M. Sobolevsky and Mme. V.A. Morosov are
here. Every Russian in Biarritz complains of the number of Russians
here.

September 14. Bayonne. Grande course landoise. Bull-fight.

September 22. From Biarritz to Nice via Toulouse.

September 23. Nice. I settled into the Pension Russe. Met Maxim
Kovalevsky; lunched at his house at Beaulieu, with N.I. Yurassov and
Yakobi, the artist. In Monte Carlo.

October 7. Confession of a spy.

October 9. I saw B.'s mother playing roulette. Unpleasant sight.

November 15. Monte Carlo. I saw how the croupier stole a louis d'or.

1898.

April 16. In Paris. Acquaintance with M.M. Antokolsky [sculptor] and
negotiations for a statue of Peter the Great.

May 5. Returned home.

May 26. Sobolevsky came to Melikhovo. Must put down the fact that,
in Paris, in spite of the rain and cold, I spent two or three weeks
without being bored. Arrived here with M. Kovalevsky. Many interesting
acquaintances: Paul Boyer, Art Roe, Bonnie, M. Dreyfus, De Roberti,
Waliczewsky, Onieguin. Luncheons and dinners, at I.I. Schoukin's
house. Left by Nord-express for Petersburg, whence to Moscow. At home,
found wonderful weather.

An example of clerical boorishness. At a dinner party the critic
Protopopov came up to M. Kovalevsky, clinked glasses and said: "I
drink to science, so long as it does no harm to the people."

1901.

September 12. I was at L. Tolstoi's.

December 7. Talked to L. Tolstoi over the telephone.

1903.

January 8. "Istorichesky Vestnik," November 1902, "The Artistic Life
of Moscow in the Seventies," by I.N. Zakharin. It is said in that
article that I sent in my "Three Sisters" to the Theatrical and
Literary Committee. It is not true.

ANTON CHEKHOV'S NOTE-BOOKS

(1892-1904)

Mankind has conceived history as a series of battles; hitherto it has
considered fighting as the main thing in life.

* * * * *

Solomon made a great mistake when he asked for wisdom.[1]

[Footnote 1: Among Chekhov's papers the following monologue was found,
written in his own hand:

_Solomon_ (alone): Oh! how dark is life! No night, when I was a child,
so terrified me by its darkness as does my invisible existence. Lord,
to David my father thou gavest only the gift of harmonizing words and
sounds, to sing and praise thee on strings, to lament sweetly, to make
people weep or admire beauty; but why hast thou given me a meditative,
sleepless, hungry mind? L