Letter · 1885

To N. A. Leikin, 24–25 September 1885. Moscow.

H. A. Лейкину, 24 или 25 сентября 1885 г. Москва.

Headnote

Written from Moscow in late September 1885, just after his return from the Kiselyov estate at Babkino, this letter continues Chekhov’s running correspondence with Nikolai Alexandrovich Leikin, editor-publisher of the Petersburg humor weekly Oskolki ("Splinters") and, at the time, his principal editor and creditor. Scrawled, he says, on a scrap of paper for want of anything better, it mixes small domestic and business notices – his household still hasn’t found a new apartment, he’s arranging to have his mail redirected from Voskresensk to a Moscow post office, a bill has gone off to the editor Sergei Khudekov, and the poet Liodor Palmin has left a letter waiting for him – with a report on seeing Vladimir Gilyarovsky ("Gilyai"), who complained that Leikin wouldn’t print his work; Chekhov predicts he’ll make a fine reporter.

The letter’s second half turns grimmer: an unsparing account of a Moscow gripped by illness that autumn, with the population visibly gaunt and unwell "as if sensing the Last Judgment," and a pointed dig at the public’s fear of cholera while it overlooks the far deadlier, unremarked toll of child mortality. The shift from bantering business notes to blunt social observation is characteristic of the young Chekhov, already trained by his medical studies to notice what his neighbors would rather not. He signs off simply, "Yours, A. Chekhov."

September 24 or 25, 1885. Moscow.
24 или 25 сентября 1885 г. Москва.
Dear
Уважаемый
Forgive me for writing on a scrap: there’s no other paper, and there’s no one to send to the shop. I’m already in Moscow. Thank you for your advice. I’ve made use of it and will go on making use of it. Thank you too for the trouble my nerves have caused you. My blockheads still haven’t found a new apartment, and I go on living in the old one.
Простите, что пишу на обрывке: другой бумаги нет, а послать в лавочку некого. Я уже в Москве. Спасибо за Ваши советы. Воспользовался ими и буду пользоваться. Спасибо и за хлопоты, которые причинили Вам мои нервы. Мои балбесы еще не нашли новой квартиры, и я продолжаю жить на старой.
I’ll probably move across the Moscow River, where an apartment is already coming up. I don’t know what to do about the magazine... The numbers that come now to Voskr, I receive here on Sretenka, since I filed a notice at the post office there.
Вероятно, переберусь за Москву-реку, где уже наклевывается квартира. Не знаю, как быть мне с журналом... Нумера, которые приходят теперь в Воскр, я получаю здесь на Сретенке, ибо подал в тамошнем почтамте заявление.
The bill has been sent to Khudekov. On arriving I found a letter from Palmin waiting on my desk. He’s forever holed up near the Smolensky Market – the most tedious place in Moscow...
Худекову счет послан. По приезде нашел у себя на столе письмо Пальмина. Вечно он ютится около Смоленского рынка – скучнейшее место Москвы...
Tomorrow I sit down to diligent work. Gilyai came to see me and complained that you won’t print him. Out of that fellow a most splendid reporter is being made.
Завтра сажусь за усердную работу. Был у меня Гиляй и жаловался, что Вы его не печатаете. Из этого человечины вырабатывается великолепнейший репортер.
Nothing new in Moscow.
В Москве ничего нового.
Farewell and keep well. Speaking of health: there are terribly many sick people in Moscow! Everyone has grown thin, pale, somehow haggard, as if sensing the Last Judgment. I was only at the dacha four and a half months, and on returning I found many no longer among the living... The devil knows what’s going on!
Прощайте и будьте здоровы. Кстати о здоровье: ужасно много больных в Москве! Все похудели, побледнели, как-то осунулись, точно страшный суд предчувствуют. Пробыл я на даче только 4 Ґ мес, а воротившись, многих в живых на застал... Чёрт знает что!
They’re afraid of cholera, the queer fellows, and don’t see that out of every thousand, forty die – that’s worse than any epidemic... Nor do they want to see the appalling child mortality, which wears people down worse than any wars, cowards, floods, or syphilis... But enough of that, or I’ll bore you...
Боятся холеры, чудаки, а не видят, что из каждой тысячи умирает 40 – это хуже всякой эпидемии... Не хотят также видеть поразительной детской смертности, истощающей человека пуще всяких войн, трусов, наводнений, сифилисов... Впрочем, и так далее, а то надоем...
Yours, A. Chekhov.

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To N. A. Leikin, 24–25 September 1885. Moscow.

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