Letter · 1890

To A. S. Lazarev, 13 March 1890. Moscow.

А. С. ЛАЗАРЕВУ (ГРУЗИНСКОМУ), 13 марта 1890 г. Москва.

Headnote

it opens with a salutation ("Dearest Alexander Semyonovich"), runs to several full paragraphs of connected prose, and closes with a conventional valediction and signature ("Yours, A. Chekhov") followed by a brief postscript-like final line. The dateline is given twice in the source (a full "13 марта 1890 г. Москва." as, then a bare "13 марта." repeated as immediately before the body) – this appears to be an editorial artifact of the printed edition (a running dateline plus a repeated day-only line carried over from the manuscript or from segmentation) rather than a sign of two distinct items; the letter proper is entirely continuous from through, addressed throughout to the same correspondent on the same occasion.

The addressee is Alexander Semyonovich Lazarev, who wrote under the pen name "Gruzinsky," a younger writer Chekhov was mentoring in his semi-official role vetting submissions to Suvorin’s newspaper "Novoye Vremya" (New Time). The letter is business-and-craft in one breath. Chekhov reports that he intercepted and discarded Lazarev’s letter to Suvorin himself (tearing off the blank half of the stationery first, in characteristic frugality), and explains the actual channel for collecting a fee: the newspaper’s office at Nevsky 38, not Suvorin personally. He lays out the going flat rate for a young contributor’s first stories – five kopecks a line, with rare exceptions – and tells Lazarev plainly that to earn the higher 7-8-kopeck rate for his story "Побег" ("The Escape"), he needs to build a track record with two or three more stories before submitting a combined bill.

The middle of the letter turns to line-edit craft criticism of "The Escape" itself: Chekhov notes a continuity slip where one character is called by two different names (Anika and Prokhor), needling that his own proofreading missed one instance. He then gives one of his more vivid pieces of craft advice in this stretch of the correspondence – build the sentence, make it "juicier, fattier," using the concrete image of a stick threaded through a smoked whitefish for a sentence that is too thin and plain – and recommends that a story be written over five or six days, each sentence left to sit in the mind before being committed to paper, a discipline he admits he does not follow himself out of laziness but recommends to Lazarev as a younger writer. He closes with news that Nikolai Yezhov (a fellow contributor to New Time) has been visiting, that Yezhov’s wife is ill and his affairs are not flourishing though he keeps his spirits up; a nudge to Lazarev to finish his "Saturday piece" (a recurring newspaper feature) promptly, with a comic image of a lazy townsman reluctant to put his boots on each morning; a conventional closing blessing; the signature; and a final one-line reassurance that Chekhov will write to Khudekov on Lazarev’s behalf.

13 March 1890. Moscow.
13 марта 1890 г. Москва.
13 March.
13 марта.
Dearest Alexander Semyonovich, I am returning your stamp to you, though not in its virgin state – it is already stuck to the envelope of this letter. Your letter to Suvorin I sent to the wastebasket, first tearing off the clean half of the sheet of stationery. The reasons for this barbaric reprisal lie in the following considerations: 1) for your fee you should apply not to Suvorin but to the office (Nevsky, 38) – with Suvorin your letter risks lying about unattended; 2) all contributors (with the exception of Shakespeare, and myself) receive a flat five kopecks for their first stories in "New Time" – this is a rule broken very, very rarely; for you to get 7-8 kopecks for your story "The Escape," and for my petition in that direction to carry any weight, you need to write two or three more stories and only then submit a combined bill. Listen to me!
Многоуважаемый Александр Семенович, возвращаю Вам Вашу марку, хотя и не в девственном ее виде – она уже приклеена к конверту этого письма. Ваше письмо к Суворину я послал в корзину, оторвав предварительно чистую половину листа почтовой бумаги. Причины этой варварской расправы заключаются в следующих соображениях: 1) за гонораром Вам нужно обращаться не к Суворину, а в контору (Невский, 38) – у Суворина Ваше письмо рискует пролежать без движения; 2) все сотрудники (за исключением Шекспира и меня) получают за первые свои рассказы в "Новом времени" ровным счетом пятак – это правило нарушается очень и очень редко; чтобы Вам за рассказ "Побег" платили 7-8 коп. и чтобы мое ходатайство в эту сторону возымело какую-нибудь силу, нужно Вам написать еще рассказа два-три и только тогда подавать общий счет. Послушайтесь меня!
Your "The Escape" is not bad, but it is done in more than a careless way. One and the same person is called both Anika and Prokhor in it. I corrected and corrected and still let one Prokhor slip through, and he did survive, and probably bred puzzlement in more than one attentive reader. Furthermore, build your sentence, make it juicier, fattier – as it stands it resembles that stick that has been run through a smoked whitefish. A story needs to be written over 5-6 days, and you must think about it the whole time you are writing, otherwise you will never work out a sentence for yourself. Every sentence, before it lies down on paper, needs to lie in the brain for a couple of days and get basted in its own fat. It goes without saying that I myself, out of laziness, do not keep to this rule, but to you, being young, I recommend it all the more readily, since I have tested its curative properties on myself more than once, and I know that the manuscripts of all genuine masters are soiled, crossed out up and down and across, worn through and covered with patches, which are in their turn crossed out and defaced...
Ваш "Побег" неплох, но сделан более чем небрежно. Одно и то же лицо называется в нем то Аникой, то Прохором. Я исправлял, исправлял и все же пропустил одного Прохора, и он уцелел и, вероятно, поселил недоумение не в одном внимательном читателе. Затем, стройте фразу, делайте ее жирнее, сочнее – в теперешнем виде она напоминает ту палку, которою проткнут копченый сижок. Рассказ нужно писать 5-6 дней и думать о нем все время, пока пишешь, иначе фразы у Вас никогда не выработается. Каждая фраза, прежде чем лечь на бумагу, должна полежать в мозгу денька два и пожириться в собственном соку. Само собой разумеется, что я сам, по лени, не держусь этого правила, но Вам, как молодому, рекомендую его тем более охотно, что не раз испытал на самом себе его целебные свойства и знаю, что рукописи всех истинных мастеров испачканы, исчерканы вдоль и поперек, истерты и покрыты заплатами, которые в свою очередь исчерканы и испачканы...
Yezhov comes to see me. He has trouble: his wife is ill. Things, apparently, are not brilliant, but he does not lose heart.
Ежов бывает у меня. У него горе: жена его больна. Дела, по-видимому, не блестящи, но он не падает духом.
Do write the Saturday piece more quickly, then, don’t be lazy, and don’t be like that townsman who, every morning, before he can bring himself to put his boots on, grunts for a long time, groans, and scratches his lower back.
Субботник же пишите поскорее, не ленитесь, не будьте похожи на того обывателя, который каждое утро, прежде чем решается надеть сапоги, долго кряхтит, охает и почесывает поясницу.
Be well and kept by the heavens.
Будьте здоровы и хранимы небесами.
Yours, A. Chekhov.
Ваш А. Чехов.
I will write to Khudekov, don’t you worry.
Худекову я напишу, не беспокойтесь.

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