Hcre is more advice: when you read proof, take out adjectives and adverbs wherever you can. You use so many of them that the readcr finds it hard to concentrate and he gets tired. You under- stand what I mean when I say, "The man sat on the grass." You understand because the sentence is clear and there is nothing to distract your attention. Conversely, the brain has trouble under- standing me if I say, "A tall, narrow-chested man of medium height with a red beard sat on green grass trampled by passers- by, sat mutely, looking about timidly and fearfully." This docsn't get its meaning through to the brain immediately, which is what good writing must do, and fast.
Now for one more thing: by nature you are a lyricist and your spirit is tuned to melody. If you were a composer you would avoid composing marches. Being coarse and noisy, taunt- ing, accusing frantically—such things are not characteristic of your talent. Consequently you will understand why I advise you in reading proof not to have any mercy on the sons of bitches and curs that flit here and there through the pages of "Life."
Shall I expect you at the end of September? Why so late? Winter begins early this year, the autumn will be a short one and you should hurry.
Well, sir, keep yourself nice and alive and in good health.
Your
A. Chekhov
Performances begin at the Art Theatre on the thirtieth of September. "Uncle Vanya" is being given on the fourteenth of October.
Your best story is "On the Steppe."
To OLGA KNIPPER
September 29, 1899, Yalta Your sensible letter with a kiss for my right temple and your other letter with the photos have arrived. Thank you, sweet actress, thank you awfully. Your performances start today and so in gratitude for the letters and for remembering me I am sending you my congratulations on the seasons getting under way—a million good wishes. I would have liked to send a wire to the directors and congratulate the whole company, but as nobody writes and I have apparently been forgotten, not even being sent the company's yearly report (which carne out re- cently, according to the neswpapers), and as that same old Roxanova is playing in "The Seagull," I considered it best to appear offended and so my congratulations are for you alone. \Ve had some rain, but now it is bright and brisk. There was a fire last night; I got up to watch it from the terrace and felt terribly alone.
\Ve are occupying our own house now, use the dining room and have a piano.
I haven't a bit of money and am spending all my time hiding from my creditors. It will continue this way until the middle of December, when Marx sends some money.
I would like to make some more sensible remarks but can't think of a thing. My own season certainly has not begnn, I have nothing new or interesting to talk about and everything is just as it has been. I am not expecting anything except bad weather, which is already around the corner.
"Ivanov" and "Uncle Vanya" are playing at the Alexander Theatre.
So keep well, sweet actress, remarkable woman, and may God preservc you. I kiss both your hands and bow all the way down to your little feet. Don't forget me.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To OLGA KNIPPER
September jo, 1899, Yalta At your bidding I am dashing off a reply to your letter, in which you ask me about Astrov's last scene with Elena.1 You tell me that in this scene Astrov's attitude toward Elena is that of the most ardent man in love, that he "snatches at his feelings as a drowning man at a straw." But that is incorrect, absolutely incorrect! Astrov likes Elena, her beauty takes his breath away, but by the last act he is already aware that the whole business is futile, that Elena is vanishing forever from his sight—and so in this scene the tone he takes with her is the one he would use in discussing the heat in Africa, and he kisses her simply be- cause that is all he has to do. If Astrov interprets this scene
1 Chekhov was speaking of Uncle T'anya.
tempestuously, the entire mood of Act IV—a quiet and languid one—will be ruined. . . .
It has suddenly grown cold here, as if a Moscow wind had blown upon us. How I should like to be in Moscow, sweet actress! However, your head is in a whirl, you have become infected and are held in a spell—and you have no time for me. Now you will be able to say, "We are creating a stir, my friend!"
As I write I look out of an enormous window with a very extensive view, so magnificent it cannot be described. I shan't send you my photograph until I get yours, you serpent! I wouldn't think of calling you a "snake," as you say; you are a great big serpent, not a little snake. Now, isn't that flattering?
\Vell my dear, I press your hand, send my profound compli- ments and knock my forehead against the floor in worship, my most respected lady.
I am sending you another present soon.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To GRIGORI ROSSOLIMO
October ii, 1899, Yalta
Dear Grigori Ivanovich,
Today I sent Dr. Raltsevich eight rubles fifty kopeks for the photograph and five rubles for annual dues. I am sending my photograph to you registered, rather a poor one (taken when my enteritis was in full swing) .
My autobiography? I have a disease called autobiographo- phobia. It is a real torment for me to read any details about myself, let alone prepare them for publication. On a separate sheet I am sending some extremely bare facts, and more than that I cannot give you. If you wish, add that my application to the dean for admission to the university was for the medical courses.
You ask when we are going to see each other. Probably not before spring. I am in Yalta, in exile, a splendid one, maybe, but still exile. Life proceeds drably. My health is so-so: it is not every day that I am well. Besides all the rest, I have hemor- rhoids, catarrh recti and there are days when I am utterly ex- hausted by frequent trips to the toilet. I must have an operation.
Please write if anything interesting occurs. I am lonesome here, really, and if it were not for letters I might even hang myself, learn to drink the poor Crimean wine or marry an ugly and stupid woman.
Keep well. I clasp your hand cordially and send my heartiest good wishes to yourself and your family.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
My name is A. P. Chekhov and I was born on the i7th of January i86o in Taganrog. My education began at the Greek school connected with the Emperor Constantine Church, after which I attended the Taganrog Boys' school. In 1879 I entered the medical school of Moscow University. At that time I only had a vagie idea of the various courses and cannot recall what considerations led me to choose the medical course, but I do not now regret the choice. During my first year at the university I was already having things printed in the weekly newspapers and magazines, and by the early eighties these literary pursuits had assumed a regular, professional character. In 1888 I was awarded the Pushkin Prize. In i8go I visited Sakhalin Island to write a book on our penal colony and prison system there. Excluding court reports, reviews, articles, notes, all the items composed from day to day in the newspapers and which would now be difficult to unearth and collect, in twenty years of literary activity I have set down on paper and had published more than forty-eight hundred pages of tales and stories. I have also written plays for the theatre.
My work in the medical sciences undoubtedly had a great influence on my writing; certainly it widened the area of my observations and enriched my knowledge, and only one who is himself a doctor can tell you how valuable that training has been. My medical background has also been a guide to me; I have probably managed to avoid many mistakes because of it. Familiarity with natural sciences and the scientific method has always kept me on my guard, and wherever possible I have tried to write on the basis of scientific data; where it was impossible, I preferred not to write. I may note incidentally that artistic considerations do not always allow me to write in complete harmony with scientific data; on the stage you cannot show death by poisoning as it actually occurs. But even in such a case one must be consistent with scientific data, i.e., the reader or spectator must clearly realize that certain conventions are re- sponsible for what has been shown and that he is dealing with an author who knows what he is talking about. I am not in the same camp with literary men who take a skeptical attitude to- ward science; and I would not want to belong to those who handle every subject solely on the basis of their wits.