Letter · 1883

To N. A. Leikin, 12 January 1883. Moscow.

Н. А. Лейкину, 12 января 1883 г. Москва.

Headnote

Written from Moscow on 12 January 1883 to Nikolai Alexandrovich Leikin, editor and publisher of the Petersburg humor weekly Oskolki ("Splinters" or "Fragments"), for which Chekhov had begun writing the year before under the byline "Antosha Chekhonte." Chekhov was twenty-two, still a medical student, and Oskolki was fast becoming his most important outlet and his most exacting editor’s domain: Leikin ran a tight shop, with firm rules about length, tone, and turnaround, and this letter is Chekhov formally petitioning against one of them.

The letter is a young contributor’s negotiation with his editor, conducted in the polite, faintly formal register Chekhov reserved for professional correspondence rather than the mock-abusive intimacy of his letters to his brother Alexander. Its real business is the 100-line ceiling Leikin imposed on submissions: Chekhov describes, with the wry, self-observing precision that would become his signature, the actual mechanics of writing under that constraint – the compression, the anxious recount of lines, the pieces abandoned rather than sent because they ran long. The request that follows, to raise the limit to 120 lines, is modest and hedged (he promises rarely to use the extra room), but the paragraph that earns it is already the record of a writer discovering that brevity imposed from outside is a different discipline from brevity chosen – a tension that runs through his whole apprenticeship at Oskolki.

"The Only Remedy," offered as an example of a piece cut to the bone and still, in Chekhov’s own judgment, too long, is one of the many Chekhonte-era humoresques whose fate depended on exactly this kind of editorial arithmetic. The postscript turns to a different, sharper grievance: the tsarist censorship then bearing down on Budilnik ("The Alarm Clock"), another Moscow humor magazine Chekhov wrote for, where hundreds of lines were being struck from every issue – a reminder, tucked almost as an aside after the shoptalk about word counts, that the tighter and more dangerous constraint on the Moscow comic press in these years was not an editor’s ruler but the censor’s pen.

12 January 1883. Moscow.
12 января 1883 г. Москва.
3. 12/I
3 12/I
Dear sir
Милостивый государь
In answer to your kind letters I am sending you a few things. I have received the fee, and I receive the journal too (on Tuesdays); my thanks for both. My thanks also for the flattering invitation to go on contributing. I contribute to Oskolki with particular willingness. The direction of your journal, its look, and the skill with which it is run draw people to you, as they have already drawn more than me alone.
В ответ на Ваши любезные письма посылаю Вам несколько вещей. Гонорар получил, журнал тоже получаю (по вторникам); приношу благодарность за то и другое. Благодарю также и за лестное приглашение продолжать сотрудничать. Сотрудничаю я в "Осколках" с особенной охотой. Направление Вашего журнала, его внешность и уменье, с которым он ведется, привлекут к Вам, как уж и привлекли, не одного меня.
I too stand up for small pieces with all my might, and if I were publishing a humor journal I would strike out everything long-winded. In the Moscow editorial offices I am the only one who rebels against long-windedness (which does not, however, stop me from inflicting it on someone now and then... you cannot go against the goad!), but at the same time, I confess, the frame of "so far and no further" brings me no small grief. Reconciling myself to these limits is sometimes very hard. For instance... You will not accept articles over 100 lines, which has its own good sense... I have a subject. I sit down to write. The thought of "100" and "no more" pushes at my elbow from the very first line. I compress, as far as possible, I strain it through, I strike out – and sometimes (as my author’s instinct tells me) to the harm of both the subject and, worse, the form. Having compressed and strained, I begin to count... Having counted up 100–120–140 lines (I have never written more for Oskolki), I take fright and... do not send it. The moment I begin to spill over onto the fourth page of the small-format writing paper, doubts start eating at me, and I... do not send it. Most often I end up chewing over the ending in haste and sending not what I would have wished... As a sample of my griefs, I am sending you the piece "The Only Remedy"... I have compressed it and am sending it in its most compressed form, and even so it seems to me devilishly long for you, while it seems to me that had I written it twice as long, it would have had twice as much salt and substance in it... There are things still smaller – and I am afraid for them too. More than once I would have sent something, and have not dared to.
За мелкие вещицы стою горой и я, и если бы я издавал юмористический журнал, то херил бы всё продлинновенное. В московских редакциях я один только бунтую против длиннот (что, впрочем, не мешает мне наделять ими изредка кое-кого... Против рожна не пойдешь!), но в то же время, сознаюсь, рамки "от сих и до сих" приносят мне немало печалей. Мириться с этими ограничениями бывает иногда очень нелегко. Например... Вы не признаете статей выше 100 строк, что имеет свой резон... У меня есть тема. Я сажусь писать. Мысль о "100" и "не больше" толкает меня под руку с первой же строки. Я сжимаю, елико возможно, процеживаю, херю – и иногда (как подсказывает мне авторское чутье) в ущерб и теме и (главное) форме. Сжав и процедив, я начинаю считать... Насчитав 100–120–140 стр (больше я не писал в "Осколки"), я пугаюсь и... не посылаю. Чуть только я начинаю переваливаться на 4-ю страницу почтового листа малого формата, меня начинают есть сомнения, и я... не посылаю. Чаще всего приходится наскоро пережевывать конец и посылать не то, что хотелось бы... Как образец моих печалей, посылаю Вам ст "Единственное средство"... Я сжал ее и посылаю в самом сжатом виде, и все-таки мне кажется, что она чертовски длинна для Вас, а между тем, мне кажется, напиши я ее вдвое больше, в ней было бы вдвое больше соли и содержания... Есть вещи поменьше – и за них боюсь. Иной раз послал бы, и не решаешься...
From which follows a request: widen my rights to 120 lines... I am sure I will rarely make use of this right, but the knowledge that I have it will spare me the elbow-jabs.
Из сего проистекает просьба: расширьте мои права до 120 строк... Я уверен, что я редко буду пользоваться этим правом, но сознание, что у меня есть оно, избавит меня от толчков под руку.
And with that accept the assurance of the respect and devotion of your most humble servant
А за сим примите уверение в уважении и преданности покорнейшего слуги
P.S. For the New Year I had prepared an envelope for you weighing three lots. The editor of The Spectator turned up and stole it from me. It could not be refused him: a friend. Our editors read philippics against Muscovites who also work for Petersburg. But Petersburg hardly takes from them as much as the censors swallow whole. In the unfortunate Budilnik about 400–800 lines are struck out of every issue. They do not know what to do.
P. S. К Новому году я приготовил Вам конверт весом в 3 лота. Явился редактор "Зрителя" и похитил его у меня. Отнять нельзя было: приятель. Наши редакторы читают филиппики против москвичей, работающих и на Петербург. Но едва ли Петербург отнимает у них столько, сколько проглатывают гг. цензора. В несчастном "Будильнике" зачеркивается около 400–800 строк на каждый номер. Не знают, что и делать.

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