Suppose the trip gives me absolutely nothing, still won't the whole journey yield at least two or three days that I shall remember all my life, with rapture or with bitterness? And so on, and so on. That's how it is, sir. All this is unconvincing, but neither do your arguments convince me. You say, for instance, that Sakhalin is of no use and no interest to anybody. But is that so? Sak- halin could be of no use or interest only to a country that did not exile thousands of people there and did not spend millions on it. After Australia in the past and Cayenne, Sakhalin is the only place where you can study colonization by convicts. All Europe is interested in it, and it is of no use to us? No longer ago than 25 or 30 years, our own compatriots in exploring Sakhalin per- formed amazing feats that make man worthy of deifica- tion, and yet that's of no use to us, we know nothing about those men, we sit within four walls and complain that God made a botch of man. Sakhalin is a place of unbearable sufferings, such as only human beings, free or bond, can endure. The men directly or indirectly connected with it solved terrible, grave problems and are still solving them. If I were sentimental—I am sorry I am not—1 would say that to places like Sakhalin we should make pilgrimages, like the Turks who travel to Mecca, and navy men and criminologists in particular should regard Sakhalin as military men do Sevastopol. From the books I have been reading it is clear that we have let millions of people rot in prison, destroying them carelessly, thoughtlessly, barbarously; we drove people in chains through the cold across thousands of miles, infected them with syphilis, depraved them, multiplied criminals, and placed the blame for all this on red-nosed prison wardens. All civilized Europe knows now that it is not the wardens who are to blame, but all of us, yet this is no concern of ours, we are not interested. The vaunted Sixties did nothing for the sick and the pris- oners, thus violating the basic commandment of Chris- tian civilization. In our time something is being done for the sick, but for prisoners nothing; prison problems don't interest our jurists at all. No, I assure you, we need Sak- halin and it is important to us, and the only thing to be regretted is that I am the one to go there and not some- one else who is better equipped for the task and is more capable of arousing public interest * * *
Your A. CHEKHOV
TO ids sister maria
(The Tunguses are natives of eastern Siberia; the reference may have been a family joke. The Pechenegs were a nomad tribe that roamed the steppes in ancient times. Chekhov liked to use the name as a synonym for a benighted savage.)
April 29, 1890
My Tungus friends!
The Kama is a very tedious river. To appreciate its beauties one must be a Pecheneg, sit motionless on a barge near a barrel of petroleum or a sack of dried Cas- pian roach, continually swilling rotgut. The banks are bare, the trees are bare, the ground is barren, with strips of snow, and the devil himself couldn't raise a sharper and more disgusting wind. When a cold wind blows and ruffles the water, which after the floods is the color of coffee slops, one is chilled and bored and wretched. The strains of accordions coming from the banks sound dis- mal, and the figures in ragged sheepskin coats standing stock-stili on the barges that we pass seem petrified by some endless sorrow. The towns on the Kama arc gray; the only occupation of their inhabitants, it seems, is the manufacture of clouds, boredom, wet fences, and mud in the streets. The landing-places are crowded with the intelligentsia, for whom the arrival of a steamer is an event . . . Everything about these gentry suggests "the second fiddle"; apparently not one of them earns more than 35 rubles and they are probably all dosing them- selves for some ailment or other * * *
I was two and a half years sailing to Perm—or so it seemed to me. We landed there at 2 a.m. The train was scheduled to leave at 6 p.m. It was raining. Rain, cold, mud—brrrl * * *
Waking up yesterday morning on board a train and looking out of the window, I felt disgusted with Nature: the ground was white, the trees were covered with hoar- frost and a regular blizzard was chasing the train. Now isn't that revolting? The sons of bitches ... I have no rubbers, I pulled on my big boots and walking to the buffet for coffee I perfumed the whole Ural province with their tarry smell . . . When we got to Yekaterin- burg [now Sverdlovsk], there was rain, sleet, snow * * * In Russia all the towns are alike. Yekaterinburg is ex- actly like Perm or Tula, or like Sumy and Gadyach. The ringing of the bells is magnificent, velvety. I stopped at the American Hotel (not at all bad) and immediately wrote to A. M. S. [a relative] to say that I meant to stay in my hotel room two days and take Hunyadi [a laxa- tive] which, let me say not without pride, I drink with signal success.
The people here inspire the new arrival with a feeling akin to horror. They have prominent cheekbones, big brows, broad shoulders, tiny eyes, and huge fists. They are born in the local cast-iron foundries and are brought into the world not by an accoucheur, but by a machinist. A fellow like that comes into your room with a samovar or a decanter and you expect him to murder you. I move aside. This morning just such an individual came in— high-cheekboned, big-browed, sullen, towering to the ceiling, several feet across the shoulders, and wearing a fur coat besides. Well, I thought, this one is sure to mur- der me. It turned out that it was A. M. S. We talked. He is a member of the Zemstvo Board, manages his cousin's mill where they have electric light, edits The Yekaterin- burg Week which is censored by the Chief of Police, Baron Taube, is married, has two children, is growing rich, gaining weight, getting old, and lives "substan- tially." He says he has no time to be bored. Advised me to visit the museum, the plants, the mines; I thanked him for the advice. He invited me to tea, I invited him to have dinner with me. He did not invite me to dinner, and generally did not insist on my coming to see him. From this mamma may conclude that the relatives' heart has not softened, and that S. and I are not essen- tial to one another . . . Relatives are a tribe I am in- different to * * *
Your Homo Sachaliensis,
A. CHEKHOV
TO mme. maria v. kiseleva
(The addressee, a cultivated woman who wrote stories, was the daughter of the Director of the Imperial Theatres in Moscow and the wife of a lando^er, from whom the Chekhovs had rented a summer cottage for several seasons.)
On the shores of the Jrtysh, May 7, 1890 Greetings, truly esteemed Maria Vladimirovna!
I wanted to write you a farewell letter from Moscow, but had not time and had to put it off indefinitely. I am writing you now in a hut on the bank of the Irtysh. It is night.
This is how I came to be here. I drove across Siberia in my own carriage. I have already covered some 475 miles. I have become a martyr from head to foot. Since morning a sharp cold wind has been blowing and a most disgusting rain has been coming down. Observe that spring hasn't reached Siberia yet: the earth is brown, the trees bare, and wherever you look you see white strips of snow. I wear my fur coat and felt boots day and night. Well, so it began blowing this morning. Heavy leaden clouds, brown earth, mud, rain, wind • • • brrrl I diive and drive ... I drive on endlessly, and the weather gets no better. Towards evening they teU me at the station that there is no going any farther, as the roads are flooded and the bridges washed away. Knowing how fond these private drivers are of scaring one with the elements so as to keep the traveler over- night (it is profitable), I did not believe them and ordered a team of three horses hitched up. Well? Woe is me, I had hardly driven more than three miles when I discovered that great lakes covered the bank of the Irtysh; the ioad was under water and the bridges indeed either were washed away or had broken down. What prevented me from turning back was partly stubborn- ness, partly the desire to leave these dreary parts as quickly as possible.