THE icon-painting workshop occupied two rooms in a large house partlybuilt of stone. One room had three windows overlooking the yard and oneoverlooking the garden; the other room had one window overlooking thegarden and another facing the street. These windows were small and square,and their panes, irisated by age, unwillingly admitted the pale, diffused lightof the winter days. Both rooms were closely packed with tables, and at everytable sat the bent figures of icon-painters. From the ceilings were suspendedglass balls full of water, which reflected the light from the lamps and threw itupon the square surfaces of the icons in white cold rays.

　　It was hot and stifling in the workshop. Here worked about twenty men,icon-painters, from Palekh, Kholia, and Mstir. They all sat down in cottonoveralls with unfastened collars. They had drawers made of ticking, and werebarefooted, or wore sandals. Over their heads stretched, like a blue veil, thesmoke of cheap tobacco, and there was a thick smell of size, varnish, androtten eggs. The melancholy Vlandimirski song flowed slowly, like resin:

　　How depraved the people have now become ;The boy ruined the girl, and cared not who knew.

　　They sang other melancholy songs, but this was the one they sang mostoften. Its long-drawn-out movement did not hinder one from thinking, didnot impede the movement of the fine brush, made of weasel hair, over thesurface of the icons, as it painted in the lines of the figure, and laid upon theemaciated faces of the saints the fine lines of suffering. By the windows thechaser, Golovev, plied his small hammer. He was a drunken old man with anenormous blue nose. The lazy stream of song was punctuated by theceaseless dry tap of the hammer; it was like a worm gnawing at a tree. Someevil genius had divided the work into a long series of actions, bereft of beautyand incapable of arousing any love for the business, or interest in it. Thesquinting joiner, Panphil, ill-natured and malicious, brought the pieces ofcypress and lilac — wood of different sizes, which he had planed and glued;the consumptive lad, Davidov, laid the colors on; his comrade, Sorokin,painted in the inscription; Milyashin outlined the design from the originalwith a pencil ; old Golovev gilded it, and embossed the pattern in gold; thefinishers drew the land — scape, and the clothes of the figures; and then theywere stood with faces or hands against the wall, waiting for the work of theface-painter.

　　It was very weird to see a large icon intended for an iconastasis, or thedoors of the altar, standing against the wall without face, hands, or feet, —just the sacerdotal vestments, or the armor, and the short garments ofarchangels. These variously painted tablets suggested death. That whichshould have put life into them was absent, but it seemed as if it had beenthere, and had miraculously disappeared, leaving only its heavy vestmentsbehind.

　　When the features had been painted in by the face-painter, the icon washanded to the workman, who filled in the design of the chaser. A differentworkman had to do the lettering, and the varnish was put on by the headworkman himself Ivan Larionovich, a quiet man. He had a gray face; hisbeard, too, was gray, the hair fine and silky; his gray eyes were peculiarlydeep and sad. He had a pleasant smile, but one could not smile at him. Hemade one feel awkward, somehow. He looked like the image of SimonStolpnik, just as lean and emaciated, and his motionless eyes looked far awayin the same abstracted man — ner, through people and walls.

　　Some days after I entered the workshop, the banner-worker, a Cossack ofthe Don, named Kapendiukhin, a handsome, mighty fellow, arrived in a stateof intoxication. With clenched teeth and his gentle, wom — anish eyesblinking, he began to smash up everything with his iron fist, without utteringa word. Of medium height and well built, he cast himself on the workroomlike a cat chasing rats in a cellar. The others lost their presence of mind, andhid themselves away in the corners, calling out to one another :

　　“Knock him down!”

　　The face-painter, Evgen Sitanov, was successful in stunning themaddened creature by hitting him on the head with a small stool. TheCossack subsided on the floor, and was immediately held down and tied upwith towels, which he began to bite and tear with the teeth of a wild beast.

　　This infuriated Evgen. He jumped on the table, and with his hands pressedclose to his sides, prepared to jump on the Cossack. Tall and stout as he was,he would have inevitably crushed the breast-bone of Kapendiukhin by hisleap, but at that moment Larionovich appeared on the scene in cap andovercoat, shook his finger at Sitanov, and said to the workmen in a quiet andbusiness-like tone:

　　“Carry him into the vestibule, and leave him there till he is sober.”

　　They dragged the Cossack out of the workshop, set the chairs and tablesstraight, and once again set to work, letting fall short remarks on thestrength of their comrade, prophesying that he would one day be killed bysome one in a quarrel.

　　“It would be a difficult matter to kill him,” said Sitanov very calmly, as ifhe were speaking of a business which he understood very well.

　　I looked at Larionovich, wondering perplexedly why these strong,pugilistic people were so easily ruled by him. He showed every one how heought to work; even the best workmen listened willingly to his advice; hetaught Kapendiukhin more, and with more words, than the others.

　　“ You, Kapendiukhin, are what is called a painter — that is, you ought topaint from life in the Italian manner. Painting in oils requires warm colors,and you have introduced too much white, and made Our Lady’s eyes as coldas winter. The cheeks are painted red, like apples, and the eyes do not seemto belong to them. And they are not put in right, either ; one is looking overthe bridge of the nose, and the other has moved to the temple; and the facehas not come out pure and holy, but crafty, wintry. You don’t think aboutyour work, Kapendiukhin.”

　　The Cossack listened and made a wry face. Then smiling impudentlywith his womanish eyes, he said in his pleasant voice, which was ratherhoarse with so much drinking:

　　“Ekh! I— va — a — n Larionovich, my father, that is not my trade. I wasborn to be a musician, and they put me among monks.”

　　“With zeal, any business may be mastered.”

　　“No; what do you take me for? I ought to have been a coachman with ateam of gray horses, eh?”

　　And protruding his Adam’s apple, he drawled despairingly:

　　“Eh, i-akh, if I had a leash of grayhoundsAnd dark brown horses,Och, when I am in torment on frosty nightsI would fly straight, straight to my love!”

　　Ivan Larionovich, smiling mildly, set his glasses straight on his gray, sad,melancholy nose, and went away. But a dozen voices took up the song in afriendly spirit, and there flowed forth a mighty stream of song which seemedto raise the whole workshop into the air and shake it with measured blows:

　　“By custom the horses know Where the little lady lives.”

　　The apprentice, Pashka Odintzov, threw aside his work of pouring off theyolks of the eggs, and holding the shells in his hand, led the chorus in amasterly manner. Intoxicated by the sounds, they all forgot them — selves,they all breathed together as if they had but one bosom, and were full of thesame feelings, looking sideways at the Cossack. When he sang, the workshopacknowledged him as its master; they were all drawn to him, followed thebrief movements of his hands; he spread his arms out as if he were about tofly. I believe that if he had suddenly broken off his song and cried, “Let ussmash up everything,” even the most serious of the workmen would havesmashed the workshop to pieces in a few moments.

　　He sang rarely, but the power of his tumultuous songs was alwaysirresistible and all-conquering. It was as if these people were not verystrongly made, and he could lift them up and set them on fire; as ifeverything was bent when it came within the warm influence of that mightyorgan of his.

　　As for me, these songs aroused in me a hot feeling of envy of the singer,of his admirable power over people. A painful emotion flowed over my heart,making it feel as if it would burst. I wanted to weep and call out to thesingers:

　　“I love you!”

　　Consumptive, yellow Davidov, who was covered with tufts of hair, alsoopened his mouth, strangely resembling a young jackdaw newly burst out oftheThese happy, riotous songs were only sung when the Cossack startedthem. More often they sang the sad, drawn-out one about the depravedpeople, and another about the forests, and another about the death ofAlexander I, “How our Alexander went to review his army.” Sometimes at thesuggestion of our best face painter, Jikharev, they tried to sing some churchmelodies, but it was seldom a success. Jikharev always wanted one particularthing; he had only one idea of harmony, and he kept on stopping the song.

　　He was a man of forty-five, dry, bald, with black, curly, gipsy-like hair,and large black brows which looked like mustaches. His pointed, thick beardwas very ornamental to his fine, swarthy, unRussian face, but under hisprotuberant nose stuck out ferocious-looking mustaches, superfluous whenone took his brows into consideration. His blue eyes did not match, the leftbeing noticeably larger than the right.

　　“Pashka,” he cried in a tenor voice to my comrade, the apprentice, “comealong now, start off: Traise — ‘ Now people, listen!”

　　Wiping his hands on his apron, Pashka led off :

　　“Pr — a — a — ise — ”

　　“The Name of the Lord,” several voices caught it up, but Jikharev criedfussily:

　　“Lower, Evgen! Let your voice come from the very depths of the soul.”

　　Sitanov, in a voice so deep that it sounded like the rattle of a drum, gaveforth:

　　“R— rabi Gospoda (slaves of the Lord) — ”

　　“Not like that! That part should be taken in such a way that the earthshould tremble and the doors and windows should open of themselves!”

　　Jikharev was in a state of incomprehensible excitement. Hisextraordinary brows went up and down on his forehead, his voice broke, hisfingers played on an invisible dulcimer.

　　“Slaves of the Lord — do you understand?” he said importantly. “Youhave got to feel that right to the kernel of your being, right through the shell.

　　Slaves, praise the Lord! How is it that you — living people — do notunderstand that?”

　　“We never seem to get it as you say it ought to be,” said Sitanov quietly.

　　“Well, let it alone then!”

　　Jikharev, offended, went on with his work. He was the best workman wehad, for he could paint faces in the Byzantine manner, and artistically, in thenew Italian style. When he took orders for iconostasis, Larionovich tookcounsel with him. He had a fine knowledge of all original image-paintings;all the costly copies of miraculous icons, Theodorovski, Kazanski, and others,passed through his hands. But when he lighted upon the originals, hegrowled loudly:

　　“These originals tie us down; there is no getting away from that fact.”

　　In spite of his superior position in the workshop, he was less conceitedthan the others, and was kind to the apprentices — Pavl and me. He wantedto teach us the work, since no one else ever bothered about us.

　　He was difficult to understand; he was not usually cheerful, andsometimes he would work for a whole week in silence, like a dumb man. Helooked on every one as at strangers who amazed him, as if it were the firsttime he had come across such people. And although he was very fond ofsinging, at such times he did not sing, nor did he even listen to the songs. Allthe others watched him, winking at one another. He would bend over theicon which stood sideways, his tablet on his knees, the middle resting on theedge of the table, while his fine brush diligently painted the dark, foreignface. He was dark and foreign-looking himself. Suddenly he would say in aclear, offended tone :

　　“Forerunner — what does that mean? Tech means in ancient language ‘togo.’ A forerunner is one who goes before, — and that is all.”

　　The workshop was very quiet; every one was glancing askance atJikharev, laughing, and in the stillness rang out these strange words :

　　“He ought to be painted with a sheepskin and wings.”

　　“Whom are you talking to?” I asked.

　　He was silent, either not hearing my question or not caring to answer it.

　　Then his words again fell into the expectant silence :

　　“The lives of the saints are what we ought to know! What do we know?

　　We live without wings. Where is the soul? The soul — where is it? Theoriginals are there — yes — but where are the souls?”

　　This thinking aloud caused even Sitanov to laugh derisively, and almostalways some one whispered with malicious joy:

　　“He will get drunk on Saturday.”

　　Tall, sinewy Sitanov, a youngster of twenty-two years, with a round facewithout whiskers or eye-brows, gazed sadly and seriously into the corner.

　　I remember when the copy of the Theodorovski Madonna, which Ibelieve was Kungur, was finished. Jikharev placed the icon on the table andsaid loudly, excitedly :

　　“It is finished, Little Mother! Bright Chalice, Thou! Thou, bottomlesscup, in which are shed the bitter tears from the hearts of the world ofcreatures!”

　　And throwing an overcoat over his shoulders, he went out to the tavern.

　　The young men laughed and whistled, the elder ones looked after him withenvious sighs, and Sitanov went to his work. Looking at it attentively, heexplained :

　　“Of course he will go and get drunk, because he is sorry to have to handover his work. That sort of regret is not given to all.”

　　Jikharev’s drinking bouts alw............