Later, Smarmeladov began to use other grains as well.
He made portraits in barley, wheat, and poppy seeds, bold sketches in corn and buckwheat, landscapes in rice, and still-lifes in millet—every one a smashing success.
At the moment, he was working on a group portrait.
A large canvas depicted a meeting of the regional planning board.
Feofan was working in dry beans and peas.
Deep in his heart, however, he remained true to the oats that had launched his career and undermined the Dialectical Easelists.
“You bet it’s better with oats!” exclaimed Ostap.
“And to think those fools Rubens and Raphael kept messing with oils.
Like Leonardo da Vinci, we’re fools, too.
Give us some yellow enamel.”
While paying the talkative clerk, Ostap asked:
“Oh yes, by the way, who’s this Platonikov-Pervertov?
We’re not from around here, you know, so we aren’t up to date.”
“Comrade Pervertov is a prominent figure in Moscow, although he’s from here originally.
He’s here on vacation.”
“I see,” said Ostap.
“Thanks for the information.
Goodbye!”
Outside, the half-brothers spotted the Dialectical Easelists again.
All four of them stood at the intersection, looking sad and melodramatic, like Gypsy performers.
Next to them were their easels, placed together like a stack of rifles.
“Bad news, fellows?” asked Ostap.
“Did you lose Platonikov-Pervertov?”
“We did,” groaned the artists. “And we almost had him.”
“Feofan snatched him, didn’t he?” asked Ostap, casually revealing his familiarity with the scene.
“He’s already painting him, that charlatan,” said the deputy of Henri de Navarre. “In oats.
Says he’s going back to his old method.
The hack is complaining that he’s having an artistic crisis.”
“And where’s this operator’s studio?” inquired Ostap.
“I’d like to take a look.”
The artists, who had plenty of time on their hands, were happy to take Ostap and Balaganov to Feofan Smarmeladov’s place.
Feofan was working outside in his yard.
Comrade Platonikov, apparently a timid man, sat in front of him on a stool.
He held his breath and looked at the artist who, like the sower on a thirty-ruble bill, was grabbing oats from a basket by the handful and throwing them across the canvas.
Smarmeladov frowned.
The sparrows were bothering him.
They brazenly flew onto the painting and pecked at the smaller details.
“How much are you going to get for this painting?” asked Platonikov shyly.
Feofan stopped sowing, examined his creation with a critical eye, and tentatively replied:
“Well, I think the museum will pay something like 250 for it.”
“That’s kind of pricey.”
“But who can afford oats these days?” said Smarmeladov melodically.
“They’re not cheap, those oats.”
“So how are the crops doing?” asked Ostap, sticking his head through the garden fence. “I see the sowing season is well under way.
A hundred percent success!
But this is nothing compared to what I saw in Moscow.
One artist there made a painting out of hair.
A large painting with multiple figures, mind you, and ideologically flawless, too, although, admittedly, he used the hair of non-party members.
But ideologically, I repeat, the painting was absolutely impeccable.
It was called