When we crossed the frontier it was snowing. In Vienna there is no snow, but it is cold all the same.
I am homesick and miss you all, and indeed I am conscience-stricken, too, at deserting you all again. But there, never mind! I shall come back and stay at home for a whole year. I send my greetings to everyone, everyone.
I wish you all things good; don’t forget me with my many transgressions. I embrace you, I bless you, send my greetings and remain,
Your loving
A. CHEKHOV.
Everyone who meets us recognises that we are Russians, and stares not at my face, but at my grizzled cap. Looking at my cap they probably think I am a very rich Russian Count.
TO HIS BROTHER IVAN.
VENICE, March 24, 1891.
I am now in Venice. I arrived here two days ago from Vienna. One thing I can say: I have never in my life seen a town more marvellous than Venice. It is perfectly enchanting, brilliance, joy, life. Instead of streets and roads there are canals; instead of cabs, gondolas. The architecture is amazing, and there is not a single spot that does not excite some historical or artistic interest. You float in a gondola and see the palace of the Doges, the house where Desdemona lived, homes of various painters, churches. And in the churches there are sculptures and paintings such as we have never dreamed of. In fact it is enchantment.
All day from morning till night I sit in a gondola and glide along the streets, or I saunter about the famous St. Mark’s Square. The square is as level and clean as a parquet floor. Here there is St. Mark’s—something impossible to describe—the Palace of the Doges, and other buildings which make me feel as I do listening to part singing—I feel the amazing beauty and revel in it.