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    An Artist's Story: Short Story
    An Artist's Story: Short Story
    An Artist's Story: Short Story
    Ebook32 pages36 minutes

    An Artist's Story: Short Story

    By Anton Chekhov

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    About this ebook

    An idle artist meets a woman and her two daughters while traveling the Russian countryside. The eldest daughter, Lida, is strong-minded and purposeful, intent on her mission to better the lives of the local peasants. Unlike her elder sister, the younger daughter, Genya, is sweet and simple. But when the artist begins falling in love with Genya, he finds himself perpetually drawn into political arguments with her sister that threaten his happiness.

    HarperPerennial Classics brings great works of literature to life in digital format, upholding the highest standards in ebook production and celebrating reading in all its forms. Look for more titles in the HarperPerennial Classics collection to build your digital library.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateJul 21, 2015
    ISBN9781443447980
    An Artist's Story: Short Story
    Author

    Anton Chekhov

    Anton Chekhov is one of Russia’s most highly regarded dramatists and short-story writers. Most famous for his plays The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya, The Seagull, and Three Sisters, he also penned a remarkable number of short pieces, and his work has enjoyed considerable success both in Russia and beyond. Acclaimed by twentieth-century writers such as Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster, and Samuel Beckett, Chekhov’s writing continues to have a profound influence on writers of all nationalities.

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      Book preview

      An Artist's Story - Anton Chekhov

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      An Artist's Story

      Short Story

      Anton Chekhov

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      CONTENTS

      An Artist’s Story

      About the Author

      About the Series

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      An Artist’s Story

      I

      It was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the districts of the province of T——, on the estate of a young landowner called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant tunic, drink beer in the evenings, and continually complain to me that he never met with sympathy from any one. He lived in the lodge in the garden, and I in the old seigniorial house, in a big room with columns, where there was no furniture except a wide sofa on which I used to sleep, and a table on which I used to lay out patience. There was always, even in still weather, a droning noise in the old Amos stoves, and in thunderstorms the whole house shook and seemed to be cracking into pieces; and it was rather terrifying, especially at night, when all the ten big windows were suddenly lit up by lightning.

      Condemned by destiny to perpetual idleness, I did absolutely nothing. For hours together I gazed out of window at the sky, at the birds, at the avenue, read everything that was brought me by post, slept. Sometimes I went out of the house and wandered about till late in the evening.

      One day as I was returning home, I accidentally strayed into a place I did not know. The sun was already sinking, and the shades of evening lay across the flowering rye. Two rows of old, closely planted, very tall fir trees stood like two dense walls forming a picturesque, gloomy avenue. I easily climbed over the fence and walked along the avenue, slipping over the fir-needles which lay two inches deep on the ground. It was still and dark, and only here and there on the high treetops the vivid golden light quivered and made rainbows in the spiders’ webs. There was a strong, almost stifling smell of resin. Then I turned into a long avenue of limes. Here, too, all was desolation and age; last year’s

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