Chekhov's study in his Yalta house was not big, about twelve strides
long and six wide, modest, but breathing a peculiar charm. Just opposite
the entrance was a large square window in a frame of yellow colored
glass. To the left of the entrance, by the window, stood a writing
table, and behind it was a small niche, lighted from the ceiling, by a
tiny window. In the niche was a Turkish divan. To the right, in the
middle of the wall was a brown fireplace of Dutch tiles. On the top of
the fireplace there is a small hole where a tile is missing, and in this
is a carelessly painted but lovely landscape of an evening field with
hayricks in the distance; the work of Levitan. Further, in the corner,
there is a door, through which is seen Anton Pavlovitch's bachelor
bedroom, a bright, gay room, shining with a certain virgin cleanliness,
whiteness and innocence. The walls of the study are covered with dark
and gold papers, and by the writing table hangs a printed placard: "You
are requested not to smoke." Immediately by the entrance door, to the
right, there is a book-case with books. On the mantelpiece there are
some bric-a-brac and among them a beautifully made model of a sailing
ship. There are many pretty things made of ivory and wood on the writing
table; models of elephants being in the majority. On the walls hang
portraits of Tolstoy, Grigorovitch, and Turgenev. On a little table with
a fan-like stand are a number of photographs of actors and authors.
Heavy dark curtains fall on both sides of the window. On the floor is a
large carpet of oriental design. This softens all the outlines and
darkens the study; yet the light from the window falls evenly and
pleasantly on the writing table. The room smells of very fine scents of
which A. Pavlovitch was very fond. From the window is seen an open
horseshoe-shaped hollow, running down to the sea, and the sea itself,
surrounded by an amphitheatre of houses. On the left, on the right, and
behind, rise mountains in a semi-circle. In the evenings, when the
lights are lit in the hilly environs of Yalta and the lights and the
stars over them are so mixed that you cannot distinguish one from the
other,--then the place reminds one of certain spots in the Caucasus.
This is what always happens--you get to know a man; you have studied his
appearance, bearing, voice and manners, and still you can always recall
his face as it was when you saw it for the first time, completely
different from the present. Thus, after several years of friendship with
Anton Pavlovitch, there is preserved in my memory the Chekhov, whom I
saw for the first time in the public room of the hotel "London" in
Odessa. He seemed to me then tall, lean, but broad in the shoulders,
with a somewhat stern look. Signs of illness were not then noticeable,
unless in his walk--weak, and as if on somewhat bent knees. If I were
asked what he was like at first sight, I should say: "A Zemstvo doctor
or a teacher of a provincial secondary school." But there was also in
him something plain and modest, something extraordinarily Russian--of
the people. In his face, speech and manners there was also a touch of
the Moscow undergraduate's carelessness. Many people saw that in him,
and I among them. But a few hours later I saw a completely different
Chekhov--the Chekhov, whose face could never be caught by any
photograph, who, unfortunately, was not understood by any painter who
drew him. I saw the most beautiful, refined and spiritual face that I
have ever come across in my life.
Many said that Chekhov had blue eyes. It is a mistake, but a mistake
strangely common to all who knew him. His eyes were dark, almost brown,
and the iris of his right eye was considerably brighter, which gave
A. P.'s look, at certain moments, an expression of absent-mindedness.
His eyelids hung rather heavy upon his eyes, as is so often observed in
artists, hunters and sailors, and all those who concentrate their gaze.
Owing to his pince-nez and his manner of looking through the bottom of
his glasses, with his head somewhat tilted upwards, Anton Pavlovitch's
face often seemed stern. But one ought to have seen Chekhov at certain
moments (rare, alas, during the last years) when gayety possessed him,
and when with a quick movement of the hand, he threw off his glasses and
swung his chair and burst into gay, sincere and deep laughter. Then his
eyes became narrow and bright, with good-natured little wrinkles at the
corners, and he reminded one then of that youthful portrait in which he
is seen as a beardless boy, smiling, short-sighted and naive, looking
rather sideways. And--strange though it is--each time that I look at
that photograph, I cannot rid myself of the thought that Chekhov's eyes
were really blue.
Looking at Chekhov one noticed his forehead, which was wide, white and
pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came between the
eyebrows, by the bridge of the nose, two vertical melancholy folds.
Chekhov's ears were large and not shapely, but such sensible,
intelligent ears I have seen only in one other man--Tolstoy.
Once in the summer, availing myself of A. P.'s good humor, I took
several photographs of him with a little camera. Unfortunately the best
of them and those most like him turned out very pale, owing to the weak
light of the study. Of the others, which were more successful, A. P.
said as he looked at them:
"Well, you know, it is not me but some Frenchman."
I remember now very vividly the grip of his large, dry and hot hand,--a
grip, always strong and manly but at the same time reserved, as if it
were consciously concealing something. I also visualize now his
handwriting: thin, with extremely fine strokes, careless at first sight
and inelegant, but, when you look closer, it appears very distinct,
tender, fine and characteristic, as everything else about him.