Letters of Anton Chekhov to His Family and Friends
on to his coat-tails.
* * * * *
The sun is hiding behind the clouds, the sky is overcast, and the broad
Volga looks gloomy. Levitan ought not to live on the Volga. It lays a
weight of gloom on the soul. Though it would not be bad to have an estate
on its banks.
* * * * *
If the waiter would wake I should ask him for some coffee; as it is, I have
to drink water without any relish for it. My greetings to Maryushka and
Olga. [Footnote: The Chekhovs’ servants.]
Well, keep well and take care of yourselves. I will write regularly.
Your bored Volga-travelling
Homo Sachaliensis,
A. CHEKHOV.
FROM THE STEAMER,
Evening, April 24, 1890.
MY DEAR TUNGUSES!
I am floating on the Kama, but I can’t fix the exact locality; I believe we
are near Tchistopol. I cannot extol the beauties of the scenery either, as
it is hellishly cold; the birches are not yet out, there are still patches
of snow here and there, bits of ice float by--in short, the picturesque has
gone to the dogs. I sit in the cabin, where people of all sorts and
conditions sit at the table, and listen to the conversation, wondering
whether it is not time for me to have tea. If I had my way I should do
nothing all day but eat; as I haven’t the money to be eating all day long I
sleep and sleep. I don’t go up on deck, it’s cold. By night it rains and by
day there is an unpleasant wind.
Oh, the caviare! I eat it and eat and never have enough.
... It is a pity I did not think to get myself a little bag for tea and
sugar. I have to order it a glass at a time, which is tiresome and
expensive. I meant to buy some tea and sugar to-day at Kazan, but I
over-slept myself.
Rejoice, O mother! I believe I stop twenty-four hours at Ekaterinburg, and
shall see the relations. Perhaps their hearts may be softened and they will
give me three roubles and an ounce of tea.
From the conversation I am listening to at this moment, I gather that the
members of a judicial tribunal are travelling with me. They are not gifted
persons. The merchants, who put in their word from time to time seem,
however, intelligent. One comes across fearfully rich people.
Sterlets are cheaper than mushrooms; you soon get sick of them. What more
is there for me to write about? There is nothing.... There is a General,
though, and a lean fair man. The former keeps dashing from his cabin to the
deck and back again, and sending his photograph off somewhere; the latter
is got up to look like Nadson, and tries thereby to give one to know that
he is a writer. Today he was mendaciously telling a lady that he had a book
published by Suvorin; I, of course, put on an expression of awe.
My money is all safe, except what I have eaten. They won’t feed me for
nothing, the scoundrels.
I am neither gay nor bored, but there is a sort of numbness in my soul. I
like to sit without moving or speaking. To-day, for instance, I have
scarcely uttered five words. That’s not true, though: I talked to a priest
on deck.
We begin to come across natives; there are lots of Tatars: they are a
respectable and well-behaved people.
I beg Father and Mother not to worry, and not to imagine dangers which do
not exist.
* * * * *
Excuse me for writing about nothing but food. If I did not write about food
I should have to write about cold, for I have no other subjects.
* * * * *
April 29, 1890.
MY DEAR TUNGUSES!
The Kama is a very dull river. To realise its beauties one would have to be
a native sitting motionless on a barge beside a barrel of naphtha, or a
sack of dried fish, continually taking a pull at the bottle. The river
banks are bare, the trees are bare, the earth is a dull brown, there are
patches of snow, and there is such a wind that the devil himself could not
blow as keenly and hatefully. When a cold wind blows and ruffles up the
water, which now after the floods is the colour of coffee slops, one feels
cold and bored and miserable; the strains of a concertina on the bank sound
dejected, figures in tattered sheepskins standing motionless on the barges
that meet us look as though they were petrified by some unending grief. The
towns on the Kama are grey; one would think the inhabitants were employed
in the manufacture of clouds, boredom, soaking fences and mud in the
streets, as their sole occupation. The stopping-places are thronged with
inhabitants of the educated class, for whom the arrival of a steamer is an
event....
... To judge from appearances not one of them earns more than thirty-five
roubles, and all of them are ailing in some way.
I have told you already there are some legal gentlemen in the steamer: the
president of the court, one of the judges, and the prosecutor. The
president is a hale and hearty old German who has embraced Orthodoxy, is
pious, a homoeopath, and evidently a devotee of the sex. The judge is an
old man such as dear Nikolay used to draw; he walks bent double, coughs,
and is fond of facetious subjects. The prosecutor is a man of forty-three,
dissatisfied with life, a liberal, a sceptic, and a very good-natured
fellow. All the journey these gentlemen have been occupied in eating,
settling mighty questions and eating, reading and eating. There is a
library on the steamer, and I saw the prosecutor reading my “In the
Twilight.” They began talking about me. Mamin-Sibiryak, who has described
the Urals, is the author most liked in these parts. He is more talked of
than Tolstoy.
I have been two and a half years sailing to Perm, so it seems to me. We
reached there at two o’clock in the night. The train went at six o’clock in
the evening. I had to wait. It rained. Rain, cold, mud ... brrr! The
Uralsky line is a good one.... That is due to the abundance of
business-like people here, factories, mines, and so on, for whom time is
precious.
Waking yesterday morning and looking out of the carriage window I felt an
aversion for nature: the earth was white, trees covered with hoar-frost,
and a regular blizzard pursuing the train. Now isn’t it revolting? Isn’t it
disgusting? ... I have no goloshes, I pulled on my big boots, and on my way
to the refreshment-room for coffee I made the whole Ural region smell of
tar. And when we got to Ekaterinburg there was rain, snow, and hail. I put
on my leather coat. The cabs are something inconceivable, wretched, dirty,
drenched, without springs, the horse’s four legs straddling, huge hoofs,
gaunt spines ... the droshkies here are a clumsy parody of our britchkas. A
tattered top is put on to a britchka, that is all. And the more exactly I
describe the cabman here and his vehicle, the more it will seem like a
caricature. They drive not on the middle of the road where it is jolting,
but near the gutter where it is muddy and soft. All the cabmen are like
Dobrolyubov.
In Russia all the towns are alike. Ekaterinburg is exactly the same as Perm
or Tula. The note of the bells is magnificent, velvety. I stopped at the
American Hotel (not at all bad), and at once sent word of my arrival to A.
M. S., telling him I meant to stay in my hotel room for two days.
The people here inspire the newcomer with a feeling akin to horror. They
are big-browed, big-jawed, broad-shouldered fellows with huge fists and
tiny eyes. They are born in the local iron foundries, and at their birth a
mechanic officiates instead of an accoucheur. A specimen comes into your
room with a samovar or a bottle of water, and you expect him every minute
to murder you. I stand aside. This morning just such a one came in,
big-browed, big-jawed, huge, towering up to the ceiling, seven feet across
the shoulders and wearing a fur coat too.
Well, I thought, this one will certainly murder me. It appeared that this
was our relation A. M. S. We began to talk. He is a member of the local
Zemstvo and manager of his cousin’s mill, which is lighted by electric
light; he is editor of the _Ekaterinburg Week_ which is under the
censorship of the police-master Baron Taube, is married and has two
children, is growing rich and getting fat and elderly, and lives in a
“substantial way.” He says he has no time to be bored. He advised me to
visit the museum, the factories, and the mines; I thanked him for his
advice. He invited me to tea to-morrow evening; I invited him to dine with
me. He did not invite me to dinner, and altogether did not press me very
much to visit him. From this mother may conclude that the relations’ heart
is not softened.... Relations are a race in which I take no interest.
There is snow in the street, and I have purposely let down the blind over
the windows so as not to see the Asiatic sight. I am sitting here waiting
for an answer from Tyumen to my telegram. I telegraphed: “Tyumen. Kurbatov
steamer line. Reply paid. Inform me when the passenger steamer starts
Tomsk.” It depends on the answer whether I go by steamer or gallop fifteen
hundred versts in the slush of the thaw.
All night long they beat on sheets of iron at every corner here. You need a
head of iron not to go crazy from the incessant clanging. To-day I tried to
make myself coffee. The result was a horrid mess. I just drank it with a
shrug. I looked at five sheets, handled them, and did not take one. I am
going to-day to buy rubber overshoes.
* * * * *
Shall I find a letter from you at Irkutsk?
Ask Lika not to leave such big margins in her letters.
Your Homo Sachaliensis,
A. CHEKHOV.
TO MADAME KISELYOV.
THE BANK OF THE IRTYSH,
May 7, 1890.
My greetings, honoured Marya Vladimirovna! I meant to write you a farewell
letter from Moscow, but I had not time; I write to you now sitting in a hut
on the bank of the Irtysh.
It is night. This is how I have come to be here. I am driving across the
plain of Siberia. I have already driven 715 versts; I have been transformed
from head to foot into a great martyr. This morning a keen cold wind began
blowing, and it began drizzling with the most detestable rain. I must
observe that there is no spring yet in Siberia. The earth is brown, the
trees are bare, and there are white patches of snow wherever one looks; I
wear my fur coat and felt overboots day and night.... Well, the wind has
been blowing since early morning.... Heavy leaden clouds, dull brown earth,
mud, rain, wind.... Brrr! I drive on and on.... I drive on endlessly, and
the weather does not improve. Towards evening I am told at the station I
can’t go on further, as everything is under water, the bridges have been
carried away, and so on. Knowing how fond these drivers are of frightening
one with the elements so as to keep the traveller for the night (it is to
their interest), I did not believe them, and ordered them to harness the
three horses; and now--alas for me!--I had not driven more than five versts
when I saw the land on the bank of the Irtysh all covered with great lakes,
the road disappeared under water, and the bridges on the road really had
been swept away or had decayed. I was prevented from turning back partly by
obstinacy and partly by the desire to get out of these dreary parts as
quickly as possible. We began driving through the lakes.... My God, I have
never experienced anything like it in my life! The cutting wind, the cold,
the loathsome rain, and one had to get out of the chaise (not a covered
one), if you please, and hold the horses: at each little bridge one could
only lead the horses over one at a time.... What had I come to? Where was
I? All around, desert, dreariness; the bare sullen bank of the Irtysh in
sight.... We drive into the very biggest lake. Now I should be glad to turn
back, but it is not easy.... We drive on a long strip of land ... the strip