An Artist's Story Page #3

"An Artist's Story" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into the themes of art, existence, and the struggle for recognition. The narrative follows a struggling artist who reflects on his life and the meaning of his work in the face of indifference from society. Chekhov explores the complexities of the artist's journey, highlighting the tension between personal aspiration and societal expectations. Through vivid imagery and emotional depth, the story captures the essence of an artist's passion and the often harsh realities they face in pursuit of their craft.

								

sick people and old women. Isn't health a miracle? And life itself?
Whatever is beyond understanding is a miracle."

"And aren't you afraid of what is beyond understanding?"

"No. Phenomena I don't understand I face boldly, and am not overwhelmed
by them. I am above them. Man ought to recognise himself as superior to
lions, tigers, stars, superior to everything in nature, even what seems
miraculous and is beyond his understanding, or else he is not a man, but
a mouse afraid of everything."

Genya believed that as an artist I knew a very great deal, and could
guess correctly what I did not know. She longed for me to initiate her
into the domain of the Eternal and the Beautiful--into that higher world
in which, as she imagined, I was quite at home. And she talked to me of
God, of the eternal life, of the miraculous. And I, who could never
admit that my self and my imagination would be lost forever after death,
answered: "Yes, men are immortal"; "Yes, there is eternal life in store
for us." And she listened, believed, and did not ask for proofs.

As we were going home she stopped suddenly and said:

"Our Lida is a remarkable person--isn't she? I love her very dearly, and
would be ready to give my life for her any minute. But tell me"--Genya
touched my sleeve with her finger--"tell me, why do you always argue
with her? Why are you irritated?"

"Because she is wrong."

Genya shook her head and tears came into her eyes.

"How incomprehensible that is!" she said. At that minute Lida had just
returned from somewhere, and standing with a whip in her hand, a slim,
beautiful figure in the sunlight, at the steps, she was giving some
orders to one of the men. Talking loudly, she hurriedly received two or
three sick villagers; then with a busy and anxious face she walked about
the rooms, opening one cupboard after another, and went upstairs. It was
a long time before they could find her and call her to dinner, and she
came in when we had finished our soup. All these tiny details I remember
with tenderness, and that whole day I remember vividly, though nothing
special happened. After dinner Genya lay in a long arm-chair reading,
while I sat upon the bottom step of the terrace. We were silent. The
whole sky was overcast with clouds, and it began to spot with fine rain.
It was hot; the wind had dropped, and it seemed as though the day would
never end. Ekaterina Pavlovna came out on the terrace, looking drowsy
and carrying a fan.

"Oh, mother," said Genya, kissing her hand, "it's not good for you to
sleep in the day."

They adored each other. When one went into the garden, the other would
stand on the terrace, and, looking towards the trees, call "Aa--oo,
Genya!" or "Mother, where are you?" They always said their prayers
together, and had the same faith; and they understood each other
perfectly even when they did not speak. And their attitude to people was
the same. Ekaterina Pavlovna, too, grew quickly used to me and fond of
me, and when I did not come for two or three days, sent to ask if I were
well. She, too, gazed at my sketches with enthusiasm, and with the same
openness and readiness to chatter as Misuce, she told me what had
happened, and confided to me her domestic secrets.

She had a perfect reverence for her elder daughter. Lida did not care
for endearments, she talked only of serious matters; she lived her life
apart, and to her mother and sister was as sacred and enigmatic a person
as the admiral, always sitting in his cabin, is to the sailors.

"Our Lida is a remarkable person," the mother would often say. "Isn't
she?"

Now, too, while it was drizzling with rain, we talked of Lida.

"She is a remarkable girl," said her mother, and added in an undertone,
like a conspirator, looking about her timidly: "You wouldn't easily find
another like her; only, do you know, I am beginning to be a little
uneasy. The school, the dispensary, books --all that's very good, but
why go to extremes? She is three-and-twenty, you know; it's time for her
to think seriously of herself. With her books and her dispensary she
will find life has slipped by without having noticed it. . . . She must
be married."

Genya, pale from reading, with her hair disarranged, raised her head and
said as it were to herself, looking at her mother:

"Mother, everything is in God's hands."

And again she buried herself in her book.

Byelokurov came in his tunic and embroidered shirt. We played croquet
and tennis, then when it got dark, sat a long time over supper and
talked again about schools, and about Balagin, who had the whole
district under his thumb. As I went away from the Voltchaninovs that
evening, I carried away the impression of a long, long idle day, with a
melancholy consciousness that everything ends in this world, however
long it may be.

Genya saw us out to the gate, and perhaps because she had been with me
all day, from morning till night, I felt dull without her, and that all
that charming family were near and dear to me, and for the first time
that summer I had a yearning to paint.

"Tell me, why do you lead such a dreary, colourless life?" I asked
Byelokurov as I went home. "My life is dreary, difficult, and monotonous
because I am an artist, a strange person. From my earliest days I've
been wrung by envy, self-dissatisfaction, distrust in my work. I'm
always poor, I'm a wanderer, but you--you're a healthy, normal man, a
landowner, and a gentleman. Why do you live in such an uninteresting
way? Why do you get so little out of life? Why haven't you, for
instance, fallen in love with Lida or Genya?"

"You forget that I love another woman," answered Byelokurov.

He was referring to Liubov Ivanovna, the lady who shared the lodge with
him. Every day I saw this lady, very plump, rotund, and dignified, not
unlike a fat goose, walking about the garden, in the Russian national
dress and beads, always carrying a parasol; and the servant was
continually calling her in to dinner or to tea. Three years before she
had taken one of the lodges for a summer holiday, and had settled down
at Byelokurov's apparently forever. She was ten years older than he was,
and kept a sharp hand over him, so much so that he had to ask her
permission when he went out of the house. She often sobbed in a deep
masculine note, and then I used to send word to her that if she did not
leave off, I should give up my rooms there; and she left off.

When we got home Byelokurov sat down on the sofa and frowned
thoughtfully, and I began walking up and down the room, conscious of a
soft emotion as though I were in love. I wanted to talk about the
Voltchaninovs.

"Lida could only fall in love with a member of the Zemstvo, as devoted
to schools and hospitals as she is," I said. "Oh, for the sake of a girl
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes