Letter · 1889

To V. A. Tikhonov, 31 May 1889. Sumy.

В. А. ТИХОНОВУ, 31 мая 1889 г. Сумы.

Headnote

1 Written from Sumy on 31 May 1889 to Vladimir Alekseevich Tikhonov, the playwright and editor Chekhov had been corresponding with since 1888. A short, bantering letter from the Lintvaryov estate near Sumy, mixing a joke about his own remoteness from the capitals, a report on his brother Nikolai’s illness, a progress report on his novel and an abandoned comedy, encouragement about Tikhonov’s own stalled playwriting, a brief item of literary business, and a run of quick closing quips.

2 After the double dateline (1-2), Chekhov opens by teasing Tikhonov for addressing his last letter as though Chekhov were off in Paris or Constantinople, when in fact he is confined to the Lintvaryov estate at Sumy by his brother’s illness (3) – the tubercular "brother, the painter" being Nikolai Chekhov. He gives a wry account of the weather and of visitors (Suvorin, Svobodin, neighbors) relieving the tedium (4), then reports slow work on his novel, with a joking dig at one Sokovnin’s dinner-table praise of him (5), and a comedy begun and abandoned after two acts as too dull to finish (6). He turns to consoling Tikhonov over his own creative "languishing," citing the recent Odessa production of Tikhonov’s "Without the Yoke and the Flatiron" as proof the play was unfairly self-deprecated, and offers a resigned defense of professional unevenness – seven mediocre plays for every three good ones (7). Asked to intervene with Jean Shcheglov and steer him back to fiction, Chekhov demurs, arguing passion can only be answered by passion, not admonition, and that Shcheglov should be left to come round on his own (8). He reports a recent committee sitting of the Society of Dramatic Writers in generally favorable terms (9), jokes about the weather gap between Sumy and Petersburg (10), needles Tikhonov about marriage with a stock comic image of a "pockmarked wife" (11), asks after his drinking habits (12), and closes with good wishes, family regards, the signature, and a final note that he will leave for the Caucasus if his brother’s health improves (13-15).

31 May 1889. Sumy.
31 мая 1889 г. Сумы.
31 May.
31 май.
I am living, my dear Russian Sardou, not in Paris and not in Constantinople, but, as you correctly guessed from my letter’s envelope, in the town of Sumy, on the estate of Madame Lintvaryova. I’d be glad to bolt for Paris and glance down at the universe from the top of the Eiffel Tower, but – alas! – I am bound hand and foot and have no right to budge an inch from where I am. My brother, the painter, who is now living with me, is ill with consumption.
Живу я, милый российский Сарду, не в Париже и не в Константинополе, а, как Вы верно изволили заметить на конверте Вашего письма, в г. Сумах, в усадьбе г-жи Линтваревой. Рад бы удрать в Париж и взгляпуть с высоты Эйфелевой башни на вселенную, но – увы! – я скован по рукам и ногам и не имею права двинуться с места ни на один шаг. У меня болен чахоткою мой брат-художник, который живет теперь со мной.
The weather is magnificent. Warm, the birds are singing, the crocodiles are croaking. The Psyol is broad and majestic, like a general’s coachman. But thanks to the above-mentioned circumstance life is dull and grey. Thank goodness for kind people – they visit me and share my boredom with me, or else things would go badly. Suvorin stayed with me some six days, Svobodin arrives today, the neighbors drop by – one day follows another, one conversation follows another, and lo and behold – spring is already gone, June is at the door.
Погода великолепная. Тепло, птицы поют, крокодилы квакают. Псел широк и величественен, как генеральский кучер. Но благодаря вышеписанному обстоятельству живется скучно и серо. Спасибо добрым людям – навещают меня и делят со мною скуку, иначе пришлось бы плохо. Гостил у меня дней шесть Суворин, сегодня приедет Свободии, бывают соседи – день идет за днем, разговор за разговором, ан глядь – уж и весны нет, июнь на носу.
I am working, though not zealously. I feel a pull toward work, only not toward literary work, which has grown stale for me. I am writing a novel. Something seems to be coming of it; I don’t know how to write quickly, I draw it out a tablespoonful an hour, and so I don’t know when you will have the pleasure of convincing yourself for the hundredth time that I am not the great man Sokovnin proclaimed me to be over dinner. I shall be smoking out this novel for another two or three years.
Работаю, хотя и не усердно. Потягивает меня к работе, но только не к литературной, которая приелась мне. Пишу роман. Кое-что как будто выходит; быстро писать не умею, тяну через час по столовой ложке и оттого не знаю, когда Вы будете иметь удовольствие в сотый раз убедиться, что я не такой великий человек, как вещал за обедом Соковнин. Копчу я роман через 2–3 года.
I started a comedy, but wrote two acts and dropped it. It’s coming out dull. There is nothing duller than a dull play, and I, it seems, am now capable of writing only dully, so better to drop it.
Начал было я комедию, но написал два акта и бросил. Скучно выходит. Нет ничего скучнее скучных пьес, а я теперь, кажется, способен писать только скучно, так уж лучше бросить.
I understand your languishing. It will pass, and the play will be written by you in due season. Your "Without the Yoke and the Flatiron" was performed recently in Odessa. So it was in vain that you spoke of that play with such contempt. It’s all fine. Understand once and for all that playwriting is your profession, that you are obliged to write one or two plays every year, and that consequently you cannot help writing anything but masterpieces. For every ten plays there ought to be seven mediocre ones – such is the lot of every profession. Understand this, and you’ll see that everything is fine and everything is, thank God, as it should be.
Ваше томление я понимаю. Оно пройдет, и пьеса будет написана Вами во благовремении. Ваше "Без коромысла и утюга" шло недавно в Одессе. Стало быть, напрасно Вы отзываетесь презрительно о сией пьесе. Всё хорошо. Поймите раз навсегда, что драматургия – Ваша профессия, что Вам приходится писать ежегодно по одной, по две пьесы, что поэтому поневоле Вы не можете писать одни только шедевры. На десяток пьес должно приходиться семь неважных – таков удел всякой профессии. Поймите сие, и Вам станет понятно, что всё хорошо и всё слава богу.
You want me to influence Jean Shcheglov and bring him back onto the path of fiction-writing. In my letters I chew away at him diligently every time, but all my thin admonitions, like waves against a cliff, break into spray when they meet his passion. Passion is only overcome by passion, and nothing can be done with maxims and logic. The best thing is to leave Jean in peace and wait until the theatrical swill boils out of him and he comes round to normal on his own.
Вы хотите, чтобы я повлиял на Жана Щеглова и вернул его на путь беллетристики. В своих письмах я всякий раз усердно жую его, но все мои жидкие сентенции, как волны об утес, разбиваются в брызги, наталкиваясь на страсть. Страсть выбивается только страстью, а сентенциями да логикой ничего не поделаешь. Самое лучшее – оставить Жана в покое и ждать, когда в нем перекипит театральная бурда и сам он естественным порядком придет к норме.
Before leaving Moscow I sat, as a newly minted member, on the committee of the Society of Dramatic Writers. I came away with this impression: the Society’s affairs are going splendidly.
Перед выездом из Москвы заседал я как новоиспеченный член в комитете Общества драмат писателей. Вынес такое впечатление: дела Общества идут превосходно.
If the newspapers are to be believed, it’s cold now with you in the north. With us it’s hot.
Если верить газетам, то у Вас на севере теперь холодно. А у нас жарко.
If you’re not too lazy, and if you haven’t yet married some pockmarked woman who beats you and keeps you from writing, then write to me.
Если не лень и если Вы еще не женились на рябой бабе, бьющей Вас и мешающей Вам писать, то пишите мне.
How do you stand on spirituous liquors? Do you hold with them or renounce them?
Как Вы насчет спиритуозов? Придерживаетесь или отрицаете?
Well, keep well and happy. My family thanks you for your regards and sends its own.
Ну, будьте здоровы и счастливы. Моя фамилия благодарит Вас за поклон и тоже кланяется.
Yours, A. Chekhov.
Ваш А. Чехов.
If my brother gets a little better, I shall go off to the Caucasus.
Если брату станет полегче, то уеду на Кавказ.

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To V. A. Tikhonov, 31 May 1889. Sumy.

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