Complete Works of Anton Chekhov

“I have sown clover and oats.”‘

“No good; you had much better sow lucerne.”

“I have begun to keep a pig.”

“No good. It does not pay. You had better go in for mares.”

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A girl, a devoted friend, out of the best of motives, went about with a subscription list for X., who was not in want.

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Why are the dogs of Constantinople so often described?

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Disease: “He has got hydropathy.”

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I visit a friend, find him at supper; there are many guests. It is very gay; I am glad to chatter with the women and drink wine. A wonderfully pleasant mood. Suddenly up gets N. with an air of importance, as though he were a public prosecutor, and makes a speech in my honor. “The magician of words … ideals … in our time when ideals grow dim … you are sowing wisdom, undying things….” I feel as if I had had a cover over me and that now the cover had been taken off and some one was aiming a pistol at me.

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After the speech — a murmur of conversation, then silence. The gayety has gone. “You must speak now,” says my neighbor. But what can I say? I would gladly throw the bottle at him. And I go to bed with some sediment in my soul. “Look what a fool sits among you!”

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The maid, when she makes the bed, always puts the slippers under the bed close to the wall. The fat master, unable to bear it any longer, gives the maid notice. It turns out that the doctor told her to put the slippers as far as possible under the bed so as to cure the man of his obesity.

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The club blackballed a respectable man because all of the members were out of humor; they ruined his prospects.

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A large factory. The young employer plays the superior to all and is rude to the employees who have University degrees. Only the gardener, a German, has the courage to be offended: “How dare you, gold bag?”

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A tiny little schoolboy with the name of Trachtenbauer.

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Whenever he reads in the newspaper about the death of a great man, he wears mourning.

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In the theatre. A gentleman asks a lady to take her hat off, as it is in his way. Grumbling, disagreeableness, entreaties. At last a confession: “Madam, I am the author of the play.” She answered: “I don’t care.”

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In order to act wisely it is not enough to be wise (Dostoevsky).

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A. and B. have a bet. A. wins the wager, by eating twelve cutlets; B. does not pay even for the cutlets.

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It is terrible to dine every day with a person who stammers and says stupid things.

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Glancing at a plump, appetizing woman: “It is not a woman, it is a full moon.”

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From her face one would imagine that under her stays she has got gills.

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For a farce: Kapiton Ivanovitch Boil.

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An income-tax inspector and an excise official, in order to justify their occupations to themselves, say spontaneously: “It is an interesting profession, there is a lot of work, it is a live occupation.”

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At twenty she loved Z., at twenty-four she married N. not because she loved him, but because she thought him a good, wise, ideal man. The couple lived happily; every one envies them, and indeed their life passes smoothly and placidly; she is satisfied, and, when people discuss love, she says that for family life not love nor passion is wanted, but affection. But once the music played suddenly, and, inside her heart, everything broke up like ice in spring: she remembered Z. and her love for him, and she thought with despair that her life was ruined, spoilt for ever, and that she was unhappy. Then it happened to her with the New Year greetings; when people wished her “New Happiness,” she indeed longed for new happiness.

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Z. goes to a doctor, who examines him and finds that he is suffering from heart disease. Z. abruptly changes his way of life, takes medicine, can only talk about his disease; the whole town knows that he has heart disease and all the doctors, whom he regularly consults, say that he has got heart disease. He does not marry, gives up amateur theatricals, does not drink, and when he walks does so slowly and hardly breathes. Eleven years later he has to go to Moscow and there he consults a specialist. The latter finds that his heart is perfectly sound. Z. is overjoyed, but he can no longer return to a normal life, for he has got accustomed to going to bed early and to walking slowly, and he is bored if he cannot speak of his disease. The only result is that he gets to hate doctors — that is all.

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A woman is fascinated not by art, but by the noise made by those who have to do with art.

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N., a dramatic critic, has a mistress X., an actress. Her benefit night. The play is rotten, the acting poor, but N. has to praise. He writes briefly: “The play and the leading actress had an enormous success. Particulars to-morrow.” As he wrote the last two words, he gave a sigh of relief. Next day he goes to X.; she opens the door, allows him to kiss and embrace her, and in a cutting tone says: “Particulars to-morrow.”

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