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Letters of Anton Chekhov (Tchekhov) - Penn State University

Letters of Anton Chekhov (Tchekhov) - Penn State University

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<strong>Anton</strong> <strong>Chekhov</strong>TO A. S. SUVORIN.MOSCOW, January 31, 1891.At home I found depression. My nicest and most intelligent mongoosehad fallen ill and was lying very quietly under a quilt. Thelittle beast eats and drinks nothing. The climate has already laid itscold claw on it and means to kill it. What for?We have received a dismal letter. In Taganrog we were on friendlyterms with a well-to-do Polish family. The cakes and jam I ate intheir house when I was a boy at school arouse in me now the mosttouching reminiscences; there used to be music, young ladies, homemadeliqueurs, and catching goldfinches in the immense courtyard.The father had a post in the Taganrog customs and got into trouble.The investigation and trial ruined the family. There were two daughtersand a son. When the elder daughter married a rascal <strong>of</strong> a Greek,the family took an orphan girl into the house to bring up. This littlegirl was attacked by disease <strong>of</strong> the knee and they amputated the leg.Then the son died <strong>of</strong> consumption, a medical student in his fourthyear, an excellent fellow, a perfect Hercules, the hope <strong>of</strong> the family…. Then came terrible poverty …. The father took to wanderingabout the cemetery, longed to take to drink but could not: vodkasimply made his head ache cruelly while his thoughts remained thesame, just as sober and revolting. Now they write that the youngerdaughter, a beautiful, plump young girl, is consumptive.... The fatherwrites to me <strong>of</strong> that and writes to me for a loan <strong>of</strong> ten roubles…. Ach!I felt awfully unwilling to leave you, but still I am glad I did notremain another day—I went away and showed that I had strength<strong>of</strong> will. I am writing already. By the time you come to Moscow mynovel* will be finished, and I will go back with you to Petersburg.Tell Borya, Mitya, and Andrushka that I vituperate them. In thepocket <strong>of</strong> my greatcoat I found some notes on which was scrawled:“<strong>Anton</strong> Pavlovitch, for shame, for shame, for shame!” O pessimidiscipuli! Utinam vos lupus devoret!*“The Duel.”217

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