Do write. I am looking forward to "Foma Gordeyev," which I haven't yet read properly.
There is nothing new. Keep well and let me clasp your hand cordially.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
February 6, 1900, Yalta
Dear Masha,
Maria Abramovna Altshuller is now in Moscow. Her address is c/o Mirke, the Bakhrushin house, George Lane, Myasnitskaya Street. She has two bottles of wine for you. She will be in Moscow about five days. Give- her some caviar, sausage from Belov's, smoked meat and some other stuff to take back with her. If for some reason you can't get to see her, send a mes- senger. Altshuller is treating Mother and there is no way for me to pay him back other than to give his wife the chance of seeing my play—once she expressed the desire. Arrange for her to see "Lonely Lives" and "Uncle Vanya." If you haven't time to get the tickets, write Vishnevski to send tickets for her to the above address and then you can pay him.
Mother is well, complains only of her shoulder; everything is in order. The weather was good, now it is miserable. The pavement hasn't been finished yet. Keep well.
Your Antoine
To OLGA KNIPPER
February 10, i9oo, Yalta
Sweet actress,
The winter is so long, I have been ailing, nobody has written for almost a month—and I had decided there was nothing left to do but to go abroad, where life is not quite so drab. But now the weather has become more balmy and life is more pleasant, and so I have made up my mind to leave for abroad only at the end of this summer, in time for the exposition.
Why, oh why have you got the blues? You are really living, working, hoping and singing, you laugh when your uncle reads aloud—what more do you want? It's another matter as far as I am concerned. I have been wrenched from my native soil, can't live a rounded life, can't drink, although I like to very much; I love sound but never hear any, in brief, I am now in the situation of a transplanted tree hesitating as to whether it will take root or wither away. I may have some basis for occa- sionally allowing myself to complain of boredom in my letters, but have you? Meierhold complains of life's dullness too. My God! Incidentally, a word on Meierhold. He must spend all summer in the Crimea, his health requires it. And I mean all summer.
Well, ma'am, I'm in good health now. I am not doing any- thing, as I am getting ready to sit down to my work. I've been digging away in the garden.
You wrote not long ago that the future of you little people is shrouded in mystery. Recently I had a letter from your boss, Nemirovich. He tells me the company is going to perform in Sevastopol, and then in Yalta at the beginning of May. There are to be five performances in Yalta followed by evening re- hearsals. Only the valued members of the cast are going to stay behind for the rehearsals, while the rest can have time off to rest wherever they wish. I hope you are valued. For the director you may be valued, but for the author you are beyond value. There you have a pun as a tidbit. I won't write more until you send your picture. I kiss your sweet hand.
Your Antonio, acadernicus
. .. Thanks for your good wishes on my marriage. I informed my fiancĉe1 of your intention to visit Yalta in order to carry on with me behind her back. To this she said that when "that horrid woman" carne here, she would not let me out of her embraces for an instant. I said that embracing for such a pro- tracted period during hot weather was unhygienic. She became offended and went into a brown study, in an attempt to guess in what sort of circle I had acquired this fagon de parler; after a brief pause she said that the theatre is evil and that my inten-
1 This is, again, the joke about the imaginary lady.
tion to give up play writing was most praiseworthy. Then she asked me to kiss her. To this I replied that it was not decorous to kiss so often in my position as academician. She cried, and I left.
To OLGA KNIPPER
February 14, 1900, Yalta
Sweet actress,
The photos are very, very good, especially the one in which you wear an air of dejection, with your elbows on the back of the chair and with a modestly sorrowful, quiet expression, be- hind which lurks a little imp. The other is also successful, but there you resemble somewhat a little J ewess, a very musical young lady who attends the conservatory and at the same time, just in case, is secretly studying the art of dentistry and is en- gaged to a young man from Moghilev,1 the Manasevich2 type. Are you angry? Really and truly angry? That is my revenge for your not having signed them. . . .
The willow tree is green all over; near the bench in the corner the grass has been a lush green for a long time. The almond tree is in blossom. I've set up benches all over the garden, not fancy ones with iron legs, but plain wooden ones, which I am painting green. I've put up three little bridges across the brook and am setting out some palms. . . . Not since autumn have I heard music, or singing, nor have I seen a single interesting female—can you wonder that I am blue?
I had decided not to write you, but since you have sent the pictures I have lifted ' the ban and here I am, obviously, writing. I'll even travel to Sevastopol to meet you, only, let me repeat, you are not to tell anyone, especially not Vishnevski. I'll go there incognito, and will sign the hotel register as Count Blackmugg.
Moghilev was a city within the Jewish settlement of Byelorussia.
Manasevich was the secretary of the Moscow Art Theatre.
I was just joking when I said you looked like a Jewess. Don't be angry, my precious one. Now let me kiss your sweet hand and be eternally your
A. Chekhov
To MAXIM GORKI
February 15, 1900, Yalta
Dear Alexei Maxim0vich,
Your article in the "Nizhni-Novgorod Blade" was balm to my soul. How gifted you are! I don't know how to write anything except fiction, while you are completely master of the news- paperman's pen as well. At first I thought I liked the article so much because you praised me . . .
Why am I not sent "Foma Gordeyev?" I have read it only in snatches, but I should have read it all together, at one sitting, as I read "Resurrection" not long ago. Except for the relations of Nekhludov and Katya, which are rather unclear and con- trived, everything in this novel struck me with its vigor and richness, its breadth, and I was also struck with the insincerity of a man who fears death, won't admit it and clutches at texts from Holy Writ. . . .