1900 Chekhov settles in the house built by him in Yalta. Actors from the Moscow Art Theatre visit Sevastopol and Yalta at his request. Low opinion of Ibsen
Sees Uncle Vanya for first time
1901 Formation of Socialist Revolutionary Party. Tolstoy excommunicated by Russian Orthodox Church
Chekhov marries Olga Knipper
Première of Three Sisters at Moscow Art Theatre, with Olga Knipper as Masha. Works on ‘The Bishop’
1902 Sipyagin, Minister of Interior, assassinated. Gorky excluded from Academy of Sciences by Nicholas II
Gorky’s The Lower Depths produced at Moscow Art Theatre Chekhov resigns from Academy of Sciences together with Korolenko in protest at exclusion of Gorky. Awarded Griboyedov Prize by Society of Dramatic Writers and Opera Composers for Three Sisters
Completes ‘The Bishop’. Begins ‘The Bride’, his last story.
Begins The Cherry Orchard
1903 Completion of Trans-Siberian Railway. Massacre of Jews at Kishinev pogrom
Chekhov elected provisional president of Society of Lovers of Russian Literature
Completes ‘The Bride’ and the first draft of The Cherry Orchard. Arrives in Moscow for Art Theatre rehearsal of The Cherry Orchard; strong disagreement with Stanislavsky over its interpretation
1904 Assassination of Plehve, Minister of Interior, by Socialist revolutionaries. War with Japan
Chekhov dies of TB on 15 July at Badenweiler in the Black Forest (Germany) Première of The Cherry Orchard at Moscow Art Theatre
NOTE ON TEXT
Chekhov’s stories (like most of the literature of the time) were not first published as separate books, but appeared in magazines or newspapers such as New Times, or in the thick journals, chiefly Russian Thought. Some of the stories were subsequently published in separate selections, such as Tales and Stories (1894).
In 1899 Chekhov made over the copyright of all his work (with the exception of the plays) to the publisher A. F. Marks in return for 75,000 roubles. Although the terms seemed favourable at the time, many of Chekhov’s friends felt he had been highly imprudent in signing the contract (Gorky unsuccessfully tried to get him to break the contract) as they considered the terms grossly inadequate. In addition the need to collate all the stories that had so far appeared in magazines and newspapers, together with meticulous editing and improving the material, taxed Chekhov sorely and was very time-consuming. The Marks edition was published in 1899–1901, in ten volumes, and reprinted in 1903. However, the main drawback of this edition was that the stories were not printed chronologically. The first scholarly edition, with full notes and commentary, was published in Moscow, 1944–51.
Between 1973 and 1983, the definitive thirty-volume edition, Polnoye Sobraniye Sochineniy i Pisem (Complete Collected Works and Letters) was published in Moscow, with extensive commentaries by leading Soviet Chekhov scholars. It is on this edition that these translations are based.
PATRONYMICS
Russian names consist of first name, patronymic and surname, the patronymic or middle name being derived from the father’s first name. For example, Chekhov’s middle name, Pavlovich, derives from his father’s first name, Pavel. In formal speech first name and patronymic are usuaclass="underline" a servant addressing his master would use both first name and patronymic. But a master would use only a first name when talking to a servant.
No specific reference is made to the use of patronymics in this volume but for a further note on the subject, and its relevance to that translation, readers should refer to Anton Chekhov, The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887–1891 (London: Penguin Books, 2001), p. xxxvi.
The Lady with the Little Dog and Other Stories
The House with the Mezzanine
(AN ARTIST’S STORY)
I
About six or seven years ago I was staying in a district of T— province, on the estate of a young landowner by the name of Belokurov – a very early riser who sported a peasant jerkin, drank beer in the evenings and who was always complaining to me that no one, anywhere, really appreciated him. He had a cottage in the garden, while I lived in the old manor house, in a vast colonnaded ballroom which, apart from the wide sofa on which I slept and a table where I played patience, was devoid of furniture. Even in calm weather there was always a peculiar droning in the ancient Amos stoves1 and during thunderstorms the whole house shook as if it were splitting into small pieces. It was rather frightening, especially at night when the ten big windows were suddenly all aglow in the lightning.
Doomed to perpetual idleness, I didn’t do a thing and would gaze for hours on end through the windows at the sky, birds, avenues; I would read everything that came with the post – and I slept. Sometimes I would go out and wander around until late evening.
Once, as I was returning home, I happened to stray into the grounds of a manor house that was unfamiliar to me. The sun was already sinking and the evening shadows lay across the flowering rye. Two rows of closely planted, towering fir trees stood like solid, unbroken walls, forming a handsome, sombre avenue. I easily climbed the fence and walked down the avenue, slipping on pine needles that lay about two inches deep on the ground. It was quiet and dark – only high up in the tree tops a vivid golden light quivered here and there and transformed spiders’ webs into shimmering rainbows. The smell of resin from the firs was almost stifling. Then I turned into a long avenue of lime trees. And here too all was neglect and age. Last year’s leaves rustled sadly underfoot and in the dusk shadows lurked between the trees. In the old fruit orchard to the right an oriole sang feebly, reluctantly, most probably because he too was old. But then the limes ended. I went past a white house with a terrace and a kind of mezzanine or attic storey – and suddenly a vista opened up: a courtyard, a large pond with bathing place, a clump of green willows, and a village on the far bank, with a slender, tall bell-tower whose cross glittered in the setting sun. For one fleeting moment I felt the enchantment of something very close and familiar to me, as though I had once seen this landscape as a child,
At the white stone gates that led from the courtyard into open country – sturdy, old-fashioned gates surmounted by lions – two young girls were standing. One of them – the elder, who was slim, pale and very pretty, with a mass of auburn hair and a small stubborn mouth – wore a stern expression and hardly looked at me. But the other girl, still very young – no more than seventeen or eighteen – similarly slim and pale, with large mouth and big eyes, looked at me in astonishment as I passed by. She said something in English and seemed embarrassed. And it seemed that I had long known these two charming faces. I returned home with the feeling that it had all been a lovely dream.
Soon afterwards when I was strolling with Belokurov one day around noon by the house, a light sprung carriage suddenly drove into the yard, rustling over the grass: in it was one of the girls – the elder. She was collecting money for some villagers whose houses had burnt down. Without looking at us she gave a serious, detailed report about how many houses had burnt down in the village of Siyanov, how many women and children had been left homeless and what immediate measures the relief committee (to which she now belonged) was proposing to take. After getting us to sign the list she put it away and immediately started saying goodbye.
‘You’ve quite forgotten us, Pyotr Petrovich,’ she told Belokurov as she gave him her hand. ‘Please come and see us – and if Monsieur N— (she mentioned my name) would like to see some admirers of his work and fancies paying us a visit, Mama and I would be really delighted.’ I bowed.