Greetings, my little darling,
Today's weather is amazing: warm, bright and dry, and quiet —like summer. The roses are blooming and the carnations and
Knipper's family were of Gennan origin. Chekhov meant, of course, that he wanted her to haie a baby.
Tolstoy was lhing in Yalta.
chrysanthemums, and some yellow flowers. Today I sat in the garden for a long time and thought of how splendid the weather is here but how much pleasanter it would be to ride in a sleigh. Forgive me this cynicism.
So Roxanova is again acting in "The Seagull"? Why, they took the play out of the repertory until they could get a new actress for the part and suddenly here's Roxanova in it againl What a beastly business! From the repertory list sent here I also noted that "Ivanov" is in rehearsal. To my way of thinking this is futile, unnecessary toil. The play will be a failure because it is going to get a dull production before an indifferent audience.
I'm going to get all the best authors to write plays for the Art Theatre. Gorki has already done so; Balmont, Leonid An- dreyev, Teleshov and others are in the process of writing. It would be quite proper to assign me a fee, if only one ruble per person.
My letters to you don't satisfy me at all. After what you and I have experienced together, letters mean little; we ought to continue really living. How we sin by not living togetherl But what's the sense of talkingl God be with you, my blessings upon you, my little German female, I am happy you are enjoying yourself. I kiss you resoundingly.
Your Antonio
T0 OLGA KNIPPER
N0vember 17, 1901, Yalta
My sweet little sp0use,
The rumors reaching you about Tolstoy, his illness and even death, have no basis in fact. There are no particular changes in his health and have been none, and death is evidently a long way off. It is true he is weak and sickly-looking, but he hasn't a single symptom to cause alarm, nothing except old age. . . . Don't believe anything you hear. If, God forbid, anything hap- pens, I will let you know by wire. I will call him "Grandpa," otherwise I daresay it won't reach you.
Alexei Maximovich 1 is here, and well. He sleeps at my place and is registered with me. The local policeman was around today.
I am writing and working, but, my darling, working in Yalta is impossible, utterly, utterly impossible. It is remote from the world, uninteresting—and the principal point—cold. . . .
My lamp is burning now in the study. It's not too bad as long as it doesn't stink of kerosene.
Alexei Maximovich hasn't changed, he is the same decent, cultivated, kind man. The only thing in him, or on him, rather, that I find disconcerting is that Russian shirt of his. I can't get used to it any more than to the Court Chamberlain's uniform.
The weather is autumn-like, nothing to boast of.
Well, stay alive and healthy, light of my life. Thank you for the letters. Don't get sick, be a smart girl. Send my regards to the family.
I kiss and embrace you tenderly.
Your husband,
Antonio
I am in good health. Moscow had an astonishingly good effect on me. I don't know whether it was Moscow, or your doing, but I have been coughing very little. . . .
To OLGA KNIPPER
December 7, 1901, Yalta
Dear little miss actress,
How come you are not obeying your husband? "\Vhy didn't you ask Nemirovich to send the last act of "Small Folk"? Please ask him, my sweetheart. How disgusting, how unfortunate that you are not coming to Yalta for the holidays. It seems to me we shall be seeing each other only after many years, when we are both old folks.
1 Gorki was undcr constant police surveillance.
[ 294 ]
I just spoke to Leo Tolstoy over the telephone. I have read the conclusion of Gorki's novel, "Three of Us." It is an extraor- dinarily queer thing. If it hadn't been Gorki who had written it, nobody would have read it. At least so it appears to me.
I haven't been well these last days, my lamb. I took some cas- tor oil, think I have lost a lot of weight, cough and can't do a thing. Today I am better, so that tomorrow I shall probably get back to work again . . . . Solitude, apparently, reacts most per- niciously on the stomach. Joking aside, my darling, when shall we get together again? When shall I see you? If only you could come here for the holidays, even for one day, it would be in- finitely good. However, you know best.
I am writing this on the night of the seventh and will send it out tomorrow, the eighth. You are always attending dinners or jubilees—I am glad, puss, and commend you for it. You are a bright child, you are so sweet.
May the Lord be with you, my dear. I kiss you countless times.
Your Ant.
Don't spend too much money on the play—it won't be a suc- cess anyway. Twelve hundred rubles for dresses—for God's sake! I read Leonid Andreyev while I was still in Moscow, and on my way back to Yalta. Yes, he is a good writer; if he would write more, he would enjoy greater success. There is not much sin- cerity or simplicity in him, and so it is hard to get used to him. But still, sooner or later the audience will get accustomed to him and he'll make a big name for himself.
To VICTOR MIROLUBOV
December /7, /go/, Ya1ta
Dear Fzc<0r Sergeyevich,
I am not well, or not altogether well—that is more like it, and I cannot write. I have been coughing blood and now I feel feeble and ill-tempered as I sit with a hot compress on my side and take creosote and all sorts of trash . . . .
I read the article in "Newv Times" by that policeman Roza- nov,1 which, incidentally, told me of your new activities. My dear fellow, I wish you knew how upset I was! It seems to me you ought to leave St. Petersburg right now—for Nervi or Yalta, it doesn't matter—but leave. \Vhat have you, a fine, up- standing man, in common with this Rozanov, or with that egregiously crafty Sergi, or, finally, with super-satisfied Merej- kowski? I would like to write you at great length but had better restrain myself, all the more so as letters are now read for the most part by those to whom they are not addressed. I will only say that the important thing about the problems engaging you are not the forgotten words, not the idealism, but the con- sciousness of your own decency, i.e., the complete freedom of your soul from all forgotten and unforgotten words, idealisms and the rest of those words that nobody understands. One should believe in God; if one doesn't have faith, though, its place should not be taken by sound and fury but by seeking and more seeking, seeking alone, face to face with one's conscience.
At any rate, keep well. If you decide to come, drop me a line. Tolstoy and Gorki are here and you won't find it dull, I hope.
There is nothing new. I clasp your hand firmly.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
T0 KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI
January 20, 1902, Yalta
Dear K0nstantin Sergeyevich,
To the best of my knowledge (from information obtained by mail) the portraits of writers in the Taganrog library are hung in a row in one big frame. They probably want to put you, too, in the same sort of frame and therefore I believe it
1 Vasili Rozanov was on the sta!I of New Times. Chekhov considered him vain and hypocritical. He had organized a philosophic society with the approval of the St. Petersburg Church authorities and Chekhov is here attacking the hypocrisy of Rozanov and his friends.
would be best without further ado to fonvard a photograph of the usual studio format, without a frame. If a frame proves necessary, you can send it along afterward just as well.
As I read "Small Folk," I felt that the part of Nil was the central one. He is not a mujik, not a skilled workman, but a new man, an intellectualized worker. He doesn't seem to be a finished character, and it would not be a hard or lengthy job to fill him in, and it is a pity, a terrible pity, that Gorki is deprived of the possibility of attending the rehearsals.