Letters of Anton Chekhov (Tchekhov) - Penn State University

Letters of Anton Chekhov to His Family and Friends with biographical sketchbank is sloping. The near one is hollowed out, looks slippery, hateful,not a trace of vegetation …. The turbid water splashes upon itwith crests of white foam, and dashes back again as though disgustedat touching the uncouth slippery bank on which it seemsthat none but toads and the souls of murderers could live …. TheIrtysh makes no loud or roaring sound, but it sounds as though itwere 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 outand announces that it is impossible to work the ferry as a storm hascome 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 goingto sleep I wrote a letter to Marya Vladimirovna; I was reminded ofthe Bozharovsky pool.In the morning they were unwilling to ferry me across: there wasa high wind. We had to row across in the boat. I am rowed acrossthe river, while the rain comes lashing down, the wind blows, myluggage is drenched and my felt boots, which had been dried overnightin 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 backyou must reward it with an anointing of tallow or castor-oil. On thebank I sat for a whole hour on my portmanteau waiting for horsesto come from the village. I remember it was very slippery clamberingup the bank. In the village I warmed myself and had some tea.Some exiles came to beg for alms. Every family makes forty poundsof wheaten flour into bread for them every day. It’s a kind of forcedtribute.The exiles take the bread and sell it for drink at the tavern. Oneexile, a tattered, closely shaven old man, whose eyes had beenknocked out in the tavern by his fellow-exiles, hearing that therewas a traveller in the room and taking me for a merchant, begansinging and repeating the prayers. He recited the prayer for healthand for the rest of the soul, and sang the Easter hymn, “Let the Lordarise,” and “With thy Saints, O Lord”—goodness knows what hedidn’t sing! Then he began telling lies, saying that he was a Moscow158