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.
ijth of April. 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.
"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. My 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 100 rubles from the "Petersburg Gazette." As for "New Times," I can't tell you anything yet.
Father Vasili is dangerously ill. . . .
Loboda'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 . . . .
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.
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 MARIA CHEKHOVA
April 25, /887, 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 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, justices 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