Selected Stories - Chekhov (Wordsworth Classics)
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With an Introduction and Notes by Joe Andrew, Professor of Russian Literature, Keele University Anton Chekhov is widely regarded as one of the greatest writers of short stories. He constructs stories where action and drama are implied rather than described openly, and which leave much to the reader's imagination. This collection contains some of the most important of his earliest and shortest comic sketches, as well as examples of his great, mature works. Throughout, the doctor-turned-writer displays compassion for human suffering and misfortune, but is always able to see the comical, even farcical aspects of the human condition.
a knock at the door, and they all started. “Uncle Osip, let me stay the night!” The little old bald-headed man whose cap had burned, General Zhukov’s cook, walked in. He sat down and listened, then he, too, began to reminisce. Nikolai sat on the oven with his legs hanging down, listening and asking questions about the dishes that had been prepared for the gentry in the old days. They talked of cutlets, chops, various soups and sauces, and the cook, who also remembered everything very well,
Free. New York: Random House, 1988. Rayfield, Donald. Anton Chekhov: A Life. New York: Henry Holt, 1988. ——.Understanding Chekhov: A Critical Study of Chekhov’s Prose and Drama. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999. Simmons, Ernest J. Chekhov: A Biography. Boston: Little, Brown, 1962. Troyat, Henri. Chekhov. Trans. Michael Henry Heim. New York: Dutton, 1986. Turkov, Andrei, ed. Anton Chekhov and His Times. Trans. Cynthia Cadile and Sharon McKee. Fayetteville: University of Arkansas
pricked up her ears and growled. In the distance we heard the intermittent splashing of water. “Someone’s coming by the ford,” said Savka. Two or three minutes later Kutka growled again, and made a coughing sound. “Tsst!” her master hissed at her. In the darkness there was the muffled sound of timid footsteps, and the silhouette of a woman appeared from the grove. Although it was dark, I recognized her—it was Agafya Strelchikha. She diffidently approached us, then stopped, breathing heavily.
quiet. On the other shore drowsy woodcocks plaintively cried, and nearby, heedless of the crowd of men, a nightingale trilled loudly in a bush. The officers stopped, lightly touched the bush, but the nightingale sang on. “Look at that!” they exclaimed approvingly. “We stand right by him and he doesn’t take the least notice! What a rascal!” At the end the path ran uphill, and, near the church enclosure, led into the road. Here the officers, tired from their uphill walk, sat down and smoked.
and she may have little ones. They may be peeping even now.” Volchkov made a tearful face and placed his hand close to the ground to indicate how small the birds would be. “I didn’t do it from greed, Pyotr Yegorych. If I have a sin on my soul, it is not greed or profit, Pyotr Yegorych. The devil tempted me—-” “You, tempted by the devil? Why, you could tempt the devil yourself! All you Kashilovka fellows are thieves.” Volchkov noisily blew out a stream of air, took a deep breath, and continued