For some time past Yourii Svarogitsch had been working at painting, of
which he was fond, and to which he devoted all his spare time. It had
once been his dream to become an artist, but want of money, in the
first place, and also his political activity prevented this, so that
now he painted occasionally, as a pastime, without any special end in
view.
For this reason, indeed, and because he had no training, art gave him
no pleasant satisfaction; it was a source of chagrin and of
disenchantment. Whenever his work did not prove successful, he became
irritable and depressed; if, on the other hand, it came out well, he
fell into a sort of gloomy reverie, conscious of the futility of his
efforts that brought him neither happiness nor success. Yourii had
taken a great fancy to Sina Karsavina. He liked tall, well-formed young
women with fine voices and romantic eyes. He thought her beauty and
purity of soul were what attracted him, though really it was because
she was handsome and desirable. However, he tried to persuade himself
that, for him, her charm was a spiritual, not a physical one, this
being, as he thought, a nobler, finer definition, though it was
precisely this maidenly purity and innocence of hers which fired his
blood and aroused desire. Ever since the evening when he first met her,
he had felt a vague yet vehement longing to sully her innocence, a
longing indeed that the presence of any handsome woman provoked.
And now that his thoughts were set on a comely girl, blithe, wholesome,
and full of the joy of life, Yourii had an idea that he would paint
Life. As most new ideas were wont to do, this one stirred him to
enthusiasm, and on this occasion he believed that he would bring his
task to a successful end.
Having prepared a huge canvas, he set to work with feverish haste, as
if he dreaded delay. When he first touched the canvas with colour,
producing a harmonious and pleasing effect, he felt a thrill of
delight, and the picture that was to be stood clearly before him with
all its details. As, however, the work progressed, so technical
difficulties became more numerous, and with these Yourii felt unable to
cope. All that in his imagination seemed luminous and beautiful and
strong, became thin and feeble on the canvas. Details no longer
fascinated him, but were annoying and depressing. In fact, he ignored
them and began to paint in a broad, slap-dash style. Thus, instead of a
clear, powerful portrayal of life, the picture became ever more plain
of a tawdry, slovenly female. There was nothing original or charming
about such a dull stereotyped piece of work, so he thought; a veritable
imitation of a Moukh drawing, banal in idea as in execution; and, as
usual, Yourii became sad and gloomy.