Reading Chekhov

The doctor then ordered some champagne. Chekhov took the glass, turned to Olga Knipper and said with a smile, "It's a long time since I drank champagne." He had a few sips and fell back on the pillow. Soon he began to ramble. "Has the sailor gone? Which sailor?" He was apparently thinking of the RussoJapanese war. That went on for several minutes. His last words were "I'm dying"; then in a very low voice to the doctor in German: "Ich sterbe." His pulse was getting weaker. He sat doubled up on his bed, propped up by pillows. Suddenly, without uttering a sound, he fell sideways. He was dead. His face looked very young, contented and almost happy. The doctor went away.

A fresh breeze blew into the room, bringing with it the smell of newly mown hay. The sun was rising slowly from behind the woods. Outside, the birds began to stir and twitter, and in the room the silence was broken by the loud buzzing of a huge black moth, which was whirling round the electric light, and by the soft sobbing of Olga Knipper as she leaned with her head against Chekhov's body.

Princess Nina Andronikova Toumanova in Anton Chekhov: The Voice of Twilight Russia (1937) writes: Soon Dr. Schwohrer arrived accompanied by his assistant. They sent for oxygen. Chekhov smiled: It will come too late. A few moments later he became delirious. He spoke about the war and Russian sailors in Japan. This great humanitarian remained true to himself to the end. It was not his family or his friends on whom his last thoughts were centered: it was on Russia and her people… The physicians gave him some champagne. Chekhov smiled again, and then in a distant whisper said: "Ich sterbe." (I am dying.) He sank on his left side. All was ended. Two silent men bent over the motionless form, and, in the stillness of the July night, one could hear only the sobs of a lonely woman.

Daniel Gilles in Chekhov: Observer Without Illusion (1967): Chekhov's fever was so high that he was half delirious: he was raving about some unknown sailor and expressing fear of the Japanese. But when Olga came to put an ice bag on his chest, he abruptly came to himself and gently pushed it away. With a sad smile, he explained: "One doesn't put ice on an empty heart." Henri Troyat, in Chekhov (1984): Fever had made Chekhov delirious. He went on about a sailor or asked about the Japanese, his eyes shining. But when Olga tried to place an ice bag on his chest, he suddenly regained consciousness and said, "Don't put ice on an empty stomach." Irene Nemirovsky, in A Life of Chekhov (1950): A huge black moth entered the room. It flew from wall to wall, hurling itself against the lighted lamps, thudded painfully down, with scorched wings, then fluttered up again in its blind, impulsive flight. Then it found the open window, and disappeared into the soft, dark night. Chekhov, meanwhile, had ceased speaking and breathing: his life was ended. V. S. Pritchett, in Chekhov: A Spirit Set Free (1988): They were going to send for oxygen, but Chekhov said he would be dead before it came, so a bottle of champagne was brought. He sipped it and soon began to ramble and he evidently had one of those odd visions that he had evoked in Ward 6. "Has the sailor gone?" he asked. What sailor? Perhaps his sailor in Gusev? Then he said in Russian, "I am dying," then in German, "Ich sterbe," and died at once. Donald Rayfield, in Anton Chekhov: A Life (1997): He raved of a sailor in danger: his nephew Kolia. Olga sent one of the Russian students to fetch the doctor and ordered ice from the porter. She chopped up a block of ice and placed it on Anton's heart. Dr. Schworer came and sent the two students for oxygen. Anton protested that an empty heart needed no ice and that he would die before the oxygen came. Schworer gave him an injection of camphor.

And, finally, here is Philip Callow, writing in Chekhov: The Hidden Ground (1998): Chekhov was hallucinating, his eyes glittery, talking gibberish about a sailor, about some Japanese. She tried to put an ice-bag on his chest and he was suddenly lucid, fully conscious. "You don't put ice on an empty stomach," he told her, like a doctor supervising a nurse…

Then the doctor, one of those Germans who according to Chekhov followed every rule to the letter, did something astonishing. He went to the telephone in the alcove and ordered a bottle of the hotel's best champagne. He was asked how many glasses. "Three," he shouted, "and hurry, d'you hear?"

In a final effort of courtesy Chekhov sat up, said "Ich sterbe," and fell back against the pillows. The champagne arrived, brought to the door by a young porter who looked as if he'd been sleeping. His fair hair stood up, his uniform was creased, his jacket half-buttoned. He entered the room with a silver tray and three cut-crystal glasses and carried in a silver ice bucket containing the champagne.