jelly—
. . . 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 family. 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
Misha'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.
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, 1890, 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 f0r y0u pers0nally; 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, 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 dcsire 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 leathcr trash which has the convenience of flattening itself into any shape you please on the floor of the carriage. I paid iG 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 one today for 130 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. . . .
Stop! 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 it was the thing to do. But now! Here's another observation: travenng 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.m. 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. . . .