Forgive the length of this letter and please accept the sincere good wishes of your devoted
A. Chekhov
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
April 7-19, i88j, Taganrog. Gentle readers and devout listeners,
I am continuing with some trepidation, observing chrono- logical order.
2nd of April. Traveling from Moscow to Serpukhov was 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. . . . O 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- 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,! a mighty young lad, dressed to kilclass="underline" 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 judgment? 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
Yegorushka was Chckhov's cousin.
Vladimirchik, Sasha, Lclia wcrc young cousins.
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 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.