Sanine

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.