Henri Troyat

Translated by Michael Henry Heim

[1] ...The friends who came to see Chekhov found him stretched out on a daybed wearing a dressing gown.He would apologize to them for the informality of his attire and force himself to make jokes and appear interested in everything, but they were all struck by his hollow cheeks, waxen complexion, and dilated pupils.Dr.Rossolimo observed that like all tubercular patients he spoke of the disease with an almost reckless indifference.With his burning hands and flushed cheeks could he really believe in cure?

[2] One evening Chekhov was reminiscing happily with the writer Gilyarovsky, one of the first to encourage him to write, when Gilyarovsky mentioned he had recently returned from a visit to the steppe.All at once Chekhov grew pensive.“Oh, the steppe, the steppe! What a lucky man you are! That’s where the poetry is.” And he closed his eyes, smiled a childlike smile, and let his head drop onto the pillow.“I am certain he dreamed of steppe,”Gilyarovsky wrote.

[3] Towards the end of the month Chekhov’s temperature went down and he felt strong enough to get out of bed.On May 31 he announced triumphantly to his sister: “Just think.Today for the first time I put on shoes and a coat [...] and for the first time went out for a ride.” Now there was nothing to hold him back from the journey Dr.Taube had counseled.On June 3, 1904, Anton and Olga took the train for Berlin.

[4] Although he had left Moscow in a morbid mood, Chekhov perked up at once in Berlin.A change of place always did him good.From a comfortable room at Hotel Savoy(“the best in Berlin”) he wrote Maria letter after optimistic letter: his appetite had improved; he was putting a bit of flesh on his bones; his diarrhea had subsided; his legs no longer arched; in fact, he was on his feet all day, “running around Berlin,” raiding the shops, riding through the Tiergarten.It was the first time he had ever been out of Russia with Olga, and he felt all the closer to her for their being “stranded” in a foreign city; he enjoyed discovering a new world and discussing new impressions with her.He claimed jestingly that he had not seen a single good-looking woman and that German women dressed “abominably.” Yet, as he admitted to Maria, “people live a comfortable existence, the food is good, life is good, life is not expensive, [...] the streets are clean, order reigns.” In his optimism he even made plans to spend some time at the Italian lakes and return to Yalta in August via Constantinople.

[5] Chekhov’s confidence in the future was not shared by Dr.Karl Ewald, the specialist Dr.Taube had recommended.After giving Chekhov a careful examination, Dr.Ewald spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness and left without a word.The message was obvious.“It was cruel of him, of course,” Dr.Alschuler later wrote, “but Ewald’s attitude may be explained by the fact that he did not understand how anyone could have permitted a man so ill to undertake so long a journey — and for what?” After an interview with Chekhov the Berlin correspondent for Russian News reported to his editor: “I am of the opinion that Chekhov’s days are numbered.He seemed mortally ill: he was terribly thin, coughed all the time, gasped for breath at the slightest movement, and was running a high temperature.”

[6] The same journalist saw the Chekhovs off at the Potsdam station, where after three days in Berlin they took the train for Badenweiler in the Black Forest.“He had trouble making his way up the small staircase at the station,” he wrote, “and sat down for several minutes to catch his breath.But as the train began to pull out, he disregarded my plea and leaned out of the window to nod good-bye.”

[7] Badenweiler is a spa on the western edge of the Black Forest not far from Basel, a clean, calm, unexciting little town that seemed to Chekhov made for convalescence.Olga and he spent their first two days there in a boarding house, then moved into a private house that took in guests.The large, well-kept garden, all gravel paths and flower beds, afforded a beautiful view of the mountains.Chekhov spent the entire day — from morning until seven in the evening — seated or reclining in a comfortable chair.In Badenweiler the sun did not burn, he wrote to his sister, it caressed the skin.The spa physician, a Dr.Schwohrer, proved perfectly competent and easy to get on with.Besides absolute rest he prescribed a diet of cocoa, oatmeal drenched in butter, and strawberry tea (“to aid the patient’s sleep”).And while Chekhov could not help grumbling about Schwohrer’s “quackery,” he boasted to Maria that he was growing stronger fast.On June 13 he went so far as to write to his mother:“My health is improving, and it’s likely I’ll be completely cured in a week.” Olga was hopeful enough to leave him on his own and go to Basel to have her teeth examined.

[8] After a week of euphoria, however, Chekhov once more gave way to anxiety, boredom, and the need for change.“I can’t get used to this German peace and quiet,” he wrote to Maria.“There’s not a sound inside or out except when a band with no talent strikes up at seven in the morning and noon.There’s not a drop of talent, not a drop of good taste anywhere to be seen, only great quantities of order and honesty.There’s a good deal more talent in Russia, to say nothing of Italy or France.” Now Dr.Schwohrer seemed wanting too:“The same stupid cocoa, the same oatmeal.” Since there was no question of their leaving Badenweiler, however, they left the house they had been staying at for the Hotel Sommer, the best the spa had to offer.Chekhov would sit out on the balcony of his room for hours, watching people enter and leave the post office across the road.Or he would plan journeys, perusing timetables and requesting information on departure dates for boats en route to Odessa from Trieste or Marseilles.

[9] Then Badenweiler was hit by a heat wave.Chekhov, his lungs half destroyed, suffered horribly.“It’s caught me unawares,” he wrote to Maria, “and since all I have with me is winter clothes, I’m suffocating and dream of getting out of here.” In this letter, the last Chekhov ever wrote, he gives in to despair for the first time: “The food is very tasty, but it doesn’t do me much good.My stomach keeps upset.I can’t eat the kind of butter they have here.Apparently my stomach is ruined beyond all hope.About the only remedy for it is to fast, in other words, to refrain from eating entirely, and that’s that.And the only remedy for short-windedness is to keep perfectly still.” His letter to her crossed one of hers to him saying that since he was doing so well she and their brother Ivan had decided to go on a short tour of the Caucasus.“So take care of yourself, dear Antosha.Try to cough less and eat more.Gather your strength and come home.”

[10] On June 29 Chekhov had a sudden violent attack and Schwohrer had to give him both morphine and oxygen, but his pulse returned to normal and he had a peaceful night.The respite was short-lived; next day he had a new attack.Two correspondents from the Russian press rushed to Badenweiler and wired back alarming reports on the state of Chekhov’s health.Chekhov, meanwhile, soon over the second attack and perfectly lucid and calm, instructed his bank in Berlin to make all payments in his wife’s name.When Olga asked him the reason for his concern, he replied evasively, “It’s nothing really.Just in case...”

[11] On July 1 he seemed to feel better and the correspondents’ reports were more optimistic: his heart was doing well, the day had passed uneventfully.Towards evening he insisted that Olga, who had not left his bedside for three days, should take a walk in the hotel grounds.When she returned, she lay down on a narrow couch near the bed.He scolded her for looking so sad.To cheer her up, he started improving a story.It took place in a fashionable watering place where the guests were all “well-fed bankers” and “rosy-cheeked English and American tourists.” Every day they would work up an appetite by going on a hike, and every evening they would rush back to the hotel dreaming of the delicious meal awaiting them.One day they returned to learn that the chef had decamped and they would have no dinner.At this point Chekhov began to describe how each of the hungry gourmets reacted to the disaster.For all her anguish Olga could not help laughing.

[12] Although the heat was still oppressive, Chekhov soon fell asleep.His breath came in spurts, but his face was calm.Then at half past twelve he sat up in bed and called for a doctor.It was the first time Olga had ever heard him do so.Suddenly she felt very much alone in their large German hotel where everyone was asleep for the night.After a moment of indecision she recalled that there were two Russian students in the room next door.She ran and woke them, and one of them immediately rushed off to fetch Dr.Schwohrer.“I can still hear the sound of the gravel under his shoes in the silence of that stifling July night,”she later wrote.

[13] Fever had made Chekhov delirious.He went on about a sailor or about the Japanese, his eyes shining.But when Olga tried to place an ice bag on his chest, he suddenly regained consciousness and said, “Don’t put ice on an empty stomach.”

[14] The windows were wide open, but he could not stop panting; his temples were bathed in sweat.Dr.Schwohrer arrived at two o’clock.When Chekhov saw him, he sat up, leaned back against the pillows, and, in a final reflex of courtesy, mustered his weak German and said, “Ich sterbe.” Schwohrer immediately gave him a camphor injection, but his heart failed to react.He was about to send for an oxygen pillow when Chekhov, lucid to the end, protested in a broken voice, “What’s the use? Before it arrives, I’ll be a corpse.” So Dr.Schwohrer sent for a bottle of champagne.

[15] When it came, Chekhov took a glass and, turning to Olga, said with a smile, “It’s been so long since I’ve had champagne.” He emptied the glass slowly and lay down on his left side.A few moments later he stopped breathing.He had passed from life to death with characteristic simplicity.

[16] It was July 2, 1904, three o’clock in the morning.A large black-winged moth had flown in through the window and was banging wildly against the lamp.The muffled sound soon grew maddeningly distracting.Dr.Schwohrer withdrew after a few words of consolation.All at once there was a joyous explosion: the cork had popped out of the champagne bottle and foam was fizzling out after it.The moth found its way out of the window and disappeared into the sultry night.Silence returned.When day broke at last, Olga was still sitting and staring into her husband’s face.It was peaceful, smiling, knowing.“There were no human voices, no everyday sounds,” she wrote.“There was only beauty, peace, and the grandeur of death.”

[1987]

Notes

1. Henri Troyat: He, born in Moscow, was one of the most prolific and popular French writers of the 20th century.

2. Olga: She, Chekhov’s wife, was an actress of the Moscow Art Theatre.She played some of Chekhov’s plays.

3. Maria: She, the sister of Chekhov, was a teacher, artist, founder of the Chekhov Memorial House museum in Yalta.

4. Odessa: It is the fourth largest city in Ukraine.The city is a major seaport located on the northwestern shore of the Black Sea.

5. Trieste: It is a city and seaport in northeastern Italy.

6. Marseilles: Located on the southeast coast of France, Marseille is France’s largest city on the Mediterranean coast and largest commercial port.

7. Ich sterbe: (German) It means: “I’m dying.”

For Fun

Works to Read

1. A Life by Anton Chekhov

It is a biography written by Chekhov’s scholar Donald Rayfield.It provides the reader with an insightful and detailed look at Chekhov’s life and experience.

2.The Dead by James Joyce

It is the final short story in the 1914 collection Dubliners.It is often regarded the best of Joyce’s short stories.The Dead mainly describes Gabriel’s self-awareness.

Movies to See

1. The Cherry Orchard (1999)

It is a British adaption of Chekhov’s masterpiece The Cherry Orchard.Directed by Michael Cacoyannis, it expands and condenses The Cherry Orchard with a fidelity that preserves Chekhov’s emotional extravagance and unblinking eye for human frailty.

2.The Dead (1987)

It is a film based on one of the stories in Dubliners by James Joyce.It was directed by John Huston (starring his daughter, Anjelica) and produced by Vestron Pictures Ltd.in 1987.