第一百三十三章 第九章
他们搬进这座废弃已久的古老宫殿后，那高耸的雕花天花板、墙上的壁画、马赛克拼花地面、垂在窗前的黄呢厚窗帘、基座上的花瓶、敞开式壁炉、雕花门扉以及悬挂着画作的幽暗厅堂——这座宫殿本身，便让弗龙斯基心中那个甜蜜的幻象愈发真实：他并非一个退役军官、俄国乡绅，而是一位开明的艺术爱好者与赞助人，一位谦逊的艺术家，为了心爱的女子，甘愿舍弃尘世、人脉与抱负。
迁入宫殿后，弗龙斯基选择的姿态堪称完美。他经戈列尼谢夫引荐结识了几位有趣人物，一时间倒也心满意足。他在一位意大利油画教授的指导下作写生习作，研究中世纪意大利生活。中世纪意大利生活令他如此着迷，甚至戴上了中世纪风格的帽子、披上斗篷——这打扮倒也确实极其适合他。
“我们住在这里，对外界一无所知，”一天上午，弗龙斯基对前来拜访的戈列尼谢夫说道，“你看过米哈伊洛夫那幅画吗？”他将早上收到的俄文报纸递过去，指着关于一位俄国画家的报道。这位画家也住在这座城市，即将完成一幅久被热议且早已被预购的画作。文章谴责政府和美术学院，竟让如此杰出的艺术家得不到鼓励与支持。
“我看过，”戈列尼谢夫回答，“当然，他并非没有才华，但方向全错了。他对基督和宗教画的见解，完全是伊万诺夫——施特劳斯——勒南那一套。”
“画的是什么题材？”安娜问道。
“基督在彼拉多面前。画家以新学派的现实主义手法，把基督画成一个犹太人。”
谈及画作题材，戈列尼谢夫又触及他最钟爱的理论之一，便滔滔不绝地发挥起来。
“我真不明白，他们怎么能犯下如此严重的错误。基督在伟大艺术家的作品中，历来有其固定的表现形式。因此，如果他们想描绘的不是神，而是一个革命者或圣贤，大可以从历史中选取苏格拉底、富兰克林、夏洛特·科黛，但绝不能选基督。他们恰恰选了一个不该用于他们艺术的人物，然后……”
“那么，这个米哈伊洛夫真的那么穷困吗？”弗龙斯基问道。他认为，作为俄国艺术赞助人，无论画作好坏，他都有责任帮助这位艺术家。
“恐怕并非如此。他是一位杰出的肖像画家。你见过他画的瓦西里奇科娃夫人的肖像吗？不过，我想他现在已经不愿再画肖像了，所以很可能境况拮据。我坚持认为……”
“我们何不请他给安娜·阿尔卡季耶夫娜画一幅肖像呢？”弗龙斯基说。
“为什么画我？”安娜说，“有了你画的那幅，我不需要别的肖像了。最好给安妮画一幅吧”（她这样称呼小女儿）。“她在那儿呢，”她补充道，看着窗外那位漂亮的意大利奶妈正抱着孩子走进花园，同时悄悄瞥了弗龙斯基一眼。那个漂亮的奶妈——弗龙斯基正以她为模特画头像——是安娜生活中隐藏的痛苦。他以她为模特作画，欣赏她的美貌和中世纪韵味，而安娜却不敢向自己承认，她害怕自己会嫉妒这个奶妈，因此对这个女人和她的小儿子格外和蔼宽容。弗龙斯基也望向窗外，又看向安娜的眼睛，随即转向戈列尼谢夫，说道：
“你认识这个米哈伊洛夫吗？”
“我见过他。不过他是个怪人，毫无教养。你知道，他是那种如今常碰见的粗鲁新派人物——你知道，就是那种从娘胎里就信奉无神论、怀疑论和唯物论的自由思想家。过去，”戈列尼谢夫没有察觉——或是不愿察觉——安娜和弗龙斯基都想说话，继续说道，“过去的自由思想家，是在宗教、法律和道德观念中长大，通过冲突与斗争才走向自由思想；但现在，出现了一种天生的新型自由思想家，他们成长过程中甚至没听说过道德或宗教原则，不知道权威的存在，他们直接在对一切事物的否定观念中长大——也就是说，他们就是野蛮人。嗯，他就是那一类。他好像是什么莫斯科管家的儿子，从未受过任何教育。当他进入美术学院并成名后，由于他不笨，便试图自学。而他找到的所谓文化源泉，就是杂志。你看，过去一个想要自学的人——比方说法国人——会去研究所有经典作家、神学家、悲剧诗人、历史学家和哲学家，总之，所有他能接触到的精神作品。但在我们这个时代，他直接扑向否定性的文学，迅速吸收否定科学的所有片段，然后就万事大吉了。这还不算——二十年前，他还能在这种文学中找到与权威、与古老信条斗争的痕迹，从这种斗争中，他能意识到还有别的东西存在；但现在，他接触的文学里，古老信条甚至不值得讨论，只是赤裸裸地宣称没有别的东西——进化论、自然选择、生存斗争——仅此而已。在我的文章里，我已经……”
“听我说，”安娜说道。她早已和弗龙斯基交换过警惕的眼神，知道他对这位画家的教育背景毫无兴趣，只想资助他并请他画一幅肖像。“听我说，”她果断地打断了仍在滔滔不绝的戈列尼谢夫，“我们去看看他吧！”
戈列尼谢夫镇定下来，欣然同意。但由于画家住在偏僻的郊区，他们决定乘坐马车前往。
一小时后，安娜坐在马车里，旁边是戈列尼谢夫，弗龙斯基坐在对面座位上。马车驶到郊区一栋丑陋的新房子前。从出来迎接他们的门房妻子那里得知，米哈伊洛夫在画室会客，但此刻他就在几步之遥的住所里，他们便请她送上名片，请求允许参观他的画作。
The old neglected palazzo, with its lofty carved ceilings and frescoes
on the walls, with its floors of mosaic, with its heavy yellow stuff
curtains on the windows, with its vases on pedestals, and its open
fireplaces, its carved doors and gloomy reception rooms, hung with
pictures—this palazzo did much, by its very appearance after they had
moved into it, to confirm in Vronsky the agreeable illusion that he was
not so much a Russian country gentleman, a retired army officer, as an
enlightened amateur and patron of the arts, himself a modest artist who
had renounced the world, his connections, and his ambition for the sake
of the woman he loved.
The pose chosen by Vronsky with their removal into the palazzo was
completely successful, and having, through Golenishtchev, made
acquaintance with a few interesting people, for a time he was
satisfied. He painted studies from nature under the guidance of an
Italian professor of painting, and studied mediæval Italian life.
Mediæval Italian life so fascinated Vronsky that he even wore a hat and
flung a cloak over his shoulder in the mediæval style, which, indeed,
was extremely becoming to him.
“Here we live, and know nothing of what’s going on,” Vronsky said to
Golenishtchev as he came to see him one morning. “Have you seen
Mihailov’s picture?” he said, handing him a Russian gazette he had
received that morning, and pointing to an article on a Russian artist,
living in the very same town, and just finishing a picture which had
long been talked about, and had been bought beforehand. The article
reproached the government and the academy for letting so remarkable an
artist be left without encouragement and support.
“I’ve seen it,” answered Golenishtchev. “Of course, he’s not without
talent, but it’s all in a wrong direction. It’s all the
Ivanov-Strauss-Renan attitude to Christ and to religious painting.”
“What is the subject of the picture?” asked Anna.
“Christ before Pilate. Christ is represented as a Jew with all the
realism of the new school.”
And the question of the subject of the picture having brought him to
one of his favorite theories, Golenishtchev launched forth into a
disquisition on it.
“I can’t understand how they can fall into such a gross mistake. Christ
always has His definite embodiment in the art of the great masters. And
therefore, if they want to depict, not God, but a revolutionist or a
sage, let them take from history a Socrates, a Franklin, a Charlotte
Corday, but not Christ. They take the very figure which cannot be taken
for their art, and then....”
“And is it true that this Mihailov is in such poverty?” asked Vronsky,
thinking that, as a Russian Mæcenas, it was his duty to assist the
artist regardless of whether the picture were good or bad.
“I should say not. He’s a remarkable portrait-painter. Have you ever
seen his portrait of Madame Vassiltchikova? But I believe he doesn’t
care about painting any more portraits, and so very likely he is in
want. I maintain that....”
“Couldn’t we ask him to paint a portrait of Anna Arkadyevna?” said
Vronsky.
“Why mine?” said Anna. “After yours I don’t want another portrait.
Better have one of Annie” (so she called her baby girl). “Here she is,”
she added, looking out of the window at the handsome Italian nurse, who
was carrying the child out into the garden, and immediately glancing
unnoticed at Vronsky. The handsome nurse, from whom Vronsky was
painting a head for his picture, was the one hidden grief in Anna’s
life. He painted with her as his model, admired her beauty and
mediævalism, and Anna dared not confess to herself that she was afraid
of becoming jealous of this nurse, and was for that reason particularly
gracious and condescending both to her and her little son. Vronsky,
too, glanced out of the window and into Anna’s eyes, and, turning at
once to Golenishtchev, he said:
“Do you know this Mihailov?”
“I have met him. But he’s a queer fish, and quite without breeding. You
know, one of those uncouth new people one’s so often coming across
nowadays, one of those free-thinkers you know, who are reared
_d’emblée_ in theories of atheism, scepticism, and materialism. In
former days,” said Golenishtchev, not observing, or not willing to
observe, that both Anna and Vronsky wanted to speak, “in former days
the free-thinker was a man who had been brought up in ideas of
religion, law, and morality, and only through conflict and struggle
came to free-thought; but now there has sprung up a new type of born
free-thinkers who grow up without even having heard of principles of
morality or of religion, of the existence of authorities, who grow up
directly in ideas of negation in everything, that is to say, savages.
Well, he’s of that class. He’s the son, it appears, of some Moscow
butler, and has never had any sort of bringing-up. When he got into the
academy and made his reputation he tried, as he’s no fool, to educate
himself. And he turned to what seemed to him the very source of
culture—the magazines. In old times, you see, a man who wanted to
educate himself—a Frenchman, for instance—would have set to work to
study all the classics and theologians and tragedians and historians
and philosophers, and, you know, all the intellectual work that came in
his way. But in our day he goes straight for the literature of
negation, very quickly assimilates all the extracts of the science of
negation, and he’s ready. And that’s not all—twenty years ago he would
have found in that literature traces of conflict with authorities, with
the creeds of the ages; he would have perceived from this conflict that
there was something else; but now he comes at once upon a literature in
which the old creeds do not even furnish matter for discussion, but it
is stated baldly that there is nothing else—evolution, natural
selection, struggle for existence—and that’s all. In my article
I’ve....”
“I tell you what,” said Anna, who had for a long while been exchanging
wary glances with Vronsky, and knew that he was not in the least
interested in the education of this artist, but was simply absorbed by
the idea of assisting him, and ordering a portrait of him; “I tell you
what,” she said, resolutely interrupting Golenishtchev, who was still
talking away, “let’s go and see him!”
Golenishtchev recovered his self-possession and readily agreed. But as
the artist lived in a remote suburb, it was decided to take the
carriage.
An hour later Anna, with Golenishtchev by her side and Vronsky on the
front seat of the carriage, facing them, drove up to a new ugly house
in the remote suburb. On learning from the porter’s wife, who came out
to them, that Mihailov saw visitors at his studio, but that at that
moment he was in his lodging only a couple of steps off, they sent her
to him with their cards, asking permission to see his picture.
