nine
o’clock
The artist , pale with emotion , sat on the seat , looking at Olga Ivanovna with adoring , grateful eyes ; then he closed his eyes , and said , smiling languidly : `` I am tired . '' And he leaned his head against the rail . On the second of September the day was warm and still , but overcast . In the early morning a light mist had hung over the Volga , and after nine o'clock it had begun to spout with rain . And there seemed no hope of the sky clearing . Over their morning tea Ryabovsky told Olga Ivanovna that painting was the most ungrateful and boring art , that he was not an artist , that none but fools thought that he had any talent , and all at once , for no rhyme or reason , he snatched up a knife and with it scraped over his very best sketch . After his tea he sat plunged in gloom at the window and gazed at the Volga .