{"product_id":"the-beauties-isbn-9781805330301","title":"The Beauties","description":"\u003cb\u003eA beautiful collection of 13 classic \u003cb\u003eRussian short stories by “the greatest short story writer who has ever lived” (\u003c\/b\u003eRaymond Chandler\u003cb\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout doubt one of the greatest observers of human nature in all its messy complexity, Chekhov’s short stories are exquisite masterpieces in miniature. His work ranged from the light-hearted comic tales of his early years to some of the most achingly profound stories ever composed, and this variety of tone and temper is collected in this essential new collection.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChekhov wrote stories throughout his writing career, and this selection has been chosen from amongst his life’s work, including many of his greatest works, alongside unfamiliar discoveries, all newly translated. From the masterpiece of minimalism “The Beauties”, to the beloved classic “The Lady with the Little Dog”, and from “Rothschild's Fiddle” to bitterly funny “A Living Chronicle”, the stories collected here are the essential collection of Chekhov’s greatest tales.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCONTENTS:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Beauties (1888)\u003cbr\u003eThe Man in a Box (1898)\u003cbr\u003eA Day in the Country (1886)\u003cbr\u003eA Blunder (1886)\u003cbr\u003eAbout Love (1898)\u003cbr\u003eGrief (1886)\u003cbr\u003eThe Bet (1889)\u003cbr\u003eA Misfortune (1886)\u003cbr\u003eSergeant Prishibeyev (1885)\u003cbr\u003eThe Lady with the Little Dog (1899)\u003cbr\u003eThe Huntsman (1885)\u003cbr\u003eThe Privy Councillor (1886)\u003cbr\u003eThe Kiss (1887)“This beautifully produced selection of the stories from Pushkin Press (in a new translation by Nicolas Pasternak Slater) is an ideal way to discover Chekhov.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Times\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mysterious and mesmerizing, these stories stay enshrined in the memory.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Daily Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Near-perfect fiction, newly translated.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEvening Standard\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The uncontestable father of the modern short story . . . his stories are some of the best that have ever been written.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The language is subtle and lovely, full of a regretful tenderness.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSunday Express\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chekhov's genius lies in the way he manages to convey with such apparent effortlessness a profound sense of the mystery of beauty, and of the sadness of those who observe and think . . . a masterpiece of minimalism” —\u003cb\u003ePhillip Pullman\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The greatest short story writer who has ever lived” —\u003cb\u003eRaymond Carver\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In Chekhov literature seems to break its wand like Prospero, renouncing the magic of artifice, ceremony and idealization, and facing us, for the first time, with a reflection of ourselves in our unadorned ordinariness as well as our unfathomable strangeness.” —\u003cb\u003eJames Ladsun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnton Chekhov\u003c\/b\u003e (1860-1904) was born in Taganrog, Russia, the son of a grocer. While training as a physician he supported his family with his freelance writing, composing hundreds of short comic pieces under a pen name for local magazines. He went on to write major works of drama, including \u003ci\u003eThe Seagull\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eUncle Vanya\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Cherry Orchard\u003c\/i\u003e, but continued to write prize-winning short stories up until his death from tuberculosis at the age of 44.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNicolas Pasternak Slater\u003c\/b\u003e, a bilingual nephew of Boris Pasternak, is a retired haemotologist. Published translations include Dostoevsky's \u003ci\u003eCrime and Punishment\u003c\/i\u003e, Pasternak's \u003ci\u003eDoctor Zhivago\u003c\/i\u003e, Tolstoy's short stories, and, for Pushkin Press, stories by Ivan Turgenev and Anton Chekhov.The Beauties\u003cbr\u003e I\u003cbr\u003e I remember, when I was a high school boy in the fifth or\u003cbr\u003e sixth class, driving with my grandfather from the village\u003cbr\u003e of Bolshaya Krepkaya in the Don Region to Rostov-on-\u003cbr\u003e Don. It was a wearisomely dreary, sultry August day. The\u003cbr\u003e heat and the burning dry wind blew clouds of dust in our\u003cbr\u003e faces, gummed up my eyes and dried out my mouth. I didn’t\u003cbr\u003e feel like looking around, or talking, or thinking; and when\u003cbr\u003e Karpo, our drowsy Ukrainian driver, caught my cap with\u003cbr\u003e his whip as he lashed his horse, I didn’t protest or utter a\u003cbr\u003e sound; I just woke from my doze and gazed meekly and\u003cbr\u003e dispiritedly into the distance to see if I could make out a\u003cbr\u003e village through the dust. We stopped to feed the horse at the\u003cbr\u003e house of a rich Armenian whom my grandfather knew, in\u003cbr\u003e the big Armenian village of Bakhchi-Salakh. Never in my\u003cbr\u003e life had I seen such a caricature of a man as this Armenian.\u003cbr\u003e Imagine a small, shaven head with thick beetling eyebrows,\u003cbr\u003e a beaky nose, a long grizzled moustache and a wide mouth\u003cbr\u003e with a long cherrywood chibouk poking out of it. The little\u003cbr\u003e head was clumsily attached to a skinny, hunchbacked body,\u003cbr\u003edressed in fantastic attire – a short red tunic and wide,\u003cbr\u003e baggy, bright-blue trousers. This figure walked with his\u003cbr\u003e legs wide apart, shuffling along in slippers, talked without\u003cbr\u003e taking his chibouk out of his mouth, and carried himself\u003cbr\u003e with true Armenian dignity, neither smiling nor staring,\u003cbr\u003e but striving to pay his guests as little attention as possible.\u003cbr\u003e There was no wind or dust inside this Armenian’s\u003cbr\u003e home, but it was just as unpleasant, stifling and dreary\u003cbr\u003e as the road and the steppe outside. I remember sitting,\u003cbr\u003e covered in dust and worn out by the burning heat, on a\u003cbr\u003e green box in a corner. The bare wooden walls, the furniture\u003cbr\u003e and the ochre-stained floors all smelt of sun-scorched\u003cbr\u003e dry wood. Everywhere you looked there were flies, flies,\u003cbr\u003e flies… Grandfather and the Armenian were talking in an\u003cbr\u003e undertone about grazing, pastures, sheep… I knew that\u003cbr\u003e it would take a whole hour to get the samovar ready, and\u003cbr\u003e Grandfather would spend another hour drinking his tea,\u003cbr\u003e and then he’d lie down and sleep for two or three hours, and\u003cbr\u003e I’d waste a quarter of the day hanging about, after which\u003cbr\u003e there would be more heat, and dust, and rattling about\u003cbr\u003e in the cart. I listened to the murmur of those two voices\u003cbr\u003e and began to feel that the Armenian, and the crockery\u003cbr\u003e cupboard, and the flies, and the windows with the hot sun\u003cbr\u003e beating in, were all something I had been seeing for a long,\u003cbr\u003e long time, and that I would only cease to see them in the\u003cbr\u003e far distant future. And I was overcome with loathing for\u003cbr\u003e the steppe, and the sun, and the flies…\u003cbr\u003eA Ukrainian peasant woman in a headscarf brought\u003cbr\u003e in the tray with the tea things, and then the samovar. The\u003cbr\u003e Armenian strolled out onto the porch and called:\u003cbr\u003e “Mashya! Come and pour the tea! Where are you?\u003cbr\u003e Mashya!”\u003cbr\u003e There was the sound of hurried footsteps, and in came\u003cbr\u003e a girl of about sixteen, in a simple cotton dress and a\u003cbr\u003e little white headscarf. As she rinsed the cups and poured\u003cbr\u003e out the tea she was standing with her back to me, and all\u003cbr\u003e I noticed was that she had a slim waist, her feet were bare,\u003cbr\u003e and her little bare heels were covered by the bottoms of\u003cbr\u003e her long trousers.\u003cbr\u003e Our host invited me to come and have tea. As I sat down\u003cbr\u003e at the table, I glanced at the girl’s face while she handed\u003cbr\u003e me my glass, and suddenly felt something like a breath\u003cbr\u003e of wind over my soul, blowing away all my impressions\u003cbr\u003e of the day, with its tedium and dust. I saw the enchanting\u003cbr\u003e features of the loveliest face I had ever seen in my\u003cbr\u003e waking life, or imagined in my dreams. Before me stood a\u003cbr\u003e beauty, and from the very first glance I understood that,\u003cbr\u003e as I understand lightning.\u003cbr\u003e I am ready to swear that Masha, or Mashya as her\u003cbr\u003e father called her, was a real beauty; but I cannot prove it.\u003cbr\u003e It sometimes happens that ragged clouds gather on the\u003cbr\u003e horizon, and the sun, hiding behind them, colours them\u003cbr\u003e and the sky in every possible hue – crimson, orange, golden,\u003cbr\u003e lilac, dusty pink; one cloud looks like a monk, another like\u003cbr\u003ea fish, a third like a Turk in a turban. The sunset glow fills a\u003cbr\u003e third of the sky, shining on the church cross and the window\u003cbr\u003e panes of an elegant house, reflected in the river and the\u003cbr\u003e puddles, shimmering on the trees; far, far away against the\u003cbr\u003e sunset, a flock of wild ducks flies off to its night’s rest…\u003cbr\u003e And the farm lad herding his cows, the surveyor driving his\u003cbr\u003e chaise over the dam, and the gentlefolk out for their stroll,\u003cbr\u003e all gaze at the sunset, and every one of them finds it terribly\u003cbr\u003e beautiful, but no one knows or can say what makes it so.\u003cbr\u003e I was not the only one to find this Armenian girl beautiful.\u003cbr\u003e My grandfather, an old man of eighty, rough and\u003cbr\u003e indifferent to women and the beauties of nature, gazed\u003cbr\u003e affectionately at Masha for a whole minute, and asked:\u003cbr\u003e “Is this your daughter, Avet Nazarich?”\u003cbr\u003e “Yes. That’s my daughter…” replied our host.\u003cbr\u003e “A fine young lady,” said Grandfather appreciatively.\u003cbr\u003e An artist would have called this Armenian girl’s beauty\u003cbr\u003e classical and severe. It was just the sort of beauty which, as\u003cbr\u003e you contemplate it, heaven knows how, fills you with the\u003cbr\u003e certainty that the features you are seeing are right – that\u003cbr\u003e the hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, breast, and all the movements\u003cbr\u003e of this young body, have come together in a single,\u003cbr\u003e complete harmonic chord, in which nature has committed\u003cbr\u003e not the slightest error; you somehow feel that a woman of\u003cbr\u003e ideal beauty must possess exactly the same nose as Masha’s,\u003cbr\u003e straight and slightly aquiline, the same large dark eyes,\u003cbr\u003e the same long eyelashes, the same languid look; that her\u003cbr\u003ewavy black hair and eyebrows go with the gentle whiteness\u003cbr\u003e of her brow and cheeks just as a green rush goes with a\u003cbr\u003e quiet stream. Masha’s white neck and youthful breast were\u003cbr\u003e not yet fully developed, but in order to create them in a\u003cbr\u003e sculpture, you feel, one would have to possess an enormous\u003cbr\u003e creative talent. You look on, and gradually find yourself\u003cbr\u003e wishing to tell Masha something uncommonly agreeable,\u003cbr\u003e sincere and beautiful, as beautiful as herself.\u003cbr\u003e At first I was upset and embarrassed that Masha took\u003cbr\u003e no notice of me, but kept her eyes lowered; there was,\u003cbr\u003e it seemed to me, some special atmosphere of happiness\u003cbr\u003e and pride about her that separated her from me, jealously\u003cbr\u003e shielding her from my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e “It’s because I’m all covered in dust, and sunburnt,”\u003cbr\u003e I thought, “and because I’m only a boy.”\u003cbr\u003e But then I gradually forgot all about myself, and gave\u003cbr\u003e myself up wholly to the appreciation of beauty. I no longer\u003cbr\u003e remembered the tedium of the steppe, or the dust; I no\u003cbr\u003e longer heard the buzzing of the flies, nor noticed the taste\u003cbr\u003e of the tea – I was simply aware that opposite me, across\u003cbr\u003e the table, there stood a beautiful girl.\u003cbr\u003e I perceived her beauty in a strange sort of way. Masha\u003cbr\u003e aroused in me neither desire, nor delight, nor enjoyment,\u003cbr\u003e but a strange though pleasant sadness. This sadness was\u003cbr\u003e as indeterminate and vague as a dream. For some reason,\u003cbr\u003e I felt sorry for myself, and Grandfather, and the Armenian,\u003cbr\u003e and the Armenian maiden herself; I felt as if all four of us\u003cbr\u003ehad lost something important and essential for life, which\u003cbr\u003e we would never find again. Grandfather grew sad too. He\u003cbr\u003e no longer talked about pastures or sheep, but sat in silence,\u003cbr\u003e looking thoughtfully at Masha.\u003cbr\u003e After tea, Grandfather lay down to sleep, while I went\u003cbr\u003e out to sit on the porch. This house, like every house in\u003cbr\u003e Bakhchi-Salakh, was exposed in full sunlight – there were\u003cbr\u003e no trees, or awnings, or shade. The Armenian’s great\u003cbr\u003e farmyard, overgrown with goosefoot and mallow, was full\u003cbr\u003e of life and merriment despite the baking heat. Threshing\u003cbr\u003e was in progress behind one of the low wattle fences that ran\u003cbr\u003e across the yard here and there. Twelve horses harnessed in\u003cbr\u003e line around a post set in the very middle of the threshing\u003cbr\u003e floor, and forming a single long radius around it, were\u003cbr\u003e trotting round in circles. Beside them walked a Ukrainian\u003cbr\u003e in a long tunic and wide trousers, cracking his whip and\u003cbr\u003e shouting out as if he meant to taunt the horses and boast\u003cbr\u003e of his power over them:\u003cbr\u003e “He-e-ey, you wretches! He-e-ey… go die of cholera!\u003cbr\u003e Frightened, are you?”\u003cbr\u003e The chestnut, white and piebald horses had no idea why\u003cbr\u003e they were being forced to trot around in circles crushing\u003cbr\u003e wheat straw, and they ran unwillingly, forcing themselves\u003cbr\u003e on and flicking their tails with a discontented air. The\u003cbr\u003e wind raised great clouds of golden chaff from under their\u003cbr\u003e hooves, carrying it far away over the fence. Women with\u003cbr\u003e rakes jostled one another beside tall, newly built hayricks,\u003cbr\u003ecarts moved about, and in another yard beyond the hayricks\u003cbr\u003e another dozen similar horses trotted around a post, and\u003cbr\u003e a second Ukrainian like the first cracked his whip and\u003cbr\u003e taunted them.\u003cbr\u003e The steps I was sitting on were hot, and the heat brought\u003cbr\u003e sap oozing up out of the flimsy railings and window frames.\u003cbr\u003e Little red bugs huddled together in the strips of shade under\u003cbr\u003e the steps and behind the shutters. The sun beat down on\u003cbr\u003e my head, and my chest, and my back, but I was unaware\u003cbr\u003e of it: all I noticed was the padding of bare feet behind me,\u003cbr\u003e on the porch and indoors. When Mashya had cleared away\u003cbr\u003e the tea things, she ran past me down the steps, fanning the\u003cbr\u003e air around me as she passed, and flew like a bird to a little\u003cbr\u003e smoke-blackened outhouse, the kitchen I suppose, from\u003cbr\u003e which came a smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry\u003cbr\u003e Armenian voices. She vanished through the dark doorway,\u003cbr\u003e and in her place a hunchbacked old Armenian woman,\u003cbr\u003e red-faced and wearing wide green trousers, appeared at\u003cbr\u003e the door. She was angrily scolding someone. Soon Mashya\u003cbr\u003e reappeared in the doorway, flushed with the heat of the\u003cbr\u003e kitchen and carrying a large black loaf on her shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e Bending gracefully under its weight, she ran across the\u003cbr\u003e yard to the threshing floor, skipped over the fence, and,\u003cbr\u003e enveloped by a cloud of golden chaff, disappeared behind\u003cbr\u003e the farm carts. The farm hand driving the horses lowered\u003cbr\u003e his whip, held his tongue and stood in silence for a minute\u003cbr\u003e looking over towards the carts; then, when the Armenian\u003cbr\u003egirl once more darted past the horses and skipped over\u003cbr\u003e the fence, he followed her with his eyes and shouted at the\u003cbr\u003e horses in a most offended voice:\u003cbr\u003e “Hey! Go drop down dead, you devil’s brood!”\u003cbr\u003e And all the time after that I went on hearing her bare\u003cbr\u003e feet stepping here and there, and saw her crossing and\u003cbr\u003e recrossing the farmyard with a serious, troubled expression.\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes she ran up or down the steps, fanning me with\u003cbr\u003e a breeze as she passed on her way to the kitchen, or the\u003cbr\u003e threshing-floor, or out of the gate, and I scarcely had time\u003cbr\u003e to turn my head and follow her.\u003cbr\u003e And every time she darted past me in all her beauty,\u003cbr\u003e I felt sadder and sadder. I was sorry for myself, and for\u003cbr\u003e her, and for the farm hand who followed her with sad eyes\u003cbr\u003e every time she ran through the cloud of chaff to the carts.\u003cbr\u003e Whether I envied her beauty, or whether I was sorry that\u003cbr\u003e this girl was not mine and never would be mine and that\u003cbr\u003e I was a stranger to her, or whether I had a vague feeling\u003cbr\u003e that her rare beauty was accidental and unnecessary, and\u003cbr\u003e like everything on earth, would not last; or whether my\u003cbr\u003e sadness was that special feeling aroused when a person\u003cbr\u003e contemplates real beauty – God only knows!\u003cbr\u003e Three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to\u003cbr\u003e me that I hadn’t had time to look my fill at Mashya before\u003cbr\u003e Karpo had ridden to the river, washed down the horse,\u003cbr\u003e and was already harnessing it. The wet horse snorted with\u003cbr\u003e pleasure and kicked its hooves against the shafts. Karpo\u003cbr\u003eshouted “Ba-a-ack!” Grandfather woke. Mashya opened\u003cbr\u003e the creaking gates for us, we took our places in the chaise,\u003cbr\u003e and drove out of the yard. We rode in silence, as if angry\u003cbr\u003e with one another.\u003cbr\u003e Two or three hours later, when Rostov and Nakhichevan\u003cbr\u003e were in sight, Karpo, who had not said a word all the way,\u003cbr\u003e looked round quickly and said:\u003cbr\u003e “That’s a fine lass, that Armenian’s!”\u003cbr\u003e And whipped up his horse.","brand":"Pushkin Press Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305532707045,"sku":"NP9781805330301","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781805330301.jpg?v=1767738286","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-beauties-isbn-9781805330301","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}