Short Fiction by Anton Chekhov (libby ebook reader .txt) π
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Anton Chekhov is widely considered to be one of the greatest short story writers in history. A physician by day, heβs famously quoted as saying, βMedicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress.β Chekhov wrote nearly 300 short stories in his long writing career; while at first he wrote mainly to make a profit, as his interest in writingβand his skillβgrew, he wrote stories that heavily influenced the modern development of the form.
His stories are famous for, among other things, their ambiguous morality and their often inconclusive nature. Chekhov was a firm believer that the role of the artist was to correctly pose a question, but not necessarily to answer it.
This collection contains all of his short stories and two novellas, all translated by Constance Garnett, and arranged by the date they were originally published.
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- Author: Anton Chekhov
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On account of the rumours of the Countβs approaching visit he had a choir practice every day, morning and evening. The choir practice was held at the school. It did not interfere much with the school work. During the practice the schoolmaster, Sergey Makaritch, set the children writing copies while he joined the tenors as an amateur.
This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch would come into the schoolroom, slamming the door and blowing his nose. The trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily from the school-tables. The tenors and basses, who had been waiting for some time in the yard, came in, tramping like horses. They all took their places. Alexey Alexeitch drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note with the tuning fork.
βTo-to-li-to-tomβ ββ β¦ Do-mi-sol-do!β
βAdagio, adagio.β ββ β¦ Once more.β
After the βAmenβ there followed βLord have mercy upon usβ from the Great Litany. All this had been learned long ago, sung a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. It was sung indolently, unconsciously. Alexey Alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor, now in a bass voice. It was all slow, there was nothing interesting.β ββ β¦ But before the βCherubimβ hymn the whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously turning the pages of their music. The sacristan turned his back on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his violin. The preparations lasted a couple of minutes.
βTake your places. Look at your music carefully.β ββ β¦ Basses, donβt overdo itβ ββ β¦ rather softly.β
Bortnyanskyβs βCherubimβ hymn, No. 7, was selected. At a given signal silence prevailed. All eyes were fastened on the music, the trebles opened their mouths. Alexey Alexeitch softly lowered his arm.
βPianoβ ββ β¦ piano.β ββ β¦ You see βpianoβ is written there.β ββ β¦ More lightly, more lightly.β
When they had to sing βpianoβ an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread Alexey Alexeitchβs face, as though he was dreaming of a dainty morsel.
βForteβ ββ β¦ forte! Hold it!β
And when they had to sing βforteβ the sacristanβs fat face expressed alarm and even horror.
The βCherubimβ hymn was sung well, so well that the schoolchildren abandoned their copies and fell to watching the movements of Alexey Alexeitch. People stood under the windows. The schoolwatchman, Vassily, came in wearing an apron and carrying a dinner-knife in his hand and stood listening. Father Kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly as though he had sprung from out of the earth.β ββ β¦ After βLet us lay aside all earthly caresβ Alexey Alexeitch wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to Father Kuzma in excitement.
βIt puzzles me, Father Kuzma,β he said, shrugging his shoulders, βwhy is it that the Russian people have no understanding? It puzzles me, may the Lord chastise me! Such an uncultured people that you really cannot tell whether they have a windpipe in their throats or some other sort of internal arrangement. Were you choking, or what?β he asked, addressing the bass Gennady Semitchov, the innkeeperβs brother.
βWhy?β
βWhat is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you were boozing yesterday! Thatβs what it is! Your breath smells like a tavern.β ββ β¦ E-ech! You are a clodhopper, brother! You are a lout! How can you be a chorister if you keep company with peasants in the tavern? Ech, you are an ass, brother!β
βItβs a sin, itβs a sin, brother,β muttered Father Kuzma. βGod sees everythingβ ββ β¦ through and through.β ββ β¦β
βThatβs why you have no idea of singingβ βbecause you care more for vodka than for godliness, you fool.β
βDonβt work yourself up,β said Father Kuzma. βDonβt be cross.β ββ β¦ I will persuade him.β
Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began βpersuadingβ him: βWhat do you do it for? Try and put your mind to it. A man who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat isβ ββ β¦ erβ ββ β¦ tender.β
Gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the window as though the words did not apply to him.
After the βCherubimβ hymn they sang the Creed, then βIt is meet and rightβ; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so right on to βOur Father.β
βTo my mind, Father Kuzma,β said the sacristan, βthe old βOur Fatherβ is better than the modern. Thatβs what we ought to sing before the Count.β
βNo, no.β ββ β¦ Sing the modern one. For the Count hears nothing but modern music when he goes to Mass in Petersburg or Moscow.β ββ β¦ In the churches there, I imagineβ ββ β¦ thereβs very different sort of music there, brother!β
After βOur Fatherβ there was again a great blowing of noses, coughing and turning over of pages. The most difficult part of the performance came next: the βconcert.β Alexey Alexeitch was practising two pieces, βWho is the God of gloryβ and βUniversal Praise.β Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the Count. During the βconcertβ the sacristan rose to a pitch of enthusiasm. The expression of benevolence was continually alternating with one of alarm.
βForte!β he muttered. βAndante! let yourselves go! Sing, you image! Tenors, you donβt bring it off! To-to-ti-to-tom.β ββ β¦ Solβ ββ β¦ siβ ββ β¦ sol, I tell you, you blockhead! Glory! Basses, gloβ ββ β¦ oβ ββ β¦ ry.β
His bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring trebles and altos. His left hand was continually pulling the ears of the young singers. On one occasion, carried away by his feelings he flipped the bass Gennady under the chin with his bent thumb. But the choristers were not moved to tears or to anger at his blows: they realised the full gravity of their task.
After the βconcertβ came a minute of silence. Alexey Alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on
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