because you have no great fortune, and yet, for the sake of your family,
could hardly serve elsewhere than in the Guards."

Boris was silent, and watched through the window how the hens strutted
about, how the pigs wallowed in the mire, how the cat was stalking a
pigeon....

"I am speaking to you seriously, and you stare out of the window. For
what future are you preparing yourself?"

"I want to be an artist."

"Wha-at?"

"An artist."

"The devil only knows what notions you have got into your head. Who
would agree to that? Do you even know what an artist is?"

Raisky made no answer.

"An artist ... is a man who borrows money from you, or chatters foolish
nonsense, and drives you to distraction.... Artist! ... These people
lead a wild gipsy life, are destitute of money, clothes, shoes, and all
the time they dream of wealth. Artists live on this earth like the birds
of heaven. I have seen enough of them in St. Petersburg: bold rascals
who meet one another in the evening dressed in fantastic costumes, lie
upon divans, smoke pipes, talk about trifles, read poetry, drink brandy
and declare that they are artists. Uncombed, unwashed...."