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The 'dullard' of the story, an unfortunate failure at school, is a familiar figure in every age. Poor at his books, he compensates with a wealth of common sense and goes on to survive life's trials rather well. His comically smug, scholarly companions, on the other hand, soon meet their doom. These tales may mirror everyday human vices in a time-tested and engaging way but they are also gentle guides to a wiser, happier path.
"The Wife and Other Stories" is a collection of short stories by the Russian writer Anton Checkhov. He was famous for his deep psychologic writing on different sides of the Russian society of the late 19th century, with its poverty, social turbulence, and new emerging views on the essence of state and tzarism. Many of his works deal with the problems of family relations, adultery, unhappy love, and conflicts between children and parents.
THE DREAM (1876) I I was living with my mother at the time, in a small seaport town. I was just turned seventeen, and my mother was only thirty-five; she had married very young. When my father died I was only seven years old; but I remembered him well. My mother was a short, fair-haired woman, with a charming, but permanently-sad face, a quiet, languid voice, and timid movements. In her youth she had borne the reputation of a beauty, and as long as she lived she remained attractive and pretty. I have never beheld more profound, tender, and melancholy eyes. I adored her, and she loved me…. But our life was not cheerful; it seemed as though some mysterious, incurable and undeserved sorrow were constantly sapping the root of her existence. This sorrow could not be explained by grief for my father alone, great as that was, passionately as my mother had loved him, sacredly as she cherished his memory…. No! there was something else hidden there which I did not understand, but which I felt,—felt confusedly and strongly as soon as I looked at those quiet, impassive eyes, at those very beautiful but also impassive lips, which were not bitterly compressed, but seemed to have congealed for good and all. I have said that my mother loved me; but there were moments when she spurned me, when my presence was burdensome, intolerable to her. At such times she felt, as it were, an involuntary aversion for me—and was terrified afterward, reproaching herself with tears and clasping me to her heart. I attributed these momentary fits of hostility to her shattered health, to her unhappiness…. These hostile sentiments might have been evoked, it is true, in a certain measure, by some strange outbursts, which were incomprehensible even to me myself, of wicked and criminal feelings which occasionally arose in me…. But these outbursts did not coincide with the moments of repulsion.—My mother constantly wore black, as though she were in mourning. We lived on a rather grand scale, although we associated with no one.