Letter · 1881

To Al. P. Chekhov, 1881. Moscow.

Ал. П. Чехову, Март, не ранее 6, 1881 г. Москва.

Headnote

Chekhov was twenty-one, a medical student in Moscow, when he wrote this short, furious mock-legal letter to his elder brother Alexander. The two were already living the pattern that would recur for years: Alexander older, gifted, chronically unstable, prone to drunken scenes and to turning family tenderness into leverage; Anton, younger but already the household’s de facto authority, refusing to be managed by either sentiment or threat.

The letter stages itself as a deposition – "I, Anton Chekhov, am writing this letter in a sober state, in full possession of my senses" – a parody of the legal-affidavit formula, aimed at forestalling whatever excuse Alexander might later offer. The occasion was evidently a drunken outburst ("today’s scandal") that had ended, or threatened to end, in a blow; Chekhov’s reference to "The Sleepwalker" – a piece Alexander had apparently written or claimed authorship of – turns the brother’s own professed sensitivity back on him as evidence of hypocrisy. The closing pun on "brother" (which Alexander had used as an appeal, a half-threat, at the end of their confrontation) shows the pattern that becomes constant in the family letters: Anton drawing a hard line under sentimentality that others try to use as a lever.

Nothing here is literary output in the ordinary sense, but it is an early, vivid instance of what the mature Chekhov the correspondent will do constantly and at far greater length in the family letters of the 1880s: adjudicate, with icy comic precision, between the people who depend on him and the people who try to manipulate that dependence.

March, not earlier than the 6th, 1881. Moscow.
Март, не ранее 6, 1881 г. Москва.
I, Anton Chekhov, am writing this letter in a sober state, in full possession of my senses and my composure. I resort to a schoolboy’s device, in view of the wish you expressed to converse with me no more. If I do not allow my mother, my sister, or a woman to say one word too many to me, then still less will I allow it to a drunken cabman. Be you a hundred thousand times over a beloved person, I, on principle and for whatever reason you like, will not endure insults from you. If, contrary to expectation, it should please you to employ your usual trick, that is to lay the whole blame on "unaccountability," then know that I know perfectly well that "being drunk" does not give one the right to sit on another man’s head. The word "brother," with which you so frightened me as I made my exit from the field of battle, I am ready to throw out of my vocabulary at any hour, not because I have no heart, but because in this world one must be ready for everything. I fear nothing, and I advise blood brothers the same. I write all this, in all likelihood, in order to guarantee and secure my future self against a great many things, and perhaps even against the slap in the face which you are capable of giving to whomever and wherever, by virtue of your most charming "but" (which is nobody’s business, I say in parenthesis). Today’s scandal has shown me for the first time that the delicacy which you, as author of "The Sleepwalker," celebrated in yourself has nothing against the aforementioned slap in the face, and that you are the most secretive of men, that is, one who keeps his own counsel, and therefore...
Я, Антон Чехов, пишу это письмо, находясь в трезвом виде, обладая полным сознанием и хладнокровием. Прибегаю к институтской замашке, ввиду высказанного тобою желания с тобой более не беседовать. Если я не позволяю матери, сестре и женщине сказать мне лишнее слово, то пьяному извозчику не позволю оное и подавно. Будь ты хоть 100 000 раз любимый человек, я, по принципу и почему только хочешь, не вынесу от тебя оскорблений. Ежели, паче чаяния, пожелается тебе употребить свою уловку, т. е. свалить всю вину на "невменяемость", то знай, что я отлично знаю, что "быть пьяным" не значит иметь право другому на голову. Слово "брат", которым ты так пугал меня при выходе моем из места сражения, я готов выбросить из своего лексикона во всякую пору, не потому что я не имею сердца, а потому что на этом свете на всё нужно быть готовым. Не боюсь ничего, и родным братьям то же самое советую. Пишу это всё, по всей вероятности, для того, чтобы гарантировать и обезопасить себя будущего от весьма многого и, может быть, даже от пощечины, которую ты в состоянии дать кому бы то ни было и где бы то ни было в силу своего прелестнейшего "но" (до которого нет никому дела, скажу в скобках). Сегодняшний скандал впервые указал мне, что твоя автором "Сомнамбулы" воспетая деликатность ничего не имеет против упомянутой пощечины и что ты скрытнейший человек, т. е. себе на уме, а потому...
Your most obedient servant, A. Chekhov.
Покорнейший слуга А. Чехов.

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To Al. P. Chekhov, 1881. Moscow.

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