To A. N. Pleshcheyev, 9 April 1889. Moscow.

1 Written from Moscow on 9 April 1889, this Easter letter to the poet and editor Alexei Nikolayevich Pleshcheyev opens with a Paschal greeting and mild reproach – Pleshcheyev had failed to come to Moscow as Chekhov’s theatrical friend Pavel Svobodin had led him to expect – before moving through a run of the domestic and literary news typical of the two men’s correspondence: an unwelcome medical practice, a creative dry spell, the stalled novel, summer travel plans, an upcoming professional obligation, family greetings, the weather, and a closing burst of literary grumbling.

2 Chekhov explains his silence and his low spirits: he is nursing his brother Nikolai, the painter, through typhoid fever, and the strain has left him unable to write for three weeks (3-5). He reports that his long-planned novel – the one he has already told Pleshcheyev he intends to dedicate to him – has "run aground to await the tide," and sketches its guiding idea: a truthful picture of good people’s lives measured against a "norm" that, he insists, none of us can actually define, since we all recognize dishonor but not honor; he commits himself instead to the standard of absolute personal freedom already tested by better and wiser writers (6). He asks about Pleshcheyev’s summer plans and hopes Georgy Lintvaryov can talk him into a week at Sumy, now more comfortable than the previous summer (7). Turning to business, he mentions an impending, likely contentious meeting of the Society of Dramatic Authors, where he expects to be elected to its Committee despite feeling unqualified, and where he intends to argue for a larger pension for a widow named Yuryeva, shaming the Society for its stinginess given its own lavish administrative spending (8). He passes on family greetings, including his sister’s invitation to Luka (9), remarks on foul Moscow weather (10), and closes with a blessing and signature (11-13). A postscript adds regards to Anna Mikhailovna and a burst of complaint about literary criticism, prompted by a feuilleton from Viktor Burenin: Chekhov calls current criticism petty and personal, dismisses the criticism appearing in "Severny Vestnik" outright, and wonders aloud whether criticism (like "contemporary" fiction) simply is not needed (14).