Letter · 1891

To A. S. Suvorin, 13 December 1891. Moscow.

А. С. СУВОРИНУ, 13 декабря 1891 г. Москва.

Headnote

A short letter from Moscow to Aleksei Sergeyevich Suvorin, written two days after the previous one, that opens as a working editor’s report on a story draft Suvorin has evidently just sent him, then loosens into family and famine-relief news.

Chekhov praises the manuscript with real warmth: a scene in which a character named Varya "smothers" the hero "like a house-spirit" and initiates him into the secrets of the afterlife strikes him as genuinely frightening and true to the logic of spiritualism, and he tells Suvorin not to touch a word of the horseback-riding scene that follows it. His editorial interventions are minor and concrete – swapping one colloquial word for another, "at full gallop" for "at full tilt," a mandolin for a zither – and he pushes back specifically on the story’s epigraph, urging Suvorin to keep the epigraph itself but cut a closing line invoking "our nervous age": for Chekhov, there is no such thing as a modern epidemic of nerves, only nerves as old as Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and a frightening story does its work better without the editorializing. He mentions, almost in passing, that he has written his own ending to the story and is sending it along for Suvorin to read if he likes – one working writer offering another a version to take or leave.

The letter then turns personal and practical: a reflection on the pleasure of writing fiction for its own sake, with a nod to the Moscow journalist and raconteur Vladimir Alekseyevich Gilyarovsky’s slang for something not to be dismissed lightly; a recurring headache Chekhov blames on age or worse; an old man’s spontaneous gift of 100 rubles for famine relief, folded in without comment beside the literary discussion; travel plans built around seeing his sister Maria off to inspect the family’s newly bought farmstead and not leaving their aging parents alone over the holidays, with a firm promise to spend New Year’s with Suvorin regardless; and a closing note that he has passed Suvorin’s story to his sister Masha as bedtime reading. The letter ends with the usual sign-off and a note that the proof is enclosed with it.

13 December 1891. Moscow.
13 декабря 1891 г. Москва.
13 Dec.
13 дек.
Now I understand why you sleep badly at night. If I’d written such a story, I wouldn’t sleep for ten nights running. The most frightening place is where Varya smothers the hero, like a house-spirit, and acquaints him with the secrets of the afterlife. It’s both frightening and consonant with spiritualism. From Varya’s speeches, and especially the part where the two of them ride on horseback, you can’t throw out a single word. Don’t touch it. The idea of the story is good, the content fantastical and interesting.
Теперь я понимаю, почему Вы плохо спите по ночам. Если бы я написал такой рассказ, то не спал бы десять ночей подряд. Самое страшное место то, где Варя душит героя, как домовой, и знакомит его с тайнами загробной жизни. И страшно, и со спиритизмом согласно. Из речей Вари, и особенно там, где оба едут верхом, нельзя выбросить ни одного слова. Не трогайте. Идея рассказа хороша, содержание фантастично и интересно.
I could only correct proofreading errors: I replaced "uzh" with your "uzhe," replaced "at full gallop" with "at full tilt," a mandolin with a zither. I found nothing else. Well, except for one piece of advice: drop the end of the epigraph. The epigraph is very apt as conceived, but what I’ve crossed out lengthens it needlessly. After all, your story is partly meant to frighten the reader and ruin a dozen of his nerves, so why do you speak of "our nervous age"? By God, there’s no such thing as a nervous age. People lived as they lived, and go on living, and present-day nerves are no worse than the nerves of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Drop the ending, but leave the epigraph.
Исправить я мог только корректурные ошибки; "уж" заменил своим "уже", "во весь опор" заменил "во весь дух", мандолину – цитрой. Больше ничего не нашел. Вот разве один только совет: откиньте конец у эпиграфа. Эпиграф придуман очень кстати, но то, что я зачеркнул, излишне удлиняет его. Ведь Ваш рассказ отчасти имеет целью устрашить читателя и испортить ему дюжину нервов, зачем же Вы говорите о "нашем нервном веке"? Ей-богу, никакого нет нервного века. Как жили люди, так и живут, и ничем теперешние нервы не хуже нервов Авраама, Исаака и Иакова. Откиньте конец, но эпиграф оставьте.
Since you’ve already written an ending, it won’t hurt if I send you mine. I got inspired and couldn’t help myself. Read it, if you like.
Так как Вы уже написали конец, то я не помешаю, если пошлю Вам свой. Вдохновился и не утерпел, чтобы не написать. Прочтите, буде пожелаете.
Stories are good, generally, in that you can sit over them with a pen for whole days and not notice the time passing, and at the same time feel something like life. That’s from the hygienic point of view. And from the point of view of usefulness and so on, to write a decent story with content and give the reader 10–12 interesting minutes – that, as Gilyarovsky says, is no small potatoes. Why do you write stories so rarely? Why don’t you write them in summer? After all, you have imagination – thank God for that!
Рассказы вообще тем хороши, что над ними можно сидеть с пером целые дни и не замечать, как идет время, и в то же время чувствовать нечто вроде жизни. Это с гигиенической точки зрения. А с точки зрения полезности и проч., написать недурной рассказ с содержанием и дать читателю 10–12 интересных минут – это, как говорит Гиляровский, не баран начихал. Отчего Вы редко пишете рассказы? Отчего Вы не пишете их летом? Ведь фантазии у Вас – слава тебе господи!
My head aches horribly again today. I don’t know what to do. It must be old age setting in, or if not old age, then something worse.
У меня сегодня опять прескверно болит голова. Не знаю, что делать. Нет уж, должно быть, к старости пошло, а если не к старости, то к чему-нибудь похуже.
Today a little old man brought me 100 rubles for the starving.
Сегодня один старичок принес мне 100 рублей на голодающих.
I’ll come to you either on the 17th, or on the second day of the holiday. There’s money now. On the 20th my sister leaves to look at the farmstead, and I’d like to see her off, and it’s a pity to leave the old folks alone over the holidays too. In any case I’ll be seeing in the New Year at your place. That’s certain.
Приеду к Вам или 17-го, или же на второй день праздника. Деньги есть. 20-го уезжает сестра смотреть хутор, и хочется ее проводить, да и стариков жалко оставить одних на праздниках. Во всяком случае Новый год буду у Вас встречать. Это непременно.
I gave your story to Masha. Let her read it before bed.
Дал Ваш рассказ Маше. Пусть почитает на сон грядущий.
Keep well. All the best!
Будьте здоровы. Всего хорошего!
I’m sending the proof at the same time as this.
Корректуру посылаю одновременно с сим.

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To A. S. Suvorin, 13 December 1891. Moscow.

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