Anton Chekhov

One must never judge by appearances! Look at this book: it has long ago been read. It is warped, tattered, and lies in the dust uncared for; but open it, and it will make you weep and turn pale. My sister is like that book. Lift the cover and peep into her soul, and you will be horror-stricken.

One day when she was younger and better-looking, and when her voice was stronger, Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov, her adorer, was sitting in the outer room in her summer villa. It was intolerably hot and stifling. Kolpakov, who had just dined and drunk a whole bottle of inferior port, felt ill-humoured and out of sorts. Both were bored and waiting for the heat of the day to be over in order to go for a walk.

Nikolai Ivanich has never reconciled himself to life in the city and makes plans to acquire enough money to buy a small estate where he can grow gooseberries, a symbol in his mind of happy life in the countryside. He saves every penny and spends his days dreaming of the future estate: where the main building will be located, ducks swimming in a pond, and where the gooseberry bushes will be planted. His brother sees it as an escape from reality and...

A native Frenchman no longer tutors the wealthy landlord's children as they've grown up and left the house. The Frenchman is now paid simply to be around, to be properly dressed, to smell of scent, and to listen to Kamyshev's babble, to eat and drink and sleep. It may sound like a dream job but there's always a catch.

Young impressionable Masha sees a tragic actor Fenogenov during his benefit night and falls madly in love with him. Masha decides to run away with the actor and marry him despite her father's clear disapproval. Her father disowns her describing her husband as idle, stupid, and of no fixed home or occupation. Masha later finds herself in desperate need of money and has to seek help from her farther.

Obviously he was born a mouse catcher, a worthy son of his bloodthirsty ancestors. Fate had destined him to be the terror of cellars, store-rooms and cornbins, and had it not been for education . . .

Natalya Bronin is lying in her bedroom, her whole being abandoned to repose. She lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking of her little daughter who lives somewhere far away with her grandmother or aunt. The child is more precious to her than the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers and she would be glad to think about her till morning. She is happy, at peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying undisturbed, dozing and dreaming...

In the cheapest room of a big block of furnished apartments Stepan Klotchkov, a medical student in his third year, was walking to and fro, zealously conning his anatomy. In the window, covered by patterns of frost, sat Anyuta, a thin little brunette of five-and-twenty, very pale with mild grey eyes. Sitting with bent back she was busy embroidering with red thread the collar of a man's shirt. She was working against time...

Surely that needs no explanation… If the teacher rides a bicycle, what can you expect the pupils to do? You will have them walking on their heads next!

Eaten away by illness, an elderly coffin maker named Yakov reflects on his life-in particular his indifferent relationship with his now-deceased wife, Marfa, and his antipathy towards Rothschild, the flutist in the Jewish klezmer orchestra in which Yakov occasionally plays.