My health requires me to go far away somewhere for eight or ten months. I'm going to leave for Australia or the mouth of the Yenisei—I'll croak otherwise. Very well then, I'll settle for St. Petersburg instead, but would there be a room where I might hide away? This is an extremely important question, be- cause I ought to be writing all of February to earn enough for my trip. How much I need to get away! My chest rattles all over, my hemorrhoids are so bad that the devil himself would be nauseated. I must have an operation. No, the hell with litera- ture, I should be busy with my medical practice. I shouldn't be making comparisons, though. I owe the best days of my life and my deepest-felt emotions to literature.
My profound salutations to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya.
Yours entirely,
A. Chekhov
I'll be in Moscow on the twenty-sixth. Grand Moscow Hotel.
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
April ij, 1895, Melikhovo ... I am making my way through Sienkiewicz's "The Polanet- skis." This book is like a Polish cheese pudding flavored with saffron. Add Potapenko to Paul Bourget, sprinkle them with Eau de Cologne from \Varsaw, divide in two and you get Sien- kiewicz. "The Polanetskis" was undoubtedly composed under the influence of "Cosmopolis," Rome and marriage (Sienkie- wicz recently got married) ; he has the catacombs, an elderly eccentric professor breathing idealism, the saintly Leo XIII with a visage not of this earth, advice to return to prayer and asper- sions on a decadent character dying of morphinism after going to confession and taking communion, i.e., repenting his errors in the name of the church. A devilish heap of scenes of family happiness and discourses on love have been dragged in, and the hero's wife is so extremely faithful to her husband and under- stands God and life so thoroughly "by intuition" that the final result is sickeningly cloying and clumsy, just as though you had got a wet, slobbery kiss. Sienkiewicz apparently hasn't read Tolstoy, is not familiar with Nietzsche, discusses hypnotism like a middle-class householder, but still every one of his pages is brightly colored with Riibenses, Borgheses, Correggios, Botti- cellis—all neatly done to show off his cultire to the bourgeois reader and to make faces at materialism. The novel's aim is to lull the bourgeoisie into golden dreams. Be faithful to your wife, pray alongside her before the altar, make money, love sport—and you're all set both in this world and the next. The bourgeoisie is very fond of so-called "practical" types and novels with happy endings, because this kind of writing soothes it into believing that it can make lots of money and preserve its inno- cence, act like a beast and stay happy all at the same time.
This spring is a pitiful affair. The snow still lies on the fields, driving on runners or wheels is impossible and the cattle pine for grass and for freedom. Yesterday a drunken old peasant un- dressed himself and went bathing in the pond, his decrepit old mother beat him with a stick and everybody else stood around and laughed boisterously. After finishing his bath the peasant went home barefoot through the snow, his old mother behind him. One day this old lady came to me for treatment of her bruises—her son had beaten her up. 'Vhat baseness it is to post- pone enlightenment of our dark masses! . . .
I wish you all happiness. I congratulate you on the Sino^ Japanese peace and trust we may acquire the eastern shore for an ice-free Feodosia as soon as possible, and lay out a railroad to it. The old lady had nothing to worry about, so she bought herself a pig. And it seems to me we are laying up a heap of troubles for ourselves with this ice-free port. It will stand us dearer than if we had made up our minds to conquer all of Japan. However, futura sunt in manibus deorum. . . .
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 21, 1895, Melikhovo Thanks for the letter, for the cordial words and the invita- tion. I will come, but most likely not until the end of Novem- ber, as I have a fiendish amount of stuff to take care of. To start with, next spring I am putting up a new school in the village, of which I am a trustee; before going about it I must work up a plan and budget, go here and there and so on. In the second place, just imagine, I am writing a playx which I probably will not finish until the end of November. I am writing it with considerable pleasure, though I sin frightfully against the con- ventions of the stage. It is a comedy with three female parts, six male, four acts, a landscape (view of a lake), lots of talk on literature, little action and tons of love.
I read about Ozerova's flop and felt sorry, as there is nothing more painful than failure. I can imagine how this [. . .] wept and grew stony as she read the "St. Petersburg Gazette," which called her playing downright ridiculous. I read about the suc- cess of "The Power of Darkness" at your theatre. . . . \Vhen I was at Tolstoy's in August he told me, as he wiped his hands after one of his washings, that he wouldn't rewrite his play. And now, in recalling his remark, I believe he already knew his play would be passed in toto for public presentation. I stayed with him a day and a half. A wonderful impression. I felt as carefree as I do at home and the talks we had were in that easy vein. I will give you full details when we meet. . . . 1 The Seagull.
I am in a state—and this is why. There is a first-rate magazine published in Moscow called "The Annals of Surgery," which even enjoys popularity abroad. It is edited by the eminent surgeon-scientists Sklifasovski and Diakonov. The number of subscribers has grown annually, yet there is always a deficit at the end of the year. This deficit has been made up hitherto (until this coming January) by Sklifasovski; but as he has been transferred to St. Petersburg, he has lost his practice and so has no extra money. Now neither he nor anyone else in the world knows who will meet the 1896 debt, if there is one; and on the basis of analogies with past years a deficit of from a thousand to fifteen hundred rubles can be expected. \Vhen I learned the magazine was in peril I got hot under the collar; how absurd to witness the ruin of so essential a publication, and one that would show a profit in three or four years, and all on account of a paltry sum! This absurdity hit me in the face and at white heat I promised to find a publisher, as I was firmly convinced I could do so. And I did look diligently, begged, lowered my- self, drove all over town, God only knows with whom I didn't dine, but couldn't find anybody. . .. How sorry I am your print- ing plant is not in Moscow! Then I wouldn't have had to take on this grotesque role of unsuccessful broker. When we meet I will draw you a true picture of the emotional upheavals I went through. Were it not for the building of the school, which is costing me about fifteen hundred rubles, I would undertake to publish the magazine out of my own funds, so difficult and pain- ful do I find it to reconcile myself to a clearly ridiculous situa- tion. On the twenty-second of October I am going to Moscow to see the editors and as a last resort will propose that they ask for a subsidy of fifteen hundred or two thousand a year. If they agree, I'll dash to St. Petersburg and begin hammering away. How does one go about it? Will you instruct me? To save the magazine I am prepared to interview just about anyone and hang around in just anyone's outer office; if I succeed I will heave a sigh of relief and enjoy a feeling of satisfaction, because saving a good surgical magazine is as useful as performing twenty thousand successful operations. At any rate, give me some advice on what to do.
Write me in Moscow after Sunday, c/o Grand Moscow Hotel, No. 5. ...
My profound respects. Write, I implore you.