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I have two different translations of Chekhov's July 1883 story The Death of a Clerk: one in the collection Stories, by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky [P&V], and the other in the collection Forty Stories, by Robert Payne. I prefer the former, but I'll be sharing excerpts from each. Preference aside, as I always tell people, I try to read as many translations of my favorite works as possible—especially when it comes to Russian literature. That's the only way to gain as complete an understanding of the text in question as possible, if you cannot read it in the original language. I take issue with the often simple-minded affirmation of one translator over the other(s). Aside from the general point about needing to read many translations rather than a single one, which is always bound to be inadequate, I have always found that, at most, I prefer parts of one translation over others; it is very rare for one translation to be superior at every single point over the course of an entire novel or story collection. And the only way that you'll know, in any case, is through (systematic) comparison.
This, I realize, is beyond the time and energy constraints of most people. I do still think that you can say something like, "On the whole, I prefer this translation (or, even more generally, this translator)"—as long as this is understood with the proper qualifications. For the purpose of introducing a new reader to a particular work or author, it can be valuable to recommend the most 'accessible' translation. However, let that be as it may for now.
On to the story. It's a very short piece (around 3 pages) and involves a minor government clerk named Ivan Dmitrich Cherviakov ('Cherviakov' is derived from the Russian word for 'worm'). Cherviakov is at the opera one day, when he suddenly finds himself needing to sneeze. He sneezes—after all, it's only natural. We all need to sneeze sometimes. To his shock, however, he realizes that the man in the row in front of him is not only wiping the spatter from his bald head, but is also a general. Thankfully, he is not a general from Cherviakov's department—but, all the same, he is a general. Dismayed that he has 'sprayed' him, Cherviakov immediately goes over to the general to apologize and assure him that it was an accident. The general brushes off the incident, insists that he has already forgotten it, and finally becomes annoyed at the interruption. Cherviakov, returning to his seat, unable any longer to enjoy the opera, reflects that there was 'malice' [P&V] or 'meanness' [Payne] in the general's eyes. He has to apologize, he keeps thinking. Later, when he returns home and tells his wife, she brushes off the incident when she is reassured that the general was not one of Cherviakov's superiors. Nevertheless, she agrees that it would be best to apologize (again). So, the following day, Cherviakov puts on a clean uniform and goes over to the general's office. Waiting in line with a group of petitioners to the general, his turn finally comes up. He mutters his apology, but the general shoos him off again. When Cherviakov persists, the general 'snaps' [Payne] at him, dismissing altogether 'such trifles' [P&V] / 'balderdash' [Payne]! When Cherviakov follows the general to his room a little later, having been unable to tear himself away, the general finally turns on him with the words 'you must be joking' [P&V] / 'you're making fun of me' [Payne], and either disappears behind the door [P&V] or shuts it in Cherviakov face [Payne]. Cherviakov, defiant now, decides to write a letter to the general. But he cannot seem to find the words. Unable to let the matter rest, he returns to the general's office the next day. He tries to explain his position and to apologize again, to convince the general that he would never dare to joke/make fun of His Excellency, only to be 'roared' [Payne] / 'barked' [P&V] at by the livid general, who yells at him to get out while 'getting blue and shaking' [Payne] / 'stamping his foot' [P&V]. Then something in Cherviakov snaps. He goes home in a daze, mechanically, and, without taking off his uniform, he lies down on his sofa and dies.
The story is funny and sad. Depending on how much sympathy you have for Cherviakov, and on your feelings about the incident itself, you'll probably incline more toward one or the other. I find it more sad than funny. The ending may seem exaggerated. Why would the humble clerk die? I think that this response (that it is far-fetched) derives from not seeing the humiliation in question as severe enough. If we substitute sneezing on the clerk with something more socially damning, then perhaps the clerk dying over the experience might begin to seem less fanciful. In fact, if you follow the news, you will encounter a harrowing story every now and then of someone taking their own life after suffering some form of humiliation. This raises another question about the clerk: did he 'simply' die (a heart attack seems the most likely option), or did he commit suicide? The death might just be metaphorical: the clerk did not actually die, but he died emotionally, spiritually, socially—after realizing that there was nothing he could do to 'properly' apologize without making a further fool of himself, without further infuriating the general and making the general look upon him even less favorably.
“There is only one real misfortune: to forfeit one’s own good opinion of oneself. To have lost one’s self-respect: that is what unhappiness is. Oh, I have always known that so well! Everything else is part of the game, an enrichment of one’s life; in every other form of suffering one can feel such extraordinary self-satisfaction, one can cut such a fine figure. Only when one has fallen out with oneself and no longer suffers with a good conscience, only in the throes of stricken vanity - only then does one become a pitiful and repulsive spectacle.”
The story is meant as satire. Surely, one of the readings is that the clerk's death is an exaggerated, unnecessary response to such an incident. There is an impressive list of petty/little/minor clerks in Russian literature who are invariably ridiculous, fussy, sycophantic, sniveling characters upon whom not only their superiors look down, but also, it seems, their creators. In late 19th century Petersburg and Moscow, these were apparently a class—and, subsequently, immortalized in literature, a type. The fastidious, finicky ways of this type of bureaucrat, so anxiously concerned with their social standing, is surely ripe for satire (although it should be noted that the generals are not exempt from this, either). I am not that interested in seeing the clerks and their ilk as a class, although it is fascinating to draw a parallel to today, for instance to work by Guy Standing about the 'precariat class' (a blend of 'precarious' and 'proletariat')—a group of people affected by 'precarity', an existential condition of precariousness, of lacking predictability or security, which has negative effects on material and/or psychological wellbeing. I won't develop this idea any further here.
I am more interested in the psychological dynamic of the story. We sometimes behave in ways that we come to regret. Even if the effects of our behavior were unintentional, the outcome can be humiliating/embarrassing/regrettable/lamentable. Our behavior may only concern a single other person directly, but it is rare that the effects remain (are contained, so to speak) with that person—there are social consequences, matters of reputation, social standing, and so on. If news about what we have done is spread to others, this is often what is really bad, where the real fear lies. The only way to control the incident may be to apologize to the person in question. Perhaps even to beg them. However, an apology may not be enough. Neither might begging be. We can apologize and plead all we want, but unless our apology is accepted, and—crucially—accepted in way that is acceptable to us (no mere words, with perceptible meanness in the other's eyes, but actual really-real acceptance with some kind of assurance), we are stuck. The way out through the other person is cut off. This is where torment lies—and power.
Society, social opinion, is too vast and too unpredictable. Too fickle. The only remaining way out, if not through the mercy of the other(s), is through ourselves. We can shrug it off, try to forget, convince ourselves that whatever happened wasn't such a big deal, that it didn't/doesn't matter after all. We can try to turn the miserable experience intro something productive—through sublimation, for instance, one of Freud's proposed defense mechanisms. There are other available defense mechanisms. Repression, projection, and so on. Some people are very good at all this. Some people do bad things and consistently take themselves out of what they have done. For most of us, who have done some small bad things over the span of our lives, the bad feelings that we have (had) about what we have done (have) come to partly create who we are. We sometimes become better people through wanting to be better, through realizing we have done something we didn't really want to do. Of course, humiliation over an accident is not something that we can use to improve ourselves. There is no lesson in sheer humiliation—whether it be real or imagined, immediate or through expectations projected into the future. Other than, perhaps, to be more careful in the future (but note that we can never be careful enough to cover all possible incidents).
Cherviakov couldn't find a way out. Perhaps what it comes down to, in the end, is self-forgiveness. For some people, this is harder to do than to forgive others.
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You can find the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation of Chekhov’s stories here (if you’re going to get one collection of his stories, I recommend this one). The Payne translation (also valuable) can be found here.
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