An Artist's Story Page #4

"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.

								

like that one might not only go into the Zemstvo, but even wear out iron
shoes, like the girl in the fairy tale. And Misuce? What a sweet
creature she is, that Misuce!"

Byelokurov, drawling out "Er--er," began a long-winded disquisition on
the malady of the age--pessimism. He talked confidently, in a tone that
suggested that I was opposing him. Hundreds of miles of desolate,
monotonous, burnt-up steppe cannot induce such deep depression as one
man when he sits and talks, and one does not know when he will go.

"It's not a question of pessimism or optimism," I said irritably; "its
simply that ninety-nine people out of a hundred have no sense."

Byelokurov took this as aimed at himself, was offended, and went away.

III

"The prince is staying at Malozyomovo, and he asks to be remembered to
you," said Lida to her mother. She had just come in, and was taking off
her gloves. "He gave me a great deal of interesting news . . . . He
promised to raise the question of a medical relief centre at Malozyomovo
again at the provincial assembly, but he says there is very little hope
of it." And turning to me, she said: "Excuse me, I always forget that
this cannot be interesting to you."

I felt irritated.

"Why not interesting to me?" I said, shrugging my shoulders. "You do not
care to know my opinion, but I assure you the question has great
interest for me."

"Yes?"

"Yes. In my opinion a medical relief centre at Malozyomovo is quite
unnecessary."

My irritation infected her; she looked at me, screwing up her eyes, and
asked:

"What is necessary? Landscapes?"

"Landscapes are not, either. Nothing is."

She finished taking off her gloves, and opened the newspaper, which had
just been brought from the post. A minute later she said quietly,
evidently restraining herself:

"Last week Anna died in childbirth, and if there had been a medical
relief centre near, she would have lived. And I think even landscape-
painters ought to have some opinions on the subject."

"I have a very definite opinion on that subject, I assure you," I
answered; and she screened herself with the newspaper, as though
unwilling to listen to me. "To my mind, all these schools, dispensaries,
libraries, medical relief centres, under present conditions, only serve
to aggravate the bondage of the people. The peasants are fettered by a
great chain, and you do not break the chain, but only add fresh links to
it--that's my view of it."

She raised her eyes to me and smiled ironically, and I went on trying to
formulate my leading idea.

"What matters is not that Anna died in childbirth, but that all these
Annas, Mavras, Pelageas, toil from early morning till dark, fall ill
from working beyond their strength, all their lives tremble for their
sick and hungry children, all their lives are being doctored, and in
dread of death and disease, fade and grow old early, and die in filth
and stench. Their children begin the same story over again as soon as
they grow up, and so it goes on for hundreds of years and milliards of
men live worse than beasts-- in continual terror, for a mere crust of
bread. The whole horror of their position lies in their never having
time to think of their souls, of their image and semblance. Cold,
hunger, animal terror, a burden of toil, like avalanches of snow, block
for them every way to spiritual activity--that is, to what distinguishes
man from the brutes and what is the only thing which makes life worth
living. You go to their help with hospitals and schools, but you don't
free them from their fetters by that; on the contrary, you bind them in
closer bonds, as, by introducing new prejudices, you increase the number
of their wants, to say nothing of the fact that they've got to pay the
Zemstvo for drugs and books, and so toil harder than ever."

"I am not going to argue with you," said Lida, putting down the paper.
"I've heard all that before. I will only say one thing: one cannot sit
with one's hands in one's lap. It's true that we are not saving
humanity, and perhaps we make a great many mistakes; but we do what we
can, and we are right. The highest and holiest task for a civilised
being is to serve his neighbours, and we try to serve them as best we
can. You don't like it, but one can't please every one."

"That's true, Lida," said her mother--"that's true."

In Lida's presence she was always a little timid, and looked at her
nervously as she talked, afraid of saying something superfluous or
inopportune. And she never contradicted her, but always assented:
"That's true, Lida--that's true."

"Teaching the peasants to read and write, books of wretched precepts and
rhymes, and medical relief centres, cannot diminish either ignorance or
the death-rate, just as the light from your windows cannot light up this
huge garden," said I. "You give nothing. By meddling in these people's
lives you only create new wants in them, and new demands on their
labour."

"Ach! Good heavens! But one must do something!" said Lida with vexation,
and from her tone one could see that she thought my arguments worthless
and despised them.

"The people must be freed from hard physical labour," said I. "We must
lighten their yoke, let them have time to breathe, that they may not
spend all their lives at the stove, at the wash-tub, and in the fields,
but may also have time to think of their souls, of God--may have time to
develop their spiritual capacities. The highest vocation of man is
spiritual activity--the perpetual search for truth and the meaning of
life. Make coarse animal labour unnecessary for them, let them feel
themselves free, and then you will see what a mockery these dispensaries
and books are. Once a man recognises his true vocation, he can only be
satisfied by religion, science, and art, and not by these trifles."

"Free them from labour?" laughed Lida. "But is that possible?"

"Yes. Take upon yourself a share of their labour. If all of us,
townspeople and country people, all without exception, would agree to
divide between us the labour which mankind spends on the satisfaction of
their physical needs, each of us would perhaps need to work only for two
or three hours a day. Imagine that we all, rich and poor, work only for
three hours a day, and the rest of our time is free. Imagine further
that in order to depend even less upon our bodies and to labour less, we
invent machines to replace our work, we try to cut down our needs to the
minimum. We would harden ourselves and our children that they should not
be afraid of hunger and cold, and that we shouldn't be continually
trembling for their health like Anna, Mavra, and Pelagea. Imagine that
we don't doctor ourselves, don't keep dispensaries, tobacco factories,
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