Headnote
1
Speech and Strap (Речь и ремешок) is another 1880 miniature from Chekhov’s earliest, fastest comic vein, written while he was a first-year medical student in Moscow and signing his humor-magazine work “Antosha Chekhonte.” It belongs to the office-sketch line he returned to often in these years: a petty superior, a room full of subordinates, and the gap between the occasion’s inflated rhetoric and what actually happens in it.
2
The frame is a set piece familiar from Russian civil-service life: the chief has caught wind of “liberalism” among his clerks – someone reading Saltykov-Shchedrin, someone else scribbling articles – and summons them for a dressing-down delivered as if it were a tearful reconciliation. He works himself up into real, or real-seeming, emotion; his listeners are worked up in turn, moved nearly to tears of repentance by a speech that says remarkably little. Chekhov times the escalation with the same comic mechanics he uses throughout the early sketches: broad, fast, and building toward a single releasing absurdity rather than a plot.
3
That absurdity is the strap of the title – a small, grubby object that tumbles out of the chief’s pocket along with his handkerchief at the very height of his performance, and undoes the whole solemn effect in an instant. One clerk’s smile becomes another’s stifled laugh becomes uncontrollable snorting down the row, and the chief’s thunderous reversal – from tearful father-figure to raging superior demanding a resignation – closes the piece exactly where such scenes usually end in Chekhov’s early comedy: with the performance of feeling collapsing the moment something completely trivial gets in its way.
Translation Original
1 He gathered us into his office and, in a voice trembling with tears – touching, tender, comradely, but admitting no objection – delivered us a speech.
Он собрал нас к себе в кабинет и голосом, дрожащим от слез, трогательным, нежным, приятельским, но не допускающим возражений, сказал нам речь.
2 “I know everything,” he said. “Everything! Yes! I see straight through you. I’ve long since noticed this, so to speak, er... er... er... spirit, this atmosphere... this breath of something. You,
Tsitsulsky, read
Shchedrin; you,
Spichkin, read some such thing too... I know it all. You,
Tuponosov, write... what’s-it... articles, this and that... and you carry yourself too freely. Gentlemen! I ask you! I ask you not as your superior, but as a fellow man... These are not times for that. This liberalism must disappear.”
– Я знаю всё, – сказал он. – Всё! Да! Насквозь вижу. Я давно уже заметил этот, так сказать, э... э... э... дух, атмосферу... дуновение. Ты,
Цицюльский, читаешь
Щедрина, ты,
Спичкин, читаешь тоже что-то такое... Всё знаю. Ты,
Тупоносов, сочиняешь... тово... статьи, там, всякие... и вольно держишь себя. Господа! Прошу вас! Прошу вас не как начальник, а как человек... В наше время нельзя так. Либерализм этот должен исчезнуть.
3 He went on in this vein for a very long time. He worked on all of us, worked on the present tendency of things, praised the sciences and the arts – with the reservation that there are limits and bounds the sciences must not overstep – and touched on the love of mothers... We turned pale, we blushed, and we listened. Our souls were being washed clean in his words. We wanted to die of repentance. We wanted to kiss him, to fall at his feet... to weep aloud... I looked at
the archivist’s back and it seemed to me that this back was not weeping only because it was afraid to disturb the general silence.
Говорил он в таком роде очень долго. Пронял всех нас, пронял теперешнее направление, похвалил науки и искусства, с оговоркой о пределе и рамках, из коих наукам выходить нельзя, и упомянул о любви матерей... Мы бледнели, краснели и слушали. Душа наша мылась в его словах. Нам хотелось умереть от раскаяния. Нам хотелось облобызать его, пасть ниц... зарыдать... Я глядел в спину
архивариуса, и мне казалось, что эта спина не плачет только потому, что боится нарушить общественную тишину.
4 “Go now!” he finished. “I’ve forgotten it all! I bear no grudges... I... I... Gentlemen! History tells us... If you won’t believe me, believe history... History tells us...”
– Идите! – кончил он. – Я всё забыл! Я не злопамятен... Я... я... Господа! История говорит нам... Мне не верите, верьте истории... История говорит нам...
5 But alas! We never learned what history tells us. His voice broke, tears flashed in his eyes, his spectacles misted over. At that very moment sobbing was heard: it was Tsitsulsky, weeping.
Spichkin flushed like a boiled crab. We reached for our pockets, for our handkerchiefs. He blinked his little eyes and reached for his handkerchief too.
Но увы! Мы не узнали, что говорит нам история. Голос его задрожал, на глазах сверкнули слезы, вспотели очки. В тот же самый момент послышались всхлипывания: то рыдал Цицюльский. Спичкин покраснел, как вареный рак. Мы полезли в карманы за платками. Он замигал глазками и тоже полез за платком.
6 “Go now!” he faltered, in a tearful voice. “Leave me be! Leave... me... Mm-yes...”
– Идите! – залепетал он плачущим голосом. – Оставьте меня! Оставь... те... Ммда...
7 But alas! Take a tiny screw out of a clock, or drop into it some insignificant grain of sand – and the clock stops. The impression produced by the speech vanished like smoke, at the very threshold of its apotheosis. The apotheosis did not come off... and thanks to what? A trifle!
Но увы! Выньте вы из часов маленький винтик или бросьте вы в них ничтожную песчинку – и остановятся часы. Впечатление, произведенное речью, исчезло, как дым, у самых дверей своего апогея. Апофеоз не удался... и благодаря чему же? Ничтожеству!
8 He reached into his back pocket and, along with his handkerchief, pulled out some sort of little strap. By accident, of course. The strap – small, grubby, stiffened with wear – dangled a moment in the air like a little snake and dropped at the archivist’s feet. The archivist picked it up in both hands and, with a reverent shudder through his whole frame, laid it on the table.
Он полез в задний карман и вместе с платком вытащил оттуда какой-то ремешок. Нечаянно, разумеется. Ремешок, маленький, грязненький, закорузлый, поболтался в воздухе змейкой и упал к ногам архивариуса. Архивариус поднял его обеими руками и с почтительным содроганием во всех членах положил на стол.
9 “A strap, sir,” he whispered.
– Ремешок-с, – прошептал он.
10 Tsitsulsky smiled. Catching sight of his smile, I, quite against my own will, snorted into my fist... like a fool, like a schoolboy! After me Spichkin snorted, and after him
Trekhkapitansky – and it was all over! The whole edifice came crashing down.
Цицюльский улыбнулся. Заметив его улыбку, я, и сам того не желая, прыснул в кулак... как дурак, как мальчишка! За мной прыснул Спичкин, за ним
Трехкапитанский – и всё погибло! Рухнуло здание.
11 “And what are you laughing at?” I heard a thunderous voice.
– Ты чего же это смеешься? – услышал я громовой голос.
12 Heavens above! I looked: his eyes were fixed on me, on me alone... straight at me!
Батюшки-светы! Гляжу: его глаза глядят на меня, только на меня... в упор!
13 “Where do you think you are? Eh? In a tavern? Eh? Forgetting yourself? Hand in your resignation! I have no use for liberals.”
– Где ты находишься? А? Ты в портерной? А? Забываешься? Подавай в отставку! Мне либералов не надо.
