Christ's foreshortened leg was not right, though. He took his
palette and began to work. As he corrected the leg he looked
continually at the figure of John in the background, which his
visitors had not even noticed, but which he knew was beyond
perfection. When he had finished the leg he wanted to touch that
figure, but he felt too much excited for it. He was equally
unable to work when he was cold and when he was too much affected
and saw everything too much. There was only one stage in the
transition from coldness to inspiration, at which work was
possible. Today he was too much agitated. He would have covered
the picture, but he stopped, holding the cloth in his hand, and,
smiling blissfully, gazed a long while at the figure of John. At
last, as it were regretfully tearing himself away, he dropped the
cloth, and, exhausted but happy, went home.
Vronsky, Anna, and Golenishtchev, on their way home, were
particularly lively and cheerful. They talked of Mihailov and
his pictures. The word _talent_, by which they meant an inborn,
almost physical, aptitude apart from brain and heart, and in
which they tried to find an expression for all the artist had
gained from life, recurred particularly often in their talk, as
though it were necessary for them to sum up what they had no
conception of, though they wanted to talk of it. They said that
there was no denying his talent, but that his talent could not
develop for want of education--the common defect of our Russian
artists. But the picture of the boys had imprinted itself on
their memories, and they were continually coming back to it.
"What an exquisite thing! How he has succeeded in it, and how
simply! He doesn't even comprehend how good it is. Yes, I
mustn't let it slip; I must buy it," said Vronsky.