Letter · 1883

To N. A. Leikin, 21–24 August 1883. Moscow.

Н. А. Лейкину, Между 21 и 24 августа 1883 г. Москва.

Headnote

Nikolai Alexandrovich Leikin was the editor of Oskolki ("Splinters"), the St. Petersburg humor weekly that ran Chekhov’s rapid-fire comic sketches and squibs under the pseudonym Antosha Chekhonte. Leikin, nearly twenty years Chekhov’s senior and already an established comic writer himself, paid by the line, held his contributors to strict length limits, and pressed them for punctual, regular copy – by the summer of 1883 Chekhov, twenty-three and supporting a large household on hack journalism while finishing his medical degree, was one of his most reliable suppliers.

This letter is an apology, and a comic one, for a bad week’s work. Chekhov is writing from the family’s cramped Moscow flat, and the joke is structural: each interruption he catalogues – the screaming child of a visiting relation, the father reading aloud in the next room, a music box playing "Helen the Beautiful," a bedridden guest who will not stop talking medicine – is offered as an excuse for pieces he already knows are thin, and the excuse becomes the better piece. The mock oath never to have children, and the swerve into an imagined French caricature for Oskolki itself, show the sketch-writer’s habit of turning any material, including his own excuses, directly into copy.

The letter also catches Chekhov in the two lives he was working simultaneously that year: "my non-literary work" is his medical practice, already treated here with the same rueful distance he gives everything else, and the household’s demand that the family doctor discuss diagnoses at all hours is folded into the same comedy as the noise and the crowding. Voskresensk, where he hopes to escape in September, was the small town outside Moscow where he served as a locum physician and later set several stories. The closing formalities – "with respect I have the honor to be" – are the period’s business correspondence convention, kept even between a demanding editor and a writer who elsewhere in the same letter is telling jokes at his own expense.

Between 21 and 24 August 1883. Moscow.
Между 21 и 24 августа 1883 г. Москва.
Much respected
Многоуважаемый
The present consignment belongs among the unsuccessful ones. The notes are pale, and the story is unpolished and painfully slight. There are better subjects, and I would have written more and gotten more, but this time fate is against me! I write under the most vile conditions. Before me is my non-literary work, slapping me mercilessly across the conscience; in the next room the little brat of a relative come to stay is screaming; in another room my father is reading "The Sealed Angel" aloud to my mother... Someone has wound up a music box, and I hear "Helen the Beautiful"... I want to bolt for the dacha, but it’s already one in the morning... For a writing man it would be hard to invent anything viler than this setting. My bed is occupied by a relation who has come to stay, who keeps coming up to me every so often and starting a conversation about medicine. "Our daughter must have a griping in the stomach – that’s why she’s screaming"... I have the great misfortune of being a physician, and there is not an individual who does not think it necessary to "have a chat" with me about medicine. Whoever has grown tired of talking about medicine starts up a conversation about literature...
Настоящий присыл принадлежит к неудачным. Заметки бледны, а рассказ не отшлифован и больно мелок. Есть темы получше, и написал бы побольше и получил, но судьба на этот раз против меня! Пишу при самых гнусных условиях. Передо мной моя не литературная работа, хлопающая немилосердно по совести, в соседней комнате кричит детиныш приехавшего погостить родича, в другой комнате отец читает матери вслух "Запечатленного ангела"... Кто-то завел шкатулку, и я слышу "Елену Прекрасную"... Хочется удрать на дачу, но уже час ночи... Для пишущего человека гнусней этой обстановки и придумать трудно что-либо другое. Постель моя занята приехавшим сродственником, который то и дело подходит ко мне и заводит речь о медицине. "У дочки, должно быть, резь в животе – оттого и кричит"... Я имею большое несчастье быть медиком, и нет того индивидуя, который не считал бы нужным "потолковать" со мной о медицине. Кому надоело толковать про медицину, тот заводит речь про литературу...
The setting is incomparable. I scold myself for not bolting for the dacha, where I surely would have gotten some sleep, and would have written you the story, and above all – medicine and literature would have been left in peace.
Обстановка бесподобная. Браню себя, что не удрал на дачу, где, наверное, и выспался бы, и рассказ бы Вам написал, а главное – медицина и литература были бы оставлены в покое.
In September I’ll bolt to Voskresensk, if the weather doesn’t prevent it. I am in great raptures over your last story.
В сентябре удеру в Воскресенск, если погода не воспрепятствует. От Вашего последнего рассказа я в большом восторге.
The brat is howling!! I give you my word of honor never to have children... The French have few children, probably because they are cabinet men and write stories for "Amusant." They are said to want to be made to have more children – a subject for "Amusant" and for "Oskolki" in the form of a caricature, "The State of Affairs in France." A police commissioner enters and demands that they have children.
Ревет детиныш!! Даю себе честное слово не иметь никогда детей... Французы имеют мало детей, вероятно потому, что они кабинетные люди и в "Amusant" рассказы пишут. Их, слышно, хотят заставить иметь побольше детей – тема для "Amusant" и для "Осколков" в виде карикатуры "Положение дел во Франции". Входит полицейский комиссар и требует иметь детей.
Farewell. I am thinking how and where to go about snoring off a fine one.
Прощайте. Думаю, как бы и где бы задать храповицкого.
With respect I have the honor to be
С почтением имею честь быть

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To N. A. Leikin, 21–24 August 1883. Moscow.

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