Nice russe (or Chekhov slept here)

American Poetry Review, The, Jul/Aug 2002 by Rocamora, Carol

For many of us-scholars, biographers, translators, directors-it's a labor of love. Artistic pilgrimages, they're called, in search of Chekhov, that great Russian dramatist and short story writer. To Taganrog, his birthplace by the Azov Sea; to his house in Moscow on Sadovo-Kudrinskaya Street (the "rose-colored chest of drawers," as he called it, with the Dr. Chekhov sign on the door); to Melikhovo, his "estate" south of Moscow; to the Moscow Art Theatre where his later plays premiered; to the Slavyansky Bazaar where he dined with his publisher; and finally, to Yalta, his "hot Siberia." We ardently follow his every step, confident that his spirit will be revealed to us and only to us, despite the fact that the paths are so well trodden. Every Chekhovian scholar, every director, each with his or her secret itinerary, believes that he will discover the true Chekhov, some due, some trace, that the one before him hasn't.

So this past June, while on an academic stint in Prague, I sought to flee that teeming city, choking with heat and too many eager young tourists-and I thought of Nice, a city Chekhov loved and visited on numerous occasions. I'd just translated some of his letters from Nice to Olga Knipper in 1900, while she rehearsed in Moscow for the premiere of The Three Sisters. Why not go down to Nice for a day or two, and sit by the ocean where he sat? Walk his walks, gaze into the sea, see what he saw? Perhaps I would discover something new.

First, I consult the guidebooks. No sign of a Pension Russe, the hotel he'd stayed in during his third and fourth visits (1897-1898 and 1900-1901). Oh-here's a note, under the listing of the Beau Rivage, a four-star hotel just a block from the sea. "Chekhov slept here in 1891" Wonderful! I hurry to the telephone. "Bonjour, Beau Rivage." I identify myself: Chekhov scholar, translator, etc. Is this the hotel where Chekhov stayed in 1891? I inquire. "Non, madame." But the guidebook says so, I insist. I entreat her to inquire. "Ne quittez pas, madame." A concierge gets on. "Oui, madame, Chekhov a sejourne ici. C'est vrai." Good. May I have a room for this weekend? "Mais non, madame, je suis desole." The weekend of an international conference of cardiologists. 5000 of them. Nice is booked.

And then I find it, in a guidebook-a note under a Hotel L'Oasis: "This hotel once entertained Anton Chekhov, the Russian playwright, and his compatriot, a certain Vladimir Ilyich Ulianov-more commonly known as Lenin. 10% discount." Perhaps this is yet another hotel where he stayed! I call immediately. "L'ecrivain Chekhov est reste dans votre hotel?" I inquire. "Mais oui, madame, bien sir." When? I ask. "En 1900, quand l'hotel s'appelait La Pension Russe." My heart leaps. Voila! The hotel where Chekhov stayed when he rewrote The Three Sisters! This is it. I absolutely must stay in this hotel. But no rooms there either. (Again, the cardiologists.) Still, I persist. "Je peux voir le chambre?" The room where he stayed-can I see it, at least? "Ah, mais madame, c'est tous renove, rh6tel. Je suis desole, madame, vraiment." (What century am I in, anyway? He stayed there one hundred years ago. Of course it's been renovated!) But the garden is the same, she assures me. And the facade of the hotel. So, perhaps sit in the garden, and savor the coffee and croissants where he did, I fantasize. Undiscouraged and unreserved, I set out on another Chekhovian pilgrimage. To Nice.

12/15/1900: "Strange as it may seem, feel as if I've landed on the moon. It's warm, and Nice is bathed in sunshine."

12/17/1900: "It's wonderful here in Nice; the weather is amazing. After Yalta, the climate and terrain here make it seem like heaven. I bought a summer coat and parade around like a peacock."

Nice. The glorious Cote. The approach by cab from the airport-dramatic, as always. I check into a chic hotel on a cliff, with a swimming pool overlooking that majestic bay. Indifferent to its allures, I set out immediately for the Hotel L'Oasis. Without unpacking. With trepidation, though, I might add. On the plane, I've just found a passage in one of Chekhov's biographies (Donald Rayfield's) describing the street where La Pension Russe was located as "the Rue Gounod, then a stinking alley that ran from the station to the Promenade des Anglaises." (I mentally thank the cardiologists.) But as I wind my way through a dean, quiet quartier, past stately white mansions and graceful churches, past small gated gardens cascading with bougainvillea, I have second thoughts. It's a lovely part of town. Serene, pristine. Far from the madding June crowds. And then I find it, the Rue Gounod, a discreet, inviting side street leading straight from the sea toward la gore. A sign with an arrow: Hotel L'Oasis. My heart quickens. I turn into the hidden drive, overhung with heavy, leaf-laden boughs. An esplanade of palms so dense they screen out the sun, a sudden, sweet stillness in the air, a beckoning vision of lushness beyond. And then there it is, a few meters ahead-the warm, ochre-colored facade of the most charming nineteenth-century auberge imaginable, graced with delicate wrought-- iron balconies, elegant louvred shuttered windows, and before it, yet another vision! A hushed and enchanted garden, overgrown with olive and date trees, with soaring, vine-entwined, century-old palms towering high over the hotel rooftop. Cool, shaded. Tranquil, untouched. How could I have ever doubted it?!