Letter · 1889

To P. A. Sergeyenko, 6 March 1889. Moscow.

П. А. СЕРГЕЕНКО, 6 марта 1889 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Written from Moscow on 6 March 1889 to Pyotr Alekseyevich Sergeyenko, a fellow Taganrog schoolmate of Chekhov’s turned journalist and occasional man of letters, this letter answers a request for help placing some verses and mixes brisk professional advice with a comic sketch of Sergeyenko’s home village.

2 Chekhov opens by correcting a wrong address Sergeyenko has evidently copied from a writers’ almanac – he has in fact lived in Moscow, not Petersburg, for some time (3). He agrees to forward Sergeyenko’s verses to Aleksey Pleshcheyev at "Severny Vestnik" but warns bluntly that the odds are poor: editorial backlogs are years deep, native poets crowd out occasional contributors, and "Novoye Vremya" prints almost no verse at all (4). He advises Sergeyenko to try prose instead, noting his own rate of 20 kopecks a line (5), then reports the recent triumph of his own play "Ivanov" – in print that same month in "Severny Vestnik" after a successful Petersburg run – and deflects Sergeyenko’s evident impression that he writes prolifically, citing Lermontov’s output as a rebuke to his own (6-7). After a brief sign-off (8-9), the letter turns into an extended comic riff imagining Sergeyenko’s home village of Ivanovka in unflattering, ethnically charged terms, before closing with a throwaway question about a mutual acquaintance (10-12).

3 Contains a period-typical antisemitic slur (10, "шмули," rendered here as "Yids") used collectively and contemptuously to describe the Jewish residents of the shtetl Chekhov is imagining; translated literally rather than softened, per corpus policy on faithfully rendering period prejudice. The passage as a whole trades in dismissive, denigrating stock imagery of a poor Jewish/provincial settlement (mud, dung, a rusty church roof, foul smells) and should be flagged for any reader-facing content note.

6 March 1889. Moscow.
6 марта 1889 г. Москва.
6 March.
6 марта.
All calendars lie. I do not live on the Nevsky, as shown in the writers’ calendar from which you evidently got my address, but in Moscow, on Kudrinskaya-Sadovaya Street, in Korneyev’s house, and I have been living there for a long time now.
Все врут календари. Живу я не на Невском, как показана в календаре для писателей, откуда ты, по-видимому, почерпнул мой адрес, а в Москве, на Кудринской Садовой ул., в доме Корнееда, и живу тут уже давно.
I am very glad to be of service, and this very day I shall send the verses to old Pleshcheyev, who edits "Severny Vestnik," but I predict complete fiasco in advance. Even if they do print the verses, it will not be sooner than three or four years from now, since all the editorial desks, drawers, and portfolios have long since been buried in verse. There is nowhere to put it. And besides, it is hard for you, and indeed for all occasional contributors, to compete with the native poets, who write, as you know, a very great deal. Any editorial office would sooner give the work to its own man than to a stranger. This I say of the thick journals. As for "Novoye Vremya," it prints no one but Fofanov, and even him only on Sundays.
Очень рад служить и сегодня же пошлю стихи старику Плещееву, редактирующему "Северн вестник", но заранее предрекаю полное фиаско. Если и поместят стихи, то не раньше, как через 3–4 года, так как все редакционные столы, ящики и портфейли давно уже завалены стихами. Девать некуда. Да и трудно тебе и вообще всем случайным сотрудникам конкурировать с туземными поэтами, пишущими, как тебе известно, очень много. Всякая редакция скорее даст заработок своему человеку, чем чужому. Это я говорю о толстых журналах. Новое же время не печатает никого, кроме Фофанова, да и то только по воскресеньям.
If you were to send prose, now, that would be a different song. Prose is needed, and prose is paid for more dearly than verse. I get 20 kopecks a line, which they would never pay me for verse. Wind that round your whiskers.
Если бы ты прислал прозу, тогда была бы другая песня. В прозе нуждаются и за прозу платят дороже, чем за стихи. Я получаю 20 к. со строки, чего мне не платили бы за стихи. Намотай это себе на ус.
My "Ivanov" was written two years ago, played last year in Moscow, played on 31 January in Petersburg with tremendous success, and was printed in the March issue (of this year) of "Severny Vestnik," where you should direct your steps, should you be curious.
Мой "Иванов" написан 2 года тому назад, шел в прошлом году в Москве, шел 31 января в Петербурге с громадным успехом и напечатан в мартовской книжке (сего года) в "Северн вестнике", куда и направь свои стопы, буде тебе любопытно.
Where did you get the idea that I write a great deal? In the whole of this past year, that is, over the summer and winter, I have not turned out even five stories. I live off books and plays. On the contrary, I ought to write more, but there is not enough push in me. Lermontov died at twenty-eight, and wrote more than the two of us put together. Talent is known not only by its quality but by the quantity of what it has wrought.
Откуда ты взял, что я много пишу? За весь последний год, т. е. за лето и зиму, я и пяти рассказов не сделал. Живу книжками да пьесами. Напротив, надо бы больше писать, да толкастики не хватает. Лермонтов умер 28 лет, а написал больше, чем оба мы с тобой вместе. Талант познается не только по качеству, но и по количеству им содеянного.
Keep well, and God keep you.
Будь здоров и богом храним.
Твой А. Чехов.
I picture this Ivanovka of yours... Yids, Yids, Yids without end... A square, brown with dung, no gardens, no river, a synagogue, a church with a rusty roof, Itin’s shop, a grey, gloomy manor house, a post office that smells of Lenten cabbage soup... And above all – a deep, clayey, impassable ravine, cutting Ivanovka off from the world and from Krestnaya... I picture this Krestnaya too, buried in snow or black from bad coal... And all around, steppe, steppe, steppe...
Воображаю я эту Ивановку... Шмули, шмули, шмули без конца... Площадь, бурая от навоза, садов нет, реки нет, синагога, церковь с ржавой крышей, лавка Итина, серый, пасмурный барский дом, почтовое отделение, где пахнет постными щами... А главное – глубокий, глинистый, невылазный овраг, отделяющий Ивановку от мира и от Крестной... Воображаю и эту Крестную, засыпанную снегом или черную от плохого угля... А кругом степь, степь, степь...
Still, spring is coming soon, and for the sake of that lady’s person everything can be forgiven...
Впрочем, скоро весна, а ради сей особы всё простить можно...
Where is Yakovenko now?
Где теперь Яковенко?

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To P. A. Sergeyenko, 6 March 1889. Moscow.

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