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Updated: June 21, 2025
Your Russian music is played by our orchestras, and your Russian painter, Verestchagin, exhibited his paintings in all the large cities, and made us familiar with his genius." "All art, all music has a moral effect upon the soul. Verestchagin paints war hideous war! Moral questions should be talked about and discussed, and a remedy found for them. In America you will not discuss many questions.
"I was absolutely struck dumb by the extraordinary majesty of this scene," he writes of one evening, "and watched it silently till the red light faded from the highest summits." Verestchagin astonished his wife by painting his studies of snow in the Himalayas at an altitude of 14,000 feet, tormented by hunger and thirst and supported by two coolies, who held him on each side.
The attackers presently lighted a large fire at the edge of the clearing, that they might have light to fight by; and what with the ruddy flickering of the flames and the incessant flashing of the rifles, the running crouching forms of the troops, and the desperate energy with which the defenders fought, the scene was a fit subject for the brush of a Wiertz or a Verestchagin.
One day, however, "Anti-Christ," in the person of a travelling magistrate, descended upon Gai-Orlov and carried off Grigorieff. He was sent to prison, where he died of poison administered by one of his "spiritual wives," who was jealous of her rivals. But his teachings did not die with him. His work was continued by the peasant Verestchagin, with the help of twelve venerable "apostles."
He was the one who had undergone cataclysmic changes. He had a been a stove polisher, a real estate assistant, a driver and a collector. He had known Margaret Duff, and Mr. Redwood, of the laundry, and Mr. Mitchly. The great city had dawned on him; Verestchagin, and Bouguereau, and the Art Institute.
Where did this virile, blood-full, throbbing Russian literature come from; this Russian painting of Verestchagin, that smites us like a sword with the consciousness of the tremendous meaning of existence? Is there a barbaric force left in the world that we have been daintily trying to cover and apologize for and refine into gentle agreeableness? These questions are too deep for these pages.
Millions of people and no vast artistic voice to portray these things these simple dramatic things like the coke ovens in the night. If he could only do it! If he could only stir the whole country, so that his name would be like that of Doré in France or Verestchagin in Russia. If he could but get fire into his work, the fire he felt!
And what an amount of Beauty as distinct from mere prettiness there is to discover in even the rough local people may be seen from the pictures of the Russian painter Verestchagin, engravings from which are given in his autobiographical sketches entitled "Vassili Verestchagin."
Eugene stood and stared, wondering how such things could be done. Ever afterward the name of Verestchagin was like a great call to his imagination; that was the kind of an artist to be if you were going to be one. Another picture came there once, which appealed to another side of his nature, although primarily the basis of its appeal was artistic.
Where did this virile, blood-full, throbbing Russian literature come from; this Russian painting of Verestchagin, that smites us like a sword with the consciousness of the tremendous meaning of existence? Is there a barbaric force left in the world that we have been daintily trying to cover and apologize for and refine into gentle agreeableness? These questions are too deep for these pages.
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