A Patriot of His Fatherland
Патриот своего отечества
Headnote
"A Patriot of His Fatherland" appeared in 1883, when Chekhov – still signing himself Antosha Chekhonte and still three years from *Palata No. 6* and the mature manner – was turning out short comic sketches for the Moscow weeklies at a punishing rate. The setting is one of the small German spa towns whose mineral waters drew wealthy Russians abroad for the "cure": a world Chekhov, already treating patients and already attentive to his own lungs, knew from the inside as both a doctor and an occasional patient himself.
The joke turns on a stock type of the period’s satirical press: the fat, sentimental Russian gentleman abroad, softened by beer, moonlight, and a melancholy German band into maudlin talk of love and brotherhood – and then, the moment a crowd starts making speeches, seized by the same urge himself. Pyotr Fomich’s drunken oration collapses into a threat before it can even finish the sentence; his good fortune, and the story’s punchline, is that his audience cannot understand a word of it. The piece belongs to the fast, broad register of the early Chekhonte pieces – a single absurd situation, built and dropped in a page – rather than the doubled, tender-ironic voice of the later stories. But the method that will govern everything Chekhov writes afterward is already visible in miniature: no narrator tells the reader what to make of the two Russians turning maudlin over a checkers board, or of the crowd’s shouting and arm-waving. The scene is handed over entire, and the reader supplies the judgment the story withholds.
A small German town. This little town lends its name to one of the best-known mineral waters. It has more hotels than houses, and more foreigners than Germans.
Маленький немецкий городок. Имя этого городка носит одна из известнейших целебных вод. В нем больше отелей, чем домов, и больше иностранцев, чем немцев.
Good beer, pretty chambermaids, and a marvelous view can be found at the hotel standing on the (left) edge of town, on a high hill, in the shade of a most delightful little garden.
Хорошее пиво, хорошеньких служанок и чудный вид вы можете найти в отеле, стоящем на краю (левом) города, на высокой горе, в тени прелестнейшего садика.
One fine evening, on the terrace of this hotel, at a white marble table, sat two Russians. They were drinking beer and playing checkers. Both were working hard to get their pieces "crowned," and conversing about the progress of their treatment. Both had come here to cure a large belly and a fatty liver.
В один прекрасный вечер на террасе этого отеля, за белым мраморным столиком, сидело двое русских. Они пили пиво и играли в шашки. Оба старательно лезли "в дамки" и беседовали об успехах лечения. Оба приехали сюда лечиться от большого живота и ожирения печени.
Through the leaves of the fragrant lindens the German moon looked down on them... A little flirtatious breeze fondly tousled Russian mustaches and beards and blew the most marvelous sounds into the ears of the two fat Russians. At the foot of the hill music was playing. The Germans were celebrating the anniversary of some German event or other. The motifs did not carry up to the top of the hill – too far! Only the melody carried. A melancholy melody, the most thoroughly German kind, plaintive, long-drawn-out... You listen to it and you want to sigh sweetly...
Сквозь листву пахучих лип глядела на них немецкая луна... Маленький кокетливый ветерок нежно теребил российские усы и бороды и вдувал в уши русских толстячков чуднейшие звуки. У подножия горы играла музыка. Немцы праздновали годовщину какого-то немецкого события. Мотивы не доносились до вершины горы – далеко! Доносилась одна только мелодия... Мелодия меланхолическая, самая разнемецкая, плакучая, тягучая... Слушаешь ее – и сладко ныть хочется...
The Russians got their pieces "crowned" and listened pensively. Both were in the most blissful frame of mind. The whisper of the lindens, the flirtatious breeze, the melody with its melancholy – all of this together had turned their Russian souls to mush.
Русские лезли "в дамки" и задумчиво внимали. Оба были в блаженнейшем настроении духа. Шёпот лип, кокетливый ветерок, мелодия со своей меланхолией – всё это, вместе взятое, развезло их русские души.
"In surroundings like this, Taras Ivanych, it’s good, you know... to be in love," said one of them. "To fall for some girl and take a stroll down a dark little lane..."
– При этакой обстановке, Тарас Иваныч, хорошо тово... любить, – сказал один из них. – Влюбиться в какую-нибудь да по темной аллейке пройтись...
"M-yes..."
– М-да...
And our Russians launched into talk of love, of friendship... Sweet moments! It ended with both of them, imperceptibly, unconsciously, leaving the checkers in peace, propping their Russian heads on their fists, and falling into thought.
И наши русские завели речь о любви, о дружбе... Сладкие мгновения! Кончилось тем, что оба незаметно, бессознательно оставили в покое шашки, подперли свои русские головы кулаками и задумались.
The melody grew more and more audible. Soon it gave way to a tune. Now not only trumpets and double-basses could be heard, but violins too.
Мелодия становилась всё слышнее и слышнее. Скоро она уступила свое место мотиву. Стали слышны не только трубы и контрабасы, но и скрипки.
The Russians looked down and saw a torchlight procession. The procession was moving up the hill. Soon the red fires of the torches flashed through the lindens, harmonious singing was heard, and the music thundered right over the Russians’ ears. Young girls, women, soldiers, student corpsmen, old men, in a moment filled the long, trim avenue, lit up the whole garden, and set up a terrific din... Behind them they carried little kegs of beer and wine. Flowers were scattered and colored Bengal lights were burned.
Русские поглядели вниз и увидели факельную процессию. Процессия двигалась вверх. Скоро сквозь липы блеснули красные огни факелов, послышалось стройное пение, и музыка загремела над самыми ушами русских. Молодые девушки, женщины, солдаты, бурши, старцы в мгновение наполнили длинную стройную аллею, осветили весь сад и страшно загалдели... Сзади несли бочонки с пивом и вином. Сыпали цветы и жгли разноцветные бенгальские огни.
The Russians were moved to the depths of their souls. And they wanted to take part in the procession. They took their bottles and mixed into the crowd. The procession came to a halt in a clearing behind the hotel. Some little old man came out into the middle and said something. He was applauded. Some student corpsman climbed onto a table and delivered a crackling speech. After him – another, a third, a fourth... They spoke, they shrieked, they waved their arms...
Русские умилились духом. И им захотелось участвовать в процессии. Они взяли свои бутылки и смешались с толпой. Процессия остановилась на полянке за отелем. Вышел на средину какой-то старичок и сказал что-то. Ему аплодировали. Какой-то бурш взобрался на стол и произнес трескучую речь. За ним – другой, третий, четвертый... Говорили, взвизгивали, махали руками...
Pyotr Fomich was moved. In his chest it grew bright, warm, cozy. At the sight of a crowd making speeches, one wants to make a speech oneself. Speech is contagious. Pyotr Fomich shoved his way through the crowd and stopped by the table. Waving his arms, he climbed onto the table. Waved his arms once more. His face turned purple. He swayed and shouted in a thick, drunken voice: "Lads! Don’t... don’t beat up the Germans!"
Петр Фомич умилился. В груди его стало светло, тепло, уютно. При виде говорящей толпы самому хочется говорить. Речь заразительна. Петр Фомич протискался сквозь толпу и остановился около стола. Помахав руками, он взобрался на стол. Еще раз помахал руками. Лицо его побагровело. Он покачнулся и закричал коснеющим, пьяным языком: "Ребята! Не... немцев бить!"
It was his good luck that the Germans don’t understand Russian!
Счастье его, что немцы не понимают по-русски!