An Artist's Story Page #6

"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.

								

looking ugly and absurd in a man's overcoat, she laughed, threw it off,
and at that instant I put my arms round her and covered her face,
shoulders, and hands with kisses.

"Till to-morrow," she whispered, and softly, as though afraid of
breaking upon the silence of the night, she embraced me. "We have no
secrets from one another. I must tell my mother and my sister at once. .
. . It's so dreadful! Mother is all right; mother likes you--but Lida!"

She ran to the gates.

"Good-bye!" she called.

And then for two minutes I heard her running. I did not want to go home,
and I had nothing to go for. I stood still for a little time hesitating,
and made my way slowly back, to look once more at the house in which she
lived, the sweet, simple old house, which seemed to be watching me from
the windows of its upper storey, and understanding all about it. I
walked by the terrace, sat on the seat by the tennis ground, in the dark
under the old elm-tree, and looked from there at the house. In the
windows of the top storey where Misuce slept there appeared a bright
light, which changed to a soft green--they had covered the lamp with the
shade. Shadows began to move. . . . I was full of tenderness, peace, and
satisfaction with myself--satisfaction at having been able to be carried
away by my feelings and having fallen in love, and at the same time I
felt uncomfortable at the thought that only a few steps away from me, in
one of the rooms of that house there was Lida, who disliked and perhaps
hated me. I went on sitting there wondering whether Genya would come
out; I listened and fancied I heard voices talking upstairs.

About an hour passed. The green light went out, and the shadows were no
longer visible. The moon was standing high above the house, and lighting
up the sleeping garden and the paths; the dahlias and the roses in front
of the house could be seen distinctly, and looked all the same colour.
It began to grow very cold. I went out of the garden, picked up my coat
on the road, and slowly sauntered home.

When next day after dinner I went to the Voltchaninovs, the glass door
into the garden was wide open. I sat down on the terrace, expecting
Genya every minute, to appear from behind the flower-beds on the lawn,
or from one of the avenues, or that I should hear her voice from the
house. Then I walked into the drawing-room, the dining-room. There was
not a soul to be seen. From the dining-room I walked along the long
corridor to the hall and back. In this corridor there were several
doors, and through one of them I heard the voice of Lida:

"'God . . . sent . . . a crow,'" she said in a loud, emphatic voice,
probably dictating--"'God sent a crow a piece of cheese . . . . A crow .
. . a piece of cheese.' . . . Who's there?" she called suddenly, hearing
my steps.

"It's I."

"Ah! Excuse me, I cannot come out to you this minute; I'm giving Dasha
her lesson."

"Is Ekaterina Pavlovna in the garden?"

"No, she went away with my sister this morning to our aunt in the
province of Penza. And in the winter they will probably go abroad," she
added after a pause. "'God sent . . . the crow . . . a piece . . . of
cheese.' . . . Have you written it?"

I went into the hall, and stared vacantly at the pond and the village,
and the sound reached me of "A piece of cheese. . . . God sent the crow
a piece of cheese."

And I went back by the way I had come here for the first time-- first
from the yard into the garden past the house, then into the avenue of
lime-trees. . . . At this point I was overtaken by a small boy who gave
me a note:

"I told my sister everything and she insists on my parting from you," I
read. "I could not wound her by disobeying. God will give you happiness.
Forgive me. If only you knew how bitterly my mother and I are crying!"

Then there was the dark fir avenue, the broken-down fence. . . . On the
field where then the rye was in flower and the corncrakes were calling,
now there were cows and hobbled horses. On the slope there were bright
green patches of winter corn. A sober workaday feeling came over me and
I felt ashamed of all I had said at the Voltchaninovs', and felt bored
with life as I had been before. When I got home, I packed and set off
that evening for Petersburg.

----

I never saw the Voltchaninovs again. Not long ago, on my way to the
Crimea, I met Byelokurov in the train. As before, he was wearing a
jerkin and an embroidered shirt, and when I asked how he was, he replied
that, God be praised, he was well. We began talking. He had sold his old
estate and bought another smaller one, in the name of Liubov Ivanovna.
He could tell me little about the Voltchaninovs. Lida, he said, was
still living in Shelkovka and teaching in the school; she had by degrees
succeeded in gathering round her a circle of people sympathetic to her
who made a strong party, and at the last election had turned out
Balagin, who had till then had the whole district under his thumb. About
Genya he only told me that she did not live at home, and that he did not
know where she was.

I am beginning to forget the old house, and only sometimes when I am
painting or reading I suddenly, apropos of nothing, remember the green
light in the window, the sound of my footsteps as I walked home through
the fields in the night, with my heart full of love, rubbing my hands in
the cold. And still more rarely, at moments when I am sad and depressed
by loneliness, I have dim memories, and little by little I begin to feel
that she is thinking of me, too --that she is waiting for me, and that
we shall meet. . . .

Misuce, where are you?
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