After dinner Chekhov would give the men cigars — he had been introduced to these in his trip to Petersburg in 1892 and had become a devoted cigar smoker — and sparkling conversation would ensue. Sometimes he would play with the dogs. Although he had inherited two with the estate, Muir and Mcrilees (named after a famous Moscow store), Leikin had also presented him with male and female dachshunds, Brom Jsaich and Khina Markovna (literally "Bromine" and "Quinine"). Khina grew so fat that her belly almost dragged on the ground. Chekhov pretended that she suffered from this, and when Khina put her paw on his knee and gazed sadly into his eyes, he would change the expression on his face and in a pitying voice carry on a long monologue with the dog, beginning "Khina Markovna! Sufferer that you are! You ought to be in the hospital!" And the guests would roar over this simulated doctor's advice to his canine patient.
In July 1893, the writer I. P. Potapenko, whom Chekhov had met casually four years previously at Odessa and who by this time had become a popular author, visited Melikhovo. At first Chekhov described him as "the god of dullness," but after repeated visits he got to like Potapenko and they became firm friends. Though somewhat weak- willed, Potapenko was simple, sincere, extremely sociable, and always breathing optimism. He sang and played the violin well, had a good wit, squandered money, and was a general favorite with the ladies. Through Chekhov he became acquainted with Lika Mizinova and when the two of them arrived at Melikhovo from Moscow it was a cause for general jubilation, for it meant a day of music. Lika, who was studying opera singing in her spare time, had an excellent voice. The whole family would join in at singing around the piano, calling for their favorite pieces. Chekhov's was a Wallachian love ballad, very popular in Russia then, which Lika would sing, accompanying herself on the piano, with Potapenko playing the violin parts, while through the open windows came the song of birds and the fragrance of flowers in the garden right outside the living room. In the midst of such activities Chekhov would sometimes vanish, though never for long, and would exclaim with a smile on his return from his study: "I've just written sixty kopecks' worth!" These music fests would often last past midnight, but long after all had gone to bed the lamp in Chekhov's study still burned.
Hi esc Moscow friends generously repaid his hospitality when he appeared in the city and stayed at the Grand Hotel in his favorite room, Number 5, which was soon known as "Chekhov's Room." As Tatyana Shchepkina-Kupcrnik recalled, she would find on the notepaper at her apartment a scrawl such as: "At last, the waves have washed a madman on the shore . . . and he stretches out his hands to two white gulls." This was a reference to her and her friend, the attractive young actress Lidiya Yavorskaya, who thought Chekhov charming and pleaded with Lika Mizinova to help her catch him for a husband. With the swiftness of a telegram the news would get around that he was in town and friends would descend on Number 5. He would be regaled with luncheons, dinners, the theater, literary gatherings, concerts, exhibitions, and jolly nights of talk and drink that ran into the morning hours. This gay company was his "squadron" and he was "Avelan," a nickname suggested by the popularity of Admiral F. K. Avelan, who had commanded the Russian squadron that went to Toulon in 1893 to conclude the Franco- Russian alliance, and at this time was being endlessly honored in France and Russia for his successful services. Chekhov had his picture taken with Tatyana Shchepkina-Kupernik and Lidiya Yavorskaya, and the girls roared at the stony face he put on when the photographer said: "Look at the birdie." He entitled the picture: "The Temptation of Saint Anthony." After one such period of being "honored" by his "Moscow Squadron," in November 1893, he wrote Suvorin: "Never before have I felt so free . . . girls, girls, girls!" Yet Tatyana Shchepkina-Kupernik, who came to know Chekhov well, observed that in these gala gatherings he never seemed "to be with us," that he was like an older person playing with children although some in the group were much older than he. Behind his laughter and jokes, one sensed a sadness and a strange aloofness.
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Love bloomed with the flowers during these first two summers at Melikhovo. A petite and not unattractive brunette, Countess Klara Ivanovna Klamuna, visited the estate as a friend of Masha's and Lika's, with whom she worked at City Hall. Soon the countess's visits grew frequent, for brother Misha had begun to court her. There was a strong smell in the air, Chekhov darkly hinted, which meant in his brother's language that he was trying to advancc his career. Chekhov did not particularly like the little countess. But after some weeks she and Misha became engaged. They had hardly got accustomed to their new status when the countess went on a lengthy visit to her aunt's. Upon her return to Moscow, the languishing Misha hastened to greet his bride-to- be. He saw people hanging about at the windows and the gates of her house. What was happening? asked Chekhov, in telling the story to Suvorin. Nothing less than a wedding — the countess was marrying a rich gold-mine owner. Chekhov must have relished the situation; it was so much like those that he had treated in his early humorous tales. When in his despair the jilted Misha returned to Melikhovo, he pushed the countess's love letters under his brother's nose and begged him to solve this psychological problem. "A woman will deceive someone five times over before she has worn out a pair of shoes," Chekhov rather cynically commented. "However, I think Shakespeare has already spoken adequately on the subject." (April 26, 1893.) As f°r Misha, he threatened for a time to throw up his position and immure himself in a distant province.
The much more serious-minded Ivan, who had received another promotion in the teaching profession, also began to bring a young lady to Melikhovo, Sofya Vladimirovna Andreeva — a Kostroma gentlewoman, a very sweet girl with a long nose, Chekhov described her. He liked Sofya very much and was happy when Ivan told him of his engagement to her. The marriage took place at Melikhovo, July 9, 1893 —a quiet, decorous affair in keeping with the bridegroom's rather solemn nature. Of all the brothers, the able Ivan left nothing to chance in life; he was willing to forgo its thrills for the sake of propriety and hard-earned security.
Love also caressed sister Masha at this time, but only to cause her trouble and pain. The lively and attractive Ukrainian, Alexander Smagin, had visited the Chekhovs in Moscow and then at Melikhovo, and Masha had also seen him on visits to his relatives, the Lintvarevs. So she was not surprised now to receive a proposal. After much heart- searching she went to her brother's study and said softly: "Well, Anton, I've decided to get married." Recalling the scene in her old age, Masha wrote: "Brother, of course, understood who the man was, but he said nothing. Then I realized that this news was unpleasant for him, since he continued to remain silent. But what, in fact, could he say? I understood he could not confess that it would be hard for him if I left for the home of another, for a family of my own. Yet he never pronounced the word 'No.'" Masha left, went to her room, and wept long and bitterly, unable to make up her mind.
For several days, she waited for her brother to speak on the subject. "I thought much," Masha remembered. "Love for my brother, my ties to him, decided the matter. I could not do anything that would cause unpleasantness to my brother, upset the customary course of his life, and deprive him of the conditions for creative work which I had always tried to provide. I informed Smagin of my refusal, which caused him suffering. He sent me a sharp letter filled with reproaches."
Chekhov's terse and unilluminating comment on the matter to Suvorin, on October 18, 1892, reads: "My sister's marriage did not take place, but the romance, it seems, continues through correspondence.