Chapter 10

           TheartistMihailovwas,asalways,atworkwhenthecardsofCountVronskyandGolenishtchevwerebroughttohim.Inthemorninghehadbeenworkinginhisstudioathisbigpicture.Ongettinghomeheflewintoaragewithhiswifefornothavingmanagedtoputoffthelandlady,whohadbeenaskingformoney.

           “I’vesaidittoyoutwentytimes,don’tenterintodetails.You’refoolenoughatalltimes,andwhenyoustartexplainingthingsinItalianyou’reafoolthreetimesasfoolish,”hesaidafteralongdispute.

           “Don’tletitrunsolong;it’snotmyfault.IfIhadthemoney....”

           “Leavemeinpeace,forGod’ssake!”Mihailovshrieked,withtearsinhisvoice,and,stoppinghisears,hewentoffintohisworkingroom,theothersideofapartitionwall,andclosedthedoorafterhim.“Idioticwoman!”hesaidtohimself,satdowntothetable,and,openingaportfolio,hesettoworkatoncewithpeculiarfervoratasketchhehadbegun.

           Neverdidheworkwithsuchfervorandsuccessaswhenthingswentillwithhim,andespeciallywhenhequarreledwithhiswife.“Oh!damnthemall!”hethoughtashewentonworking.Hewasmakingasketchforthefigureofamaninaviolentrage.Asketchhadbeenmadebefore,buthewasdissatisfiedwithit.“No,thatonewasbetter...whereisit?”Hewentbacktohiswife,andscowling,andnotlookingather,askedhiseldestlittlegirl,wherewasthatpieceofpaperhehadgiventhem?Thepaperwiththediscardedsketchonitwasfound,butitwasdirty,andspottedwithcandle-grease.