And now that his thoughts were set on a comely girl, blithe, wholesome,
and full of the joy of life, Yourii had an idea that he would paint
Life. As most new ideas were wont to do, this one stirred him to
enthusiasm, and on this occasion he believed that he would bring his
task to a successful end.

Having prepared a huge canvas, he set to work with feverish haste, as
if he dreaded delay. When he first touched the canvas with colour,
producing a harmonious and pleasing effect, he felt a thrill of
delight, and the picture that was to be stood clearly before him with
all its details. As, however, the work progressed, so technical
difficulties became more numerous, and with these Yourii felt unable to
cope. All that in his imagination seemed luminous and beautiful and
strong, became thin and feeble on the canvas. Details no longer
fascinated him, but were annoying and depressing. In fact, he ignored
them and began to paint in a broad, slap-dash style. Thus, instead of a
clear, powerful portrayal of life, the picture became ever more plain
of a tawdry, slovenly female. There was nothing original or charming
about such a dull stereotyped piece of work, so he thought; a veritable
imitation of a Moukh drawing, banal in idea as in execution; and, as
usual, Yourii became sad and gloomy.

Had it not for some reason or other seemed shameful to weep, he would
have wept, hiding his face in the pillow, and sobbing aloud. He longed
to complain to some one about something, but not about his own
incompetence. Instead of this he gazed ruefully at the picture thinking
that life generally was tedious and sad and feeble, containing nothing
of interest to him, personally. It horrified him to look forward to
living, as he would have to do, for many years in this little town.