Chekhov, the master of melancholy and profundity, had a secret—a side of him that was utterly, delightfully silly. But here’s where it gets fascinating: a newly translated collection of his early works reveals a Chekhov you’ve likely never met before. Anton Chekhov: Earliest Stories, the first comprehensive English translation of his stories, novellas, and humoresques from the 1880s, showcases a young writer experimenting with wordplay, nonsense, and sheer whimsy. These pieces, long overlooked by publishers as too ‘juvenile’ for his esteemed reputation, are finally getting their moment—and they’re hilarious.
Editor Rosamund Bartlett, a Chekhov biographer, and her co-editor Elena Michajlowska, a Russian filmmaker, spearheaded this project through the Anton Chekhov Foundation. Their ‘crazy, idealistic idea’? Rallying 80 volunteer translators worldwide—from students to retired academics—to bring these hidden gems to light. The result? A collection brimming with experimental humor, from absurd place names like the village of Eaten-Pancakes (‘Bliny-S’edeny’) to characters like Second Lieutenant Zyumbumbunchikov (a name that means nothing but sounds utterly brilliant).
Written when Chekhov was just 20 to 22 years old, these 58 stories—penned under various pseudonyms—offer a glimpse into his early career as a humorist. And this is the part most people miss: Chekhov wasn’t always the somber playwright we know today. He was a medical student scraping by, writing for comic journals to earn a few kopecks while supporting his family after his father’s bankruptcy. These stories, though often frivolous, are a testament to his genius—a genius he himself doubted. He once wrote to his editor, fearing his work would be forgotten within a decade. Yet, by the time he died at 44, he’d published over 500 stories.
This collection arrives at a fraught cultural moment, as the war in Ukraine prompts a re-evaluation of Russian literature. Ukrainian writers like Oksana Zabuzhko and Olesya Khromeychuk advocate for more space for Ukrainian voices. But here’s the controversial part: Bartlett argues that Chekhov doesn’t belong to Putin’s Russia. He was no imperialist, despised jingoism, and even had Ukrainian roots—growing up in Taganrog, a historically Ukrainian town, and occasionally using Ukrainian sayings in his work. So, should we read Chekhov alongside Ukrainian writers, or is it an either/or choice? Bartlett says, ‘We need to keep reading, and read more.’
Chekhov’s silly side isn’t just a curiosity—it’s a reminder of his humanity, his experimentation, and his enduring ability to surprise us. Whether you’re a Chekhov aficionado or a newcomer, these stories are a delightful invitation to see him in a new light. So, what do you think? Does this lighter, sillier Chekhov change how you view his legacy? Let’s discuss in the comments!
