Anton Cechov Racconti Pdf

Racconti Anton Cechov No preview available - 2004. Racconti Anton Pavlovič Čehov, Fausto Malcovati No preview available - 1991. Common terms and phrases.

Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, the highly acclaimed translators of War and Peace, Doctor Zhivago, and Anna Karenina, which was an Oprah Book Club pick and million-copy bestseller, bring their unmatched talents to The Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov, a collection of thirty of Chekhov’s best tales from the major periods of his creative life. Considered the great Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, the highly acclaimed translators of War and Peace, Doctor Zhivago, and Anna Karenina, which was an Oprah Book Club pick and million-copy bestseller, bring their unmatched talents to The Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov, a collection of thirty of Chekhov’s best tales from the major periods of his creative life. Considered the greatest short story writer, Anton Chekhov changed the genre itself with his spare, impressionistic depictions of Russian life and the human condition. From characteristically brief, evocative early pieces such as “The Huntsman” and the tour de force “A Boring Story,” to his best-known stories such as “The Lady with the Little Dog” and his own personal favorite, “The Student,” Chekhov’s short fiction possesses the transcendent power of art to awe and change the reader. This monumental edition, expertly translated, is especially faithful to the meaning of Chekhov’s prose and the unique rhythms of his writing, giving readers an authentic sense of his style and a true understanding of his greatness. There is a vein of dull misery running through much of modern realism.

It is not even tragedy, because tragedy requires that the person be suffering as a result of their actions, and that they be emotionally complex enough to understand what is happening to them, and to feel the whole of that pain. These stories of misery have none of that, they are tales of the ignorant, of the emotionally stunted, who bumble into one stupidity after another, never realizing why or what it means. Is there a cert There is a vein of dull misery running through much of modern realism. It is not even tragedy, because tragedy requires that the person be suffering as a result of their actions, and that they be emotionally complex enough to understand what is happening to them, and to feel the whole of that pain.

These stories of misery have none of that, they are tales of the ignorant, of the emotionally stunted, who bumble into one stupidity after another, never realizing why or what it means. Is there a certain kind of realism in this? Sure--but fundamentally,. Sure, we all might feel that way sometimes, if we're depressed, and so we look at the world and say 'it sucks out there, and always will'--and part of it is that we want that to be true, too.

We want it to suck, and for us to have predicted it, because that means that none of this is our fault. If things suck, it's because that's how they're meant to be, not because we happened to fuck up. But the world just isn't that bad. Life isn't that bad, even when we feel like wallowing in it, that's not reality, that's just our own baggage, our own coping. So, for an author to take that kind of nihilism and turn it into a book just ends up feeling silly. It's empty, it's self-centered, and it's not profound.

We did Nihilism already, and found to supplant it. But that's what's amazing about Chekhov, because by all rights, that is what his stories should be: these little moments of sad life for these miserable little nobodies who don't know any better. And yet, they're not. They're somehow beautiful and delicate and profound. There's this undefinable Will to Joy in each one that makes it come off as sweet and sympathetic.

And his people are so strange. Each one is a true character, because none of them are just 'types', place-fillers. That's the lesson Chekhov took from Gogol: that describing a man's head as looking like a dented pumpkin feels somehow more real than just saying it was big, and not entirely round, and somewhat over-fleshy. Making someone flat and grey doesn't make them seem miserable, because misery is vivid and colorful and overwhelming--that's what makes it such a damn bother. If it were colorless and bland, it could never roll over a human mind. Now, I'm just as willing to hate stupid people as anyone--and back in college, I was even more ready to disregard them. Yet Chekhov's stupid little people are impossible to hate, because they seem real.

Like everyone, they try to put up a front, but you can see little bits, between the seams, that show you just how vulnerable and desperate they are for something, anything, which brings out that fundamental human thought: 'Oh god. And yet, not everyone sees it. I know they don't, because one girl asked my professor 'Why is Chekhov such a pessimist?' He was utterly confounded by the question, he couldn't understand where it came from, how anyone could come to that conclusion. I mean, here's an author showing you the beautiful soul of another human being, in the midst of whatever turmoil or failed search for meaning, and somehow doing it in the span of a few pages--and you call that pessimism? But then, Nietzsche was also misunderstood in that way, as was Machiavelli. These weren't men talking about the world as they thought it should be, but the world as they saw it, every day, all around them--and their reaction to that darkness was not to give in, or fold up, but to say 'we can fight our way through this'.

Not out of it, perhaps, but definitely through it. But then, to a certain type of idealist, even admitting that things can be bad, or will be bad, is seen as pessimistic, defeatist. I don't buy that. If I'm fighting, I want to know what I'm up against.

I want to know everything about them, because that's how I'm going to win. To me, optimism isn't self-delusion, it isn't being in good spirits when things are going fine--that's too easy, anyone can do that--it's pushing on even when time are hard, even knowing they will probably still be hard tomorrow. They will be hard tomorrow. But I'll still be here, and Chekhov will still be here, and if that's not enough for you, then you're only in it to get attention, anyways. I'm not a literary critic, obviously.

My description of books as sucky/trite/trash, etc kind of make me wonder how I ever even majored in English Lit all those years ago. But let me see if I can describe Chekhov in the way I've come to understand him. And his awesomeness. (heehee) Chekhov was a doctor before he was a writer, he knew how the human body worked, he knew the human mind, and he knew what external stimulus (the weather, the look in a person's eye, the placement of a strange object) I'm not a literary critic, obviously.

When I read The Lady With the Dog, I had to go sit under a tree and contemplate life for a while. When I read the desire in the dialogue in The Seagull, I had to call my boyfriend. I didn't know why these things would happen when I read Chekov. The words were simply there on the page, no? No force was making me melancholic, no one was telling me to get randy from The Seagull and call my boyfriend. No, Chekov is deeper than that. It's almost like hypnosis, the descriptions, the word combinations, etc.

He writes one thing, but the way you will understand it and digest it mentally and physically is completely unexpected. I love this guy. Many writers pride themselves on the beauty of their prose style. Flaubert would spend days composing the perfect sentence for Madame Bovary. Nabokov wrote his prose ecstatically, his vocabulary was formidable and formed a core part of his aesthetic values. Proust’s composition was like a flower, the sentences formed a stem upon which the petals of his metaphors were able to grow and develop. Thomas Mann was concerned with weighty philosophical problems, Dostoevskii with psychological ones, Conr Many writers pride themselves on the beauty of their prose style.

Flaubert would spend days composing the perfect sentence for Madame Bovary. Nabokov wrote his prose ecstatically, his vocabulary was formidable and formed a core part of his aesthetic values. Proust’s composition was like a flower, the sentences formed a stem upon which the petals of his metaphors were able to grow and develop. Thomas Mann was concerned with weighty philosophical problems, Dostoevskii with psychological ones, Conrad with composing the perfect grammatical sentence and Joyce with redefining literature. Chekhov held aloof from all of this, his prose is simple, his vocabulary limited, his metaphors plain poppies compared to Proust’s redolent roses, he does not deal with great issues, has no axe to grind, nothing particular original to say, yet his stories are as psychologically insightful as anything by Dostoevsky, his prose as poetic as anything by Flaubert, his stories as beautiful as anything by Nabokov, as original as anything by Joyce.

Because Chekhov’s stories are alive. Chekhov was able to observe the beauty in the most quotidian things: the fold of a dress, the reflection of the moon on a river bank, the unfettered joy of a young peasant pining after his wife. Chekhov not only depicts the joys of life but it’s tribulations-the heartbreaking loss of a young baby, the boredom of a ride across the steppes or having to play the tedious role of the perfect hostess at your husband’s birthday party. Chekhov represents things as they are; sometimes good, sometimes bad, yet full of hope beyond all the setbacks and pitfalls which life has to throw at you. The stories in this collection (translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky) were written in the period 1883 to 1903.

They appear to be set in the 'present' - that is, they are tales of Russia and her people as things were in the last few decades of the 1800s. Chekhov's overall view of life, as revealed in the stories, is that the lot of man and woman is an unhappy one. This is true whether one is a peasant or a well off doctor, bishop, aristocrat, land owner, student. The circumstances di The stories in this collection (translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky) were written in the period 1883 to 1903. They appear to be set in the 'present' - that is, they are tales of Russia and her people as things were in the last few decades of the 1800s. Chekhov's overall view of life, as revealed in the stories, is that the lot of man and woman is an unhappy one. This is true whether one is a peasant or a well off doctor, bishop, aristocrat, land owner, student.

The circumstances differ, the goods and evils of life vary from case to case, the balance figures differently from one man or woman to the next, but ultimately if we ask of each life 'was it worth living?' , Chekhov seems to say 'perhaps, very marginally. But at any rate that's all we have, so we soldier on, taking the bitter with the sour, and accepting (when we analyze things properly), that whether we have tried to do good to our fellow men or the opposite, the effect is pretty much the same'. Several stories from the last few years of the 19th century have very similar themes, contrasting the 'happy, well-off' few to the miserable many. The way the stories play out, we are given pause to consider if the happy few perhaps in the end are the worst off, at least considered from the points of view that Chekhov develops. Such are, for example, the three stories written in 1898: 'The Man In A Case', 'Gooseberries' and 'A Medical Case'. In some stories (example, 'The Fiancee') the protagonist appears to have averted disaster and to be headed for a fortunate future.

But this has only been accomplished by, pretty much unwittingly, destroying the lives of others. Like any selection of short stories by a good author, they are 'uneven', which really means little more than 'some affected me more than others'. One which was perhaps very skillfully written, even though I was ultimately bored by it, was a story called. 'A Boring Story'!

At over 60 pages, it was just about the longest story in the book, and was. Boring - at least to me. I thought some of the best stories were 'Sleepy', 'Gusev', 'Peasant Women', 'Ward No. 6', 'The Black Monk' and 'At Christmastime'.

Of these, 'Sleepy' struck me as one of the most horrifying stories I have ever read, all six pages of it. 6', a much longer story at over 50 pages, is a magnificent tale of the way in which two good men, through no fault of their own, can be dealt shockingly bad hands by life. 'The Black Monk' is an astounding story that in my opinion fully deserves the description of magical realism. 'At Christmastime' (another only six pages long) is wrenchingly sad, and the fact that it is an utterly common-place and completely believable story is what rescues it from being simply maudlin. Chekhov is certainly not the only author to write short stories which express a basically pessimistic attitude about the human condition, in fact I would say that most short stories by good authors are more down-beat than otherwise.

But Chekhov is a master story teller, and even if his outlook is not uniquely his own, the craftsmanship of the stories is. Highly recommended to anyone who enjoys wonderfully written short fiction. You know, man, it doesn't matter who translates you. You always sound just like yourself. A casual observer.

And yet the casualness reveals so much about us. I picked up one of your books yesterday, having a hard time concentrating on anything else. The want to read was there, but nothing sounded good. And then I thought, Chekhov! We haven't read Chekhov in a bit. Two sentences into a randomly picked story I knew it was you, and I knew I would not put down the book until it was finished.

And as You know, man, it doesn't matter who translates you. You always sound just like yourself. A casual observer.

You always bring the good stuff. Whether it's a chance ( or was it?) meeting on an overcast day, or a story with a slow build, your characters always reveal themselves, their hopes and dreams, and I sit and wait to see what will happen. Usually, it's nothing big. Sometimes as simple as confirming something you already thought. But the simple way you reveal these things, and make it seem so effortless. What were you thinking about when you wrote Gusev?

Just to watch you work, gah, that would have been awesome. Did you draft and redraft, or did the scenes come spilling out of you? From the moment I received this on Christmas morning, nearly a decade ago, I knew we were gonna get on. The Death of a Government Clerk. I bet Kafka read that and said, eureeka!, don't you?

And he was good. But what you could do the two and a half pages. It boggles me every time. But The Huntsman.

I will be eternally grateful to you for it, especially. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that.

You rock, man. In that casual, we're-just-talking way you had, you rock. Yes, I mostly read this book because Francine Prose told me to in; but also because I had heard from multiple people that Chekhov is the shit and needs to be read by everyone. Having finished this collection of stories, I can wholeheartedly concur. There's nothing especially earth-shattering or revelatory about these stories - for the most part, each one is about ordinary people living ordinary lives and having ordinary experiences. There's nothing very special going on wit Yes, I mostly read this book because Francine Prose told me to in; but also because I had heard from multiple people that Chekhov is the shit and needs to be read by everyone. Having finished this collection of stories, I can wholeheartedly concur.

There's nothing especially earth-shattering or revelatory about these stories - for the most part, each one is about ordinary people living ordinary lives and having ordinary experiences. There's nothing very special going on with any of them, but Chekhov writes about them in a way that's brilliantly done and quietly wonderful.

My favorite stories of the bunch were 'The Death of a Clerk', 'A Boring Story', 'Ward No. 6', 'The Lady With the Little Dog', and 'In the Ravine.' Chekhov wrote in a period of rapid social change and turmoil: from the serf emancipation of 1860s to the revolution of 1905. Nonetheless, his short stories are tranquil, peaceful, and nuanced. In the dullness of a gentry's countryside estate or a rural factory, life's misery evolve, and unhappy people bear their burden silently: drunkenness, idleness, jealousy, peasants' poverty, gentry's nostalgia and indifference. But still, an ephemeral revelation of life's meaning and eternal salvation might Chekhov wrote in a period of rapid social change and turmoil: from the serf emancipation of 1860s to the revolution of 1905.

Nonetheless, his short stories are tranquil, peaceful, and nuanced. In the dullness of a gentry's countryside estate or a rural factory, life's misery evolve, and unhappy people bear their burden silently: drunkenness, idleness, jealousy, peasants' poverty, gentry's nostalgia and indifference. But still, an ephemeral revelation of life's meaning and eternal salvation might strike, like a flickering light shining solitarily in the darkness, and life is, all of a sudden, happy and beautiful.

This collection of thirty stories by the Russian dramatist and short story master is a fine career sample, beginning with early sketches and including major stories often anthologized such as “Ward No. 6” and “The Lady with the Little Dog.” His subjects are doctors, peasants, petty officials, ferrymen, monks, nannies, soldiers, patients, artists, society folks. His topics are as broad—fidelity, integrity, meaning, duty, survival, faith, class. There are stories about a medical student and an art This collection of thirty stories by the Russian dramatist and short story master is a fine career sample, beginning with early sketches and including major stories often anthologized such as “Ward No. 6” and “The Lady with the Little Dog.” His subjects are doctors, peasants, petty officials, ferrymen, monks, nannies, soldiers, patients, artists, society folks. His topics are as broad—fidelity, integrity, meaning, duty, survival, faith, class.

'At the door of every contented, happy man somebody should stand with a little hammer, constantly tapping, to remind him that unhappy people exist, that however happy he may be, sooner or later life will show him its claws, some calamity will befall him - illness, poverty, loss - and nobody will hear or see, just as he doesn't hear or see others now. But there is nobody with a little hammer, the happy man lives on, and the petty cares of life stir him only slightly, as wind stirs an aspen - and 'At the door of every contented, happy man somebody should stand with a little hammer, constantly tapping, to remind him that unhappy people exist, that however happy he may be, sooner or later life will show him its claws, some calamity will befall him - illness, poverty, loss - and nobody will hear or see, just as he doesn't hear or see others now. But there is nobody with a little hammer, the happy man lives on, and the petty cares of life stir him only slightly, as wind stirs an aspen - and everything is fine.' “Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.” This famous principle of Chekov on writing and which he had followed in earnest has produced some of the finest, crisp short stories. His stories are a reflection on the Russian society in the late nineteenth century; moral conflicts of individuals; “Remove everything that has no relevance to the story.

If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.” This famous principle of Chekov on writing and which he had followed in earnest has produced some of the finest, crisp short stories. His stories are a reflection on the Russian society in the late nineteenth century; moral conflicts of individuals; soul searching; philosophical enquiries. They are not just confined to few genres and are quite wide in encompassing a wide range of subjects and emotions. Though most of them are tragic, laced with melancholy, yet in few of the stories he had splashed a dash of comedy and satire. Some of them might appear to be dated but one would surely enjoy the luxury of reading good short stories; right from couple of them on a given day to just one good one before hitting the bed. I'm generally good about not being too starstruck by literary reputation, and I feel pretty confident that I can bravely approach the big guns and judge them based on my personal view of their merits.

But with Chekhov, for some reason, I find myself cowed. Like, I'm just not really sure what I think of him and I kind of have this stupid feeling like I want someone to tell me. You know, it's CHEKHOV, right? I should have some big RESPONSE. I should love him! Or loathe him! I need to think somethi I'm generally good about not being too starstruck by literary reputation, and I feel pretty confident that I can bravely approach the big guns and judge them based on my personal view of their merits.

It's CHEKHOV! I gotta come up with a passionate opinion about him! I gotta have some glittering insight into why he's so big and important, or else a rabid conviction that he's totally overrated and bad. I really don't have any ideas like that though. 'A Doctor's Visit' was so insanely awesome it made my brain melt a little and leak out my ears, but aside from that, I didn't have a strong opinion one way or another about the stories that I read ('The Chorus Girl,' 'Dreams,' 'In Exile,' 'The Teacher of Literature,' 'Anna on the Neck,' 'The Darling,' 'The Lady with a Dog,' 'The Bishop'). I mean, they were fine. There was stuff I liked.

There was stuff to which I was fairly indifferent. I mean, I dunno, it was fine. But this is CHEKHOV! I'm supposed to think something a lot stronger than 'I dunno, it was fine.' But I didn't. At least I've finally read Chekhov, even if I still don't have much to say about him one way or another. It is a difficult prospect to review a collection of short stories.

There isn’t an overarching plot to grab hold of, nor, perhaps, even a consistent theme-group. One is reduced to arranging scatterd bits and pieces of reflections and reactions, which—if all goes well—will add up to some sort of general impression. My general impression of Chekhov is that he is a great artist; he is a master in every sense of the word. Writing a good short story is a delicate art. Unlike the writer of a novel, the It is a difficult prospect to review a collection of short stories. There isn’t an overarching plot to grab hold of, nor, perhaps, even a consistent theme-group.

One is reduced to arranging scatterd bits and pieces of reflections and reactions, which—if all goes well—will add up to some sort of general impression. My general impression of Chekhov is that he is a great artist; he is a master in every sense of the word. Writing a good short story is a delicate art. Unlike the writer of a novel, the short story writer has little leeway to relax, to include details that would fill out a scene, to build complex character traits, to construct an intricate plot.

The brevity calls for economy. Descriptions must be short and to the point; characters must be both interesting and quickly graspable. And the plot must somehow manage to be both unpredictable and engaging, without relying on a rich background of character or scene. I am reminded of those artists who work on the street making sketches of pedestrians. The artist must hone in on the most distinctive features of brow, countenance, and demeanor, while using only the most hastily executed lines to hint at the full picture. One would never guess the immense difficulties of the task from reading Chekhov.

Skyrim Steam Product Key Generator Download. He possesses that first and most diagnostic trait of a master: he makes it look effortless. The reader is immediately pulled into the story—which normally consist of little more than snatches from daily life—by some intriguing detail of personality, some slightly unexpected snippet of dialogue—hints and vibrations of what lay under the surface. Chekhov begins the scene with a casual description of an everyday event, and then sews in little threads of discolor into the narrative—just enough to keep the reader engaged and guessing. And when the denouement comes—which normally consists of a similarly common occurrence—the dramatic effect is unmatchable. Chekhov is distinct from other writers for his acutely sympathetic mind. He can write convincingly about men or women, the rich or the poor, the haughty or the timid, the bold or the meek, the sane or the insane, the old or the young, the erudite or the ignorant. Indeed, it is one of the keys of his art, that tragedy, comedy, heroism, and tyranny exist as much in the mind as in the world; a slight word of reproach from a loved one can be just as crushing as the worst defeat.

When we see through Chekhov’s eyes, we see the world as a battlefield of tiny struggles—so subtle and so constant as to be normally invisible, but all the more tragic because of their invisibility. I have not a word of reproach for his art; I have not even a caveat to my praise. If you want to see art at its finest—so subtle it hardly even comes across as art—then look no further, my friends, than Chekhov. Chekhov's style is really unique. The stories are natural, most don't have a formal plot, there are no teachings or morals to be drawn. Beginnings and endings are often irrelevant. Most of the stories don't end, just like real life.

What strikes you is the incredible brevity with which he strikes, every detail is vital to the story. Consider, At Christmas time.

It's probably 5 pages long. It's about an old couple in a village, who haven't talked to their daughter since she moved to the city afte Chekhov's style is really unique. The stories are natural, most don't have a formal plot, there are no teachings or morals to be drawn. Beginnings and endings are often irrelevant. Most of the stories don't end, just like real life. What strikes you is the incredible brevity with which he strikes, every detail is vital to the story. Consider, At Christmas time.

It's probably 5 pages long. It's about an old couple in a village, who haven't talked to their daughter since she moved to the city after her marriage two years ago. They hire someone to write her a letter, as they're illiterate. Yet, they don't know where to start, whether they should bring up their financial difficulties, how the old man was sick most of the time, ask about any grandchildren. It's incredibly powerful and moving, probably because I could picture thousands of families in India undergoing the same plight.

The story then shows us how ecstatic the daughter is on receiving the letter. Turns out, her husband never posted any of the letters she's written. And the story ends with a glimpse of the luxurious life of the general for whom the husband works. If you're looking for happy endings, Chekhov isn't for you. But each story will leave you with a surreal glow in awe of his genius.

He was the David to Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky's Goliaths! So much to learn from the creator, literally, of the modern short story--and its arc. And so worth it writers and readers to remember this: “‘Who will read me, who will care?’ It does not help the work to be done, that work already completed is surrounded by silence and indifference—if it is published at all.

Few books ever have the attention of a review—good or bad. Fewer stay longer than a few weeks on bookstore shelves, if they get there at all. ‘Works of art’ (or at least books, stories, p So much to learn from the creator, literally, of the modern short story--and its arc. And so worth it writers and readers to remember this: “‘Who will read me, who will care?’ It does not help the work to be done, that work already completed is surrounded by silence and indifference—if it is published at all. Few books ever have the attention of a review—good or bad. Fewer stay longer than a few weeks on bookstore shelves, if they get there at all.

‘Works of art’ (or at least books, stories, poems, meriting life) ‘disappear before our very eyes because of the absence of responsible attention,’ Chekhov wrote nearly ninety years ago.' Tillie Olsen in her book _Silences_ wrote this in 1965. I very much enjoyed these stories.

At first I thought they were very boring - because not much happens. But they really grew on me the more I read. Like any collection of short stories, some are better than others. At least 75% of these are excellent. My favorites: The Lady With the Little Dog, The House With the Mezzanine, Ward No. 6, Sleepy, The Black Monk, The Fiancee, The Bishop, The Huntsman, The Student.

These are all 5-star short stories. Death of a Clerk: A man sneezes at a theater and ac I very much enjoyed these stories. At first I thought they were very boring - because not much happens. But they really grew on me the more I read. Like any collection of short stories, some are better than others.

At least 75% of these are excellent. My favorites: The Lady With the Little Dog, The House With the Mezzanine, Ward No. 6, Sleepy, The Black Monk, The Fiancee, The Bishop, The Huntsman, The Student.

These are all 5-star short stories. Death of a Clerk: A man sneezes at a theater and accidentally sprays the man seated in front. The man makes several attempts, over several days, to apologize and obtain forgiveness, but never feels that forgiveness has been satisfactorily granted. The man who was sprayed finally loses his temper and angrily tells the man to leave him alone.

He promptly goes home -- and dies. Small Fry: During Easter festivities a man sits around in his flat lamenting his lot in life, angry at his superior who has denied him a promotion to a higher-paying job.

He notices a cockroach on his table, which he grabs and tosses into the lamp fire. He then feels much better.

The Huntsman: While searching for game, a hired hunter encounters a peasant woman from a group of nearby field laborers. They talk, and it is revealed that she is his estranged wife. She bemoans the fact that he never comes by to visit. He explains that he was deceived into marrying her in the first place, and besides, he is too fondly attached to his free life as a huntsman to settle down.

Before he departs, he gives the woman a ruble. The woman watches him until he is completely out of view. The Malefactor: An uneducated peasant is brought before a magistrate for the crime of stealing a nut from the railroad track. The peasant explains that such pilfered nuts are used as sinkers for fishing, but he is quite incapable of comprehending how one missing nut could cause any harm. He is sentenced to hard labor as he decries the injustice of it all. Panikhida: A man is chastised by his Priest for petitioning a special prayer for his dead daughter 'the harlot.' The man recalls from the scriptures how Jesus forgave the prostitute, so he sees nothing wrong with his 'harlot' reference, even though the Priest is livid.

Anyuta: A poor girl survives by living with and accommodating a medical student (as she has done with a few previous students). Her current roommate treats her poorly and disrespectfully. He has come to the conclusion that since he will soon be moving on to a life of higher status he will have to get rid of this girl; so, he might as well get rid of her now. He tells her to leave, but then has a slight change of heart and tells her she doesn't have to go if she doesn't want to. So she stays. Easter Night: A man takes a ferry across a river to an Easter celebration. The ferryman is a monk who is distraught at the recent, untimely death of a fellow monk who was dear to him and who was especially talented at writing hymnal type praises.

After the celebration the man returns on the ferry with the same ferryman, who now gazes at a female passenger whose face (the man supposes) reminds the ferryman of his departed friend. Vanka: An orphan indentured servant boy writes a letter to his grandfather. This grandfather is not a good character and has apparently abandoned the boy. In the letter the boy begs his grandfather to please rescue him from the terrible situation he is in.

The letter will never make it to his grandfather. Sleepy: A much abused servant girl is denied adequate sleep because she is expected to care for her master's baby who is sick and in need of attention throughout the night. She dozes and dreams of sleep but only for mere moments. In her sleep-deprived state she kills the crying baby so that she can finally rest. A Boring Story: A science professor who seems to know that he is dying, laments the inadequacies in his life and his family. The only person with whom he seems to relate well is a young woman who he had helped raise after the death of her parents.

Gusev: A ship carries a contingent of soldiers home to Russia. The soldier Gusev is confined to the ship's sick bay. He visits with some of the other sick soldiers, some of whom die. Eventually, Gusev also dies and is buried at sea.

As his body sinks a shark rips open the burial sack. Peasant Women: A traveler stops at an inn and converses with the innkeeper's family. He explains that the boy traveling with him is the orphaned son of his former neighbors. The man had an affair with the boy's mother while the father was consigned to the army. The mother killed her husband upon his return from the army.

She later dies in prison. One of the innkeeper's daughter-in-law, who heard most of the traveler's story, is having an illicit affair also. She openly discusses with her sister-in-law the idea of killing her own husband. The Fidget: A woman marries a good, hard-working, intelligent man who does not share her interest in hobnobbing with high society. Her highfalutin friends have little regard for her husband.

She has an affair with a well-known painter who eventually gets bored with her. She regrets what she has done, but her husband dies before she can repair their relationship. In Exile: A long-time exile tries, mostly unsuccessfully, to convince other exiles that their life in Siberia can be very satisfactory if they just quit worrying about home and family and friends and warmth and other conveniences. 6: A mental ward houses an intelligent and educated but paranoid man.

Because the appointed doctor appreciates conversing and debating with this mentally ill man more than with the dull people of the village, his friends assume that he must be mentally ill himself, so they contrive a way to cure him. Their ill-conceived and seemingly selfish plan fails miserably, and the doctor becomes destitute and miserable and probably actually insane -- at which point his friends trick him and lock him up in the mental ward.

He dies within a day. The Black Monk: A well-respected but stressed man visits his former foster father. He falls in love with the daughter and takes a keen interest in the affairs of the father's immaculate orchards. He begins having visions of a monk all dressed in black who flatters him by telling him what a great and intelligent person he is. At first this makes him very happy. But shortly after he marries the daughter it becomes obvious that he is very seriously disturbed. Everything falls apart for him and his wife and her father.

Just before he dies the monk returns to tell him that he should have believed the good things he had been told. Rothchild's Fiddle: A cranky old coffin maker plays a mean fiddle for the local band. He despises and persecutes, for no particular reason, the Jew Rothchild who plays the flute in the band. His wife dies and he cuts every corner to get her buried. He becomes ill. When he realizes that he is dying he bequeaths his fiddle to Rothchild.

The Jew treasures the gift. The Student: A seminary student travels by foot through the dreary countryside. He stumbles upon two widows who are toiling around a fire. He stops to warm himself up and regales the women with the Bible story about Peter the Apostle who denied Christ three times before the cock crowed. Anna on the Neck: A young woman reluctantly marries a middle-aged man because he is wealthy. She hopes he will use his wealth to help out her father and brothers who are experiencing difficult times, but the man is very stingy with his money.

At a prestigious ball the young woman is so beautiful and graceful that all the powerful men are enchanted by her. This gives her the self esteem and authority to put her husband in his deserved place. The House with the Mezzanine: A young, idealistic, but non-industrious artist meets and falls in love with a young girl near where he lives. He has ideological differences with the girl's older sister. As a result, the older sister insists that the two love birds stay away from each other. The young man never sees her again, but he never forgets her. Years later he still pines for her.

He wonders if she still thinks about him and if they will ever meet again. The Man in a Case: Two hunters converse before bed time.

One, a high school teacher, tells the story of a fellow teacher (of Greek) who was quite the social misfit -- constantly donning galoshes and an umbrella in every type of weather. Everything that veered from what he considered normal caused him stress and concern. He almost became engaged to the sister of a fellow teacher until one day when he saw her and her brother riding bicycles at a school function. This distressed him so badly that he had a confrontation with the teacher about it, and upon leaving the confrontation he had an awkward and embarrassing stumble that was witnessed by the sister.

He shut himself up after that and died within a month. The man listening to the story considers how in many ways we might all be a lot like this man. He begins to tell a story to illustrate his point, but they both decide it is time to go to sleep. Gooseberries: The same two hunters from the previous story are hunting the next day when they get caught in the rain and take refuge at the home of nearby friend. The second man then gets his chance to tell his story.

His brother had a desk job but always yearned for a home in the countryside. His ideal place always included gooseberry bushes.

Eventually, he got his wish, but he just became fat and idle. He obviously wasn't happy. The storyteller then philosophizes about the despair of life -- that it's impossible to be happy because so much bad happens, if not to you then to so many others. We should just try to do our best and to do good. That's the best we can do. A Medical Case: A doctor is called out to a factory (with its accompanying company 'town') far out in the countryside.

The doctor loathes the ignorant and uneducated people and the deplorable conditions of such work environments. He administers to the adult daughter heiress of the factory and converses mostly with the governess. The girl suffers from what seems to be a severe case of nerves or anxiety. The doctor tells her she should get away from the factory. The next day she is much improved. The Darling: A much-loved girl easily falls in love and marries, twice.

Both of her husbands die after just a few short years of marriage. She has an affair, possibly begun before the death of her first husband, with a man who is separated from his disturbed wife. This man and his young son eventually live at the woman's house. She adores the man's son.

In all the relationships in which this woman gets involved she consistently adopts the opinions, thoughts, and philosophies of the other. She seems to not be able to think for herself, and her mind is quite barren when she is alone. On Official Business: A doctor and a coroner are dispatched to a distant community on official government business to investigate and make a ruling on a suspected suicide. The weather is bad, the investigation gets delayed. They spend the evening, the night, and the next day and night at the festive home of a community leader. During all this time the coroner philosophizes about suicide, life in general, and life in small agrarian communities. The Lady With the Little Dog: A middle-aged, unhappily married philanderer, while vacationing in Yalta, meets an unhappily married young woman.

They fall in love, probably the first time for both of them. The pair separate, as society obliges them, and they go back to their spouses, but they secretly meet once or twice a year, and their yearning for each other grows stronger. The man wonders why, in his older age, and out of so many women he has known, this one has been the only one able to make him feel true love. They both wonder how they can endure their illicit and secretive love affair. At Christmas Time: An old illiterate couple in a remote village desperately miss their daughter who left many years ago with her new husband and has not been heard from since. They pay a local, barely literate drunk to write a letter to her. Taking advantage of the old couple, the man simply writes gibberish.

A week later the daughter receives the letter. She pretends to her young children that it tells of wonderful, exciting happenings back at their grandparents' place.

It is revealed that the woman's husband has been secretly keeping his wife's letters from being delivered to her parents. In the Ravine: In a small town off the beaten path one of the wealthier families suffer because of greed and jealousy. It comes to a head when one son is convicted of counterfeiting and sentenced to a long term of hard labor. The father then tries to transfer his wealth to the infant son of his other son. This infuriates the childless wife of the convicted son, so she kills the baby by pouring boiling water on him. The Bishop: A bishop is not feeling well, but he performs all his never-ending duties just the same.

His mother comes to visit him. He is disturbed that everyone, even his mother, treats him like a bishop and not like a regular human being. His illness eventually does him in and he is soon replaced and forgotten. The Fiancee: Nadya, a young woman from a wealthy family is engaged to the son of an even wealthier family. She has come to realize that she doesn't really love her fiance and generally feels dissatisfied with the meaninglessness of her life. Sasha, a sort of foster brother or uncle is visiting the family. He points out to Nadya how the wealthy people don't work or contribute to society and how they mistreat everyone of a lower social stature than themselves.

Nadya decides to flee the situation. Sasha helps her get away.

Her family is heart-broken, but a year later they have reconciled, even though Nadya's family has lost a lot of its former social status. While visiting her family Nadya learns that Sasha has died.

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