I have not associated Anton Chekhov with short stories, only with his plays. Until now. Here is a collection of his short fiction that, for the most part to our American ears, has a familiar O’Henry ring to them. Of course, William Sydney Porter was a contemporary of Chekhov; so their constructions that have become templates for modern short-story writing might be seen as bearing similar elements.

This collection starts out wonderfully—and humorously—with the first two stories: “A Night in the Cemetery” flashes a risible twist when a terrified tippler tumbles into tombstones; and, “What You Usually Find in Novels” is Chekhov’s jocose jeremiad jabbing at his contemporary, competitive fiction writers.

Although not matching our current CSI savvy, two of Chekhov’s pieces forge elements of the detective genre: “The Swedish Match,” where overwhelming obvious clues are overridden by one small object; and, “The Drama at the Hunt,” when the actual killer is exposed through evidence provided years after an unfortunate’s trial and conviction.

Most crime yarns seemed cloaked in struggles of guilty consciences, black-out drinking, desperation in darkness, and plenty of snow—and blood. Of course, some of these non-electric, non-electronic environments might be difficult for us moderns to truly appreciate; but, that was life in century-old Russia. A few of these tales, such as “The Wallet,” conclude in a recognizable, if not implied, twist of fate.

A few of the suspense stories, however, such as “At the Cemetery,” do end in a “huh?” denouement. Conceivably some clue or specific piece of evidence has been missed in the reading; or perhaps some term has been misinterpreted in this translation by Peter Sekirin; or quite possibly there is some arcane association that was missed—perhaps a connotation hidden in a name or within a then-common but now-obsolete object, ritual, or cultural aspect. Whatever the bases of misunderstanding, these fictions carry meaning and yet they seem to end in medias res. They’re not cliff-hangers; just puzzles. These fictions might be literary equivalents to matryoshka dolls (those Russian nesting dolls) or to Kholuy miniatures (iconic paper maché boxes).

This book is a pleasurable visit with a 19th Century Russian doctor turned pioneering writer of early 20th Century fiction. If we strip away our modern sleuthing arrogance, we should be able to enjoy this Uncle Vanya relating his novel, avuncular stories in the front parlor. Cigars are a must; vodka is optional.