Government purchased it for the Luxembourg. In America Pasternak first became known through his characteristic drawings for Tolstoi's Resurrection." His close relation to Count Tolstoï and his insight into the Russian character made it possible for him to do that which is rarely done in these days-namely, illustrate a novel and not merely fill it with pictures. Such peasants, soldiers, judges, and gendarmes as were in the mind of Tolstoi, and can really be seen anywhere in Russia, were drawn by Pasternak, and he may be said to be the first Russian artist who has drawn the common Russian as he is. The drawings and paintings of Tolstoï, of which the one in his study with his friend Gué is the most familiar, were conceived and executed during that period in which the author and illustrator were living together upon the most intimate terms. In any biography of Tolstoï this pictorial material will be of the greatest importance, because he has succeeded in catching the spirit of his subject, and has imbued him with the mystic halo which always surrounds him. His latest picture, "Tolstoï in the Family Circle," marks the height of his genius, and this fact was recognized by the Rus sian Government, which purchased the painting in spite of the fact that the artist was a Jew, and his subject-the Anarchist, Tolstoï. Pasternak's talent has always been the power to wield the pencil rather than the brush, and although he has risen to great heights even among the colorists, he still excels in his drawing, which, while boldly realistic, is remarkably sane and thorough. He knows no tricks; and although his work seems to be done simply and easily, it represents infinite patience, which is, after all, nothing less than artistic honesty. Pasternak is a member of the Russian society of realistic painters called the "Predwijniki," organized as a protest against the stiff Academic spirit of Russia's art world; but as it has fallen into a dogmatism and intolerance of its own, he does not maintain close relations with it. He has shaken off not only the old Academic stiffness, but also the modern enslavement of art to certain social problems, and has remained himself, the exponent of his own genius. He is now Professor of Art in the Moscow Academy, and has won for himself a large place in Russia's artistic and social world. He is only thirty-eight years of age. "LETTERS FROM HOME," PASTERNAK'S FIRST LARGE PICTURE USKEGEE is best known as the home of Booker T. Washington's famous negro school, but the school is on the village outskirts, and the place has a well-defined character of its own. It is a typical Southern county town, with a broad public square at its heart, bounded about by brick and wooden stores, livery stables, law offices, etc. These structures are one and two stories high, and are pretty sure to have projecting from their fronts, across the sidewalk, an ample board roof to furnish shade; and between the supports of the roof, on the outside of the walk, is usually a plank seat. The walk is a good deal encumbered with displays of various goods, and here and there are careless huddles of empty whisky-barrels and other receptacles. The barrels and boxes, in common with the plank seats and sundry doorsteps and benches, are utilized very generally by loungers. The populace likes to sit and consider, and they like to take their ease when talking with their friends; while it occasionally happens that a darky will be so overcome by weariness or ennui that he will stretch out on one of the larger boxes to enjoy a nap. A more aristocratic loitering-place than any provided by chance or intention as adjuncts of the stores is a group of chairs at the rear door of the court-house. Every pleasant day these chairs are brought out into the shadow of the building and the near trees, where they are occupied by some of the village worthies for purposes of mild contemplation and discussion. The court-house stands in the center of the square, on a generous grassy oval that is separated from the rutted sandy earth of the rest of the square by a low fence. The building is a solid but rather battered structure of brick, with quite a pleasing air of sedate age. On the lower floor are the county offices, and among the other rooms is one reserved for the grand jury— a most rudely furnished apartment with a small fireplace and a deeply sanded floor. This sand is, I believe, intended to ameliorate the unevenness of the original floor of brick, which is badly worn, but it makes the room look as if it had been prepared for the caging of wild beasts. Upstairs is the court-room-a plain, old-fashioned apartment, heated by two small stoves. Its most noticeable characteristic is its odor of nicotine. The Southern men are famous smokers and chewers, and they spit copiously and emphatically all day long. If they are where a fireplace or stove is handy, they make that their target, but in public buildings or conveyances they drench the floors, and the court-room had been thus soaked for two generations. I remember with what serious thoughtfulness and regularity the judge expectorated on the occasion when I was present. I had followed a squad of shackled negroes whom I happened to see conducted to the hall of justice from the jail, and I went in and looked on until their lawyer-a young white man-was well started in his attempt to clear them. He was a shouter, and he made himself heard through the open windows all over town. I tired of his ranting, and came away, but it was explained to me that he just suited the negroes. They had a feeling that a plea which wasn't violent-voiced and accompanied by wild gestures wasn't worth paying for. Sense was a minor consideration. "The louder a man holler, and the mo' he tear aroun', the better they like him. They think he's gettin' thar then." The business square on which the court-house looks out from its environing trees with serene though antiquated dignity is usually very quiet. The town life is not very strenuous. A good many of the stores get along without signboards, and I frequently heard their proprietors whiling away their leisure in the recesses of their shops with a guitar, or cornet, or fiddle. They had plenty of time to visit with those who wandered in, whether to trade or to chat. Saturday is, however, an exception. That is market day, and attracts the country people from miles around. Public ways and hitching-places are crowded with mules and horses, many of them merly saddled, others attached to vehicles-vehicles that are occasionally modern, but ofttimes are otherwise, and that include some very curious makeshifts. Ox teams are common, and once in a while a negro drives a single ox harnessed between his cart-shafts. I often lingered on the square and talked with other lingerers. One day an ancient, who said he had been a preacher in his younger days, started a conversation by voicing the opinion that it was "goin' to rain. The sky's cl'ar overhead, but I been hearin' these old heavy thunders 'way off yonder, and that means rain. Yesterday morning it done that trick, and we had a right smart shower befo' night." Just then a colored man came along and the preacher accosted him. "What's that I hear about your trickin' your next neighbor with a conjure-bag?" he inquired. But the negro disclaimed all knowledge of such a proceeding, and as to the conjure-bag he affirmed, "That 'ar's somethin' I never tote." "Oh, no, of co'se not!" responded the preacher, sarcastically, and then, turning to me, he added, "They won't own to it, but they're plumb full of such superstitions." "I doan' believe in 'em," said the negro. 'Yes, you do. If you was to wake up and find some one had sprinkled a line of salt aroun' your doorstep, and put a little bit of hair inside the line of salt, you'd think there was bad things goin' to happen to you. I know you, and I know your conjure-bags-them little bags with a few roots and things in 'em." "I ricolict a circumstance," said a tall man sitting on a near doorstep. "About a year ago a few of us thought we'd have some fun with that ole nigger that lives all alone about a mile beyond the depot. We went one night and hitched a waxed string onto his cabin, and we'd scrape a stick across the string, and the noise it would make was something awful. "The nigger he pricked up his ears and he began to look aroun' this way an' that, and then he got a big club and sat there so scared it nearly took the curl out of his hair. Finally he went to prayin', and he put up a hot prayer, too, and we 'most killed ourselves laughin'. "The nex' day I met him and I asked him what was the matter at his house las' night, and tol' him I was goin' pas' an' heard him prayin' so loud it made the shingles rattle on his roof, and he said: 'The devil done come to my place las' night, an' he was boun' he gwine get me, an' I tried ev'ythin' to get quit of him, but he wouldn't go till I prayed the Lord, and then I heard him movin' off down towards the swamp.'" "Well, he's a good ole nigger," commented the preacher. "He never had any education and never wanted any. You take some of these young niggers that get a little learnin' and thar ain't no HARDING OUT THE WASH gittin' along with 'em. I'll say one thing, though, for this nigger school of Washington's hyar-they won't let 'em be too uppity thar. I know a young nigger was one time comin' back from vacation, and the train was so crowded a good parcel of 'em had to stand, and some of 'em ladies. This fellow he had a seat, and he said he wa'n't goin' to give it up. He'd paid his fare and he'd just as much right to sit as any one. That's like the way you do in the North, but there ain't a white man in the South would sit a minute while a lady was standin'. Well, Booker was on that car and the young chap didn't know it, and Booker heard what he said and ask, says he, 'Whar are you goin'?' "And the young fellow says, 'To the school.' "And Booker says, 'No, you ain't. We don't want your sort hyar. You can turn aroun' and go home.' Yes, Booker's got some good ideas, if he is a nigger." "Thar's Jake Darkin down at the corner," remarked the tall man on the doorstep. "He ain't been in town befo', I reckon, since his horse trade." "What was the trouble?" I inquired. "Why, Tuskegee is a great place for tradin' horses. They're at it all the time round back of the hotel. Jake's young as yo' are, but he thought he could do as well as the nex' man in the horse business, an' it was time he had a try. So he drove into town, and the horse he come on was a crackerjack-a first-class good horse, right in his prime. Jake he went to the stable of one of our experts and he says, I've started out to do some horse-trading. Now,' he says, 'hyar's my horse. What have you got to put up against him?' "Oh,' the man says, 'I don't want to trade.' "But that wouldn't do. It only made Jake mo' anxious, and he kep' urgin' till the man says, 'Well, hyar's a good horse, and I don't mind tradin' him if I can get my price. "The horse looked fine in the stall. though he was thirty years old-a good deal older'n Jake was-and the man had paid about fifteen dollars for him. "Well, how'll yo' trade?' says Jake. "Why, I'll give you five dollars to boot." "I'll tell you what I'll do,' says Jake; 'you make it ten and it's a go.' |