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TITLE: 'A stroll to the Academy of Arts: A letter from an old Muscovite to his friend in the village of N.' (1814) (1)
AUTHOR: K.N. Batiushkov
THIS VERSION: Copyright © 2002 Carol Adlam; all rights reserved. Notes by Carol Adlam and Robert Russell. Redistribution, or republication of this text in any medium requires the consent of the translator.

Introduction to the text
This time I shall speak about the Academy of Arts, which has so changed during the twenty years of our absence from Petersburg ... 'Tell me, tell me about the Academy of Arts!,' you will exclaim when you start to read this longwinded letter of mine. You and I have long loved painting and sculpture, and would often conduct heated discussions about the head of Apollo Belvedere, the little finger of Hebe by the noble Canova, the horse of Peter the Great, the brush of Raphael, Coreggio, and even about Salvator Rosa himself, and Murillio, Coypel, and others in your small house in Presnia (no trace of which now exists!). (2) Thus it was that, for the most part, I would agree with you while you never agreed with me; even less would you agree with the illustrious Losenko's friend, the good painter Alizov, whose obstinacy and good nature would frequently both amuse and anger us. (3) We would argue, and time would fly by during our agreeable discussions. What happy, irretrievable days! The fire of Moscow engulfed your little house with all its bad pictures and those prints you had bought for a song from speculators at auctions and from retired scriveners in the German Quarter; it consumed the small Venus in which you discerned something divine, and the bust of Voltaire with the broken-off nose, and the little cupid with a torch, and the bronze faun which Alizov unearthed ... supposedly in the ruins of some bathhouse or other near Naples, and with which he so delighted you, and me, and all the connoisseurs in our quarter. The fire, that merciless fire, even destroyed your acacia summerhouse with its pretty little benches and the oak table where we would sit, pouring out tea and admiring the exquisite views: the River Moskva as it winds through the meadows, following the walls and lofty towers of the Devichii Monastery; Vasil'ievskii; the Vorob'evy Hills with their shady groves; and evening sunsets. (4) The fire destroyed our refuge. But I still recall your love of the fine arts and your predilection for debate, which of course must have diminished with time and, most importantly, because of political circumstances. 'So, then, tell me about the Academy of Arts and the work of our artists, and I will listen with pleasure. Any news from the capital will please the recluse who, in spite of his old age, still passionately loves the Fatherland, progress, and the glory of his compatriots.' This is what you will say when you open my letter. I shall begin my story at the beginning, as longwinded old age usually does. Listen.

Yesterday morning, while I was sitting by the window with a volume of Winckelmann (5) in my hand, I was carried away by a sweet, inexplicable dream; both the book and what I had read was completely forgotten. I remember only that I cast a glance over the Neva and the ships scattered upon it, and, gazing at the magnificent embankment - which the people of St Petersburg take for granted through force of habit - and admiring the innumerable peoples who swarmed below my windows, the extraordinary mixture of all nations in which I could make out English and Asians, French and Kalmyks, Russians and Finns, I asked myself the following question: what was here before Petersburg was built? A pine tree grove, perhaps, or a damp, dense coniferous forest, or a swampy bog overgrown with moss and foxberry; and, nearer the riverbank, a fisherman's hut draped with nets, seines, and all the primitive devices of his meagre trade. A hunter, perhaps, some longhaired Finn, who had made his way here with difficulty...

Aiming his flighted arrow
After a swift deer fallow. (6)

All was silent here. The voice of man rarely disturbed the hush of the untamed, gloomy wilderness, whereas now ... I happened to glance at the Troitskii Bridge, and then at the great monarch's cabin - to which a well-known verse can justly be applied:

Souvent un faible gland recèle un chêne immense! (7)

- and my imagination pictured Peter observing, for the first time, the wild Neva's shores, those shores that are now so beautiful! A great idea was born in the mind of the great man at a time when Swedish cannons still thundered from the Nyenkans fortress, (8) when the mouth of the Neva was still controlled by the enemy, and when rifle shots would frequently ring out across the marshy banks. Here there will be a city, he said, a wonder of the world. I shall summon all arts and all crafts to this place. Here, the arts, crafts, civil statutes and laws of nature will vanquish nature itself. Thus he spoke, and out of the savage swamp arose St Petersburg.

What a pleasure it was for me to imagine the monarch observing the initial work on the city: here, a fortress rampart; there, shops, factories, the Admiralty. On holidays or days celebrating victory the sovereign would often wait for the liturgy while sitting on a new rampart, a plan of the city in his hands, in front of the fortress gates which were decorated with an image of the apostle Peter hewn in rough wood. The city was to be named after the saint, and the glorious year of 1703, recorded in the annals of world history, was depicted in Roman figures on a metal plaque nailed beneath his image. On the nearest bastion a yellow flag flew, decorated with a large black eagle grasping in its talons the four seas that are under Russia's subjugation. Here foreign sea-captains, sailors, artists, scholars, generals, and soldiers clustered around the monarch; among them Menshikov, the tsar's favourite, a man of humble birth and great mind; and the magnanimous Dolgorukii, the courageous and energetic Sheremetev, and the entire phalanx of heroes who, together with Peter, created the greatness of the Russian tsardom...

Thus immersed in my dream, I did not notice that doors to the room had opened. My old friend N.'s son, a young and extremely skilful artist, wished me good morning.

'I have come especially for you', he said. 'Today the Academy of Arts is open to visitors and I am ready to be your guide, your cicerone, if you wish! You will see many good things; you will admire some Russian brush and chisel works; and as for the rest, now is not the time. Look,' he continued, opening a window, 'what a beautiful day it is! The whole city is out promenading. We shall follow the crowd and take a leisurely stroll to the Academy.'

'With pleasure,' I replied to the young man. 'It has been twenty years or so since I have been to the Academy, and since everything else here is making giant steps towards perfection I will hope to be pleasantly amazed by the arts as well. Here is my walking stick and my hat - let us go!'

It was indeed a beautiful day. The surface of the grandest, most majestic river in the world was undisturbed by any breeze, and in my mind I greeted the goddess of the Neva with the poet's words:

Proud Neva, roam
Softly and smoothly around
Our rulers' glorious home
And the islands' shadowy grounds. (9)

The clear mirror of the Neva reflected the magnificent buildings gilded by the morning sun, and both of us exclaimed in unison, 'What a city! What a river!'

'A unique city!' repeated the young man. 'How many subjects there are here for an artist's brush! All one has to do is choose. What a pity it is that my companions make so little use of such riches. Scenic landscape painters prefer to depict views of Italy and other countries rather than these charming places. Often I have watched with regret as they labour over a hot sky of Naples in the midst of a stinging frost, tormenting their imagination - and often our eyes. A landscape should be a portrait. What does it contain if it is not completely like nature? In order to appreciate Petersburg one must leave it,' he continued, 'one must leave it for a while and see the ancient capitals - dilapidated Paris, smoky London. See: what unity! See how all the parts correspond to the whole! What beauty there is in the buildings, what taste, and what variety in the whole is produced by the combination of water and buildings! Look at the filigree railings of the Summer Gardens, which shimmer with the greenery of tall lime-trees, elms and oaks! What lightness and grace is in its design! I have seen the famous latticework of the Palais des Tuilleries, and it is dragged down, crushed, so to speak, by its adornments: lances, helmets, trophies. (10) It is ugly in comparison with this.'

I was considerably pleased by the enthusiasm with which the young artist spoke. I shook his hand and said to him, 'We will make an artist of you!' I do not know whether he understood my prediction, but he looked at me with a contented smile and continued: 'Now look at the embankment and these huge palaces - each is more majestic than the last! These houses - each is more beautiful than the last! Look at Vasil'evskii Island, shaped like a triangle, adorned with the Stock Exchange, the Rostral Columns, and a granite embankment with beautiful ramps and steps leading to the water. How magnificent and beautiful this part of the city is! Here is a work worthy of the late Tomon, that indefatigable foreigner who devoted his talents to us and contributed so much to the embellishment of the Palmira of the North! (11) And now with what pleasure my eye moves from the Stock Exchange along the banks of the river, and into the misty distance between these two embankments that are unmatched in the world!'

'So, my friend', I exclaimed, 'how many wonders we see before us, created in such a short time, within a century - a single century! All praise and honour to the great founder of this city! Praise and honour to his successors, who completed what he had barely begun, amidst wars, and conflicts both internal and external. All praise and honour to Alexander, who surpassed all others in the beautification of the capital of the North during his reign! And at what a time! When the burden and fate of Europe as a whole rested upon his heart, when the enemy was devouring Russian land, when the madman's sword and fire were destroying what centuries had created!..'

Conversing in this fashion, we approached the Admiralty. I remember, you will say, I remember that ugly, long factory, ringed with drawbridges that stretched across deep, dirty moats filled with boards and logs. But stop, honoured friend! Anyone who has not been in Petersburg for twenty years would certainly not recognise it. That person would see a new city, new people, new customs, new mores. I have repeated this to you daily in my notes. A transformation has taken place here as well. The Admiralty, as rebuilt by Zakharov, has become a beautiful building and is now a landmark of the city. The old spire does not please some capricious connoisseurs since in their opinion it is not in harmony with the new colonnade, but at the same time the colonnade, and the new pavilions and individual wings are delightful. A beautiful boulevard has been laid out around this building: it is planted with lime trees, all of which have taken root and which now protect one from the sunshine. This is a charming, unrivalled promenade from which one can see everything that is grand and beautiful in Petersburg: the Neva, the Winter Palace, the magnificent buildings that form a semicircle around Palace Square, Nevskii Prospect, St. Isaak's Square, the Horse Guards' riding school, so reminiscent of the Parthenon, Quarenghi's delightful Senate Building, the monument to Peter I, and again the Neva with its embankments! (12)

I wanted to rest for a while, and we sat down on one of the benches on the boulevard. The square was full of carriages and the boulevard was crowded with people. While I was gazing at faces both familiar and unfamiliar, someone, an ailing, elderly man, sat down on the bench beside me. His features were familiar to me, but time had erased his name from my memory. The familiar stranger stared at me for a minute, two, three... and at last I recognised that he was Starozhilov. (13)

'How you've changed!', we both exclaimed, looking at each other intently. 'How much everything has changed since I saw you here!', added Starozhilov, with a heavy sigh that deepened the wrinkles on his forehead. I will not speak of the questions with which we bombarded each other: you can easily guess them. Suffice it to say that when our old acquaintance learned of our intention to visit the Academy he looked at his watch, and said to me, 'It is still early: I should be able to make it to my club by three, where I have to sample a new wine and convey my opinion with regard to an important resolution at the club, which I have been considering all morning'. The pomposity with which he said this made us smile. Fortunately, Starozhilov did not notice, and continued: 'A walk will do me good, for the sun today is as warm as in the summer. I will wend my way with you to the Academy - but not out of the slightest curiosity - there is nothing good there. I have long been dissatisfied with our artists in all genres, but I need a distraction, just a distraction!' he added, coughing continuously.

While we walk slowly towards the Academy, keeping to the gouty old man's pace, I shall tell you in passing that Starozhilov, whom we knew in our youth as so brilliant, so cheerful, so dreamy, has now become a grumbler, a malcontent - in a word, an archetypal old bachelor. You will recall that he had a quick mind when he was younger, as well as some education and the good manners of high society. Now his wit has withered, his former vivacity has disappeared, all his humour has burnt out like a bright firework, and his knowledge has not been perfected by unstinting effort, but has been effaced or has turned into deep-rooted prejudices. It is certain that the voice of reason no longer whispers to him to try to be useful to society. The inactive life, as the sage of Chaeronea says, (14) weakens both mind and body. Stagnant water putrefies, human abilities dissipate in inactivity, and after youth a time steals upon us unseen:

those hours of boredom will surely come:
no longer will the Graces tweak
your plump and rounded cheeks! (15)

Indifference will then be society's rightful revenge upon its useless member. Having lived frivolously up to a certain point, at the age of forty Starozhilov woke up as an old man with gout, with his property half ruined, without a friend, without any of the attachments of the heart which comprise both the agony and the sweetness of life. He woke up with an emptiness in his soul, which turned into egotism and petty pride. Everything bores him; everything displeases him: in his time they enjoyed themselves better, spoke better, wrote better. In his opinion Kniazhnin's tragedies are better than Ozerov's; he prefers the fables of Sumarokov to those of Krylov, the acting of Sakharova to that of Semenova, etc. (16) 'How boring life is nowadays!', he says, and one can believe it. Why, I ask, why has he been constantly visiting the club for ten years? In order to listen to, invent or disseminate news about the city or secrets from newspapers, to berate without mercy everything that is new and to extol the good old days, to have dinner and to fall asleep with a cup of coffee to the sound of billiard balls clacking and the monotonous counting of the scorer who, when he counts up to the hated number of forty eight, reminds him of his age. He clambers drowsily into his carriage, and then wakes up in a theatre at the first touch of the bow.

We drew near the Academy as I talked to him of times past, which I extolled out of compassion.

I have long admired this building, so worthy of Catherine, patroness of the arts and sciences. Here, with every step, the enlightened patriot should bless the memory of the Empress, who earned the epithet Great and Wise from a grateful posterity not so much by her conquests, but by the foundation of beneficial institutions. How many commendable people has the Academy of Arts given society! Few establishments here in Russia have brought so much benefit. And to what may this be attributed? To a wise and steadfast plan, to which the authorities have long adhered, and to the grandees' estimable selection of the energetic and enlightened to the post of president. I am old already, but my heart beats faster at the very thought of an enterprise or an establishment that is useful for society, as if I were a young man who has not yet lost that delightful ability to feel the beauty of what is truly useful, and who yields to his soul's first, honourable impulse. When we stepped upon the staircase I was ready to praise the Empress and the grandees, those patrons of this country's Muses, but tiresome Starozhilov was breathing with difficulty, and stopped to rest on the first steps, exclaiming, 'My God! What a steep staircase! And how narrow and ugly it is! And what are these Venuses and Amazons doing here? (17) I have never liked plaster casts: my rule is either all or nothing. They should have exhibited something of ours here, a work by our artists', and so forth. The crowd at the doors did not let him finish his critical observations and we stopped rather appropriately near two huge Satyrs, called Telamons, or Atlases (male caryatids). 'This is a rather odd object', remarked our young artist, 'which modern artists have often used inappropriately, particularly in Paris. Female caryatids are even uglier than the male. Is it possible to look without disgust at a beautiful woman as she suffers under a heavy load, supporting an entire building or a vast part of it with an extraordinary effort in her limbs and muscles? Only a cruel heart can take pleasure in such representations, and perhaps this is why French artists placed caryatids everywhere they could in order to suit Napoleon's tastes. In some of his castles two female sufferers support every door. There are many of these inside the museum itself. Here, however, the caryatids are appropriate, since they may serve as models for curious young artists.'

We entered a rotunda full of plaster casts taken from antique sculptures. 'Here is Consul Balbus', our companion said to me, pointing out a large equestrian figure. 'The original of the statue was found in Herculaneum.' 'But this horse is not beautiful in the least', Starozhilov remarked to the young artist, shaking his head.

'You are correct', the artist replied, 'the horse is not entirely stately: it is short, the legs are too long, the neck is thick, the head has bulging cheeks, and the angle of the ears is disagreeable. You will notice the same thing in Marcus Aurelius's horse in the next hall. Modern artists depict horses with more skill. Everyone knows Falconet's work: that majestic horse, lively, fiery, stately and so daringly erected that one foreigner, struck by the boldness of the idea, said, pointing at Falconet's horse, 'It leaps like Russia!' But I dare not voice my thoughts on Balbus's horse: I fear that some stubborn lovers of antiquity might overhear me. You cannot imagine how much a young artist who has his own thoughts on conventional beauty in the fine arts has to lose in their eyes ... Let us proceed'.

We entered another hall, in which casts from the inimitable chisel works by the Greeks and Romans are housed. These precious remains speak of the ancients' enlightenment more vividly than all the historians do; they are antiquity's beautiful legacy. It is in them that art embodies, so to speak, an echo of the ancients' profound knowledge of nature, the passions and the human heart. What veritable riches, what diversity! Here you see Hercules Farnese, a model of both mental and physical strength. Here is a dying warrior or barbarian; (18) there a comic poet and a splendid faun. Here are marvellous groups: Laocoon with his sons - the dramatic work of an unknown chisel! Here are Aria and Petus and the family of the unfortunate Nioba. Here you see Venus, the ideal of the highest beauty, in a word - Venus of Medici. Here is an entire row of colossal busts of Jupiter Olympus,

Who shakes the vault of heaven with a movement of his brow, (19)

Juno, Menelaus, Ajax, Cesar, etc. And then I ask myself: why has my heart started to beat faster?

Holy joy has filled my breast,
Awe has embraced me,
Pleasant mysterious terror
Courses through my very bones;
The heart is drowning in delight,
As if it senses a deity
Present with me!..
I see, I see Apollo
In that instant, when he struck down Python
With his divine arrow!
A zigzag lightning is shining,
The bow thrums after the shot,
The terrifying snake yawns
And in an instant breathes its last. (20)

Here is the divine Apollo, that beautiful god of the poets! Looking at this wonderful work of art, I remember Winckelmann's words: 'I forget the universe', he says, 'when gazing on Apollo; I myself adopt the noblest posture in order to be worthy of contemplating him'. (21) Having such a beautiful god as patron, is it no wonder, I ask you, is it no wonder that one of our poets once exclaimed, in a fit of poetic pride, that:

Everywhere I walk with my head proudly raised!? (22)

These are our treasures', said the artist N., pointing at Apollo and the other antiquities. 'Here is the source of our talents, our knowledge, the true wealth of our Academy, the wealth upon which all the successes of former, present and future students are based. Remove this precious collection from us and tell me, what progress would we have achieved in painting and in sculpture? One wishes that the collection might be doubled, or tripled. Here much is missing, but what there is is beautiful, for the casts are accurate and will satisfy even the most rigorous observer of antiquity'.

Passing through two small halls, we saw a crowd of people in front of a large painting. This was Mr Egorov's new painting! (23) The name alone of this respected academician will stimulate your curiosity... So I will relate word for word the opinions I heard about his new painting, while I kept completely silent.

'Let us move closer', said Starozhilov, putting on his spectacles with comical pretentiousness. 'I have heard something of this artist'.

The artist has depicted the flagellation of Christ in a dungeon. There are four figures, larger than life. The main figure is that of the Saviour, in front of a stone pillar, his hands tied behind him, and three torturers, one of whom is attaching a rope to the pillar, while another is removing the garments which cover the Redeemer, and is holding a bundle of birch rods in one hand, and the third soldier ... appears to be reproaching the divine sufferer, yet it is very difficult to determine the intentions of the artist with certainty, although he did try to give a strong expression to the face of the soldier, in order, perhaps, to contrast it with the figure of Christ.

'See', the young artist told us, 'how correctly, simply and nobly the body of Christ is drawn. It seems that a deep sigh is about to break from his raised chest.' 'But the face does not correspond with the beauty of the whole body', objected Starozhilov. 'You must admit that his eyes are too large; there is nothing divine in them'. 'I do not agree with you: the position of the head is beautiful, and one can see a strong expression of suffering, sorrow, and obedience to the will of the Heavenly Father in his face'. 'Unfortunately, this figure resembles representations of Christ by other painters, and I search in vain in the picture as a whole for originality, for something new and unusual, in a word - for a unique, not borrowed, idea.' 'You are right, but not entirely. This subject has been painted several times. But so what? Rubens and Poussin both painted it in their own manner and if the painting of Egorov is inferior to that of Poussin, than it is certainly superior to that of Rubens...' 'What do you mean: so what? Both Poussin and Rubens painted the Scourging of Christ: the more particular I am, the more critical I am in my judgement of the artist. If some painter, however skilful he may be, decided to paint a picture of the Transfiguration, I would tell him: have you not seen Raphael's painting? If a poet took it into his head to describe Iphigenia in Tauris to us, I would say to him: Racine has described this before you-and so forth'. 'But you must at least admit that the torturer fastening the rope binding Christ's hands is beautifully and correctly painted; this could be described as a model of drawing. It clearly demonstrates Mr Egorov's expertise in drawing, his knowledge of the anatomy of human body. Herein lies our painter's originality!' 'All this is true, but why does this man strain? Is it to to tighten the knot? I see that the painter wanted to produce an academic study and has succeeded perfectly, but I would like to find more than just evidence of difficulties surmounted in a picture. I look for more: I look for food for thought, for the heart; I want it to make a powerful impression on me, to leave a lasting memory in my heart, like a fine dramatic performance that portrays an important, moving subject. Besides, you must agree that the other torturer is badly depicted. And the soldier?.. He is completely unnecessary, he is not looking at anyone... although his eyes are wide open in an unusual manner. Why, I ask you, is the Roman soldier wearing a helmet with a serpent, and why is there a metal glove in Christ's dungeon? They began to use them ten centuries or more after the birth of Christ; does this not mean that....'

'Yes, certainly!' said a stranger who had been listening attentively to the conversation (we took him for an artist) to Starozhilov, 'yes, certainly! If our artists read more and demonstrated greater diligence in examining the books in which the customs, dress and weapons of the ancients are represented, then they would not introduce such anachronisms. But you must admit, sir, putting aside all emotion, that this picture promises future successes. If the circumstances (which often do not favour our artists) were to allow the painter to devote himself permanently to the composition of large pictures, then one might expect that in future, with his confident, correct and beautiful drawings and his inventive and intelligent talent he would not be inferior to the best painters of the Italian, French and Spanish schools, once he has mastered the selection, use and combination of colours and has become acquainted with many technical methods (secrets which an artist must surmise in the art of painting).'

Being by nature more tolerant and enamoured of everything beautiful, I looked upon Mr Egorov's painting with great pleasure, and said to myself: 'This is an artist who brings honour to the Academy, and of whom we Russians can justly be proud.'

The exhibition continued in the following rooms, mostly by young students of the Academy. I scrutinized with curiosity a landscape depicting a view of the environs of Schaffhausen and the hut in which the new Philemon and Baucis entertained the Sovereign Emperor and the Grand Duchess Ekaterina Pavlovna. In the distance a waterfall on the Rhine is visible, but not very successfully painted.

In the same room there was a design for a cathedral church and two designs for a monument made of cannons captured from enemy: neither is adequate to the excellent and sublime idea underlying them. And here is an Easter celebration by Alexander and his victorious troops in Paris. What a subject for a patriot! With what purest delight I looked at that picture! The crowds of people and the troops are clearly represented, although I noticed that the colour of the sky and clouds is cold and heavy.

A multitude of people of all ranks thronged in front of a large painting representing Christ with the disciples and a woman sinner. Some praised it passionately, others condemned it. De gustibus non est disputandum! (24) 'It is clear that, despite being poor in art and taste', our young guide told us, 'our painter did not skimp with either the canvas, or the pink and blue paint'. 'And with his time', added Starozhilov. 'Here you also see another painting: a pink Venus against a blue background, with doves and Cupid - an unsuccessful imitation of Titian or of Chinese pictures without shadows - a Venus who bears no resemblance whatsoever to the Venus of Homer, Ovid or Lucrecius, but vividly reminds one of a goddess from Maikov's humorous poem or from 'The Aeneid Turned Inside Out'. (25) There, on the other wall, you see a triumph of the sovereign in the manner of Rubens. Now look at this ill old man with a torch, an imitation of Gerard della Notte, (26) and admit that these painters are original in their imitation. They are the ones who will be called the founders of a new Italian school in the future, la Scuola Pietrobourghese, and their wonderful brushwork will eclipse the glory of their compatriots: Raphael, Coreggio, Titian, Albani, etc.'

Let our eyes, dazzled as they are by these 'paintings'' bright colours (in which Newton could have discovered all the refractions of a sunbeam), let our eyes rest on the work of Mr Esakov. Here are his carved stones: one depicts Hercules throwing Lichas into the sea, another a Kievan swimming across the River Dnieper. What great confidence there is in his line! We shall hope that this skilful artist will gain in experience, without which a lightness and ease in the finishing touches on small details is impossible. He has courage enough - but knowledge? 'Live and learn', said Starozhilov. 'You must admit, however', he whispered to the young artist, 'that apart from Egorov's painting we have not seen anything perfect or approaching perfection'.

'Perhaps!' he replied, 'but I urge you to consider this drawing by Utkin. (27) This excellent drawing, as you see, reproduces a Holy Family by Guido Reni. Another drawing is a portrait of Alexander Borisovich Kurakin and, next to it, an engraved portrait of this grandee from the same drawing'. 'This is true art!' said Starozhilov, betraying his excellent first principle: Nil admirari. (28) 'Mr. Utkin, who is known and respected in Paris, may stand alongside the best engravers in Europe. And in his native land, too, he will find enlightened people and worthy connoisseurs of his rare talent!'

But with what delight we looked at portraits by Mr. Kiprenskii, the public's favourite painter. The correctness and extraordinary elegance of his drawing, the freshness, harmony and vivacity of his colours all testified to his talent, his intelligence and tender and cultivated taste. (29 - authorial)

To our surprise, Starozhilov was fascinated by Kiprenskii's masterful brush, and, having dug up in his memory a couple of lines of Italian verse, recited them with unusual enthusiasm:

Manca il parlar, di vivo altro non chiedi;
Ne manca questo ancor s'a gli occhi credi. (30)

'Do you see,' he continued, 'do you see how our painters are educated? Tell me, what would have become of Mr Kiprenskii if he had not been to Paris, if..'. 'He has not been to either Paris or Rome yet', the artist replied. 'This is astonishing! Astonishing!' repeated Starozhilov. 'Why so? A portrait painter can certainly find examples here from which to learn. Is not the Hermitage open to any curious person, and in particular to an artist? Are not artists permitted to copy from Van Dyck's portraits here, and landscape artists allowed to learn from this rich, unique collection of paintings? Or do you think that the Roman air is indeed vital for the artist and lover of antiquity, or that he needs a long stay in Paris? I agree, that one should spend time in Paris. But how many talents have perished in that capital? In Paris there are distractions, and all the temptations of civilisation have not only hindered the development of talents, but have ruined them forever.'

'Here are some views of Moscow', said the young artist, pointing at paintings which represented the Stone Bridge, the Kremlin, and so forth with considerable precision and skill. What memories they evoke for a Muscovite! As I examined the paintings I was carried away by a sweet dream and was on the brink of exclaiming aloud, like Aeneas at Helenus's Chaonian valleys, in which everything miraculously reminded the exile of his sacred Troy: (31) groves, pastures and springs of his unforgettable fatherland - I was about to say to my companions:

What is more beautiful and more dear than mother Moscow? (32)

But Starozhilov dispelled my memories of the ancient white stone capital with a loud and prolonged laugh as he examined the wonderful mosaics displayed in the same room.

I looked at them with indignation, shrugged my shoulders and went to another room, in which the portrait of the late Count A.S. Stroganov (33) painted by Mr Varnik (34) awaited us. We found a crowd of people around it: some praised the confidence of the brushwork, the rendering of the costume, of the white brocade and the drawing in the painting as a whole; others, on the contrary, claimed that colours were entirely too sombre, and that the finish was crude, not thorough, etc., etc., etc., but I admired the wonderful likeness of the face.

'Yes, this is he! Definitely he!,' the elderly man said to our guide. 'Varnik's beautiful painting arouses a thousand sad and sweet memories in my mind! He has vividly depicted the face of the late count, that enlightened patron and friend of the arts and sciences, the grandee for whom we shall always mourn as children mourn for a tender and solicitous father. The honourable President of the Academy was distinguished by all of the following: his good advice, the flattering encouragement he gave, as a connoisseur, his rare good-nature (a true sign of a great and beautiful soul), his desire to be useful to all of us, and his ardent love for his native land and for everything that might increase its glory and brilliance. This is what we shall remember, with tears of eternal gratitude, and Mr Varnik's skilful work is a vivid reminder to all Academicians who had the good fortune to benefit from the patronage of this most courteous and kind of men. The unforgettable features of our Maecenas will always be precious to us!'

The artist spoke with great ardour, with tears welling up in his eyes. I was beside myself with joy, for I shared his feelings completely. Starozhilov himself was touched and stood quietly for a long time before the venerable face of the esteemed elder, our aged Nestor of the arts - a true model for all statesmen, the grandee who, with the eloquent example of his entire life, proved that the highest rank attains real brilliance not through wealth and superficial honours, but through a true, inalienable quality of soul, mind and heart.

A pleasant impression remained in my soul for a long time, and while I was engaged in conversation with the honourable artist, I walked without much attention past some crude paintings by foreigners, who had as if deliberately decided this time to concede our artists' superiority by exhibiting disgraceful and ugly works from their brush. We paused at the pedestal of Actaeon (a work by Mr Martos), (35) a large statue cast for Count N.P. Rumiantsev by Mr Ekimov: (36) beautiful work by Russian artists! 'Note', said our obliging guide, 'note the large step forward that the art of casting in Russia has made under Mr Ekimov's tutelage.' (37 - authorial)

Our attention was attracted by a painting by Mr Courteille entitled A Spartan at Thermopylae. (38) A beautiful youth who has fought for the freedom of Greece dies alone, without help, without a friend, in a desolate place. He has paid a bloody duty to Sparta, his weapons have been broken, blood has streamed from his deep and fatal wounds, but the last minutes of fading life belong to him: his last glances, full of suffering and love, are focused upon a medallion depicting the features that he loves. 'This is an excellent conception', I said to my companions, 'and expressed by a masterful brush'. But they remarked, and justly so, that there was neither proportionality nor harmony in the figure. 'This is the body of a small Faun attached to the legs of a Borghese Gladiator', said the young artist. 'Certainly, there is much truth in the expression of the face and the numbness of the limbs, but, to tell you the truth, I look upon such images with reluctance! And is it really possible to gaze calmly at those pictures by David and the school he established which remind us only of the horrors of the Revolution: the suffering of dying an unnatural death, with eyes glazing over, pale lips trembling, with deep wounds, and convulsions - in a word, the terrible victory of death over life? I agree with you that the representation is very true to life, but that very truth is repellent, like some truths drawn from nature which cannot be accepted in a picture, statue, poem or theatre'.

We left the Academy, conversing in this manner. If my letter has not bored the recluse, than I will tell him about the continuation of our stroll and of our conversation about the arts. Farewell until the next post.

N.N.

P.S. On the third day after my visit to the Academy I finished my letter to you and was ready to seal it, when suddenly the following thought crossed my mind: 'What if someone read what I told my friend in a frank conversation?..' 'So what?!' answered the young artist N. to whom I read my letter. 'So what? Have you actually offended any artist who is worthy of respect? Does not an artist willingly subject himself to praise or to criticism when he displays a painting before the eyes of an entire city? Only a dauber is angered by the judgement of an expert or a connoisseur. A man of true talent is not afraid of criticism: on the contrary, he likes it, he respects it as the sole true guide to perfection. Do you know what kills a talent, especially if it has been given to a person without strong character? The indifference of society: nothing is more awful! What treasures can substitute for the benediction of people who are sensitive to the charms of the arts? Once a rich ignoramus commissioned a picture from a friend of mine. The picture was painted and the artist received mountains of money... Believe it or not, he was in despair. "Are you not happy with the pay?" I asked. "Oh, no, I am rewarded too lavishly!" "Then why are you distressed?" "Ah, my dear friend, my picture was bought by an ignoramus and will be buried in his study. Gold is nothing to me without glory! In Paris, artists know what is advantageous. They have close ties with writers, who themselves fight over them with journalists, experts and connoisseurs, and who spill streams of ink for their sake. They attract the public for two, three weeks, and even for a month after paintings were first exhibited."' 'This is all true, but even so I could have been mistaken.' 'So what, then, if it was not intentional!' 'But in my letter I have used new expressions, for instance, the technical method (in the art of painting) for rendering what the French call le faire, and I fear that...' 'Let others translate better or more accurately. So far we do not have our own Mengs, (39) who might reveal to us the secrets of his art, at the same time as adding another, equally difficult art to the art of painting: the art of expressing one's own thoughts. We have not yet had a Winckelmann... But seal it, seal the letter: no one will inspect it!' the artist repeated with a crafty smile. His words calmed me, but not completely. I admit to you, my dear friend, that I am afraid to distress our artists, whose zeal for glory is often so great that they interpret the tiniest, most moderate and most cautious criticism as a personal offence.

1814