Polenichka, keeps jumping down from his seat to adjust 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.
I bought Aunty Feodosia Yakovlevna an icon.
The monastic food was offered free to all the i5,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: "Artesial 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 "artesial."
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
November 20, 1887, Moscow
'Vell, the first night[1] 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.
Act One. 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: not 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.
Act 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. But—oh l\Iuse!—This act was also a success. Everybody was called out, me too, twice. General congratulations all around.
Act 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.
Act 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.
between scenes, mutters. The curtain rises. Beautifuclass="underline" 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 listen to such hot words as they heard that night. And there had never before been an occasion at Korsh'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.
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
November 24, /887, 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 playi (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?"