Chapter 12

           

           AnnaandVronskyhadlongbeenexchangingglances,regrettingtheirfriend’sflowofcleverness.AtlastVronsky,withoutwaitingfortheartist,walkedawaytoanothersmallpicture.

           “Oh,howexquisite!Whatalovelything!Agem!Howexquisite!”theycriedwithonevoice.

           “Whatisitthey’resopleasedwith?”thoughtMihailov.Hehadpositivelyforgottenthatpicturehehadpaintedthreeyearsago.Hehadforgottenalltheagoniesandtheecstasieshehadlivedthroughwiththatpicturewhenforseveralmonthsithadbeentheonethoughthauntinghimdayandnight.Hehadforgotten,ashealwaysforgot,thepictureshehadfinished.Hedidnotevenliketolookatit,andhadonlybroughtitoutbecausehewasexpectinganEnglishmanwhowantedtobuyit.

           “Oh,that’sonlyanoldstudy,”hesaid.

           “Howfine!”saidGolenishtchev,hetoo,withunmistakablesincerity,fallingunderthespellofthepicture.

           Twoboyswereanglingintheshadeofawillow-tree.Theelderhadjustdroppedinthehook,andwascarefullypullingthefloatfrombehindabush,entirelyabsorbedinwhathewasdoing.Theother,alittleyounger,waslyinginthegrassleaningonhiselbows,withhistangled,flaxenheadinhishands,staringatthewaterwithhisdreamyblueeyes.Whatwashethinkingof?

           TheenthusiasmoverthispicturestirredsomeoftheoldfeelingforitinMihailov,buthefearedanddislikedthiswasteoffeelingforthingspast,andso,eventhoughthispraisewasgratefultohim,hetriedtodrawhisvisitorsawaytoathirdpicture.

           ButVronskyaskedwhetherthepicturewasforsale.

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