The House with the Mezzanine

by Anton Chekhov

Overview

One of the greatest authors of all time, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was a Russian playwright and short story writer who lived from 29 January 1860 to 15 July 1904. Chekhov, a master of wry precision and a keen observer of everyday life in late 19th-century Russia, was a prolific writer. His lucid, nuanced writing creates a wide variety of characters. Each narrative creates an image that is vivid and stays in the memory for a long time, alternately tragic, humorous, and satirical. Chekhov's writing has the awe-inspiring, transformative power of great art. This excellent edition of his short stories, which has been expertly translated, is exceptionally true to Chekhov's true intent, providing readers with a genuine sense of his writing style and his brilliance.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9788119167296
Publisher:	Pharos Books Private Limited
Publication date:	07/31/2024
Pages:	192
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.44(d)

About the Author

Anton Chekhov (1860-1904) was a Russian author of plays and short stories. Although Chekhov became a physician and once considered medicine his primary career, he gained fame and esteem through writing, ultimately producing a number of well-known plays, including The Seagull and Uncle Vanya, and a large body of innovative short stories that influenced the evolution of the form.

Read an Excerpt

GOOSEBERRIES early morning the sky had been overcast with clouds; the day was still, cool, and wearisome, as usual on grey, dull days when the clouds hang low over the fields and it looks like rain, which never comes. Ivan Ivanich, the veterinary surgeon, and Bourkin, the schoolmaster, were tired of walking and the fields seemed endless to them. Far ahead they could just see the windmills of the village of Mirousky, to the right stretched away to disappear behind the village a line of hills, and they knew that it was the bank of the river; meadows, green willows, farmhouses; and from one of the hills there could be seen a field as endless, telegraph-posts, and the train, looking from a distance like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather even the town. In the calm weather when all Nature seemed gentle and melancholy, Ivan Ivanich and Bourkin were filled with love for the fields and thought how grand and beautiful the country was. "Last time, when we stopped in Prokofyi's shed," said Bourkin, "you were going to tell me a story." "Yes. I wanted to tell you about my brother." Ivan Ivanich took a deep breath and lighted his pipe before beginning his story, but just then the rain began to fall. And in about five minutes it came pelting down and showed no signs of stopping. Ivan Ivanich stopped and hesitated; the dogs, wet through, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them mournfully. "We ought to take shelter," said Bourkin. "Let us go to Aliokhin. It is close by." "Very well." They took a short cut over a stubble-field and then bore to the right, until they came to the road. Soon there appeared poplars, a garden, the red roofs of granaries; the river began toglimmer and they came to a wide road with a mill and a white bathing-shed. It was So...