Name:Anton Chekhov

Born: January 29 1860

Died: july 15 1904
At the Age Of : 44
He Was a: Physician
Plays: The Cherry Orchard, The Seagull, Three Sisters, more
Short stories: The Bet, The Lady with the Dog, Vanka, The Darling,
more
Influenced by: Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoyevsky

BackGround
Synopsis

Anton Chekhov was born on January 29, 1860, in Taganrog, Russia. Through
stories such as "The Steppe" and "The Lady with the Dog," and plays such
asThe Seagull and Uncle Vanya, the prolific writer emphasized the depths of
human nature, the hidden significance of everyday events and the fine line
between comedy and tragedy. Chekhov died of tuberculosis on July 15, 1904,
in Badenweiler, Germany

Youth and Education

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was born on January 29, 1860, in Taganrog, Russia.
His father, Pavel, was a grocer with frequent money troubles; his mother,
Yevgeniya, shared her love of storytelling with Chekhov and his five siblings.

When Pavels business failed in 1875, he took the family to Moscow to look for
other work while Chekhov remained in Taganrog until he finished his studies.
Chekhov finally joined his family in Moscow in 1879 and enrolled at medical
school. With his father still struggling financially, Chekhov supported the family
with his freelance writing, producing hundreds of short comic pieces under a
pen name for local magazines.

Early Writing Career

During the mid-1880s, Chekhov practiced as a physician and began to publish

serious works of fiction under his own name. His pieces appeared in the
newspaper New Times and then as part of collections such as Motley Stories
(1886). His story The Steppe was an important success, earning its author the
Pushkin Prize in 1888. Like most of Chekhovs early work, it showed the
influence of the major Russian realists of the 19th century, such as Leo Tolstoy
and Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

Chekhov also wrote works for the theater during this period. His earliest plays
were short farces; however, he soon developed his signature style, which was a
unique mix of comedy and tragedy. Plays such as Ivanov (1887) and The Wood
Demon (1889) told stories about educated men of the upper classes coping
with debt, disease and inevitable disappointment in life.

Major Works

Chekhov wrote many of his greatest works from the 1890s through the last few
years of his life. In his short stories of that period, including Ward No. 6 and
The Lady with the Dog, he revealed a profound understanding of human
nature and the ways in which ordinary events can carry deeper meaning.

In his plays of these years, Chekhov concentrated primarily on mood and

characters, showing that they could be more important than the plots. Not much
seems to happen to his lonely, often desperate characters, but their inner
conflicts take on great significance. Their stories are very specific, painting a
picture of pre-revolutionary Russian society, yet timeless.

From the late 1890s onward, Chekhov collaborated with Constantin

Stanislavski and the Moscow Art Theater on productions of his plays, including
his masterpieces The Seagull (1895), Uncle Vanya (1897), The Three
Sisters (1901) and The Cherry Orchard (1904).

Later Life and Death

In 1901, Chekhov married Olga Knipper, an actress from the Moscow Art
Theatre. However, by this point his health was in decline due to the tuberculosis
that had affected him since his youth. While staying at a health resort in
Badenweiler, Germany, he died in the early hours of July 15, 1904, at the age
of 44.

Chekhov is considered one of the major literary figures of his time. His plays
are still staged worldwide, and his overall body of work influenced important
writers of an array of genres, including James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway,
Tennessee Williams and Henry Miller.

Fat And Thin

Two friends -- one a fat man and the other a thin man -- met at the Nikolaevsky
station. The fat man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like
ripe cherries. He smelt of sherry and fleur d'orange. The thin man had just
slipped out of the train and was laden with portmanteaus, bundles, and
bandboxes. He smelt of ham and coffee grounds. A thin woman with a long
chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up came into view
behind his back.
"Porfiry," cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. "Is it you? My dear fellow!
How many summers, how many winters!"
"Holy saints!" cried the thin man in amazement. "Misha! The friend of my
childhood! Where have you dropped from?"
The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other with eyes
full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded.
"My dear boy!" began the thin man after the kissing. "This is unexpected! This
is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just as handsome as I used to be!
Just as great a darling and a dandy! Good gracious me! Well, and how are you?
Made your fortune? Married? I am married as you see. . . . This is my wife
Luise, her maiden name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion. . . .
And this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. This is the friend of
my childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!"
Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap.
"We were boys at school together," the thin man went on. "Do you remember
how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Herostratus because you
burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I was nicknamed Ephialtes
because I was fond of telling tales. Ho--ho! . . . we were children! . . . Don't be
shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was
Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. . . ."
Nafanail thought a little and took refuge behind his father's back.
"Well, how are you doing my friend?" the fat man asked, looking
enthusiastically at his friend. "Are you in the service? What grade have you
reached?"

"I am, dear boy! I have been a collegiate assessor for the last two years and I
have the Stanislav. The salary is poor, but that's no great matter! The wife
gives music lessons, and I go in for carving wooden cigarette cases in a private
way. Capital cigarette cases! I sell them for a rouble each. If any one takes ten
or more I make a reduction of course. We get along somehow. I served as a
clerk, you know, and now I have been transferred here as a head clerk in the
same department. I am going to serve here. And what about you? I bet you are
a civil councillor by now? Eh?"
"No dear boy, go higher than that," said the fat man. "I have risen to privy
councillor already . . . I have two stars."
The thin man turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon his face twisted in all
directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were flashing
from his face and eyes. He squirmed, he doubled together, crumpled up. . . .
His portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumple
up too. . . . His wife's long chin grew longer still; Nafanail drew himself up to
attention and fastened all the buttons of his uniform.
"Your Excellency, I . . . delighted! The friend, one may say, of childhood and to
have turned into such a great man! He--he!"
"Come, come!" the fat man frowned. "What's this tone for? You and I were
friends as boys, and there is no need of this official obsequiousness!"
"Merciful heavens, your Excellency! What are you saying. . . ?" sniggered the
thin man, wriggling more than ever. "Your Excellency's gracious attention is
like refreshing manna. . . . This, your Excellency, is my son Nafanail, . . . my
wife Luise, a Lutheran in a certain sense."
The fat man was about to make some protest, but the face of the thin man
wore an expression of such reverence, sugariness, and mawkish respectfulness
that the privy councillor was sickened. He turned away from the thin man,
giving him his hand at parting.

The thin man pressed three fingers, bowed his whole body and sniggered like a
Chinaman: "He--he--he!" His wife smiled. Nafanail scraped with his foot and
dropped his cap. All three were agreeably overwhelmed.

An Enigmatic Nature

ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady sits half reclining. An
expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off
her pretty little nose, the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat on the ocean.
She is greatly agitated.
On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special Commissions, a budding
young author, who from time to time publishes long stories of high life, or "Novelli" as he
calls them, in the leading paper of the province. He is gazing into her face, gazing intently,
with the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying, catching every shade of this
exceptional, enigmatic nature. He understands it, he fathoms it. Her soul, her whole
psychology lies open before him.
"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says the Secretary of Special
Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet. "Your sensitive, responsive soul is
seeking to escape from the maze of ---- Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose
heart, you will be triumphant! Yes!"
"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile. "My life has been
so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some
page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You
are a psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour together, and you have already
fathomed my heart."
"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"
"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart and was not
without intelligence; but the spirit of the age --of his environment--_vous comprenez?_--I do
not blame my poor father. He drank, gambled, took bribes. My mother--but why say more?
Poverty, the struggle for daily bread, the consciousness of insignificance--ah, do not force
me to recall it! I had to make my own way. You know the monstrous education at a
boarding-school, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth, the first timid flutter of
love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah,
you are an author. You know us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense
nature. I looked for happiness--and what happiness! I longed to set my soul free. Yes. In
that I saw my happiness!"
"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the bracelet. "It's not
you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do you remember Raskolnikov and his
kiss?"
"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every-- why affect modesty?--every
nature above the commonplace. I yearned for something extraordinary, above the common
lot of woman! And then--and then--there crossed my path--an old general--very well off.
Understand me, Voldemar! It was self-sacrifice, renunciation! You must see that! I could do
nothing else. I restored the family fortunes, was able to travel, to do good. Yet how I
suffered, how revolting, how loathsome to me were his embraces--though I will be fair to

him--he had fought nobly in his day. There were moments --terrible moments--but I was
kept up by the thought that from day to day the old man might die, that then I would begin
to live as I liked, to give myself to the man I adore--be happy. There is such a man,
Voldemar, indeed there is!"
The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a lachrymose expression.
She goes on:
"But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as a bird of the air. Now is
the moment for me to be happy, isn't it, Voldemar? Happiness comes tapping at my
window, I had only to let it in--but--Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time for me
to give myself to the man I love, to become the partner of his life, to help, to uphold his
ideals, to be happy--to find rest--but--how ignoble, repulsive, and senseless all our life is!
How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am wretched, wretched, wretched! Again there is an
obstacle in my path! Again I feel that my happiness is far, far away! Ah, what anguish!--if
only you knew what anguish!"
"But what--what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What is it?"
"Another old general, very well off----"
The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props on his fist his thought-heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in psychology. The engine is whistling
and hissing while the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun.

The Huntsman
ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady sits half reclining. An

expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps
dropping off her pretty little nose, the brooch heaves and falls on her
bosom, like a boat on the ocean. She is greatly agitated.
On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special Commissions,
a budding young author, who from time to time publishes long stories of
high life, or "Novelli" as he calls them, in the leading paper of the province.
He is gazing into her face, gazing intently, with the eyes of a connoisseur.
He is watching, studying, catching every shade of this exceptional,

enigmatic nature. He understands it, he fathoms it. Her soul, her whole
psychology lies open before him.
"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says the
Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet.
"Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of ---Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose heart, you will be
triumphant! Yes!"
"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile.
"My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am unhappy. I
am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my soul to the
world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a psychologist. We have
not been in the train an hour together, and you have already fathomed my
heart."
"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"
"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart and
was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age --of his environment-_vous comprenez?_--I do not blame my poor father. He drank, gambled, took
bribes. My mother--but why say more? Poverty, the struggle for daily bread,
the consciousness of insignificance--ah, do not force me to recall it! I had
to make my own way. You know the monstrous education at a boardingschool, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth, the first timid flutter
of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the agonies of losing faith in life,
in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You know us women. You will understand.
Unhappily I have an intense nature. I looked for happiness--and what
happiness! I longed to set my soul free. Yes. In that I saw my happiness!"

"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the
bracelet. "It's not you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do you
remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?"
"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every-- why affect
modesty?--every nature above the commonplace. I yearned for something
extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And then--and then--there
crossed my path--an old general--very well off. Understand me, Voldemar! It
was self-sacrifice, renunciation! You must see that! I could do nothing else.
I restored the family fortunes, was able to travel, to do good. Yet how I
suffered, how revolting, how loathsome to me were his embraces--though I
will be fair to him--he had fought nobly in his day. There were moments
--terrible moments--but I was kept up by the thought that from day to day
the old man might die, that then I would begin to live as I liked, to give
myself to the man I adore--be happy. There is such a man, Voldemar, indeed
there is!"
The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a lachrymose
expression. She goes on:
"But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as a bird of
the air. Now is the moment for me to be happy, isn't it, Voldemar?
Happiness comes tapping at my window, I had only to let it in--but-Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time for me to give myself to the
man I love, to become the partner of his life, to help, to uphold his ideals, to
be happy--to find rest--but--how ignoble, repulsive, and senseless all our life
is! How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am wretched, wretched, wretched! Again

there is an obstacle in my path! Again I feel that my happiness is far, far

away! Ah, what anguish!--if only you knew what anguish!"
"But what--what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What is it?"
"Another old general, very well off----"
The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props on his fist
his thought--heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in psychology.
The engine is whistling and hissing while the window curtains flush red
with the glow of the setting sun.