Part 3 (2/2)

Forgive my long letter and do not blame a man because, for the first time in his life, he has made bold to treat himself to the pleasure of writing to Grigorovitch.

Send me your photograph, if possible. I am so overwhelmed with your kindness that I feel as though I should like to write a whole ream to you.

G.o.d grant you health and happiness, and believe in the sincerity of your deeply respectful and grateful

A. CHEKHOV.

TO N. A. LEIKIN.

MOSCOW, April 6, 1886.

... I am ill. Spitting of blood and weakness. I am not writing anything....

If I don't sit down to write to-morrow, you must forgive me--I shall not send you a story for the Easter number. I ought to go to the South but I have no money.... I am afraid to submit myself to be sounded by my colleagues. I am inclined to think it is not so much my lungs as my throat that is at fault.... I have no fever.

TO MADAME M. V. KISELYOV.

BABKINO, June, 1886.

LOVE UNRIPPLED [Footnote: Parody of a feminine novel.]

(A NOVEL) Part I.

It was noon.... The setting sun with its crimson, fiery rays gilded the tops of pines, oaks, and fir-trees.... It was still; only in the air the birds were singing, and in the distance a hungry wolf howled mournfully.... The driver turned round and said:

”More snow has fallen, sir.”

”What?”

”I say, more snow has fallen.”

”Ah!”

Vladimir Sergeitch Tabatchin, who is the hero of our story, looked for the last time at the sun and expired.

A week pa.s.sed.... Birds and corncrakes hovered, whistling, over a newly-made grave. The sun was s.h.i.+ning. A young widow, bathed in tears, was standing by, and in her grief sopping her whole handkerchief....

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