Letter · 1889

To I. L. Leontyev, 18 February 1889. Moscow.

И. Л. ЛЕОНТЬЕВУ (ЩЕГЛОВУ), 18 февраля 1889 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Written from Moscow on 18 February 1889 to Ivan Leontyevich Shcheglov (pen name of Ivan Leontyevich Leontyev,, if established elsewhere in the corpus), the writer and close friend Chekhov addresses here by the nickname "Jean." Shcheglov had recently sent Chekhov a copy of his own play, "The Gentlemen Theater-Lovers" ("Господа театралы"), and had written consoling him over the mixed Petersburg reception of Chekhov’s own play "Ivanov."

2 The letter opens with a dateline (1) repeated in short form (2), then thanks Shcheglov for the gift copy of his play (3), one copy of which Chekhov passed to his schoolmaster brother (Ivan Pavlovich Chekhov) and the other kept for his own "public" library – so called, he jokes, because the public plunders it. Chekhov then turns (4) to Shcheglov’s attempt to console him over "Ivanov," insisting at length and half self-mockingly that he is entirely at peace with the play’s reception, indifferent to both praise and mockery reported from Petersburg, since none of it reaches him in Moscow. He reflects further (5) on the emptiness of success and ovations, and (6) on his longing for summer in the country, professing himself a "Cincinnatus" rather than a "Potemkin" – content with hay and fishing over reviews and applause. A mock dissertation title follows (7), joking that its subject is inoculating Shcheglov himself against love of the theater, before Chekhov turns serious advice (8) urging Shcheglov not to be cowed by the critic Burenin, and (9) urging him more broadly to abandon the stage for fiction, on the grounds that a fiction-writer can only enter the ranks of specialist playwrights as a "general" or not at all. A lighter coda (10–11) allows for occasional playfulness but warns against self-important moralizing, immediately undercut by Chekhov noting, with mock alarm, how much of a moralist he himself has become. The letter closes (12) with Chekhov heading off to a ball and a blessing, the signature (13), a postscript on the pricing of Shcheglov’s play (14), and closing regards to Shcheglov’s wife and from Chekhov’s family (15).

18 February 1889. Moscow.
18 февраля 1889 г. Москва.
18 February.
18 февраль.
Dear Jean, thank you for "The Gentlemen Theater-Lovers," which I have received. One copy I gave to my schoolmaster brother, the other I have added to my public library (I call it public because it is plundered by the public quite assiduously).
Милый Жан, спасибо Вам за "Господ театралов", крых я получил. Один экз отдал брату-педагогу другой присовокупил к своей публичной библиотеке (называю ее публичной, потому что она обкрадывается публикой очень усердно).
In your letter you try to console me over "Ivanov." Thank you, but I assure you on my word of honor that I am at peace and perfectly satisfied with what I did and what I got. I did what I could and knew how to do – and so I am in the right: eyes do not grow higher than the forehead; and what I got was, if anything, more than I deserved, more than was needed. Even Shakespeare never had to hear the sort of speeches I have heard. What the devil more could I want? And if there turns out to be a hundred people in Petersburg who shrug their shoulders at it, sneer contemptuously, nod, foam at the mouth, or lie hypocritically, why, I don’t see any of that, and none of it can trouble me. In Moscow there is not so much as a whiff of Petersburg. I see a hundred people every day, but I do not hear a single word about "Ivanov," just as if I had never written that play at all, and the Petersburg ovations and successes seem to me now like an unquiet dream that I have thoroughly slept off.
Вы в письме утешаете меня насчет "Иванова". Спасибо Вам, но уверяю Вас честным словом, я покоен и совершенно удовлетворен тем, что сделал и что получил. Я сделал то, что мог и умел,– стало быть, прав: глаза выше лба не растут; получил же я не по заслугам, больше, чем нужно. И Шекспиру не приходилось слышать тех речей, какие прослышал я. Какого же лешего мне еще нужно? А если в Питере найдется сотня человек, края пожимает плечами, презрительно ухмыляется, кивает, брызжет пеной или лицемерно врет, то ведь я всего этого не вижу и беспокоить меня всё это не может. В Москве даже не пахнет Петербургом. Видаю я ежедневно сотню человек, но не слышу ни одного слова об "Иванове", точно я и не писал этой пьесы, а питерские овации и успехи представляются мне беспокойным сном, от которого я отлично очнулся.
Speaking of success and ovations. It is all so noisy, and satisfies so little, that in the end nothing comes of it but weariness and the wish to run, run away...
Кстати, об успехе и овациях. Всё это так шумно и так мало удовлетворяет, что в результате не получается ничего, кроме утомления и желания бежать, бежать...
My head is full of thoughts of summer and a country place. Day and night I dream of a farmstead. I am no Potemkin, but a Cincinnatus. Lying in the hay and a perch caught on a hook satisfy my feelings far more palpably than reviews and an applauding gallery. I am, evidently, a boor and a plebeian.
Голова моя занята мыслями о лете и даче. Денно и нощно мечтаю о хуторе. Я не Потемкин, а Цинцинат. Лежанье на сене и пойманный на удочку окунь удовлетворяют мое чувство гораздо осязательнее, чем рецензии и аплодирующая галерея. Я, очевидно, урод и плебей.
I am writing a doctoral dissertation on the theme: "On Methods of Inoculating Ivan Shcheglov with a Hatred of the Theater."
Пишу докторскую диссертацию на тему: "О способах прививки Ивану Щеглову ненависти к театру".
You write that Burenin has a depressing effect on you. Let it be so, but for God’s sake do not give in to that feeling, and do not quail before the great critic. Whatever he may grind out authoritatively about the uselessness of our sort, of those who write for a crust of bread, he will never be right. In this world there is no crowding; there is room enough for everyone; we do not get in Burenin’s way, and he does not get in ours. And the question of who on this earth is useful and who useless is not for Burenin to decide, and not for us either. Do not spend your nerves and your soul’s energy on the devil knows what.
Вы пишете, что Буренин действует на Вас угнетающе. Пусть так, но, ради создателя, не поддавайтесь этому чувству и не пасуйте перед великим критиком. Что бы он ни молол авторитетно о бесполезности нашего брата, о пишущих ради куска хлеба, он никогда не будет прав. На этом свете не тесно, для всех найдется место; мы не мешаем Буренину жить, и он нам не мешает. Вопрос же о том, кто на земле полезен и бесполезен, не Буренину решать и не нам. Не расходуйте Ваших нервов и душевной энергии на чёрт знает что.
Occupy yourself with fiction. She is your lawful wife, while the theater is a powdered mistress. Either become an Ostrovsky, or else abandon the theater. There is no middle way for you. The middle ground is taken up by playwrights, and to fiction-writers such as I, you, Maslov, Korolenko, Barantsevich, and Albov – that is, literary staff-officers – it does not become us to wage a struggle for existence with the subaltern officers of drama. A fiction-writer must go among the crowd of specialist playwrights either as a general, or not at all.
Занимайтесь беллетристикой. Она ваша законная жена, а театр – это напудренная любовница. Или становитесь Островским, или же бросайте театр. Середины нет для Вас. Середина занята драматургами, а беллетристам, таким как я, Вы, Маслов, Короленко, Баранцевич и Альбов, т. е. литературным штаб-офицерам, не к лицу вести борьбу за существование с обер-офицерами драматическими. Беллетрист должен идти в толпу драматургов-специалистов или генералом, или же никак.
Should you wish to play the fool – that is another matter. Why not play the fool now and then? But in playing the fool one ought not to put on too solemn a face, nor oppress oneself with too solemn thoughts.
Захотите пошалить – другое дело. Отчего не пошалить? Но, шаля, не следует делать очень серьезного лица и угнетать себя очень серьезными мыслями.
You see what a moralist I am becoming! Even captains are nothing to me now, and I give them a talking-to. And I do not even hold a rank!
Видите, каким я моралистом становлюсь! Мне даже капитаны нипочем, и их отчитываю. А ведь я – не имеющий чина!
I am off to a ball. Keep well. God bless you.
Собираюсь на бал. Будьте здоровы. Да благословит Вас бог.
Yours, A. Chekhov.
A rouble is too dear for "The Gentlemen Theater-Lovers." It ought to have been priced at 25–30 kopecks.
За "Господ театралов" – рубль дорого. Нужно было назначить 25–30 к.
My regards to your wife. My family bow to you and thank you for your greeting.
Вашей жене привет. Мои кланяются и благодарят за поклон.

Cite this passage

To I. L. Leontyev, 18 February 1889. Moscow.

Pick a format and click Copy. The permalink jumps any reader to this exact section.

Support this project

Free to read here. Buy the ebook to support the work.

Ebook coming soon

The ebook edition in this language is on its way.(English)