To Al. P. Chekhov, 17–18 April 1883. Moscow.
Ал. П. Чехову, 17 или 18 апреля 1883 г. Москва.
Headnote
Written on or about 17–18 April 1883, at Easter, from Moscow, this letter is addressed to Chekhov’s elder brother Alexander Pavlovich, then living in Taganrog with his common-law wife Anna Ivanovna Khrushcheva- Sokolnikova and their small son. Anton, twenty-three and in his fourth year of medical school, was already the household’s chief earner, publishing comic sketches and squibs under pseudonyms (“Antosha Chekhonte” among them) in the humor weeklies of the day – Leikin’s “Oskolki” (“Splinters”), the rival “Zritel” (“The Spectator”), and the lesser “Budilnik” (“The Alarm Clock”). Alexander was trying his own hand at the same trade, less successfully, and much of the letter is Anton coaching him: cut length, sharpen the idea, mind the censor, stop overwriting, and above all get published in “Oskolki,” which Anton – not yet twenty-three but already a professional – rates as the trade’s certificate of standing.
The Easter greeting that opens the letter, addressed jokingly to an entire town and its inhabitants, and the deadpan report on the family’s furniture and finances, are typical of the exuberant, joke-stuffed register of Chekhov’s letters to his brothers in these years – quick, performative, showing off for an audience of one. The long central passage, in which Anton proposes that he and Alexander collaborate on a pseudo-scientific “History of Sexual Authority” derived from comparative zoology, is best read as exactly that kind of performance: an extended, deliberately overreaching parody of contemporary positivist science (Darwin, Buckle, Spencer are all namechecked) and of the era’s earnest debates over the “woman question,” rather than a sober statement of Chekhov’s own views. It shows the same comic engine that drives his early humoresques – a single conceit, escalated with mock rigor and spurious citation until it collapses under its own weight – turned loose in a private letter to a brother who would have recognized the game at once.
The letter also carries the ordinary business of the Chekhov correspondence in these years: money worries, complaints about editors and pay, family news relayed in a rush, and a closing that turns abruptly earnest – an invitation to write, a plea against loneliness, before the businesslike sign-off. Readers meeting the Chekhov of the mature stories for the first time may be startled by the loose, punning, digressive voice here; it belongs to the twenty-three-year-old medical student four years before “The Steppe,” still finding his register across the comic press of Moscow and Petersburg.