Keep well and happy, and let
me clasp your hand cordially. I thank you again for your letter.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

[ 229 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI (I899]
To MAXIM GORKI
january J, I899, Yalta
My dem· A lexei Maximovich,
I am answering both your letters right away. To begin with,
I wish you a Happy New Year with all my heart and offer a
friendly wish for your happiness, old or new-just as you would
have it.
Apparently you misunderstood me somewhat. I didn't refer
to crudity of style, but merely to the incongruity of foreign, not
truly Russian or rarely used words. In other authors words like
"fatalistically," for instance, pass unnoticed, but your things are
musical and well proportioned, so that every rough spot stands
out like a sore thumb. Of course we are here concerned with a
matter of taste and perhaps I am only expressing the excessive
fastidiousness or conservatism of a man who has long been
rooted in definite habits . . . .
Are you self-taught? In your stories you are the true artist, a
real man of culture. Least of all is coarseness a quality of yours,
you are understanding and you feel things subtly and sensi­
tively. Your best works are "On the Steppe" and "On the
Rafts"--did I write you so? These are superb pieces, models of
their kind, obviously by an artist who has gone through a very
good school. I do not think I am mistaken. The only defect is
the lack of restraint, of grace. \Vhen a person expends the least
possible quantity of movement on a certain act, that is grace.
There is a feeling of excess, though, in your outlay of words.
The descriptions of nature are artistic; you are a genuine
landscapist. Except that the frequent use of the device of per­
sonification (anthromorphism) when you have the sea breathe,
the heavens gaze down, the steppe caress, nature whisper, speak
or mourn, etc.-such expressions render your descriptions some­
what monotonous, occasionally oversweet and sometimes indis­
tinct; picturesque and expressive descriptions of nature are at­
tained only through simplicity, by the use of such plain phrases
as " the sun came out," "it grew dark," "it rained," etc. This
[ 2 30 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I899]
simplicity is inherent in you to a degree rarely found among
any of our writers.
I did not like the first number of the newly revived "Life"
magazine. There seems to be a lack of seriousness in everything
about it. . . . The tone of your " Little Cyril" is good, but the
characterization of the local government administrator spoils
the general effect. Never portray these people. There is nothing
easier than depicting officialdom in its unattractive aspects; the
reader loves this sort of thing, but he is the most disagreeable
and banal type of reader. . . . But I happen to live in the
country, am personally acquainted with all these people in my
own and neighboring districts, have known them a long time
and find that their characters and the things they do are alto­
gether untypical, usually of no interest, and so I think I may
be right.
Now as to vagabondage. It is a life that interests and entices
one, but with the years a kind of heaviness sets in and one gets
glued to a place. The literary profession itself draws one into
its clutches. Time passes quickly with failures and disappoint­
ments, one fails to see life whole and the past, with its freedom,
no longer seems to be mine, but someone else's.
The mail has arrived and I must read my letters and papers.
Keep well and happy. Thank you for the letters, thank you for
getting so easily into the swing of our correspondence.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
january IJ, I899, Yalta
. . . I have read Leo Tolstoy's son's story "The Folly of the
Mir." The story construction is poor, and a straight article
would have been more effective, but the idea is treated cor­
rectly and passionately. I myself am opposed to the commune.
A commune makes sense when you have to deal with external
[ 231 ]
 To VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO [r8gg]
enemies who are always raiding your lands, or with wild beasts,
but today it is merely a crowd bound together artificially, like a
gang of convicts. They say Russia is an agricultural country.
That is so, but the commune has nothing to do with it, cer­
tainly not at the present time. The commune lives by farming,
but once farming starts changing into scientific culture of the
soil, the commune splits at all its seams, as the commune and
scientific culture are incompatible ideas. I may add incidentally
that the drunkenness and profound ignorance so widespread
among our people are sins of the commune . . . .
The weather in Yalta is like summer. I leave the house
evenings and go out on cold, rainy days--so as to get myself
used to severe weather and be ready to spend next winter in
Moscow and St. Petersburg. I'm weary of hanging around like
this.
I am reading proof on the first volume, and doing over many
of the stories completely. The volume will contain more than
seventy stories in all. "Motley Stories" will make up the second
volume, "In the Twilight" the third, etc. Except that here and
there I have to add stories to make up the number of pages
required by the censor.
Where will you be this spring? This summer? I would love
to run away to Paris and most likely will do so. . . .
Keep well and happy.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHEN KO
january 29, z8gg, Yalta
Dear Vladimir Nikolayevich,
. . . Here is what Mme. Just writes: " 'The Seagull' is being
performed even better and more smoothly than it was at its
second performance, although Stanislavski plays Trigorin as a
novelist who is much too weak physically and morally, and the
[ 232 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [I8gg]
Seagull herself U'en conviens) might look a bit handsomer in
the last act. But on the other hand Arkadina, Treplev, Masha,
Sarin, the teacher (those wide trousers of his are a treat in
themselves) and the steward-are magnificent, absolutely liv­
ing people." Here you have a specimen of the reviews I have
been receiving.
I think a radical change is taking place in my life; I have
been negotiating with Marx and it seems the negotiations have
been concluded and the sensation I feel is akin to being finally
granted a divorce by the Most Holy Synod, after a long wait.
No longer will I have any business with printing plants! I won't
have to think of formats, prices, or book titles! . . .
How nice it would be for everybody in the cast of "The
Seagull" to be photographed in their costumes and grease
paint and the picture sent to me!
I am bored here. And so, keep well and happy.
Your
A. Chekhov

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
February 6, I8gg, Yalta
Let me start by making a slight correction. I wired you just
as soon as I was informed that Marx wanted to buy my works.
And I wired Sergeyenko to get in touch with you. The offer
wasn't any secret, nor was there any delay in getting in touch
with you and, I assure you, the phrase you used in speaking to
Sergeyenko and which you repeated in your last letter, "Chek­
hov didn't want to sell to me," is based, expressing myself in the
language of classroom ladies, solely on a paradox of your own.

In the copy of the contract fonvarded to me, a great number

of all sorts of unnecessary items are set forth, but not a word
said about royalties from the plays. I raised a rumpus and am
now awaiting a reply. . . . The plays are the important thing,
[ 2 33 ]
 To ALEXA:-IDER CHEKHOV [z899]
all the rest is not worth bothering about-! hold firmly to this
old truth and consider the royalties from the plays my main­
stay.
Out of sheer boredom I am reading "The Book of My Life"
by Bishop Porphiri. Here is a passage on the subject of war:
"Standing armies in peacetime are in essence a swarm of
locusts devouring the people's bread, leaving behind a stench
in society; as for their function in time of war they are arti­
ficial military machines which, as they increase and develop,
sound a farewell to freedom, security and glory of the people!
. . . They are lawless defenders of unjust and prejudicial laws,
privilege and tyranny. . . . "

This was written back in the forties.

Please send me a calendar as a token of our thirteen-year­
old association It is a bore not knowing when people's birth­
days are. We'll each have to think up a fitting celebration for
the occasion and then talk it over. . . .
I have just been given your second letter about Marx and the
sale. I believe the sale will prove profitable if I don't live long,
less than five or ten years; and unprofitable if I live longer.
'Vrite me whether it is true that you are coming to Yalta.
Keep well and happy.
Your
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV1
February z6, z8gg, Yalta
1 . You don't have to rummage around for the material
printed in 1 88s.
2. 'Vhat isn't indicated in the letter does not have to be
copied, for all of it has already been published in collections.

I Chekhov's brother was looking for early Chekhov stories for the new edi­
tion about to be published by 1\larx.

[ 2 34 ]
 To IVAN ORLOV [r8gg]
3· I need "The Tale," "The Teacher," "Sister," "Difficult
People," "Life's Tedium," and "Tales of Life." These are some
of the first stories that were printed in "New Times," soon after
"Requiem" and "The ·witch."
4· There is still another "Tale" that is about millionaires.
I t was published at New Year's, or Easter, or Christmas.
5· What is "Bad Weather?" Let's have it.
6. Have someone else copy the folios and do the searching.
You are no longer of an age to engage in such occupations.
Here you are fifty-three years old and have for some time been
suffering from impotentia senilis, if you will pardon the ex­
pression! I however am still a young man and I'm even on the
lookout for a bride.
Your benefactor,
A. Chekhov
Have every story copied into a separate writing-paper note­
book; indicate the year and the issue. Write on one side of
the paper.

To IVAN ORLOV
February 2 2, r8gg, Yalta
Greetings, dear Ivan lvanovich,
. . . I have sold Marx everything-my past and my future,
and have become a Marxist for the rest of my life. For every
320 pages of prose already published I will receive 5,ooo from
him; five years from now I will receive 7 ,ooo and so on-with an
increase every five years. Thus, when I am 95, I will be getting
a fearful mess of money. I am getting 75,000 for my past. I drove
a bargain in favor of myself and my heirs to retain royalties
from the plays. But alas! I am still far from being a Vanderbilt.
Twenty-five thousand is already on hand, but I won't be getting
the remaining 5o,ooo in any h urry, but spread over two years;
so I really can't set myself up in style.
[ 235 ]
 To IVAN ORLOV [I899]
There is no particular news. I am not writing much. During
the coming season my play,1 which has not thus far been put
on in the big cities, is being produced at the Little Theatre:
nice royalties involved, as you can see. My house in Autka has
scarcely got under way because of the raw weather, which has
stretched on for almost all of January and February. I'll have
to leave before the completion of building operations . . . . I
have hopes of constructing a house on the cheap side, but in
European style, so as to be able to spend time there in winter
as well. The present little two-storey place is adequate only for
summer occupancy. . . .
Actually, Yalta in winter is a cross that not everyone can bear.
It abounds in drabness, slanders, intrigue and the most shame­
less calumny. . . .
Your letter contains a text from the scriptures. To your com­
plaint regarding the tutor and various failures, I will also reply
quoting chapter and verse: put not your trust in princes, nor
in the son of man . . . . And I recall yet another expression con­
cerning the sons of man, those very ones who make life so dif­
ficult for you : they are children of the age. It is not the tutor,
but the entire educated class that is at fault, all of it, my good
sir. ·while they are just university students they are an honest,
admirable group of people, they are our hope, the future of
Russia; but no sooner do these university students, male and
female, stand on their own feet and turn into adults than this
hope for the future vanishes into smoke and in the filter are
left nothing but doctors, owners of summer cottages, insatiable
officials, thieving engineers. . . . I do not believe in our edu­
cated class, which is hypocritical, false, hysterical, poorly edu­
cated and indolent; I don't believe in it even when it suffers
and complains, for its persecutors emerge from its own bosom.
I believe in individuals, I see salvation in individual personali­
ties scattered here and there throughout Russia-they may be
1 Uncle Vanya.
 To LYDIA AVILOVA (I899]
intellectuals or peasants-these are the ones with the power,
however few they may be. A prophet is not honored in his own
country; the individual personalities of whom I speak play an
insignificant role in society. They do not dominate, but their
work is apparent; at any rate, science is continually going for­
ward, social consciousness is growing, questions of morality are
beginning to cause uneasiness, etc., etc.-and all this is being
done despite the public prosecutors, the engineers, the tutors,
despite the intelligentsia en masse and despite everything.
. . . I clasp your hand cordially-keep well, happy and gay.
Write I
Your
A. Chekhov

To LYDIA AVILOVA
February 26, I8gg, Yalta
Dear Lydia A lexeyevna,
. . . Five or six days ago I sent you a letter and today I am
writing again. ·what is new in St. Petersburg and in literature?
Do you like Gorki? In my opinion he is genuinely talented, his
brushes and colors are genuine, but his is a sort of unrestrained,
devil-may-care gift. His "On the Steppe" is a magnificent thing.
But I don't like Veresayev or Chirikov a bit. Theirs is not
writing, but chirping; they chirp and then sulk. And I don't
like the writer Avilova because she writes so little. \Vomen
authors should write a great deal, if they want to master the
art; j ust take these Englishwomen as an example. \Vhat marvel­
ous workers! But I seem to have gone in for criticism; I am
afraid that in reply you are going to write me something
edifying.
Today the weather is delightful, springlike. The birds are
trilling, the almond and cherry trees are in blossom and it is
hot. But still I should be going north. My "Seagull" is being
[ 2 37 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I899]
performed in Moscow for the eighteenth time and I am told it
is staged magnificently.
Keep well. I cordially clasp your hand.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
March 29, z8gg, Yalta
Dear Masha,
I have already sent you word that on the first of January 1 900
I will receive thirty thousand from Marx and will then be able
to pay whatever amount you need for the house. If you like
Yeremeyev's property, by all means buy it; perhaps Yeremeyev
is agreeable to selling it before the first of January-in which
event we can make out the title deed; if not, we can borrow.
A mortgage can be raised, but not for a large amount, not
above ten thousand, so that paying the interest won't be burden­
some.
The house apparently will not pay for itself, but if we
have a comfortable, decent and quiet apartment, it will fully
compensate for all our losses; for the quieter (in the physical
sense) our existence, the more lightly and gladly can work be
done. Bestir yourself and make Yeremeyev take responsibility
for the business of the title deed, i.e., all the expenses connected
with the sale of the house, or else the house will certainly stand
us thirty-two and a half thousand. You can just explain to him
that it is easier for him to come down in the price than for us
to add to it.1
As to " Uncle Vanya,"2 I am not going to write or telegraph
anything; I don't know the committee's address and therefore
I don't know where to send a telegram; secondly, my letters go
unanswered; I have already written Nemirovich-Danchenko a
l The house in Moscow was never bought.
2 Chekhov had already had trouble with Uncle J'anya. He had refused to
allow the Maly Theatre to make any changes in the play.
 To A N N A SUVORINA [r899]
thousand times; thirdly, this whole business has annoyed me
terribly, I just can't stand any more of it. Let me repeat, all this
business with " Uncle Vanya" has annoyed me and I am not
going to put on any of my plays with anyone or anywhere. And
I won't write to anyone. . . .
The almond tree (with red blossoms) is blooming mag­
nificently on our Autka property and it is a joy. The house is
going up and work is at fever heat.
I will be arriving soon. Keep well. Greetings to Mama.
Your Antoine

To ANNA SUVORINA

Dear A nna lvanovnaJ

If St. Petersburg were not so remote and so cold, I would
visit you in an attempt to bear off Alexei Sergeyevich [Suvorin] .
I get a great many letters and listen to talk from morning to
night and I know something of what is going on at your place.
You reproach me for disloyalty. You write that Alexei Sergeye­
vich is good-hearted and disinterested and that I do not pay
him back in kind; but what, as a sincerely well-disposed per­
son, might I do for him? What? The present situation has not
developed overnight, but has been going on for many years,
and what people are saying now they have been saying for a
long time, everywhere, and you and Alexei Sergeyevich were
not aware of the truth, as kings do not know what goes on
about them. I am not philosophizing but stating what I know.
"New Times" is experiencing difficult days, but certainly it re­
mains, and will remain, a force; a certain amount of time will
elapse and everything will get back into its accustomed groove;
nothing will change and everything will be as it was.
What interests me more is the question of whether Alexei
Sergeyevich should remain in St. Petersburg; I would be very
[239 ]
 To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV [r8gg]
happy if he threw everything aside for a week and left town. I
"Tote him in this regard, asked him to wire me, but he hasn't
sent me a single word and now I don't know what to do with
myself, whether to stay in Yalta and wait for him or go north .
. . . I will write Alexei Sergeyevich, but you speak to him as
well and have him wire me.
Where will you be this summer? Are you taking a trip any­
where? I t is spring here, my health is passable, but life is tedi­
ous, all this rigmarole has bored me . . . .
Hearty thanks to you for the letter and for remembering me.
Keep well and happy. I kiss your hand and wish you all the very
best.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
March JO, r8gg, Yalta
Proletarian! My poor brother! Honest toiler, exploited by the
rich!
"\\.hen you get this letter I shall already be on the wing; the
third of April I will be packing and the fourth or fifth will go
north to Moscow and then to my own estate, where in the posi­
tion of a man of wealth I will exploit the proletarians. And so
you have not managed to swindle me out of part of my capital
with flattering words! Your plans have crashed to earth.
If it is not warm by the fifteenth of April, I will remain in
Moscow as late as the eighteenth; if you wish, stop in on your
way back (M. Dmitrovka St., cjo Vladimirov) . . . .
Keep well and conduct yourself properly and moderately.
They "Tite from home that Mother was ill, but that she is
well now. There is nothing new. However strange it may ap­
pear, I am undergoing financial difficulties.
My benefactor Marx has only paid me a small part of what he
owes, the rest will be handed over later on, after 1 900, in the
[ 24 0 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [z899]
coming century, and little by little. This is certainly not Eng­
land! . . .
Your brother, member of the Yalta Mutual Credit Society,
A. Chekhov
Sashechka, are you an atheist?

To MAXIM GORKI

Dear A lexei Maximovich,

Not a sight or sound of you-where are you? What are you
doing? Where are you off to?
The day before yesterday I was at Tolstoy's; he praised you
highly and said you were a "remarkable writer." He likes your
"The Fair" and "On the Steppe," but doesn't like your "Malva."
He said, "You can invent anything you please, but not psy­
chology, and Gorki is full of psychological inventions. He has
described what he hasn't felt." There you are. I told him we
would visit him together the next time you were in Moscow.
When will you be here? "The Seagull" is being performed on
Thursday, a special performance for yours truly. I'll have a seat
for you if you come . . . .
I have been getting grim, rather repentant letters from St.
Petersburg1 • and they trouble me, for I do not know how
• •

to answer them, or what attitude to take. Yes indeed, life is a

complicated affair when it is not a psychological invention.
Drop me two or three lines. Tolstoy asked a great many ques­
tions about you-you have aroused his curiosity. It is evident
you have stirred him.
So, keep in good health and let me clasp your hand. My com­
pliments to your little Maxim.
Your
A. Chekhov
1From Suvorin. Chekhov very probably meant that Suvorin was repentant
over his anti-Zola attitude in the Dreyfus Affair.

[ 24 1 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI (I899]
To MAXIM GORKI
May g, IBgg, Melikhovo
My dear A lexei Maximovich,
I am sending you a copy of Strindberg's play "Countess Julie."
Read it and return it to its owner, Elena Just, 1 3j 1 5 Pante­
leimon Street, St. Petersburg.
At one time I liked hunting, but now I am indifferent to it.1
I saw "The Seagull" without the stage sets; I cannot judge the
play dispassionately, because the Seagull hersel£2 gave an abom­
inable performance, kept sobbing violently; and the actor play­
ing the part of the writer Trigorin walked and talked like a
paralytic. He interpreted his part to be that of a man without
a "will of his own" and in a way that absolutely nauseated me.
But on the whole it was not so bad, it gripped me. In places
I could hardly believe it was I who had written it.
I shall be very glad to make Father Petrov's 3 acquaintance. I
have already read about him. If he is going to be in Alushta at
the beginning of July it won't be difficult to arrange a meet­
ing. I have not seen his book.
I am living here in comfort. It is hot, the rooks are croaking
and the peasants pay me visits. For the time being life is not
dull.
I bought myself a gold watch, but a very ordinary one.
When will you be here?
Do keep well, happy and gay. Don't forget, write me how­
ever seldom.
If you decide to write a play, do so and then send it to me for
reading. But keep it a secret until you are done, otherwise you
will get kicked around and your good spirits wiped out.
I cordially shake your hand. Your
A. Chekhov
1 Gorki had thanked Chekhov for the gift of a watch and asked if Chekhov
liked hunting because he wanted to send him a gun.
2 Roxanova played Nina and Stanislavski played Trigorin.
3 Father Petrov was a priest who was later thrown out of the Orthodox
Church for his heretical writings. Lenin called him "a Christian democrat, an
extremely popular demagogue."

[ 242 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [1899]
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
May I I, 1899, Melikhovo
My poor, indigent Sasha,
. . . I am going to be in St. Petersburg at the end of May.
Get yourself dolled up.
At the moment all goes well at home. ·we feel fine. "\Ve enter­
tain aristocratic guests, the Malkiels, for instance "\Ve serve tea
as it is done in the finest homes, with little napkins. You would
certainly be ordered away from the table, as people who smell
are not permitted.
To have as few failures as possible in fiction writing, or in
order not to be so sensitive to failures, you must write more,
around one hundred or two hundred stories a year. That is the
secret.
Is everyone still boycotting you and is it true that Diaghilev
beat up Burenin? "\Vhere is Alexei Sergeyevich? "\Vas there a
court of honor? "\Vrite a lot more, don't cramp your style.
I wanted to send you my old pants but thought better of it;
I was afraid you might put on airs.
Tuus frater bonus,
Antonius

To OLGA KNIPPER1
june 16, 1899, Melikhovo
What does this mean? "\Vhere are you? You are so stubborn
about not sending news of yourself that we are absolutely at
sea and have already begun thinking you have forgotten us and
got married in the Caucasus. If you really are married, to whom
is it? Haven't you decided to leave the stage?
The author is forgotten-and how terrible it is, how cruel
and perfidious!
Everyone sends regards. There is nothing new. There aren't
even any flies. Even the calves won't bite.
1 By this date, Knipper and Chekhov were good friends and she had \·isited
the Chckhovs at Melikhovo. This is the first letter Chekhov wrote to her.

[ 243 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [r899]
I had wanted to accompany you to the station that time, but
fortunately the rain prevented me from doing so.
I was in St. Petersburg and had my picture taken twice; I
almost froze to death there. I won't be leaving for Yalta before
the beginning of J uly.
\Vith your permission, I press your hand cordially and send
my best wishes.
Your
A. Chekhov

To MAXIM GORKI
june 2 2, r8gg, Moscow
My dearest A lexei Maximovich,
Why are you depressed? Why do you abuse your "Foma
Gordeyev" so violently? If you will permit me, I believe there
are two reasons, in addition to the others, for your attitude.
You started your career with success, with eclat, and now every­
thing that appears commonplace and humdrum to you causes
dissatisfaction and annoyance. That's one. Second, a literary
man cannot live in the provinces with impunity. No matter
what you may have to say on this score, you have partaken of
literature and are already hopelessly infected. You are a literary
man, and a literary man you will remain. His natural habitat
is a lways close to literary circles, living among those who write,
and breathing literature. Don't struggle against nature, yield
to it once and for all and move to St. Petersburg or Moscow.
Quarrel with literary people, don't recognize them, despise half
of them, but live with them . . . .
Keep well, I firmly clasp your hand and wish you everything
good. Don't give way to fits of despondency.
Yours,
A. [Link]

[ 244 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (r899]
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
July 22, r899, Yalta
Dear Masha,
This is in answer to your letter. I am arriving in Moscow not
later than the second of August. But why are you waiting for
me to come? Certainly I left you the power of attorney, and we
can't sell the property together-it must be sold by one of us
alone. I do not propose to sell it and will not negotiate with
Morel; if you cannot or will not go on with it (although it's not
a complicated matter at all) , let's give it to someone else. The
price depends entirely on you. Go ahead and sell it for 1 5 ,ooo­
I won't argue with you. Knipper is here, she is very sweet, but
is depressed. The building is coming along nicely. Keep well.
If you don't want to exercise the power of attorney, entrust it
to someone, even a person like Vinogradov. Knipper likes your
room very much. It isn't a room, but a bit of magic.
The packing job on the sideboard was schwach�verything
was broken.
The armchair arrived in good condition.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

Dear Masha,
Here are the details. The kitchen is already done and
Maryusha's room as well. The parquet is being laid in your
room. They wanted to hang the wallpaper but I told them to
wait with it until you arrived. l\'lother's and my rooms will be
ready by the first of September, i.e., the flooring and wallpaper
and window fittings will be in . . . . I am living in the wing and
have fixed myself up cozily. The place is cramped with all the
stuff and your cupboard, where I keep my underwear, has ren­
dered great service.
All the things arrived intact. The table linen is in good con-
[ 24 5 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r899]
dition, undamaged, and there are lots of towels. The cupboard
reached here safely.
They are also not going to touch the walls in the entrance
hall until your arrival. Only Mama and I will have wallpaper.
The waterproofing is being rushed through. The water in the
well is good . . . .
Bear in mind that there are a great many passengers on the
train and steamboat. \Vhen you get to Sevastopol don't wait
until the baggage is distributed, but hire a cabman immediately
and then do your waiting seated in the carriage . . . . The tariff
from the wharf is seventy-five kopeks including baggage. One
cab will be enough, as they have two- and four-seaters here. I
will meet you at the quay and Mustapha will take care of the
luggage . . . .
It is morning now and I have had my coffee. The alcohol
stove works very well. We get our milk from our neighbors at
ten kopeks a bottle. Although our yard is not particularly large,
we can find enough room for chickens.
I won't get any money until December and must get busy.
Our ground is fine for growing clover. If you can manage
bring a pound of it with you and the same quantity of timothy
and lucerne.
Yesterday I became a member of the Consumers' Society
which runs a grocery and liquor store; I took out fifty rubles
worth of shares. Now all our goods can be delivered to the
house. In a few days I am installing a telephone . . . .
So--l hope you are well. Love to Mama. I am in good health.
Your Antoine

To OLGA KNIPPER
September ;, r899, Yalta
Sweet actress,
I am answering all your questions. I arrived safely. My fellow
travelers ceded me a lower seat, then matters were so arranged
 To O LGA KNIPPER [I899]
that only two of us remained in the compartment: I and a young
Armenian. I drank tea a number of times a day, three glasses
each time, with lemon, sedately and leisurely. I ate up every­
thing in the basket. But I find that fussing with a basket lunch
and dashing out at the stations for boiling water for tea is an
unbecoming procedure that undermines the prestige of the
Art Theatre.
It was cold until Kursk, then it warmed up gradually and by
the time we reached Sevastopol it was quite hot. In Yalta I went
straight to my own home, where I am now living, guarded by
the faithful Mustapha. I don't have a regular dinner every day,
since it is a long distance to the city and again my prestige in­
hibits me from fussing around with the oil stove in the kitchen;
so I eat bread and cheese in the evenings.
. . . I am not drinking Narzan water. What more? I don't
go to the park but stay home most of the time and think of you.
Driving past Bakchisarai I thought of you and recalled our
journey together. My precious, unusual actress, my wonderful
woman, if you could only know how happy your letter made me!
I bow down before you, bow low, so low that my forehead is
touching the bottom of my well, which to date has been dug to
a depth of forty feet. I have got used to you and miss you so
much now that I cannot reconcile myself to the thought that I
shan't be seeing you until spring; I am in a bad humor; and, in
short, if Nadenka1 only knew what is going on in my soul, there
would be quite a scandal!
The Yalta weather has been splendid, but for no good reason
we have had pouring rain for the past two days, now it is muddy
and we must wear overshoes. The humidity is such that centi­
pedes crawl along the walls and toads and young crocodiles dis­
port themselves in the garden. The green reptile in the flower­
pot you gave me which I carried here without mishap is repos­
ing in the garden now and basking in the sun . . . .
1 Nadenka was an imaginary lady, a joke between Chekhov and Knipper;
sometimes she was a jealous fiancee, sometimes a stern wife.

[ 247 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [r899]
Well, then, let me press your hand and kiss it. Keep in good
health, be gay and happy; work, cavort, amuse yourself, sing,
and if possible don't forget the minor author and your assiduous
admirer,
A. Chekhov.

To MAXIM GORKI
September J, r8gg, Yalta
My dear A lexei [Link],
Greetings once again ! This is in answer to your letter.
To start with, I am opposed in principle to dedicating books
to living people, whoever they may be. I once did so and now
feel maybe I shouldn't have. This is a general observation. Get­
ting down to particulars, I could only consider your dedication
of "Foma Gordeyev" to me as a pleasure and honor. But why do
I deserve it? However, it's for you to make up your mind and
for me just to thank you humbly. If possible don't put in any­
thing fancy, i.e., just say "dedicated to so and so" and that's
all. . . . Here is some more practical advice for you, if you want
it: make it a big edition, not less than five or six thousand copies.
The book will sell fast. You can have the second edition printed
along with the first.
Here is more advice: when you read proof, take out adjectives
and adverbs wherever you can. You use so many of them that the
reader finds it hard to concentrate and he gets tired. You under­
stand what I mean when I say, "The man sat on the grass." You
understand because the sentence is clear and there is nothing to
distract your attention. Conversely, the brain has trouble under­
standing me if I say, "A tall, narrow-chested man of medium
height with a red beard sat on green grass trampled by passers­
by, sat mutely, looking about timidly and fearfully." This
doesn't get its meaning through to the brain immediately, which
is what good writing must do, and fast.
Now for one more thing: by nature you are a lyricist and
 To OLGA K N IPPER [r899]
your spuit IS tuned to melody. If you were a composer you
would avoid composing marches. Being coarse and noisy, taunt­
ing, accusing frantically-such things are not characteristic of
your talent. Consequently you will understand why I advise
you in reading proof not to have any mercy on the sons of
bitches and curs that flit here and there through the pages of
" Life."
Shall I expect you at the end of September? Why so late?
Winter begins early this year, the autumn will be a short one
and you should hurry.
Well, sir, keep yourself nice and alive and in good health.
Your
A. Chekhov
Performances begin at the Art Theatre on the thirtieth of
September. "Uncle Vanya" is being given on the fourteenth of
October.
Your best story is "On the Steppe."

To OLGA KN IPPER
September 29, r899, Yalta
Your sensible letter with a kiss for my right temple and your
other letter with the photos have arrived. Thank you, sweet
actress, thank you awfully. Your performances start today and
so in gratitude for the letters and for remembering me I am
sending you my congratulations on the season's getting under
way-a million good wishes. I would have liked to send a wire
to the directors and congratulate the whole company, but as
nobody writes and I have apparently been forgotten, not even
being sent the company's yearly report (which carne out re­
cently, according to the neswpapers) , and as that same old
Roxanova is playing in "The Seagull," I considered it best to
appear offended and so my congratulations are for you alone.
\Ve had some rain, but now it is bright and brisk. There was
[ 249 ]
 To OLGA K N I PPER [r8gg]
a fire last night; I got up to watch it from the terrace and felt
terribly alone.
\Ve are occupying our own house now, use the dining room
and have a piano.
I haven't a bit of money and am spending all my time hiding
from my creditors. It will continue this way until the middle
of December, when Marx sends some money.
I would like to make some more sensible remarks but can't
think of a thing. My own season certainly has not begun, I
have nothing new or interesting to talk about and everything
is just as it has been. I am not expecting anything except bad
weather, which is already around the corner.
"Ivanov" and " Uncle Vanya" are playing at the Alexander
Theatre.
So keep well, sweet actress, remarkable woman, and may God
preserve you. I kiss both your hands and bow all the way down
to your little feet. Don't forget me.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To OLGA KN IPPER
September JO, r8gg, Yalta
At your bidding I am dashing off a reply to your letter, in
which you ask me about Astrov's last scene with Elena.1 You tell
me that in this scene Astrov's attitude toward Elena is that of
the most ardent man in love, that he "snatches at his feelings
as a drowning man at a straw." But that is incorrect, absolutely
incorrect! Astrov likes Elena, her beauty takes his breath away,
but by the last act he is already aware that the whole business
is futile, that Elena is vanishing forever from his sight-and so
in this scene the tone he takes with her is the one he would use
in discussing the heat in Africa, and he kisses her simply be­
cause that is all he has to do. If Astrov interprets this scene
1 Chekhov was speaking of Uncle T'anya.

[ 250 ]
 To GRIGORI ROSSOL I M O [r899]
tempestuously, the entire mood of Act IV-a quiet and languid
one-will be ruined. . . .
I t has suddenly grown cold here, as if a Moscow wind had
blown upon us. How I should like to be in Moscow, sweet
actress! However, your head is in a whirl, you have become
infected and are held in a spell-and you have no time for me.
Now you will be able to say, "We are creating a stir, my friend! "
As I write I look out o f an enormous window with a very
extensive view, so magnificent it cannot be described. I shan't
send you my photograph until I get yours, you serpent! I
wouldn't think of calling you a "snake," as you say; you are a
great big serpent, not a little snake. Now, isn't that flattering?
\Veil my dear, I press your hand, send my profound compli­
ments and knock my forehead against the floor in worship, my
most respected lady.
I am sending you another present soon.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To GRIGORI ROSSOLIMO
October I I, r899, Yalta
Dear Grigori lvanovich,
Today I sent Dr. Raltsevich eight rubles fifty kopeks for the
photograph and five rubles for annual dues. I am sending my
photograph to you registered, rather a poor one (taken when
my enteritis was in full swing) .
My autobiography? I have a disease called autobiographo­
phobia. I t is a real torment for me to read any details about
myself, let alone prepare them for publication. On a separate
sheet I am sending some extremely bare facts, and more than
that I cannot give you. If you wish, add that my application to
the dean for admission to the university was for the medical
courses.
You ask when we are going to see each other. Probably not
 To GRIGORI ROSSOLIMO (I899]
before spring. I am in Yalta, in exile, a splendid one, maybe,
but still exile. Life proceeds drably. My health is so-so: it is not
every day that I am well. Besides all the rest, I have hemor­
rhoids, catarrh recti and there are days when I am utterly ex­
hausted by frequent trips to the toilet. I must have an operation.

Please write if anything interesting occurs. I am lonesome

here, really, and if it were not for letters I might even hang
myself, learn to drink the poor Crimean wine or marry an ugly
and stupid woman.
Keep well. I clasp your hand cordially and send my heartiest
good wishes to yourself and your family.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

My name is A. P. Chekhov and I was born on the 1 7th of

January t 86o in Taganrog. My education began at the Greek
school connected with the Emperor Constantine Church, after
which I attended the Taganrog Boys' school. In 1 87 9 I entered
the medical school of Moscow University. At that time I only
had a vague idea of the various courses and cannot recall what
considerations led me to choose the medical course, but I do
not now regret the choice. During my first year at the university
I was already having things printed in the weekly newspapers
and magazines, and by the early eighties these literary pursuits
had assumed a regular, professional character. In 1 888 I was
awarded the Pushkin Prize. In t 8go I visited Sakhalin Island
to write a book on our penal colony and prison system there.
Excluding court reports, reviews, articles, notes, all the items
composed from day to day in the newspapers and which would
now be difficult to unearth and collect, in twenty years of literary
activity I have set down on paper and had published more than
forty-eight hundred pages of tales and stories. I have also
written plays for the theatre.
My work in the medical sciences undoubtedly had a great
[ 252 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [ 1 8gg)
influence on my writing; certainly it widened the area of my
observations and enriched my knowledge, and only one who is
himself a doctor can tell you how valuable that training has
been. My medical background has also been a guide to me; I
have probably managed to avoid many mistakes because of it.
Familiarity with natural sciences and the scientific method has
always kept me on my guard, and wherever possible I have tried
to write on the basis of scientific data; where it was impossible,
I preferred not to write. I may note incidentally that artistic
considerations do not always allow me to write in complete
harmony with scientific data; on the stage you cannot show
death by poisoning as it actually occurs. But even in such a case
one must be consistent with scientific data, i.e., the reader or
spectator must clearly realize that certain conventions are re­
sponsible for what has been shown and that he is dealing with
an author who knows what he is talking about. I am not in the
same camp with literary men who take a skeptical attitude to­
ward science; and I would not want to belong to those who
handle every subject solely on the basis of their wits.
As to my medical practice, while still a student I worked in
the Voskresensk Community Hospital (near New Jerusalem)
with P. A. Archangelski, the eminent physician; later I spent
a short period as doctor at the Zvenigorod Hospital. During the
cholera years ('g 2 , '93) I directed the medical work in Melik­
hovo Section of Serpukhov District.

To OLGA KN IPPER
October 30, 18gg, Yalta
Sweet actress and good little fellow,
You ask whether I am excited. As a matter of fact it was only
from your letter, received on the twenty-seventh, that I learned
"Uncle Vanya" was being performed on the twenty-sixth. The
telegrams started arriving the evening of the twenty-seventh,
[ 2 53 ]
 To OLGA K NIPPER ( 1 8gg)
after I had already gone to bed. They were repeated to me over
the telephone. I kept on waking each time and running bare­
foot to the telephone in the dark, giving myself a bad chill; I
would hardly fall asleep before there would be another ring,
and another. This is the first occasion my own personal glory
has prevented my sleeping. Upon going to bed the next night
I put my bedroom slippers and bathrobe next to the bed, but
there were no more telegrams.
The telegrams contained nothing but words about the num­
ber of curtain calls and the brilliant success achieved, but I
could sense something strained, something very elusive, about
all of them, which led me to conclude that you were not all in
such very good spirits. The newspapers received here today have
confirmed this conjecture of mine. Yes, my dear actress, you
Art Theatre performers are not satisfied any more with just
ordinary, average success. You must have fireworks, cannonad­
ing and dynamite. You are utterly spoiled, deafened with these
continual discourses on success, on full and empty houses; you
are already infected with this dizzy whirl and in a couple of
years you won't be fit for anything! So much for you people!
How are you getting along and how do you feel? I am still in
the same place and everything remains the same : my program
consists of literary work and setting out trees . . . .
Don't forget me and don't let our friendship fade, so that the
two of us can take another trip somewhere next summer. So
long! We shall probably not see each other before April. If you
came to Yalta this spring, you could give some performances
here and relax. That would be wonderfully artistic. . . .
I clasp your hand cordially. My respect to Anna Ivanovna1
and your military uncle.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
1 Anna Ivanovna was Olga Knipper's mother; She was a teacher of singing
at a conserntory.

[ 2 54 ]
 To OLGA KNI PPER [ r 900]
My dear actress, do write, in the name of all that is holy, or I
shall be lonesome. It's as if I were in jail and my spirits are
very low.

To OLGA KNIPPER
November r, r899, Yalta
I understand your mood, sweet little actress, understand it
perfectly, but still in your place I wouldn't be in such a desper­
ate dither. Neither the role of Anna1 nor the play itself is en­
titled to impair your emotions and nerves to such an extent.
The play is old and already outdated and has all sorts of defects;
if more than half the performers just couldn't get into the
swing of the thing the play is naturally to blame. That's the
first point. Secondly, you've got to cut out worrying about suc­
cesses and failures once and for all. They are not your affair.
Your job is to jog along, day in, day out, like a quiet little
creature, prepared for the mistakes that can't be avoided and
for failures; in short, to do a job as an actress and let the others
count the curtain calls. It is usual to write, or to act, and know
all long that you are not doing the right thing-and for be­
ginners this awareness is so usefull
In the third place, your director telegraphed that the second
performance [of Uncle Vanya] came off magnificently, every­
body played wonderfully and he was completely satisfied.
Masha writes that Moscow is unpleasant and I oughtn't to go
there, but I would like so much to leave Yalta, where my lonely
life has wearied me. I am a Johannes2 without a wife, not a
learned Johannes and not a virtuous one. . . .
Keep well ! Write that you have already calmed down and that
everything is going beautifully. I press your hand.
Your
A. Chekhov
l "Anna" must be a mistake. Chekhov was, of course, writing about Elena in
Uncle Vanya. Knipper was also playing the part of Anna in Hauptmann's play
Lonely Lives that season,
2 Johannes is a character in Lonely Lives.

[ 2 55 ]
 To VLADIMIR NEM IROVICH-DANCHENKO [r899]
To MARIA MALKIEL
November 5, r899, Yalta
Dear klaria Samoilovna,
I hereby inform you that I have been converted to the
Mohammedan faith and have already been entered as a mem­
ber of the Tatar Society of Autka Village near Yalta. Our laws
do not permit us to enter into correspondence with such weak
creatures as women and if, in complying with the inclination of
my heart, I write to you, I am committing a grievous sin. I
thank you for the letter and send hearty regards to you and your
prophetic sister, and I hope you both get into the harem of an
eminent gentleman, one who is as handsome as Levitan.
Write some more. Keep well and happy.
Osman Chekhov

To VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO
December J, r899, Yalta
My dear Vladimir lvanovich,
An answer has come from Karpov. 1 He agrees to postpone the
production of " Uncle Vanya" until next year (or more exactly
next season) . Now it remains for you to act on a "legal" basis,
as good lawyers say. The play belongs to you, you can go on with
it and I will pretend I am powerless to do anything about it,
since I have already given it to you.
Are you afraid of Suvorin? \Ve no longer correspond and I
don't know what is going on there now. But I can tell you be­
forehand that very probably St. Petersburg won't like the Art
Theatre. St. Petersburg literary men and actors are extremely
jealous and envious, and superficial at that . . . .
I have read the criticisms of " Uncle Vanya" only in the
"Courier" and "News of the Day." . . .
1 Evtikhi Pavlovich Karpov (1 859-1 926) , playwright, fiction writer and pro­
ducer at various St. Petersburg theatres.
 To OLGA KNIPPER [rgoo]
So you want definitely to have a play for next season. But
suppose it doesn't get written? I will try, of course, but won't
vouch for it and cannot promise a thing. However, we'll dis­
cuss it after Eastertirne when, if I can believe Vishnevski and
the newspapers, your troupe will be in Yalta. Then we'll really
talk things over. . . .
Yes, you are right, Alexeyev-Trigorin2 has to be done over
for the St. Petersburg public, even if only slightly. Sprinkle
a bit of thyroid extract over him, or something. Alexeyev, who
plays Trigorin as a hopeless impotent, will puzzle them all in
that town, the horne of most of our men of letters. I find the
recollection of Alexeyev's acting too dismal to shake off and
cannot possibly believe he is good in "Uncle Vanya" although
everybody writes that he is really very good, very, very good.
You promised to send me your picture and I am still waiting.
I need two copies : one for myself, the other for the Taganrog
library, of which I am a trustee. , . .
Do keep well. My compliments to Ekaterina Nikolayevna,
Alexeyev and the entire company. I press your hand and em­
brace you.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To OLGA KNIPPER
january 2, rgoo, Yalta
Greetings to you, sweet actress,
Are you angry that I haven't written for so long? I have writ­
ten you often but you haven't been getting the letters because a
mutual acquaintance of ours has intercepted them at the post
office.1
2 Stanisl avski (whose real name was Alexeyev) played the part of Trigorin in
The Seagull.
1 The mutual acquaintance was Nemirovich·Danchenko. This was, of course, a

joke.

[ 257 ]
 To OLGA K NIPPER (1900]
My best wishes for a very Happy New Year. I wish you all
happiness and throw myself at your feet in worship. Be happy,
prosperous, healthy and jolly.
We are getting along pretty well, eat a lot, chatter a lot,
laugh a lot and your name comes up often in our talks. Masha
will tell you how we passed the holidays when she returns to
Moscow.
I am not congratulating you on the success of " Lonely Lives."
I nurture the vague hope that all of you will be coming to
Yalta, that I will see a performance of "Lonely Lives" and will
then really and truly congratulate you. I wrote Meierhold to
persuade him not to act the part of a nervous man with such
abruptness. Most people are certainly nervous, and most of
them suffer, and many feel acute pain, but where on earth do
you see people throwing themselves around, hopping up and
down or clutching their heads with their hands? Suffering
should be expressed as it is expressed in life itself, not by action
of arms and legs, but by a tone of voice, or a glance; not by
gesticulation, but by a graceful movement. Subtle spiritual
manifestations natural to cultivated people should be subtly
expressed outwardly too. You are going to bring up considera­
tions of staging. But no considerations can justify falsity.
My sister tells me you played Anna2 marvelously. If only the
Art Theatre would visit Yalta!
Your company has had high praise from "New Times." They
have shifted their course; evidently they will praise all of you
even during Lent. My long story-a very peculiar one-is ap­
pearing in the February number of "Life." The cast of char­
acters is large, with scenery, a crescent moon and a bittern, the
bird that cries boo-boo from off in the distance, like a cow
locked in a barn. There is a little bit of everything.
Levitan is with us. Over my fireplace he has painted a picture
of a moonlit night during haying season. There's a meadow,
sheaves, woods in the distance and a moon reigning over all.
2 In Lonely Lives.
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r900]
Well ma'am, stay healthy, my sweet, extraordinary actress. I
have missed you very much.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
When are you sending your photo?
What cruelty!

To ALEXEI SUVORIN
january 8, r9oo, Yalta
Happy New Year!
The holidays are over, today I bade my guests farewell, am
alone again and feel like writing letters . . . .
What you tell me about the subscriptions to the paper is of
interest. . . . Certainly the "Northern Courier" is widely read
in the provinces. In judging Prince Baryatinski by his paper
I must admit I was unfair, as my own picture of him was quite
different from what he actually is. His paper won't last, of
course, but he will long retain his reputation as a good journal­
ist. Do you want to know why the "Northern Courier" is enjoy­
ing success? It is because our society is sick, hatred is making it
decay and get sour like grass in a swamp, and it craves some­
thing fresh, light and free, craves it desperately. . . .
I often run into Kondakov, the academician. "\Ve have been
discussing the Pushkin Section of Belles-Lettres. As Kondakov
is taking part in the selection of future academicians I have been
trying to hypnotize him into suggesting that they elect Bar­
antsevich and Mikhailovski. The former is a worn-out, tired
man, but unquestionably a man of letters; now that old age is
upon him he is in need and holds a post with a horse-car com­
pany, just as he held the same job as a young man because of
poverty. In his case a salary and repose would be very much to
the point. The latter, Mikhailovski, would put the new section
on a solid basis and his selection would satisfy three quarters
[ 259 ]
 To PYOTR KURKIN [rgoo]
of our literary brotherhood. But my hypnotism hasn't worked,
and the project has not been successful. The addenda to the
statutes are exactly like Tolstoy's epilogue to the " Kreuuer
Sonata." The academicians have done their utmost to protect
themselves from literary men, in whose company they are as
shocked as the Germans were in the company of Russian aca­
demicians. A literary man can only be an honorary academician,
which doesn't mean a thing, any more than being an honorary
citizen of the town of Vyazma or Cherepovets; no salary and
no voting rights. They've worked it pretty cleverly; they will
elect professors to be the real academicians, and writers who do
not live in St. Petersburg as honorary ones, i.e., those who can­
not attend meetings and exchange abuse with the professors.
I can hear the muezzin calling from the minaret. The Turks
are very religious; this is their fasting time and they eat nothing
all day. They do not have religious ladies, that element in
society which makes religion petty, as sand makes the Volga
shallow. . . .
Thank you for your letter, and your indulgence. I give you
a hearty handclasp.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To PYOTR KURKIN
january r8, rgoo, Yalta
Dear Pyotr Ivanovich,
. . . Thank you for the letter; I have long been wanting to
write you, but haven't had time, as I am burdened with busi­
ness and official correspondence. Yesterday was the 1 7th, my
birthday and the day I was elected to the Academy. The tele­
grams I got! And the letters yet to come! And all these will
have to be answered, else posterity will accuse me of ignorance
of social amenities.
Do you see l\Iasha? Have you drunk her wine? There is some
[ 260 ]
 To FYODOR BATUSHKOV [r900]
news though I won't tell it to you now (no time) , but later on.
I am not very well, and was sick all day yesterday. I press your
hand cordially. Keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To FYODOR BATUSHKOV

Dear Fyodor Dmitrievich,

Roche1 requests you to send him the passages in "The
Peasants" that were deleted by the censor. There weren't any
such, though. There was one chapter that did not get into
either the magazine or the book; that was the peasants' conver­
sation about religion and the authorities. But there is no need
to send this chapter to Paris, j ust as there wasn't any need at all
for translating "The Peasants" into French.
Thank you sincerely for the photograph. To be illustrated by
Repin is an honor I did not expect and for which I didn't dare
hope. Getting the original will be most gratifying; tell Ilya
Efimovich [Repin] I am awaiting it impatiently, and that he no
longer has a right to change his mind, since I have already willed
the original to the city of Taganrog, where I was born, in­
cidentally.
Your letter mentions Gorki. How do you like him, by the
way? I don't like everything he writes, but there are some things
I like very, very much and there isn't the least doubt that
Gorki is kneaded out of the kind of dough from which genuine
artists rise. He is the real article. Personally he is a good, intel­
ligent, reasonable and thoughtful man but he carries a lot of
dead weight around with him, his provincialism, for one thing.

Thank you very much for your letter and for remembering
me. I lead a solitary and boring life here and feel as though
1 Roche was Chekhov's French translator.
 To MIKHAIL M ENSHIKOV [r9oo]
I had been pitched overboard. On top of it all the weather is
miserable and I am ailing. I still keep on coughing.
I wish you the best of everything.
Devotedly,
A. Chekhov

To MIKHAIL MENSHI KOV

january 28, r9oo, Yalta
Dear Mikhail Osipovich,
I cannot figure out what sort of ailment Tolstoy has. Cherinov1
failed to reply and from what I read in the newspapers and
what you now write me it is impossible to draw any conclusion.
Stomach or intestinal ulcers would have been otherwise indi­
cated; there is no ulcerous condition present, nothing but bleed·
ing scratches caused by gallstones passing through and making
lacerations. He doesn't have a cancer, either, which would be
immediately reflected in lack of appetite, general condition and
above all in his face. Most likely Tolstoy is in good health (apart
from the stones) and will live another twenty years or so. His
illness frightened me and kept me in a state of tension. I dread
Tolstoy's death. His death would create a vacuum in my life.
To begin with, I have never loved anyone as much as him; I am
an unbeliever, but of all the faiths I consider his the nearest to
my heart and most suited to me. Then again, as long as there
is a Tolstoy in literature it is simple and gratifying to be a
literary figure; even the awareness of not having accomplished
anything and not expecting to accomplish anything in the
future is not so terrible because Tolstoy makes up for all of us.
His career is j ustification for all the hopes and expectations re­
posed in literature. In the third place, Tolstoy stands solid as a
rock with his immense authority, and as long as he remains
alive bad taste in literature, all vulgarity, be it insolent or tear·
1 Professor of medicine in Moscow to whom Chekhov had telegraphed to find
out about Tolstoy's illness.
 To MIKHAIL M ENSHIKOV (r900]
ful, all coarse, irascible vanities will be held at a distance, deep
in the shadows. H is moral authority alone is capable of keeping
so-called literary moods and trends at a certain high level. With­
out h im the literary world would be a flock without a shepherd
or a hopeless mess.
To wind up the subj ect of Tolstoy, I have something to say
about "Resurrection," which I did not read in fits and starts
but all at one gulp. It is a remarkable work of art. The most
uninteresting section is that concerned with the relations of
Nekhludov and Katusha; the most interesting characters are the
princes, generals, old ladies, peasants, prisoners and overseers.
As I read the scene at the general's, the commandant of the Peter
and Paul Prison, and a spiritualist, my heart beat furiously, it
was so good! And Mme. Korchagina in her armchair, and the
peasant, Feodosia's husband! This peasant calls his old lady a
"crafty character." So it is with Tolstoy; he has a crafty pen.
The novel has no end; what there is can hardly be called one.
Certainly it is using a theological device when he writes on and
on and then proceeds to resolve the problems raised on the
basis of a Gospel text. It is as arbitrary to use such a solution
as it is to divide criminals into five classes. Why five and not
ten? Why use a text from the Gospels and not from the Koran?
First you ought to make people believe in the truth of the
Gospels and then you can go ahead and solve your problem with
a Gospel text.
. . . I have been ailing for some weeks and have attempted
to get over my indisposition. Now I am at home with a blister
under my left clavicle and don't feel too bad. The blister doesn't
bother me but the resulting red spot does.
I am certainly going to send you my photograph. I am pleased
to have acquired the title of academician, since it is nice know­
ing that Sigma envies me. But I shall be even gladder when I
lose this title after some misunderstanding. And there will un­
doubtedly be misunderstandings, because the learned academi­
cians are very much afraid that we shall shock them. Tolstoy
 To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV (I900]
was elected with a gnashing of teeth. In their opinion he is a
n ihilist. At least that was how a lady, the wife of a very im­
portant person, entitled him, and I congratulate him upon i t
with all my heart . . . .
Keep well, and let me press your hand warmly . . . .
Yours,
Write ! A Chekhov

To MI KHAI L CHEKHOV
january 29, I9oo, Yalta
Dear Michel,
This is in reply to your letter.
1. I was never in Torjok in my life and never sent anyone
a telegram from there. I left St. Petersburg the day following
the performance of "The Seagull" and was accompanied to the
station by Suvorin's valet and Potapenko.
2. Suvorin knew in detail about the sale of my works to
Marx and under what conditions it took place. 'Vhen the
straight question was put to him as to whether he wished to
purchase them, he replied that he had no money, that his
children would not permit him to do so and that nobody could
offer more than Marx.
3· An advance of 2o,ooo would actually mean purchasing my
works for 2o,ooo, as I would never be able to wrest myself free
from my debts.
4· When everything was concluded with Marx, A. S. wrote
me he was very glad of i t, because his conscience had always
troubled him on account of the bad job he had made of pub­
lishing my work.
5· Nobody in Nice talked about the trend "New Times" was
taking.
6. The "relations" I wrote you about (of course you shouldn't
have been so frank with the Suvorins) began to change dras­
tically when A. S. himself wrote me there was nothing more
for us to write to each other.
 To MAXL\1 GORKI [rgoo]
7· His presses started printing a complete edition of my
works but did not continue, as the printers kept losing my
manuscripts and there was no reply to my letters; this careless
attitude caused me to despair; I had tuberculosis and had to
consider what steps to take to prevent dumping my works upon
my heirs in a messy, practically valueless heap.
8. Of course I should not have told you all this, as it is much
too personal and only a nuisance; but I have to tell you all this
because they have got you in their clutches and have presented
the affair to you in that light, so read these eight points and
think them over carefully. Talk of reconciliation is out of the
question, as Suvorin and I did not quarrel and are again corre­
sponding as if nothing had happened. Anna Ivanovna is a nice
woman, but she is very sharp. I believe she is kindly disposed,
but when I talk with her I never forget for an instant that she
is an artful character and that A. S. is a very good man and
publishes "New Times." I am writing this for you alone.
Everything is all right here. Mother was slightly ill but has
recovered. Did you see Masha in Moscow?
. . . I wish you both good health and all the best.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MAXIM GORKI
February ;, rgoo, Yalta
Dear A lexei Maximovich,
Thank you for the letter and your words about Tolstoy and
"Uncle Vanya," which I haven't seen on the stage; thanks gen­
erally for not forgetting me. You feel like lying down and dying
in this blessed Yalta unless you get letters. Indolence, a silly
winter with a constant temperature just above freezing, the
utter absence of i nteresting women, the pigs' snouts you en­
counter along the boardwalk-such factors can drive one to
wrack and ruin in no time at all. I am tired out, and it seems to
me the winter has been ten years long.
 To MAXIM GORKI [r900]
Are you suffering from pleurisy? If so, why do you remain
in Nizhni, why? What are you doing in this N izhni, may I ask
incidentally? ·what's the tar that keeps you sticking to this
city? If you l ike Moscow, as you say you do, why don't you l ive
in it? Moscow has theatres and all sorts of other things, and the
main point is its handiness to the border, while if you continue
living in Nizhni you will just get stuck there and never get
any farther than Vasilsursk. You must see more and know more,
you must have a wider range. Your imagination is quick to
catch and grip, but it is like a big stove that isn't fed enough
wood. You can feel this lack in general, and your stories reveal
it in particular; you will present two or three strong figures, but
they stand aloof, apart from the mass; it is evident that they are
alive in your imagination, but it is only they who live-the mass
is not grasped properly. I am excluding from this generalization
your Crimean things ("My Companion," for example), where
you get a feeling not alone of the figures but of the human mass
from which they are derived, and of the atmosphere and per­
spective-in short, of everything that should be there. You see
what a talking to I have given you-and all to get you out of
N izhni. You are a young, vigorous, hardy individual ; in your
place I would be off for India, for God only knows where, and
I would get myself a couple of university degrees. I would in­
deed-you may laugh at me, but I am so exasperated that I am
forty years old, am short of breath and suffer from all sorts of
nonsensical ailments that prevent my l iving like a free soul. At
any rate, be a good man and a good comrade, don't get angry
at my reading you written sermons, like a churchman.
Do write. I am looking forward to "Foma Gordeyev," which
I haven't yet read properly.
There is nothing new. Keep well and let me clasp your hand
cordially.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

[ 2 66 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r900]
To MARIA CHEKHOVA

Dear Masha,
Maria Abramovna Altshuller is now in Moscow. Her address
is cjo Mirke, the Bakhrushin house, George Lane, Myasnitskaya
Street. She has two bottles of wine for you. She will be in
Moscow about five days. Give her some caviar, sausage from
Belov's, smoked meat and some other stuff to take back with
her. If for some reason you can't get to see her, send a mes­
senger. Altshuller is treating Mother and there is no way for
me to pay him back other than to give his wife the chance of
seeing my play-once she expressed the desire. Arrange for her
to see " Lonely Lives" and "Uncle Vanya." If you haven't time
to get the tickets, write Vishnevski to send tickets for her to the
above address and then you can pay him.
Mother is well, complains only of her shoulder; everything
is in order. The weather was good, now it is miserable. The
pavement hasn't been finished yet.
Keep well.
Your Antoine

To O LGA KN IPPER
February ro, r9oo, Yalta
Sweet actress,
The winter is so long, I have been ailing, nobody has written
for almost a month-and I had decided there was nothing left
to do but to go abroad, where life is not quite so drab. But now
the weather has become more balmy and life is more pleasant,
and so I have made up my mind to leave for abroad only at the
end of this summer, in time for the exposition.
Why, oh why have you got the blues? You are really living,
working, hoping and singing, you laugh when your uncle reads
aloud-what more do you want? It's another matter as far as
I am concerned. I have been wrenched from my native soil,
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r900]
can't live a rounded life, can't drink, although I like to very
much; I love sound but never hear any, in brief, I am now in
the situation of a transplanted tree hesitating as to whether it
will take root or wither away. I may have some basis for occa­
sionally allowing myself to complain of boredom in my letters,
·but have you? Meierhold complains of life's dullness too. My
God! Incidentally, a word on Meierhold. He must spend all
summer in the Crimea, his health requires it. And I mean all
summer.
Well, ma'am, I'm in good health now. I am not doing any­
thing, as I am getting ready to sit down to my work. I've been
digging away in the garden.
You wrote not long ago that the future of you little people is
shrouded in mystery. Recently I had a letter from your boss,
Nemirovich. He tells me the company is going to perform in
Sevastopol, and then in Yalta at the beginning of May. There
are to be five performances in Yalta followed by evening re­
hearsals. Only the valued members of the cast are going to stay
behind for the rehearsals, while the rest can have time off to
rest wherever they wish. I hope you are valued. For the director
you may be valued, but for the author you are beyond value.
There you have a pun as a tidbit. I won't write more until you
send your picture. I kiss your sweet hand.
Your Antonio, acadernicus

. . . Thanks for your good wishes on my marriage. I informed

my fiancee1 of your intention to visit Yalta in order to carry
on with me behind her back. To this she said that when "that
horrid woman" carne here, she would not let me out of her
embraces for an instant. I said that embracing for such a pro­
tracted period during hot weather was unhygienic. She became
offended and went into a brown study, in an attempt to guess
in what sort of circle I had acquired this fa�on de parler; after
a brief pause she said that the theatre is evil and that my inten-
1 This is, again, the joke about the imaginary lady.

[ 2 68 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [1900]
tion to give up play writing was most praiseworthy. Then she
asked me to kiss her. To this I replied that it was not decorous
to kiss so often in my position as academician. She cried, and I
left.

To O LGA KN IPPER
February 14, 1900, Yalta
Sweet actress,
The photos are very, very good, especially the one in which
you wear an air of dejection, with your elbows on the back of
the chair and with a modestly sorrowful, quiet expression, be­
hind which lurks a little imp. The other is also successful, but
there you resemble somewhat a little J ewess, a very musical
young lady who attends the conservatory and at the same time,
just in case, is secretly studying the art of dentistry and is en­
gaged to a young man from Moghilev,1 the Manasevich2 type.
Are you angry? Really and truly angry? That is my revenge for
your not having signed them . . . .
The willow tree is green all over; near the bench in the corner
the grass has been a lush green for a long time. The almond
tree is in blossom. I've set up benches all over the garden, not
fancy ones with iron legs, but plain wooden ones, which I am
painting green. I've put up three little bridges across the brook
and am setting out some palms . . . . Not since autumn have I
heard music, or singing, nor have I seen a single interesting
female--can you wonder that I am blue?
I had decided not to write you, but since you have sent the
pictures I have l ifted the ban and here I am, obviously, writing.
I'll even travel to Sevastopol to meet you, only, let me repeat,
you are not to tell anyone, especially not Vishnevski. I'll go
there incognito, and will sign the hotel register as Count
Blackmugg.
1 Moghilev was a city within the Jewish settlement of Byelorussia.
ll Manasevich was the secretary of the Moscow Art Theatre.

[ 2 6g ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [z9oo]
I was just joking when I said you looked like a Jewess. Don't
be angry, my precious one. Now let me kiss your sweet hand and
be eternally your
A. Chekhov

To MAXIM GORKI
February z5, I9oo, Yalta
Dear A lexei Maximovich,
Your article in the "Nizhni-Novgorod Blade" was balm to my
soul. How gifted you are! I don't know how to write anything
except fiction, while you are completely master of the news­
paperman's pen as well. At first I thought I liked the article so
much because you praised me . . .
Why am I not sent "Foma Gordeyev?" I have read it only in
snatches, but I should have read it all together, at one sitting,
as I read "Resurrection" not long ago. Except for the relations
of N ekhludov and Katya, which are rather unclear and con­
trived, everything in this novel struck me with its vigor and
richness, its breadth, and I was also struck with the insincerity
of a man who fears death, won't admit it and clutches at texts
from Holy Writ . . . .
"Twenty Six Men and a G irl" is a good story, the best of the
stuff " Life" generally prints in its dilettantish magazine. You
get a vivid sense of the place and can smell the hot bagels.
My story in " Life" was full of bad errors despite my having
read proof. Their provincial pictures by Chirikov also annoy
me, and their illustration entitled "Happy New Year!" as well
as Gurevich's story.
I have just been handed a letter from you. So India is out?
Too bad. ·when you have India in your past, and long sea
voyages, you have something to recall when you can't sleep
nights. And a trip abroad doesn't take much time, it won't
interfere with your walking trip through Russia.
I am bored not in the sense of Weltschmerz, nor from any
 To OLGA KNIPPER (rgoo]
loneliness of existence as such, but merely bored without peo­
ple, without music, which I love, and without women, who
just don't exist in Yalta. I am bored without caviar and sauer­
kraut.
I am very sorry you have evidently changed your mind about
a visit to Yalta. The Moscow Art Theatre will be here in May,
is giving five performances and is then staying on for rehearsals.
Do come, you will learn all about the conventions of the stage
at rehearsals and will then write a play in five to eight days
which I would welcome joyfully, with all my heart.
Yes, I now have the right to expose the fact that I am forty,
and no longer a young man. I was the very youngest of the fic­
tion writers but you carne on the scene and I immediately grew
more sedate and now nobody calls me the youngest any more.
I press your hand cordially. Keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KNIPPER
March 26, rgoo, Yalta
Black melancholy streams from your letter, sweet actress; you
are gloomy, and frightfully unhappy, but not for long I should
think, as soon, very soon, you will sit in a railway coach and
eat snacks with great gusto. I t's a good thing you are corning
before the others, with Masha; at any rate we will manage to
talk about things, take walks, visit places roundabout, eat and
drink. But please don't bring Vishnevski along, or else he will
trail at our heels and not let anybody get in a word edgewise;
he won't let us live in peace, as he will keep on reciting stuff
from " Uncle Vanya."
I haven't got a new play, the newspapers are j ust lying. Gen­
erally speaking, the papers have never written the truth about
me. If I had begun a new play, naturally you would be the first
I would have told of it.
[ 27 1 ]
 To OLGA Kl\'lPPER [I9oo]
\Ve have a wind here, and real spring weather hasn't come
into its own but still we can go out without galoshes and with
regular hats. Soon, any day now, the tulips will be in bloom. I
have a lovely garden, but i t is rather messy and dusty, a sort of
dilettante garden.
Gorki is here and praises you and your theatre very highly.
I'll introduce you to him.
Goodness! Somebody has driven up. The visitor has j ust
come in. Goodbye for now, actress!
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KN IPPER
A ugust 8, I9oo, Yalta
Greetings, my sweet little O l)'a, joy of my life,
I got your letter today, the first since your departure, read it,
then reread it and now I am answering, my actress. After seeing
you off I drove to Kiest's Hotel, where I spent the night; the
next day, out of boredom and for want of something better to
do, I drove to Balaklava. There I spent my time dodging the
ladies who recognized me and wanted to give me an ovation;
after a night there I left for Yalta the next morning on the
"Tavel." The crossing was fiendishly upsetting. Now I am back
home, lonesome, out of sorts, and worn out. Alexeyev [Stani­
slavski] was here yesterday. \Ve spoke of the play1 and I gave
him my word I would finish it not later than September. See
what a bright boy I am.
I keep on thinking the door will open and you will walk in.
But you won't, you are either attending rehearsals or are at
home in Merzlyakovski Lane, far from Yalta and me.
Farewell, and the heavenly powers and guardian angels pre­
serve you. Farewell, my good little girl.
Your Antonio
1 The Three Sisters.
 To OLGA K:-.:I PPER [1900]
To O LGA KNIPPER
A ugust 18, 1900, Yalta
My sweet little pet,
H ere are answers to the questions that pop out of your letters.
I am not working in Gurzuf but in Yalta, and I am being hin­
dered, cruelly, vilely and basely hindered. The play1 is complete
in my head, has taken form from where my imagination left off
and is pleading to be set onto paper, but hardly do I place a
sheet of paper i n front of me than the door opens and some
ugly mug intrudes. I don't know how it is going to turn out,
but the start is not bad, pretty smooth, I think.
Shall we be seeing each other? Yes, we will, but when? The
first part of September, in all probability. I am lonesome and
in a bad temper. My money is disappearing devilishly fast; I
am being ruined and will wind up in the poorhouse. Today we
have a most fierce wind, a gale, and the trees are withering.
One crane has flown away.
Yes, my sweet bit of an actress, how joyfully, with what purely
calflike pleasure would I disport myself i n field and forest,
beside a stream, amongst the herd. It does seem silly to bring
up, but it has been two years since I have seen grass. My preci­
ous, how dull is life!
Masha is leaving tomorrow.
Do keep well. . . .
Your Antonio
Vishnevski doesn't write and is probably angry. J ust for that
I'll write in a bad part for h im.

To O LGA KNIPPER
September 8, 1900, Yalta
You write that you find everything bewildering, in confusion.
, . . It is good for things to be confused, my sweet little actress,
very good! It indicates that you are a philosopher, a woman of
parts.
1 The Three Sisters.

[ 27 3 ]
 To :\IARIA CHEKHOVA [1900]
So the weather seems to have turned warm? No matter what,
the twentieth of September I am leaving for Moscow to stay
until the first of October. I'm going to spend all that time sit­
ting in my hotel room and working on the play. Shall I write
or make a clean copy? I don't know, dear old lady of mine. One
of my lady characters j ust hasn't come off somehow, I can't do a
thing with her and am in despair.
I j ust had a letter from Marx, who tells me my plays will be
out in ten days.
I am afraid you may be disillusioned with me. My hair is
falling out in terrible quantities, so fast that one fine day you'll
take a look at me and a week later find me resembling some­
body's grandpappy. Apparently it is the barber's fault, for I
started losing my hair the minute I had it cut.
Is Gorki writing a play or isn't he? 'Vhence the note in "News
of the Day" about the title "The Three Sisters" not being ap­
propriate? 'Vhat stuff and nonsense ! Perhaps it isn't suitable,
but I have no intention of changing it.
I am terribly blue. Do you know what I mean? Terribly! My
diet consists exclusively of soup. It is cold at night, and so I
stay horne. There are no handsome young ladies, less and less
money, and my beard is turning gray. . . .
My little darling, I kiss your sweet hands, both the right and
the left. Keep well and don't feel depressed and don't worry
about being confused.
Goodbye for now, my good little Olya. You are a little
crocodile who has crawled into my heart!
Your Antonio

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
September 9} 1900} Yalta
Dear JlfashaJ
This is in reply to the letter in which you ask about Mother.
In my opinion it would be better for her to go to Moscow now,
[ 274 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER (r9oo]
this fall, rather than after December. Why, in Moscow she
would get tired and lonesome for Yalta in a month, and if you
take her to Moscow in the fall, she will be back in Yalta again
at Christmas. That's how I look at it, and I may possibly be
mistaken, but at any rate in reaching a decision you must bear
in mind that it is much duller in Yalta before Christmas than
after; incomparably duller. . . .
There is nothing new. There is no rain, either, and every­
thing is parched. At home it is quiet, peaceable, very nice and,
of course, dreary.
Writing "The Three Sisters" is very hard, harder than my
earlier plays. But no matter, maybe it will come out all right,
if not now, then next season. I may say in passing that writing
in Yalta is a hard job: people bother me and in addition I
seem to write without aim and I don't like today what I wrote
yesterday. . . .
I have j ust had a telegram from Kommisarjevskaya, asking
for a play for her benefit performance.
Well, keep in good health and happy. My deepest respects to
O lga Leonardovna, and Vishnevski and the rest.
If Gorki is in Moscow, tell him I sent a letter to His 'Vor­
ship in N izhni-Novgorod.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KNIPPER
September 27, r9oo, Yalta
My sweet little O lya, my wonderful little actress,
Why this tone, why the querulous, petulant mood? Am I
really so much to blame? Then do forgive me, my darling, my
good girl, don't be angry, for I'm not so much at fault as your
misgivings prompt you to assume. I assure you, my sweet, the
only reason I have not yet left for Moscow is because I haven't
been well, upon my word of honor. Honestly and truly! Won't
you believe me?
[ 275 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [rgoo]
I shall remain in Yalta until the tenth of October to work,
after which I will leave for Moscow or abroad, depending upon
my health. In any event I shall keep on writing you.
I haven't had any letters from my brother Ivan or sister
Masha. Apparently they are angry, but I don't know why. . . .
Do keep your eyes open and write in detail how "The Snow
Maiden"1 went, how the shows have been going generally, what
mood the company is in, the reaction of the audiences and so
on and so forth. Certainly you aren't in my situation; you have a
great deal of material for letters, more than you can handle; I
have nothing to report, beyond the fact that I caught two
mice today. . . .
You write that I have a loving, tender heart and ask why I
have steeled it. When have I done so? Precisely how have I ex­
pressed this hardheartedness? I have always loved you tenderly
with all my heart and never have I concealed my sentiments
from you, never, never, yet here you accuse me of hardhearted­
ness just to have something to put down in the exuberance of
your health.
Judging from the general tone of your letter, you wish and
expect some kind of explanation, some sort of lengthy conversa­
tion carried on with grave expressions on our faces and with
momentous conclusions to be drawn. But I don't know what to
tell you, except the one thing I have repeated ten thousand
times and will probably continue to repeat for a long time to
come, i.e., that I love you-that's all. If we are not together
now, it isn't you or I who are to blame, but the demon that
filled me with bacilli and you with love for art.
Goodbye once again, my charming little lady, and may the
holy angels guard you. Don't be cross with me, dear one, don't
be blue, be a good girl.
What's new in the theatre? Please write.
Your Antoine

1The Snow 11-laiden was a play by A . N. Ostrovski. It was made into an opera
by Rimsky-Korsakov.
 To MAXIM GORKI [1900]
To O LGA KNIPPER
September 28, 1900, Yalta
My sweet Olya,
I sent you a telegram today saying I would probably come to
Moscow in October. If I do, it will be on or about the tenth,
not sooner; I will remain there five days or so and then leave
for abroad. In any event I shall inform you by telegram of the
day of my arrival. I do not know whether express trains will be
running after the fourth of October; will you find out about it
so that you do not go to the station needlessly.
Today I read the first criticisms of "The Snow Maiden"­
they like only the beginning and then they get tired of i t, as of a
game. I am of the opinion that your theatre should produce
only contemporary plays, nothing but! You should treat of con­
temporary life, of life among the intelligentsia, which is neg­
lected in other theatres because of their utter lack of intel­
lectuality and, in part, want of talent.
I don't get letters from anybody. Nemirovich seems to have
gotten angry and hasn't sent me a line all this time. My rela­
tives do not write. How did " Lonely Lives" go off? It should
be somewhat better than "The Snow Maiden."
And so, keep well and happy. Oh, what a role there is for
you i n "The Three Sisters ! " What a role! If you give me ten
rubles you'll get it, otherwise I'll give it to another actress. I
won't offer "The Three Sisters" this season; let the play lie
a bit and ripen, or, as certain good ladies say about a cake when
they put it on the table-let it sigh.
There is nothing new.
Your own Antoine

To MAXIM GORKI
October 16, 1900, Yalta
My dear A lexei Maximovich,
. . . Well, my dear sir, the twenty-first of this month I am
leaving for Moscow, and thence abroad. Just think, I've written
[ 2 77 ]
 To OLGA K:-.I IPPER [rgoo]
a play. I haven't recopied it, though, as it won't be put on now,
but only next season. I'll let it lie around and ripen. Writing
"The Three Sisters" was terribly hard work. It has three
heroines, you know, each one has to be a special type, and all
three of them are a general's daughters! The action takes place
in a provincial city, on the order of Perm, and the surroundings
are military, an artillery unit.
The Yalta weather is glorious, the air is fresh, and my health
has improved. I don't even feel like leaving here for Moscow,
the work goes on so well and it is so nice not to feel the itching
in my rear end that I had all summer. I am not coughing and
even eat meat. I am all by myself, all alone. Mother is in
Moscow.
Thank you for the letters, dear chap. I read them twice. Re­
member me to your wife and little Maxim, and give them my
hearty regards. And so, until we meet in Moscow. I hope you
won't disappoint me and that we'll be seeing each other.
God bless you !
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To OLGA KN IPPER
December 28, rgoo, Nice
My sweet little pup, imagine this horrible situation!
I was just informed some gentleman had asked for me down­
stairs. I go down, look him over-an old fellow, who introduces
himself as Chertkov. In his hands are a bundle of letters, and
it turns out that he had received all these letters, addressed to
me, because of the similarity of names. One of your letters
(there were three in all-the first three you wrote) had been
opened. How do you like that? Henceforward you should ap­
parently write me thus: Monsieur Antoine Tchekhoff, rue 9
Gounod (or Pension Russe), Nice. But be sure you write
Antoine-othenvise I won't get your letters for ten or fifteen
days after you have posted them.

[ 27 8 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r9oo]
The letter of reprimand regarding Vienna, in which you call
me "a Slavonic jellyfish," came very late; fifteen years ago, it is
true, I would lose my way abroad and not get where I wanted to
go; but when I was in Vienna this time I got everywhere; I
went to the theatre, too, but all their tickets were sold out. How­
ever, upon leaving the city I remembered that I had forgotten
to read the ads of what was being played-just like a Russian.
I bought myself a magnificent wallet there, at Klein's. It seems
he had opened his shop two days before. I also bought some
straps for my luggage. So you can see what a practical person
I am, my precious.
You lecture me for not writing Mother. My dear, I have writ­
ten both my mother and Masha many times, but haven't had an
answer and probably won't get one. So I've given up. I haven't
had a single line from them, but have it your way-I always
was and will be a jellyfish and will always be i n the wrong,
though I don't know why.
Thank you for the words about Tolstoy . . . . Vladimir Nemi­
rovich and his spouse are in Nice. In comparison with other
women here she seems utterly banal, like the wife of a small­
town storekeeper. She is buying the devil knows what, as cheaply
as she can get the stuff. I am sorry she is with him. He is as ever
a fine person, and good company.
We had a cold spell but now it is warm and we are wearing
our summer coats. I won five hundred francs at roulette. May
I play, my love?
I was in such a hurry with the last act, thinking you people
needed it. But it seems you won't begin rehearsing before
N emirovich's return. If I could only have kept this act another
two or three days, I daresay it would have been much more
meaty.· . . .
Have you fully recovered? It's about time! Although you are
a nice little girl even when you are ill, and write nice letters,
just the same don't you dare get sick again.
I dine at the same table with a great many ladies, some of
[ 279 ]
 To KO:-;'STA:"i!TI:-J STA:"i! ISLAVSKI [rgor]
them from :Moscow, but I won't exchange even half a word
with them. I sit there and sulk in silence, eat stubbornly or
think of you. Once in a while the Moscow ladies turn the talk
to the theatre in an obvious effort to draw me into the conversa­
tion, but I maintain my silence and keep on eating. I am always
gratified to hear you praised. And you are very highly praised!
They talk about you as a good actress. Well, little miss, keep
healthy and happy. I am yours! J ust take and eat me with olive
oil and vinegar. A big kiss.
Your Antoine

To KONSTANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI

january 2, rgo r, Nice
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,
I received the letter sent on the twenty-third of December
only yesterday. . . .
I wish you a Happy New Year, and, if I may hope, a new
theatre, which you will soon start building. And I wish you
about five new and magnificent plays. As to that old play,
"The Three Sisters," reading it at the Countess' 1 evening party
is absolutely forbidden under any circumstances. For God's
sake, I beg of you, don't read it, not by any means, nor in any
manner, otherwise you will cause me a great deal of anguish.
I sent Act IV off long ago, before Christmas, addressed to
Vladimir Ivanovich. I have made a great many changes. You
tell me that in Act III, when N atasha makes the rounds of the
house at night, she extinguishes the lights and looks for evil­
doers under the furniture. But it seems to me it would be pre­
ferable to have her walk across the stage in a straight line with­
out looking at anything or anybody, a la Lady Macbeth, with a
candle-that way the scene would be shorter and more blood­
curdling. . . .
1 Tolstoy's wife, who was arranging a charity soiree.

[ 280 ]
 To JOASAPH TIK H O M I ROV [ 1901)
Thank you with all my heart for the letter which gave me
such joy. I warmly clasp your hand.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To J OASAPH TIKHOMIROV1
january 14, 190I, Nice
Dear ]oasaph A lexandrovich,
I have j ust received your letter-you have given me great
pleasure and I thank you enormously. Here are the answers to
your questions:
1 . Irina does not know that Tuzenbach is having a duel, but
surmises that something went wrong that may have grave, not to
say tragic, consequences. And when a woman guesses, she says,
"I knew it, I knew it."
2. Chebutykin only sings the words, ""Would it not please
you to accept this date . . . " These are words from an operetta
which was given some time ago at the Hermitage. I don't re­
member its title, but you can make inquiries, if you wish, from
Shechtel the architect (private house, near the Yermolayev
Church) . Chebutykin must not sing anything else or his exit
will be too prolonged.
3· Solyoni actually believes he looks like Lermontov; but of
course he doesn't-it is silly even to consider a resemblance. He
should be made up to look like Lermontov. The likeness to
Lermontov is immense, but only in the opinion of Solyoni him­
self.
Forgive me if I haven't answered as I should, or satisfied you.
There is nothing new with me, all goes along in the old way.
I will probably return earlier than I thought, and it is very
possible that in March I will already be at home, i.e., in Yalta.
Nobody writes me anything about the play; Nemirovich­
Danchenko never said a word about it when he was here and
1 This letter refers, of course, to the characters in The Three Sisters.

[ 28 1 ]
 To MARIA ANDREYEVA [1901]
it seemed to me it bored him and wouldn't be successful. Your
letter, for which I thank you, helped to dispel my melancholy.
. . . I wish you good health and all the best.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To KONSTANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI

january r5, rgor, Nice
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,
Many thanks for your letter. Of course you are a thousand
times right, it wouldn't do at all to show Tuzenbach's body.
I myself felt it when I wrote the play and spoke to you of it,
if you will recall. That the finale reminds one of " Uncle
Vanya" is a minor evil. " Uncle Vanya" happens to be my own
play, and not someone else's, and when you are reminiscent of
yourself in your works, people will say that is the way it should
be. Chebutykin doesn't talk, but sings the phrase, "Would it
not please you to accept this date." It is from an operetta, I
don't remember which one, not if my life depended on it. . . .
Many thanks for having written. My sincere compliments to
Maria Petrovna and all the artists, and I wish you all the best.
Keep well and happy.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA AN DREYEVA
january 26, rgor, Nice
Dear Afaria Fyodorovna,
It was not I who sent you the flowers, but please let us assume
that I did, for otherwise my embarrassment and anguish will be
boundless. I cannot express the joy your letter caused me. My
heartiest thanks, and you can now consider me forever in your
debt.
You write that I made you unhappy on my last visit, that I
[ 282 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [I90I]
was afraid of speaking frankly, as it were, about "The Three
Sisters," etc., etc. Merciful Heavens! I wasn't afraid of speaking
frankly, I was afraid of intruding on you and purposely said
nothing and restrained myself as much as possible, so as not to
interfere with your work. If I were in Moscow I would certainly
not undertake to make remarks except after the tenth rehearsal,
and then, as a matter of fact, only on minor points. People write
me from Moscow that you are magnificent in "The Three Sis­
ters," that your performance is downright marvelous, and I am
glad-very, very glad-and may God give you strength ! Con­
sider me your debtor, that is all.
Today I am departing for Algiers, will remain there a couple
of weeks and then leave for Russia. I very much regret that you
will be performing in St. Petersburg, since I do not like the city
and do not rate its tastes very high. My respects and regards to
your husband and the children. Keep nice and healthy, and may
the heavenly angels guard you.
Devotedly,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KNIPPER
March I, I90I, Yalta
My dear one,
Don't read the newspapers, don't read anything, or you will
pine away altogether. Here is some sound advice for future
reference : heed the words of your old holy hermit. Certainly I
told you, I assured you, that things wouldn't go well in St.
Petersburg-and you should have listened to me. At any rate,
your theatre will never again visit the place-thank God.
Personally I am giving up the theatre entirely, and will never
again write for it. It is possible to write for the stage in Ger­
many, in Sweden, even in Spain, but not in Russia, where
dramatic authors are not respected, are kicked around and are
forgiven neither their successes nor their failures. You are being
abused now for the first time in your life, which accounts for
 To OLGA KNIPPER [I90I]
your sensitiveness, but it will pass away with time, and you'll
get used to such treatment. But imagine the divine, sublime
feelings of Sanin.1 He probably has his pockets crammed with
reviews and looks upon the rest of you most superciliously. . . .
\Ve are having remarkable weather here, with warmth and a
brightly shining sun, and the apricots and almond trees are in
bloom. I shall expect you during Holy Week, my poor abused
little actress, and shall continue to wait for you, bear that i n
mind.
Between the twentieth and twenty-eighth of February I sent
you five letters and eight telegrams; I asked you to telegraph
me, but haven't had a word in reply . . . .
Tell me how long you are all staying in St. Pete. Write, little
actress.
I am well--cross my heart.
I press you tenderly to me.
Your Holy Hermit

To OLGA KN IPPER
April 2 2, z9oz, Yalta
My sweet, delightfu l Knippschitz,
I didn't detain you because I found Yalta revolting and had
the idea we would soon be seeing each other anyway as free
souls. Be that as it may, your anger is groundless, my darling. I
haven't any concealed thoughts of any kind, and tell you every­
thing that comes to mind.
I shall be arriving in Moscow early in May, and if it is pos­
sible we'll get married and take a trip along the Volga, or we can
take the trip first and then get married-whichever you find
more convenient. \Ve can board the boat at Yaroslavl or Rybinsk
and head for Astrakhan, thence to Baku, and from Baku to
Batum. Or maybe you don't care for that route? We might take
1 The Moscow Art Theatre opened its St. Petersburg repertory with Haupt·
mann's Lonely Lives. Sanin, apparently, was the only actor in the company who
was praised by the critics.
 To OLGA KNIPPER [I90I]
one along the northern Dvina to Archangel, on the Solovka.
·we'll go wherever you decide. After that we can live in a
Moscow apartment for all or the greater part of the winter. If
only I keep my strength and stay well ! My cough deprives me
of every bit of energy, I take a dim view of the future and work
quite without enthusiasm. Please think about the future for
me, be my little manager, and I'll do whatever you say; other­
wise we shan't really live, but gulp down a tablespoonful of
life once every hour.
So you are left without a part now? That's very pleasant.
Today I was sent a review of "The Three Sisters" from the
"Revue Blanche." I also received a copy of the Tolstoy reply
to the Synod's resolution.1 Then there was a copy of the almanac
called "Northern Flowers" with my story in it. I had a letter
from my brother I van saying he was ill. I also had a telegram
from the Olympia acting company in St. Petersburg asking per­
mission to perform "The Three Sisters." Today we have rain
and a desperate wind, but out of doors the air is warm and
pleasant. My dog, Chestnut, whom you call Redhead, had her
leg stepped on by a horse, and now I have to fuss over her and
put on bandages; I am quite permeated with iodoform . . . .
What plays will I find on at your theatre? ·what rehearsals are
under way? Rehearsals of "Mikhail Kramer"? "The Wild
Duck"? At moments I experience an overwhelming desire to
write a four-act farce or comedy for the Art Theatre. And I'm
going to do so, if nothing interferes, except that I won't let the
theatre have it before the end of 1 903.
I will telegraph you, but don't tell anyone and come to the
station alone. Do you hear? So long for now, my precious, my
charming little girl. Don't go around moping and imagining
God only knows what; honest to goodness, I haven't the slightest
secret I would keep from you even for a moment. Be a good
little creature, don't be cross.
Your Antoine
1 The Synod had excommunicated Tolstoy from the Church.
 To !\£ARIA CHEKHOVA [I90I]
To EVGENIA CHEKHOVA (Telegram]
Niay 25, I90I, i\Ioscow
DEAR MA:\lA GI\'E ME YOUR BLESSING AM GETTIN G MARRIED

EVERYTHING WILL REMAIN AS IT WAS LEAVING TO TAKE KUMISS

CURE ADDRESS AKSEN0\'0 SAMARA ZLATOUST HEALTH IS BETTER

ANTON

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
june 2, I90I, A ksenovo
Greetings, dear Aiasha,
I have been intending to write you and have not got around
to it; I have lots of business to take care of, trivial matters, of
course. You already know I am married. I believe this action
of mine will in no wise change my life or the surroundings I
have always been in. Mother most likely is already saying God
knows what, but you tell her there will be absolutely no changes,
everything will continue as it has until now. I will keep on
going along as I have hitherto, and Mother as well; my relations
with you will remain as unalterably warm and good as they
always have been.
Here in Ufa Province life is dull and uninteresting; I am
drinking kumiss, which, apparently, agrees with me pretty well.
It is an acid drink similar to kvass . . . .
If your funds are running low send me a blank check, which
you can get out of my desk. I have put the receipts from the
government bank into one packet, have added another one for
3 ,700 rubles and have marked it "For M. P. Chekhova." The
packet is at Knipper's, and they will tum it over to you. Take
care of it, please, or I may lose it.
My health is tolerable at the moment, you might even say
good, and I hardly cough any more. I will be in Yalta at the
end of J uly and will stay there until October, then live in
Moscow until December and then back again to Yalta. It looks
as though my wife and I must live apart-a situation to which,
by the way, I am already accustomed . . . .
[ 286 ]
 To MARIA CHEK HOVA [rgor]
I shall write you again soon, and in the meantime keep well.
I send my deepest respects to Mama. Her telegram was for­
warded to me by mail from Moscow. . . .
There is no bathing here. It would be nice to go fishing, but
the place is at some distance.
Christ be with you.
Your Antoine

To VASILI SOBOLEVSKI
june g, rgor, A ksenovo
Dear Vasili Mikhailovich,
. . . Well, sir, I suddenly up and got married. I have already
become accustomed, or practically so, to my new state, i.e., to
deprivation of certain rights and privileges, and feel fine. My
wife is a very decent person, and far from stupid, and a kindly
soul.
And so, permit me to await a letter from you, my dear chap.
We have a sanatorium here, and kumiss is drunk in quantity;
at first life here seems tiresome and pallid, but then you don't
mind it so much. Good luck and good health, give my regards
to Varvara Alexeyevna and the children; and with all my heart
I wish you the best of everything.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVN
A ugust ;, rgor, Yalta
Dear Masha,
I will to you for possession during your lifetime my home in
Yalta, the money and royalties from my dramatic productions,
and to my wife Olga Leonardovna the country home in Gurzuf
1 Olga Knipper Chekhova delivered this letter to Maria Chekhova, after
Chekhov died.
 To OLGA K :\" I PPER [rgor]
and five thousand rubles. If you wish, you may sell the real
estate. Give our brother Alexander three thousand. Ivan is to
get five thousand and Mikhail three thousand. One thousand
rubles are to be given to Alexei Dolzhenko2 and one thousand
to Elena Chekhova2 upon her marriage. After your death and
Mother's death, everything that remains, except for the royalties
from the plays, reverts to the Taganrog city administration for
public education; royalties from the plays are for brother Ivan,
and after Ivan's death are to be assigned to the Taganrog city
administration for the same purpose mentioned above. I prom­
ised the peasants of Melikhovo Village one hundred rubles to
pay for the highway; I also promised Gabriel Alexeyevich Khar­
chenko (private house, Moskalevka Street, Kharkov) to pay for
his older daughter's secondary school education . . . . Help the
poor. Take care of Mother. Live together peaceably.
Anton Chekhov.

To OLGA KNIPPER
A ugust 2I, rgor, Sevastopol
My sweet, my darling, my good wife,
I have j ust got out of bed, have had my coffee and am cocking
an ear to the noise of the wind with a certain amount of alarm.
I dare say the crossing will be a violent one. My darling, buy
1 lb. of raffia in some shop, even if it is only Lisitsin's and send
it to me in Yalta. You can't get any here in Sevastopol. \Vith it
enclose about five cords for my pince-nez. Put in anything else
you like, but try to manage not to have the parcel weigh more
than two pounds.
I shall leave for Yalta and await your letter there. Don't be
lonesome, little one, don't get sick or blue, don't be cross, but
be gay and laugh-i t suits you very well.
I love you very much and will always love you. 1\Iy greetings
to all your family. I kiss you firmly a hundred times, embrace
2 Cousins.

[ 2 88 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [rgor]
you tenderly and am sketching in my imagination various pic­
tures in which you and I figure, and nobody and nothing else.
Goodbye, my darling, farewell!
Your boss Anton

To OLGA KNIPPER
A ugust 28, rgor, Yalta
My kitten, my little kitten,
I just got your letter, read it through twice-and kiss you a
thousand times. I like the plan of the apartment, and will show
it to Masha (she left to see Dunya Konowitzer off on the boat) ;
everything is very nice, only why did you put "Anton's study"
next to a certain place? Want to get beaten up?
Here are answers to your questions. I am sleeping splendidly
[ . ] my "innards" have been in running order thus far, and I
. .

haven' t rubbed my neck with Eau de Cologne-forgot to.

Yesterday I washed my head.
Yesterday I was at Orlenev's and was introduced to Mme
Leventon; 1 they share an apartment.
Masha is bringing you some almonds from our tree.
You can see what kind of husband I am; I write you every
day, in the most exemplary fashion. I am so lonesome without
you ! . . . It seems to me I have become a regular middle-class
householder and cannot live without a wife . . . .
Behave yourself properly, or I 'll beat you until it hurts.
Write, sweetie, don't be a lazybones.
Your Ant.

To O LGA KN IPPER
Septem ber 4, rgor, Yalta
See all the trouble I go to for you!
With this passport you can live as you please wherever you
please, with a husband or without such a character. Except that
1 Mme. Leventon was Alia Nazimova.

[ 2 89 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [I90I]
you must: ( 1 ) sign "Olga Chekhova" on page 6, and (2) regis­
ter with the Yalta police that you have received it; you can do
this the next time you are in Yalta. So, you see, you are now a
regular Yaltan, until the brink of the wave. At first I was in­
clined to put you down as the wife of an "honorary academi­
cian," but then decided it was incomparably pleasanter being
the wife of a medical man.
Live placidly and generously, be a loving soul, and then I
will kiss you every day. They tell me "The Three Sisters" was
presented in Odessa with great success. I had my hair cut today,
washed my head, trimmed by beard, took a walk along the
promenade, then dined at home with Dr. Reformatski.
Write every day, or I'll take your passport away. Generally
speaking, I intend keeping you strictly in line, so that you will
fear and obey me. I'll give it to you!
Your severe husband,
A. Chekhov
Even though I haven't seen our apartment, you speak so well
of it that I am satisfied with it sight unseen, very well satisfied,
my sweet. Thank you for all the trouble you have taken, God
bless you.

To MAXIM GORKI
October 22, r9or, Moscow
My dear A lexei Maximovich,
Five days have gone by since I read your play1 and I haven't
written you until now for the reason that I just couldn't get
hold of Act IV; I kept on waiting-and still am. And so I have
only read the three acts, but I think they are sufficient to judge
the play. As I anticipated, it is very good, written with the true
Gorki touch, a singular thing, very engrossing, and if I may
begin by speaking of its defects, I have thus far noted only one,
1 The play was Gorki's Small Folk.

[ 290 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [I90I]
irremediable, like a redhead's red hair-and that is i ts con­
servatism of form. You force new, strange people to sing new
songs from a score that looks second-hand; you have four acts,
your characters deliver moral lectures, the long-drawn-out pas­
sages cause dismay, and so on. But all this is not basically im­
portant and is submerged, so to say, in the play's merits. How
alive Perchikhin is! His daughter is fascinating and so are
Tatiana and Peter, and their mother is an admirable old lady.
The play's central figure-Nil-is powerfuly done and extraor­
dinarily interesting! In brief, the play grips one from the start.
Only, God save you from allowing anyone except Artem to play
Perchikhin, and have Stanislavski play Nil without fail. These
two people will do them exactly right. Peter should be played by
Meierhold. Except that Nil's part, a magnificent one, should be
made two or three times longer, the play should end with it
and be built around i t. Don't contrast Nil with Peter and
Tatiana, though, just let him stand on his own feet, and them
on theirs; all these remarkable, splendid people, independent of
one another. . . .
Plenty of time remains before the staging, and you will man­
age to revise your play a good ten times over. What a pity that
I have to leave! I would sit in on the rehearsals and send you
word whenever it was needed.
On Friday I leave for Yalta. Keep well, and God keep you.
My deepest respects to Ekaterina Pavlovna and the children.
Let me give you a friendly handclasp and embrace you.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KNIPPER
November 2, I90I, Yalta
My sweet little pup, greetings!
. . . I am i n good health, but yesterday and the day before,
since the day of my return, in fact, I have been out of sorts and
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r9o r]
yesterday had to take some ol. ricini. But I am very happy that
you are well and merry, my precious, it makes my heart easier.
And how terribly I want you now to have a little half-German 1
to divert you, to fill your life. It should be so, my darling little
one! What do you say?
Gorki will soon be passing through Moscow. He wrote me he
was leaving N izhni on the tenth of November. He has prom­
ised to revise your part in the play, i.e., give it broader range,
has promised a lot generally, and I am extremely happy about
it, because it is my belief revisions will not make his play worse,
but much better, more rounded .
. . . I haven't been at Tolstoy's2 yet, but am going there to­
morrow. People say he is feeling well.
Olya, my dear wife, congratulate me: I have had a haircut ! !
Yesterday my boots were cleaned-the first time since my ar­
rival. My clothes haven't yet had a cleaning. But on the other
hand I have been changing my tie every day, and yesterday I
washed my head . . . .
I am sending you the announcement from Prague on " Uncle
Vanya." I keep on wondering what to send you and can't think
of a thing. I am living like a monk and dream only of of you.
Although it is shameful making declarations of love at forty,
I cannot restrain myself, little pup, from telling you once again
that I love you deeply and tenderly.
I kiss you, embrace you and press you close.
Keep healthy, happy and gay.
Your Antoine

To O LGA KN IPPER
November 9, r9or, Yalta
Greetings, my litt le darling,
Today's weather is amazing: warm, bright and dry, and quiet
-like summer. The roses are blooming and the carnations and
1 Knipper"s family were of Gennan origin. Chekhov meant, of course, that he
wanted her to hal·e a baby.
2 Tolstoy was lh·ing in Yalta.

[ 2 92 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [I90I]
chrysanthemums, and some yellow flowers. Today I sat in the
garden for a long time and thought of how splendid the weather
is here but how much pleasanter it would be to ride in a sleigh.
Forgive me this cynicism.
So Roxanova is again acting in "The Seagull"? Why, they
took the play out of the repertory until they could get a new
actress for the part and suddenly here's Roxanova in it again !
What a beastly business! From the repertory list sent here I also
noted that "Ivanov" is in rehearsal. To my way of thinking this
is futile, unnecessary toil. The play will be a failure because it is
going to get a dull production before an indifferent audience.
I'm going to get all the best authors to write plays for the
Art Theatre. Gorki has already done so; Balmont, Leonid An­
dreyev, Teleshov and others are in the process of writing. It
would be quite proper to assign me a fee, if only one ruble per
person.
My letters to you don't satisfy me at all. After what you and
I have experienced together, letters mean little; we ought to
continue really living. How we sin by not living together! But
what's the sense of talking! God be with you, my blessings upon
you, my little German female, I am happy you are enjoying
yourself. I kiss you resoundingly.
Your Antonio

To O LGA KNIPPER
November r7, r9or, Yalta
My sweet little spouse,
The rumors reaching you about Tolstoy, h is illness and even
death, have no basis in fact. There are no particular changes i n
his health and have been none, and death is evidently a long
way off. It is true he is weak and sickly-looking, but he hasn't a
single symptom to cause alarm, nothing except old age . . . .
Don't believe anything you hear. If, God forbid, anything hap­
pens, I will let you know by wire. I will call him " Grandpa,"
otherwise I daresay it won't reach you.

[ 2 93 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r9or]
Alexei Maximovich 1 is here, and well. He sleeps at my place
and is registered with me. The local policeman was around
today.
I am writing and working, but, my darling, working in Yalta
is impossible, utterly, utterly impossible. It is remote from the
world, uninteresting-and the principal point-cold. . . .
My lamp is burning now in the study. It's not too bad as long
as it doesn' t stink of kerosene.
Alexei Maximovich hasn' t changed, he is the same decent,
cultivated, kind man. The only thing in him, or on him, rather,
that I find disconcerting is that Russian shirt of his. I can't get
used to it any more than to the Court Chamberlain's uniform.
The weather is autumn-like, nothing to boast of.
Well, stay alive and healthy, light of my life. Thank you for
the letters. Don't get sick, be a smart girl. Send my regards to
the family.
I kiss and embrace you tenderly.
Your husband,
Antonio
I am in good health. Moscow had an astonishingly good effect
on me. I don' t know whether it was Moscow, or your doing, but
I have been coughing very little . . . .

To OLGA KNIPPER
December 7, r9or, Yalta
Dear little miss actress,
How come you are not obeying your husband? "\Vhy didn't
you ask l\'emirovich to send the last act of "Small Folk"? Please
ask him, my sweetheart. How disgusting, how unfortunate that
you are not coming to Yalta for the holidays. It seems to me we
shall be seeing each other only after many years, when we are
both old folks.
1 Gorki was under constant police surveil lance.

[ 294 ]
 To VICTOR MIROLUBOV [rgor]
I just spoke to Leo Tolstoy over the telephone. I have read
the conclusion of Gorki's novel, "Three of Us." It is an extraor­
dinarily queer thing. If it hadn't been Gorki who had written
it, nobody would have read it. At least so it appears to me.
I haven't been well these last days, my lamb. I took some cas­
tor oil, think I have lost a lot of weight, cough and can't do a
thing. Today I am better, so that tomorrow I shall probably get
back to work again . . . . Solitude, apparently, reacts most per­
niciously on the stomach. Joking aside, my darling, when shall
we get together again? When shall I see you? If only you could
come here for the holidays, even for one day, it would be in­
finitely good. However, you know best.
I am writing this on the night of the seventh and will send i t
out tomorrow, the eighth. You are always attending dinners or
jubilees-! am glad, puss, and commend you for it. You are a
bright child, you are so sweet.
May the Lord be with you, my dear. I kiss you countless times.
Your Ant.
Don't spend too much money on the play-it won't be a suc­
cess anyway. Twelve hundred rubles for dresses-for God's sake!
I read Leonid Andreyev while I was still in Moscow, and on my
way back to Yalta. Yes, he is a good writer; if he would write
more, he would enjoy greater success. There is not much sin­
cerity or simplicity in him, and so it is hard to get used to him.
But still, sooner or later the audience will get accustomed to
him and he'll make a big name for himself.

To VICTOR MIRO LUBOV

December IJ, rgor, Yalta
Dear Victor Sergeyevich,
I am not well, or not altogether well-that is more like it,
and I cannot write. I have been coughing blood and now I feel
feeble and ill-tempered as I sit with a hot compress on my side
and take creosote and all sorts of trash . . . .
[ 295 ]
 To KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI [rgo2]
I read the article in "New Times" by that policeman Roza­
nov, 1 which, incidentally, told me of your new activities. My
dear fellow, I wish you knew how upset I was! It seems to me
you ought to leave St. Petersburg right now-for Nervi or
Yalta, it doesn't matter-but leave. \Vhat have you, a fine, up­
standing man, in common with this Rozanov, or with that
egregiously crafty Sergi, or, finally, with super-satisfied Merej­
kowski? I would like to write you at great length but had
better restrain myself, all the more so as letters are now read for
the most part by those to whom they are not addressed. I will
only say that the important thing about the problems engaging
you are not the forgotten words, not the idealism, but the con­
sciousness of your own decency, i.e., the complete freedom of
your soul from all forgotten and unforgotten words, idealisms
and the rest of those words that nobody understands. One
should believe in God; if one doesn't have faith, though, its
place should not be taken by sound and fury but by seeking and
more seeking, seeking alone, face to face with one's conscience.
At any rate, keep well. If you decide to come, drop me a line.
Tolstoy and Gorki are here and you won't find it dull, I hope.
There is nothing new. I clasp your hand firmly.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To KONST ANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI

january 20, rgo2, Yalta
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,
To the best of my knowledge (from information obtained
by mail) the portraits of writers in the Taganrog library are
hung in a row in one big frame. They probably want to put
you, too, in the same sort of frame and therefore I believe i t
1Vasili Rozanov was on the sta!I o f New Times. Chekhov considered him vain
and hypocritical. He had organized a philosophic society with the approval of
the St. Petersburg Church authori ties and Chekhov i s here attacking the
hypocrisy of Rozanov and his friends.

[ 2 96 ]
 To OLGA K 0: I PPER [I902]
would be best without further ado to fonvard a photograph of
the usual studio format, without a frame. If a frame proves
necessary, you can send it along afterward just as well.
As I read "Small Folk," I felt that the part of Nil was the
central one. He is not a mujik, not a skilled workman, but a
new man, an intellectualized worker. He doesn't seem to be a
finished character, and it would not be a hard or lengthy job to
fill him in, and it is a pity, a terrible pity, that Gorki is deprived
of the possibility of attending the rehearsals.
May I say incidentally that Act IV is badly done (except for
the ending) and since Gorki is deprived of the possibility of
attending the rehearsals, it will be very bad.
I clasp your hand cordially and send hearty greetings to you
and Maria Petrovna.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KNIPPER
January 20, I9o2, Yalta
How stupid you are, my kitten, and what a little fool!
What makes you so sick, why are you in such a state? You
write that life is hollow, that you are an utter nonentity, that
your letters bore me, that you feel horror at the way your life
is narrowing, etc., etc. You foolish creature! I didn't write you
about the forthcoming play not because I had no faith in you,
as you put it, but because I do not yet have faith in the play.
It is in its faint dawn in my brain, like the first flush of day­
break, and I still am not clear as to what sort of thing it is, what
will come of it and whether it won't change from one day to
the next. If we were together, I would tell you all about it, but
it is impossible to write because nothing gets set down properly,
I just write all sorts of trash and then become indifferent to the
subject. In your letter you threaten never to ask me about any·
thing, or to mix into anything; but what is your reason, my
[ 297 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r902]
sweet? No, you are my own good girl, you will substitute mercy
for wrath when you realize once again how much I love you,
how near and dear you are to me, how impossible it is to live
without you, my silly little goose. Quit having the blues, quit it!
And have yourself a good laugh! I am permi tted to be de­
pressed, because I live in a desert, without anything to do, don't
see people, am sick practically every week, but you? No matter
what, your life is a full one.
I had a letter from Stanislavski. He writes a good deal and
graciously. Hints that perhaps Gorki's play may not be put on
this season. "\Vrites about Oman, about "mesdames, ne vous
decolletez pas trap."
Let me say in passing, Gorki intends working on a new play,
about life in a cheap flophouse,1 although I have been counsel­
ing him to wait a year or two, and to take his time. An author
must produce in large quantities, but he must not hurry. Don't
you think so, my good wife?
On my birthday, the seventeenth of January, I was in an
abominable mood because I was ailing and because the tele­
phone kept ringing all day with congratulatory telegrams. Even
you and Masha did not spare me! . . .
You write me not to be sad, that we shall see each other soon.
What do you mean? Will that be Holy Week? Or earlier? Don' t
get m e excited, joy o f my life. You wrote i n December that you
would be coming in January, got me all worked up, then wrote
you would come during Holy "\Veek-and I ordered my soul to
becalm itself, withdrew into my shell and now you are again
raising a gale on the Black Sea. Why?
The death of Solovtsov,2 to whom I had dedicated my " Bear,"
was a most distressing event in my provincial life. I knew him
well. The newspaper accounts implied that he had made some
revisions of "Ivanov" and that I, as the playwright, had taken
his advice, but it isn't true.
1 The Lower Depths.
2 Solonsov was an actor.

[ 2g 8 ]
 To OLGA Kl':I PPER [I902]
And so, my wife, my enchanting creature, my adored, be­
loved girl, may God keep you, may you be healthy, gay and
mindful of your husband, even if it is only when you go to bed
at night. The important thing is not to get depressed. \Vhy,
your husband certainly is no drunkard, nor a spendthrift, nor
a brawler. I am a regular German husband in my behavior, and
even wear warm underdrawers.
I embrace you a hundred times, and kiss you infinitely, wife
of mine.
Your Ant.
You write: wherever you poke your nose you hit a stone wall.
And where did you poke it?

To O LGA KNIPPER
january J I, I9o2, Yalta
Greetings, my sweet little O lya,
How are you? I am just so·so, for living otherwise is not pos­
sible. You are i n raptures over L's1 play, but actually it is the
work of a dilettante, composed in solemn classical language be­
cause its author does not know how to write naturally of Rus­
sian life. It seems this L. has been writing for some time, and if
you were to go poking around, I wouldn't wonder but what you
might turn up some letters of his in my desk. Bunin's "In
Autumn" is done with a constrained, tensed hand; at any rate
Kuprin's "At the Circus" stands much above it. "At the Circus"
is a free, artless, gifted work, in addition to being written by
someone who knows the business. But why bother with either!
How did we get talking about literature anyway? . . .
Tolstoy felt better yesterday, and now there is hope.
I've received your description of the evening and the placards
and thank you, my darling. It made me laugh hilariously. The
1 L. was Anatol Lunacharski and the play was a drama about life in the
Renaissance. Lunacharski, after the Bolshevik Revolution, became the first
People's Commissar of Education.

[ 2 99 ]
 To PYOTR SERGEYEI\:KO [rgo2]
wrestlers, Kachalov in big boots, the orchestra under Moskvin's
baton, amused me particularly. How jolly your life is and how
dreary mine!
Anyway, keep well, my joy, God keep you safe. Don't forget
me. Let me kiss and embrace you.
Your German,
Ant.
Tell Masha Mother is already walking about, and is fully re­
covered. I am writing this on the thirty-first of January, after
tea, and wrote the letter to her in the morning. Everything
is fine.

To PYOTR SERGEYEN KO
February 2, rgo2, Yalta
My dear Pyotr A lexeyevich,
Here are the details regarding Leo N ikolayevich. 1 One eve­
ning he suddenly felt ill. Angina pectoris set in, with inter­
mittent heartbeats and agony. The doctors who are treating
him happened to be visi ting me at the time and were summoned
by telephone. The next morning they let me know that Tolstoy
was in a bad way, that there was scant hope he would pull
through and that pneumonia had set in, the type that generally
attacks old people before death. This tormenting, expectant
mood continued for about two days, and then we got the infor­
mation by telephone that the process in the lungs had been ar­
rested and that there was hope.
Now Tolstoy is lying on his back, extraordinarily weak, but
his pulse is good. Hope has not abated. He is being magnifi­
cently treated, among his doctors being Shchurovski of Moscow
and Altshuller of Yalta. The fact that Tolstoy has remained
alive and that there is hope for him I attribute at least in part
to the good offices of these two doctors.
1 Tolstoy.
[ 300 ]
 To MARIA LILINA [I902]
Thank you for the photograph. There is nothing new, all
goes well for the time being. Keep well.
Your
A. Chekhov

To MARIA LI LINA
February ], I902, Yalta
Dear 1\Jaria Petrovna,
You are very kind and I thank you very much for the letter.
To my regret I cannot tell you anything interesting . . . we
grow old, drink medicinal teas, walk around in felt boots. . . .
However, there is one bit of news, and most agreeable at that­
Leo Tolstoy's recovery. The Count was very seriously ill and
had the beginnings of pneumonia, which such old fellows as he
usually do not get over. For three days we expected the end and
suddenly the old chap brightened up and started giving us
hope. At present writing, our hopes have been enhanced con­
siderably and when you read this letter, Leo Nikolayevich will
probably be quite well.
As to Gorki, he doesn't feel too bad, maintains a cheerful atti­
tude but is lonesome and is preparing to set to work on a new
play, for which he has already found a theme. To the best of
my understanding, about five years hence he will be writing
magnificent things; right now he seems to be groping.
·what you disclose in confidence about Konstantin Sergey­
evich and my wife made me extraordinarily happy. Thank you,
now I can take measures and will now proceed on the matter
of a divorce.1 I'm sending a statement to the Consistory today,
to which I will attach your letter, and believe I will be free by
spring; but before May I will give it to that spouse of mine
properly. She fears me and I certainly don't handle her with
kid gloves-she gets it wherever my foot lands!
1 Lilina had jokingly written that her husband was paying attention to
Knipper.

[ 30 1 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r902]
Greetings and hearty regards to Konstantin Sergeyevich. My
congratulations to you both on the new theatre-! believe in its
future success.
My profound compliments to you, I kiss your hand and greet
you once more.
Your sincerely devoted
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KN IPPER
February IJ, rgo2, Yalta
Sweetie, pussy cat,
I will not meet you at the pier, as it will probably be chilly.
Don't worry. I will meet you in my study, we will have supper
together and then a good long talk.
Yesterday I suddenly and unexpectedly had a letter from
Suvorin. This was after a silence of three years. He runs down
your theatre but praises you, as it would be embarrassing to
abuse you . . . .
It doesn't take three, but five days for letters to reach Yalta.
This one, which I am mailing on the thirteenth of February,
you will receive the seventeenth or eighteenth. So you see! Con­
sequently I will write you one little bit of a letter tomorrow
and then--enough! Then, after, a brief interval, I will enter
upon my marital responsibilities.
When you arrive, please don't mention a word to me about
eating. It is a bore, especially in Yalta. After Masha's departure
everything changed again and goes along in the old way, as it
did before her arrival, and it could not have been otherwise.
I am reading Turgenev. One eighth or one tenth of what he
has written will survive, all the rest will be a mere matter of
historical record twenty-five or thirty-five years from now. You
don't mean to say you once liked Chichagov, the "Alarm Clock"
artist? Heavens!
[ 30 2 ]
 To VLADIM I R KOROLENKO [r902]
Why, oh why, does Savva Morozov1 have aristocratic guests?
Certainly they will cram themselves full of his food and laugh
at his expense when they leave, as if he were a Yakut. I would
drive those beasts out with a big stick. I have some perfume, but
not much, and hardly any Eau de Cologne.
I kiss my sweetheart, my wonderful, beloved wife, and await
her arrival impatiently. It is overcast today, not warm, drab,
and if it weren't for thoughts of you and your visit, I think I
might start drinking.
Now then, let me embrace my little German lady.
Your
Ant.

To VLADIMIR KOROLENKO
Dear Vladimir Galaktionovich,
My wife arrived from St. Petersburg with a 1 02 .2 tempera­
ture, quite weak and in considerable pain ; she cannot walk, and
had to be carried off the boat. . . . Now I think she is somewhat
better.
I am not going to give Tolstoy the protest. When I began
talking to him about Gorki and the Academy,1• he mumbled
something about not considering himself an academician and
buried his head in his book. I gave Gorki one copy and read
him your letter. For some reason or other I don't think the
Academy will hold a meeting on the twenty-fifth of May, as all
the academicians will already have left town by the beginning
of the month. I also think they won't vote for Gorki a second
time and that he'll be blackballed. I want awfully to see you
and talk things over. Can't you come to Yalta? I'll be here until
the fifteenth of May. I would go to your place in Poltava, but
my wife is sick, and will probably be bedridden here for an-
1 Savva Morozov was a wealthy merchant, a liberal and cultured man and an
early backer of the Moscow Art Theatre.
t a Gorki had been elected to the Academy, but the Czar disapproved, and had

the election declared null and void. Chekhov and Korolenko wrote a declaration
of principles and both resigned from the Academy.
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r902]
other three weeks. Or shall we see each other after the fifteenth
of May in Moscow, on the Volga, or abroad? ·write.
I give you a cordial handclasp and send my very best wishes.
Keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
My wife sends her greetings.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
june 2, r9o2, Moscow
Dear Masha,
We are again in a predicament. The night before Trinity, at
1 0 o'clock, Olga felt sharp pains in her abdomen (more painful
than those she had in Yalta), then followed groans, shrieks,
sobbing; the doctors had all gone to their summer homes (the
night before a holiday), all our friends had also departed. . . .
Thank goodness, Vishnevski appeared at midnight and began
dashing around for a doctor. O lga was in torments all night, and
this morning the doctor came; it has been decided to put her in
Strauch's hospital. Overnight she became hollow-cheeked and
thin . . . .
I t is now uncertain what I will be doing, when I shall arrive
and when I shall be leaving Moscow. Everything has been
turned upside down.
Anna lvanovna 1 has an expression on her face as though she
were to blame for some reason. She was on the hunt for doctors
all night.
I shall write later. In the meantime, keep well. Compliments
to Mama.
Your Antoine
Olga's illness is the kind that will probably continue for a
couple of years.2
1 Anna lvanovna was Olga Knipper's mother.
2 Olga Chekhova had a miscarriage. Chekhov's postscript, "Olga's illness is the
kind that will probabl y continue for a couple of years," tells us nothing.

[ 3 04 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI (I902]
To KONSTANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI
july I8, I9o2, Lubimovkat
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,
Dr. Strauch came here today and found everything in order.
He forbade Olga one thing only-driving over bad highways
and excessive movement in general, but to my great satisfaction
he has permitted her to take part in rehearsals without reserva­
tion; she can start her theatre work even as early as the tenth
of August. She has been forbidden to travel to Yalta. I am going
there alone in August, will return the middle of September and
then will remain in Moscow until December.
I like it very much in Lubimovka. April and May were bad
months but luck is with me now, as if to make up for all I had
gone through; there is so much quiet, health, warmth and pleas­
ure that I just can't get over it. The weather is fine and the
river is fine, and indoors we eat and sleep like bishops. I send
you thousands of thanks, straight from the bottom of my heart.
It is a long time since I have spent such a summer. I go fishing
every day, five times a day, and the fishing is not bad (yesterday
we had a perch chowder). Sitting on the riverbank is too agree­
able a pastime to write about. To put it briefly, everything is
very fine. Except for one thing: I am idling and haven't been
doing any work. I haven't yet begun the play, am only thinking
it over. I will probably not start work before the end of August.
. . . Be well and gay, gather up your strength and energy. I
press your hand.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MAXIM GORKI
july 29, I9o2, Lu bimovka
Dear A lexei Maximovich,
I have read your play, 1 "' which is new and good beyond any
doubt. Act II is very good, the very best, the most powerful, and
1 Chekhov borrowed the Stanislavski's summer cottage.
I• The Lower Depths.

[ 3 05 ]
 To MAXIM GORKI [I902]
in reading it, especially the end, I almost leaped with joy. The
mood is a gloomy, painful one; its novelty will cause the audi­
ence to walk out of the theatre and at the least you can say
goodbye to your reputation as an optimist. My wife is going to
play Vasilisa, the lewd and vile-tempered female; Vishnevski
walks around the house acting like a Tatar-he is sure that
part will be his_ Alas, it is not possible to give Artem the part of
Luka, as he wil l be repeating himself and tire the audience; on
the other hand he will play the policeman splendidly, that is
real ly his part; Samarova will do the roommate. The part of the
actor, whom you hit off most successfully, offers a magnificent
opportunity and should be given to an experienced actor, say
Stanislavski. Kachalov will play the Baron.
You have disposed of the most interesting characters by Act
IV (except the actor), so you'd better watch out lest something
happen on that account. This act can prove boresome and un­
necessary, especially if only the mediocre characterizations re­
main after the exit of the vigorous and interesting actors_ The
death of the actor is terrible; it's as though you gave the specta­
tor a box on the ear for no good reason, and without preparing
him for the blow. It isn't sufficiently clear, either, how the
Baron happened to find himself in the flophouse, and why he
is a baron.
I am leaving for Yalta around the tenth of August (my wife
is remaining in Moscow), then that same month I am returning
to Moscow to stay until December, if nothing particular occurs.
I will be seeing "Small Folk" and attending the rehearsals of
the new play. Can't you manage to break away from Arzamas
and come to Moscow if only for a week? I heard that you will
be allowed to come to l\Ioscow, that people are interceding for
you . . . .
I am living in Lubimovka, Stanislavski's summer cottage, and
do nothing but fish from morning to night_ The stream here is
delightfully deep, with plenty of fish. I have become so lazy I
even feel disgusted with myself. . . .
[ 3 06 ]
 To VLADIMIR KOROLENKO [r902]
L. Andreyev's "A Dilemma" is a pretentious thing, unintel­
ligible and obviously of no use, but it is performed with talent.
Andreyev has no simplicity and his talent reminds one of the
singing of an artificial nightingale . . . .
Whatever happens, we'll see each other at the end of August.
Keep well and happy, don't get lonesome . . . .
Your
A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR KORO LEN K O

A ugust 25, r9o2, Yalta
Dear Vladimir Galaktionovich,
Where are you? At home? At any rate, I am directing this
letter to Poltava. This is what I wrote to the Academy.1
Your Imperial Highness,
In December of last year I received notification of the elec­
tion of A. M. Peshkov as an honorary academician; I lost no
time in getting in contact with Mr. Peshkov, who was then in
the Crimea, was the first to bring him the news of his election
and the first to congratulate him. After a lapse of some time,
an announcement appeared in the newspapers stating that in
view of the investigation of Mr. Peshkov under Article 1 035,
the election was considered invalid; it was definitely indicated
that this announcement emanated from the Academy of Sci­
ences. Since I am an honorary academician, this announcement
in part came from myself as well. Thus, I was congratulating
him heartily and, at the same time, was one of those who were
involved in considering his election invalid-and I was unable
to reconcile my conscience to this contradiction. A knowledge
of the contents of Article 1 03 5 explained nothing. After lengthy
reflection I was able to arrive at only one decision, extremely
distressing and grievous to me, namely, most humbly to request
1 This was the letter of resignation to the Academy. Peshkov was, of course,
Gorki's real name.
 To OLGA KNIPPER [r902]
Your Imperial Highness to accept my resignation of the title of
honorary academician.
There you have it. It's a long-winded composition, drafted on
a very hot day; I couldn't, and probably can't do any be tter.
Visiting you was out of the question. My wife and I wanted
to travel along the Volga and the Don, but she fell seriously ill
in Moscow again, and we were both in such torments that we
couldn't even consider a trip. . . .
I wish you the best of everything, and extend a cordial hand­
clasp. Keep well and happy.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To OLGA KNIPPER
September 6, r9o2, Yalta
My little crocodile, my unusual wife,
This is why I didn't get to Moscow despite my promise.
Hardly had I got to Yalta when my physical barometer started
falling, I began coughing fiendishly and lost my appetite en­
tirely. It was no time either for trips or writing. In addition, as
if on purpose, there was no rain, a perilous, heat-laden drought
that parched one's very soul. As is my custom I wanted to take
some Hunyadi Janos water, but the Yalta brand was the arti­
ficial variety, and for two days after taking it I had palpitations
of the heart.
You see what a dull husband you've got! Today I feel much
better, but there is still no rain and it doesn't look as if there
will ever be any. I would leave for i\Ioscow, but am afraid of
the journey, afraid of Sevastopol, where I would have to remain
half a day. And don't you come here. I am ill at ease asking
you to visit this sultry, dusty desert; besides, there isn't any spe­
cial necessity, as I am already better and will soon be arriving
in Moscow.
One hundred rubles for two and a half acres is an absurd,
[ 3 08 ]
 To OLGA KN IPPER (I902]
ridiculous price. Please, my sweet one, stop looking at summer
cottages, we won't buy one anyhow. We can wait for some spe­
ci;;ll opportunity, that would be the best of all, or e lse we can
hire a cottage every summer. . . .
In case you want to come here, bring my cuspidor (the blue
one, I forgot it), the pince-nez; don't take along any shirts, but
the jersey underwear, the Jaeger stuff.
Suvorin stayed here two days, told me all sorts of things, a
great deal that was new and interesting, and left yesterday. One
of Nemirovich's admirers by the name of Fomin came to see
me; he delivers public lectures on "The Three Sisters" and
"Three of Us" (by Chekhov and Gorki). He is an honest, high­
minded, but obviously not very bright little gentleman. I filled
him with a lot of ponderous remarks, saying I did not consider
myself a dramatist, that the only one such in present-day Russia
was Naidenov and that [Nemirovich's] "In My Dreams" (a
play he likes very much) was a middle-class piece and so forth
and so on. Whereupon he left.
I am writing to your own Moscow address, since, if I am to
believe your last letter, you have already moved to town. And a
good thing.
I kiss the mother of my future family and embrace her. . . .
Your A.

To O LGA KNIPPER
September I8, I902, Yalta
My exquisite little missis,
I have a real event to relate: we had rain last night. . . . My
health has improved immensely, at least I am eating a lot and
coughing less; I am not drinking cream because the local prod­
uct upsets my stomach and is extremely cloying. To put it
briefly, don't worry, everything is all right, and even though
things are not at their best, at least they are not worse than
usual.
Today I am sad, for Zola has died. It was so sudden and
 To ADOLF MARX [r902]
untimely, so to speak. I wasn't particularly devoted to him as a
writer, but on the other hand, during these last years, with all
the clamor of the Dreyfus affair, I esteemed him highly as a
man.
And so we shall soon be seeing each other, my little bug. I
am going to stay until you drive me out. I'll manage to bore
you, you may rest easy on that score. If you discuss Naidenov's
play with him, assure him he has great gifts-no matter what
the play is. I am not writing him, as I shall soon be talking with
h im-you can tell him that. . . .
Don't get into the dumps, i t doesn't suit your style of looks.
Be a gay little girl, my sweetie. I kiss both your hands, your
forehead, cheeks, shoulders . . . .
Your A .
. . . Mother sends her greetings and keeps on complaining
you don't write her.

To ADOLF MARX 1
October 23, rgo2, Moscow
Dear A dolf Fedorovich,
. . . As to Mr. Ettinger's manuscript, his "Thoughts and Ideas"
are put together in an absolutely childish fashion, so that it
would be impossible to discuss h is book seriously. In addition,
all these " thoughts and ideas" are not mine, but those of my
characters; for instance, if some character in a story or play of
mine asserts that he must kill or steal, it certainly does not sig­
nify that Mr. Ettinger has the right to characterize me as an
advocate of murder or theft.
I am returning Mr. Ettinger's manuscript. Permit me to wish
you all the best, and to remain,
Yours sincerely,
A. Chekhov
1 Marx wanted to know if Ettinger's manuscript was worth publishing.

[ 310 ]
 To OLGA KNIPPER ( 1902]
To LEOPOLD SULERJITSKI
November 5, 1902, 1\ioscow
The new theatre is very fine; spacious, bright, no cheap,
glaring luxury. The acting remains as ever, i.e., good; there are
no new plays, and the only one they did stage did not meet with
success. Meierhold is not missed; Kachalov substitutes for him
in "The Three Sisters" and turns in a magnificent perform­
ance; the rest of their repertory ("Lonely Lives," for instance)
has not gone on yet. The absence of Sanin, who is enjoying suc­
cess in St. Petersburg, is keenly felt. Box office prices are the
same as last year's. They give a superb performance of " Uncle
Vanya."
My mother is in St. Petersburg, my sister isn't painting, my
wife is well, Vishnevski visits us daily. Last night my wife went
to hear Olenina d'Alheim, who is reputed to be an extraordi­
nary singer. I am not allowed anywhere and am kept at home
for fear that I may catch cold. I will probably not go abroad,
but will return to Yalta in December. . . . You know you ought
to buy yourself a small plot of ground not Ear from Moscow and
cultivate it, keep busy with the orchard and truck garden and
write short stories during the winter. You can buy land or rent
it for sixty to ninety years, but it is most important to have it as
close as possible to Moscow. . . . Are you treating sick people?
It won't do. The best thing is to send the person to a doctor. Let
me have the name of the article you are writing. May the h eav­
enly angels guard you.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To O LGA KNIPPER
December 20, 1902, Yalta
My sweet love,
I had a letter today from Alexeyev along these lines: " Gorki's
play 1 and the theatre have had a tremendous success. Olga
1 The Lower Depths.
 To OLGA K J'I; IPPER [I902]
Leonardovna gleamed like a shining light before an exacting
audience." Rejoice, my sweet. Your husband is very pleased and
will drink to your health today, if only Masha brings some beer
with her.
I am currently having a lot of trouble with my teeth. I don't
know when all this stupid business will come to an end. Yes­
terday I had a letter from you that was practically unsealed
(again!) and today is a sad day for me, since Arseni brought
nothing from you from the post office. And today's weather is
dismal: warm and quiet, but not even a hint of spring. I sat out
on the balcony, basking in the sun and thinking of you, and
Fomka, and crocodiles, and the lining of my jacket, which is in
shreds. I thought how much you needed to have a little boy to
take up your time, to fill your life. You will have a baby son
or daughter, my beloved, believe me, but you must j ust wait
and get back to normal after your illness. I am not lying to you,
nor am I concealing a single word of what the doctors have
told me, cross my heart.
Misha sent some herrings . . . . There is absolutely nothing
else to write about, or at least it doesn' t seem so, life goes on
obscurely and rather emptily. I am coughing. I sleep well, but
dream all night long, as is fitting for an idle fellow.
\Vrite me everything in detail, my child, so as to make me
feel that I belong not to Yalta, but to the north, that this
mournful and empty life has not yet engulfed me. I am hoping
to get to Moscow not later than the first of March, i.e., two
months from now, but I do not know whether I will do so or
not. God keep you, my good little wife, my little red-haired
kitten. Just imagine me holding you in my arms and carrying
you around the room a couple of hours, kissing and embracing
you . . . .
I will write tomorrow. Sleep in peace, my blessed joy, eat
properly and think of your husband.
Your A.

[ 312 ]
 To ALEXEI SUVORIN [r902]
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 22, r9o2, Yalta
. . . Today the news came that Gorki's play "The Lower
Depths" had an enormous success and was magnificently per­
formed. I am rarely in the Art Theatre, but it seems to me that
you have overestimated Stanislavski's role as producer.1 The
theatre is of the most usual sort, and their business is carried on
in the most usual way, as it is everywhere, except that the actors
are cultivated, very decent people; as a matter of fact they do
not gleam with talent but they work hard, love what they do
and learn their parts. If much of their repertory has not en­
joyed success it is because the play is not suitable or the actors
haven't enough of what it takes. Stanislavski certainly is not to
blame. You write that he is chasing all the gifted people off
the stage of the Art Theatre, but actually during all the five
years of its existence not a single person with any pretension
to talent has left. . . .
You write, "You are such an amiable person, why have you
thrust yourself now into this acting and new-literature circle?"
I have thrust myself into Yalta, into this little provincial coun­
try town, and that is the root of all the evils besetting me.
Regretfully, the new-literature circle considers me an outsider,
and old-fashioned; its relations toward me are warm but prac­
tically official, and as for the acting circle, that consists only of
the letters of my wife, an actress, and nothing more . . . .
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and I wish you good
health. Many thanks for the letter, which was very inter-
esting.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

1 The Russians, like most Europeans, use the word "producer" to mean the
man who directs the play. They use "director" to mean the general head of the
theatre, a kind of manager for the acting company and the theatre itself.
 To SHOLOM ALEICHEM [r903]
To SHOLOM ALEICHEM
June r9, r9o3, Naro Fominskoye
Dear Solomon Naumovich,
Generally speaking, I am not writing nowadays, or rather I
write very little, so I can only give you a conditional promise:
I will be very glad to write a story for you if illness does not
interfere. As to my already published works, they are at your
entire disposal, and a translation into Yiddish to be published
in a collection 1 for the benefit of the Kishinev victims2 would
afford me heartfelt pleasure.
With sincere respect and devotion,
A. Chekhov
I got the letter yesterday, June 1 8th.

To KONSTANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI

July 28, I903, Yalta
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,
I am so very, very sorry you are not in Yalta now; the weather
here is extraordinarily fine, enchanting; it couldn't be any
better. . . .
My play1 is not done and is moving ahead a little stiffly, a
state of affairs I attribute to my laziness, the marvelous weather
and the difficulty of the subject. I will write you when I finish,
or better yet will wire. Your role, it seems, has come off not
badly, though I won't set myself up as a judge, because gen­
erally speaking I can hardly form an estimate of a play merely
by reading it.
Olga is well and bathes in the sea every day; she fusses over
me. My sister is also in good health and the two of them thank
you for your greetings and send theirs. Yesterday I saw Mik-
1 The col lection referred to was printed in Warsaw and included one of
Chekhov's stories, "Grim People."
2 This was the po g rom in the Ukraine that shocked the \Vestern world.
1 Chekbov was at work on The Cherry Orchard.
[ 3 14 ]
 To KONSTANTIN STANlSLAVSKI [r903]
hailovski-Garin, the engineer and writer, who is building the
Crimean railway; he says he is going to write a play.
I am well. . . . I press your hand cordially, wish you health
and all the best.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
I won't read my play to you because I don't know how to;
but I'll give it to you for reading, providing I can get it ready,
of course.

To KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI
October ;o, r903, Yalta
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich,
Thank you very much for the letter and for the telegram.
Letters are always very precious to me because, one, I am here
all alone, and two, I sent the play off three weeks ago and your
letter came only yesterday; if it were not for my wife, I would
have been entirely in the dark and would have imagined any old
thing that might have crept into my h ead. When I worked on
the part of Lopakhin, I thought it might be for you. If for some
reason it doesn't appeal to you, take Gayev. Lopakhin, of course,
is only a merchant, but he is a decent person in every sense,
should conduct himself with complete decorum, like a cul­
tivated man, without pettiness or trickery, and it did seem to
me that you would be brilliant in this part, which is central for
the play. (If you do decide to play Gayev, let Vishnevski play
Lopakhin. He won't make an artistic Lopakhin but still he
won't be a petty one. Lujski would be a cold-blooded foreigner
in this part and Leonidov would play it like a little kulak.
You mustn't lose sight of the fact that Varya, an earnest, devout
young girl, is in love with Lopakhin; she wouldn't love a little
kulak.)
I want so much to go to Moscow but I don't know how I can
 To VLADIMIR NEMIROVICH-DANCHENKO [rgoJ]
get away from here. It is turning cold and I hardly ever leave
the house; I am not used to fresh air and am coughing. I do
not fear Moscow, or the trip itself, but I am afraid of having
to stay in Sevastopol from two to eight, and in the most tedious
company.
'Vrite me what role you are taking for yourself. My wife
wrote that l\loskvin wants to play Epikhodov. 'Vhy not, it
would be a very good idea, and the play would gain from it.
My deepest compliments and regards to Maria Petrovna, and
may I wish her and you all the best. Keep well and gay.
You know, I haven't yet seen "The Lower Depths" or "Julius
Caesar." I would so much like to see them.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To VLADIMIR N EMIROVICH-DAN CHENKO

November 2, rgo;} Yalta
My dear Vladimir lvanovich}
Two letters from you in one day, thanks a lot! I don't drink
beer, the last time I drank any was in July; and I cannot eat
honey, as it gives me a stomach ache. Now as to the play.
1 . Anya can be played by any actress you'd like, even an
utter unknown, if only she is young and looks like a young girl,
and talks in a young, resonant voice. This role is not one of the
important ones.
2. Varya's part is more on the serious side, if only Maria
Petrovna would take it. If she doesn't the part will turn out
rather flat and coarse, and I would have to do it over and soften
it. M. P. won't repeat herself because, firstly, she is a gifted
actress, and secondly, because Varya does not resemble Sonya or
Natasha; she is a figure in a black dress, a little nun-like crea­
ture, somewhat simple-minded, plaintive and so forth and so on.
3· Gayev and Lopakhin-have Stanislavski try these parts
 To VLADIMIR NEM IROVICH-DANCHENKO [I90J]
and make his choice. If he takes Lopakhin and feels at home
in the part, the play is bound to be a success. Certainly if
Lopakhin is a pallid figure, played by a pall id actor, both the
part and the play will fail.
4 · Pishchik-the part for Gribunin. God have mercy on you
if you assign the part to Vishnevski.
5· Charlotta-a big part. It would of course be impossible to
give the part to Pomyalova; Muratova might be good, perhaps,
but not funny. This is the part for Mme. Knipper.
6. Epikhodov-if Moskvin wants the part let him have it.
He'll be a superb Epikhodov. . . .
7 . Firs-the role for Artem.
8. Dunyasha-for Khalutina.
g. Yasha. If it is the Alexandrov you wrote about, the one
that is assistant to your producer, let him have it. Moskvin
would make a splendid Yasha. And I haven't anything against
Leonidov for the part.
1 0. The passer-by-Gromov.
1 1 . The stationmaster who reads "The Sinner" in Act III
should have a bass voice.
Charlotta speaks with a good accent, not broken Russian,
except that once in a while she gives a soft sound to a con­
sonant at the end of a word rather than the hard sound that is
proper, and she mixes masculine and feminine adjectives.
Pishchik is an old Russian fellow broken down with gout, old
age and satiety, plump, dressed in a long Russian coat (a la
Simov) and boots without heels. Lopahkin wears a white vest
and tan shoes, flails his arms when he is in motion, takes long
strides, is lost in thought when he moves about and walks in a
straight line. He doesn't cut his hair short and so he frequently
tosses his head back; in reflection he strokes his beard back and
forth, i.e., from his neck to his lips. I think Trofimov is clearly
sketched. Varya wears a black dress and wide belt.
I have been intending to write "The Cherry Orchard" these
past three years and for three years have been telling you to hire
 To ALEXANDER VlSHI"EVSKI [rgoJ]
an actress who could play a part like Lubov Andreyevna. This
long waiting game never pays.
I have got into the stupidest position : I am here alone and
don't know why. But you are unjust in saying that despite your
work it is "Stanislavski's theatre." You are the one that people
speak about and write about while they do nothing but criticize
Stanislavski for his performance of Brutus. If you leave the
theatre, so will I. Gorki is younger than we and has his own
life to lead. As to the Nizhni-Novgorod theatre, this is only an
episode in his life; Gorki will try it, sniff at it and cast it aside.
I may say in this connection that people's theatres and people's
literature are plain foolishness, something to sweeten up the
people. Gogol shouldn't be pulled down to the people, but the
people raised to Gogol's level.
I would like so much to visit the Hermitage Restaurant, eat
some sturgeon and drink a bottle of wine. Once I drank a bottle
of champagne solo and didn't get drunk, then I had some cognac
and didn't get drunk either.
I'll write you again and in the meantime send my humble
greetings and thanks. Was it Lujski's father that died? I read
about it in the paper today.
Why does Maria Petrovna insist on playing Anya? And why
does Maria Fyodorovna think she is too aristocratic to play
Varya? Isn't she playing in "The Lower Depths," after all? Well,
the devil take them. I embrace you, keep well.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To ALEXANDER VISHNEVSKI
November ], I90J, Yalta
Dear A lexander Leonidovich,
I got your letter and finally am getting around to thanking
you. Since I am coming to Moscow soon, please set aside one
seat for me for "Pillars of Society." I want to have a look at this
 To KO:'-:STA:'-:TI:'-1 STA:'-:ISLAVSKI [rgo;]
amazing Norwegian play and will even pay for the privilege.
Ibsen is my favorite author, you know.
You didn't write how you were getting along, and how your
health is. Are you exhausted? I stay put, cough a lot and run to
the toilet, if you will pardon the expression, five times a day
minimum. One of nature's tricks.
When you dine with us in Moscow, please don't laugh.
I press your hand and send you a thousand heartiest greetings.
I begged so earnestly in my letters that you not be given a part
in "The Cherry Orchard"-now I see my request has been
honored.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To KONSTANTIN STAN ISLAVSKI

November 2J1 rgoJ1 Yalta
Dear Konstantin Sergeyevich1
Haymaking usually takes place from about the twentieth to
the twenty-fifth of June, during which time it seems the corn
crake and the frogs are over their summer music and are silent.
Only the oriole can be heard. There is no cemetery-there had
once been one, but two or three gravestones leaning in disorder
are all that remain. A bridge-that is a very good idea. If you
can get the train into the action without noise, without so much
as a single sound-go ahead. I am not against using the same
scenery in Acts III and IV as long as entrances and exits can be
conveniently managed.
I am impatiently waiting for the day and hour when my wife
will permit me to come to Moscow. Devil take it, I am begin­
ning to suspect her of being foxy with me!
The weather here is quite warm, remarkable weather, but
when one recalls Moscow and the Sandunov baths all this de­
light seems stale and unprofitable.
I sit in my study and keep looking at the telephone. I get my
[ 3 19 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [I904]
telegrams by telephone and am expecting every minute to be
summoned at last to Moscow.
I press your hand heartily and am everlastingly grateful for
your letter. Keep well and happy.
Yours,
A. Chekhov

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
june 6, I904, Berlin
Dear Masha,
I am writing you from Berlin, where I have been for the last
twenty-four hours. Moscow got awfully cold after you left; there
was snow and I probably caught cold on account of it, had
rheumatic pains in my arms and legs, couldn't sleep, got ter­
ribly thin, had morphine injections, took thousands of assorted
medicines and gratefully recall only heroin, which Altshuller
had once prescribed for me. At departure time I picked up new
strength, my appetite carne back, I started dosing myself with
arsenic, and so on and so forth, and finally left for abroad on
Thursday, very skinny, with very thin, spindling legs. I had a
really good, pleasant journey. Here in Berlin we have taken a
comfortable room in the very best hotel and are enjoying our
stay thoroughly; it's been a long time since I've eaten as well,
with as much appetite. The bread here is marvelous and I eat
too much of it, the coffee is excellent and as for the dinners,
they are beyond words. People who haven't been abroad don' t
know what good bread means. There isn't any decent tea here
(we brought along our own), no appetizers, but on the other
hand all the rest is superb, despite its being cheaper than at
horne. I've already put on weight and today even took quite a
long drive to the Tiergarten, although it was cold. And so you
can tell Marna and everyone interested that I am getting better,
or even that I am already better, my legs no longer ache, I don't
have diarrhea, am beginning to fill out, am on my feet all day,
[ 32 0 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r904]
and don't lie down. Tomorrow I am having a visit from the
local celebrity-Prof. Ewald, a specialist in i ntestinal ailments;
Dr. Taube wrote him of me.
I drank some wonderful beer yesterday. . . .
Do keep well and i n good spirits, and may the heavenly angels
guard you. Give my greetings to Mama and tell her everything
is fine now. I'll leave for Yalta in August. Regards also to
Grandma, Arseni and N astya. . . . Let me kiss you.
Your
A. Chekhov
·we forgot to take along our dressing gowns.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA

Dear Masha,
Today we leave Berlin for our prolonged residence on the
Swiss border, where it will probably be very boresome and very
hot. My address is : Herrn Anton Tschechow, Badenweiler,
Germany. As that is the way they spell my name on my docu­
ments here, it must be the way it should be written in German.
It is somewhat cold in Berlin, but nice. The worst thing here,
the thing that intrudes upon your vision piercingly, are the out­
fits of the local ladies. There is a horrible lack of taste, nowhere
do they dress as abominably, with complete absence of taste. I
haven't seen a single handsome woman and not one who isn't
trimmed up with some variety of absurd braid. Now I under­
stand why taste is grafted so slowly and painfully upon the
Moscow Germans. On the other hand, life in Berlin is most
comfortable, the meals are delicious, the prices not high, the
horses are well fed, the dogs, which are harnessed to little carts,
are also well fed, and the streets are clean and orderly. . . .

My legs don't ache any more, I am eating splendidly, sleep

well and dash around Berlin, but my one trouble is shortness
[ 32 1 ]
 To �!ARIA CHEKHOVA [z904]
of breath. I bought myself a summer suit today, Jaeger caps, etc.,
etc., This stuff is much cheaper than it is in Moscow. . . .
Regards to Mama and Vanya. Have a good time and don't get
downhearted if you can avoid it. I press your hand warmly
and kiss you.
Your Anton

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
june I2, z9o4, Badenweiler
Dear Masha,
. . . Villa Friederike, like all the local houses and villas, is a
private house situated in a luxuriant garden, exposed to the
sun, which shines upon me and keeps me warm until seven in
the evening (after that hour I stay indoors). 'Ve take both room
and board here. For fourteen or sixteen marks a day we have a
double room flooded with sunlight, with a washstand, beds, etc.,
e tc., a desk, and the most important thing-marvelous water
which is like seltzer. The general impression is one of a big
garden, with tree-covered mountains in the background, few
people, very little movement on the streets, the garden and the
flowers beautifully tended; but today for no good reason we had
rain, and I must sit indoors, and it seems to me that another few
days like this and I will start thinking of how I can get away.
I continue eating butter in enormous quantities-and with­
out effect. I can't stand milk. The local doctor, Schwohrer (mar­
ried to a girl from Moscow named Zhivo), has turned out to be
proficient and pleasant.
From here we may perhaps take the sea route to Yalta by way
of Trieste, or some other port. I am gaining health here in
leaps and bounds. At least I have learned the right way to keep
myself well fed. I am absolutely forbidden coffee; they say it
has a laxative effect. I am already beginning to eat an occasional
egg. God, how frightfully the German women dress!
I am living on the ground floor. If you could only have some
[ 3 22 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA [r904 ]
idea of the sunshine we have here! It doesn't burn, but caresses.
I have a comfortable armchair in which I can sit or lie down.
I will buy you a watch without fail, I haven't forgotten. How
is Mama's health? How are her spirits? Write me. Give her my
regards. Olga is going to the dentist here, a very good one.
Well, keep healthy and merry. I'll write you again in a few
days.
I bought a lot of this paper in Berlin, and envelopes as well.
I kiss you and press your hand.
Your A.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA
june r6, I904, Badenweiler
Dear Masha,
I had your first postcard today, thanks a lot. I am l iving
among the Germans and have already become accustomed to
my room and my regime but just cannot ever get used to Ger­
man peace and quiet. There's not a sound in the house or out­
side it, except for a band in the garden at 7 in the morning
and at noon, expensive, but no talent in the playing. You feel
there isn't a drop of talent in anything, not a drop of taste, but
on the other hand there is order and honesty, and to spare. Our
Russian life is much more talented, and as for the Italian or
the French, they are beyond comparison.
My health has improved and when I walk I no longer feel
aware of my illness, and j ust walk around calmly; my shortness
of breath has abated, nothing aches, but my illness has left me
painfully thin, and my legs are skinnier than they have ever
been. The German doctors have turned my life upside down.
At 7 A . M . I have tea in bed, and it must definitely be in bed,
for some reason or other; at 7 : 3 0 a German who is a sort of
masseur comes in and rubs me with water, which is not so bad;
then I have to lie down for a while, after which I get up and
drink acorn cocoa and with it eat an enormous quantity of
[ 323 ]
 To MARIA CHEK HOVA [r904]
butter. At 10 o'clock oatmeal, thin, unusually delicious and
aromatic, not at all like our Russian stuff. Fresh air and bask­
ing in the sun. Reading the newspapers. Dinner at one in the
afternoon, at which I can't help myself to all the courses, but
eat only those that Olga chooses for me on orders from the
German doctor. Cocoa again at 4 o'clock. Supper at 7· Before
going to bed I have a cup of strawberry tea to make me sleep.
There is a lot of quackery in all this, but a lot that is actually
good, the oatmeal, for instance. I'm going to take some of their
oatmeal with me.
Olga has j ust left for Switzerland, to have her teeth fixed in
Basle. She will be horne at 5 this afternoon.
I want terribly to go to Italy. I'm very glad Vanya is with you
and give him my regards. Give them to Marna, too. . . .
I am glad everything is going well at horne. I wil l remain here
another three weeks probably, then spend a short time in Italy,
and on to Yalta, perhaps by the sea route.
\Vrite oftener. Tell Vanya to write, too. Keep well and happy.
I kiss you.
Your A.

To MARIA CHEKHOVA1
June 28, rgo4, Badenweiler
Dear lHasha,
A fierce heat wave has come upon us and caught me unawares,
as I have only my winter suits with me. I am stifling and am
considering leaving here. But where to go? I would like to visit
Como in Italy but everybody there has run away on account
of the heat. All southern Europe is hot. I would like to take the
steamer from Trieste to Odessa but don't know how feasible
this is during June and July. \Vould you mind perhaps inquir­
ing from Georgie what kind of boats they have on that run?
1 This is the last letter Chekhov 'uote. He died four days later in Baden­
weiler, on July 2, 1 904.

[ 32 4 ]
 To MARIA CHEKHOVA (z904]
Have they comfortable accommodations? Do they make long
stops, is the food good, etc., etc.? This would be an invaluable
trip for me, but only if the ship were a good one. George2 would
do me a great favor if he would cable me at my exp ense. The
cable should take this form: "Badenweiler Tschechow. Bien. 1 6.
Vendredi." These words would mean : bien-the steamer is all
right. Sixteen-number of days the trip takes, Vendredi-the
day the steamer leaves Trieste. Of course I am only giving the
form of the cable, and if the steamer leaves on a Thursday it
certainly won't do to write Vendredi.
It won't be a calamity if the trip is a somewhat hot one, as I
will be wearing a light flannel suit. I might as well confess I am
rather afraid of making it by train. The coaches are suffocating
in this kind of weather, especially with my shortness of breath,
which the least little nothing makes worse. Besides, there are
no sleeping cars from Vienna right through to Odessa, so it
would be a restless trip. Then too, the train gets one home
faster than necessary and I haven't yet had my fill of traveling.
It is very hot, enough to make you strip. I just don't know
what to do. Olga went to Freiburg to order my flannel suit­
there are no tailors or shoemakers in Badenweiler. She took
the suit Duchard made for me as a sample.
I am eating really delicious food, but not much of it as my
stomach is always getting out of order. I daren't eat the butter
here. Apparently my stomach has been hopelessly spoiled and it
is hardly possible to set it to rights by any means short of fast­
ing, i.e. to stop eating-and that's that. As for the shortness of
breath, there is only one remedy-not to move.
You don't see a single decently dressed German woman, the
lack of taste is depressing.
Keep well and happy, regards to Mama, Vanya, George,
Auntie and all the rest. ·write. I kiss you and press your hand.
Your
A.
2 Chekhov's cousin George worked for a steamship line.
 INDEX

Academy of Sciences, 205, 25g-26o, 263, Chekhov, 1\Iitrofan (uncle) . 28, 2g, 34•
303, 303n, 307 3g . 1 82
A larm Clock, The, 7• 1 6 Chekhov, Pavel, xiv, xv, 48, 88, • 35·
Alexander Theatre, 250 1 82 , 1 85, 1 86, 1 86n, 20 1 2og, 226, 227
Altshuller, Doctor Isaac, 267, 300, 320 Chekhova, Elena, 288
Andreyev, Leonid, 2g3, 2g5, 307 Chekhova, Evgenia, xiv, xv, 47 • • 35•
Andreye,•a, Maria, letter to, 282 1 82, 20 1 , 2og, 2 1 4, 226, 227, 240, 265,
Anna Karenina, 57• 174 267, 274 -275, 278, 27g, 286, 287, 288,
Annals of Surgery, 1 go to 1 g 1 300, 3 1 0, 3 1 1 , 323; letter to, 1 22 ; tele­
A n t igone, 225 gram to, 286
Artem, Alexander, 2 g 1 , 306, 3 1 7 Chekhova, Maria, 47• Bg, 1g5, 201 , 203,
A rtist, The, 1 8 1 208, 258, 26o, 2 7 1 , 273, 276, 27g, 287n,
Astyrev, Nikolai, 166, 166n 288, 2Bg, 2gB, 300, 302, 3 1 1 , 3 1 2 , 3 1 4 ;
Asya, 1 74 letters to, 25, 36, 37· 1 0 1 , 103, 1 05,
Avilova, Lydia, letters to, 163, 2 1 2 , 225, 1 08, 1 35 · • 3g. 140, 143· 146 . • 75 · 1 84,
237 2 1 2, 238. 245· 267, 274· 286, 287, 30.f ,
320, 32 1 , 322, 323, 324
Balmont, Konstantin, 2g3 Chekhova, Olga, see Knipper, Olga
Barantsevich, Kasimir, 25g Chekhova, Olga Hennanovna, letter to,
Baryatinski, Prince, 25g 220
Batushkov, Fyodor, letter to, 2 6 1 Chekhova, Sasha, 1 84
Bear, The, 57• 66, 2gB Cherry Orchard, The, xxv, XX\i, 204,
Bertenson, Doctor Lev, 73 3 1 4 , 3 1 4n, 3 1 5 , 3 1 6-3 1 7 , 3 1 g
Bourget, Paul, 82, 82n, 83, 84, 1 87 Children, The, 1 36
Bunin, Ivan, 5· 2gg Chirikov, Evgeni, 237, 270
Burenin, Victor, 4 1 , 65, •35· 1 35n, 1 68, Cosmopolis, 1 87
243 Cosmopolis (magazine) , 2 1 6
Bykov, Pyotr, letter to, 164 Czar Fyodor Ioannovich, 223, 223n
Byron, Lord, 173
D'Aiheim, Olenina, 3 1 1
Cantani, Method, 1 67 , 16g Dalidov, Denis, 1 7 2
Chekhov, Alexander, x,·i, X\ii, 45• 288; Davidov, Vladimir, 40, 4 3 · 66, 7 7
letters to, 22, 40, 4 2 , 47· 1 8 1 , 1 85, 1g7. Diaghilev, Serge, 243
20g, 2 2 1 , 222, 234 · 2,!0, 2,13 Diakonov, Pyotr, 1 go
Chekhov, han, 47. 1 5 1 , 160, 20 1 , 2 76, Dilemma, A., 307
285, 288, 324; letter to, 1 42 Diversion, 7
Chekhov, Mikhail, 1 23, 1 35, 147, 148, Dog, The, 1 74
155. 1 6o, 175. 1 76, 288, 3 1 2 ; letters to, Dolzhenko, Alexei, 288
45· 14.j, •g3. 226, 26-t Dragon Fly, 1 6 1
Chekhov, Nikolai, xvi, xvii, 6, 22, 43• Drey[us Case, 201 -202, 2 1 6 t o 220, 2 2 1 ,
105, 107, 16o; letter to, 10 2 4 1 n, 3 1 0

[ 3 27 ]
 INDEX

Duel, The, 1 48n, 1 55, 161 Just, Elena, 232, 242 (see also Shav­
D use, Eleanora, 139 rova, Elena)

Eberle, \'arnra,1 80 Kachalov, Vasili, 3o6, 3 1 1

Enel, Alexander, 229; l etter to, 2 1 0 Karelin's Dream, 23, 24, 25
Eugene Onegin, 5 7 • 144n Karpov, Evtikhi, 256, 256n
Kennan, George, 9 1 , 9 1 n, 158
Fair, The, 24 1 Khudekov, Sergei, 67
Father Petrov, 242, 242n Kicheyev, Pyotr, 4 1 , 4 1 n, 42
Fathers and Sons, 1 74 Kiseleva, Maria, 4 ; letters to, 15, 1 7 ,
Faust, 1 79 143
First-class Passenger, The, 64 Kiselevski, h·an, 40, 4 1 , 43· 75
Fofanov, Konstantin, 97• 97n, 1 77 Knipper, Anna, 254, 254n, 304, 304n
Folly of the Mir, 23 1 Knipper, Olga, 204, 205 to 2 07, 224n,
Foma Gordeyev, 244, 248, 266, 270 225, 245, 255n, 286, 287, 287n, 292n,
Fragments, 6, 6n, 16 303, 304, 304 "· 305 , 300 , 3 1 1 , 3 1 2, 314,
3 1 7, 323, 324, 325; letters to, 243, 246,
Galkin-Vraski, :\likhail, 84n, 1 29, 169; 249· 250, 253 · 255· 257 . 267 . 26g, 271 .
let terto, 84 272, 273· 275· 277, 278, 283, 284, 288,
Garshin, Vsevolod, 9i· 9;n, 1 73 28g, 291, 292, 293· 294· 297· 299· 302,
Glama, Alexandra, 40 308, 309, 3 1 1
Gloomy People, 95· 95n, 1 6 1 Koch, Robert, 1 34, 1 35
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, X\iii, 1 2, 83 Kommisarjevskaya, Vera, 196, 1 97, 275
Gogo!, �ikolai, 1 52n, 3 18 Kondakov, :\'ikodim, 259
Goltsev, Victor, 6o Koni, Anatol, 137. 2 16; letter to, 1 g6
Goncharov, Ivan, 8 1 , 8 1 n Ko nonovich , General, 1 29
Gorki, Maxim, 204, 205, 237, 24 1 , 26 1 , Korolenko, \'ladimir, 2 1 , 44• 1 35, 157,
272, 274, 275, 292, 293, 294, 294 n , 2 95 • 1 7 1 , 2 1 9, 223, 229, 303n; letters to,
2g6 , 297, 298, 301 , 303 , 303n, 307, 303, 307
3o;n, 309· 3 1 1 , 3 1 3, 3 1 8; letters to, Korsh, Fyodo r, 16, 40, 4 1 , 57• 59· 63
228, 230, 24 1, 242, 244 , 248, 265, 270, Kovalevski, .Maxim, 2 1 8, 2 18n
2ii. 290, 305 Kreutzer Sonata, 85, 88, 152n, 260
Grigormich, Dmitri, 66, 78, 136, l i S; Krylov, Ivan, 14, 1 4 n, 53
[Link], Fyodor, 1 8 1
letters to, 8, 23
Kundasova, Olga, 102, 102n, 1 36, 186,
Grim People, 3 1 4n
1 86n
Kuprin, Alexander, 299
Herald of Europe,52, 6 1 , 70, 100, 1 95
Kurkin, Pyotr, letter to, 260
Hingley, Edward,5
Hirshman, Leonard, 2 1 6
Lanov, Vukol. xxi, xxii; letter to, 99
Humboldt, Alexander, 9 1 , g 1 n
Leikin, N ikolai, 6n, 45· 63, 65, 163, 164,
Huntsman, The, g
1 83; letter to, 6
Lenin, �ikolai, 242n
Ibsen, Henrik, 319 Leontiev (Shcheglov) , Ivan, 46, 55· 64,
Inhabitant (Alexander Dykov) , 1 68 67, 1 36, 1 6 1 ; letters to, 49· 95· 1 25
In .\ly Dreams, 309 Lehman, Anatoli, 49
In the Twilight, 52, 106, 1 6 1 , 232 Letters to a Govemors Jl!ife, 152, 1 52n
Iva n ov, xiii, 5· 40, 40n, 42, 43• 68, Gg. Le\itan, Isaac, 17, 1 8, 19, 43• Sg, 102,
6gn, 70, 7 1 , 72, 73• 74• 75• 76, 77• 8 • , 1 36, 1 4 1 , 147· 256, 258
82, 250, 293· 298 Life, 23 1 , 249, 258, 270

[ 328 ]
 INDEX

Lights, The, 54 · 58 Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir, xxiv,

Lilina, Maria, 3 1 6, 3 1 8; letter to, 301 202, 203, 2 1 5, 223, 238, 268, 277, 279·
Lintvarev Family, 5 1 , 52, 53· 54 280, 2 8 1 , 294, 3og; letters to, t g8, 224,
Little Cyril, 231 232, 256, 257 "· 3 1 6
Lonely Lives, 255n, 258, 258n, 267, 277, Nervous Breakdown, 66
284n, 3 1 1 Nest of Gentlefolk, A, 174
Lower Depths, 2g8, 2g8n, 305 t o 306, New Times, 3· 4• t 6, 34· 37• 38, 43 · 45•
3 1 1 , 3 ' 3· 3 1 6, 3 1 8 49· 67, 79· 95• 1 25, 136n, 158, 159,
Lull Before the Storm, 1 74 2 1 6, 2 2 1 , 222n, 223, 235, 239• 258, 264,
Luna cha rski , Anatol, 299, 2ggn 265, 295, 2g6, 2g6n
New York Times, 158
Magarshack, David, xxi Nietzsche, Friedrich, t 88
Malkiel, Maria, 243; letter to, 256 Nizlmi Novgorod Blade, 270
Malva, 229, 241 Nordau, Max, 1 79
Maly Theatre, 236, 238n North, The, t 8 t
Mamyshev, Vassili, 6o Northern Courier, 259
Manasevich, Albert, 26g, 26gn Northern Herald, 44· 49• 52, 58, 6o, 6 t ,
Marx, Adolf, 233, 234, 234n, 235, 238, 95· 100
240, 250, 264, 274; letter to, 3 1 0
Marx, Karl, 53 Obolenski, L. E., 2 1
Maslov-Bejetski, Alexei, 42, 43· 63n, O n the Eve, 174
136 On the High Road, IOn
Meierhold, Vsevolod, 258, 268, 29 1 , 3 1 1 On the Rafts, 229, 230
Menshikov, Mikhail, letter to, 262 On the Road, 1 7 , 2 1
Merejkowski, Dmi tri, 55· 55n, 6o, 62, O n the Steppe, 228, 230, 237, 24 1 , 249
1 42, 296 Orlov, Ivan, letter to, 235
Mikhail Kramer, 285 Orlov-Da\idov, Count, 1 70, 1 7 1
Mikhailov (Alexander Sheller), 73, 73" Ostrovski, Alexander, 276n
Mikhailovski, Nikolai, 4, 72, 259 Ostrovski, Pyotr, 94
Mikhailovski-Garin, M. G., 3 1 4 , 3 1 5 Ouida, 1 48
Mire, 1 7 , 20 Ozerova, Ludmilla, t 8g

Mirolubov, Victor, t8o; letter to, 295

Mizinova, Lydia, Sg, 1 36 ; letters to,
Palmin, Liodor, 67
Party, The, 57• 58, 59
150, ' 73· 179
Peasants, The, 261
Morozov, Savva, 303, 303n
Petrov, Father, 242, 242n
Morozova, Varvara, 1 59, 15gn, t6o
Physician, The, 200
Moscow Art Theatre, xxiv, 202, 203,
Pillars of Society, 3 1 8
204, 205, 225"· 249· 254· 256, 258, 268,
Pleshcheyev, Alexei, 46, 5 2 , 54· 1 33 ;
26gn, 2 7 1 , 284n, 285, 293, 303n, 3 1 1 ,
letters t o , 4 4 · 5 5 · 85
3 ' 3 · 3 1 6·3 1 7
Polanetskis, The, 1 87
Moscow News, 42
Porphiri, Bishop, 234
Moscow Reports, 42 Potapenko, Ignati, 88, 1 35, t 8 t , 1 87,
Moskvin, Ivan, 223n, 300, 316, 3 1 7 '95· 195n, 2o8, 223, 229, 264
Motley Stories, t 6 t , 232 Power of Darkness, The, t 8g
My Companion, 266 Princess, The, 68
Pushkin, Alexander, 148, 1 48n
Nadson, Semyon, 1 7 1 P us hkin Prize, 87. 87n, t 6 t , 252
Naidenov, Sergei, 309, 3 10
Nazimova, Alia, 28g, 2 8gn Repin, llya, 95. 95n, 1 7 1 , 261

[ 3 29 ]
 INDEX

Resurrection, 2 1 0, 263, 270 223, 239-240, 241n, 256, 264, 265,

Rimsky-Korsakov, :-.:ikolai, 2j6n 302, 309; letters to, 5 1 , 56, 6o, 64, 6;,
Roche, Denis, 261 , 2 6 r n 6g, i7• i9• So, 82, g r , g8, 1 1 9, 1 26,
Rossolimo, Grigori, letter to, 251 1 29, 1 3 1 , 1 33, q S, q g , 1 50, 1 52, 1 55 .
Roxanova, Maria, 242n, 249, 293 162, 165, r 6;, 1 7 1 , 1 74. 1 76, I i i• 1 82 ,
Rozano\', \'asili, 2g6, 2g6n 1 86, r 8 j , r8g, 1 9 1 , 1 92, 1 94, 208, 2 1 5,
Rudin, i4 2 1 6, 223, 231, 233· 259· 3 1 3
Russian Sews, 1 85 Suvorina, Anna, 4 3 , 45· 46, 59· 6o, 195,
Russian Reports, 1 58, 1 59· r 6o 265; letters to, 2 1 4, 239
Russian Thought, 15, 1 6, gg, r oo Swan Song, 2 1 n

St. Petersburg Ga:ette, 7• 1 6 , 34• 37• Tales from the Life of My Friends, 79
r 8g Tatiana Repina, 82
St. Petersburg Reports 24 Tatishche\', Sergei, 1 70
Sakhalin Island, 88, r6g, 1 82, 200 Tchaikovski, Modest, letter to, 94
Sanin, Alexander, 284, 284n, 3 1 1 Tchaikovski, Pyotr, 54• 95
Sa \ina, :\laria, 66, 6g Teleshov, Nikolai, 293
Schechtel, Franz, ro, 43 Three of Us, 295• 309
Schedrin (:\fikhail Saltykov), 15, 1 5n Three Sisters, The, go, 204, 272, 272n,
Seagull, The, x.x, xxv, Sg, Sgn, go, r 8g, 273 · 2i3n, 2i4· 2i5· 2ii · 2j8, 280, 2 8 1 ,
r 8gn, rg2, 193, r g3n, 1 94 , 195- 1 96, 2 8 1 n, 283, 285, 2go, 309· 3 1 1
197· 202, 203, 204 , 224, 2 3 2-233· 23i • Three }'ears, r 86n
238, 2 4 1 , 242, 249· 25jn, 264. 293 Thunder and Lightning, 66
Sergeyenko, Pyotr, r gg. r ggn, 233; let­ Tikhomirov, Joasaph, letter to, 281
ter to, 300 Tikhonov, Vladimir, letter t o , r6o
Shavro\·a , Elena, letters to, 1 53, r g2, Tiresome Tale, A, xix, xx, 6, 87, 207
1 95 (see also Just, Elena) Tolstoy, Count Alexei, 223n
Shishkin, Ivan, l j i Tolstoy, Leo, X\iii, [Link], x.w ii, 4, 5• 1 8 ,
Sholom Aleichem, letter to, 3 1 4 2 1 , s5• 9 5 • r o6, q s , 152, 1 52n, 1 53,
Sibirya k-Mamin, Dmitri, r o6, 229 155• 1 56, 1 6 1 , 166, I i4• I 78, 1 82n, 1 88,
Sienkiewicz, Henryk, I 8 j· I 88 r 8g, r g r , 20 1 , 208, 2 1 0, 2 16, 23 1 , 2 4 1 ,
Simono\', Alexander, ro6, 1 07 260, 262-263, 264, 265, 279, 280, 28on,
Sklifasovski, N. V., 1 go , 1 9 1 285, 285 "· 292, 293· 295· 2g6, 299, 300,
Small Folk, 2go-2g r , 2gon, 294, 29i• 306 301 , 303
Smoke, 1 74 Turgenev, I van, xviii, 1 8, 6g, 1 74 to
Snow Maiden, The, 276, 276n, 277 1 75· 1 83, 2 1 8, 302
Sobolevski, Vasili, 1 60, 2 1 5; letters to, Twent)'·si.� Men and a Girl, 270
2 1 1 , 28;
Solo\'tSO\', K N., 298, 2g8n Uncle Vanya, go, 204, 227, 228, 236n,
Stanislavski, Konstantin, xxiv, xxv, 202, 238, 238n, 239. 249. 250, 25on, 253 •
203, 204, 223, 232, 242n, 257, 25;n, 255 · 255n, 256, 257 · 265 . 267, 271 ,
272, 29 1 , 2g8, 301 , 305n, 306, 3 1 1 , 3 1 3, 282, 292, 3 1 1
3 1 6, 3 1 8 ; letters to, 28o, 282, 2g6, 305, Uspenski, Gleb, 1 35. 158
3 14- 315, 319
Steppe, The, 4 4 , 45n, 4 6 Vasilievski, Ippolit, 1 85
Story of a Horse, 1 5 3 Veresayev (Vikenti Smido\·ich), 237
Strindberg, August, 242 Veselitskaya, Lydia, 195. 195n
Sulerjitski, Leopold, letter to, 3 1 1 Vishnevski, Alexander, 257, 267, 26g,
Suvorin, Alexei, xxii, 3 , g , 1 7, Sg, go, 2 7 1 , 273, 304, 3o6, 3 1 1 , 3 1 5 , 3 1 7 ; l et ­
104, 1 36, 157, r86n, 20 1 , 202, 22 1 -222, ter to, 3 1 8

[ 33 0 ]
 INDEX

Visiting with Friends, 2 1 6 World Wide Illustration, 164 to 165

Von Hildeband, Baroness, 1 2 9n, 1 35
Voltaire, 2 1 9 Yakovenko, Vladimir, letter to, 200
Yasinski, Ieronym, 99· 164
War and Peace, 155, 156 Yasnaya Polyana, 1 82 , 1 82n
Ward No. 6, 1 7 1 , 208 Yegorov, Yevgraf, letter to, 156
Wedding, The, 9·1 Yevreinova, Anna, 66
Wild Duck, The, 285
Witch, The, 9 Zla tovratski, Nikolai, 97 • 97n
Witte, Count Serge, 1 82 to 1 83, 1 9 1 Zola, Emile, 1 5, 201 , 2 1 6-220, 221, 222,
Wood Demon, The, 8 1 -82, go , 95· 204 222n, 24 1 n, 309·3 1 0

[ 331 ]