Letter · 1891

To A. S. Suvorin, 8 September 1891. Moscow.

А. С. СУВОРИНУ, 8 сентября 1891 г. Москва.

Headnote

Written from Moscow on 8 September 1891, just after Chekhov had returned from the countryside and settled, unhappily, into city life again – the letter opens with him sitting at home while his family debates a cheaper apartment out toward Devichye Pole, too indifferent to the question to argue either way.

The occasional business is brisk and mixed: he rejects Suvorin’s proposed title "A Lie" for the novella in progress (almost certainly what would become *The Duel*), on the ground that unconscious wrongdoing isn’t lying at all, only error; he reports that the journalist and humorist Alexander Dmitrievich Kurepin is dying of cancer; and he closes with greetings to Suvorin’s household, playful and affectionate in the register Chekhov reserves for the Suvorins specifically.

The letter’s center of gravity, though, is the long paragraph on Tolstoy, provoked by Chekhov’s having just read the "Afterword" – the notorious postscript Tolstoy appended to *The Kreutzer Sonata*, restating its sexual asceticism in blunter, more programmatic terms than the story itself. Chekhov calls it worse than the "Letters to a Governor’s Wife" (a didactic Tolstoy tract on marriage and adultery he already held in contempt), and the imagined play – a chemist who destroys his own elixir of immortality rather than let scoundrels like himself and his wife live forever – reads as a deliberately petty, mortal answer to Tolstoy’s absolutism: mankind should not be lectured out of its evasions and compromises by a genius who has never had to answer for his own rudeness. The comparison to Diogenes turns on the same point Chekhov returns to elsewhere in these years – that fame licenses a moral highhandedness in great men that would get an ordinary person arrested. The closing measure of value, one filly from "Kholstomer" (Tolstoy’s own late story narrated by a horse) being worth more than the whole apparatus of afterwords and governess-letters, is characteristic: Chekhov prefers Tolstoy the storyteller to Tolstoy the moralist, and says so by weighing the fiction against the doctrine and finding the doctrine wanting.

Anna Ivanovna and Alexei Alexeyevich are Suvorin’s wife and son; "Alexei Petrovich," Suvorin’s old schoolmate, is otherwise unidentified in the source, and the joke wished on him – a dream of a naked Spanish woman with a guitar – is left exactly as broad as Chekhov wrote it.

8 September 1891. Moscow.
8 сентября 1891 г. Москва.
8 Sept. Moscow, Malaya Dmitrovka, Firgang’s house.
I have already moved to Moscow and sit at home without going out. My family is fussing about changing apartments, and I say nothing, since I’m too lazy to turn around. To make it cheaper, they want to move out toward Devichye Pole.
Я уже переехал в Москву и сижу безвыходно дома. Семья хлопочет о перемене квартиры, а я молчу, ибо лень повернуться. Чтобы дешевле было, хотят переехать к Девичьему полю.
For my novella the title you recommend, "A Lie," won’t do. It’s fitting only where the subject is conscious lying. Unconscious lying isn’t lying at all, but a mistake. That we have money and eat meat, Tolstoy calls a lie – that’s too much.
Для моей повести рекомендуемое Вами название "Ложь" не годится. Оно уместно только там, где идет речь о сознательной лжи. Бессознательная ложь есть не ложь, а ошибка. То, что мы имеем деньги и едим мясо, Толстой называет ложью – это слишком.
Yesterday I was informed that Kurepin is hopelessly ill. He has cancer in the neck. Before he dies, the cancer will eat away half his head and torment him with neuralgia. They say Kurepin’s wife wrote to you.
Вчера меня известили, что Курепин болен безнадежно. У него рак на шее. Прежде чем умрет, рак съест ему половину головы и замучает невралгиями. Говорят, что жена Курепина писала Вам.
Death picks people off little by little. It knows its business. Write a play: an old chemist has invented an elixir of immortality – fifteen drops at a dose and you’ll live forever; but the chemist smashes the vial with the elixir out of fear that such scoundrels as himself and his wife would live forever. Tolstoy denies mankind immortality, but, my God, how much of the personal there is in it! The day before yesterday I read his "Afterword." Kill me, but it’s stupider and stuffier than the "Letters to a Governor’s Wife," which I despise. To the devil with the philosophy of the great ones of this world! All great sages are despotic, like generals, and impolite and indelicate, like generals, because they’re certain of their impunity. Diogenes spat in men’s beards, knowing nothing would come of it; Tolstoy calls doctors scoundrels and plays the boor with great questions, because he’s that same Diogenes whom you can’t haul off to the police station or scold in the newspapers. So, to the devil with the philosophy of the great ones of this world! All of it, with all its holy-fool afterwords and letters to governors’ wives, isn’t worth one little filly out of "Kholstomer."
Смерть подбирает людей понемножку. Знает свое дело. Напишите пьесу: старый химик изобрел эликсир бессмертия – 15 капель на прием и будешь жить вечно; но химик разбил стклянку с эликсиром из страха, что будут вечно жить такие стервецы, как он сам и его жена. Толстой отказывает человечеству в бессмертии, но, боже мой, сколько тут личного! Я третьего дня читал его "Послесловие". Убейте меня, но это глупее и душнее, чем "Письма к губернаторше", которые я презираю. Чёрт бы побрал философию великих мира сего! Все великие мудрецы деспотичны, как генералы, и невежливы и неделикатны, как генералы, потому что уверены в безнаказанности. Диоген плевал в бороды, зная, что ему за это ничего не будет; Толстой ругает докторов мерзавцами и невежничает с великими вопросами, потому что он тот же Диоген, которого в участок не поведешь и в газетах не выругаешь. Итак, к чёрту философию великих мира сего! Она вся, со всеми юродивыми послесловиями и письмами к губернаторше, не стоит одной кобылки из "Холстомера".
Give my regards to your schoolmate Alexei Petrovich and wish him good health, a playful mood, and seductive dreams. I hope he dreams of a naked Spanish woman with a guitar.
Поклонитесь товарищу по гимназии Алексею Петровичу и пожелайте ему хорошего здоровья, игривого настроения и обольстительных снов. Желаю, чтобы ему приснилась голая испанка с гитарой.
To Anna Ivanovna and Alexei Alexeyevich and their brood, my humblest respects.
Анне Ивановне и Алексею Алексеевичу со чады нижайшее почтение.
Keep well and don’t forget your sinful servant. I miss you very much.
Будьте здоровы и не забывайте меня грешного. Я очень скучаю.
Yours, A. Chekhov.
Ваш А. Чехов.

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To A. S. Suvorin, 8 September 1891. Moscow.

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