Stories · 1883

The Zealot

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Headnote

"The Zealot" appeared in 1883, deep in the Antosha Chekhonte years, when Chekhov was producing rapid-fire comic sketches for the Moscow weeklies while finishing his medical studies. It belongs to his gallery of self-important petty officials undone by their own pretensions – here a railway director who has spent twenty years intending to write a defense of the free press, and finally does.

The joke turns on a single reversal, delivered without comment. The director drafts his fourteen high-minded lines in praise of the press – liberal, proud, unbowed – then breaks off, as he does every morning, to read the newspapers themselves. One of them turns out to carry an item about his own railway and its "rather strange" pet project, under his own name. The defender of the press does not finish reading the sentence before he is back at his desk, drafting not an essay but an administrative order restricting which "certain" newspapers and journals may still be delivered to the line. Chekhov never states the contradiction; the scraps of the abandoned manifesto are simply left lying beside the finished order, and the reader supplies the rest. Censorship of the press by provincial officials and railway administrations was a live irritant of the period, and Chekhov – himself a contributor to Golos, the liberal paper the director is shown reading with such pleasure – knew the type from both sides of the press.

The closing Latin tag, Sic transit gloria mundi ("Thus passes the glory of the world"), lands with the same deadpan economy as everything before it: a grand phrase for a grand pretension that has just collapsed into a petty act of spite, and Chekhov, twenty-three years old and already merciless with adjectives, lets the tag do the judging he refuses to do himself.

For twenty years the director of the Z.-B.-Kh. Railway had been meaning to sit down at his writing desk, and two days ago he finally sat down. For half his life a thought – burning, sharp, restless – had been turning over in his head, taking on a decent shape, rounding itself out, filling in its details, growing, until at last it had grown to the size of the most grandiose of projects... He sat down at the desk, took up a pen, and... set out on the thorny path of authorship.
Двадцать лет собирался директор З.-Б.-Х. железной дороги сесть за свой письменный стол и наконец, два дня тому назад, собрался. Полжизни мысль, жгучая, острая, беспокойная, вертелась у него в голове, выливалась в благоприличную форму, округлялась, деталилась, росла и наконец выросла до величины грандиознейшего проекта... Он сел за стол, взял в руки перо и... вступил на тернистый путь авторства.
The morning was quiet, bright, frosty... The rooms were warm, snug... On the table stood a glass of tea, faintly steaming... No one was knocking, no one shouting, no one pestering him with talk... Excellent conditions for writing! Take up the pen and away you go!
Утро было тихое, светлое, морозное... В комнатах было тепло, уютно... На столе стоял стакан чая и слегка дымил... Не стучали, не кричали, не лезли с разговорами... Отлично писать при такой обстановке! Бери перо в руки да и валяй себе!
The director had no need to think long before he began... Everything had long since been thought out from start to finish in his head: he had only to copy it from his brain onto the paper!
Директору не нужно было много думать, чтобы начать... В голове у него давно уже было всё начато и окончено: знай себе списывай с мозгов на бумагу!
He frowned, pressed his lips together, drew in a breath, and wrote the title: "A Few Words in Defense of the Press." The director loved the press. He was devoted to it with his whole soul, his whole heart, and all his thoughts. To write a word in its defense, to say that word loudly, for all to hear, had been his dearest dream for twenty years! He owed it a great deal: his development, the exposure of abuses, his position... a great deal! He must repay it... And besides, he wanted to be an author for a day, if only that... Writers may be abused, but they are still respected... Especially by women... Hm...
Он нахмурился, стиснул губы, потянул в себя струю воздуха и написал заглавие: "Несколько слов в защиту печати". Директор любил печать. Он был предан ей всей душой, всем сердцем и всеми своими помышлениями. Написать в защиту ее свое слово, сказать это слово громко, во всеуслышание, было для него любимейшей, двадцатилетней мечтой! Он ей обязан весьма многим: своим развитием, открытием злоупотреблений, местом... многим! Нужно отблагодарить ее... Да и автором хочется побыть хоть денек... Писателей хоть и ругают, а все-таки почитают... В особенности женщины... Гм...
Having written the title, the director let out a breath and in a minute had written fourteen lines. It came out well, smoothly... He began with the press in general and, having filled half a sheet, moved on to the freedom of the press... He made demands... Protests, historical facts, quotations, maxims, reproaches, mockery came pouring out from under his sharp pen.
Написав заглавие, директор выпустил струю воздуха и в минуту написал четырнадцать строк. Хорошо вышло, гладко... Он начал вообще о печати и, исписав пол-листа, заговорил о свободе печати... Он потребовал... Протесты, исторические данные, цитаты, изречения, упреки, насмешки так и посыпались из-под его острого пера.
"We are liberals," he wrote. "Laugh at the word! Bare your teeth! But we are proud, and will go on being proud, of that name, so long as..."
"Мы либералы, – писал он. – Смейтесь над этим термином! Скальте зубы! Но мы гордимся и будем гордиться этим прозвищем, покедова..."
"The papers have come!" the footman announced...
– Газеты принесли! – доложил лакей...
At ten o’clock the director usually read the papers. This time too he did not break his habit. Setting aside his writing, he stood, stretched, stretched himself out on the couch, and took up the papers. Taking Novoye Vremya in hand, he smiled contemptuously, ran his eyes over the leader, and, without reading to the end, tossed it aside.
В десять часов директор обыкновенно читал газеты. И на этот раз он не изменил своей привычке. Оставив писание, он встал, потянулся, разлегся на кушетке и принялся за газеты. Взяв в руки "Новое время", он презрительно усмехнулся, пробежал глазами по передовой и, не дочитав до конца, бросил.
"The flower of Demidron..." he muttered. "I’ll give you what for!"
– Краса Демидрона... – проворчал он. – Я вам пррропишу!
Flinging Novoye Vremya onto the armchair, the director took up Golos. His eyes warmed with a pleasant feeling, a flush played on his cheeks. He loved Golos, and had himself once written a little for it.
Швырнув на кресло "Новое время", директор взялся за "Голос". Глазки его затеплились хорошим чувством, на щеках заиграл румянец. Он любил "Голос" и сам когда-то в него пописывал.
He read the leader and the small items... Ran through the feuilleton... The more he read, the more oily with pleasure his eyes grew. He read "Among the Papers and Journals"... Turned over to the third page...
Прочитал передовую и мелкие известия... Пробежал фельетон... Чем более он читал, тем масленистее делались его глазки. Прочитал "Среди газет и журналов"... Перевалился на третью страницу...
"Yes, yes. Just so... And I mentioned that too... True, quite true!.. Hm. And what’s this about?"
– Да, да. Так... И я об этом упомянул... Верно, совершенно верно!.. Гм. А это о чем?
The director narrowed his eyes...
Директор прищурил глаза...
"On the Z.-B.-Kh. Railway," he began to read, "the development of a rather strange project has recently been undertaken... The creator of this project is the director of the line himself, formerly..."
"На З.-Б.-Х. железной дороге, – начал он читать, – приступлено на днях к разработке одного довольно странного проекта... Творец этого проекта – сам директор дороги, бывший..."
Half an hour after reading Golos, the director, red, sweating, trembling, sat at his writing desk and wrote. He was writing an "order to the line"... In this order it was recommended that "certain" newspapers and journals no longer be subscribed to...
Через полчаса после чтения "Голоса" директор, красный, потный, дрожащий, сидел за своим письменным столом и писал. Писал он "приказ по линии"... В этом приказе рекомендовалось не выписывать "некоторых" газет и журналов...
Beside the angry director lay scraps of paper. Half an hour before, these scraps had made up "a few words in defense of the press"...
Возле сердитого директора лежали бумажные клочки. Эти клочки полчаса тому назад составляли собой "несколько слов в защиту печати"...
Sic transit gloria mundi!
Sic transit gloria mundi! Так проходит мирская слава! (лат.)

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The Zealot

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