No doubt, Chekhov also discussed with Suvorin a project of Alexander's. His brother had sent him his published treatise on alcoholism, which Chekhov, in that ceaseless japery they maintained in their correspondence, promised to hang on a nail in the toilet so that visitors could tear out the pages. The work, however, had recommended its author to an able psychiatrist who associated Alexander with him in a plan to establish a clinic for the scientific treatment of alcoholics. Money was needed, and Alexander appealed to his brother, who had encouraged the idea, for ways on how to raise funds. Chekhov persuaded Suvorin to approach Witte, the minister of finance, and this important official agreed to find government support for the project.
Chekhov returned to Melikhovo apparently without making any attempt in Petersburg to see Lidiya Avilova, despite the touching scenes she had created out of her visits to him in the clinic some four months before (in her memoirs she says that he did not come to Petersburg at this time). The trip had clearly taken its toll on him, for shortly after it, abandoning the hopeful auguries of his improved health, he mentioned in a letter to Tikhonov: "Concerning my maladies, during the last week I've had a little trouble: I've been coughing and blowing my nose like hell; in a word, the same story. I ought to get away, but I've still not been able to arrange my financial affairs." (August 6,1897.)
In fact, Chekhov's restless nature, now augmented by worry over his health, made it difficult for him to remain complacently at Melikhovo during the warm summer months, as the doctors advised. With the curbs which they had placed upon him, life was boring and stupid, and he had come to the conclusion that, except for a drunkard, it was impossible for a man to live permanently in the country. Sitting in one place, he frankly confessed, bored him. He passionately yearned to wander, and he told Suvorin, who had announced his intention of going abroad, that if he had the money he would accompany him anywhere. Actually Chekhov had originally planned to break the summer at Melikhovo by a trip first to the South, and then to an exhibition at Stockholm; but his determination to finish the Novoselki school, and then the obstacle of Braz and his portrait, and finally a lack of funds spoiled these plans.
The doctors, however, positively insisted that, once the cold winds arrived, Chekhov must seek a warm climate. He thought of going to Malta, Corfu, or Nice. A chance bit of news that his friend, Vasily Sobolevsky, editor of Russian News, was in Biarritz settled the issue. Chekhov at once wrote him for precise travel instructions and the best hotel to stay at, asserting that he was somewhat shy about traveling in Europe alone since he knew all languages except foreign ones, and when he spoke French or German abroad, the conductors usually laughed at him. As for transferring from one station to another in Paris, that was just like playing blindman's bluff. With the proceeds from the performances of The Sea Gull and advances which he took to finance his stay abroad, Chekhov set out for Biarritz on August 31.
"то be doctored . . . the most repulsive egoism" / 399 chapter xviii
"To Be Doctored ... Is a Form of the Most Repulsive Egoism"
From Berlin to Cologne the Germans on the train almost suffocated Chekhov with cigar smoke, but German beer — "not beer but bliss" — revived him. The Suvorins met him at Paris and insisted he remain for a few days to sec the sights. And see them he did — the Moulin Rouge with its danse des ventre to tambourines and a piano; several popular cafes; then shopping with Suvorin's daughter and walking till he grew weary — yet he felt strangely well.
Chekhov was sorry to leave Paris, but he had already wired his new time of arrival at Biarritz to Sobolcvsky and felt that he could not change it again. The editor and his wife greeted him at the station and offered him quarters at their menage. He politely declined and took a room at the Victoria Hotel. This resort town by the sea delighted him — noise, glitter, laughter day and night, throngs of people constantly going and coming, striking Spanish types among them. And it all seemed so inexpensive: a lunch of six fat dishes and a bottle of white wine cost next to nothing. He bought a silk hat to promenade in, and when he tired sat on the plage, read the papers, or just watched the gay strollers — the ostentatiously wealthy, the lovely women flaunting their varicolored dresses and sunshades, the wandering minstrels with their guitars, and the open water and cliffs beyond. It all took him hundreds of versts from Melikhovo. "I don't want to go home," he wrote Suvorin. And for variation there was the Casino entertainment and a bullfight at Bayonne.
Every Russian in Biarritz, Chekhov noted in his diary, regrets that there are so many Russians there. He appears to have seen little of them, apart from the Sobolcvskys, whom he joined daily, and the eminent artist К. E. Makovsky, whose acquaintance he made. After Chekhov had been there almost two weeks, the Leikins arrived, and this old friend was surprised at his high spirits.
Whatever the distractions abroad, Chekhov was always eager to get letters from home. To one from Lika he replied in a spirit of fun not unmixed with sly criticism of her. "For whole days I sit in the sun and think about you and of why you love to speak and write about lopsided things; and I've decided that you have a side which is not in order and you know this and like it." But if she would only come to Paris, he continued, "I'll meet you lovingly, will try not to notice your lopsidedness, and in order to give you sincere satisfaction, I'll speak to you only of dairy cheese." To annoy her, he added parenthetically that he was taking French lessons from a nineteen-year-old girl named Mar- got. "Your letters," he went on, "were a real joy," and he begged her to write longer ones. "Believe me, I value not only Reinheit in women, but also kindness. As far as I know, up to now you've been very kind: you have written my friends long, tender letters; extend this kindness to me." (September 18,1897.)
Before Chekhov had been in Biarritz two weeks, the weather, now the capricious guardian of all his plans, turned cold, windy, and rainy. lie had to leave. After writing Goltsev to send him a thousand roubles, and Lika to remind her to inform him if she came to Paris, he set out with Sobolevsky for Nice.
Since Chekhov anticipated remaining in Nice throughout the fall, winter, and early spring, it was necessary to find an inexpensive place to live. He followed Leikin's recommendation and rented a room in the Pension Russe — a large one on the second floor, with windows facing the south, carpeted floors, a bed like Cleopatra's, and a separate washroom. The Russian cook, who had been there a long time, prepared excellent meals, both native and French. On awakening in the morning he was served two eggs, bread, and a large cup of coffee; for lunch at noon, omelet, beefsteak, sauce, cheese, and fruit; at two-thirty, a cup of cocoa; at six-thirty, dinner, usually consisting of soup or borsch, fish, cutlets, chicken, fruit, and cheese; and in the evenings, tea with biscuits. For all this, with the added privilege of entertaining guests in the salon, he paid only seventy francs a week! As he cheerfully wrote Masha, a bachelor could live well at Nice on between twenty-five hundred and three thousand roubles a year.1 Only the mosquitoes, which he tried to drive away by burning candles, bothered him, and he also regretted that the Pension Russe was situated on a side street, the Rue Gounod, providing no view of either the sea or the mountains.