Chekhov, the master of melancholy and profundity, had a secret—a side so silly, so delightfully absurd, that it’s barely been seen outside of Russia. Until now. Anton Chekhov: Earliest Stories lifts the curtain on a collection of tales so whimsical, so outrageously playful, that even the translators couldn’t stop laughing. But here’s where it gets controversial: Are these stories ‘worthy’ of Chekhov’s legacy, or are they just the ramblings of a young man trying to scrape by? And this is the part most people miss—these aren’t just throwaway jokes; they’re a window into how one of literature’s greatest minds began.
Anton Chekhov is universally celebrated, with luminaries like George Saunders declaring him ‘the greatest short story writer who ever lived.’ His plays—The Seagull, Three Sisters, Uncle Vanya, and The Cherry Orchard—continue to captivate global audiences, with recent stars like Andrew Scott and Cate Blanchett breathing new life into his characters. Yet, his early works, written between the ages of 20 and 22, have remained largely hidden—until now. These 58 stories, novellas, and humoresques, penned under pseudonyms, are a treasure trove of experimental wordplay, nonsensical names, and onomatopoeic antics. Imagine a village named Eaten-Pancakes, railway stations called Crash, Bang, Wallop, or a character named Second Lieutenant Zyumbumbunchikov. Say it aloud—it’s genius.
Editor Rosamund Bartlett, a Chekhov biographer, and co-editor Elena Michajlowska, a Russian filmmaker, spearheaded this project through the Anton Chekhov Foundation. Their ‘crazy, idealistic idea’? Mobilize 80 volunteer translators worldwide—from students to retired academics—to bring these stories to English readers for the first time. Why? Because commercial publishers deemed them ‘too childishly comical’ for Chekhov’s reputation. But Bartlett argues these stories are essential, reminding us that Chekhov began as a humorist, a medical student writing for comic journals to support his family after his father’s bankruptcy.
These aren’t just frivolous jokes; they’re a glimpse into Chekhov’s evolution. Within a few years, he’d declare medicine his ‘lawful wedded wife’ and writing his ‘mistress,’ yet he never took his own work seriously. After the disastrous debut of The Seagull in 1896, he vowed never to write plays again. (Spoiler: He did, and Konstantin Stanislavski’s 1898 production was a triumph.) Even his most beloved stories—The Lady With the Dog, Ward No 6, The Darling—were met with his own skepticism. Yet, by the time he died of tuberculosis in 1904 at 44, he’d published over 500 stories.
This collection arrives at a fraught cultural moment. Ukrainian writers like Oksana Zabuzhko and Olesya Khromeychuk are calling for a re-evaluation of Russian literature, demanding space for Ukrainian voices. Bartlett acknowledges the tension: ‘The revulsion many Ukrainians feel for Russian literature due to the war is understandable. But even those who repudiate it often make an exception for Chekhov—for good reason.’
Here’s the bold claim: Chekhov doesn’t belong to Putin’s Russia. He was no imperialist; he despised jingoism and had Ukrainian roots himself, growing up in Taganrog, historically part of Ukraine. He even used Ukrainian sayings in his work, which Bartlett and Michajlowska highlight in their annotations. So, is it a case of ‘either/or’? Bartlett says no. ‘Increasing our familiarity with Ukrainian writers shouldn’t exclude discovering new works by Chekhov. We need to keep reading, and read more.’
But let’s spark some debate: Does Chekhov’s silly side diminish his genius, or does it humanize him? Are these early stories mere juvenilia, or are they a vital part of his legacy? And in a world demanding cultural re-evaluation, where do we draw the line between artist and art? Zyumbumbunchikov might just be the starting point for that conversation. What do you think?
