Letter · 1889

To A. S. Suvorin, 8 April 1889. Moscow.

А. С. СУВОРИНУ, 8 апреля 1889 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Written from Moscow on 8 April 1889, this short holiday note goes to Alexei Sergeyevich Suvorin, publisher of "Novoye Vremya" and Chekhov’s close friend and patron, well established throughout this corpus, identified by the source’s own archival heading ("А. С. СУВОРИНУ") and by the letter’s warm, informal tone. It falls in the immediate aftermath of the preceding letter in the source sequence (, to N. N. Obolonsky), which reports on the fever of "the well-known artist N. P. Chekhov" – Chekhov’s brother Nikolai Pavlovich Chekhov, a painter – and explains the "artist" referred to here without further introduction (4,).

2 Chekhov opens with an Easter-season greeting to Suvorin, his wife, and two of their children, wishing them wealth, fame, honor, peace, and merriment for life (3). He then describes the foul Moscow weather – mud, cold, rain – and reports that "the artist" (his brother Nikolai) is still running a stubborn fever of 39°C, requiring two visits a day; he says his own mood matches the weather, that he isn’t working but instead reading or pacing, and reflects half-wistfully, half-ironically that forty more years of reading and learning to write "briefly" might let him someday astonish everyone, though for now he is as small as anyone (4). He closes with a glimpse of the household in Easter preparation – cleaning, baking, cooking, beating dust from rugs, running up and down the stairs – notes he is off again to see the artist, wishes Suvorin good health, and invites him to visit so they might go together to the Volga or to Poltava (5), signing off "Yours, A. Chekhov" (6).

8 April 1889. Moscow.
8 апреля 1889 г. Москва.
8 April.
8 апреля.
I congratulate you, Anna Ivanovna, Nastyusha, and Borya on the holiday, and wish you wealth, fame, honor, peace, and merriment for your whole lives.
Поздравляю Вас, Анну Ивановну, Настюшу и Борю с праздником и желаю Вам богатства, славы, почета, покоя и веселья на всю жизнь.
The weather in Moscow is vile: mud, cold, rain. The artist is still stubbornly holding at 39°. I go to him twice a day. My mood matches the weather. I’m not working, just reading, or pacing from corner to corner. Still, I don’t regret having time to read. Reading is more fun than writing. I think that if I had another 40 years to live, and spent all forty of those years reading, reading, and reading, and learning to write skillfully, that is, briefly, then in 40 years I would let fly at all of you from such a big cannon that the heavens would tremble. As it is, I’m as much a Lilliputian as everyone else.
Погода в Москве подлая: грязь, холод, дождь. Художник всё еще упрямствует и стоит на 39°. Езжу к нему 2 раза в день. Настроение мое похоже на погоду. Не работаю, а читаю или шагаю из угла в угол. Впрочем, я не жалею, что у меня есть время читать. Читать веселее, чем писать. Я думаю, что если бы мне прожить еще 40 лет и во все эти сорок лет читать, читать и читать и учиться писать талантливо, т. е. коротко, то через 40 лет я выпалил бы во всех вас из такой большой пушки, что задрожали бы небеса. Теперь же я такой лилипут, как и все.
Our people are tidying up, cleaning, baking, cooking, scrubbing, beating out the dust, running up and down the stairs. A racket. I’m off to the artist’s. Keep well. Come and visit, let’s go to the Volga or to Poltava.
Наши убирают, чистят, пекут, варят, трут, выбивают пыль, бегают по лестнице. Гвалт. Еду к художнику. Будьте здоровы. Приезжайте, поедем на Волгу или в Полтаву.
Yours, A. Chekhov.

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To A. S. Suvorin, 8 April 1889. Moscow.

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