Letter · 1884

To P. G. Rozanov, 3 November 1884. Moscow.

П. Г. Розанову, 3 ноября 1884 г. Москва.

Headnote

A short, comic note to Pavel Grigoryevich Rozanov, apparently a doctor colleague living out in Zvenigorod district, congratulating him on some new appointment and commiserating – with mock gravity – over the mishap of a cast-iron shingle or sign Chekhov had shipped him, which arrived broken. The whole letter turns on Chekhov’s deadpan insistence that the packing (his own doing) is to blame, spun into a small comic set piece about the softness of certain books kept for a "certain necessity."

Written the year Chekhov graduated from medical school and began practicing, the letter also carries the ordinary texture of his professional circle: a greeting to a mutual acquaintance, Sergei Pavlovich, an inquiry about some competition to be raised with the publisher Leikin, and a wry aside on how patronage rather than merit governs advancement in Russia. Slight in substance, it shows the same quick, joking hand of the early Chekhonte period at work in private correspondence.

3 November 1884. Moscow.
3 ноября 1884 г. Москва.
’84, XI, 3.
84, XI, 3.
Dearest
Добрейший
My joy at your appointment to the post of privy councillor to Ketcher fades quite pale before my grief on reading your news of the disaster with the sign. Can it really be?!? I had it packed in the softest book I had, one of those I keep on hand, on account of their softness, for a certain necessity. If you are not joking (the collapse of a cast-iron sign does sound like a joke), then the packing is to blame, and since the packing was mine, the fault is mine. I shall order another shingle and send it off in a crate... How are you getting on? I’ll make inquiries about the competition with Leikin... Patronage, my dear fellow, knows no competitions in Russia, which, I might add, does no credit to mankind.
Моя радость по поводу назначения Вашего на место тайного советника Кетчера совсем бледнеет перед моею скорбью, когда читаю Ваше известие о несчастье с доской. Неужели?!? Я приказал упаковать ее в самую мягкую книгу, в одну из тех книг, какие я употребляю по причине их мягкости для известной надобности. Если Вы не шутите (крушение чугунной доски похоже на шутку), то виновата, стало быть, упаковка, а так как упаковка моя, то и вина моя. Закажу другую вывеску и вышлю ее в ящике... Как живете? Насчет конкурса осведомлюсь у Лейкина... Протекция, батенька, на Руси не знает конкурсов, что, впрочем, не делает чести человечеству.
Give my regards to Sergei Pavlovich and tell him to call on me if he comes to Moscow. I have need of him. The weather is dreadful... I marvel that you can go on living in such weather out there in the Zvenigorod wilds. It’s dull in Moscow too. The one comfort is that one sits at one’s work the whole day and doesn’t notice the tedium. I’m afraid of saying something foolish, so I’ll put a period here and make my bow.
Поклонитесь Сергею Павловичу и скажите ему, чтобы он побывал у меня, если приедет в Москву. Нужен он мне. Погода ужасная... Удивляюсь, как это Вы можете жить в такую пору в звенигородских дебрях. В Москве тоже скучно. Одно только утешительно, что целый день сидишь за работой и не замечаешь скуки. Боюсь наврать чего-нибудь, а посему ставлю точку и кланяюсь.
I await you at my place.
Жду Вас к себе.

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To P. G. Rozanov, 3 November 1884. Moscow.

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