Letters of Anton Chekhov to His Family and Friends
of folly ... I suppose it is a special neurosis. We drive on and make for
the little islands and strips of land. The direction is indicated by
bridges and planks; they have been washed away. To cross by them we had to
unharness the horses and lead them over one by one.... The driver
unharnesses the horses, I jump out into the water in my felt boots and hold
them.... A pleasant diversion! And the rain and wind.... Queen of Heaven!
At last we get to a little island where there stands a hut without a
roof.... Wet horses are wandering about in the wet dung. A peasant with a
long stick comes out of the hut and undertakes to guide us. He measures the
depth of the water with his stick, and tries the ground. He led us out--God
bless him for it!--on to a long strip of ground which he called “the
ridge.” He instructs us that we must keep to the right--or perhaps it was
to the left, I don’t remember--and get on to another ridge. This we do. My
felt boots are soaking and squelching, my socks are snuffling. The driver
says nothing and clicks dejectedly to his horses. He would gladly turn
back, but by now it was late, it was dark.... At last--oh, joy!--we reach
the Irtysh.... The further bank is steep but the near bank is sloping. The
near one is hollowed out, looks slippery, hateful, not a trace of
vegetation.... The turbid water splashes upon it with crests of white foam,
and dashes back again as though disgusted at touching the uncouth slippery
bank on which it seems that none but toads and the souls of murderers could
live.... The Irtysh makes no loud or roaring sound, but it sounds as though
it were hammering on coffins in its depths.... A damnable impression! The
further bank is steep, dark brown, desolate....
There is a hut; the ferry-men live in it. One of them comes out and
announces that it is impossible to work the ferry as a storm has come up.
The river, they said, was wide, and the wind was strong. And so I had to
stay the night at the hut.... I remember the night. The snoring of the
ferry-men and my driver, the roar of the wind, the patter of the rain, the
mutterings of the Irtysh.... Before going to sleep I wrote a letter to
Marya Vladimirovna; I was reminded of the Bozharovsky pool.
In the morning they were unwilling to ferry me across: there was a high
wind. We had to row across in the boat. I am rowed across the river, while
the rain comes lashing down, the wind blows, my luggage is drenched and my
felt boots, which had been dried overnight in the oven, become jelly again.
Oh, the darling leather coat! If I did not catch cold I owe it entirely to
that. When I come back you must reward it with an anointing of tallow or
castor-oil. On the bank I sat for a whole hour on my portmanteau waiting
for horses to come from the village. I remember it was very slippery
clambering up the bank. In the village I warmed myself and had some tea.
Some exiles came to beg for alms. Every family makes forty pounds of
wheaten flour into bread for them every day. It’s a kind of forced tribute.
The exiles take the bread and sell it for drink at the tavern. One exile, a
tattered, closely shaven old man, whose eyes had been knocked out in the
tavern by his fellow-exiles, hearing that there was a traveller in the room
and taking me for a merchant, began singing and repeating the prayers. He
recited the prayer for health and for the rest of the soul, and sang the
Easter hymn, “Let the Lord arise,” and “With thy Saints, O Lord”--goodness
knows what he didn’t sing! Then he began telling lies, saying that he was a
Moscow merchant. I noticed how this drunken creature despised the peasants
upon whom he was living.
On the 11th I drove with posting horses. I read the books of complaints at
the posting station in my boredom.
... On the 12th of May they would not give me horses, saying that I could
not drive, because the River Ob had overflowed its banks and flooded all
the meadows. They advised me to turn off the track as far as Krasny Yar;
then go by boat twelve versts to Dubrovin, and at Dubrovin you can get
posting horses.... I drove with private horses as far as Krasny Yar. I
arrive in the morning; I am told there is a boat, but that I must wait a
little as the grandfather had sent the workman to row the president’s
secretary to Dubrovin in it. Very well, we will wait.... An hour passes, a
second, a third.... Midday arrives, then evening.... Allah kerim, what a
lot of tea I drank, what a lot of bread I ate, what a lot of thoughts I
thought! And what a lot I slept! Night came on and still no boat.... Early
morning came.... At last at nine o’clock the workmen returned.... Thank
heaven, we are afloat at last! And how pleasant it is! The air is still,
the oarsmen are good, the islands are beautiful.... The floods caught men
and cattle unawares and I see peasant women rowing in boats to the islands
to milk the cows. And the cows are lean and dejected. There is absolutely
no grass for them, owing to the cold. I was rowed twelve versts. At the
station of Dubrovin I had tea, and for tea they gave me, can you imagine!
waffles.... I suppose the woman of the house was an exile or the wife of an
exile. At the next station an old clerk, a Pole, to whom I gave some
antipyrin for his headache, complained of his poverty, and said Count
Sapyega, a Pole who was a gentleman-in-waiting at the Austrian Court, and
who assisted his fellow-countrymen, had lately arrived there on his way to
Siberia, “He stayed near the station,” said the clerk, “and I didn’t know
it! Holy Mother! He would have helped me! I wrote to him at Vienna, but I
got no answer, ...” and so on. Why am I not a Sapyega? I would send this
poor fellow to his own country.
On the 14th of May again they would not give me horses. The Tom was
flooded. How vexatious! It meant not mere vexation but despair! Fifty
versts from Tomsk and how unexpected! A woman in my place would have
sobbed. Some kind-hearted people found a solution for me. “Drive on, sir,
as far as the Tom, it is only six versts from here; there they will row you
across to Yar, and Ilya Markovitch will take you on from there to Tomsk.” I
hired a horse and drove to the Tom, to the place where the boat was to be.
I drove--there was no boat. They told me it had just set off with the post,
and was hardly likely to return as there was such a wind. I began
waiting.... The ground was covered with snow, it rained and hailed and the
wind blew.... One hour passed, a second, and no boat. Fate was laughing at
me. I returned to the station. There the driver of the mail with three
posting horses was just setting off for the Tom. I told him there was no
boat. He stayed. Fate rewarded me; the clerk in response to my hesitating
inquiry whether there was anything to eat told me the woman of the house
had some cabbage soup. Oh, rapture! Oh, radiant day! And the daughter of
the house did in fact give me some excellent cabbage soup, with some
capital meat with roast potatoes and cucumbers. I have not had such a
dinner since I was at Pan Zalyessky’s. After the potatoes I let myself go,
and made myself some coffee.
Towards evening the mail driver, an elderly man who had evidently endured a
good deal in his day, and who did not venture to sit down in my presence,
began preparing to set off to the Tom. I did the same. We drove off. As
soon as we reached the river the boat came into sight--a long boat: I have
never dreamed of a boat so long. While the post was being loaded on to the
boat I witnessed a strange phenomenon--there was a peal of thunder, a queer
thing in a cold wind, with snow on the ground. They loaded up and rowed
off. My sweet Misha, forgive me for being so rejoiced that I did not bring
you with me! How sensible it was of me not to take anyone with me! At first
our boat floated over a meadow near willow-bushes.... As is common before a
storm or during a storm, a violent wind suddenly sprang up on the water and
stirred up the waves. The boatman who was sitting at the helm advised our
waiting in the willow-bushes till the storm was over. They answered him
that if the storm grew worse, they might stay in the willow-bushes till
night and be drowned all the same. They proceeded to settle it by _majority
of votes_, and decided to row on. An evil mocking fate is mine. Oh, why
these jests? We rowed on in silence, concentrating our thoughts.... I
remember the figure of the mail-driver, a man of varied experiences. I
remember the little soldier who suddenly became as crimson as cherry juice.
I thought, if the boat upsets I will fling off my fur coat and my leather
coat ... then my felt boots, then ... and so on.... But the bank came
nearer and nearer, one’s soul felt easier and easier, one’s heart throbbed
with joy, one heaved deep sighs as though one could breathe freely at last,
and leapt on the wet slippery bank.... Thank God!
At Ilya Markovitch’s, the converted Jew’s, I was told that I could not
drive at night; the road was bad; that I must remain till next day. Very
good, I stayed. After tea I sat down to write you this letter, interrupted
by the visit of the “president.” The president is a rich mixture of
Nozdryov, Hlestakov and a cur. A drunkard, a rake, a liar, a singer, a
story-teller, and with all that a good-natured man. He had brought with him
a big trunk stuffed full of business papers, a bedstead and mattress, a
gun, and a secretary. The secretary is an excellent, well-educated man, a
protesting liberal who has studied in Petersburg, and is free in his ideas;
I don’t know how he came to Siberia, he is infected to the marrow of his
bones with every sort of disease, and is taking to drink, thanks to his
principal, who calls him Kolya. The representative of authority sends for a
cordial. “Doctor,” he bawls, “drink another glass, I beseech you humbly!”
Of course, I drink it. The representative of authority drinks soundly, lies
outrageously, uses shameless language. We go to bed. In the morning a
cordial is sent for again. They swill the cordial till ten o’clock and at
last they go. The converted Jew, Ilya Markovitch, whom the peasants here
idolize--so I was told--gave me horses to drive to Tomsk.
The “president,” the secretary and I got into the same conveyance. All the
way the “president” told lies, drank out of the bottle, boasted that he did
not take bribes, raved about the scenery, and shook his fist at the tramps
that he met. We drove fifteen versts, then halt! The village of
Brovkino.... We stop near a Jew’s shop and go to take “rest and
refreshment.” The Jew runs to fetch us a cordial while his wife makes us
some fish-soup, of which I have written to you already. The “president”
gave orders that the _sotsky_, the _desyatsky_, and the road contractor
should come to him, and in his drunkenness began reproving them, not the
least restrained by my presence. He swore like a Tatar.
I soon parted from the “president,” and on the evening of the 15th of May
by an appalling road reached Tomsk. During the last two days I have only
done seventy versts; you can imagine what the roads are like!
In Tomsk the mud was almost impassable. Of the town and the manner of
living here I will write in a day or two, but good-bye for now--I am tired
of writing.
* * * * *
There are no poplars. The Kuvshinnikov General was lying. I have seen no
nightingales. There are magpies and cuckoos.
I received a telegram of eighty words from Suvorin to-day.
Excuse this letter’s being like a hotch-potch. It’s incoherent, but I can’t
help it. Sitting in an hotel room one can’t write better. Excuse its being
long, It’s not my fault. My pen ran away with me--besides, I wanted to go
on talking to you. It’s three o’clock in the night. My hand is tired. The