March 17, 1891, St. Petersburg
I have just seen Duse, the Italian actress, in Shakespeare's "Cleopatra." I don't understand Italian, but she performed so brilliantly I seemed to understand every word. What an actress! I have never seen anything like her. [I looked at Duse and worked myself into a state of anguish at the thought that we have to educate our temperaments and tastes through the med- ium of such wooden actresses as X and her like, whom we con- sider great because we haven't any better. After Duse I could understand why the Russian theatre is so dreary.]x
I sent you a draft today for three hundred rubles. Did you get i t? . . .
Tomorrow at half past one we leave for Warsaw. All of you keep alive and well. My regards to all and sundry, even to the mongoose, who doesn't deserve to be remembered.
I will write.
Yours entirely,
A. Chekhov
1 For reasons known only to bureaucrats and to scholars who come under their influence, the section in brackets was omitted in the new Soviet edition of Chekhov's complete works.
March 20, /89/, Vienna
My Czech friends,
I write this from Vienna, where I arrived yesterday afternoon at four. The trip came off very well. From 'Varsaw to Vienna I traveled like a railway Nana in a luxurious compartment of the "International Sleeping Car Company"; beds, mirrors, huge windows, carpets and so on.
Ah, my good Tungus friends, if you could only know how fine Vienna is! Comparing it with any of the cities I have seen in my lifetime is out of the question. The streets are broad, elegantly paved, there is a quantity of boulevards and squares, the apartment houses are all six or seven storeys high, and the shops—they are not shops but utter dizziness, dreams! They have millions of neckties alone in the windows! 'Vhat stunning things of bronze, china, leather! The churches are huge, yet they do not overpower one with their immensity, but caress the sight, because they seem to be spun out of lace. Particularly exquisite are St. Stephen's Cathedral and the Votivkirche. They are not buildings, but petits fours. The Parliament, the Town Hall and the University are splendid. . . . Everything is splen- did, and only yesterday and today have I truly realized that architecture is an art. And here this art doesn't show up in isolated examples, as it does at home, but extends miles on end. There are numerous monuments. Every little side-street is sure to have its bookshop. You can see Russian books, too, in their windows, but alas! not the works of Albov, or Barantsevich, or Chekhov, but of assorted anonymities who write and get their stuff printed abroad. I saw "Renan," "The Secrets of the 'Vin- ter Palace," etc. Funny, you can read and say whatever you like.
Try to realize, O ye of little faith, 'vhat the cabs are like here, devil take them! They don't have droshkis, but spic-and-span, pretty little carriages drawn by one, or oftener by two horses. The horses are admirable. In the coachman's seat repose dandies in jackets and derbies reading newspapers. The soul of courtesy and service.
The meals are superlative. There is no vodka, but people drink beer and very decent wine. One thing grates: you have to pay for the bread served. When you get your bill you are asked, "Wieviel Brodchen?" i.e., how many rolls did you gobble? And they charge you for every roll you've eaten.
The women are beautiful and elegant. On the whole I would say everything is fiendishly elegant.
I haven't entirely forgotten my German; I understand what people say and people understand me.
Snow was falling as we crossed the border, but there is no snow in Vienna, though it remains cold.
I am lonesome for home and miss you all; besides, my con- science bothers me for having deserted you. Though it's not so terrible, for when I return I'll sit glued to one spot a whole year. My regards to all and everyone!
Papa, be so good as to buy for me at Sytin's or anywhere you like a popular print of St. Varlaam in which the saint is de- picted riding on a sleigh, and on a little balcony in the distance stands the bishop; underneath the drawing is a picture of St. Varlaam's dwelling. Please put it on my desk. . . .
My very best wishes. Don't forget this miserable sinner. My deepest respects to all, I embrace you, bless you and remain,
Your loving
A. Chekhov
Everybody we meet recognizes us as Russians and doesn't look at my face but at my grizzly-furred cap. From it they probably figure I am a very wealthy Russian count . . . .
My compliments to handsome Levitan.
March 24, i8gi, Venice I am now in Venice, where I arrived the day before yesterday from Vienna. I can say one thing: never in my life have I seen a more remarkable town than Venice. It is full of enchantment, glitter, the joy of life. There are canals instead of streets and lanes, gondolas instead of cabs, the architecture is amazing, and there isn't a spot that doesn't stir either historical or artistic interest. You skim along in a gondola and gaze upon the palaces of the doges, the house where Desdemona lived, the homes of celebrated artists, temples of religion. . . . These temples con- tain sculptures and paintings magnificent beyond our wildest dreams. In a word, enchantment.
All day long, from morning to night, I loll in a gondola and float through the streets or else wander about the famous St. Mark's Square, which is as smooth and clean as a parquet floor. Here is St. Mark's Cathedral—something impossible to describe —the palaces of the doges and buildings that give me the same feeling I get listening to music; I am aware of astounding beauty and revel in it.
And the evenings! Good God in heaven! Then you feel like dying with the strangeness of it all. You move along in your gondola. It is warm, calm, the stars gleam. . . . There are no horses in Venice, and so the silence is that of the countryside. All about you drift other gondolas. . . . Here is one hung about with little lanterns. In it sit bass viol, violin, guitar, mandolin and cornet players, two or three ladies, a couple of men—and you hear singing and instrumental music. They sing operatic arias. What voices! You glide on a bit farther and again come upon a boat with singers, then another; and until midnight the air is filled with a blend of tenor voices and violin music and sounds that melt one's heart.
Merejkowski, whom I met here, has gone wild with rapture. It is not hard for a poor and humble Russian to lose his mind in this world of beauty, wealth and freedom. You feel like remaining here forever, and when you go to church and listen to the organ you feel like becoming a Catholic.
The tombs of Canova and Titian are superb. Here eminent artists are buried in churches like kings; here art is not despised, as it is with us; the churches offer a refuge to statues and pic- tures, no matter how naked they may be.
There is a picture hanging in the palace of the doges that portrays about ten thousand human figures.
Today is Sunday. A band is to play on St. Mark's Square.
At any rate, keep well, and my best wishes to you all. If you ever happen to be in Venice, you will consider it the best time of your life. You should have a look at the glass manufac- tures! . . .
I'll write some more, but so long for now.
Your A. Chekhov
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
March 29 0r ;0, 1891, Fl0rence
I am in Florence and have exhausted myself running through museums and churches. I saw the Medici Venus and find that if she were dressed in modern clothing she would look ugly, especially around the waist. I am well. The sky is overcast, and Italy without sunshine is like a person in a mask. Keep well.
Your
Antonio
The monument to Dante is beautiful.
T0 MARIA KISELEVA
April 1, 1891, R0me The Pope of Rome directs me to congratulate you on your birthday and wish you as much money as he has rooms. And he has eleven thousand of them! Staggering through the Vatican