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    Great Stories by Chekhov
    Great Stories by Chekhov
    Great Stories by Chekhov
    Ebook291 pages6 hours

    Great Stories by Chekhov

    By Anton Chekhov

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    Regarded as the father of the short story as well as the first modern fiction writer, Anton Chekhov rejected conventional forms to examine the lives of ordinary people in prosaic situations. His impressionistic depictions of Russian life and the human condition resound with emotional honesty, focusing on character rather than plot and revealing subtle but important truths. Thomas Mann held Chekhov in highest esteem, declaring, "His short stories rank with all that is greatest and best of European literature." This compilation of seven tales attests to the timeless appeal of the Russian author's short fiction.
    Selections include "Misery," an account of a sleigh-driver's attempts to communicate his overwhelming grief; "A Father," a meditation on the conflict between rejecting a monstrous parent and giving him his respectful due; "A Problem," which proposes that criminals cannot reform unless they pay for their misdeeds; and "In Exile," an examination of whether it is better to dream of happiness or to accept a living hell. Other tales include "Ward No. 6," relating a conflict between an asylum inmate and the institution's director; "My Life: The Story of a Provincial," in which a rebellious young bourgeois joins the working classes; and "Peasants," an exposé of the dehumanizing effects of poverty.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateDec 26, 2016
    ISBN9780486818733
    Great Stories by Chekhov
    Author

    Anton Chekhov

    Anton Chekhov was born in Taganrog, in southern Russia, and in his youth paid for his own education and supported his entire family by writing short, satirical sketches of Russian life. Though he eventually became a physician and once considered medicine his principal career, he continued to gain popularity and praise as a writer for various Russian newspapers, eventually authoring more literary work and ultimately his most well-known plays, including Ivanov, The Seagull, and Uncle Vanya. He died of tuberculosis in 1904, and is regarded as one of the best short story writers in history, influencing such authors as Ernest Hemingway, Vladimir Nabokov, and Raymond Carver.

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      Great Stories by Chekhov - Anton Chekhov

      Great

      Stories by

      Chekhov

      ANTON CHEKHOV

      Translated by

      Constance Garnett

      DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.

      Mineola, New York

      Copyright

      Copyright © 2017 by Dover Publications, Inc.

      All rights reserved.

      Bibliographical Note

      Great Stories by Chekhov is a new compilation of stories by Anton Chekhov reprinted from standard editions; the translations are by Constance Garnett. A Note has been specially prepared for the Dover edition.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Names: Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860–1904, author. | Garnett, Constance, 1861–1946, translator.

      Title: Great stories by Chekhov / Anton Chekhov ; translated by Constance Garnett.

      Description: Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, Inc., 2017.

      Identifiers: LCCN 2016033264| ISBN 9780486811147 | ISBN 048681114X Classification: LCC PG3456.A13 G377 2017 | DDC 8914.73/3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016033264

      Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

      81114X012017

      www.doverpublications.com

      Note

      Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was born in 1860 in Taganrog, a provincial village in southern Russia. His father, a grocery store owner, was harsh in his treatment of his children; his mother, in contrast, told them stories gathered from her travels with her father, a cloth salesman. After the elder Chekhov’s bankruptcy, the family moved to Moscow, leaving Anton behind to continue his education. Using his earnings from tutoring and selling short pieces to newspapers, he was able to pay for his education and send money to his family, whom he joined in Moscow in 1879. There, he began medical school, continuing to write and earning enough to support his family. In the mid-1880s, Chekhov developed tuberculosis (his brother Nikolai died of the disease in 1889). He was given the opportunity to write for Novoye Vremya (New Times), a popular St. Petersburg publication, in 1886, and both his income and his reputation as a writer increased—his short story collection V Sumerkakh (At Dusk) won the Pushkin Prize in 1888.

      The previous year, 1887, ill and in a state of exhaustion, Chekhov had traveled to Ukraine, where he was inspired by the region’s beauty. That fall, he was commissioned to write a play (Ivanov), which led to his entry into and eventual mastery of the dramatic medium. In 1892, he bought an estate in the countryside south of Moscow. Here he experienced firsthand the lives of Russian peasants, many of whom he helped during cholera outbreaks; he assisted the peasants using his medical skills and also built a clinic (as well as several schools).

      In 1901, Chekhov married Olga Knipper—an actress and member of the original Moscow Art Theatre—ending his lengthy bachelorhood (to some extent: Knipper spent much of her time on the stage in Moscow). In June 1904, Anton and Olga traveled to a spa town in Germany, Badenweiler, in the hopes of improving his waning health, but Chekhov died the next month, at the age of forty-four. He was buried next to his father.

      In addition to plays such as The Cherry Orchard, Three Sisters, and Uncle Vanya—enjoyed by contemporary audiences in fresh interpretations—Anton Chekhov’s writings include a novel, The Shooting Party; novellas; and dozens of short stories. In this new Dover anthology, the seven tales selected reveal the depth of the great Russian author’s sympathy for, and exasperation with, a broad range of Russian types. From the grief-stricken sledge-driver in Misery who tries to connect with a human—any human—to share his sadness, to the villagers and their often brutish lives depicted in the troubling chronicle Peasants, Chekhov’s stories guarantee that readers will both lament the impoverished lives on view and shed a tear for their fleeting moments of joy. In A Father, a broken-down man appeals to his son for a connection of some sort; a ne’er-do-well son creates havoc for his family with his foolhardy actions in A Problem, calling into question the true meaning of family values; a doctor’s involvement with patients in a mental hospital has unforeseen consequences in Ward No. 6; a ferryman holds to the belief that low expectations in life can lead to a sort of contentment in In Exile; a son whose father views him as a failure for choosing manual labor over an intellectual career struggles to find his place in the world in My Life: The Story of a Provincial; and, in Peasants, a mix of fear and reverence toward religion, as well as outbursts of cruelty and violence, create a chaotic environment that yet may have some redeeming virtues.

      Contents

      Misery

      A Father

      A Problem

      Ward No. 6

      In Exile

      My Life: The Story of a Provincial

      Peasants

      Great

      Stories by

      Chekhov

      Misery

      To Whom Shall I Tell My Grief ?

      THE TWILIGHT of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses’ backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. . . . His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.

      It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinner-time and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.

      Sledge to Vyborgskaya! Iona hears. Sledge!

      Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.

      To Vyborgskaya, repeats the officer. Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!

      In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse’s back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets off. . . .

      Where are you shoving, you devil? Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!

      You don’t know how to drive! Keep to the right, says the officer angrily.

      A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse’s nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed, as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.

      What rascals they all are! says the officer jocosely. They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse’s feet. They must be doing it on purpose.

      Iona looks at his fare and moves his lips. . . . Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.

      What? inquires the officer.

      Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: My son . . . er . . . my son died this week, sir.

      H’m! What did he die of?

      Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:

      Who can tell! It must have been from fever. . . . He lay three days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God’s will.

      Turn round, you devil! comes out of the darkness. Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!

      Drive on! drive on! . . . says the officer. We shan’t get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!

      The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box . . . Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another. . . .

      Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their goloshes.

      Cabby, to the Police Bridge! the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. The three of us . . . twenty kopecks!

      Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare. . . . The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.

      Well, drive on, says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona’s neck. Cut along! What a cap you’ve got, my friend! You wouldn’t find a worse one in all Petersburg. . . .

      He-he! . . . he-he! . . . laughs Iona. It’s nothing to boast of!

      Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?

      My head aches, says one of the tall ones. At the Dukmasovs’ yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us.

      I can’t make out why you talk such stuff, says the other tall one angrily. You lie like a brute.

      Strike me dead, it’s the truth! . . .

      It’s about as true as that a louse coughs.

      He-he! grins Iona. Me-er-ry gentlemen!

      Tfoo! the devil take you! cries the hunchback indignantly. Will you get on, you old plague, or won’t you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well.

      Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:

      This week . . . er . . . my . . . er . . . son died!

      We shall all die. . . . says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?

      Well, you give him a little encouragement . . . one in the neck!

      Do you hear, you old plague? I’ll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don’t you care a hang what we say?

      And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.

      He-he! . . . he laughs. Merry gentlemen. . . . God give you health!

      Cabman, are you married? asks one of the tall ones.

      I? He-he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth. . . . He-ho-ho! . . . The grave that is! . . . Here my son’s dead and I am alive. . . . It’s a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door. . . . Instead of coming for me it went for my son. . . .

      And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him. . . . The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona’s eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. . . . His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona’s heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight. . . .

      Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.

      What time will it be, friend? he asks.

      Going on for ten. . . . Why have you stopped here? Drive on!

      Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins. . . . He can bear it no longer.

      Back to the yard! he thinks. To the yard!

      And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. . . .

      I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even, he thinks. That’s why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work, . . . who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease. . . .

      In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the waterbucket.

      Want a drink? Iona asks him.

      Seems so.

      May it do you good. . . . But my son is dead, mate. . . . Do you hear? This week in the hospital. . . . It’s a queer business. . . .

      Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. . . . Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet. . . . He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation. . . . He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. . . . He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son’s clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country. . . . And he wants to talk about her too. . . . Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament. . . . It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.

      Let’s go out and have a look at the mare, Iona thinks. ‘‘There is always time for sleep. . . . You’ll have sleep enough, no fear. . . ."

      He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. . . . He cannot think about his son when he is alone. . . . To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish. . . .

      Are you munching? Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. There, munch away, munch away. . . . Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. . . . Yes . . . I have grown too old to drive. . . . My son ought to be driving, not I. . . . He was a real cabman. . . . He ought to have lived. . . .

      Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

      That’s how it is, old girl. . . . Kuzma Ionitch is gone. . . . He said good-by to me. . . . He went and died for no reason. . . . Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were mother to that little colt. . . . And all at once that same little colt went and died. . . . You’d be sorry, wouldn’t you?. . .

      The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.

      A Father

      I ADMIT I have had a drop. . . . You must excuse me. I went into a beer shop on the way here, and as it was so hot had a couple of bottles. It’s hot, my boy.

      Old Musatov took a nondescript rag out of his pocket and wiped his shaven, battered face with it.

      I have come only for a minute, Borenka, my angel, he went on, not looking at his son, about something very important. Excuse me, perhaps I am hindering you. Haven’t you ten roubles, my dear, you could let me have till Tuesday? You see, I ought to have paid for my lodging yesterday, and money, you see! . . . None! Not to save my life!

      Young Musatov went out without a word, and began whispering on the other side of the door with the landlady of the summer villa and his colleagues who had taken the villa with him. Three minutes later he came back, and without a word gave his father a ten-rouble note. The latter thrust it carelessly into his pocket without looking at it, and said:

      "Merci. Well, how are you getting on? It’s a long time since we met."

      Yes, a long time, not since Easter.

      Half a dozen times I have been meaning to come to you, but I’ve never had time. First one thing, then another. . . . It’s simply awful! I am talking nonsense though. . . . All that’s nonsense. Don’t you believe me, Borenka. I said I would pay you back the ten roubles on Tuesday, don’t believe that either. Don’t believe a word I say. I have nothing to do at all, it’s simply laziness, drunkenness, and I am ashamed to be seen in such clothes in the street. You must excuse me, Borenka. Here I have sent the girl to you three times for money and written you piteous letters. Thanks for the money, but don’t believe the letters; I was telling fibs. I am ashamed to rob you, my angel; I know that you can scarcely make both ends meet yourself, and feed on locusts, but my impudence is too much for me. I am such a specimen of impudence—fit for a show! . . . You must excuse me, Borenka. I tell you the truth, because I can’t see your angel face without emotion.

      A minute passed in silence. The old man heaved a deep sigh and said:

      You might treat me to a glass of beer perhaps.

      His son went out without a word, and again there was a sound of whispering the other side of the door. When a little later the beer was brought in, the old man seemed to revive at the sight of the bottles and abruptly changed his tone.

      I was at the races the other day, my boy, he began telling him, assuming a scared expression. We are a party of three, and we pooled three roubles on Frisky. And, thanks to that Frisky, we got thirty-two roubles each for our rouble. I can’t get on without the races, my boy. It’s a gentlemanly diversion. My virago always gives me a dressing over the races, but I go. I love it, and that’s all about it.

      Boris, a fair-haired young man with a melancholy immobile face, was walking slowly up and down, listening in silence. When the old man stopped to clear his throat, he went up to him and said:

      I bought myself a pair of boots the other day, father, which turn out to be too tight for me. Won’t you take them? I’ll let you have them cheap.

      If you like, said the old man with a grimace, only for the price you gave for them, without any cheapening.

      Very well, I’ll let you have them on credit.

      The son groped under the bed and produced the new boots. The father took off his clumsy, rusty, evidently second-hand boots and began trying on the new ones.

      A perfect fit, he said. Right, let me keep them. And on Tuesday, when I get my pension, I’ll send you the money for them. That’s not true, though, he went on, suddenly falling into the same tearful tone again. And it was a lie about the races, too, and a lie about the pension. And you are deceiving me, Borenka. . . . I feel your generous tactfulness. I see through you! Your boots were too small, because your heart is too big. Ah, Borenka, Borenka! I understand it all and feel it!

      ‘‘Have you moved into new lodgings?" his son interrupted, to change the conversation.

      Yes, my boy. I move every month. My virago can’t stay long in the same place with her temper.

      I went to your lodgings, I meant to ask you to stay here with me. In your state of health it would do you good to be in the fresh air.

      No, said the old man, with a wave of his hand, the woman wouldn’t let me, and I shouldn’t care to myself. A hundred times you have tried to drag me out of the pit, and I have tried myself, but nothing came of it. Give it up. I must stick in my filthy hole. This minute, here I am sitting, looking at your angel face, yet something is drawing me home to my hole. Such is my fate. You can’t draw a dung-beetle to a rose. But it’s time I was going, my boy. It’s getting dark.

      Wait a minute then, I’ll come with you. I have to go to town to-day myself.

      Both put on their overcoats and went out. When a little while afterwards they were driving in a cab, it was already dark, and lights began to gleam in the windows.

      I’ve robbed you, Borenka! the father muttered. Poor children, poor children! It must be a dreadful trouble to have such a father! Borenka, my angel, I cannot lie when I see your face. You must excuse me. . . . What my depravity has come to, my God. Here I have just been robbing you, and put you to shame with my drunken state; I am robbing your brothers, too, and put them to shame, and you should have seen me yesterday! I won’t conceal it, Borenka. Some neighbors, a wretched crew, came to see my virago; I got drunk, too, with them, and I blackguarded you poor children for all I was worth. I abused you, and complained that you had abandoned me. I wanted, you see, to touch the drunken hussies’ hearts, and pose as an unhappy father. It’s my way, you know, when I want to screen my vices I throw all the blame on my innocent children. I can’t tell lies and hide things from you, Borenka. I came to see you as proud as a peacock, but when I saw your gentleness and kind heart, my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, and it upset my conscience completely.

      Hush, father, let’s talk of something else.

      Mother of God, what children I have, the old

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