Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Five/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
As they entered the studio, Mikhaïlof again glanced at his guests, and stored away in his memory the expression of Vronsky's face, especially its cheek-bones. Notwithstanding the fact that this man's artistic sense was always at work storing up new materials, notwithstanding the fact that his emotion grew greater and greater as the crucial moment for their criticism of his work approached, still he quickly and shrewdly gathered from almost imperceptible indications his conclusions regarding his three visitors.
"That one [meaning Golenishchef] must be a Russian resident in Italy." Mikhailof did not remember either his name or the place where he had met him, or whether he had ever spoken to him; he remembered only his face, as he remembered all the faces that he had ever seen, but he also remembered that he had once before classed him in the immense category of pretentiously important but really expressionless faces. An abundance of hair and a very high forehead would make the casual observer take him to be a man of importance, but his face had an insignificant expression of puerile agitation concentrated in the narrow space between his eyes.
Vronsky and Anna were, according to Mikhaïlof's intuition, rich and distinguished Russians, ignorant of art, like all rich Russians who play the amateur and the connoisseur.
"They have undoubtedly seen all the old galleries," he thought, "and now are visiting the studios of the German charlatans and the imbecile English pre-Raphaelites, and have come to me in order to complete their survey."
He knew very well the fashion in which the dilettanti—the more intellectual they were, the worse they were—visited the studios of modern painters, with the single aim of having the right to say that art was declining, and that, the more you study the moderns, the better you see how inimitable the great masters of old were. He expected all this, he saw it in their faces, and he read it in the indifference with which his visitors conversed together as they walked up and down the studio, leisurely examining the manikins and busts, while waiting for him to take the covering off his painting.
But, in spite of this, all the time that he was turning over his studies, raising his window-blinds, and uncovering his paintings, he experienced a powerful emotion, and all the more so because, though he considered that all distinguished and wealthy Russians must necessarily be "cattle" and fools, yet Vronsky, and particularly Anna, pleased him.
"Here," he said, stepping back from the easel and pointing to the painting, "is the 'Christ before Pilate.' Matthew, chapter xxvii."
He felt his lips tremble with emotion, and he took his place behind his guests. During the few seconds, during which the visitors looked silently at the painting, Mikhaïlof also looked at it and looked at it with the indifference of a stranger. In those few seconds he anticipated a superior and infallible criticism from these three persons, whom but a moment before he had despised. He forgot all that he had thought about his painting during the three years while he had been painting it; he forgot all those merits which had been so indubitable to him; he looked at it now with the cold and critical look of a stranger, and found nothing good in it. He saw in the foreground the irate face of Pilate and the Christ's serene countenance, and in the middle distance the figures of Pilate's servants, and among them John, looking on at the proceedings. Each face, with its attempted expression, with its faults, with its rectifications, each face which, with its own peculiar character, had, as it were, been a growth from himself, and had cost him so much travail and delight,—and all these faces, which he had changed so many times so as to unify them,—all the shades of color, all the nuances, obtained with such extraordinary pains,—all this, taken together and looked at in such a way, now seemed to him commonplace, a thousand fold commonplace! The face which he had regarded with the most complacency—the face of the Christ in the very center of the picture, which had roused his enthusiasm as he had developed it—was wholly spoilt for him when he looked at his painting with their eyes.
He saw a well-painted picture,—nay, not even well-painted,—for now he clearly detected hosts of faults in it—a repetition of all those interminable Christs of Titian, Raphael, Rubens—and the same soldiers and Pilate! All about it was trivial, poor, and antiquated, and even badly painted,—spotty and feeble! They would be justified in repeating politely hypocritical remarks in his presence, pitying him and ridiculing him after they were gone!
The silence, which in reality did not last more than a minute, seemed to him intolerably long, and to abridge it and show that he was not agitated, he made an effort, and addressed Golenishchef:—
"I think that I have had the honor of meeting you before," said he, glancing anxiously first at Anna, then at Vronsky, so that he might not lose for an instant the changing expression of their faces.
"Certainly; we met at Rossi's the evening when that Italian girl, the new Rachel, made a recitation; don't you remember?" replied Golenishchef, turning away his face from the picture without the least show of regret, and addressing the artist.
Seeing, however, that Mikhaïlof was expecting him to say something about the picture, he added:—
"Your work has made great progress since the last time I saw it; and I am now, just as I was then, greatly impressed with your Pilate. You have represented a good but feeble man,—a chinovnik to the bottom of his soul,—who is absolutely blind to what he is doing. But it seems to me ...."
Mikhaïlof's mobile face suddenly lighted up, his eyes gleamed, he wanted to reply; but his emotion prevented him, and he pretended to have a fit of coughing. In spite of his low estimation of Golenishchef's artistic instinct, in spite of the insignificance of the remark, true though it was, about the expression of Pilate's face represented as the face of a functionary, in spite of the humiliation which such a remark spontaneously elicited at the first sight of the painting implicitly subjected him to,—since the more important features of the painting were left unnoticed, Mikhaïlof was in raptures over this criticism. Golenishchef had expressed his own conception of Pilate! The fact that this observation was one out of a million possible observations, all of which, as Mikhaïlof knew perfectly well, would be true, did not diminish for him the significance of Golenishchef's remark. He suddenly conceived a liking for his guest, and suddenly flew from dejection to enthusiasm. Instantly his whole painting became vital once more with a life inexpressibly complex and profound. He again tried to say that he himself had that conception of Pilate, but his lips trembled so that he had no control over them, and he could not say a word.
Vronsky and Anna were talking in that low tone of voice peculiar to picture exhibitions, and caused by the desire not to say anything that might give offense to the artist, and, more than all, not to let any one hear those absurd remarks which are so easily made in regard to art. Mikhaïlof thought that his picture was making an impression on them also, and he approached them.
"What an admirable expression the Christ has," said Anna. This expression pleased her more than anything else in the painting, and she felt that the Christ was the principal figure in it, and therefore that this eulogy would be agreeable to the artist. She added, "One can see that he pities Pilate."
This, again, was one of those million accurate but idle observations which his picture, and especially the figure of the Christ, might have elicited. She said that Christ pitied Pilate. In the expression of the Christ there was bound to be an expression of pity, because there was in it the expression of love, a supernal color, a readiness for death, and a realization of the idleness of words. Of course, Pilate should stand for the functionary, the chinovnik, and the Christ should show pity for him,—since one is the incarnation of the fleshly life, the other of the spiritual life. All this and much besides flashed through Mikhaïlof's mind. And once more his face was radiant with joy.
"Yes! And how that figure is painted! how much atmosphere! One could go round it," said Golenishchef, evidently showing by this observation that he did not approve of the design and scope [1] of the figure.
"Yes; it is a wonderful masterpiece," said Vronsky. "How alive those figures in the background are! There is technique for you!" he added, turning to Golenishchef, and alluding to a discussion in which he had avowed his discouragement in the technique of the art.
"Yes, yes; very remarkable," said Golenishchef and Anna, simultaneously. Notwithstanding the condition of enthusiasm to which he had risen, the remark about technique nettled Mikhaïlof; he scowled and looked at Vronsky with an angry expression. He had often heard this word technique, and he really did not know what was meant by it. He knew that this word signified the mechanical ability to paint and sketch, and had nothing to do with the thing painted. He had often noticed, as in the present case, that technical skill was opposed to the intrinsic merit of a work, as if it were possible to paint a bad picture with talent. He knew that it required great attention and care in removing the cloth not to injure the work, and in removing all the covers; but the technique of painting was not in that. If in the same way to a little child or to his cook were revealed what he saw, then the cook or the child would not hesitate to express what they saw. But the most experienced and skilful of technicians could not paint anything by mechanical ability only; it requires that the realm of inspiration[2] should be opened before him. Moreover, he saw that the very fact of talking about technique made it impossible to praise him for it. In everything that he had painted and was painting he saw the glaring faults resulting from the carelessness with which he had removed the covers—faults impossible now to rectify without ruining the whole production. And in almost all the figures and faces he saw the remains of veils that had not been perfectly removed, and spoiled the painting.
"The only criticism that I should dare to make, if you will allow me...." said Golenishchef.
"Oh! I should be very glad .... beg you to favor me," replied Mikhaïlof, pretending to smile.
"It is that you have painted a man made God, and not God made man. However, I know that that was your intention."
"I cannot paint any Christ that is not in my heart," replied Mikhaïlof, gloomily.
"Yes, but in that case, excuse me, if you will allow me to express my thought.... Your painting is so beautiful, that this observation can do it no harm; and, besides, it is my own individual opinion. You look on this in one way. Your very motive is peculiar. Take Ivanof, for example,—I imagine that if the Christ is to be reduced to the proportions of an historical figure, then it would be better for him to choose a new historical theme,—one less hackneyed."
"But suppose this theme is the grandest of all for art?"
"By searching, others may be found just as grand. But the fact is, art, in my estimation, cannot suffer discussion; now this question is raised in the minds of believers or non-believers by Ivanof's painting: Is that God, or not God? and thus the unity of the impression is destroyed."
"Why so? It seems to me that this question can no longer exist for enlightened men," replied Mikhaïlof.
Golenishchef was not of this opinion; and, dwelling on his first thought about the unity of the impression required by art, he made an onslaught on Mikhaïlof.
Mikhaïlof grew excited, but could not say anything in defense of his ideas.