Letter · 1888

To A. S. Lazarev, 4 February 1888. Moscow.

А. С. ЛАЗАРЕВУ (ГРУЗИНСКОМУ), 4 февраля 1888 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Written from Moscow on February 4, 1888, this letter goes to the writer Alexander Lazarev, who published under the pen name A. Gruzinsky. Chekhov reports, with visible pride and exhaustion, that he has just finished and sent off his novella "The Steppe" to the journal "Severny Vestnik" – the work that would mark his breakthrough into serious literature. He does the arithmetic on his fee (200 rubles per printer’s sheet, times five sheets) and jokes about what it takes to earn a thousand rubles in a month.

2 The letter’s center is Chekhov’s half-joking, half-serious reflection on his own literary crisis: he describes "The Steppe" as his masterpiece, written at the cost of real strain, and brushes aside Lazarev’s evident attempt to console him against the possibility of failure. Contrasting Lazarev’s youth ("your future is still ahead of you") with his own sense of being at a turning point, Chekhov turns Lazarev’s consoling word "sometimes" into a running joke, promising to use it just as emptily on Lazarev’s own death and future failures. He closes with wary talk of the silence from his editors Nikolai Leikin and Viktor Bilibin at "Oskolki," which he reads as more ominous than any open complaint would be.

February 4, 1888. Moscow.
4 февраля 1888 г. Москва.
Feb. 4.
4 февраль.
Thank you for your letter, my kindest Alexander Semyonovich. I too am alive and well. I finished "The Steppe" yesterday and sent it off to "Severny Vestnik." It came out, I think, to more than five printer’s sheets.
Спасибо Вам за письмо, добрейший Александр Семенович. Я тоже здрав и жив. "Степь" вчера кончил и отправил в "Северн вестник". Вышло у меня, кажется, больше пяти печатных листов.
200 x 5 = 1000 rubles.
200 Х5 = 1000 руб.
One would have to be a very great writer indeed to earn a thousand rubles in a single (1) month. Wouldn’t one?
Надо быть очень великим писателем, чтобы в один (1) месяц заработать тысячу рублей. Не правда ли?
On my "Steppe" I spent a great deal of sap, energy, and phosphorus; I wrote under strain, I strove and squeezed myself dry and tired myself out disgracefully. Whether it came off or not, I don’t know, but in any case it is my masterpiece – I don’t know how to do better – and so your consolation, that "sometimes a little thing just doesn’t come off" (in case of failure), cannot console me. A debut, a mass of energy, strain, a good subject, and so on – your "sometimes" can hardly apply here. If under these conditions I have written badly, then under less favorable conditions I shall write, it follows, still worse...
На свою "Степь" я потратил много соку, энергии и фосфора, писал с напряжением, натужился, выжимал из себя и утомился до безобразия. Удалась она или нет, не знаю, но во всяком случае она мой шедевр, лучше сделать не умею, и посему Ваше утешение, что "иногда вещицы не задаются" (в случае неуспеха), утешить меня не может. Дебют, масса энергии, напряжение, хороший сюжет и проч.– тут уж едва ли подойдет Ваше "иногда". Если при данных условиях написал скверно, то при условиях менее благоприятных напишу, значит, еще хуже...
Yes indeed, my dear fellow! You still have your future ahead of you (two or three years of it), while I am living through a crisis. If I don’t take the prize now, then I shall begin to slide downhill... And here you are consoling me with the adverb "sometimes"! When you come to die, I shall write to you: "People sometimes die"; and when, having spent all you had, you make your debut in some new venture, I shall write: "Debutants sometimes fail." And you will be consoled.
Да-с, батенька! У Вас еще впереди будущее (2–3 года), а я переживаю кризис. Если теперь не возьму приза, то уж начну спускаться по наклонной плоскости... А Вы меня утешаете наречием "иногда"! Когда Вы будете умирать, я напишу Вам: "Люди иногда умирают", а когда, потратив всё, что имели, будете дебютировать в чем-нибудь, напишу: "Дебютанты иногда проваливаются". И Вы утешитесь.
From Leikin and Bilibin comes a dead silence. The first one’s silence has an ominous character to it. I attach far less importance to the screeching of owls than to the silence of subtle diplomats. I await, with dread, some great piece of foolishness or gossip. Keep well.
От Лейкина и Билибина слышится гробовое молчание. Молчание первого носит в себе зловещий характер. Крику сычей и филинов я придаю гораздо меньшее значение, чем молчанию тонких дипломатов. Со страхом ожидаю какой-нибудь большой глупости или сплетни. Будьте здоровы.

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To A. S. Lazarev, 4 February 1888. Moscow.

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