I can help you to translate the first portion today.  Perhaps another day I will be able to come back and do some more.

The Dying of an Old Artist 

  He lay by the open window and already almost never got up.

  Each day after a sleepless night he painfully met the dawn.  Neither the gentle quivering of the new-born day, nor the freshness and transparency of the morning, any longer stirred him as they did before -- everything had faded away in the face of physical suffering:  the joy of life, and even the fear of death.  At these moments he understood that in essence he had already died, and life had become a sort of senseless and burdensome prolongation.  It even seemed to him that he himself desired death as a deliverance from his unbearable state.  And all the same, his approaching end and his solitude frightened him.

On one occasion, in the early hours of the morning, he nevertheless fell asleep for a few minutes, and just as easily awoke, as he did in his childhood, from a gentle breath of wind, from the silence, and from something else still.  He looked out the window and suddenly became rooted to the spot with from an unexpected emotion, as if he were seeing everything for the first time:  the deserted terrain, the range of hills marching into the distance towards the river, the solitary mill by the bridge, the luminescence of the morning, the stillness and quietness.  Only somewhere, far away along the highway, a red automobile was rolling along to somewhere else.  The old man did not tear himself away, but watched and cried. 

He suddenly thought that every person is truly alone, but they don't comprehend it.  His entire life he too was alone, even though he cosidered himself a fine artist.  His heart ached.  He was so unaccustomed to this thought, but it did not frighten him.  The thought was no longer terrifying.  Once again he was content with himself, and he didn't feel in the least that he was dying.