Letter · 1889

To A. S. Suvorin, 20 December 1889. Moscow.

А. С. СУВОРИНУ, Около 20 декабря 1889 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Letter to Alexei Suvorin, written around December 20, 1889, from Moscow. Suvorin (1834–1912) was Chekhov’s publisher, editor of the influential Petersburg newspaper Novoye Vremya (New Time), and Chekhov’s closest correspondent through the late 1880s and 1890s; the two exchanged letters of unusual candor on literature, family, and private life. The opening of this letter is lost – the source text itself carries an editorial bracket noting "the beginning of the letter has not survived" – so begins mid-sentence, in the middle of a list of Chekhov’s own output.

2 this is a private, self-lacerating letter written shortly before Chekhov’s thirtieth birthday (he was born January 17/29, 1860, so he turns 30 in January 1890). Chekhov surveys his own body of work – occasional pieces, vaudevilles, "tedious stories" – and judges almost none of it to have serious literary value, contrasting "forced labor" with real, patient work. He reacts to reading a story by "Bezhetsky" (pen name of Alexei Sergeyevich Suvorin’s – see entity note below) with a self-pitying recognition of his own condition. He fantasizes about withdrawing from literary life for five years to retrain himself from scratch, cutting his income drastically (700–900 rubles/year vs. his current 3–4 thousand) to buy himself that freedom, then admits his "khokhol" (Ukrainian/Little Russian) laziness outweighs his courage to actually do it. He mentions selling the play "The Wood Demon" (Leshy) to the publisher/theater figure Abramova, second-guesses the sale, and grumbles generally about the degeneracy of "young people nowadays." He reports his family’s health has improved and that his own cough has stopped; he plans to visit Suvorin in early January. Brief remarks on the mild winter follow, then his birthday (turning 30 while feeling 22), a wish that Suvorin and his wife Anna Ivanovna stay well, and a closing question about coming to Petersburg for New Year’s, before the signature.

The beginning of the letter has not survived. sketches, feuilletons, foolishness, vaudevilles, tedious stories, a great multitude of errors and inconsistencies, poods of scribbled-over paper, an academic prize, a life of Potemkin – and with all that there is not a single line which in my own eyes has any serious literary significance. There has been a mass of forced labor, but not one minute of serious work. When I read Bezhetsky’s "A Family Tragedy" the other day, that story aroused in me something like a feeling of compassion for the author; I feel exactly the same thing when I look at my own little books. There is a fly’s-worth of truth in that feeling, but my own hypochondria and envy of other men’s labors inflate it to the size of an elephant. I long passionately to hide myself away somewhere for five years and occupy myself with painstaking, serious work. I need to study, to learn everything from the very beginning, for as a man of letters I am a thoroughgoing ignoramus; I need to write conscientiously, with feeling, with sense, to write not five printer’s sheets a month but one sheet in five months. I need to leave home, I need to start living on 700–900 rubles a year instead of 3–4 thousand as I do now, I need to spit on a great many things, but there is more khokhol laziness in me than courage.
Начало письма не сохранилось. очерков, фельетонов, глупостей, водевилей, скучных историй, многое множество ошибок и несообразностей, пуды исписанной бумаги, академическая премия, житие Потемкина – и при всем том нет ни одной строчки, которая в моих глазах имела бы серьезное литературное значение. Была масса форсированной работы, но не было ни одной минуты серьезного труда. Когда я на днях прочел "Семейную трагедию" Бежецкого, то этот рассказ вызвал во мне что-то вроде чувства сострадания к автору; точно такое же чувство испытываю я, когда вижу свои книжки. В этом чувстве есть правда величиною с муху, но мнительность моя и зависть к чужим трудам раздувают ее до размеров слона. Мне страстно хочется спрятаться куда-нибудь лет на пять и занять себя кропотливым, серьезным трудом. Мне надо учиться, учить всё с самого начала, ибо я, как литератор, круглый невежда; мне надо писать добросовестно, с чувством, с толком, писать не по пяти листов в месяц, а один лист в пять месяцев. Надо уйти из дому, надо начать жить за 700–900 р. в год, а не за 3–4 тысячи, как теперь, надо на многое наплевать, но хохлацкой лени во мне больше, чем смелости.
I sold "The Wood Demon" to Abramova – that was pointless. So, my sluggish soul reasons, there will be enough money for 3–4 months. That is my khokhol logic. Ah, what rotten young people there are nowadays!
Продал "Лешего" Абрамовой – это зря. Значит, рассуждает моя вялая душа, на 3–4 месяца хватит денег. Вот моя хохлацкая логика. Ах, какие нынче поганые молодые люди стали!
Everyone in the household has recovered their health. I too no longer cough. I long terribly to see you. I shall come, most likely, at the start of January.
Здоровье у всех домочадцев поправилось. Я тоже уже не кашляю. Ужасно хочется повидаться с Вами. Приеду, должно быть, в начале января.
The days are growing longer. It has turned toward spring, and there has not even been a winter yet.
Дни становятся больше. К весне повернуло, а зимы еще не было.
In January I turn 30. A disgrace. And yet my mood is such as if I were 22.
В январе мне стукнет 30 лет. Подлость. А настроение у меня такое, будто мне 22 года.
Please don’t be ill, and tell Anna Ivanovna to make a gift of her illnesses to somebody else.
Не болейте, пожалуйста, и скажите Анне Ивановне, чтобы она подарила свои болезни кому-нибудь.
Shouldn’t I come to Petersburg to see in the New Year?
Не приехать ли мне в Питер встречать Новый год?
Yours, A. Chekhov.

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To A. S. Suvorin, 20 December 1889. Moscow.

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