‘Good-morning,’ said Gagin, coming in; ‘I’m disturbing you rather
early, but only see what a morning it is. Fresh, dewy, larks singing.…’
With his curly, shining hair, his open neck and rosy cheeks, he was
fresh as the morning himself.
I dressed; we went out into the garden, sat down on a bench, ordered
coffee, and proceeded to talk. Gagin told me his plans for the future;
he possessed a moderate fortune, was not dependent on any one, and
wanted to devote himself to painting. He only regretted that he had
not had more sense sooner, but had wasted so much time doing nothing.
I too referred to my projects, and incidentally confided to him the
secret of my unhappy love. He listened to me amiably, but, so far as I
could observe, I did not arouse in him any very strong sympathy with
my passion. Sighing once or twice after me, for civility’s sake, Gagin
suggested that I should go home with him and look at his sketches. I
agreed at once.
We did not find Acia. She had, the landlady told us, gone to the
‘ruin.’ A mile and a half from L. were the remains of a feudal castle.
Gagin showed me all his canvases. In his sketches there was a good deal
of life and truth, a certain breadth and freedom; but not one of them
was finished, and the drawing struck me as careless and incorrect. I
gave candid expression to my opinion.
‘Yes, yes,’ he assented, with a sigh; ‘you’re right; it’s all very
poor and crude; what’s to be done? I haven’t had the training I ought
to have had; besides, one’s cursed Slavonic slackness gets the better
of one. While one dreams of work, one soars away in eagle flight; one
fancies one’s going to shake the earth out of its place--but when it
comes to doing anything, one’s weak and weary directly.’
I began trying to cheer him up, but he waved me off, and bundling his
sketches up together, threw them on the sofa.
‘If I’ve patience, something may be made of me,’ he muttered; ‘if I
haven’t, I shall remain a half-baked noble amateur. Come, we’d better
be looking for Acia.’
We went out.