【有声英语文学名著】安娜卡列宁娜（53）

 FIFTY-THREE

 
 
Chapter 11
 
 
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ON entering his studio the artist again cast a glance at his visitors and took note of Vronsky’s face, especially his jaw. Although his artistic perceptions never slept, and although he was growing more and more excited as the moment approached when his picture was to be criticized, he quickly and shrewdly, from imperceptible data, formed his opinion of these three persons. Of Golenishchev he thought, ‘That one is a Russian who lives here.’ Mikhaylov did not remember his name or where he had seen him or what they had talked about; he remembered only his face, as he remembered every face he had ever seen; but he also remembered that it was one of the faces he had mentally put aside with the enormous class of falsely important faces, faces lacking expression. A mass of hair and a very open forehead gave a superficial significance to that face, which had an insignificant, childish, restless expression concentrated in the narrow bridge of the nose. Vronsky and Anna, according to Mikhaylov’s conception, were in all probability distinguished wealthy Russians, who like all these wealthy Russians comprehended nothing of art but pretended to be amateurs and critics. ‘Probably they’ve seen all the antiquities, and are now going the round of the modern painters, the German quack and the stupid English pre-Raphaelite, and to complete the series have come to see me too,’ he thought. Well, he knew the dilettantes’ way of examining the studios of modern artists (the cleverer they were the worse they were) with the one purpose of being able to say afterwards that art had deteriorated and that the more modern art one sees the more evident it becomes that the old masters were inimitable. He expected all this, saw it in their faces, in the careless indifference with which they talked among themselves, looked at the lay figures and busts, and unconcernedly walked about while waiting for him to uncover his picture. But in spite of all this, as he turned over his studies, pulled up the blinds, and withdrew the sheet from his picture, he felt very excited — all the more so because, though he regarded distinguished and wealthy Russians as mostly beasts and fools, Vronsky and especially Anna pleased him.
 
‘There!’ he said, stepping aside with his loose gait, and pointing to the picture. ‘This is Pilate’s Admonition — Matthew, chapter 27,’ he went on, conscious that his lips were beginning to tremble with excitement; and he stepped behind the visitors.
 
During the few moments that they were silently gazing at it, Mikhaylov also regarded it with the indifferent eye of a stranger. In those few moments he believed in advance that the highest and justest of criticisms was going to be pronounced by these very visitors whom he had so despised a moment before. He forgot all that he had thought of his picture during the three years that he had worked at it, forgot all its merits, which he had not doubted, and saw it from the fresh point of view of an indifferent stranger, and he saw nothing good in it. He saw in the foreground Pilate’s vexed face and Christ’s calm one, and behind them the faces of Pilate’s servants and of John, watching what was taking place. Each of those faces that with so much searching, so many faults and corrections, he had evolved with its own character, each representing so much pain and pleasure, and all of them so often placed and replaced to obtain harmony; all the shades of colour and tone elaborated with such effort — all this, regarded as a whole from those others’ point of view, now seemed trivialities a thousand times repeated. The face that was most dear to him, that of Christ, the centre of the picture, which, had so enraptured him when he first discovered it, now, regarded from the others’ standpoint, seemed quite worthless. He saw a well-painted — and not even that, for he detected a multitude of errors — repetition of those innumerable Christs: Titian’s, Raphael’s, Rubens’s, with the same warriors and the same Pilates. It was trivial, poor, old, and even badly painted, weak and lacking harmony. They would be in the right when they began to say falsely-polite things in the presence of the artist, and to pity and laugh at him behind his back.
 
The silence grew too unbearable, though it had not lasted more than a minute. To break it and to appear calm, he made an effort and addressed Golenishchev.
 
‘I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you?’ he said, glancing uneasily now at Anna and now at Vronsky, in order not to lose any detail of their expressions.
 
‘Of course! We first met at Rossi’s. Don’t you remember that evening when the Italian lady recited — the new Rachel?’ began Golenishchev glibly, turning away from the picture to the artist without the slightest regret. Noticing, however, that Mikhaylov was waiting to hear his criticism of the picture, he said:
 
‘Your picture has progressed very much since I last saw it, and now, as then, I am specially struck by the figure of Pilate. One can so well understand that man, a kind, first-rate fellow, but an official to his very backbone, who does not know what he is doing. But it seems to me . . .’
 
The whole of Mikhaylov’s mobile face suddenly lighted up. His eyes brightened. He wanted to speak but was too agitated, and pretended to cough instead. Little as he valued Golenishchev’s capacity to understand art, unimportant as was his remark about the truth of Pilate’s official expression while what was important remained unmentioned, and offensive as was this trivial (it might have seemed to him) remark before anything had been said about what was most important, Mikhaylov was delighted with it. His opinion of that figure was the same. The fact that this opinion was but one of a million of other opinions which — as Mikhaylov well knew — would all have been just did not for him detract from the importance of Golenishchev’s remark, He took a liking to Golenishchev because of that remark, and his depression changed suddenly into delight. In an instant his whole picture became alive before his eyes, with the inexpressible complexity of everything that lives. He wished to say that it was just so that he understood Pilate, but his trembling lips would not obey him and he was unable to speak. Vronsky and Anna were talking in the hushed voice in which — partly not to offend the artist, and partly not to utter aloud a stupid remark such as is so easily made when speaking about art — people generally talk at picture exhibitions. Mikhaylov thought that on them too the picture had created an impression, and went up to them.
 
‘How wonderful Christ’s expression is!’ said Anna. That expression pleased her more than all else she saw, and she felt that it was the centre of the picture, and that therefore praise of it would be agreeable to the artist. ‘One sees he is sorry for Pilate.’
 
This too was one of a million just remarks which might have been made with reference to his picture and the figure of Christ. She said he was sorry for Pilate. In Christ’s expression there should be pity because there was love in it, a peace not of this world, a readiness for death, and a knowledge of the vanity of words. Of course there was an official expression in Pilate’s face and pity in Christ’s, for the former was the embodiment of carnal and the latter of spiritual life. All this and much more floated through Mikhaylov’s mind; and again his face shone with ecstasy.
 
‘Yes, and how well that figure is done, and what an atmosphere there is! One could walk round it,’ said Golenishchev, showing evidently by this remark that he did not approve of the content and idea of the figure.
 
‘Yes, it is wonderfully masterly! How those figures in the background stand out! That is technique,’ said Vronsky, addressing Golenishchev and alluding to a conversation they had had about Vronsky’s despair of attaining technical mastery.
 
‘Yes, yes, wonderful!’ chimed in Golenishchev and Anna. In spite of his elation, this remark about technique grated painfully on Mikhaylov’s heart, and, glancing angrily at Vronsky, he suddenly frowned. He often heard the word technique mentioned, and did not at all understand what was meant by it. He knew it meant a mechanical capacity to paint and draw, quite independent of the subject-matter. He had often noticed — as now when his picture was being praised — that technique was contrasted with inner quality, as if it were possible to paint well something that was bad. He knew that much attention and care were needed not to injure one’s work when removing the wrappings that obscure the idea, and that all wrappings must be removed, but as to the art of painting, the technique, it did not exist. If the things he saw had been revealed to a little child, or to his cook, they would have been able to remove the outer shell from their idea. And the most experienced and technical painter could never paint anything by means of mechanical skill alone, if the outline of the subject-matter did not first reveal itself to his mind. Moreover, he saw that if technique were spoken of then he could not be praised for it. In all he painted and ever had painted he saw defects that were an eyesore to him, the results of carelessness in removing the shell of the idea, which he could not now remedy without spoiling the work as a whole. And in almost all the figures and faces he saw traces of wrappings that had not been entirely removed and that spoilt the picture.
 
‘One thing might be said, if you will allow me to make the remark,’ began Golenishchev.
 
‘Oh, I shall be very pleased: pray do!’ said Mikhaylov with a feigned smile.
 
‘It is, that you have made Him a man-God, and not a God-man. However, I know that you wished to do so.’
 
‘I could not paint a Christ whom I had not in my soul,’ Mikhaylov rejoined gloomily.
 
‘Yes, but in that case, if I may say what I think . . . Your picture is so good that a remark of mine cannot do it any harm, besides which it’s only my personal opinion . . . yours is different, the idea itself is different. But let us take Ivanov, for example. I consider that if Christ is to be brought down to the level of an historic figure, it would be better to choose another historic theme, a fresh one as yet untouched.’
 
‘But if this is the highest theme open to art?’
 
‘Other themes can be found if one looks for them. But the fact is, art won’t stand discussion and argument. Yet Ivanov’s picture suggests both to a believer and an unbeliever the question: Is this a God or not a God? And the unity of impression is destroyed.’
 
‘Why so? To me it seems that for educated people such questions can no longer exist,’ said Mikhaylov.
 
Golenishchev did not agree with this, and keeping to his first contention that unity of impression is indispensable in art, he confuted Mikhaylov.
 
The artist was perturbed, but could find nothing to say in defence of his opinion.
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 12
 
 
 
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ANNA and Vronsky had long been exchanging glances, regretting their friend’s clever loquacity, and at last Vronsky without waiting for his host crossed the room to look at another and smaller picture.
 
‘Oh, how charming! How charming! Wonderful! Charming!’ he and Anna began both at once.
 
‘What is it they like so much?’ wondered Mikhaylov. He had forgotten all about that picture, painted three years before. He had forgotten all the sufferings and raptures he had gone through on account of that work, when it alone had occupied him unremittingly day and night for three months. He had forgotten it, as he forgot all his finished pictures. He did not even like looking at it, and had only brought it out because he was expecting an Englishman who wished to buy it.
 
‘That’s nothing — only an old study,’ he said.
 
‘How good!’ remarked Golenishchev, evidently sincerely impressed by the charm of the picture.
 
It represented two boys angling in the shade of a willow. The elder had just thrown the line and, quite absorbed in his occupation, was carefully drawing the float from behind a bush; the younger one lay in the grass, leaning on his elbows with his fair tousled head in his hands, and with dreamy blue eyes gazing at the water. What was he thinking about?
 
Their delight in his picture aroused in Mikhaylov his former excitement, but he feared and disliked their idle interest in his past work, and therefore, though their praises gave him pleasure, he tried to draw his visitors’ attention to a third picture.
 
But Vronsky inquired whether this picture was for sale. To Mikhaylov, in his excitement over their visit, this mention of money matters was very disagreeable.
 
‘It is put out for sale,’ he replied, frowning darkly.
 
When the visitors had left, Mikhaylov sat down before his picture of Pilate and Christ and mentally reviewed all that had been said, and even what was not said but only hinted by the visitors. Strange to say, what had had weight with him while they were there and he looked at things from their point of view suddenly lost all significance now. He looked at his picture with his artistic perception fully alert, and reached that assurance of the perfection, and consequent importance, of his picture which he needed to attain the intensity of effort — excluding all other interests — without which he could not work.
 
The foreshortening of Christ’s foot was, however, not right. He took his palette and commenced working. While correcting the foot he kept glancing at the figure of John in the background, which the visitors had not even remarked, but which he knew to be the height of perfection. When he had completed the foot he was about to do something to that figure, but felt that he was too agitated. He could work neither when he was too indifferent nor when he was too highly roused and saw everything too distinctly. There was only one stage between calmness and inspiration, at which work was possible, and to-day he was too excited. He was about to cover his picture, but paused, and holding up the sheet stood a long time with a rapturous smile gazing at the figure of John. At length, tearing himself away from it regretfully, he let the sheet fall over the picture and went home, tired but happy.
 
Vronsky, Anna, and Golenishchev were particularly animated and high-spirited on their way back. They talked about Mikhaylov and his pictures. The word talent, which they understood to mean an innate and almost physical capacity, independent of mind and heart, and which was their term for everything an artist lives through, occurred very often in their conversation, since they required it as a name for something which they did not at all understand, but about which they wanted to talk. They said that it was impossible to deny his talent, but that his talent could not develop because of his lack of education — the common misfortune of our Russian artists. But the picture of the boys had gripped their memories and they kept coming back to it.
 
‘How charming! How well he has hit it off and how simply! He does not even understand how good it is. Yes, we must not miss the opportunity of purchasing it,’ Vronsky declared.
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 13
 
 
 
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MIKHAYLOV sold Vronsky the picture and consented to paint Anna’s portrait. On the appointed day he came and began working.
 
After the fifth sitting the portrait struck every one not only by its likeness but also by its beauty. It was strange that Mikhaylov had been able to discover that special beauty. ‘One needed to know and love her as I love her, to find just that sweetest spiritual expression of hers,’ thought Vronsky, though he himself had only learnt to know that ‘sweetest spiritual expression’ through the portrait. But the expression was so true that it seemed both to him and to others that they had always known it.
 
‘How long have I been struggling without accomplishing anything?’ he said, referring to the portrait he was painting; ‘and he just looked, and painted this! That is where technique comes in.’
 
‘That will come in good time,’ said Golenishchev, consolingly. In his opinion Vronsky had talent, and especially the education that gives a lofty outlook on art. Golenishchev’s conviction that Vronsky possessed talent was supported by the fact that he required Vronsky’s sympathy and praise for his articles and ideas, and felt that praise and encouragement should be mutual.
 
In another man’s house, and particularly in Vronsky’s palazzo, Mikhaylov was quite a different man from what he was in his studio. He was unpleasantly deferential, as if fearful of intimacy with persons whom he did not respect. He addressed Vronsky as ‘Your Excellency,’ and never stayed to dinner, though Anna and Vronsky both invited him, and he never came except for a sitting. Anna was even kinder to him than to others, and was grateful for her portrait. Vronsky was more than polite to him, and was evidently interested in the artist’s opinion of his (Vronsky’s) picture. Golenishchev never missed an opportunity to instil into Mikhaylov a true understanding of art. But the latter remained equally cold toward them all. Anna felt by his look that he liked looking at her, but he avoided conversation with her. When Vronsky talked about his art Mikhaylov remained stubbornly silent, and as stubbornly silent when they showed him Vronsky’s picture; and he was evidently oppressed by Golenishchev’s discourses, to which he made no rejoinder.
 
Altogether, his reserved, disagreeable, and apparently hostile attitude when they came to know him better much displeased them, and they were glad when the sittings were over, the beautiful portrait was theirs, and his visits ceased.
 
Golenishchev was the first to express the thought that was in all their minds, namely, that Mikhaylov was simply jealous of Vronsky.
 
‘We won’t say “jealous” because he has talent, but he is vexed that a man of the Court, a rich man, and a Count into the bargain (men like him hate all that), should, without any particular difficulty, do as well or even better than he, who has devoted his whole life to the work. Especially, there is the education which he lacks.’
 
Vronsky took Mikhaylov’s part, but in the depth of his heart he believed what Golenishchev said, for he considered that a man of that other and lower world must envy him.
 
Anna’s portrait, the same subject painted from nature by both of them, should have shown him the difference between Mikhaylov and himself; but Vronsky did not see it. He merely left off painting Anna, deciding that it would be superfluous now. He went on, however, with his mediaeval picture. And he, as well as Golenishchev, and especially Anna, thought it very good because it resembled famous pictures much more than Mikhaylov’s did.
 
Meanwhile Mikhaylov, though Anna’s portrait had much engrossed him, was even better pleased than they when the sittings were over and he was no longer obliged to listen to Golenishchev’s disquisitions on art and was able to forget Vronsky’s paintings. He knew it was not possible to forbid Vronsky to trifle with art, knew that he and all the dilettanti had a perfect right to paint what they liked — but to him it was unpleasant. One cannot forbid a man’s making a big wax doll and kissing it. But if the man came and sat down with his doll in front of a lover, and began to caress it as the lover caresses his beloved, it would displease the lover. It was this kind of unpleasantness that Mikhaylov experienced when he saw Vronsky’s pictures: he was amused, vexed, sorry, and hurt.
 
Vronsky’s interest in art and the Middle Ages did not last long. He had sufficient taste for art to be unable to finish his picture. He ceased painting it because he was dimly conscious that its defects, little noticeable at first, would become striking if he went on. The same thing happened to him as to Golenishchev, who, feeling that he had nothing to express, continually deceived himself by saying that his thought had not yet ripened and that he was bringing it to maturity and preparing materials. But Golenishchev was embittered and tormented by it, while Vronsky could not deceive and torment himself, and above all could not become embittered.
 
With characteristic firmness he left off painting, without any explanations or excuses.
 
But without that occupation his life and Anna’s — who was surprised at his disenchantment — appeared very dull in the Italian town. All of a sudden the palazzo became so obviously old and dirty, so disagreeably familiar were the stains on the curtains, the cracks in the floor, the cracked stuccoes of the cornices, and so wearisome became Golenishchev, the Italian professor, and the German traveller, who were also always the same, that a change was necessary. So they decided to return to Russia and live in the country. In Petersburg Vronsky planned to separate his property from his brother’s, and Anna to see her son. The summer they intended to spend on Vronsky’s large family estate.