Letter · 1890

To K. S. Barantsevich, 9 February 1890. Moscow.

К. С. БАРАНЦЕВИЧУ, 9 февраля 1890 г. Москва.

Headnote

1 Dating and addressee. 9 February 1890, Moscow (Chekhov’s own marginal note within the letter reads "8 Feb.," apparently marking when he began writing it, one day before the letter’s dated close). Written to Kazimir Stanislavovich Barantsevich, a Petersburg writer and friend with whom Chekhov corresponded regularly; the letter answers questions from an earlier letter of Barantsevich’s that had sat unopened on Chekhov’s desk for nearly a week.

2 A warm, joking reply to a fellow writer. Chekhov answers two practical questions in numbered form: that Kumanin has confirmed Barantsevich’s play will be published, and that Chekhov will pursue an introduction to Sobolevsky indirectly, through a partner of Sablin’s, rather than approach Sobolevsky directly, and expects to see Sablin that same evening at a ball at the Assembly of the Nobility. He then turns personal, chiding Barantsevich for succumbing to gloom ("gray fogs") and offering a fatalistic, self-deprecating consolation: ordinary people ("petty bourgeois," not cavalry guardsmen or actresses) are born to suffer and must make peace with fate as with weather; Chekhov calls himself a fatalist and calls the stance "stupid." He closes with travel news – he leaves for Sakhalin in early April, so there is still time to correspond – and affectionate, joking regards to Barantsevich’s wife and children, referred to as "little geese,little ducks," and a "fat-bellied little sparrow" with a sore lip, before signing off.

5 has a full salutation ("Милый и дорогой коллега Казимир Станиславович" / "Dear and precious colleague Kazimir Stanislavovich"), connected prose with complete sentences and normal grammar (articles/prepositions all present, as expected for Russian), numbered point-by-point answers, and a signed closing ("Ваш А. Чехов" / "Yours, A. Chekhov"), unlike the bare, elliptical surname-only telegrams elsewhere in the corpus.

9 February 1890. Moscow.
9 февраля 1890 г. Москва.
8 Feb.
8 февр.
Dear and precious colleague Kazimir Stanislavovich, forgive me for not answering your letter for so long. This poor letter lay on my desk waiting to be opened for very nearly a week.
Милый и дорогой коллега Казимир Станиславович, простите меня, что я так долго не отвечал на Ваше письмо. Это бедное письмо пролежало у меня на столе в ожидании, пока его распечатают, чуть ли не неделю.
Here are the answers to your questions:
Вот Вам ответы на Ваши вопросы:
1) Kumanin said that your play will be published.
1) Куманин сказал, что пьеса Ваша напечатана будет.
2) I’m not acquainted with Sobolevsky. Of course that needn’t stop me from carrying out your commission; I could go and get acquainted with him, but I find it more sensible to act through one of Sablin’s partners, a good friend of mine; that man will arrange everything and give me just the kind of answer I wouldn’t get from a Sobolevsky I don’t know. I’ll see Sablin today at the ball at the Assembly of the Nobility; if I don’t see him, I’ll write him a letter tomorrow.
2) С Соболевским я незнаком. Конечно, это не может мне помешать исполнить Ваше поручение; я съездил бы к нему и познакомился, но нахожу более резонным действовать через единого из пайщиков Саблина, доброго моего знакомого; сей человек устроит всё и даст мне именно такой ответ, какого я не получил бы от не знакомого мне Соболевского. Саблина я увижу сегодня на балу в Благородном собрании; если не увижу, то завтра напишу ему письмо.
My dear soul, why do you let gray fogs settle over your soul? Of course life isn’t easy for you, but then we weren’t born to do anything but drink our "vale of tears." We’re not cavalry guardsmen or actresses of the French theater, to feel good about ourselves. We are petty bourgeois on this earth, petty bourgeois we’ll remain, and as petty bourgeois we’ll die – such is the will of fate, nothing to be done about it. And fate, too, one has to make one’s peace with, the way one does with the weather. I’m a fatalist, which is stupid, by the way.
Душа моя, зачем Вы позволяете серым туманам садиться на Вашу душу? Конечно, нелегко Вам живется, но ведь на то мы и рождены, чтоб вкушать "юдоль". Мы ведь не кавалергарды и не актрисы французского театра, чтобы чувствовать себя хорошо. Мы мещане на сей земле, мещанами будем и по-мещански умрем – такова воля рока, ничего не поделаешь. А с роком приходится также мириться, как с погодою. Я фаталист, что, впрочем, глупо.
I’m off to Sakhalin at the start of April. So we’ll still have time to write to each other. Give my regards to your wife, the little geese, the little ducks, and that fat-bellied little sparrow who, when I was at your place, had a sore lip under his nose.
На Сахалин еду в начале апреля. Значит, успеем еще списаться. Кланяйтесь Вашей жене, гусикам, утикам и тому толстопузому воробчику, у которого, когда я был у Вас, болела губа под носом.
Keep well.
Будьте здоровы.
Yours, A. Chekhov.

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To K. S. Barantsevich, 9 February 1890. Moscow.

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