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 itself,—thus can the tragedy of Vrubel's life be characterised. The horror in this duel was all the greater in that his impotence seemed to mock at him,—in that it was not an organic quality of his nature, but rather a demoniac principle, which unexpectedly invaded his work.

Under the sign of décadence is also the art of Konstantine Somov, who is one of the most delicate poets and one of the most refined masters of modern painting. Somov's sphere is more limited than Vrubel's immense domain. Somov exists in a secluded circle. His art may be termed "the art of old age," for it is rich in wonderful mellowness. Only old collectors of vast experience can appreciate the enchantment and the preciousness of objects as delicately as Somov does the beauty of colours, the exquisiteness of forms, the delicacy of lines. At the same time the subjects Somov treats are "senile." His works are like memoirs written by one who has lived many a hundred years on this earth. Only with the decline of a culture do such figures appear as that of Somov. Their glance is ever turned backward to a past, which although it has not been lived by them, is presented with the veracity and convincing power of something actually experienced. There is something mysterious and