Golenishtchev’s account of the artist, were still less so by his personal
appearance. Thick-set and of middle height, with nimble movements, with
his brown hat, olive-green coat and narrow trousers—though wide trousers
had been a long while in fashion,—most of all, with the ordinariness of his
broad face, and the combined expression of timidity and anxiety to keep up
his dignity, Mihailov made an unpleasant impression.
“Please step in,” he said, trying to look indifferent, and going into the
passage he took a key out of his pocket and opened the door.
Chapter 11
On entering the studio, Mihailov once more scanned his visitors and
noted down in his imagination Vronsky’s expression too, and especially his
jaws. Although his artistic sense was unceasingly at work collecting
materials, although he felt a continually increasing excitement as the
moment of criticizing his work drew nearer, he rapidly and subtly formed,
from imperceptible signs, a mental image of these three persons.
That fellow (Golenishtchev) was a Russian living here. Mihailov did not
remember his surname nor where he had met him, nor what he had said to
him. He only remembered his face as he remembered all the faces he had
ever seen; but he remembered, too, that it was one of the faces laid by in his
memory in the immense class of the falsely consequential and poor in
expression. The abundant hair and very open forehead gave an appearance
of consequence to the face, which had only one expression—a petty,
childish, peevish expression, concentrated just above the bridge of the
narrow nose. Vronsky and Madame Karenina must be, Mihailov supposed,
distinguished and wealthy Russians, knowing nothing about art, like all
those wealthy Russians, but posing as amateurs and connoisseurs. “Most
likely they’ve already looked at all the antiques, and now they’re making
the round of the studios of the new people, the German humbug, and the
cracked Pre-Raphaelite English fellow, and have only come to me to make
the point of view complete,” he thought. He was well acquainted with the
way dilettanti have (the cleverer they were the worse he found them) of
looking at the works of contemporary artists with the sole object of being in
a position to say that art is a thing of the past, and that the more one sees of
the new men the more one sees how inimitable the works of the great old
masters have remained. He expected all this; he saw it all in their faces, he
saw it in the careless indifference with which they talked among
themselves, stared at the lay figures and busts, and walked about in
leisurely fashion, waiting for him to uncover his picture. But in spite of this,
while he was turning over his studies, pulling up the blinds and taking off
the sheet, he was in intense excitement, especially as, in spite of his
conviction that all distinguished and wealthy Russians were certain to be
beasts and fools, he liked Vronsky, and still more Anna.
“Here, if you please,” he said, moving on one side with his nimble gait
and pointing to his picture, “it’s the exhortation to Pilate. Matthew, chapter
xxvii,” he said, feeling his lips were beginning to tremble with emotion. He
moved away and stood behind them.
For the few seconds during which the visitors were gazing at the picture
in silence Mihailov too gazed at it with the indifferent eye of an outsider.
For those few seconds he was sure in anticipation that a higher, juster
criticism would be uttered by them, by those very visitors whom he had
been so despising a moment before. He forgot all he had thought about his
picture before during the three years he had been painting it; he forgot all its
qualities which had been absolutely certain to him—he saw the picture with
their indifferent, new, outside eyes, and saw nothing good in it. He saw in
the foreground Pilate’s irritated face and the serene face of Christ, and in
the background the figures of Pilate’s retinue and the face of John watching
what was happening. Every face that, with such agony, such blunders and
corrections had grown up within him with its special character, every face
that had given him such torments and such raptures, and all these faces so
many times transposed for the sake of the harmony of the whole, all the
shades of color and tones that he had attained with such labor—all of this
together seemed to him now, looking at it with their eyes, the merest
vulgarity, something that had been done a thousand times over. The face
dearest to him, the face of Christ, the center of the picture, which had given
him such ecstasy as it unfolded itself to him, was utterly lost to him when
he glanced at the picture with their eyes. He saw a well-painted (no, not
even that—he distinctly saw now a mass of defects) repetition of those
endless Christs of Titian, Raphael, Rubens, and the same soldiers and Pilate.
It was all common, poor, and stale, and positively badly painted—weak and
unequal. They would be justified in repeating hypocritically civil speeches
in the presence of the painter, and pitying him and laughing at him when
they were alone again.
The silence (though it lasted no more than a minute) became too
intolerable to him. To break it, and to show he was not agitated, he made an
effort and addressed Golenishtchev.
“I think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you,” he said, looking uneasily
first at Anna, then at Vronsky, in fear of losing any shade of their
expression.
“To be sure! We met at Rossi’s, do you remember, at that soirée when
that Italian lady recited—the new Rachel?” Golenishtchev answered easily,
removing his eyes without the slightest regret from the picture and turning
to the artist.
Noticing, however, that Mihailov was expecting a criticism of the picture,
he said:
“Your picture has got on a great deal since I saw it last time; and what
strikes me particularly now, as it did then, is the figure of Pilate. One so
knows the man: a good-natured, capital fellow, but an official through and
through, who does not know what it is he’s doing. But I fancy….”
All Mihailov’s mobile face beamed at once; his eyes sparkled. He tried to
say something, but he could not speak for excitement, and pretended to be
coughing. Low as was his opinion of Golenishtchev’s capacity for
understanding art, trifling as was the true remark upon the fidelity of the
expression of Pilate as an official, and offensive as might have seemed the
utterance of so unimportant an observation while nothing was said of more
serious points, Mihailov was in an ecstasy of delight at this observation. He
had himself thought about Pilate’s figure just what Golenishtchev said. The
fact that this reflection was but one of millions of reflections, which as
Mihailov knew for certain would be true, did not diminish for him the
significance of Golenishtchev’s remark. His heart warmed to Golenishtchev
for this remark, and from a state of depression he suddenly passed to
ecstasy. At once the whole of his picture lived before him in all the
indescribable complexity of everything living. Mihailov again tried to say
that that was how he understood Pilate, but his lips quivered intractably, and
he could not pronounce the words. Vronsky and Anna too said something in
that subdued voice in which, partly to avoid hurting the artist’s feelings and
partly to avoid saying out loud something silly—so easily said when talking
of art—people usually speak at exhibitions of pictures. Mihailov fancied
that the picture had made an impression on them too. He went up to them.
“How marvelous Christ’s expression is!” said Anna. Of all she saw she
liked that expression most of all, and she felt that it was the center of the
picture, and so praise of it would be pleasant to the artist. “One can see that
He is pitying Pilate.”
This again was one of the million true reflections that could be found in
his picture and in the figure of Christ. She said that He was pitying Pilate.
In Christ’s expression there ought to be indeed an expression of pity, since
there is an expression of love, of heavenly peace, of readiness for death, and
a sense of the vanity of words. Of course there is the expression of an
official in Pilate and of pity in Christ, seeing that one is the incarnation of
the fleshly and the other of the spiritual life. All this and much more flashed
into Mihailov’s thoughts.
“Yes, and how that figure is done—what atmosphere! One can walk
round it,” said Golenishtchev, unmistakably betraying by this remark that
he did not approve of the meaning and idea of the figure.
“Yes, there’s a wonderful mastery!” said Vronsky. “How those figures in
the background stand out! There you have technique,” he said, addressing
Golenishtchev, alluding to a conversation between them about Vronsky’s
despair of attaining this technique.
“Yes, yes, marvelous!” Golenishtchev and Anna assented. In spite of the
excited condition in which he was, the sentence about technique had sent a
pang to Mihailov’s heart, and looking angrily at Vronsky he suddenly
scowled. He had often heard this word technique, and was utterly unable to
understand what was understood by it. He knew that by this term was
understood a mechanical facility for painting or drawing, entirely apart
from its subject. He had noticed often that even in actual praise technique
was opposed to essential quality, as though one could paint well something
that was bad. He knew that a great deal of attention and care was necessary
in taking off the coverings, to avoid injuring the creation itself, and to take
off all the coverings; but there was no art of painting—no technique of any
sort—about it. If to a little child or to his cook were revealed what he saw, it
or she would have been able to peel the wrappings off what was seen. And
the most experienced and adroit painter could not by mere mechanical
facility paint anything if the lines of the subject were not revealed to him
