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Later Short Stories, 1888-1903
"Chekhov is one of the few indispensable writers," said Susan Sontag. "His stories, which deluge us with feeling, make feeling more intelligent; more magnanimous. He is an artist of our moral maturity."
This volume presents forty-two of Chekhov's later short stories, written between 1888 and 1903, in acclaimed translations by Constance Garnett and chosen by Shelby Foote. Among the most outstanding are "A Dreary Story," a dispassionate tale that reflects Chekhov's doubts about his role as an artist. Thomas Mann deemed it "a truly extraordinary, fascinating story . . . unlike anything else in world literature." "The Darling," a delightful work highly admired by Tolstoy, offers comic proof that life has no meaning without love. And in "The Lady with the Dog," which Vladimir Nabokov called "one of the greatest stories ever written," a chance affair takes possession of a bored young woman and a cynical roué, changing their lives forever. Also included in this collection are the famous trilogy, "The Man in a Case," "Gooseberries," and "About Love," as well as "Sleepy," "The Horse-Stealers," and "Betrothed."
"The greatest of Chekhov's stories are, no matter how many times reread, always an experience that strikes deep into the soul and produces an alteration there," wrote William Maxwell. "As for those masterpieces 'The Lady with the Dog,' 'The Horse-Stealers,' 'Sleepy,' 'Gooseberries,' 'About Love'—where else do you see so clearly the difference between light and dark, or how dark darkness can be?"
Shelby Foote has provided an Introduction for this edition.
This volume presents forty-two of Chekhov's later short stories, written between 1888 and 1903, in acclaimed translations by Constance Garnett and chosen by Shelby Foote. Among the most outstanding are "A Dreary Story," a dispassionate tale that reflects Chekhov's doubts about his role as an artist. Thomas Mann deemed it "a truly extraordinary, fascinating story . . . unlike anything else in world literature." "The Darling," a delightful work highly admired by Tolstoy, offers comic proof that life has no meaning without love. And in "The Lady with the Dog," which Vladimir Nabokov called "one of the greatest stories ever written," a chance affair takes possession of a bored young woman and a cynical roué, changing their lives forever. Also included in this collection are the famous trilogy, "The Man in a Case," "Gooseberries," and "About Love," as well as "Sleepy," "The Horse-Stealers," and "Betrothed."
"The greatest of Chekhov's stories are, no matter how many times reread, always an experience that strikes deep into the soul and produces an alteration there," wrote William Maxwell. "As for those masterpieces 'The Lady with the Dog,' 'The Horse-Stealers,' 'Sleepy,' 'Gooseberries,' 'About Love'—where else do you see so clearly the difference between light and dark, or how dark darkness can be?"
Shelby Foote has provided an Introduction for this edition.
628 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1999
11 people are currently reading
155 people want to read
About the author
Anton Chekhov
6,000 books9,820 followers
Antón Chéjov
(Spanish)
Dramas, such as The Seagull (1896, revised 1898), and including "A Dreary Story" (1889) of Russian writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, also Chekov, concern the inability of humans to communicate.
Born ( Антон Павлович Чехов ) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda , first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular Mór Jókai. People also mocked ideological optimism of Jókai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party , his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon , play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against [a:Alfred Dreyfu
Dramas, such as The Seagull (1896, revised 1898), and including "A Dreary Story" (1889) of Russian writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, also Chekov, concern the inability of humans to communicate.
Born ( Антон Павлович Чехов ) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda , first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular Mór Jókai. People also mocked ideological optimism of Jókai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party , his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon , play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against [a:Alfred Dreyfu
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April 2, 2021
One of the interesting characteristics of Chekhov’s stories is their performative or diaristic quality. He wrote most of his pieces within a few days and sent them off for publication with minimal review, so they were about as close to a “live event” as literature can be. As such, many of them are structured around momentary states of mind and trains of thought; the little observations that occur to you when you’re in the shower, driving in your car, or just about to fall asleep. Chekhov was able to sketch out these fleeting sensations in the form of fictional narratives, and the result is an intriguing body of work that somehow functions as autobiography even though it consists entirely of imaginary (and sometimes fantastic) tales.
“The Beauties” poses questions that most men have considered before: how can two women who look nothing alike both be beautiful? How can a woman who has the “wrong” features be all the more attractive to us precisely because of those features? Why does seeing a beautiful person sometimes stir up melancholy feelings?
“The Shoemaker and the Devil” is about our tendency to assume that the lives of the people we envy are better than our own, when in truth most lives are more appealing in the observing than in the living. The possessions of others, which would seem to us to be sources of happiness and fulfillment, are often seen by the possessor as sources of stress and anxiety; so the best course for everyone is to cultivate his own garden, set aside the impulse to compare himself to others, and be grateful for what he has.
“The Bet” is my favorite story from the collection. A wealthy banker and a young man of twenty-five get into an argument about the death penalty and life imprisonment. The banker believes that capital punishment is the more humane option, while the young man maintains that he would rather serve a life sentence than face execution. The two agree to a bet: the young man will try to spend the next fifteen years in an isolated room on the banker’s estate with no human contact. If he makes it through the entire fifteen years, the banker will pay him “two millions”. The ending is strikingly bleak; Chekhov must have been in quite a mood when he wrote it.
“The Princess” is a tragicomic reflection on the persistence of vanity.
Two of the strongest and most considered works are “A Dreary Story” and “The Lady with the Dog”; the former about a dying medical school professor and his sense of alienation and aloofness from his family and his work (based on Chekhov’s own brother), and the latter about an affair between two married people and the relationship between our “public” selves and our “real” ones.
Chekhov’s stories are a great companion. You can dip into them whenever you like, and the experience is usually a pleasant one. His prose is accessible and sensibly foreign to garishness, and his stories are mature and guileless.
“The Beauties” poses questions that most men have considered before: how can two women who look nothing alike both be beautiful? How can a woman who has the “wrong” features be all the more attractive to us precisely because of those features? Why does seeing a beautiful person sometimes stir up melancholy feelings?
“The Shoemaker and the Devil” is about our tendency to assume that the lives of the people we envy are better than our own, when in truth most lives are more appealing in the observing than in the living. The possessions of others, which would seem to us to be sources of happiness and fulfillment, are often seen by the possessor as sources of stress and anxiety; so the best course for everyone is to cultivate his own garden, set aside the impulse to compare himself to others, and be grateful for what he has.
“The Bet” is my favorite story from the collection. A wealthy banker and a young man of twenty-five get into an argument about the death penalty and life imprisonment. The banker believes that capital punishment is the more humane option, while the young man maintains that he would rather serve a life sentence than face execution. The two agree to a bet: the young man will try to spend the next fifteen years in an isolated room on the banker’s estate with no human contact. If he makes it through the entire fifteen years, the banker will pay him “two millions”. The ending is strikingly bleak; Chekhov must have been in quite a mood when he wrote it.
“The Princess” is a tragicomic reflection on the persistence of vanity.
Two of the strongest and most considered works are “A Dreary Story” and “The Lady with the Dog”; the former about a dying medical school professor and his sense of alienation and aloofness from his family and his work (based on Chekhov’s own brother), and the latter about an affair between two married people and the relationship between our “public” selves and our “real” ones.
Chekhov’s stories are a great companion. You can dip into them whenever you like, and the experience is usually a pleasant one. His prose is accessible and sensibly foreign to garishness, and his stories are mature and guileless.
December 20, 2018
I returned Tuesday night from a business trip to San Francisco. My employer believes I was there to take part in two brief meetings on two separate days, which I did; but I personally believe that, sub specie aeternitatis, I was there to have a conversation with a taxi driver.
There are only two things I like about business travel. The first is the chance to read undisturbed. I begin thinking about what book to bring a week before. I read on the airplane and return each day to my hotel at the earliest possible hour so that I can read. This time I brought along Chekhov’s Later Short Stories 1888-1903, the Modern Library edition.
The second thing I like is to walk in new places. For a business dinner on Monday evening, I walked from my hotel in South Beach to Café Zoetrope, owned by Francis Ford Coppola, which occupies the ground floor of the wedge-shaped Sentinel Building, one of the few structures to survive the 1906 earthquake.
Walking through downtown San Francisco you find what you might in any big city: crowds and cars, sirens and lights, glass-clad skyscrapers and alleys that stink of urine. But Monday evening added: the jargon-laced banter of tech workers at happy hour, a plaque commemorating the site of Jack London’s birthplace, the odors of fish sauce and herbal medicine shops in Chinatown, children singing Christmas carols on Columbus Avenue.
Tuesday afternoon I hired a taxi to take me to the airport. I prefer taxis to Uber or Lyft cars, which make me feel like I’m sitting in a stranger’s living room. My driver was a young man from east Africa, maybe thirty years old, with closely trimmed hair and beard. His radio was tuned to the local classical music station (Schubert was playing) and I asked whether he enjoyed it or simply listened to it for his riders.
He himself was not a musician, he said apologetically. But he had listened to classical music in his cab for seven years. “At first,” he said, “I did not understand it.” But he discovered that when listening to it he drove less aggressively and was happier. It helped him to notice things, “like clouds, and colors and birds,” and to think about his life. “Now, he said, “I understand.”
I can’t very well describe the feeling I had at this reply. I want to say that it opened a door in the sky above my head – a door I didn’t know was there and didn’t know had been closed. It was something like the feeling I get when reading, and re-reading, “The Beauties.”
There are only two things I like about business travel. The first is the chance to read undisturbed. I begin thinking about what book to bring a week before. I read on the airplane and return each day to my hotel at the earliest possible hour so that I can read. This time I brought along Chekhov’s Later Short Stories 1888-1903, the Modern Library edition.
The second thing I like is to walk in new places. For a business dinner on Monday evening, I walked from my hotel in South Beach to Café Zoetrope, owned by Francis Ford Coppola, which occupies the ground floor of the wedge-shaped Sentinel Building, one of the few structures to survive the 1906 earthquake.
Walking through downtown San Francisco you find what you might in any big city: crowds and cars, sirens and lights, glass-clad skyscrapers and alleys that stink of urine. But Monday evening added: the jargon-laced banter of tech workers at happy hour, a plaque commemorating the site of Jack London’s birthplace, the odors of fish sauce and herbal medicine shops in Chinatown, children singing Christmas carols on Columbus Avenue.
Tuesday afternoon I hired a taxi to take me to the airport. I prefer taxis to Uber or Lyft cars, which make me feel like I’m sitting in a stranger’s living room. My driver was a young man from east Africa, maybe thirty years old, with closely trimmed hair and beard. His radio was tuned to the local classical music station (Schubert was playing) and I asked whether he enjoyed it or simply listened to it for his riders.
He himself was not a musician, he said apologetically. But he had listened to classical music in his cab for seven years. “At first,” he said, “I did not understand it.” But he discovered that when listening to it he drove less aggressively and was happier. It helped him to notice things, “like clouds, and colors and birds,” and to think about his life. “Now, he said, “I understand.”
I can’t very well describe the feeling I had at this reply. I want to say that it opened a door in the sky above my head – a door I didn’t know was there and didn’t know had been closed. It was something like the feeling I get when reading, and re-reading, “The Beauties.”
May 5, 2010
I put down the later short stories many times to ruminate on what I'd just digested; my hunger for Chekhov it seems strange to flip through the pages over a long span of time like perusing the newspaper when these are so involved stories of peasantry life. There are few generalities and I noticed little interfering. He affirms the harsh treatment of mankind on ourselves. There is love, but is there really? His crudeness is an eye-opener. He's a far cry from crude. If that is the only thing I took away from his prose then it was not a loss. I'd say he exposes the reader more than impresses. The style is very impressionistic and the plastic arts melt with the sciences with music and the flesh. He dissects existence with a humor, no pun intended on the humorous, and gets at the bare bones. I'd like to see anyone do better.
The author did not seem to me ready to go out on stage and make demands of his actors. The people speak for themselves. He's not alone in this, as the years unfolded new writers who expressed themselves in a very impressionist style. The style's not really the thing. It is a natural component of the direct process of events. It's a chain of strands like amino acids that provide a DNA.
I had a clear head approaching the prose and my mind's never clearer than when reading a Chekhov story. In life there are few things for certain. The writer puts on a cap and exposes those for the reading public to get at them when in life, it is never so easy. He's shifted my view in the later short stories from the quiet soul looking on to the person in the fray.
The author did not seem to me ready to go out on stage and make demands of his actors. The people speak for themselves. He's not alone in this, as the years unfolded new writers who expressed themselves in a very impressionist style. The style's not really the thing. It is a natural component of the direct process of events. It's a chain of strands like amino acids that provide a DNA.
I had a clear head approaching the prose and my mind's never clearer than when reading a Chekhov story. In life there are few things for certain. The writer puts on a cap and exposes those for the reading public to get at them when in life, it is never so easy. He's shifted my view in the later short stories from the quiet soul looking on to the person in the fray.
Want to read
December 7, 2021Read so far:
1888
Sleepy (aka Let me sleep; Спать хочется)--3
The beauties (Красавицы)--
*The party (aka The name-day party; Именины)--
The shoemaker and the devil (Сапожник и нечистая сила)--
1889
The bet (Пари)--2
A nervous breakdown (aka An attack of nerves; Припадок)--
The princess (Княгиня)--
1890
The horse-stealers (aka Horse thieves; Воры)--
*Gusev (Гусев)--
1891
Peasant wives (aka Peasant women; Бабы)--
1892
*The grasshopper (aka The fidget, The butterfly; Попрыгунья)--
After the theatre (После театра)--2
*In exile (В ссылке)--
Neighbours (Палата № 6)--
Terror (Страх)--
*The helpmate (aka His wife; Супруга)--
***
*Ward No. 6 (Палата № 6)--
1893
The two Volodyas (Володя большой и Володя маленький)--
***
An anonymous story (aka The story of an unknown man; Рассказ неивестного человека)--3
1894
*Rothschild's fiddle (Скрипка Ротшильда)--
The student (Студент)--2
The teacher of literature (aka The Russian teacher; Учитель словесности)--
At the country house (В усадьбе)--
The head-gardener's story (Рассказ старшего садовинка)--3
Whitebrow (aka The patch; Белолoбый)--
***
*The black monk (Чёрный монах)--
1895
*"Anna on the neck" (aka The order of St. Anne; Анна на шее)--
Ariadne (Ариадна)--
***
*Murder (Убийство)--
1896
An artist's story (aka The house with the mezzanine; Дом с мезонином)--
1897
The Petchenyeg (aka The savage; Печенег)--
*At home (В родном углу)--
The schoolmistress (aka In the cart; На подводе)--3
1898
*The man in a case (aka A hard case, The encased man, The man in a shell; Человек в футляре)--
Gooseberries (Крыжовник)--3
About love (О любви)--2
Ionitch (aka Dr. Startsev; Ионыч)--
A doctor's visit (aka A medical case, A case history; Случай из практики)--
*A dreary story (aka A boring story; Скучная история)--
1899
The darling (Душечка)--3
The new villa (Новая дача)--3
*On official duty (aka On official business; По делам службы)--
The lady with the dog (Дама с собачкой)--3
1900
At Christmas time (На святках)--
***
*In the ravine (В овраге)--
1902
*The bishop (Архиерей)--
1903
*Betrothed (aka The fiancee, A marriageable girl; Невеста)--
1888
Sleepy (aka Let me sleep; Спать хочется)--3
The beauties (Красавицы)--
*The party (aka The name-day party; Именины)--
The shoemaker and the devil (Сапожник и нечистая сила)--
1889
The bet (Пари)--2
A nervous breakdown (aka An attack of nerves; Припадок)--
The princess (Княгиня)--
1890
The horse-stealers (aka Horse thieves; Воры)--
*Gusev (Гусев)--
1891
Peasant wives (aka Peasant women; Бабы)--
1892
*The grasshopper (aka The fidget, The butterfly; Попрыгунья)--
After the theatre (После театра)--2
*In exile (В ссылке)--
Neighbours (Палата № 6)--
Terror (Страх)--
*The helpmate (aka His wife; Супруга)--
***
*Ward No. 6 (Палата № 6)--
1893
The two Volodyas (Володя большой и Володя маленький)--
***
An anonymous story (aka The story of an unknown man; Рассказ неивестного человека)--3
1894
*Rothschild's fiddle (Скрипка Ротшильда)--
The student (Студент)--2
The teacher of literature (aka The Russian teacher; Учитель словесности)--
At the country house (В усадьбе)--
The head-gardener's story (Рассказ старшего садовинка)--3
Whitebrow (aka The patch; Белолoбый)--
***
*The black monk (Чёрный монах)--
1895
*"Anna on the neck" (aka The order of St. Anne; Анна на шее)--
Ariadne (Ариадна)--
***
*Murder (Убийство)--
1896
An artist's story (aka The house with the mezzanine; Дом с мезонином)--
1897
The Petchenyeg (aka The savage; Печенег)--
*At home (В родном углу)--
The schoolmistress (aka In the cart; На подводе)--3
1898
*The man in a case (aka A hard case, The encased man, The man in a shell; Человек в футляре)--
Gooseberries (Крыжовник)--3
About love (О любви)--2
Ionitch (aka Dr. Startsev; Ионыч)--
A doctor's visit (aka A medical case, A case history; Случай из практики)--
*A dreary story (aka A boring story; Скучная история)--
1899
The darling (Душечка)--3
The new villa (Новая дача)--3
*On official duty (aka On official business; По делам службы)--
The lady with the dog (Дама с собачкой)--3
1900
At Christmas time (На святках)--
***
*In the ravine (В овраге)--
1902
*The bishop (Архиерей)--
1903
*Betrothed (aka The fiancee, A marriageable girl; Невеста)--
February 15, 2011
“The Beauties” (trans. By Constance Garnett)
An artist would have called the Armenian girl's beauty classical and severe, it was just that beauty, the contemplation of which—God knows why!—inspires in one the conviction that one is seeing correct features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, bosom, and every movement of the young body all go together in one complete harmonious accord in which nature has not blundered over the smallest line. […] I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor ecstasy, nor enjoyment that Masha excited in me, but a painful though pleasant sadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined as a dream. For some reason I felt sorry for myself, for my grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the girl herself, and I had a feeling as though we all four had lost something important and essential to life which we should never find again.
“A Dreary Story: From the Notebook of an Old Man” (trans. By Constance Garnett)
I gaze at my wife and wonder like a child. I ask myself in perplexity, is it possible that this old, very stout, ungainly woman, with her dull expression of petty anxiety and alarm about daily bread, with eyes dimmed by continual brooding over debts and money difficulties, who can talk of nothing but expenses and who smiles at nothing but things getting cheaper—is It possible that this woman is no other than the slender Varya whom I fell in love with so passionately for her fine, clear intelligence, for her pure soul, her beauty, and, as Othello his Desdemona, for her “sympathy” for my studies? Could that woman be no other than the Varya who had once borne me a son?
I look with strained attention into the face of this flabby, spiritless, clumsy old woman, seeking in her my Varya, but of her past self nothing is left but her anxiety over my health and her manner of calling my salary “our salary” and my cap “our cap.” It is painful for me to look at her, and, to give her what little comfort I can, I let her say what she likes, and say nothing even when she passes unjust criticisms on other people or pitches into me for not having a private practice or not publishing text-books.
At midday I get up and from habit sit down at my table, but I do not work now; I amuse myself with French books in yellow covers, sent me by Katya. Of course, it would be more patriotic to read Russian authors, but I must confess I cherish no particular liking for them. With the exception of two or three of the older writers, all of our literature of today strikes me as not being literature, but a special sort of home industry, which exists simply in order to be encouraged, though people do not readily make use of its products. The very best of these home products cannot be called remarkable and cannot be sincerely praised without qualification. I must say the same of all the literary novelties I have read during the last ten or fifteen years; not one of them is remarkable, and not one of them can be praised without a “but.”
They say philosophers and the truly wise are indifferent. It is false: indifference is the paralysis of the soul; it is premature death.
“The Lady with the Dog” (trans by Constance Garnett)
At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings—the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky—Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence.
What savage manners, what people! What senseless nights, what uninteresting, uneventful days! The rage for card-playing, the gluttony, the drunkenness, the continual talk always about the same thing. Useless pursuits and conversations always about the same things absorb the better part of one's time, the better part of one's strength, and in the end there is left a life grovelling and curtailed, worthless and trivial, and there is no escaping or getting away from it—just as though one were in a madhouse or a prison.
[Gurov] had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret. And through some strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal the truth […,] all that was open. And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night. All personal life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account that civilized man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy should be respected.
An artist would have called the Armenian girl's beauty classical and severe, it was just that beauty, the contemplation of which—God knows why!—inspires in one the conviction that one is seeing correct features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, bosom, and every movement of the young body all go together in one complete harmonious accord in which nature has not blundered over the smallest line. […] I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor ecstasy, nor enjoyment that Masha excited in me, but a painful though pleasant sadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined as a dream. For some reason I felt sorry for myself, for my grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the girl herself, and I had a feeling as though we all four had lost something important and essential to life which we should never find again.
“A Dreary Story: From the Notebook of an Old Man” (trans. By Constance Garnett)
I gaze at my wife and wonder like a child. I ask myself in perplexity, is it possible that this old, very stout, ungainly woman, with her dull expression of petty anxiety and alarm about daily bread, with eyes dimmed by continual brooding over debts and money difficulties, who can talk of nothing but expenses and who smiles at nothing but things getting cheaper—is It possible that this woman is no other than the slender Varya whom I fell in love with so passionately for her fine, clear intelligence, for her pure soul, her beauty, and, as Othello his Desdemona, for her “sympathy” for my studies? Could that woman be no other than the Varya who had once borne me a son?
I look with strained attention into the face of this flabby, spiritless, clumsy old woman, seeking in her my Varya, but of her past self nothing is left but her anxiety over my health and her manner of calling my salary “our salary” and my cap “our cap.” It is painful for me to look at her, and, to give her what little comfort I can, I let her say what she likes, and say nothing even when she passes unjust criticisms on other people or pitches into me for not having a private practice or not publishing text-books.
At midday I get up and from habit sit down at my table, but I do not work now; I amuse myself with French books in yellow covers, sent me by Katya. Of course, it would be more patriotic to read Russian authors, but I must confess I cherish no particular liking for them. With the exception of two or three of the older writers, all of our literature of today strikes me as not being literature, but a special sort of home industry, which exists simply in order to be encouraged, though people do not readily make use of its products. The very best of these home products cannot be called remarkable and cannot be sincerely praised without qualification. I must say the same of all the literary novelties I have read during the last ten or fifteen years; not one of them is remarkable, and not one of them can be praised without a “but.”
They say philosophers and the truly wise are indifferent. It is false: indifference is the paralysis of the soul; it is premature death.
“The Lady with the Dog” (trans by Constance Garnett)
At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings—the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky—Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence.
What savage manners, what people! What senseless nights, what uninteresting, uneventful days! The rage for card-playing, the gluttony, the drunkenness, the continual talk always about the same thing. Useless pursuits and conversations always about the same things absorb the better part of one's time, the better part of one's strength, and in the end there is left a life grovelling and curtailed, worthless and trivial, and there is no escaping or getting away from it—just as though one were in a madhouse or a prison.
[Gurov] had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret. And through some strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal the truth […,] all that was open. And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night. All personal life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account that civilized man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy should be respected.
August 18, 2019
I actually looked up this book because of one of Chekhov's short stories in the ACT test prep book I use at my tutoring center. All of the stories in the reading section of the ACT are excerts or shortened versions from real written works. "The Bet" was a passage I read with a student and we were intrigued by it's core debate: the death penalty vs life in prison. After reading it with my student, I came home to look up the full story. I came across it in this collection of Chekhov's stories and decided to rent it. I was intrigued to find out how this story ends as being written in the late 1800's it is still a debate we have today.
Overall I found interest in only the first few stories listed under his 1888-1890 works. The others I found myself simply skimming through. His use of names gives away his Russian culture for sure.
Overall I found interest in only the first few stories listed under his 1888-1890 works. The others I found myself simply skimming through. His use of names gives away his Russian culture for sure.
January 7, 2014
The only reason this doesn't have 5 stars is the translation, by Constance Garnett. I loved Garnett in high school, when I really wanted to know the words "prolix" and "pusillanimus." I give her the credit for my GRE score, but now she feels all lofty and latinate and far away from the gut-thunk of Chekhov's stories.
And these are the best gut-thunking stories.
In this book most people live fairly miserable lives. Some of them are very poor and oppressed. Some -- the worst of all -- are well-off and satisfied with themselves, seeing nothing wrong. And then there are the characters who have comfort sitting around them but are all the same haunted by the suffering that makes their lives possible. These are the ones with nervous break-downs and restless nights and bad dreams. These are the ones who won't leave you in peace.
Chekhov was a doctor, and knew it was important not to give a false hope of recovery. The diagnosis is bad, and you won't be getting better anytime soon. Of course, all the same, there are these lakes at night and a few good-hearted and right-thinking people. His prescription feels like the Kafka line: "Plenty of hope -- no end of hope -- only not for us."
I found myself wanting to call up Chekhov like a confidant, because he already understands everything. Of course, he wouldn't have any advice on stopping the grief, not even so much as a there-there and a back pat. Just the knowing eyes behind his pince-nez: this is how life is, and if it will ever get better that will be in a long, long time.
"Pyotr Mihalitch rode along the bank of the pond and looked mournfully into the water. And thinking about his life, he came to the conclusion he had never said or acted upon what he really thought, and other people had repaid him in the same way. And so the whole of life seemed to him as dark as this water in which the night sky was reflected and water-weeds grew in a tangle. And it seemed to him that nothing could ever set it right."
--from "Neighbours"
And these are the best gut-thunking stories.
In this book most people live fairly miserable lives. Some of them are very poor and oppressed. Some -- the worst of all -- are well-off and satisfied with themselves, seeing nothing wrong. And then there are the characters who have comfort sitting around them but are all the same haunted by the suffering that makes their lives possible. These are the ones with nervous break-downs and restless nights and bad dreams. These are the ones who won't leave you in peace.
Chekhov was a doctor, and knew it was important not to give a false hope of recovery. The diagnosis is bad, and you won't be getting better anytime soon. Of course, all the same, there are these lakes at night and a few good-hearted and right-thinking people. His prescription feels like the Kafka line: "Plenty of hope -- no end of hope -- only not for us."
I found myself wanting to call up Chekhov like a confidant, because he already understands everything. Of course, he wouldn't have any advice on stopping the grief, not even so much as a there-there and a back pat. Just the knowing eyes behind his pince-nez: this is how life is, and if it will ever get better that will be in a long, long time.
"Pyotr Mihalitch rode along the bank of the pond and looked mournfully into the water. And thinking about his life, he came to the conclusion he had never said or acted upon what he really thought, and other people had repaid him in the same way. And so the whole of life seemed to him as dark as this water in which the night sky was reflected and water-weeds grew in a tangle. And it seemed to him that nothing could ever set it right."
--from "Neighbours"
February 27, 2015
First, I need to make a short retrospective for all my experience with classical russian lit. So this is how it goes:
- Tolstoy is (by a mile) its patriarch
- Gogol team up with Leskov for the originality of language, their playful blend of fantasy/humor and grotesque in day to day life of people
- Dostoyevsky's prose is better suited now for the formative years of youth (15+ of age)
- Turgenev is the most lyrical and methodical of all - a Russian Flaubert. Also has the most comprehensive approach on the subject of love.
Now, the last of this gold generation, Chekhov, is also the only 'total writer' of them all. His prose contains everything you ever really needed to know and then some more. Please find all his works in a good translation and read them, for it will be hard to reach a more rewarding experience
- Tolstoy is (by a mile) its patriarch
- Gogol team up with Leskov for the originality of language, their playful blend of fantasy/humor and grotesque in day to day life of people
- Dostoyevsky's prose is better suited now for the formative years of youth (15+ of age)
- Turgenev is the most lyrical and methodical of all - a Russian Flaubert. Also has the most comprehensive approach on the subject of love.
Now, the last of this gold generation, Chekhov, is also the only 'total writer' of them all. His prose contains everything you ever really needed to know and then some more. Please find all his works in a good translation and read them, for it will be hard to reach a more rewarding experience
August 10, 2015
What I find remarkable about Chekhov is the subtlety and emotion he created out of such simple language. This collection displays stories written with the absolutism and finality of the immature heart yet also contains stories from a more sophisticated perspective, not particularly in any chronological order. Large tracts are grim belaboured suffering but also somehow fulfilling to a patient reader.
3-1/2*
3-1/2*
January 27, 2008
One of my favorite short story writers. Not quite light hearted, but well done nevertheless. Favorites include: "The Bet," "A Dreary Tale," "About Love," "The Lady With The Dog."
June 28, 2014
Absolutely brilliant. Highly recommended. In my opinion, he is the greatest short story writer of all time.
November 28, 2014
Still the best short story writer.
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