You have pleurisy. If so, why do you stay on in Nizhni. Why? What do you want with that Nizhni, by the way? What glue keeps you sticking to that town? If you like Moscow, as you write, why don’t you live in Moscow? In Moscow there are theatres and all the rest of it, and, what matters most of all, Moscow is handy for going abroad; while living in Nizhni you’ll stick in Nizhni, and never go further than Vasilsursk. You want to see more, to know more, to have a wider range. Your imagination is quick to seize and hold, but it is like a big oven which is not provided with fuel enough. One feels this in general, and in particular in the stories: you present two or three figures in a story, but these figures stand apart, outside the mass; one sees that these figures are living in your imagination, but only these figures--the mass is not grasped. I except from this criticism your Crimean things (for instance, “My Travelling Companion”), in which, besides the figures, there is a feeling of the human mass out of which they have come, and atmosphere and background--everything, in fact. See what a lecture I am giving you--and all that you may not go on staying in Nizhni. You are a young man, strong and tough; if I were you I should make a tour in India and all sorts of places. I would take my degree in two or more faculties--I would, yes, I would! You laugh, but I do feel so badly treated at being forty already, at having asthma and all sorts of horrid things which prevent my living freely. Anyway, be a good fellow and a good comrade, and don’t be angry with me for preaching at you like a head priest. Write to me. I look forward to “Foma Gordeyev,” which I haven’t yet read properly. There is no news. Keep well, I press your hand warmly. TO O. L. KNIPPER. YALTA, February 10, 1900. DEAR ACTRESS, The winter is very cold, I am not well, no one has written to me for nearly a whole month--and I had made up my mind that there was nothing left for me but to go abroad, where it is not so dull; but now it has begun to be warmer, and it’s better, and I have decided that I shall go abroad only at the end of the summer, for the exhibition. And you, why are you depressed? What are you depressed about? You are living, working, hoping, drinking; you laugh when your uncle reads aloud to you--what more do you want? I am a different matter. I am torn up by the roots, I am not living a full life, I don’t drink, though I am fond of drinking; I love noise and don’t hear it--in fact, I am in the condition of a transplanted tree which is hesitating whether to take root or to begin to wither. If I sometimes allow myself to complain of boredom, I have some grounds for doing so--but you? And Meierhold is complaining of the dulness of his life too. Aie, aie! By the way, about Meierhold--he ought to spend the whole summer in the Crimea. His health needs it. Only it must be for the whole summer.