gh; but at least I had had shelter, clothes, a bed, and food.
Here nothing comes naturally; and I could buy only two hundred and ten
roubles' worth of everything. One comfort I had. I was in the
art-school, free; and they thought I had talent, and was doing well.
When I worked I was happy; I could forget. But at the end of one year
they said: 'Two years more. Then you can begin to exhibit, and will have
the right to sell.' And now only one of those two years is gone; and--I
am here, _here_, alive only through charity!--No, do not speak! I must
tell you. I owe much money, for my rent, for food, for paints; and I was
carrying my last canvas back to the dealer's to-day, to ask him to give
me back half of what I paid for it. My room-mate, Wencislaus Wendt, has
done what he could for me. But the one who, in the beginning, did
most--who once helped us all in the Students' Quarter--Boris Lemsky--was
taken away in the first spring after I came. He was a university man;
but he was good to me. I owe him my life: everything I have. And now
they say that--what is it, Ivan Mikhailovitch?--Why do you look so? Do
you know what became of him?"

Ivan had bent his head forward on his arms. "Boris"--the voice was
muffled and unnatural--"Boris was shot through the heart, trying to get
to the rooms of Sergius Lihnoff, eighteen months ago."

"By--by whom?"

"The police."

"A--ah!--And his brother--Feodor?"

"In Siberia."

There was a moment's pause. Then, after a little, the youth said, dully:
"Yes, it is like Poland here. Only, in this country, it seems they kill
their own patriots.--Boris _could_ not have done a wrong!--Ah, Ivan
Mikhailovitch, my story has been no story. It hurts me too much to think
back through the last months. I fought with starvation, and lost. Now I
am here. I can do nothing; can be of no use. I am sick. I am tired. I
am discouraged. Better have died on the street before I was fed
again!--I can never go back to my family, to burden them with my
wretched existence--a failure added to failures.--I have in me the blood
of Titian--of Rubens--of Raphael! I see, I feel, I create! Color is life
to me: form is the bread of my soul! But I cannot get beyond my body.
Hunger and cold and fever--then all the visions go!--The soul of an
artist, mated with the existence of a serf!--Almighty God! Do me justice
at last, and free me from this useless torture of life!"

Once more carried beyond himself by this fragmentary outpou