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Lady with Lapdog and Other Stories av Anton…

Lady with Lapdog and Other Stories (utgåvan 1975)

av Anton Chekhov (Författare)

MedlemmarRecensionerPopularitetGenomsnittligt betygOmnämnanden
8121019,952 (4.08)26
The Anton Chekhov classic, perhaps one of the most famous stories in the history of literature, comes accompanied by other stories by the Russian father of contemporary literature and one of the most influential writers of our time. El clásico de Antón Chejov, probablemente uno de los cuentos más famosos de la historia de la literatura, en una edición que incluye otros textos del gran autor ruso, padre de la literatura contemporánea y uno de los más influyentes escritores de nuestra epoca.… (mer)
Titel:Lady with Lapdog and Other Stories
Författare:Anton Chekhov (Författare)
Info:Penguin Books (1975)
Samlingar:Read in 2021


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engelska (7)  spanska (2)  nederländska (1)  Alla språk (10)
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Me ha sorprendido gratamente. Por el título no daba ni dos pesos, pero me he encontrado con un gigante de los cuentos, aparentemente. Simple pero profundo, cotidiano pero trascendental. Mis favoritos han sido «Iónich» y «La dama del perrito». ( )
  little_raven | Jun 1, 2020 |
  QUIQUEARG | Sep 15, 2018 |
One of the books that were on my literature list in the first two years of university. I liked it a lot :-) They certainly knew what books to pick so we wouldn't run away screaming :-)
Kept it for a long time, thinking I would eventually reread it. That never happened, so this book wil be set free soon. ( )
  BoekenTrol71 | Mar 27, 2018 |
[From A Writer’s Notebook, Doubleday & Company, 1949, p. 151:]


In Chekov on the other hand I discovered a spirit vastly to my liking. Here was a writer of real character, not a wild force like Dostoievsky, who amazes, inspires, terrifies and perplexes; but one with whom you could get on terms of intimacy. I felt that from him as from no other could be learned the secret of Russia. His range was great and his knowledge of life direct. He has been compared with Guy de Maupassant, but one would presume only by persons who have read neither. Guy de Maupassant is a clever story-teller, effective at his best – by which, of course, every writer has the right to be judged – but without much real relation to life. His better known stories interest you while you read them, but they are artificial so that they do not bear thinking of. […] Guy de Maupassant had the soul of a well-fed bagman; his tears and his laughter smack of the commercial room in a provincial hotel. He is the son of Monsieur Homais[1]. But with Chekov you do not seem to be reading stories at all. There is no obvious cleverness in them and you might think that anyone could write them, but for the fact that nobody does.
In the above I was grossly unfair to Maupassant. “La Maison Tellier” is enough to prove it.

[From the Preface to East and West, Doubleday, 1934:]

No one’s stock to-day stands higher with the best critics than Chekov’s. In fact he has put every other story-teller’s nose out of joint. To admire him is a proof of good taste; not to like him is to declare yourself a philistine. His stories are the models that young writers naturally take. This is understandable. On the face of it it is easier to write stories like Chekov’s than stories like Maupassant’s. To invent a story interesting in itself apart from the telling is a difficult thing, the power to do it is a gift of nature, it cannot be acquired by taking thought, and it is a gift that very few people have. Chekov’s had many gifts, but not this one. If you try to tell one of his stories you will find that there is nothing to tell. The anecdote, stripped of its trimmings, is insignificant and often inane. It was grand for people who wanted to write a story and couldn’t think of a plot to discover that you could very well manage without one. If you could take two of three persons, describe their mutual relations and leave it at that, why then it wasn’t so hard to write a story; and if you could flatter yourself that this really was art, what could be more charming?

But I am not quite sure that it is wise to found a technique on a writer’s defects. I have little doubt that Chekov would have written stories with ingenious, original and striking plot if he had been able to think of them. It was not in his temperament. Like all good writers he made a merit of his limitations. Was it not Goethe who said that an artist only achieves greatness when he recognises them?
I do not understand the people who say of Chekov’s stories that they are slices of life, I do not understand, that is, if they mean that they offer a true and typical picture of life. I do not believe they do that, nor do I think they ever did. I think they are marvellously lifelike, owing to the writer’s peculiar talent, I think they are deliberately chosen to square with the prepossessions of a sick, sad and overworked, gray-minded man. I do not blame them for that. Every writer sees the world in his own way and gives you his own picture of it. The imitation of life is not a reasonable aim of art; it is a discipline to which the artist from time to time subjects himself when the stylization of life has reached an extravagance that outrages common sense. For Chekov life is like a game of billiards in which you never pot the red, bring off a losing hazard or make a canon, and should you by a miraculous chance get a fluke you will almost certainly cut the cloth. […] I suppose that it is this attitude that makes his chief characters somewhat indistinct. He can give a striking portrait of a man in two lines, as much as can be said of anyone in two lines to set before you a living person, but with elaboration he seems to lose his grasp of the individual. His men are shadowy creatures, with vague impulses to good, but without will-power, shiftless, untruthful, fond of fine words, often with great ideals, but with no power of action. His women are lachrymose, slatternly and feeble-minded. Though they think it a sin they will commit fornication with anyone who asks them, not because they have passion, not even because they want to, but because it is too much trouble to refuse. It is only in his description of young girls that he seems touched with a tender indulgence.


But if I have ventured to make these observations I beg the reader not to think that I have anything but a very great admiration of Chekov. No writer, I repeat, is faultless. It is well to admire him for his merits. Not to recognize his imperfections, but rather to insist that they are excellencies, can in the long run only hurt his reputation. Chekov is extremely readable. That is a writer’s supreme virtue and one upon which sufficient stress is often not laid. He shared it with Maupassant. Both of them were professional writers who turned out stories at more or less regular intervals to earn their living. They wrote as a doctor visits his patients or a solicitor sees his clients. It was part of the day’s work. They had to please their readers. They were not always inspired, it was only now and then that they produced a masterpiece, but it is very seldom that they wrote anything that did not hold the reader’s attention to the last line. They both wrote for papers and magazines. Sometimes a critic will describe a book of short stories as magazine stories and thus in his own mind damn them. That is foolish. No form of art is produced unless there is a demand for it and if newspapers and magazines did not publish stories they would not be written. All stories are magazines stories or newspaper stories. The writers must accept certain (but constantly changing) conditions; it has never been known yet that a good writer was unable to write his best owing to the conditions under which alone he could gain a public for his work. That has never been anything but an excuse of the second-rate. I suspect that Chekov’s great merit of concision is due to the fact that the newspapers for which he habitually wrote could only give him a certain amount of space.
Chekov preached compactness. In his longer stories he did not always achieve it. He was distressed by the charge brought against him that he was indifferent to moral and sociological questions and when he had ample space at his command he seized the opportunity to show that they meant as much to him as to any right-thinking person. Then in long and somewhat tedious conversations he would make his characters express his own conviction that, whatever the conditions of things might be then, at some not far distant date (say 1934) the Russians would be free, tyranny would exist no longer, the poor would hunger no more and happiness, peace and brotherly love rule the vast empire. But these were aberrations forced upon him by the pressure of opinion (common in all countries) that the writer of fiction should be a prophet, a social reformer and a philosopher. In his shorter stories Chekov attained the concision he aimed at in a manner that is almost miraculous.

And no one had a greater gift than he for giving you the intimate feeling of a place, a landscape, a conversation or (within his limited range) a character. I suppose this is what people mean by the vague word atmosphere. Chekov seems to have achieved it very simply, without elaborate explanation or long description, by a precise narration of facts; and I think it was due with him to a power of seeing things with amazing naivety. The Russians are a semi-barbarous people and they have retained the power of seeing things naturally, as though they existed in a vacuum; while we in the West, with our complicated culture behind us, see things with the associations they have gathered during long centuries of civilization. They almost seem to see the thing in itself. […] It is a national gift. In no one was it more acutely developed than in Chekov.


Chekov had an amazing power of surrounding people with air so that, though he does not put them before you in the round and they lack the coarse, often brutal vitality of Maupassant’s figures, they live with a strange and unearthly life. They are not lit by the hard light of common day but suffused in mysterious grayness. They move in this as though they were disembodied spirits. It is their souls that you seem to see. The subconscious seems to come to the surface and they communicate with one another directly without the impediment of speech. […] You have the feeling of a vast, gray, lost throng wandering aimless in some dim underworld. It fills you with awe and uneasiness. I have hinted that Chekov had no great talent for inventing a multiplicity of persons. Under different names, with different environment, the same characters recur. It is as though, when you looked at the soul, the superficial difference vanishes and everyone is more or less the same. […] The importance of a writer in the long run rests on his uniqueness. I do not know that anyone but Chekov has so poignantly been able to represent spirit commuting with spirit. It is this that makes one feel that Maupassant in comparison is obvious and vulgar. The strange, the terrible thing is that, looking at man in their different ways, these two great writers, Maupassant and Chekov, saw eye to eye. One was content to look upon the flesh, the other, more nobly and subtly, surveyed the spirit; but they agreed that life was tedious and insignificant and that men were base, unintelligent and pitiful.


''Critics are like horse-flies which prevent the horse from ploughing,'' said Chekov. ''For over twenty years I have read criticisms of my stories, and I do not remember a single remark of any value or one word of valuable advice. Only once Skabichevsky wrote something which made an impression on me. He said I would die in a ditch, drunk.''

[From Points of View, Vintage Classics, 2000 [1958], “The Short Story”, pp. 159-76:]

But there was a country in which the formula [of Edgar Allan Poe] had little prevailed. In Russia they had been writing for a couple of generations stories of quite another order; and when the fact forced itself upon the attention both of readers and of authors that the kind of story that had so long found favour was grown tediously mechanical, it was discovered that in that country there was a body of writers who had made of the short story something new. It is singular that it took so long for this variety of the brief narrative to reach the Western World. It is true that the stories of Turgenev were read in French translations. He was accepted by the Goncourts, Flaubert and the intellectual circles in which they moved for his stately presence, his ample means and his aristocratic origins; and his works were appreciated with the modified rapture with which the French have always regarded the productions of foreign authors. Their attitude has been like that of Dr. Johnson with regard to a woman’s preaching, “It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.” It was not till Melchior de Vogué published his book Le Roman Russe in 1886 that Russian literature had any effect on the literary world of Paris. In due course, about 1905, I think, a number of Chekhov’s stories were translated into French and were on the whole favourably received. He remained little known in England. When he died, in 1904, he was regarded by the Russians as the foremost writer of his generation: the Encyclopaedia Britannica in the eleventh edition, published in 1911, had no more to say of him than, “But A. Chekhov showed considerable power in his short stories.” Cold praise. It was not till Mrs. Garnett brought out [1916–23] in thirteen little volumes a selection from his enormous output that English readers took interest in him. Since then the prestige of Russian writers in general, and of Chekhov in particular, has been enormous. It has to a large extent transformed the composition and the appreciation of short stories. Critical readers turn away with indifference from the story which is technically known as ‘well made’, and the writers who produce it still, for the delectation of the great mass of the public, are little considered.

Chekhov’s life has been written by David Magarshack.[2] It is a record of achievement effected notwithstanding terrific difficulties – poverty, onerous duties, harassing surroundings and wretched health. It is from this interesting and well-documented book that I have learnt the following facts.


Anton had the gift of improvising funny stories which, we are told, kept his friends in fits of laughter. In his family’s desperate situation he thought he might try his hand at writing them. He wrote one and sent it to a Petersburg weekly called The Dragon Fly. One January afternoon, on his way back from the medical school, he bought a copy and found that his story was accepted. He was to be paid five copecks a line. [...] From then Chekhov sent The Dragon Fly a story almost every week, but few were accepted; he placed them, however, with the Moscow papers, but they could afford to pay little; they were run on a shoe-string, and sometimes contributors, to receive their pittance, had to wait at the office till the newsboys brought in the copecks they had collected from the sale of copies in the street. It was a Petersburg editor, Leykin by name, who gave Chekhov his first chance. He conducted a journal called Fragments, and he gave Chekhov a commission to write a weekly story of one hundred lines at eight copecks a line. It was a humorous paper, and when Chekhov now and then sent in a serious story, Leykin complained that this was not what his readers wanted. Though the stories he wrote were well-liked and gained him some reputation, the limitations imposed upon him, both with regard to the length and matter of his contributions, irked him, so, to satisfy him, Leykin, who seems to have been a reasonable and kindly man, got him an offer from the Petersburg Gazette to write a weekly story, longer and of a different kind, at the same price of eight copecks a line. From 1880 to 1885 Chekhov wrote three hundred stories!


In 1884 Chekhov had a haemorrhage. Tuberculosis was in the family, and he could not but have known what this betokened, but from a fear that his suspicions would be confirmed he would not have himself examined by a specialist. [...] Towards the end of that year he passed his final examinations and became a qualified doctor. A few months later, he scraped together enough money to go for the first time to Petersburg. He had never attached any importance to his stories; they were written for money and he said that not one of them had taken him more than a day to write. On arriving in Petersburg he discovered to his amazement that he was famous. Slight as his stories were, intelligent persons in Petersburg, then the centre of culture in Russia, found in them freshness, liveliness and an original point of view. They made much of him. It was borne in upon him that he was looked upon as one of the most gifted writers of his day. Editors invited him to contribute to their journals at better prices than he had ever received before. One of Russia’s most distinguished authors urged him to have done with the sort of stories he had been writing and set himself to write stories of serious interest.

Chekhov was impressed, but he had never intended to become a professional writer. “Medicine”, he said, “is my lawful life and literature only my mistress,” and when he went back to Moscow it was with the intention of earning his living as a doctor.


In 1886 he had another haemorrhage. He knew he should go to the Crimea, where at that time consumptives went for the warmer climate, as in Western Europe they went to the French Riviera and Portugal – and died like flies; but he hadn’t a rouble to go on. In 1889 his brother Nicholas, a painter of some talent, died of tuberculosis. It was a shock and a warning. By 1892 his own health was so bad that he was afraid to spend another winter in Moscow. On borrowed money he bought a small estate near a village called Melikhovo fifty miles from Moscow and as usual took his family with him, his difficult father, his mother, his sister and his brother Michael. He bought a cartload of medicaments and, as ever, patients flocked to see him. He treated them as best he could and never charged them a copeck.

Off and on he spent five years at Melikhovo and on the whole they were happy years. He wrote a number of his best stories there and was handsomely paid for them, forty copecks a line, which was nearly a shilling. He concerned himself with local affairs, got a new road made, and built schools for the peasantry at his own expense. His brother Alexander, a confirmed drunkard, came to stay, with his wife and children; friends came on visits that sometimes lasted for days, and though he complained that they interfered with his work, he could not live without them. Though constantly ill, he remained gay, friendly, amusing and cheerful. Now and then he went on a jaunt to Moscow. [...] He went abroad, to Biarritz and Nice, and finally settled at Yalta in the Crimea. The doctors had advised him to live there permanently and, on advance from Suvorin, his friend and editor, he built himself a house there. He was as usual in dire financial difficulties.

That he could no longer practise medicine was a bitter blow to him. I don’t know what sort of a doctor he was. After being qualified, he had never done more than three months clinical work in a hospital and I surmise that his treatment of patients was somewhat rough and ready. But he had common sense and sympathy, and if he left nature to take its course, he probably did his patients as much good as a man of greater knowledge would have done. The varied experiences he thus gained served him well. I have reasons for believing that the training a medical student has to go through is to a writer’s benefit. He acquires a knowledge of human nature which is invaluable. He sees it at its best and at its worst. When people are ill, when they are afraid, they discard the mask which they wear in health. The doctor sees them as they really are, selfish, hard, grasping, cowardly; but brave too, generous, kindly and good. He is tolerant of their frailties, awed by their virtues.[3]


Alexander Kuprin in his reminiscences of Chekhov wrote as follows, “I think he did not open or give his heart completely to anyone. But he regarded everybody kindly, indifferently so far as friendship is concerned – and at the same time with a great, perhaps unconscious interest.” This is strangely revealing. It tells us more about Chekhov than any of the facts that in my brief account of his life I have had occasion to relate.

Chekhov’s early stories were for the most part humorous. He wrote them very easily; he wrote, he said, as a bird sings, and attached no importance to them. It was not till his first visit to Petersburg, when he discovered that he was accepted as a promising and talented author, that he began to take himself seriously. He set himself then to acquire proficiency in his craft. One day a friend found him copying a story of Tolstoy’s and when asked what he was doing, he replied, “I’m re-writing it.” His friend was shocked that he should take such a liberty with the master’s work, whereupon Chekhov explained that he was doing it as an exercise; he had conceived the idea (for all I know, a good one) that by doing this he could learn the methods of the writers he admired and so evolve a manner of his own. It is evident that his labour was not wasted. He learnt to compose his stories with consummate skill: The Peasants, for instance, is as elegantly constructed as Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. Chekhov trained himself to write simply, clearly and concisely, and we are told that he achieved a style of great beauty. That, we who read him in translation must take on trust, for even in the most accurate translation the tang, the feeling, the euphony of the author’s words are lost.

Chekhov was very much concerned with the technique of the short story and he had some uncommonly interesting things to say about it. He claimed that a story should contain nothing that was superfluous. “Everything that has no relation to it must be ruthlessly thrown away,” he wrote. “If in the first chapter you say that a gun hung on a wall, in the second or third chapter it must without fail be discharged.”[4] That seems sound enough, and sound too is his claim that descriptions of nature should be brief and to the point. He was himself able in a word or two to give the reader a vivid impression of a summer night when the nightingales were singing their heads off or of the cold brilliance of the boundless steppes under the snows of winter. It was a priceless gift. I am more doubtful about his condemnation of anthropomorphisms. “The sea laughs,” he wrote in a letter, “you are of course in raptures over it. But it’s crude and cheap... The sea doesn’t laugh or cry, it roars, flashes, glistens. Just look how Tolstoy does it: ‘The sun rises and sets, the birds sing.’ No one laughs or sobs. And that’s the chief thing – simplicity.” That is true enough, but, when all’s said and done, we have been personifying nature since the beginning of time and it comes so naturally to us that it is only by an effort that we can avoid it. Chekhov himself did not always do so; and in his story, The Duel, he tells us that “a star peeped out and timidly blinked its one eye”. I see nothing objectionable in that; in fact I like it. To his brother Alexander, also a short story writer, but a poor one, he said that an author must never describe emotions that he has not felt himself. That is a hard saying. Surely it is unnecessary to commit a murder in order to describe convincingly enough the emotions that a murderer may feel when he has done so. After all, the writer has imagination and if he is a good writer he has the power of empathy which enables him to feel the feelings of the characters of his invention. But the most drastic demand that Chekhov made was that an author should strike out both the beginning and the end of his stories. That was what he did himself, and so rigorously that his friends used to say that his manuscripts should be snatched away before he had a chance to mutilate them, “otherwise he will reduce his stories only to this, that they were young, fell in love, married and were unhappy.” When this was told Chekhov, he replied, “But look here, so it does happen in fact.”

Chekhov took Maupassant as his model. If he had not told us that himself I would never have believed it, for their aims and methods seem to me entirely different. In general, Maupassant sought to make his stories dramatic and in order to do this, as I have before said, he was prepared if necessary to sacrifice probability. I am inclined to think that Chekhov deliberately eschewed the dramatic. He dealt with ordinary people leading ordinary lives: “People don’t go to the North Pole to fall off icebergs,” he wrote in one of his letters. “They go to offices, quarrel with their wives and eat cabbage soup.” One may fairly object to this that people do go to the North Pole, and if they don’t fall off icebergs they undergo adventures as perilous and there is no reason in the world why an author shouldn’t write very good stories about them. Obviously it is not enough that people should go to their offices and eat cabbage soup, and I don’t believe that Chekhov ever thought it was: in order to make a story, surely they must steal the petty cash at the office or accept bribes, beat or deceive their wives, and when they eat cabbage soup it must be with significance. It then becomes a symbol of a happy domestic life or of the anguish of a frustrated one.

Chekhov’s medical practice, desultory though it was, brought him into contact with all manner of persons, the peasants and the factory workers, the owners of factories, the merchants and the more or less minor officials who played a devastating part in the lives of the people, the landowners who by the liberation of the serfs were reduced to penury. He does not seem ever to have been in touch with the aristocracy, and I know only one story, the bitter story called The Princess, in which he was concerned with it. He wrote with ruthless candour of the fecklessness of the landowners who let their properties go to rack and ruin; of the wretched lot of the factory workers who lived on the verge of starvation, toiling twelve hours a day so that their employers might add estate to estate; of the vulgarity and greed of the merchant class; of the filth, drunkenness, brutality, ignorance, laziness of the ill paid, ever hungry peasants and the stinking, verminous hovels in which they lived.


When Rudyard Kipling in his Plain Tales of the Hills wrote of the Indian civilians, the polo-playing officers and their wives, he wrote with the naive admiration of a young journalist of modest extraction dazzled by what he took for glamour. It is amazing that no one at the time saw what a damning indictment of the Paramount Power these stories were. You cannot read them now without realising how inevitable it was that the British sooner or later would be forced to surrender their hold on India. So with Chekhov. Objective as he tried to be, intent only on describing life with truth, you cannot read his stories without its being born upon you that the brutality and ignorance he wrote of, the corruption, the miserable poverty of the poor and the insouciance of the rich, must inevitably result in a bloody revolution.

[1] The ambitious and unscrupulous pharmacist from Madame Bovary. Ed.
[2] Chekhov: A Life, Faber and Faber, 1952. Ed.
[3] Cf. The Summing Up (1938), Chapter XIX. Ed.
[4] Maugham did this with a parang in his story “Before the Party”. Ed.
1 rösta WSMaugham | Apr 24, 2017 |
Lovely. Gentle warm nostalgic ironic. all the best qualities one might associate with Chekhov. Intimate sense of its period yet does not seem dated. feel I have actually met a group of sad but rounded human beings.
I know the plays quite well and read some of the stories a while back without really getting them. This reading was a delight.Give me more ( )
1 rösta vguy | Nov 28, 2016 |
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Anton Chekhovprimär författarealla utgåvorberäknat
Baldick, RobertRedaktörmedförfattarevissa utgåvorbekräftat
Magarshack, DavidÖversättaremedförfattarevissa utgåvorbekräftat
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Rieu, E. V.Redaktörmedförfattarevissa utgåvorbekräftat
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The Anton Chekhov classic, perhaps one of the most famous stories in the history of literature, comes accompanied by other stories by the Russian father of contemporary literature and one of the most influential writers of our time. El clásico de Antón Chejov, probablemente uno de los cuentos más famosos de la historia de la literatura, en una edición que incluye otros textos del gran autor ruso, padre de la literatura contemporánea y uno de los más influyentes escritores de nuestra epoca.

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