in reading it, especially the end, I almost leaped with joy. The mood is a gloomy, painful one; its novelty will cause the audi- ence to walk out of the theatre and at the least you can say goodbye to your reputation as an optimist. My wife is going to play Vasilisa, the lewd and vile-tempered female; Vishnevski walks around the house acting like a Tatar—he is sure that part will be his. Alas, it is not possible to give Artem the part of Luka, as he will be repeating himself and tire the audience; on the other hand he will play the policeman splendidly, that is really his part; Samarova will do the roommate. The part of the actor, whom you hit off most successfully, offers a magnificent opportunity and should be given to an experienced actor, say Stanislavski. Kachalov will play the Baron.
You have disposed of the most interesting characters by Act IV (except the actor), so you'd better watch out lest something happen on that account. This act can prove boresome and un- necessary, especially if only the mediocre characterizations re- main after the exit of the vigorous and interesting actors. The death of the actor is terrible; it's as though you gave the specta- tor a box on the ear for no good reason, and without preparing him for the blow. It isn't sufficiently clear, either, how the Baron happened to find himself in the flophouse, and why he is a baron.
I am leaving for Yalta around the tenth of August (my wife is remaining in Moscow), then that same month I am returning to Moscow to stay until December, if nothing particular occurs. I will be seeing "Small Folk" and attending the rehearsals of the new play. Can't you manage to break away from Arzamas and come to Moscow if only for a week? I heard that you will be allowed to come to 1Ioscow, that people are interceding for you. . . .
I am living in Lubimovka, Stanislavski's summer cottage, and do nothing but fish from morning to night. The stream here is delightfully deep, with plenty of fish. I have become so lazy I even feel disgusted with myself. . . .
L. Andreyev's "A Dilemma" is a pretentious thing, unintel- ligible and obviously of no use, but it is performed with talent. Andreyev has no simplicity and his talent reminds one of the singing of an artificial nightingale. . . .
Whatever happens, we'll see each other at the end of August. Keep well and happy, don't get lonesome. . . .
Your
A. Chekhov
To VLADIMIR KOROLENKO
August 25, /902, Ya/<a
Dear F/adimir Ga/aktionovich,
Where are you? At home? At any rate, I am directing this letter to Poltava. This is what I wrote to the Academy.* Your Imperial Highness,
In December of last year I received notification of the elec- tion of A. M. Peshkov as an honorary academician; I lost no time in getting in contact with Mr. Peshkov, who was then in the Crimea, was the first to bring him the news of his election and the first to congratulate him. After a lapse of some time, an announcement appeared in the newspapers stating that in view of the investigation of Mr. Peshkov under Article 1035, the election was considered invalid; it was definitely indicated that this announcement emanated from the Academy of Sci- ences. Since I am an honorary academician, this announcement in part came from myself as well. Thus, I was congratulating him heartily and, at the same time, was one of those who were involved in considering his election invalid—and I was unable to reconcile my conscience to this contradiction. A knowledge of the contents of Article 1035 explained nothing. After lengthy reflection I was able to arrive at only one decision, extremely distressing and grievous to me, namely, most humbly to request
1 This was the letter of resignation to the Academy. Peshkov was, of course, Gorki's real name.
Your Imperial Highness to accept my resignation of the title of honorary academician.
There you have it. It's a long-winded composition, drafted on a very hot day; I couldn't, and probably can't do any better.
Visiting you was out of the question. My wife and I wanted to travel along the Volga and the Don, but she fell seriously ill in Moscow again, and we were both in such torments that we couldn't even consider a trip. . . .
I wish you the best of everything, and extend a cordial hand- clasp. Keep well and happy.
Yours,
A. Chekhov
To OLGA KNIPPER
September 6, 19^2, Yalta
My little crocodile, my unusual wife,
This is why I didn't get to Moscow despite my promise. Hardly had I got to Yalta when my physical barometer started falling, I began coughing fiendishly and lost my appetite en- tirely. It was no time either for trips or writing. In addition, as if on purpose, there was no rain, a perilous, heat-laden drought that parched one's very soul. As is my custom I wanted to take some Hunyadi Janos water, but the Yalta brand was the arti- ficial variety, and for two days after taking it I had palpitations of the heart.
You see what a dull husband you've got! Today I feel much better, but there is still no rain and it doesn't look as if there will ever be any. I would leave for i\Ioscow, but am afraid of the journey, afraid of Sevastopol, where I would have to remain half a day. And don't you come here. I am ill at ease asking you to visit this sultry, dusty desert; besides, there isn't any spe- cial necessity, as I am already better and will soon be arriving in Moscow.
One hundred rubles for two and a half acres is an absurd, ridiculous price. Please, my sweet one, stop looking at summer cottages, we won't buy one anyhow. We can wait for some spe- cial opportunity, that would be the best of all, or else we can hire a cottage every summer. . . .
In case you want to come here, bring my cuspidor (the blue one, I forgot it), the pince-nez; don't take along any shirts, but the jersey underwear, the Jaeger stuff.
Suvorin stayed here two days, told me all sorts of things, a great deal that was new and interesting, and left yesterday. One of Nemirovich's admirers by the name of Fomin came to see me; he delivers public lectures on "The Three Sisters" and "Three of Us" (by Chekhov and Gorki). He is an honest, high- minded, but obviously not very bright little gentleman. I filled him with a lot of ponderous remarks, saying I did not consider myself a dramatist, that the only one such in present-day Russia was Naidenov and that [Nemirovich's] "In My Dreams" (a play he likes very much) was a middle-class piece and so forth and so on. Whereupon he left.
I am writing to your own Moscow address, since, if I am to believe your last letter, you have already moved to town. And a good thing.
I kiss the mother of my future family and embrace her. . . .
Your A.
T0 OLGA KNIPPER
September /8, /902, Yalta
My exquisite little missis,
I have a real event to relate: we had rain last night. . . . My health has improved immensely, at least I am eating a lot and coughing less; I am not drinking cream because the local prod- uct upsets my stomach and is extremely cloying. To put it briefly, don't worry, everything is all right, and even though things are not at their best, at least they are not worse than usual.
Today I am sad, for Zola has died. It was so sudden and untimely, so to speak. I wasn't particularly devoted to him as a writer, but on the other hand, during these last years, with all the clamor of the Dreyfus affair, I esteemed him highly as a man.
And so we shall soon be seeing each other, my little bug. I am going to stay until you drive me out. I'll manage to bore you, you may rest easy on that score. If you discuss Naidenov's play with him, assure him he has great gifts—no matter what the play is. I am not writing him, as I shall soon be talking with him—you can tell him that. . . .
Don't get into the dumps, it doesn't suit your style of looks. Be a gay little girl, my sweetie. I kiss both your hands, your forehead, cheeks, shoulders . . . .