Monday, August 13th, 2012
Selected short stories -1882-1887- translated by Constance Garnett
201 Stories by Anton Chekhov
About Anton Chekhov: One of Russia's greatest writers, Chekhov began his career writing jokes and anecdotes for popular magazines to support himself while he studied to become a doctor. Between 1888 and his death he single-handedly revolutionized both the drama and the short story. Near the end of his life he married an actress, Olga Knipper. He died from tuberculosis in 1904, age 44.
About this project: Constance Garnett translated and published 13 volumes of Chekhov stories in the years 1916-1922. Unfortunately, the order of the stories is almost random, and in the last volume Mrs. Garnett stated: "I regret that it is impossible to obtain the necessary information for a chronological list of all Tchehov's works." This site presents all 201 stories in the order of their publication in Russia.
http://www.eldritchpress.org/ac/jr/
"Reading Chekhov was just like the angels singing to me." -- Eudora Welty, 1977
002 -
Joy
006 - The Death of a Government Clerk
010 - Fat and Thin
018 - A Chameleon
030 - The Huntsman
031 - A Malefactor
038 - Sorrow
044 - Children
045 - Misery
058 - Easter Eve
088 - Dreams
095 - Vanka
121 - Happiness
143 - Boys
144 - Kashtanka
JOY
by Anton Chekhov
IT was twelve o'clock at night.
Mitya Kuldarov, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into his parents' flat, and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. His parents had already gone to bed. His sister was in bed, finishing the last page of a novel. His schoolboy brothers were asleep.
"Where have you come from?" cried his parents in amazement. "What is the matter with you?
"Oh, don't ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It's . . . it's positively incredible!"
Mitya laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that he could not stand on his legs.
"It's incredible! You can't imagine! Look!"
His sister jumped out of bed and, throwing a quilt round her, went in to her brother. The schoolboys woke up.
"What's the matter? You don't look like yourself!"
"It's because I am so delighted, Mamma! Do you know, now all Russia knows of me! All Russia! Till now only you knew that there was a registration clerk called Dmitry Kuldarov, and now all Russia knows it! Mamma! Oh, Lord!"
Mitya jumped up, ran up and down all the rooms, and then sat down again.
"Why, what has happened? Tell us sensibly!"
"You live like wild beasts, you don't read the newspapers and take no notice of what's published, and there's so much that is interesting in the papers. If anything happens it's all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it's only celebrated people whose names are published in the papers, and now they have gone and published mine!"
"What do you mean? Where?"
The papa turned pale. The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and, just as they were, in short nightshirts, went up to their brother.
"Yes! My name has been published! Now all Russia knows of me! Keep the paper, mamma, in memory of it! We will read it sometimes! Look!"
Mitya pulled out of his pocket a copy of the paper, gave it to his father, and pointed with his finger to a passage marked with blue pencil.
"Read it!"
The father put on his spectacles.
"Do read it!"
The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The papa cleared his throat and began to read: "At eleven o'clock on the evening of the 29th of December, a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov . . ."
"You see, you see! Go on!"
". . . a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov, coming from the beershop in Kozihin's buildings in Little Bronnaia in an intoxicated condition. . ."
"That's me and Semyon Petrovitch. . . . It's all described exactly! Go on! Listen!"
". . . intoxicated condition, slipped and fell under a horse belonging to a sledge-driver, a peasant of the village of Durikino in the Yuhnovsky district, called Ivan Drotov. The frightened horse, stepping over Kuldarov and drawing the sledge over him, together with a Moscow merchant of the second guild called Stepan Lukov, who was in it, dashed along the street and was caught by some house-porters. Kuldarov, at first in an unconscious condition, was taken to the police station and there examined by the doctor. The blow he had received on the back of his head. . ."
"It was from the shaft, papa. Go on! Read the rest!"
". . . he had received on the back of his head turned out not to be serious. The incident was duly reported. Medical aid was given to the injured man. . . ."
"They told me to foment the back of my head with cold water. You have read it now? Ah! So you see. Now it's all over Russia! Give it here!"
Mitya seized the paper, folded it up and put it into his pocket.
"I'll run round to the Makarovs and show it to them. . . . I must show it to the Ivanitskys too, Natasya Ivanovna, and Anisim Vassilyitch. . . . I'll run! Good-bye!"
Mitya put on his cap with its cockade and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.
NOTES
a registration clerk: the lowest rank in the Russian civil service
THE DEATH OF A GOVERNMENT CLERK
by Anton Chekhov
ONE fine evening, a no less fine government clerk called Ivan Dmitritch Tchervyakov was sitting in the second row of the stalls, gazing through an opera glass at theCloches de Corneville. He gazed and felt at the acme of bliss. But suddenly. . . . In stories one so often meets with this "But suddenly." The authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But suddenly his face puckered up, his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested . . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . "Aptchee!!" he sneezed as you perceive. It is not reprehensible for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Peasants sneeze and so do police superintendents, and sometimes even privy councillors. All men sneeze. Tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed any one by his sneezing. But then he was overcome with confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck with his glove and muttering something to himself. In the old gentleman, Tchervyakov recognised Brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in the Department of Transport.
"I have spattered him," thought Tchervyakov, "he is not the head of my department, but still it is awkward. I must apologise."
Tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the general's ear.
"Pardon, your Excellency, I spattered you accidentally. . . ."
"Never mind, never mind."
"For goodness sake excuse me, I . . . I did not mean to."
"Oh, please, sit down! let me listen!"
Tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the stage. He gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. He began to be troubled by uneasiness. In the interval, he went up to Brizzhalov, walked beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered:
"I spattered you, your Excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . . I didn't do it to . . . ."
"Oh, that's enough . . . I'd forgotten it, and you keep on about it!" said the general, moving his lower lip impatiently.