The inspirational short stories of Anton Chekhov are famous around the World. Some of the best loved stories and tales have been penned by this remarkable Russian author considered as one of the best short story writers in history and by some as the founder of short stories!. Many of Chekhov's short stories are considered the apotheosis of the form while his playwriting career — though brief — has had a great impact on dramatic. “On Love” () by Anton Chekhov. At lunch next day there were very nice pies, crayfish, and mutton cutlets; and while we were eating, Nikanor, the cook.
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periodical issue. Anton Chekhov, 'genius in a nutshell'. Parent: An error occurred while loading the PDF. Chekhov; an unsurpassed master of the short story. Maxim Gorky, "Anton Chekhov: Fragments of Recollections," . ), at http:// houlicseigueca.tk Project Gutenberg Compilation of Short Stories of Chekhov by Chekhov. Book Cover. Download; Bibrec.
Very good," says Otchumyelov sternly, coughing and raising his eyebrows. Whose dog is it?
I won't let this pass! I'll teach them to let their dogs run all over the place! It's time these gentry were looked after, if they won't obey the regulations! When he's fined, the blackguard, I'll teach him what it means to keep dogs and such stray cattle!
I'll give him a lesson! Yeldyrin," cries the superintendent, addressing the policeman, "find out whose dog this is and draw up a report! And the dog must be strangled. Without delay! It's sure to be mad.
Whose dog is it, I ask? Help me off with my coat, Yeldyrin. It must be a sign of rain. There's one thing I can't make out, how it came to bite you? It's a little dog, and you are a great hulking fellow!
You must have scratched your finger with a nail, and then the idea struck you to get damages for it. We all know. I know you devils!
He is a nonsensical fellow, your honour! You didn't see, so why tell lies about it?
His honour is a wise gentleman, and will see who is telling lies and who is telling the truth, as in God's sight. And if I am lying let the court decide. It's written in the law. We are all equal nowadays. My own brother is in the gendarmes. His are mostly setters. The General has valuable dogs, thoroughbred, and this is goodness knows what!
No coat, no shape. A low creature. And to keep a dog like that! If a dog like that were to turn up in Petersburg or Moscow, do you know what would happen? You are healthy, and though your father is not rich, he has a good competency. My life is far harder than yours. I only have twenty-three roubles a month to live on, but I don't wear mourning.
Happiness does not depend on riches; poor men are often happy. In theory, yes, but not in reality. Take my case, for instance; my mother, my two sisters, my little brother and I must all live somehow on my salary of twenty-three roubles a month.
We have to eat and drink, I take it. You wouldn't have us go without tea and sugar, would you?
Or tobacco? Answer me that, if you can. Yes, Nina Zarietchnaya is going to act in Treplieff's play. They love one another, and their two souls will unite to-night in the effort to interpret the same idea by different means. There is no ground on which your soul and mine can meet. I love you. Too restless and sad to stay at home, I tramp here every day, six miles and back, to be met only by your indifference. I am poor, my family is large, you can have no inducement to marry a man who cannot even find sufficient food for his own mouth.
It is not that. If Iona's heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him. Why have you stopped here? Drive on! He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins He can bear it no longer.
An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness.
Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early A man who knows how to do his work, But my son is dead, mate Do you hear? This week in the hospital It's a queer business The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep.
The old man sighs and scratches himself Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son's clothes.
He still has his daughter Anisya in the country And he wants to talk about her too Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word. You'll have sleep enough, no fear He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather He cannot think about his son when he is alone To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay I have grown too old to drive My son ought to be driving, not I He was a real cabman He ought to have lived