regarded with the most complacency—the face of the Christ in the very center of the picture, which had roused his enthusiasm as he had developed it—was wholly spoilt for him when he looked at his painting with their eyes.
He saw a well-painted picture,—nay, not even well-painted,—for now he clearly detected hosts of faults in it—a repetition of all those interminable Christs of Titian, Raphael, Rubens—and the same soldiers and Pilate! All about it was trivial, poor, and antiquated, and even badly painted,—spotty and feeble! They would be justified in repeating politely hypocritical remarks in his presence, pitying him and ridiculing him after they were gone!
The silence, which in reality did not last more than a minute, seemed to him intolerably long, and to abridge it and show that he was not agitated, he made an effort, and addressed Golenishchef:—
"I think that I have had the honor of meeting you before," said he, glancing anxiously first at Anna, then at Vronsky, so that he might not lose for an instant the changing expression of their faces.
"Certainly; we met at Rossi's the evening when that Italian girl, the new Rachel, made a recitation; don't you remember?" replied Golenishchef, turning away his face from the picture without the least show of regret, and addressing the artist.
Seeing, however, that Mikhaïlof was expecting him to say something about the picture, he added:—
"Your work has made great progress since the last time I saw it; and I am now, just as I was then, greatly impressed with your Pilate. You have represented a good but feeble man,—a chinovnik to the bottom of his soul,—who is absolutely blind to what he is doing. But it seems to me ...."
Mikhaïlof's mobile face suddenly lighted up, his eyes gleamed, he wanted to reply; but his emotion prevented him, and he pretended to have a fit of coughing. In spite of his low estimation of Golenishchef's artistic instinct, in spite of the insignificance of the remark, true though it was, about the expression of Pilate's face
