Despite his various activities, increasing fatigue, and alarming spells of coughing, Chekhov wrote Vera Kommissarzhevskaya on March 2, in reply to a letter which contained her photograph and a warm invitation to visit, that he would soon be in Petersburg to pose for a portrait and would call on the very day of his arrival. Having finished Peasants and sent it off to Russian Thought, he set the date of his departure on Friday, March 21, which would enable him to read the proof of his story in Moscow and also meet Suvorin there, who promised to accompany him to Petersburg. Although he felt ill the night before and coughed up blood, he left on Friday.
Chekhov put up at the Moscow Grand Hotel, and on Saturday, along with Suvorin, attended a convention of theater workers, where the distinguished actress Mariya Savina made an effective speech. That evening at the Hermitage, just as he was about to begin dinner with Suvorin, blood suddenly started pouring from Chekhov's mouth. Applications of ice were of little use and Suvorin had him removed to his own hotel, the Slav Bazaar, where Dr. N. V. Obolensky was summoned. Chekhov remained there that night. He was frightened by the flow of blood and told Suvorin that he knew it came from his right lung.
The next morning, however, Chekhov insisted upon being taken to his own hotel, because he had many letters to answer and a number of people to see.® He wrote brother Ivan from there that he was a little unwell and to visit him if he had anything on his mind, and Goltsev he asked to send him Shekhtcl's plans for the People's Palace, for he wished to show them to a wealthy man. But the hemorrhages continued, and on Tuesday Dr. Obolensky ordered him to the clinic of the specialist Dr. Ostroumov. Suvorin visited him twice that day and entered in his diary: "The patient was laughing and joking as usual in the midst of spitting blood into a large reccptacle. But when I mentioned that I had seen the ice breaking up in the Moscow River, his facc changed and he said: 'Really, is the river moving?' I regretted reminding him of this. Probably a connection between the thawing river and the flow of blood occurred to him. For, several days before, he had told me: When a peasant is being treated for consumption, he says: 'There's no help for it. I'll go with the spring freshets.'" It was in spring, Chekhov must have recalled, that brother Nikolai began his last illness.
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Three days before Chekhov left for Moscow he had written Lidiya Avilova:
"I want very, very much to sec you — in spite of your being angry with me and wishing me all the best 'in any ease.' I'll be in Moscow before March 26, most probably on Monday at ten o'clock in the evening; I shall stay at the Moscow Grant Hotel opposite Ivcrskaya. I may possibly come earlier if my affairs permit — alas! I have very many. I'll remain in Moscow to the 28th of March and then, imagine it, I'm going to Petersburg.
"And so, good-by till then. Change your anger to mercy and agree to have supper or dinner with me. Really, it would be fine. I shall not fail you now whatever happens; only ill-health could keep me at home."
In her memoirs (Chapter XII, where this is quoted) she omits Chekhov's postscript: "The last phrase of your letter reads: 'Of course, I have understood.' What have you understood?" The phrase suggests that in Avilova's letter which he had answered she had at last come to understand his long silence and had dccided to cease writing him — wishing him all the best "in any case." Though she asserts in her
3 Suvorin, in his diary, says that Chekhov remained with him two nights. However, Chekhov wrote at least two letters on Sunday, the day after his hemorrhage, and both were sent from the Moscow Grand Hotel; their contents plainly indicate that he was there at that time.
memoirs that they had arranged to meet in Moscow in March, Chekhov's letter bears the tone of a response to a final ultimatum to see her — she had come to Moscow to visit her elder brother. Actually some fourteen months had passed since Chekhov's last letter to her, during which time, it may be assumed, she had written him more than once and he had failed to reply. In her memoirs (Chapter XI) there is a brief episode which seems to date, chronologically, shortly after the opening night of The Sea Gull. Here she describes how, alone at a theatrical performance, she saw him in a box with the Suvorins. He turned his back on her, but at the intermission asked to escort her home and she angrily refused. However, it is difficult to credit the reality of this incident, for Chekhov had not been in Petersburg since the day after the performance of The Sea Gull.
Avilova promptly answered his letter of March 18, but instead of agreeing to dine with Chekhov, as he had requested, she gave him her Moscow address and invited him to visit her there. Apparently this was a situation he wished to avoid. Elena Shavrova, another young and attractive authoress whose relations with Chekhov parallel to a certain extent those of Avilova — although she had no illusions about his emotional involvement with her — would also try to persuade him to call. Twice she made the attempt on his recent trips to Moscow, writing him on one occasion: "Won't you drop in tonight to see a poor, sick writer? By eight-thirty all will be out to a ball. . . ." He answered that he too had a cold and hoped she would get better quickly and visit him. In the same vein he now replied to Avilova's invitation of March 22: "I arrived in Moscow earlier than I expected. When shall we meet? The weather is misty and foul, and I'm a bit unwell and shall try to remain indoors! Will it be possible for you to come to me without waiting for my visit to you? Best wishes."[9]
Avilova hurried off a note to say that she would call at the Grand Hotel that evening, but when she arrived there was no Chekhov — at that time he was probably in Suvorin's rooms being treated by Dr. Obolensky. In the pile of letters awaiting him she found her note unopened, and she left very crestfallen. Chekhov wrote her a brief message on March 25 to tell her of his falling ill.5 Then her brother Alexei discovered that Chekhov had been taken to Dr. Ostroumov's clinic,6 and they both went there on the day he arrived. Over the formidable objections of the attending physician — that Chekhov was dangerously ill, ought not to see anyone but his sister, and under no circumstances should he be allowed to talk — Avilova secured admission to the sickroom, conveying the impression that she had come all the way to Moscow to hold a tryst with Chekhov. Three minutes were allowed her, and the doctor strictly warned that if the patient talked he might have another hemorrhage.
Avilova entered. " 'How kind you are,' he said softly," is the quotation in her memoirs.
" 'Oh, you mustn't talk!' I interrupted him, frightened. 'Do you suffer? Have you any pain?' "
So they carried on a conversation, according to her account, until the doctor came in at the end of the three minutes. Chekhov asked her to visit the next day, and when he wished to say something else the doctor raised an admonitory finger and insisted he write it. Chekhov wrote: "Get my proofs from Goltsev at Russian ThoughtЛ And bring me something of yours to read and something else." Then he took the note from her hand and added: "I very much lo . . . Thanks." " 'Lo' he crossed out and smiled," she recalled. Avilova left, and all the way home, she wrote, "I was wiping away the tears which ran down my face." And she added: "Alexei was silent, breathed hard, and sighed. 'Alexei,' I said, 'don't feel sorry for me. My heart is joyously full, full.' "