I recently ploughed through a collection of Chekhov’s short
stories – 209 of them on my Kindle, although a few were duplicated – possibly
alternative translations. Did he write more than 209 minus the duplicates? I don’t know, but by gum they’re good.
I hadn’t read much
Chekhov up until then, but what a writer! He found time to be a doctor too.
Here he is writing a fictional, but one suspects all too real account of
peasant life in late nineteenth century Russia :-
Only the well-to-do
peasants were afraid of death; the richer they were the less they believed in
God, and in the salvation of souls, and only through fear of the end of the
world put up candles and had services said for them, to be on the safe side.
The peasants who were
rather poorer were not afraid of death. The old father and Granny were told to
their faces that they had lived too long, that it was time they were dead, and
they did not mind.
They did not hinder
Fyokla from saying in Nikolay's presence that when Nikolay died her husband
Denis would get exemption--to return home from the army. And Marya, far from
fearing death, regretted that it was so slow in coming, and was glad when her
children died.
Above all, they were
afraid of catching cold, and so put on thick clothes even in the summer and
warmed themselves at the stove. Granny was fond of being doctored, and often
went to the hospital, where she used to say she was not seventy, but
fifty-eight; she supposed that if the doctor knew her real age he would not
treat her, but would say it was time she died instead of taking medicine.
Anton Chekhov – Peasants (1897)
Russia has produced so much talent and to this outsider at
least, seemingly wasted under the thumbs of mass murderers and autocratic wastrels. Why I don’t know, but we still need talent like
Chekhov's.
There is one problem with him though. When I finally put aside
my Kindle and looked around at modern entertainers and celebrities...
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