Mark André ’s Reviews > Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov > Status Update

The world was lit by the stars, . . . I do not recall ever having seen so many stars. [ . . . ] There were some as big as goose eggs, some as tiny as hempseed . . . all of them, from small to large, had come out in the sky, washed, renewed, joyful, and all of them to the last one quietly moved their rays. The sky was reflected in the water; the stars bathed in the dark depths and trembled with their light rippling.

In all her six or seven years wandering through various finished rooms, she had known some five men like Klochkov. Now they had all finished their studies, had made their way in life, and, of course, being decent people, had long forgotten her.
ANYUTA

You ought to have a penance laid on you.” From inside the sanctuary comes the bass voice of the deacon, who looks contemptuously at Andrei Andreich’s abashed face. “Then you’d stop acting smart! Your daughter was a famous artiste. Her death was even reported in the newspapers . . . Philosophized!

A fool is as a fool does . ..”
“So you tell me that you were unscrewing this nut in order to make a sinker out of it?”
“What else? Can’t play knucklebones with it!”
“But you could use a bit of lead for a sinker, a bullet . . . a nail of some sort . . .”
“You won’t find lead lying about, you’ve got to buy it, and a nail’s no good. There nothing better than a nut . . . It’s heavy, and it’s got a hole in it.”
MALEFACTOR

. . She sees his moving shoulders blades, his dashing head, his lazy, nonchalant stride, and her eyes fill with sadness and a tender caress . . . Her gaze moves over the tall, skinny figure of her husband and caresses and fondles it . . . He seems to feel this gaze, stops, and looks back . . . He is silent, but Pelageya can see from his face, from his raised shoulders, that he wants to say something to her.
HUNTSMAN

You stopped for a minute on Easter Day, and that God knows how . . . In a drunken state . . . You swore at me, beat me, and left . . . I’ve been waiting and waiting . . . I’ve looked my eyes out waiting for you . . . Eh, Yegor Vlasych, Yegor Vlasych! If only you’d come one little time!”
“What’s there for me to do at your place?”
“There’s nothing to do there, of course, just . . .

Ah . . . running about here, you devil!” With the palm of his hand he spitefully swatted the cockroach, which had had the misfortune of catching his eye. “What vileness!”
The cockroach fell on its back and desperately waved its legs . . . Nevyrazimov took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp. The lamp flared and crackled . . .
And Nevyrazimov felt better.

The need for a new, better life wrung his heart with unbearable anguish.

. . . and there’s a hissing samovar, and some little object beside you . . . You drink a glass, chuck her under the chin, and it feels good . . . you feel you’re a human being . . .

SMALL FRY