‘Your picture has progressed considerably since I last saw it. And now, as then, I find the figure of Pilate extraordinarily striking. One understands the man so well — a kind, nice fellow, but a functionary to the bottom of his soul, who knows not what he does. But it seems to me...’
The whole of Mikhailov’s mobile face suddenly beamed; his eyes lit up. He wanted to say something but could not speak from excitement, and pretended he was coughing. Little as he valued Golenishchev’s ability to understand art, trivial as was the correct observation about the rightness of Pilate’s expression as a functionary, offensive as it might have seemed to voice such a trivial observation first, while more important things were ignored, Mikhailov was delighted with this observation. He himself thought the same about the figure of Pilate as Golenishchev did. That this opinion was one of a million opinions which, as Mikhailov well knew, would all be correct, did not diminish for him the significance of Golenishchev’s observation. He loved Golenishchev for it, and from a state of dejection suddenly went into ecstasy. The whole painting at once came to life before him with all the complexity of everything that lives. Mikhailov again tried to say that he understood Pilate the same way; but his lips trembled disobediently and he could not get the words out. Vronsky and Anna were also saying something in those soft voices in which people usually talk at exhibitions, partly so as not to insult the artist, partly so as not to say some foolishness aloud, as it is so easy to do when talking about art. It seemed to Mikhailov that the picture had made an impression on them as well. He went over to them.
‘How astonishing Christ’s expression is!’ said Anna. Of all she saw, she liked that expression most; she felt it was the centre of the picture, and therefore that praise of it would please the artist. ‘One can see he pities Pilate.’
This was again one of the million correct opinions that could be held about his picture and the figure of Christ. She said he pitied Pilate. In Christ’s expression there had to be pity, because there was in him the expression of love, unearthly peace, readiness for death and an awareness of the vanity of words. Of course, there was the expression of a functionary in Pilate and of pity in Christ, because one embodied carnal and the other spiritual life. All this and many other things flashed in Mikhailov’s thoughts. And again his face beamed with ecstasy.
‘Yes, and the way the figure’s done, so much air. You can walk around it,’ said Golenishchev, obviously indicating by this observation that he did not approve of the content and idea of the figure.
‘Yes, amazing mastery!’ said Vronsky. ‘How those figures in the background stand out! That’s technique,’ he said, turning to Golenishchev and alluding to a previous conversation between them about Vronsky’s despair of acquiring such technique.
‘Yes, yes, amazing!’ Golenishchev and Anna agreed. In spite of the agitated state he was in, the remark about technique grated painfully on Mikhailov’s heart and, glancing angrily at Vronsky, he suddenly scowled. He had often heard this word ‘technique’ and decidedly did not understand what it implied. He knew that it implied a mechanical ability to paint and draw, completely independent of content. He had often noticed, as in this present praise, that technique was opposed to inner virtue, as if it were possible to make a good painting of something bad. He knew that great attention and care were needed to remove the wrappings without harming the work itself, and to remove all the wrappings; but there was no art of painting, no technique here. If what he saw had also been revealed to a little child or to his kitchen-maid, they too would have been able to lay bare what they saw. But the most experienced and skilful painter-technician would be unable, for all his mechanical ability, to paint anything unless the boundaries of the content were first revealed to him. Besides, he saw that if one were to speak of technique he could not be praised for it. In all his paintings, present and past, his eye was struck by defects that came from the carelessness with which he had removed the wrappings and that he could no longer correct without marring the whole work. And he still saw on almost all the figures and faces the remains of wrappings not yet completely removed, which marred the painting.
‘One thing might be said, if you will allow me to make an observation...’ Golenishchev observed.
‘Oh, please do, I’ll be very glad,’ said Mikhailov, smiling falsely.
‘It is that you have made him a man-God and not a God-man.27 However, I know that’s what you meant to do.’
‘I could not paint a Christ whom I do not have in my soul,’ Mikhailov said sullenly.
