CHAPTER I
Boris Pavlovich Raisky had a vivacious, unusually mobile face. At firstsight he appeared younger than his years. The high, white forehead gavean impression of freshness and vigour; the eyes blazed one moment withintelligence, emotion or gaiety, a moment later they wore a meditative,dreamy expression, then again they looked young, even childlike. Atother times they evidenced knowledge of life, or looked so weary, sobored that they betrayed their owner's age; at these times thereappeared between them three furrows, certain indications of time andknowledge of life. Smooth black hair fell on his neck and half coveredthe ears, with here and there silver threads about the temples. Hiscomplexion had kept the tints of youth except on the temples and thechin, which were a brownish-yellow colour.
It was easy to guess from his physiognomy that the conflict betweenyouth and maturity was past, that he had passed the early stages oflife's journey and that sorrow and sickness had left their marks on him.Only the mouth, with its delicate lines, with the fresh, almostchildlike smile remained unchanged by age.
He had been left an orphan in childhood, and for some time hisindifferent, bachelor guardian had left his education to a relative,Boris's aunt.
This lady was endowed with a rich temperament, but her horizon did notstretch far beyond her own home, where in the tranquil atmosphere ofwoods and gardens, in the environment of the family and the estate,Boris had passed several years. When he grew older his guardian sent himto the High School, where the family traditions of former wealth and ofthe connexion with other old noble families faded.
His further development, occupations and inclinations led him stillfurther from the traditions of his childhood. Raisky had lived for aboutten years in St. Petersburg; that is to say he rented three pleasantrooms from a German landlord, which he retained, although after he hadleft the civil service he rarely spent two successive half-years in thecapital.
He had left the civil service as casually as he had entered it, because,when he had had time to consider his position, he came to the conclusionthat the service is not an aim in itself, but merely a means to bringtogether a number of men who would otherwise have had no justificationfor their existence. If these men had not existed, the posts which theyfilled need never have been created.
Now, he had already passed his thirtieth year, and had neither sowed norreaped. He did not follow the same path as the other ordinary arrivalfrom the interior of Russia, for he was neither an officer nor anofficial, nor did he seek a career for himself by hard work or byinfluence. He was inscribed in the registers of his police district as acivil servant.
It would have been hard for the expert in physiognomy to decipherRaisky's characteristics, inclinations and character from his facebecause of its extraordinary mobility. Still less could his mentalphysiognomy be defined. He had moments when, to use his own expression,he embraced the whole world, so that many people declared that there wasno kinder, more amiable man in existence. Others, on the contrary, whocame across him at an unfortunate moment, when the yellow patches on hisface were most marked, when his lips were drawn in a sinister, nervousquiver, and he returned kindness and sympathy with cold looks and sharpwords, were repelled by him and even pursued him with their dislike.Some called him egotistic and proud, while others declared themselvesenchanted with him; some again maintained that he was theatrical, othersthat he was not to be trusted. Two or three friends judged otherwise. "Anoble nature," they said, "most honourable, but with all its virtues,nervous, passionate, excitable, fiery tempered...." So there had neverbeen any unanimous opinion of him.
Even in early childhood while he lived with his aunt, and later, afterhis school-days had begun, he showed the same enigmatic andcontradictory traits.
It might be expected that the first effort of a new boy would be tolisten to the teacher's questions and the pupils' answers. But Raiskystared at the teacher, as if seeking to impress on his memory thedetails of his appearance, his speech, how he took snuff; he looked athis eyebrows, his beard, then at his clothes, at the cornelian sealsuspended across his waistcoat, and so on. Then he would observe each ofthe other boys and note their peculiarities, or he would study his ownperson, and wonder what his own face was like, what the others thoughtof him....
"What did I say just now?" interrupted the master, noticing Boris'swandering glance.
To the teacher's amazement Boris replied word for word, "And what is themeaning of this?" He had listened mechanically, and had caught theactual syllables.
The master repeated his explanation, and again Boris caught the sound ofhis voice, noticing that sometimes he spoke shortly, staccato--sometimesdrawled as if he were singing, and then rapped out his words smartlylike nuts.
"Well?"
Raisky blushed, perspired with anxiety, and was silent.
It was the mathematical master. He went to the blackboard, wrote up theproblem, and again began the explanation. Raisky only noticed with whatrapidity and certainty he wrote the figures, how the waistcoat with thecornelian seal and then the snuff-spattered shirt front camenearer--nothing, except the solution of the problem, escaped him.
Now and then a notion penetrated to his brain, but when it came toequations he grew weary with the effort required. Sometimes the teacherlost patience with him, and generally concluded: "Go back to your place,you are a blockhead."
But if a whiff of originality passed over the master himself, if hetaught as if it were a game, and had recourse neither to his book nor tothe blackboard, then the solution flashed on Raisky, and he found theanswer quicker than any of the others.
He consumed passionately history, novels and tales; wherever he could hebegged for books. But he did not like facts or theories or anything thatdrew him from the world of fancy towards the world of reality. In thegeography lesson he could not understand how any boy could answer inclass, but once out of class he could talk about foreign countries andcities, or about the sea, to the amazement of his classmates. He had notlearnt it from the teacher or from a book, but he gave a picture of theplace as if he had actually been there.
"You are inventing," a sceptical listener would say. "Vassili Nikitichnever said that."
His companions did not know what to make of him, for his sympathieschanged so often that he had neither constant friends nor constantenemies. One week he would attach himself to one boy, seek his society,sit with him, read to him, talk to him and give him his confidence. Then,for no reason, he would leave him, enter into close relations withanother boy, and then as speedily forget him.
If one of his companions annoyed him he became angry with him andpursued hostilities obstinately long after the original cause wasforgotten. Then suddenly he would have a friendly, magnanimous impulse,would carefully arrange a scene of reconciliation, which interestedeveryone, himself most of all.
When he was out of school, everyday life attracted him very little; hecared neither for its gayer side nor its sterner activities. If hisguardian asked him how the corn should be threshed, the cloth milled orlinen bleached, he turned away and went out on to the verandah to lookout on the woods, or made his way along the river to the thicket towatch the insects at work, or to observe the birds, to see how theyalighted, how they sharpened their beaks. He caught a hedgehog and madea playmate of it, went out fishing all day long with the village boys,or listened to the tales about Pugachev told by a half-witted old womanliving in a mud hut, greedily drinking in the most singular of thehorrible incidents she related, while he looked into the old woman'stoothless mouth and into the caverns of her fading eyes.
For hours he would listen with morbid curiosity to the babble of theidiot Feklusha. At home he read in the most desultory way. He deemed thesecrets of Eastern magic, Russian tales and folk-lore, skimmed Ossian,Tasso, Homer, or wandered with Cook in strange lands. If he foundnothing to read he lay motionless all day long, as if he were exhaustedwith hard work; his fancy carried him beyond Ossian and Homer, beyondthe tales of Cook, until fevered with his imaginings he rose tired,exhausted, an
d unable for a long time to resume normal life.
People called him an idler. He feared this accusation, and wept over itin secret, though he was convinced that he was no idler, but somethingdifferent, that no one but himself comprehended.
Unfortunately, there was no one to guide him in a definite direction. Onthe one hand, his guardian merely saw to it that his masters came atstated times and that Boris did not avoid school; on the other, his auntcontented herself with seeing that he was in good health, ate and sleptwell, was decently dressed, and as a well-brought-up boy should, did notconsort with every village lout.
Nobody cared to see what he read; his aunt gave him the keys of hisfather's library in the old house, where he shut himself in, now to readSpinoza, now a novel, and another day Voltaire or Boccaccio.
He made better progress in the arts than in the sciences. Here too hehad his tricks. One day the teacher set the pupils to draw eyes, butRaisky grew tired of that, and proceeded to add a nose and a moustache.The master surprised him, and seized him by the hair. When he lookedcloser at the drawing, however, he asked: "Where did you learn to dothat?"
"Nowhere," was the reply.
"But it is well done, my lad. See yourself what this hurry to get onleads to; the forehead and nose are good enough, but the ear you haveput in the wrong place, and the hair looks like tow."
Raisky was triumphant. The words, "But it is well done; the forehead andnose are good enough," were for him a crown of laurel.
He walked round the school yard proud in the consciousness that he wasthe best in the drawing class; this mood lasted to the next day, when hecame to grief in the ordinary lessons. But he conceived a passion fordrawing, and during the month that followed drew a curly-headed boy,then the head of Fingal. His fancy was caught by a woman's head whichhung in the master's room; it leaned a little towards one shoulder, andlooked away into the distance with melancholy, meditative eyes. "Allowme to make a copy," he begged with a gentle, tremulous voice, and with anervous quiver of the upper lip.
"Don't break the glass," the master warned him, and gave him the picture.Boris was happy. For a whole week his masters did not secure a singleintelligent answer from him. He sat silently in his corner and drew. Atnight he took the drawing to his bedroom, and as he looked into itsgracious eyes, followed the lines of the delicately bent neck, heshivered, his heart stood still, there was a catch in his breath, and heclosed his eyes; with a faint sigh he pressed the picture to his breastwhere the breath came so painfully--and then there was a crash and theglass fell clattering on the floor.
When he had drawn the head his pride knew no bounds. His work wasexhibited with the drawings of pupils of the top class, the teacher hadmade few corrections, had only here and there put broad strokes in theshading, had drawn three or four more decided lines, had put a point ineach eye--and the eyes were now like life.
"How lifelike and bold it is!" thought Raisky, as he looked at thestrokes inserted by his master, and more especially at the points in theeyes, which had so suddenly given them the look of life. This stepforward intoxicated him. "Talent! Talent!" sang in his ears.
He sketched the maids, the coachman, the peasants of the countryside. Hewas particularly successful with the idiot Feklusha, seated in a cavernwith her bust in the shade, and the light on her wild hair; he had notthe patience nor the skill to finish bust, hands and feet. How couldanybody be expected to sit still all the morning, when the sun wasshedding its rays so gaily and so generously on stream and meadow?
Within three days the picture had faded in his imagination, and newimages were thronging his brain. He would like to have drawn a rounddance, a drunken old man, the rapid passage of a troika. For two days hewas taken up with this picture, which stood before his mind's eye inevery detail; the peasants and the women were finished, but not thewaggon with its three fleet horses.
In a week he had forgotten this picture also.
He loved music to distraction. At school he had an enduring affectionfor the dull Vassyvkov, who was the laughing stock of the other boys. Aboy would seize Vassyvkov by the ear, crying, "Get out, stupid,blockhead," but Raisky stood by him, because Vassyvkov, inattentive,sleepy, idle, who never did his work even for the universally belovedRussian master, would every afternoon after dinner take his violin, andas he played, forget the school, the masters and the nose-pullings. Hiseyes as they gazed into the distance, apparently seeking somethingstrange, enticing, and mysterious, became wild and gloomy, and oftenfilled with tears.
He was no longer Vassyvkov, but another creature. His pupils dilated,his eyes ceased to blink, becoming clearer and deeper; his glance wasproud and intelligent; his breath came long and deep. Over his facestole an expression of happiness, of gentleness; his eyes became darkerand seemed to radiate light. In a word he became beautiful.
Raisky began to think the thoughts of Vassyvkov, to see what he saw. Hissurroundings vanished, and boys and benches were lost in a mist. Morenotes ... and a wide space opened before him. A world in motion arose.He heard the murmur of running streams, saw ships, men, woods, anddrifting clouds; everywhere was light, motion, and gaiety. He had thesensation that he himself was growing taller, he caught his breath....
The dream continued just so long as the notes were heard. Suddenly heheard a noise, he was awakened with a start, Vassyvkov had ceased toplay; the moving, musical waves vanished, and there were only the boys,benches and tables. Vassyvkov laid aside his violin, and somebodytweaked his ear. Raisky threw himself in a rage on the offender, struckhim--all the while possessed by the magic notes.
Every nerve in his body sang. Life, thought, emotion broke in waves inthe seething sea of his consciousness. The notes strike a chord ofmemory. A cloud of recollection hovers before him, shaping the figure ofa woman who holds him to her breast. He gropes in his consciousness--itwas thus that his mother's arms cradled him, his face pressed to herbreast ... her figure grows in distinctness, as if she had risen fromthe grave....
He had begun to take lessons from Vassyvkov. For a whole week he hadbeen moving the bow up and down, but its scratching set his teeth onedge. He caught two strings at once, and his hand trembled with weakness.It was clearly no use. When Vassyvkov played his hand seemed to play ofitself. Tired of the torment, Raisky begged his guardian to allow him totake piano lessons.
"It will be easier on the pianoforte," he thought.
His guardian engaged a German master, but took the opportunity of sayinga few words to his nephew.
"Boris," he said, "for what are you preparing yourself? I have beenintending to ask you for a long time."
Boris did not understand the question, and made no answer.
"You are nearly sixteen years old, and it is time you began to think ofserious things. It is plain that you have not yet considered whatfaculty you will follow in the University, and to which branch of theservice you will devote yourself. You cannot well go into the army,because you have no great fortune, and yet, for the sake of your family,could hardly serve elsewhere than in the Guards."
Boris was silent, and watched through the window how the hens struttedabout, how the pigs wallowed in the mire, how the cat was stalking apigeon....
"I am speaking to you seriously, and you stare out of the window. Forwhat future are you preparing yourself?"
"I want to be an artist."
"Wha-at?"
"An artist."
"The devil only knows what notions you have got into your head. Whowould agree to that? Do you even know what an artist is?"
Raisky made no answer.
"An artist ... is a man who borrows money from you, or chatters foolishnonsense, and drives you to distraction.... Artist! ... These peoplelead a wild gipsy life, are destitute of money, clothes, shoes, and allthe time they dream of wealth. Artists live on this earth like the birdsof heaven. I have seen enough of them in St. Petersburg: bold rascalswho meet one another in the evening dressed in fantastic costumes, lieupon divans, smoke pipes, talk about trifles, read poetry, drink brandya
nd declare that they are artists. Uncombed, unwashed...."
"I have heard, Uncle, that artists are now held in high esteem. You arethinking of the past. Now, the Academy produces many famous people."
"I am not very old, and I have seen the world. You have heard the bellsring, but do not know in what tower. Famous people! There are famousartists as there are famous doctors. But when do they achieve fame? Whendo they enter the service and reach the rank of Councillor? If a manbuilds a cathedral or erects a monument in a public place, then peoplebegin to seek him out. But artists begin in poverty, with a crust ofbread. You will find they are for the most part freed serfs, smalltradespeople or foreigners, or Jews. Poverty drives them to art. Butyou--a Raisky! You have land of your own, and bread to eat. It'spleasant enough to have graceful talents in society, to play the piano,to sketch in an album, and to sing a song, and I have therefore engageda German professor for you. But what an abominable idea to be an artistby profession! Have you ever heard of a prince or a count who haspainted a picture, or a nobleman who has chiselled a statue? No, andwhy?"
"What about Rubens? He was a courtier, an ambassador...."
"Where have you dug that out? Two hundred years ago.... Among theGermans ... but you are going to the University, to enter the faculty oflaw, then you will study for the service in St. Petersburg, try to get aposition as advocate, and your connexions will help you to a place atcourt. And if you keep your eyes open, with your name and yourconnexions, you will be a Governor in thirty years' time. That is thecareer for you. But there seem to be no serious ideas in your head; youcatch fish with the village boors, have sketched a swamp and a drunkenbeggar, but you have not the remotest idea of when this or that cropshould be sown, or at what price it is sold."
Raisky trembled. His guardian's lecture affected his nerves.
Like Vassyvkov, the music master began to bend his fingers. If Raiskyhad not been ashamed before his guardian he would not have endured thetorture. As it was he succeeded in a few months, after much trouble, incompleting the first stages of his instruction. Very soon he surpassedand surprised the local young ladies by the strength and boldness of hisplaying. His master saw his abilities were remarkable, his indolencestill more remarkable.
That, he thought, was no misfortune. Indolence and negligence are nativeto artists. He had been told too that a man who has talent should notwork too hard. Hard work is only for those with moderate abilities.