Chekhov bares loves and hates, trivial and monumental, in such miniature masterpieces as "The Party," "The Terror," and "A Misfortune." "Why have I done this?" he kept asking himself in bewilderment and despair, futilely trying to drive the vision of his friend's beautiful wife from his mind. "Why has it turned out like this and not differently? To whom and for what was it necessary that she should love me in earnest?"