by light, rapid dabs which the artist's nervous hand has passed over the picture, and which another might count blind flailing, or a chaos in painting. Then comes the critic's general command of all the styles of the artistic schools, and knowledge of the style of every school in every generation down to our own day. This command is of no avail from the technical side unless he who possesses it has a grasp of distances, the gradation of colors, and the setting forth of the subject by lines that are the subject's foundation — like those which appear in the picture of Cain the slayer of his brother by the painter "Prud'hon": lines all of which move angry and raging like the tempest, all in one direction — the swift running after the fleeing murderer.

When all these artistic attainments come together in the art critic, his analysis will without doubt come forth useful; and then our artistic faculty will not merely awaken, but will rise in its beneficial revolt and press forward in a sound artistic direction.

We shall remain perplexed and bewildered before every artistic piece, our lips uttering words of doubt and certainty, unless we come to know true, sober criticism and turn away from flattery — this flattery which among us reaches the point of fawning and of mockery. And we shall keep asking: the land from which the first human caravan went forth, east and west, spreading its banners over the world and guiding men to the straight path — the land in which sound was embodied into letters, which bequeathed to human society the holy books and brought forth geniuses in government, philosophy, and letters — is this blessed land incapable of bringing forth their likes in the field of art? And we ask too: why is there not created among us a man who strikes the rock with his chisel

and bequeaths to mankind an exemplar inexhaustibly alive, like the statue of Apollo or the Venus de Milo? Why is there not among us one who paints a single picture approaching in its art a Virgin of Botticelli's, or an angel to match a single one of Raphael's angels?

We shall keep asking; and more than that, we say: is not our land the land of love and peace, the land of the spirit? And we address those who analyze the feeling for beauty: they go astray in their analysis when they say: love is the foundation of the feeling for beauty, and he who does not love the world and its creatures sees nothing beautiful in the things seen.

They say to me, as they say to my colleagues: you live in your ivory towers, painting what you please and not explaining to people what you paint; we all need to know the secrets of the artistic picture. We are thankful to them. Yet, though we hold the reins of the brush and strike with it as we please, we are often unable to embody in words our feelings and our knowledge, for we are lovers of solitude and silence, moving without respite in the world of lines, colors, and composition; and these three hypostases have run through our senses as water runs among the furrows of a thirsty field.