The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 (Penguin Classics)
Anton Chekhov
Language: English
Pages: 400
ISBN: B002VISNJY
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This collection of Chekhov's finest early writing reveals a young writer mastering the art of the short story. 'The Steppe', which established his reputation, is the unforgettable tale of a boy's journey to a new school in Kiev, travelling through majestic landscapes towards an unknown destiny. 'Gusev' depicts an ocean voyage, where the sea takes on a terrifying, primeval power; 'The Kiss' portrays a shy soldier's failed romantic encounter; and in 'The Duel' two men's enmity ends in farce. Haunting and highly atmospheric, all the stories in this volume show a writer emerging from the shadow of his masters - Tolstoy, Turgenev and Gogol - and discovering his own voice. They also illustrate Chekhov's genius for evoking the natural world and exploring inner lives.
no point in the exercise anyway. And reading that review was only another pretence. He thought that she had only dressed up and had done her hair to look pretty, and in the same way the reading was just to make herself look clever. ‘Do you mind if I go for a bathe today?’ she asked. ‘Why not? I don’t suppose the mountains will cave in if you do or if you don’t.’ ‘I only asked because the doctor might be annoyed.’ ‘Well, go and ask him. I’m not qualified to speak on the subject.’ What
he was old – or if he were dangerously ill and needed a nurse – would she return to him. In his old age he would find out the reason why she had refused to be his wife, why she had left him – then he would appreciate the sacrifice she had made and he would forgive her. ‘You’ve got a long nose.’ That must be the deacon or Kostya. Nadezhda imagined firmly embracing Layevsky as she said goodbye, kissing his hand and vowing to love him forever. And later, among strangers in her backwater, she would
day before, his carpet-like shirt, his voice, his white hands, and an intense, passionate, all-consuming hatred welled up inside him and sought gratification. He imagined knocking von Koren to the ground and stamping on him. Down to the very last details, he recalled everything that had happened and was amazed how he could have smiled so obsequiously at that nonentity, how he could have valued the opinions of those obscure little nobodies living in a wretched dump that apparently was not even on
nothing he wants. When Papa died he left us six thousand roubles each. I bought an inn, married, and now I have children. But he went and burnt all his money in stove. Such shame, such shame! Why did he burn it? If he didn’t need it then why not give to me? Why burn it?’ Suddenly the door squeaked on its block and the floor shook with footsteps. There was a draught of air and Yegorushka felt as if a great black bird had swept past and flapped its wings right in his face. He opened his eyes and
to ensure that my definitions are brief and precise, my phraseology as simple and elegant as possible. Every minute I have to hold myself in check and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes at my disposal. In brief, I have my work cut out. At one and the same time I have to play the scholar, the pedagogue and the orator – and woe betide me if the orator gets the better of the pedagogue and scholar, or vice versa. After lecturing for about a quarter or half an hour, you suddenly