I embrace you warmly. I kiss Anna Ivanovna's both hands and bow to the ground before her. It is raining. So long, and be well and happy. If my letters are short, negligent or dry, don t grumble, for one cannot always be oneself on one's travels and write as one would wish. The ink is miserable, and little hairs and lumps are eternally sitting on my pen.
Your
A. Chekhov
T0 EVGENIA CHEKHOVA
June 7, 1890, Irkutsk ... I have changed my route drastically. From Khabarovsk (see map) I am journeying not to Nikolayevsk but to Vladivos- tok along the Ussuri and from there to Sakhalin. I must have a look at the Ussuri region. In Vladivostok I'm going to do some sea bathing and eat oysters.
It was cold until Kansk; starting from there we began head- ing south. The greenery is just as dense as at your place, and even the oaks have put forth their leaves. The birches are darker here than in Russia and in their foliage not as sentimen- tal. There are masses of sweet cherries, which here take the place of lilacs and sour cherries. They say they make excellent preserves. I ate some, pickled; nothing special.
I have two lieutenants and a medical corps doctor as company on the trip. They got a travel allowance three times the usual amount but have gone through it, although the three of them are making the trip in only one carriage. They are without a sou and waiting for fresh funds. Nice people. Each of them has had an allowance of around 1500-2000 rubles, with the expenses of the road amounting to practically nothing (not counting stopovers, of course). They pass their time calling down people in hotels and at stations, so that everybody is terribly afraid to ask them for payments. I spend less than usual when in their company.
It would be best to request an accounting from the bookstore in August, around the tenth or twentieth; then send the letter to Kondratiev. . . .
For the first time in my life I saw a Siberian cat today. It has long, soft fur and a gentle disposition.
I felt lonesome for you and sent off a wire today, asking you to pool your funds and answer me at greater length. It wouldn't be a tragedy for all you Luka residents to ruin yourself to the extent of five rubles.
How do matters stand with regard to civilian admirers and psychic influence? With whom has Misha fallen in love and what lucky girl is Ivanenko telling about his uncle? And what about Vata? I must be in love with Jamais, for I saw her in my dreams last night. In comparison . . . with all these oafs who don't know how to dress, sing, or laugh, our J amais, Drish- kas and Gundasikhas are virtual queens. Siberian women and misses are frozen fish. You'd have to be a walrus or seal to have an affair with them . . . .
Mama, how are your legs? Are you following the advice of Kuzmin, who charged you five rubles for it? How are Auntie and Alyosha? Send my regards when you write. . . .
The Siberian highways have their scurvy little stations, like the Ukraine. They pop up every 20 or 25 miles. You drive at night, on and on, until you feel giddy and ill, but you keep on going, and if you venture to ask the driver how many miles it is to the next station, he invariably says not less than twelve.
This is particularly agonizing when you have to drive at a walk along a muddy, rutted road, and when you are thirsty. I have taught myself how to get along without sleep and don't care a bit if I am awakened. Ordinarily you won't sleep for a day and a night, then at dinnertime of the following day you begin feeling tension in the eyelids; that evening and late at night, particularly at daybreak and the morning of the follow- ing day, you drowse in the carriage and you may happen to fall asleep in a sitting position for a moment; at dinner and after dinner, while the horses are being harnessed at the sta- tions, you loll about on the sofa and it is only that night that the ordeal begins. In the evening, after having drunk five glasses of tea, your face starts naming and your entire body suddenly droops with fatigue and wants to bend backward; your eyelids stick together, your feet itch in your big boots, your brain is in confusion. If you allow yourself to spend the night somewhere you immediately fall into a dead stupor; if you have suflicient will power to continue, you fall asleep in the carriage, no matter how strong the jolting is; at the stations the drivers wake you up, as you have to crawl out of the car- riage and pay the charges; they wake you not so much with their voices and tugging at your sleeve as with the stench of garlic emanating from their mouths; they stink of onion and garlic to a point of nausea. I taught myself to sleep in a vehicle only after Krasnoyarsk. On the way to Irkutsk I once slept through 40 miles, during which I was awakened only once. But slumber in a vehicle does not refresh. It is not sleep, but a sort of unconscious situation which results in a muddy head and vile-tasting mouth. . . .
By the way, you ought to be looking for a farm. Upon my return to Russia I am going to have a rest for five years or so, i.e., am going to stay put and take it easy. A farm would be most appropriate. I believe money can be found, for my affairs are not going badly. If I work off the advance I have had (I'm halfway there), next spring I shall certainly take two or three thousands' advance to be paid off in installments over a five- year period. This won't trouble my conscience, as my books have already earned the "New Times" bookstore more than two or three thousands, and will earn even more. I plan not to take up anything serious until I am thirty-five; I'd like to have a try at personal life, which I once had but didn't have any regard for owing to various circumstances. . . .
Anyway, keep well. There's nothing more to write about. My regards to all.
Your
A. Chekhov
To NIKOLAI LEIKIN
June 20,1890, The Amur near Gorbitza Greetings, my dear Nikolai Alexeyevich,
I write the above lines as I approach Gorbitza, one of the Cossack settlements on the banks of the Shilka, a tributary of the Amur. So this is where I have got to! I am sailing the Amur.
I sent you a letter from Irkutsk. Did you get it? More than a week has elapsed since then, during which I made the crossing of the Baikal and traversed the Baikal region. The Baikal is astonishing, and it is with good cause that the Siber- ians entitle it not a lake, but a sea. The water is unusually limpid, so that you can see through it as. you do through air; its color is tenderly turquoise, pleasant to the eye. The shores are mountainous and wooded; all about are impenetrable, sun- less thickets. There is an abundance of bears, sables, wild goats and all kinds of wild game, which occupies itself in existing in the taiga and making meals out of one another. I spent two days on the banks of the Baikal.
It was quiet and hot during the sailing.
The Baikal area is magnificent; it is a mixture of Switzerland, the Don and Finland.
I covered over 26oo miles on horses. The trip was entirely satisfactory. I was well throughout and of all my baggage lost only a penknife. God grant that everyone make as good a journey. Traveling is absolutely safe, and all those stories about runaways, night assaults and such are nothing but fairy tales, legends of days gone by. A revolver is a completely super- fluous article. I am now sitting in a first-class cabin and feel I am in Europe. My spirits are as high as if I had just passed an examination.
A whistlc. That's Gorbitza. So long, then, keep healthy and happy. If I am lucky I will post this letter, if not, I will wait until we reach the Cossack village of Pokrovsk, where I expect to be tomorrow. The mails go but seldom from the Amur, scarcely more than three times a month.