Letters of Anton Chekhov (Tchekhov) - Penn State University

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Letters of Anton Chekhov to His Family and Friends with biographical sketchMay 28, 1892.Life is short, and Chekhov, from whom you are expecting an answer,would like it to flash by brilliantly and with dash. He wouldgo to Prince’s Island, to Constantinople, and again to India andSahalin …. But in the first place he is not free, he has a respectablefamily who need his protection. In the second, he has a large dose ofcowardice. Looking towards the future I call nothing but cowardice.I am afraid of getting into a muddle, and every journey complicatesmy financial position. No, don’t tempt me without need. Don’twrite to me of the sea.It is hot here. There are warm rains, the evenings are enchanting.Three-quarters of a mile from here there is a good bathing placeand good sport for picnics, but no time to bathe or go to picnics.Either I am writing and gnashing my teeth, or settling questions ofhalfpence with carpenters and labourers. Misha was cruelly reprimandedby his superiors for coming to me every week instead ofstaying at home, and now there is no one but me to look after thefarming, in which I have no faith, as it is on a petty scale, and morelike a gentlemanly hobby than real work. I have bought three mousetraps,and catch twenty-five mice a day and carry them away to thecopse. It is lovely in the copse ….Our starlings, old and young, suddenly flew away. This puzzledus, for it won’t be time for their migration for ever so long; butsuddenly we learn that the other day clouds of grasshoppers fromthe south, which were taken for locusts, flew over Moscow. Onewonders how did our starlings find out that on precisely such a dayand so many miles from Melihovo these insects would fly past? Whotold them about it? Truly this is a great mystery ….304
Anton ChekhovJune 16.… You want me to write my impressions to you.My soul longs for breadth and altitude, but I am forced to lead anarrow life spent over trashy roubles and kopecks. There is nothingmore vulgar than a petty bourgeois life with its halfpence, its victuals,its futile talk, and its useless conventional virtue; my heartaches from the consciousness that I am working for money, andmoney is the centre of all I do. This aching feeling, together with asense of justice, makes my writing a contemptible pursuit in myeyes: I don’t respect what I write, I am apathetic and bored withmyself, and glad that I have medicine which, anyway, I practise notfor the sake of money. I ought to have a bath in sulphuric acid andflay off my skin, and then grow a new hide ….305
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Letters of Anton Chekhov (Tchekhov) - Penn State University

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