Stories · 1885

On the Transience of Things

О бренности. (масленичная тема для проповеди)

Headnote

1 On the Transience of Things (O brennosti), subtitled “A Shrovetide Theme for a Sermon,” is a very short comic sketch Chekhov published in 1885, in the tradition of the Maslenitsa (Shrovetide) feuilleton that Russian humor magazines ran every year in the week before Lent, when the eating of blini – pancakes topped with butter, caviar, sour cream, and fish – was the season’s defining ritual, and gluttony its expected vice.

The story consists of little more than a single tableau: Court Councillor Semyon Petrovich Podtykin, seated at a table laid out like a general’s battle map of bottles and delicacies, builds himself an increasingly extravagant stack of blini, butter, caviar, salmon, and vodka, savoring every stage of the construction with mounting sensual delight – and drops dead of an apoplectic fit the instant he opens his mouth to eat it. The title’s irony is the whole point: “on the transience of things” is homiletic language, the kind of phrase a Lenten preacher would use to remind a congregation that earthly appetite is fleeting and death is certain, and Chekhov delivers that sermon not as moralizing but as a sudden, deadpan sight gag. It belongs to a small cluster of Chekhov’s early Shrovetide pieces that use gluttony-then-collapse as a stock comic turn.

The final section in the source is a bare “Notes” apparatus marker with no content of its own and has been carried through as such.

(A SHROVETIDE THEME FOR A SERMON)
(МАСЛЕНИЧНАЯ ТЕМА ДЛЯ ПРОПОВЕДИ)
Court Councillor Semyon Petrovich Podtykin sat down at the table, tucked a napkin over his chest, and, burning with impatience, began to wait for the moment when the blini would start to be served... Before him, as before a general surveying a field of battle, a whole picture spread itself out... In the middle of the table, drawn up in ranks like soldiers on parade, stood the slender bottles. There were three kinds of vodka, Kiev fruit liqueur, chateau rose, Rhine wine, and even a pot-bellied vessel containing a production of the Benedictine fathers. Around the drinks, in artistic disorder, crowded herring in mustard sauce, sprats, sour cream, fresh caviar (3 roubles 40 kopecks the pound), fresh salmon, and more besides. Podtykin gazed at all this and greedily swallowed his saliva... His eyes grew filmed with grease, his face twisted with voluptuous longing...
Надворный советник Семен Петрович Подтыкин сел за стол, покрыл свою грудь салфеткой и, сгорая нетерпением, стал ожидать того момента, когда начнут подавать блины... Перед ним, как перед полководцем, осматривающим поле битвы, расстилалась целая картина... Посреди стола, вытянувшись во фронт, стояли стройные бутылки. Тут были три сорта водок, киевская наливка, шатолароз, рейнвейн и даже пузатый сосуд с произведением отцов бенедиктинцев. Вокруг напитков в художественном беспорядке теснились сельди с горчичным соусом, кильки, сметана, зернистая икра (3 руб. 40 коп. за фунт), свежая семга и проч. Подтыкин глядел на всё это и жадно глотал слюнки... Глаза его подернулись маслом, лицо покривило сладострастьем...
“Well, can this really take so long?” he said, wincing, and turning to his wife. “Faster, Katya!”
– Ну, можно ли так долго? – поморщился он, обращаясь к жене. – Скорее, Катя!
But at last the cook appeared with the blini... Semyon Petrovich, risking scalded fingers, seized the two topmost, hottest blini and slapped them appetizingly onto his plate. The blini were golden-fried, porous, plump, like the shoulder of a merchant’s daughter... Podtykin smiled with pleasure, hiccupped from delight, and doused them in hot butter. Then, as though further whetting his appetite and savoring the anticipation, he slowly and deliberately smeared them with caviar. The spots the caviar missed he doused with sour cream... Now there was nothing left but to eat, was there not? But no!.. Podtykin looked upon the work of his hands and was not satisfied... After a moment’s thought, he laid on the blini the fattiest piece of salmon, a sprat, and a sardine, and only then, growing faint and breathless with pleasure, rolled the two blini into a tube, drank off a glass of vodka with feeling, grunted, and opened his mouth...
Но вот, наконец, показалась кухарка с блинами... Семен Петрович, рискуя ожечь пальцы, схватил два верхних, самых горячих блина и аппетитно шлепнул их на свою тарелку. Блины были поджаристые, пористые, пухлые, как плечо купеческой дочки... Подтыкин приятно улыбнулся, икнул от восторга и облил их горячим маслом. Засим, как бы разжигая свой аппетит и наслаждаясь предвкушением, он медленно, с расстановкой обмазал их икрой. Места, на которые не попала икра, он облил сметаной... Оставалось теперь только есть, не правда ли? Но нет!.. Подтыкин взглянул на дела рук своих и не удовлетворился... Подумав немного, он положил на блины самый жирный кусок семги, кильку и сардинку, потом уж, млея и задыхаясь, свернул оба блина в трубку, с чувством выпил рюмку водки, крякнул, раскрыл рот...
But at that instant he was struck down by an apoplectic fit.
Но тут его хватил апоплексический удар.
Notes
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