Complete Works of Anton Chekhov

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 comes to an end — we go splash! Again a strip of land, again a splash…. My hands were numb, and the wild ducks seemed jeering at us and floated in huge flocks over our heads…. It got dark. The driver said nothing — he was bewildered. But at last we reached the last strip that separated the Irtysh from the lake…. The sloping bank of the Irtysh was nearly three feet above the level; it was of clay, bare, hollowed out, and looked slippery. The water was muddy…. White waves splashed on the clay, but the Irtysh itself made no roar or din, but gave forth a strange sound as though someone were nailing up a coffin under the water…. The further bank was a flat, disconsolate plain…. You often dream of the Bozharovsky pool; in the same way now I shall dream of the Irtysh….

But behold a ferry. We must be ferried across to the other side. A peasant shrinking from the rain comes out of a hut, and tells us that the ferry cannot cross now as it is too windy…. (The ferries are worked by oars). He advises us to wait for calm weather….