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 (twice) and the fourth, but this time without the hissing.
There you have it. My "Ivanov" is on again on \Vednesday.
1 Ivanov.
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 it, 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.
\Vell, 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 Korsh 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.
\Vhat's wrong with Anna Ivanovna? Allah Keriml The St. Petersburg climate is not for her.
I received the 40 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
February 9, /888, 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. \Vhen, 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 48 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 . . . .
You write that you liked Dymov.i • • • 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 MIKHAIL CHEKHOV
March 15, 1888, 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 Italian?"
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. His 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." "The Steppe." I visited the Pleshcheyevs, Shcheglovs and some others and tonight I am going to Polonski'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 120 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," Polonski'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 well-bred physiognomy; it feels a bit strange to have him walking around me reverently on tiptoe and trying to anticipate my every wish.