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Updated: May 23, 2025
How many geniuses have, indeed, come into the world only to go out of it unfamed, unsuspected? How many have dropped down to hell through the pitfalls of their own creation, and so been lost forever to the world? Good God! How pitiful it is! Turn we away. Joseph Kashkarin had many a plaint for his unfortunate lot.
And his search for a competent, yet unknown, artist, led him at last to the studio of Monsieur Kashkarin, who had been recommended by the voice of Fate speaking through the decorous tongue of the Academy director.
Why, I began in terror! My first talk with the professor at the Institute showed me my situation. And all the other students had so much! They spent, in a day, an hour, what I stretched out to two weeks, to a a " Ivan sprang up, ran to the sofa, and caught the lean figure in his arms. Kashkarin had wrought himself up to a wretched pitch.
Now, also, was the time when young blood rushes like sap through the veins, and artists' dreams turn, irresistibly, to the greatest of their subjects. On such a day it was that Joseph Kashkarin and Irina Petrovna came for the first time face to face. Irina's reappearance in the city of her brother's fall, was made a year or more after the battle in the Akheskaia.
Again, as he neared the city, these memories were augmented by an anticipation: the imagined picture of the third and last interview he was destined to have with the tragic boy. Ivan was to get his last glimpse into that soul to-night. He was going to one who, dying, had called to him from the depths: Joseph Kashkarin, the Pole. Dawn had not yet risen.
But so foreign were these things to Ivan's own simplicity of nature, that he ended by repudiating his first doubts of the boy before him who had borne so much. "My name," began the youth, "is Joseph Kashkarin. I was born in Poland, in the spring of 1848, just after we had moved from Lodz to the outskirts of a little village near Chölm. All my life we have been horribly poor.
Joseph Kashkarin, this bearded, hollow-eyed, gray-lipped man, with the spots of scarlet flaming from his projecting cheekbones, and throwing the death-hue of the rest of the face into still more dreadful prominence?
He was, however, wholly unprepared when the fellow sprang at him again, this time with a wild shriek: "Ah! You devil! You devil! It was you, you who have taken her from me! My God! You!" "Kashkarin, listen! Be silent. You can't hurt me. Listen!" There was too much quiet mastery in that voice for disobedience. Joseph became suddenly quiet.
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