perhaps have
here a most questionable 'gift,' most evilly conditioned ... It is
known that artists are over-sensitive--well, it is also known that this
is not the case with people of good conscience and well-founded
self-esteem ... You see, Lisaveta, at the bottom of my soul--translated
into the intellectual--I have all the suspicion of the artist _type_
with which each one of my honorable forefathers up yonder in that
cramped city would have encountered any charlatan or adventurous
'artist' that might have entered his house. Listen to this. I know a
banker, a gray-haired business man, who possesses the ability to write
stories. He makes use of this talent in his hours of leisure, and his
things are sometimes quite excellent. Despite--I say 'despite'--this
sublime talent, this man's record is not wholly stainless; on the
contrary, he has already had to serve a long term in prison, and for
valid reasons. Indeed it was really in prison that he first became
aware of his ability, and his experiences as inmate of the jail form
the fundamental theme in all his writings. One might infer from this,
with a little boldness, that it is necessary to be at home in some sort
of a penal institution in order to become a poet. But does not the
suspicion arise that his experiences as convict may have been less
intimately interwoven with the roots and origins of his artistry than
what made him one--? A banker who writes stories is a curiosity, isn't
he? But a non-criminal, honest banker of clean reputation who should
write stories,--_there is no such thing_ ... Yes, now you are laughing,
and still I am only half joking. No problem, none in the world, is more
tormenting than that of artistry and its effect on humanity. Take that
most extraordinary creation of the most typical and hence mightiest
artist, take so morbid and deeply ambiguous a work as _Tristan and
Isolde_, and observe the effect this work has upon a young, healthy man
with strongly normal feeling. You see elevation, invigoration, warm and
honest enthusiasm, perhaps stimulation to some 'artistic' creation of
his own ... The good dilettante! Our hearts look very different from
what he dreams, with his 'warm heart' and 'honest enthusiasm.' I have
seen artists surrounded by adoring women and shouting youths, whereas I
knew about them ... One constantly has the most peculiar experiences
with regard to the origin, the co-phenomena, and the conditions of
artistry ..."

"In others,