Chekhov
Ward No 6 (***)
Rothschild's violin (***)
The Man in a Case
Gooseberries
About Love
Lady with Lapdog
In the Ravine (yikes!)
Anna around the neck
The Kiss (***)
Peasants
The Russian Master
A Case History
My Life (***)
Ek het reeds geskryf oor
The Bishop
The Black Monk
“Remember, Yakov?” she asked, looking at him joyfully. “Remember, fifty years ago God gave us a little baby with a blond little head? You and I used to sit by the river then and sing songs … under the pussywillow.” And with a bitter smile she added: “The little girl died.”
Yakov strained his memory, but simply could not remember either the baby or the pussywillow.
“You’re imagining it,” he said
***
He gradually passed on to other themes, talked about science, about his thesis, which was liked in Petersburg; he spoke with enthusiasm and no longer remembered my sister, or his grief, or me. He was carried away by life. That one has America and a ring with an inscription, I thought, and this one has his doctoral degree and a scholarly career, and only my sister and I are left with the old things.
***
On weekdays I'm usually busy from early morning till evening. But on feast days, if the weather is good, I take my little niece in my arms (my sister had hoped for a boy but gave birth to a girl) and walk unhurriedly to the cemetery. There I stand or sit, and look for a long time at the dear grave, and tell the girl that her mama lies there.
Tolstoy
Two Hussars
A Prisoner of the Causasus
Ek het al vele kere oor ander Tolstoy stories geskryf
***
Twenty years had passed. Much water had flowed under the bridge, many had died, many had been born, many had grown up or become old; even more ideas than people had been born and had died. Much of what was good, much of what was bad in the old days, had perished; much that was new and beautiful had come to maturity; and even more that was immature and monstrous had come into the world.
Count Fyodor Turbin had been killed long ago in a duel by some foreigner he had horsewhipped in the street. His son, an exact replica of his father, was a charming young man of twenty-three and was serving in the Horse Guards. In temperament, young Turbin was completely different from his father. There was no trace in him of