Then Suvorin arrived in Moscow. . . . Suvorin had influenza; usually when he comes to Moscow we spend days on end to- gether discussing literature, which he knows admirably. This time, too, we had discussions and it wound up with my catching his influenza, going to bed and coughing furiously. Korolenko was in Moscow and found me suffering. A lung complication kept me languishing indoors a whole month doing absolutely nothing. 1\'ow my affairs are looking up, but I am still coughing and am very thin. Here you have my story. If it were not for the influcnza, perhaps we together would have managed to wrest two or three thousands, or even more, from the public, depending upon circumstances.
Your exasperation with the press is entirely understandable. The snap judgments of newspaper writers vex you, who are familiar with the true state of affairs, as much as the snap judg- ments of laymen on diphtheria vex me, a medical man. But what would you have one do, I ask you? Russia is not England, nor France. Our newspapers are not rich and have very few people at their disposal. Sending an academy professor or Engel- hardt to the Volga is expensive; sending a well-equipped, gifted newspaperman is also impossible—he is needed in the home oflice. The "New York Times" could arrange for a census of the famine provinces at its owra expense, could put a Kennan into every district, paying him forty rubles a day—and some- thing purposeful would come of it; but what can "Russian Re- ports" or "New Times" do, newspapers that consider a hundred- thousand-ruble profit as the wealth of Croesus? As to the corre- spondents themselves, you know these are city folks who are acquainted with rural life solely through the works of Gleb Uspenski. Their position is untenable in the extreme. Make a quick dash into a district, sniff around, give it a writeup and get going to the next. The man has neither material means, freedom of action nor authority. For two hundred rubles a month he keeps dashing around and praying God people won't get mad at him for his unintentional and unavoidable misrep- resentations. He feels he is to blame. But you know it is not he who should be blamed, but Russian black ignorance. At the service of the 'Vestern correspondent are excellent maps, en- cyclopedias, statistical studies; in the 'Vest you can write up your report without leaving your house. But here? Our cor- respondent can dredge up information only from conversations and rumors. Why, in all of our Russia only three districts have been investigated thus far: Cherepov, Tambov and one other. That is for all Russia! The newspapers lie that correspondents are roisterers, but what can they do? And not writing is impos- sible. If our press were silent you will agree with me the situa- tion would be even more horrible.
Your letter and your project regarding the purchase of cattle from the peasants galvanized me into action. I am ready with all my heart and all my energies to carry out whatever you propose. I have given the matter much thought and here is my opinion. You cannot count upon the rich. It is too late. Every rich man has already shelled out the thousands he had set aside for the purpose. All the power is now in the hands of the middle-class man who will donate his half-rubles or rubles. . . . That means only the average man is left. Let us set up a subscription list. You write a letter to the editor and I will have it published in "Russian Reports" and "'New Times." In order to combine the above-mentioned elements, we might both sign the letter. If you find this unacceptable because of your official duties, the letter might be written in the third person, stating that in Sec- tion 5 of Nizhni-Novgorod District, such and such work has been organized, that, praise God, things are going well, and it is requested that contributions be sent to the head of the com- munity, Y. P. Yegorov, residing at such and such an address, or to A. P. Chekhov, or to the editorial office of such and such newspapers. But the letter must be a good long one. Write in as much detail as possible, I will add a thing or two—and we can't lose. We must ask for contributions, not loans. Nobody will go along with a loan: it is horrible. It is hard to give, but it is even harder to take back.
I know only one wealthy person in Moscow, and that is Mme. Morozova,1 the well-known philanthropist. I called on her yes-
1 Varvara Morozova was an extremely wealthy woman who had a famous salon in Moscow.
terday with your letter, talked and ate. At the moment she is keen on the Committee on Literacy, which is establishing soup kitchens for schoolchildren and she is giving everything to this group. Since literacy and horses are incompatible, the lady promised me the co-operation of her committee only in the event that you wished to set up soup kitchens for schoolchildren and sent detailed information. It was aivkivard for me to ask her for money then and there, since people keep taking money from her endlessly and flay her like a fox. My sole request to her was that in case she intended donating to other commissions and committees, she not forget us either, and she promised not to. Your letter and your idea have also been communicated to Sobolevski, editor of "Russian Reports"—just in case. I am busy shouting that the project is already under way.
IЈ any rubles or half-rubles come my way, I shall send them on to you without delay. Please consider me at your disposal and believe me when I say I would be truly happy to do some- thing, as I have thus far done nothing at all for the famine- stricken and for those helping them.
We are all in good health, except that Nick died of consump- tion in 1889. . . . Ivan is teaching in Moscow, Misha is an assessor.
Keep well. ,,
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To VLADIMIR TIKHONOV
February 22, /892, Moscow Forgive me, my dear Vladimir Alexeyevich, for not having answered your letter for so long. To start with, I have only just recently returned from Voronej Province, and secondly, I am buying an estate (keep your fingers crossed) and spend entire days in assorted notary, bank, insurance and similar parasitical establishments. This purchase of mine has reduced me to a state of frenzy. I am like a person who has entered an inn just for some chopped beef with onions, but meeting good pals, has gone to work on the bottle, got as drunk as a pig and must settle a bill for 142 rubles and 75 kopeks. . . .
You mistakenly think you were drunk at Shcheglov's birthday party. You were fairly high, that was all. You danced when everybody danced and your jigging on the cabman's box gave nothing but general pleasure. As to the criticism, it couldn't have been severe, as I don't recall it. I only remember that Vedenski and I laughed long and loud at you.
So you need my biography? Here goes. I was born in Tagan- rog in i86o. In 1879 I graduated from the Taganrog Boys' School. In 1884 I graduated from the Medical School of Moscow University. In 1888 I received the Pushkin Prize. In 1890 I took a trip to Sakhalin across Siberia and returned by sea. In 1891 I made a European tour, during which I drank some first-rate wine and ate oysters. In 1892 I had a good time at V. A. Tikho- nov's birthday party. I began my writing in 1879 for "Dragon Fly" magazine. Here in substance are my works: "Motley Stories," "In the Twilight," "Tales," "Gloomy People," and a novel, "The Duel." I have also sinned in the dramatic field, though in moderation. I have been translated into all languages except the foreign. Joking aside, I have long since been trans- lated by the Germans. The Czechs and Serbs also approve of me. And the French belong to our mutual admiration society. At thirteen I probed the mysteries of love. With my colleagues, both medical and literary, I maintain the most excellent rela- tions. I am a bachelor. I would like a pension. I still practice medicine, if you can call it that. Summers in the country I even perform an autopsy every couple of years. Among writers my preference goes to Tolstoy, among doctors—to Zakharin.