A Comprehensive C.olkction mth an Introduction by RoBERT Li.vscOTT
THE SHORT STORIES OF ANTON CHEKHOV
THE SHORT STORIES OF
ANTON CHEKHOV
Edited, with an introduction, by ROBERT N. LINSCOTT
m
THE MODERN LIBRARY • NEW YORK
COPVRIGHT, 1932, 1959, BY THE MODERN LIBRARY, INC.
Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto
THE MODERN LIBRARY is published by Random House, inc.
Mcmufactured in the United States of America by H. Wolff
The publishers take pleasure in acknowledging their ln- debtedness to The Macmillan Company for permission to use the following copyrighted stories: "A Day in the Coun- try," "Kashtanka," "An Inadvertence," "The Doctor," and "A Woman's Kingdom" translated by Constance Garnett, and to Charles Scribner's Sons for their copyrighted story "Dreams" translated by Marian Fell.
CONTENTS
PAGE
A DAY IN THE C0UNTRY . . „ I
Old Age •. 8
Kashtanka 14
Enemies . ... 3 8
On the Way 53
Vanka 72
La Cigale 77
Grief 103
An Inadvertence IIO
THE BLACK MoNK IIS
The Kiss 151
In Exile 171
A WORK OF ART 181
Dreahs 186
A \YOMAN's KlNGDOM 196
The Doctor 243
A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE 250
The Hollow 257
After the Theatre 302
The Runaway 306
VlEROCHKA .314
The Steppe 328
Rothschild's Fiddle 438
ANTON CHEKHOV
186^1904
"The aim of fiction," said Anton Chekhov, in one of his letters, "is absolute and honest truth." In the success with which he achieved this aim, Chekhov is supreme among short story writers. He never deludes his readers with a trick end- ing, preferring rather to get his effects by revealing new aspects of life in seemingly commonplace situations; un- suspected shades of character in ordinary individuals. He understands his people so completely that every gesture they make is in character and adds to our knowledge of them. As a result, he sets them before the reader with the utmost economy of words, without interposing description or moraliz- ing, and in such a way that we accept their actions as in- evitable.
Born at Taganrog, Russia, the son of a poverty-ridden shop-keeper, the grandson of a serf, Chekhov first took up writing in order to support himself while studying to be a doctor, a career which he gradually abandoned as he found fiction and the drama more congenial. He had a healthy ability to take life on its own terms. His gaiety was not crushed by the poverty of his early years, nor by his long, losing struggle with tuberculosis. Success did not corrupt him. Always he fought against stupidity, cruelty, blind con- servatism; fought in the shadow of an incurable disease without losing his zest for life; without growing harsh or bitter. Although remaining aloof from politics, he had an acutely practical social conscience. While others talked, he acted. Before the tfays of the Trans-Siberian Railroad, he journeyed alone aV across Asia to Saghalien to investigate conditions in the penal settlement. When Gorki denied admission to the Russian Academy, be resigned his much- coveted membership in protest. When peasants were dying of the cholera, be laid aside his writing to work among them as a doctor. This same profound integrity is evident in his writing.
The number and excellence of Chekhov's maturer stories precludes a completely satisfying collection within the bounds of a single volume, particularly as some of the best, notably "The Duel," are almost of novel length. Thanks are due to The Macmillan Company for permitting the inclusion of five copyrighted stories—"An Inadvertence," "Kashtanka," "A Day in the Country," "The Doctor," and "A Woman's King- dom," from their collected edition of Chekhov's works trans- lated by Constance Garnett, and to Charles Scribner's Sons for the right to reprint the copyrighted story, "Dreams," from Stories of Russian Life translated by Marian Fell.
ROBERT LmSCOTT.
BOSTON, MASs.
September, 1931
A DAY IN THE COUNTRY
Between eight and nine o'clock in the morning.
A dark leaden-coloured mass is creeping over the sky towards the sun. Red zigzags of lightning gleam here and there across it. There is a sound of far-away rumbling. A warm wind frolics over the grass, bends the trees, and stirs up the dust. In a minute there will be a spurt of May rain and a real storm will begin.
Fyokla, a little beggar-girl of six, is running through the village, looking for Terenty the cobbler. The white-haired, barefoot child is pale. Her eyes are wide-open, her lips are trembling.
"Uncle, where is Terenty?" she asks every one she meets. No one answers. They are all preoccupied with the approach- ing storm and take refuge in their huts. At last she meets Silanty Silitch, the sacristan, Terenty's bosom friend. He is coming along, staggering from the wind.
"Uncle, where is Terenty?"
"At the kitchen-gardens," answers Silanty.
The beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gar- dens and there finds Terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face, very long legs, and bare feet, dressed in a woman's tattered jacket, is standing near the vegetable plots, looking with drowsy, drunken eyes at the dark storm- cloud. On his long crane-like legs he sways in the wind like a starling-cote.
"Uncle Terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "Uncle, darling!"
Terenty bends down to Fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread with a smile, such as come into people's faces
1
when they look at something little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved.
"Ah! servant of God, Fyokla," he says, lisping tenderly, "where have you come from?"
"Uncle Terenty," says Fyokla, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of the cobbler's coat. "Brother Danilka has had an accident! Come along!"
"What sort of accident? Ough, what thunder! Holy, holy, holy. . . . What sort of accident?"
"In the count's copse Danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he can't get it out. Come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his hand out! "
"How was it he put his hand in? What for?"
"He wanted to get a cuckoo's egg out oi the hole for me."
"The day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble. . . ." Terenty shook his head and spat deliberately. "Well, what am I to do with you now? I must come ... I must, may the wolf gobble you up, you naughty children! Come, little orphan!"
Terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long legs, begins striding down the village street. He Walks quickly without stopping or looking from side to side, as though he were shoved from behind or afraid of pursuit. Fyokla can hardly keep up with him.
They come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towards the count's copse that lies dark blue in the distance. It is about a mile and a half away. The clouds have by now covered the sun, and soon afterwards there is not a speck of blue left in the sky. It grows dark.
"Holy, holy, holy . . ." whispers Fyokla, hurrying after Terenty. The first rain-drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dusty road. A big drop falls on Fyokla's cheek and glides like a tear down her chin.
"The rain has begun," mutters the cobbler, kicking up the dust with his bare, bony feet. "That's fine, Fyokla, old girl. The grass and the trees are fed by the rain, as we
are by bread. And as for the thunder, don't you be fright- ened, little orphan. Why should it kill a little thing like you?"
As soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. The only sound is the patter of rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and the parched road.
"We shall get soaked, Fyokla," mutters Terenty. "There won't be a dry spot left on us. . . . Ho-ho, my girl! It's run down my neck! But don't be frightened, silly. . . . The grass will be dry again, the earth will be dry again, and we shall be dry again. There is the same sun for us all."