On the whole, being a literary man has its inconveniences.
I am sleepy, but mine hosts retire at three. They don't have late supper and I'm too lazy to go to the Palkins.
I have the honor to send my compliments to all.
I'm too lazy to write, and there is too much going on anyway.
Votre a tous
A. Chekhov
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV1
April 26, /888, Moscow
Mr. Goosekov!
This is an answer to your last letter. Before all else I invite you to compose yourself and reflect upon the roots of things. Secondly, may I inform you of the following:
You can settle your children in Moscow, but only under the one condition that you guarantee before whomever or whatever you choose that neither cowardice, nor deluge, nor fire, nor sword, nor even pestilence, will prevent you from being punc- tual, i.e., from dispatching a definite number of rubles at a definite date each month. The substance of the matter lies in money. Neither Grandfather's piety nor Grandmother's good- ness, neither Daddy's tender feelings nor the generosity of the uncles—nothing can take its fAace. Bear the above words in mind, as I do every moment. If you feel that the proposed con- dition is within your power to fulfill, read on.
Fifty rubles a month is enough. Less is impossible. The chil- dren will come under the sway of one of the grandmas, but which of them? . . . My place is crowded and there is positively no room for children. I pay 750 rubles for the apartment. If I were to add two rooms to accommodate the children, nurse, and juvenile paraphernalia, the apartment would cost goo. However, we would be crowded no matter how spacious the apartment might be. You know my place has a multitude of adults living under one roof only because we cannot separate, in view of cer- tain incomprehensible circumstances. With me are Mother, Sister, Mishka2 (who won't leave until he is graduated), Niko- lai, drunk and half undressed, who does nothing whatever and has been abandoned by his objet, Auntie, and Alyosha3 (the last two only use the apartment). Add to this that Ivan is around
Alexander Chekhov's wife was dying and he had writtcn Lo ask if he could send his children to Moscow.
Mishka was the son of a family friend who was attending thc University of Moscow.
Alyosha was Alexei Doljenko, a cousin.
from three in the afternoon until late at night and on all holi- days, and that Papa comes evenings. They are all nice people, jolly but egoistic, pretentious, unusually talkative, prone to stamping their feet, impecunious. My head is in a whirl. . . . If you were to add two more beds for the children and a nurse, I would have to pour wax into my ears and put on dark glasses. . . . If I had a wife and children I would gladly take unto myself even a dozen youngsters, but with my present family, which is weighed down by abnormal communal life, which is noisy, financially irresponsible and held together unna- turally I cannot decide to take on any more people, let alone those who require educating and setting on their feet. More- over, my little family group is southward bound at the begin- ning of May. To drag children there and back would be incon- venient and expensive.
The children can live with Auntie Feodosia Yakovlevna. I've already spoken to her on the subject, informed her of your motives and mine, and she has gladly consented. Alexei is a good man, and he too will probably have nothing against it.
Living with her will offer the children a number of comforts: (1) a quiet atmosphere, (2) the good will of their hosts, (3) the absence of annoyances, such as music, guests, and pious folks looking down their noses at the fruits of your irregular marriage and so on.
For fifty rubles Auntie will give the children lodging, food, servants and my medical care (apartment—eighteen to twenty- five rubles; Alex's fuel; nursemaid—five to six rubles, the rest to go for victuals and emergencies). Stipulations: the children must be brought from St. Pete by you or a servant; there is nobody here to call for them. An apartment must be found by the first of September. Until then the youngsters will stay with Auntie in my apartment (so twenty-five rubles a month will be enough for you to send until then) .
My head is killing me; this letter is probably written incoher- ently. If such is the case, it's a pity. Generally speaking my head is in a bad state. I think you will understand me, i.e., you may not understand me and what goes on inside of me, but you will understand the reasons and considerations. VVrite to me, not to Auntie. \Vhen we have reached an understanding you may write to her, otherwise there will be many unnecessary conversations. Conversations have been driving me frantic. Keep well and as cheerful as you can.
Your A. Chekhov. Tear up this letter. On the whole, get into the habit of tear- ing up letters, otherwise you will have them thrown around all over the apartment.
Come to see us in the south this summer. It doesn't cost much.
To IVAN LEONTIEV [SHCHEGLOV]
May r888, Moscow
Dear Alba,
. . . Pleshcheyev is arriving sometime after the tenth. How about your making the trip? Yes, you! In any event, I'll wait for you all summer. Perhaps you'll make up your mind to come. By the by, I won't expect you in June, when I'll be traveling. If you do come, bring along three pounds of good pork bologna, the very best (I'll pay you back) .
. . . I sent a story to the "Northcrn Herald" and am slightly ashamed of it. Very dull and dripping with fancy philosophy. I hated to do it, but had to, for we run through money like water. Tomorrow I am finishing a story for "New Times." All summer I'll be writing only small things.
I had a letter from Lehman: he informs that "we" (i.e., all of you St. Petersburgers) "have agreed to carry announcements of one anothcr's works in our books," invites me to concur in this proposal and warns that "only those persons more or less in solidarity with us" can be included in this elite. In reply I sent my consent and inquired as to how he knew who was or was
To IVAN LEONTIEV [sHCHEGLOv] [/888]
not in solidarity with me. How smug all of you are in St. Pete! Dont tell me you aren't all oppressed by such words as solidar- ity, the unity of young writers, community of interest, and so on? Solidarity and such stuff I understand on the stock ex- change, in politics, in religious affairs (of a sect), etc., but soli- darity in young literary men is impossible and unnecessary. 'Ve cannot think and feel the same way, our aims are various or nonexistent, we know one another slightly or not at all, and so there isn't anything to which this solidarity might fasten itself securely. Is there any need for it? No. To lend a helping hand to one's colleague, to respect his personality and labors, not to gossip about him or emy him, not to lie or play the hypocrite before him—to act thus you've got to be not so much the young literary figure as just a plain human being. Let us be ordinary people, let us adopt the same attitude toward all and then an artificially \Hought solidarity is not needed. This persistent striving to set up the private, professional, solid little group that you people want, would only mean unconscious spying on one another and suspicion and control; and without meaning to, we would turn ourselves into something like a Jesuit society. I am not in solidarity with you, dear Jan, but I promise you to the death full freedom as a writer; i.e., you can \mte where and how you like ... change your convictions and tendencies a thou- sand times, and so forth and so on, but my human relations with you will not change one iota, and I'll always print an- nouncements of your books in mine. I can promise the same to all my other colleagues, and would wish the same for myself. To my way of thinking these are the most normal relations. It is only thus that we can ha,e mutual respect and even friendship, and compassion in life's bitter moments.