ly understand my profound indignation. I deliberately mention this
audacious and other calumnious phrases to show in what an atmosphere of
malice, distrust, and disrespect I have to plod along the hard road of
suffering. He insisted rudely:

"I have had enough of your smiles. Tell me plainly, why do you speak
so?"

Then, I admit, I flared up:

"You want to know why I speak the truth? Because I hate falsehood and
I commit it to eternal anathema! Because fate has made me a victim of
injustice, and as a victim, like Him who took upon Himself the great sin
of the world and its great sufferings, I wish to point out the way to
mankind. Wretched egoist, you know only yourself and your miserable art,
while I love mankind."

My anger grew. I felt the veins on my forehead swelling.

"Fool, miserable dauber, unfortunate schoolboy, in love with colours!
Human beings pass before you, and you see only their froglike eyes. How
did your tongue turn to say such a thing? Oh, if you only looked even
once into the human soul! What treasures of tenderness, love, humble
faith, holy humility, you would have discovered there! And to you,
bold man, it would have seemed as if you entered a temple--a bright,
illuminated temple. But it is said of people like you--'do not cast your
pearls before swine.'"

The artist was silent, crushed by my angry and unrestrained speech.
Finally he sighed and said:

"Forgive me, old man; I am talking nonsense, of course, but I am so
unfortunate and so lonely. Of course, my dear old man, it is all true
about the divine spark and about beauty, but a polished boot is also
beautiful. I cannot, I cannot! Just think of it! How can a man have such
moustaches as he has? And yet he is complaining that the left moustache
is shorter!"

He laughed like a child, and, heaving a sigh, added:

"I'll make another attempt. I will paint the lady. There is really
something good in her. Although she is after all--a cow."

He laughed again, and, fearing to brush away with his sleeve the drawing
on the slate, he cautiously placed it in the corner.

Here I did that which my duty compelled me to do. Seizing the slate,
I smashed it to pieces with a powerful blow. I thought that the artist
would rush upon me furiously, but he did not. To his weak mind my act
seemed so blasphemous, so supernaturally horrible, that his deathlike
lips could not utter a word.

"What have you done?" he asked at last in a low voice. "You have broke