Art a Gloomy Winter Morning Page #2

"Art: A Gloomy Winter Morning" is a poignant story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores the themes of artistic ambition, emotional turmoil, and the complexities of human relationships. Set against the backdrop of a dreary winter landscape, the narrative follows the interactions between artists and those who critique their work, revealing the struggles and insecurities that accompany the creative process. Through Chekhov's keen observations and rich character development, the story delves into the intersection of art and life, highlighting the profound impact of personal experiences on artistic expression.

								

There is no end to his babble, his fault-finding, his whims and fancies.
If Matvey nails two big pieces of wood to make a cross, he is
dissatisfied and tells him to do it again. If Matvey stands still,
Seryozhka asks him angrily why he does not go; if he moves, Seryozhka
shouts to him not to go away but to do his work. He is not satisfied
with his tools, with the weather, or with his own talent; nothing
pleases him.

Matvey saws out a great piece of ice for a lectern.

"Why have you broken off the corner?" cries Seryozhka, and glares at him
furiously. "Why have you broken off the corner? I ask you."

"Forgive me, for Christ's sake."

"Do it over again!"

Matvey saws again . . . and there is no end to his sufferings. A lectern
is to stand by the hole in the ice that is covered by the painted ring;
on the lectern is to be carved the cross and the open gospel. But that
is not all. Behind the lectern there is to be a high cross to be seen by
all the crowd and to glitter in the sun as though sprinkled with
diamonds and rubies. On the cross is to be a dove carved out of ice. The
path from the church to the Jordan is to be strewn with branches of fir
and juniper. All this is their task.

First of all Seryozhka sets to work on the lectern. He works with a
file, a chisel, and an awl. He is perfectly successful in the cross on
the lectern, the gospel, and the drapery that hangs down from the
lectern. Then he begins on the dove. While he is trying to carve an
expression of meekness and humility on the face of the dove, Matvey,
lumbering about like a bear, is coating with ice the cross he has made
of wood. He takes the cross and dips it in the hole. Waiting till the
water has frozen on the cross he dips it in a second time, and so on
till the cross is covered with a thick layer of ice. It is a difficult
job, calling for a great deal of strength and patience.

But now the delicate work is finished. Seryozhka races about the village
like one possessed. He swears and vows he will go at once to the river
and smash all his work. He is looking for suitable paints.

His pockets are full of ochre, dark blue, red lead, and verdigris;
without paying a farthing he rushes headlong from one shop to another.
The shop is next door to the tavern. Here he has a drink; with a wave of
his hand he darts off without paying. At one hut he gets beetroot
leaves, at another an onion skin, out of which he makes a yellow colour.
He swears, shoves, threatens, and not a soul murmurs! They all smile at
him, they sympathise with him, call him Sergey Nikititch; they all feel
that his art is not his personal affair but something that concerns them
all, the whole people. One creates, the others help him. Seryozhka in
himself is a nonentity, a sluggard, a drunkard, and a wastrel, but when
he has his red lead or compasses in his hand he is at once something
higher, a servant of God.

Epiphany morning comes. The precincts of the church and both banks of
the river for a long distance are swarming with people. Everything that
makes up the Jordan is scrupulously concealed under new mats. Seryozhka
is meekly moving about near the mats, trying to control his emotion. He
sees thousands of people. There are many here from other parishes; these
people have come many a mile on foot through the frost and the snow
merely to see his celebrated Jordan. Matvey, who had finished his
coarse, rough work, is by now back in the church, there is no sight, no
sound of him; he is already forgotten . . . . The weather is lovely. . .
. There is not a cloud in the sky. The sunshine is dazzling.

The church bells ring out on the hill . . . Thousands of heads are
bared, thousands of hands are moving, there are thousands of signs of
the cross!

And Seryozhka does not know what to do with himself for impatience. But
now they are ringing the bells for the Sacrament; then half an hour
later a certain agitation is perceptible in the belfry and among the
people. Banners are borne out of the church one after the other, while
the bells peal in joyous haste. Seryozhka, trembling, pulls away the mat
. . . and the people behold something extraordinary. The lectern, the
wooden ring, the pegs, and the cross in the ice are iridescent with
thousands of colors. The cross and the dove glitter so dazzlingly that
it hurts the eyes to look at them. Merciful God, how fine it is! A
murmur of wonder and delight runs through the crowd; the bells peal more
loudly still, the day grows brighter; the banners oscillate and move
over the crowd as over the waves. The procession, glittering with the
settings of the ikons and the vestments of the clergy, comes slowly down
the road and turns towards the Jordan. Hands are waved to the belfry for
the ringing to cease, and the blessing of the water begins. The priests
conduct the service slowly, deliberately, evidently trying to prolong
the ceremony and the joy of praying all gathered together. There is
perfect stillness.

But now they plunge the cross in, and the air echoes with an
extraordinary din. Guns are fired, the bells peal furiously, loud
exclamations of delight, shouts, and a rush to get the pegs. Seryozhka
listens to this uproar, sees thousands of eyes fixed upon him, and the
lazy fellow's soul is filled with a sense of glory and triumph.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes