The author of "Ward No. 6" has been moved from \Vard 16 to 14. It is spacious here, with two windows, the lighting re- minds one of a Potapenko play, and the room has three tables. I am not losing much blood. After the evening Tolstoy was here (we had a long talk) , coughed a lot of blood at four in the morning.
Melikhovo is a healthy place; it happens to be in a water- shed and stands high, so fevers and diphtheria never visit it. At a consultation a decision was taken for me not to try a new spot, but to continue living in Melikhovo, except that the place would have to be made more comfortable. When I get tired of the house, I'll go next door to the cottage I rented for the use of my brothers, in case they should decide to visit.
People come and go continually, bring flowers, candies, good things to eat. In a word, bliss. . . .
I am not on my back, but am writing this sitting up, though the minute I'm through, I'll be back on my loge.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
Please write, I implore you.
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
April 2, 1897, Moscow This is the story. Since 1884 I have been spitting blood every spring. That time when you accused me of being blessed by the Most Holy Synod, and didn't believe my denial, I was so upset that at a time when Mr. Suvorin was present I lost a lot of blood and was put into a clinic. My case was diagnosed as tuber- culosis in the upper part of the lungs, i.e., I acquired the right, if I wished, to consider myself an invalid. My temperature is normal, I don't have night sweats or any weakness, but I dream of the saints, my future looks pretty dim and although the lung condition is not so very advanced, a will must be drawn up, without delay, so that you won't be able to grab all my property. I'm being dismissed from the clinic on Wednesday of Holy Week, will proceed to Melikhovo and then we'll see what happens next. I have been ordered to keep myself well nourished, so now it's me that has to be fed, not Papa and Mama. Nobody at home knows of my illness, so when you write
don't shoot your mouth off with the malice peculiar to you. . . .
My kindest regards to your wife and children—with all my heart, of course. Keep well.
Your benefactor,
A. Chekhov
To ALEXANDER ERTEL
ApriZ /7, /897, Melikhovo My dear friend A lexander Ivanovich,
I am home now. Just before the holidays I spent two weeks in Ostroumov's clinic, bleeding, and the doctor diagnosed tuberculosis of the upper part of the lungs. I feel fine all over, nothing aches, nothing disturbs me inwardly, but the doctors have forbidden me vinum, movement, talk, have ordered me to eat a lot, have forbidden me to practice medicine—and I am at loose ends, as it were.
I haven't heard a thing about a people's theatre. At the con- gress it was mentioned offhand and with no enthusiasm, and the group that had undertaken to write a chartei and get work under way has evidently cooled off somewhat. This is probably due to the presence of spring. . . .
There is nothing new. There is a lull in literature. In the editorial ollices people drink tea and cheap wine without relish, all as a result, evidently, of nothing to do. Tolstoy is writing a pamphlet on art. He visited me at the clinic and said he had tossed aside his novel "Resurrection" because he didn't like it, writes only on art and has read sixty books about it. His ideas on the subject are not new; all the wise old men have repeated them throughout the centuries in various keys. Old men have always been prone to see the end of the world, and assert that morality has fallen to its nec plus ultra, that art has been de- based and is out at the elbows, that people have become weak
and so on and so forth. Leo Nikolayevich's pamphlet would like
to convince the world that art has now entered its final phase and is in a blind alley from which it cannot get out except by going backward.
1 am not doing anything, am feeding the sparrows with hemp seeds and prune the roses, one a day. The flowers bloom luxur- iantly afterward. 1 am not doing any farming.
Keep well, dear Alexander Ivanovich, thanks for your letter and friendly sympathy. Write me because of the infirmities of my flesh, and don't find too great fault with my irregularity in corresponding. From now on 1 will try to answer your letters right after reading them. 1 cordially press your hand.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To VASILI SOBOLEVSKI
August 19, 1897, Melikhovo
Dear Vasili Mikhailovich,
I have been looking for your address so as to get in touch with you and find out whether you would be going to Nice— and if you were, whether you couldn't take me along. From your yesterday's letter I learned you were in Biarritz. Excellent, I will go to Biarritz too. I can't get away from horne before the end of August (around the twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh, I guess); furthermore, there is no need to rush, as the weather here is warm and dry. In the meantime please be so good as to let me know what is the best train for me to take out of Moscow, whether to Berlin or Vienna, what train out of Paris, what hotel you stopped at. I am asking you for this sort of de- tailed itinerary because this is my first time in Biarritz and I am somewhat shy. You know I talk all languages except the foreign ones; when I speak French or German abroad, the con- ductors usually laugh; and for me, transferring from one station to another in Paris is just like playing blind man's buff.
I count upon staying in Biarritz for a month, then will be off for some other warm spot.
So long! In anticipation of your reply let me shake your hand and wish you all the best.
Your
A. Chekhov
To LYDIA AVILOVA
October 6, i8gj, Nice . . . You deplore the fact that my characters are gloomy. Alas, it isn't my fault! This happens involuntarily, and when I write I don't think I am lugubrious; at any rate, I am always in a good mood while I work. It has been pointed out that som- bre, melancholy people always \\Tite gaily, while the works of cheerful souls are always depressing. And I am a joyous person; at least I have lived the first thirty years of my life at my ease, as they say.
My health is tolerable in the morning and excellent at night. I am not doing anything, don't write and don't feel like writing. I ha\e become frightfully lazy.
Keep well and happy. I press your hand.
Your
A. Chekhov
I shall probably remain abroad all winter.
To MARIA CHEKHOVA
October 27, 1897, Nice
Dear Masha,
... The weather is marvelous; so incredibly bright and warm. It is summer, really.
Here is a nice little treat for you: a French lesson. The ac- cepted form of address is "Monsieur Antoine Tchekhoff" and not "a M-r Ant. Tchekhoff." You must write "recommandee" and not "recommendee." The French language is a very polite and subtle one and not a single sentence, even in conversation with servants, policemen or cab drivers lacks its monsieur, rna- dame, or "I beg you" and "be so kind." It is not permissible to say, "Give me some water," you say rather, "Be so kind as to give me some water," or, "Give me some water, I beg of you." But this phrase, i.e., "I beg of you," should not be "Je vous en prie" (je vuzan pree) , as they say in Russia, but unfailingly "S'il vous plait" (if it please you), or, for variety, "ayez la bonte de donner" (have the goodness to give), "veuillez don- ner" (vuyay) —would you wish to give.
If someone in a shop says "Je vous en prie," you can tell he is a Russian. The Russians pronounce the word "les gens" in the sense of "servants" like jans, but this is not correct, one should say, "Jon." The word "oui" must be pronounced not "vooee" as we say it, but "ooee," so that you can hear the ee. In wishing someone a pleasant journey the Russians say, "bon voyage—bun vooayash," giving a distinct sound to sh, while it should be pronounced voayazh-zh . . . Voisinage . . . vooazinazh- zh ... and not vooazhinash. Also "treize" ( 13) and "quatorze" ( 14) should be pronounced not tress and katorss, the way Ade- laide says it, but trezzzz . . katorzzz—so that you get the z sound at the end of the word. The word "sens"—feeling, is pro- nounced sanss, the word "soit" in the sense of "so be it"— sooatt. The word "ailleurs"^^lsewhere—and "d'ailleurs"— besides—are pronounced ayor and dayor, in which the eu sound approximates our e.