Letter · 1888

To A. S. Suvorin, 24–25 November 1888. Moscow.

А. С. СУВОРИНУ, 24 или 25 ноября 1888 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Written from Moscow on 24 or 25 November 1888 to Alexei Suvorin, this short letter opens with a reflection on writers and gossip, moves through an account of a story-in-progress and a wry meditation on the burdens of literary fame, touches on Feodosia and the Crimean Tatars, and closes with a note on Leikin’s vaudeville, well-wishes, the signature, and a postscript on the fate of Maslov’s play at Korsh’s theater.

2 Chekhov opens with a general warning that writers should distrust gossip and hearsay romances, citing Zola’s reliance on rumor and friends’ tales as an example of rash, careless method. He then describes a story he has begun – unnamed here – written in a "feuilleton-belletristic" form about a man who elopes with another man’s wife and offers his opinion on love, marriage, and separation at each turn, touching in passing on the theater, the cliche of "incompatibility of convictions," the Georgian Military Road, family life, the modern educated man’s unfitness for it, and the literary figures Pechorin, Onegin, and Kazbek – a "vinaigrette" so mixed, he says, that his brain is flapping its wings without knowing where to fly. Responding to a claim of Suvorin’s that writers are God’s chosen people, Chekhov demurs, noting that Shcheglov calls him a "Potemkin in literature" and that he doubts he has suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, or train conductors; he then offers an extended, half-rueful observation that he and Suvorin are loved not for the ordinary men they are but for the extraordinary figures others see in them (illustrating this with his sister’s irritation at being fêted merely as a writer’s sister), concluding that this is an uncomfortable position to be in and linking it back to a claim he made in his own story "A First-Class Passenger," where an engineer and a professor debate the nature of fame. He then jokes about retreating to his farmstead to escape it all, noting that Suvorin, by contrast, has Feodosia – which leads to a brief aside urging that funds spent on a German university be redirected to schools for the Crimean Tatars, whose land Chekhov says has been plundered without anyone caring for their welfare. A short note on Leikin’s comic vaudeville, closing well-wishes, and the signature follow. A postscript reports that the fate of Maslov’s play remains undecided at Korsh’s theater, illustrated by the recent staging and failure of an unnamed Spanish play, which has left the management still hesitating over the other.

3 No content requiring softening in the sensitive sense; the letter’s one notable passage of social commentary –’s remark on the "sausage-making Dorpat University, where useless Germans study," contrasted with the neglected Crimean Tatars – contains dismissive ethnic language about Baltic Germans ("useless Germans") alongside a sympathetic point about Tatar welfare; translated faithfully and without softening per the corpus’s policy of preserving Chekhov’s own phrasing rather than euphemizing it, and flagged here for any future glossary or sensitivity-index work as period ethnic-inflected commentary rather than a claim requiring further contextualization within the letter itself.

24 or 25 November 1888. Moscow.
24 или 25 ноября 1888 г. Москва.
Writers ought to be suspicious of all gossip and love-epics. If Zola wrote on the basis of rumors and friends’ tales, then he acted rashly and carelessly.
Писатели должны быть подозрительны ко всем россказням и любовным эпопеям. Если Зола писал на основании слухов и приятельских рассказов, то поступал опрометчиво и неосторожно.
Ah, what a story I’ve begun! I’ll bring it and ask you to read it. I’m writing on the theme of love. I’ve chosen a feuilleton-belletristic form. A respectable man carries off another respectable man’s wife and writes his opinion about it; he lives with her – an opinion; they part – another opinion. In passing I speak of the theater, of the prejudice of "incompatibility of convictions," of the Georgian Military Road, of family life, of the modern intelligent’s incapacity for that life, of Pechorin, of Onegin, of Kazbek... Such a vinaigrette that God preserve us. My brain is flapping its wings, but where to fly – I don’t know.
Ах, какой я начал рассказ! Привезу и попрошу Вас прочесть его. Пишу на тему о любви. Форму избрал фельетонно-беллетристическую. Порядочный человек увез от порядочного человека жену и пишет об этом свое мнение; живет с ней – мнение; расходится – опять мнение. Мельком говорю о театре, о предрассудочности "несходства убеждений", о Военно-Грузинской дороге, о семейной жизни, о неспособности современного интеллигента к этой жизни, о Печорине, об Онегине, о Казбеке... Такой винегрет, что боже упаси. Мой мозг машет крыльями, а куда лететь – не знаю.
You write that writers are God’s chosen people. I won’t argue. Shcheglov calls me a Potemkin in literature, and so it’s not for me to speak of the thorny path, of disillusionments and so on. I don’t know whether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, or conductors suffer; I don’t know who speaks through my lips, God or someone else worse than He. I’ll allow myself to note only one small unpleasantness, tested on my own hide, which you probably know from experience too. It’s this. You and I love ordinary people; but we ourselves are loved for being seen as extraordinary. I, for instance, am invited everywhere, fed and watered everywhere like a general at a wedding; my sister is indignant that she’s invited everywhere only because she’s a writer’s sister. No one wants to love the ordinary person in us. It follows that if tomorrow we should appear, in the eyes of our good acquaintances, to be ordinary mortals, they would stop loving us and would only pity us. And that’s a bad business. It’s also a bad business that what is loved in us is often something we ourselves neither love nor respect in ourselves. It’s a bad business that I was right when I wrote the story "A First-Class Passenger," where I have an engineer and a professor arguing about fame.
Вы пишете, что писатели избранный народ божий. Не стану спорить. Щеглов называет меня Потемкиным в литературе, а потому не мне говорить о тернистом пути, разочарованиях и проч. Не знаю, страдал ли я когда-нибудь больше, чем страдают сапожники, математики, кондуктора; не знаю, кто вещает моими устами, бог или кто-нибудь другой похуже. Я позволю себе констатировать только одну, испытанную на себе маленькую неприятность, которая, вероятно, по опыту знакома и Вам. Дело вот в чем. Вы и я любим обыкновенных людей; нас же любят за то, что видят в нас необыкновенных. Меня, например, всюду приглашают в гости, везде кормят и поят, как генерала на свадьбе; сестра возмущается, что ее всюду приглашают за то, что она сестра писателя. Никто не хочет любить в нас обыкновенных людей. Отсюда следует, что если завтра мы в глазах добрых знакомых покажемся обыкновенными смертными, то нас перестанут любить, а будут только сожалеть. А это скверно. Скверно и то, что в нас любят такое, чего мы часто в себе сами не любим и не уважаем. Скверно, что я был прав, когда писал рассказ "Пассажир I класса", где у меня инженер и профессор рассуждают о славе.
I’ll go off to my farmstead. The devil take them! You have Feodosia.
Уеду я на хутор. Чёрт с ними! У Вас есть Феодосия.
Speaking of Feodosia and the Tatars. The Tatars have had their land plundered, but no one thinks of their welfare. Tatar schools are needed. Write and say that the money spent on the sausage-making Dorpat University, where useless Germans study, ought to be given by the ministry to schools for the Tatars, who are of use to Russia. I’d write about it myself, but I don’t know how.
Кстати о Феодосии и татарах. У татар расхитили землю, но об их благе никто не думает. Нужны татарские школы. Напишите, чтобы деньги, затрачиваемые на колбасный Дерптский университет, где учатся бесполезные немцы, министерство отдало бы на школы татарам, которые полезны для России. Я бы сам об этом написал, да не умею.
Leikin sent me a very funny vaudeville of his own composition. He’s a man unique of his kind.
Лейкин прислал мне очень смешной водевиль своего сочинения. Это человек единственный в своем роде.
Be well and happy.
Будьте здоровы и счастливы.
Yours, A. Chekhov.
Tell Maslov that his play’s fate is being decided; it wavers now one way, now the other. One Spanish play was staged and fell flat; they can’t make up their minds to stage the other.
Скажите Маслову, что судьба его пьесы решается; колебание то в одну, то в другую сторону. Одну испанскую пьесу поставили и провалились, другой ставить не решаются.

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To A. S. Suvorin, 24–25 November 1888. Moscow.

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