Yours,
A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 26, 1895, Moscow . . . Tolstoy's daughters are very nice. They adore their father and have a fanatic faith in him. That is a sure sign that Tolstoy is indeed a mighty moral force, for if he were insincere and not above reproach, the first to regard him skeptically would be his daughters, because daughters are shrewd creatures and you can't pull the wool over their eyes. You can fool a fiancee or mistress as much as you please, and in the eyes of a loving woman even a donkey may pass for a philosopher, but daughters are another matter. . . .
As for "The Annals of Surgery," the magazine itself, all the surgical instruments, bandages and bottles of carbolic acid send their most profound and humble greetings to you. Their joy, of course, is unconfined. This is what we have decided to do: if the idea of a subsidy seems feasible, I am to take up the matter and when we get the subsidy, we return the fifteen hundred to you. I am going to see Sklifasovski in November and, if possible, will actually see Wittex in an attempt to save these very artless people. They are like children. It would be hard to find any with less practical sense. At any rate, your fifteen h undred will be returned to you sooner or later. In gratitude for my en- deavors they are operating on my hemorrhoids—an operation I cannot avoid and which is already beginning to worry me. They will sing your praises and when you come to Moscow will
1 Witte was the Minister of Finance.
show you the new clinics in the neighborhood of Novo-Deviche Monastcry. They're as much worth looking at as a cemetery or a circus.
Write. Scnd the fifteen hundred care of me, and, if possible, not through the mails but via your store. . . .
Yours,
A. Chekhov
ToELENA SHAVROVA
November 18, 1895, Melikhovo
I will be in Moscow around the twenty-eighth, too, and re- main six to ten days. 'Ve'll be seeing each other, I am going to ask your pardon and perhaps will manage to convince you that I was very, very far from consciously wishing to wound your self-esteem. I agree I ought to be sent up for hard labor for losing your manuscript, but I assure you even a halfhearted apologist could find cause for going easy with me.. ..
I have finished my play. It is called "The Seagull." It's noth- ing to ooh and ah about. On the whole I would say I am an indifferent playwright.
I will be stopping at the Grand Hotel in Moscow, opposite the Iverskaya clock tower, last entrance. The telephone is at your service, messengers also. If you will let me know of your presence in Moscow, by messenger or otherwise, I shall be most grateful.
All my best wishes . . .
Your guilty and repentant
cher maitre,
A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 6, 1895, Moscow
The young lady with the Remington has done me a cruel turn. In leaving for Moscow I had counted upon my play's having been typed long since and sent to its destination—why, two full weeks had elapsed since I had sent it to the young lady. But the typing job turned out to be far from finished. I took back the manuscript and the young lady was most apologetic. You will have the play tomorrow, but in manuscript. If it is to be typed, we shall have to wait again, which annoys me for my patience has been exhausted. Read the play and tell me what to do with it and how. There is still plenty of time until next season, so that the most radical revisions can be undertaken. . . . So you will get the play on Friday. Order all flags at full mast on that day.
You write you are arriving in Moscow ten days hence. Shall I wait for you there? Write without fail. I am anticipating your visit with the keenest pleasure, if only you don't disappoint mel If you are not coming I will get out of Moscow say around the tenth or twentieth. The Moscow weather is fine, there is no cholera and no Lesbianism either. Br-r-r! The recollection of those people of whom you write turns my stomach, as if I had eaten a rotten fish. So now there aren't any in Moscow— splendid. . . .
Today is St. Nicholas Day and there is a delightful sound of bells in Moscow. I rose early, lit the candles and sat down to write; outside the bells were ringing and very agreeable it was.
I wish you health. Salutations to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya. Happiness to you all.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To MIKHAIL CHEKHOV
October 18, 1896, St. Petersburg
The play fell flat and flopped with a bang.1 The audience was bewildered. They acted as if they were ashamed to be in the theatre. The performances were vile and stupid.
1 The first performance of The Seagull was a sensational flop; the second formance was a great success.
The moral of the story is: I shouldn't write plays. Nevertheless and just the same I am alive and well and my innards are in good spirit.
Your pappy,
A. Chekhov.
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 22, 1896, Melihhovo
In your last letter (dated October 18) you thrice call me an old woman and say I was a coward. \Vhy the libel? After the play I dined at Romanov's, as was fitting, then went to sleep, slept well and the next day left for home without pronouncing a single syllable in complaint. If I had acted the coward I would have dashed from one editor to another, from one actor to an- other, nervously begged their condescension, nervously intro- duced useless changes and would have spent another two or three wceks in St. Petersburg, running back and forth to per- formances of my "Seagull," in a dither, drenched in cold sweat, complaining. . . . Why, when you visited me the night after the show, you yourself said it would be better for me to leave; and the next morning I had a letter from you saying goodbye. So where is the cowardice? I acted just as reasonably and coolly as a man who has proposed, been turned down and has nothing left to do but leave. Yes, my vanity was wounded, but certainly the thing wasn't a bolt from the blue; I expected a llop and had prepared myself for it, as I told you in advance in entire sincerity.
Back home I gave myself a dose of castor oil, took a cold bath—and now I wouldn't even mind doing another play. I no longer have that tircd, irritated feeling. ... I approve your revisions—and thank you a thousand times. But please don't be sorry you weren't at thc rehearsals. Actually there was only one genuine rehcarsal, at which it was impossible to tell what
was going on; the play was completely lost in a fog of vile acting.
I had a telegram from Potapenko:1 a colossal success. I had a letter from Veselitskaya (Mikulich) 2 whom I haven't met, ex- pressing her sympathy in the tone she would use had someone died in my family—which was hitting pretty wide of the mark. All this is nonsense, though.
My sister is enchanted with you and Anna Ivanovna and I am very glad, because I am as fond of your family as of my own. She hurried home from St. Petersburg, probably feeling that I would hang myself.
We are having warm, damp weather, and many people are ill. Yesterday I stuck a huge enema into a rich peasant whose intestine had become clogged with excrement and he got better at once. Please forgive me, I went off with your "European Herald" deliberately, and with Filippov's "Collected Works" unintentionally. I will return the first, and the second after I have read them. . . .
I wish you all the blessings of heaven and earth, and thank you with all my heart.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To ELENA SHAVROVA
November i, i8g6, Melikhovo Esteemed lady, if, as "one of the audience" you are writing about the first performance, permit me—yes, permit me—to doubt your sincerity. You hurry to pour healing balm on the author's wounds, assuming that under the circumstances this would be better and more needed than sincerity; you are kind, sweet Mask, very kind, and the feeling does honor to your heart. I did not see everything at the first performance, but what I did see was vague, dingy, dreary and wooden. I had no