§1
IN the midst of all this ugliness and squalor, these petty and repulsive persons and scenes, in this world of chicanery and red tape, I recall the sad and noble figure of a great artist.
I lived at his side for two years and a half and saw this strong man breaking up under the pressure of persecution and misfortune.
Nor can it be said that he succumbed without a protest; for ten long years he struggled desperately. When he went into exile, he still hoped to conquer his enemies and right himself; in fact, he was still eager for the conflict, still full of projects and expedients. But at Vyatka he saw that all was over.
He might have accepted this discovery but for the wife and children at his side, and the prospect of long years of exile, poverty, and privation; he grew greyer and older, not day by day, but hour by hour. I was two years at Vyatka, and when I left, he was ten years older than when I came.
Let me tell the story of this long martyrdom.