Maureen O'Leary American, b. 1965
May I read to you, Pyotr?, 2023
Oil on linen
20 x 14 inches (50.8 x 35.6 cm)
CT-11214
The two stopped under the linden trees, and Viazemsky removed his glasses to wipe the sweat that had fallen in his agitation and looked up at Prince Andrei with bare...
The two stopped under the linden trees, and Viazemsky removed his glasses to wipe the sweat that had fallen in his agitation and looked up at Prince Andrei with bare eyes. Prince Andrei returned Viazemsky’s gaze very directly. And as Viazemsky replaced his spectacles, the two friends stood still, understanding each other beyond what could be said in words.
“Beyond the battles, I now believe there is something more we must learn from that terrible conflict, something that affects the common soldier as much as the officer. May I read to you, Pyotr?” and Prince Andrei pulled from the inner pocket of his coat a page from the draft of his memoirs.
“Do you remember, Pyotr, on the eve of a battle with Napoleon in 1812, Kutuzov had brought before the regular army—and we officers were watching as well—that sacred painting of the Virgin of Smolensk? That beautiful icon? Kutuzov himself knelt alongside all the soldiers.
“Do you remember?”
Viazemsky nodded.
“This is what I now think of that,” said Prince Andrei, and he began to read:
“In kneeling before the holy relic, Marshal Kutuzov and his troops were not seeking divine assistance in the forthcoming battle…they were accepting the existence of a spiritual power more enduring than the temporal powers locked in battle and symbolized by created objects of artistic beauty present amid the ugliness of war.”
“Pyotr, this is what I have come to believe and feel now that this terrible war is so far behind us.”
Viazemsky bowed his head and was silent.
“Beyond the battles, I now believe there is something more we must learn from that terrible conflict, something that affects the common soldier as much as the officer. May I read to you, Pyotr?” and Prince Andrei pulled from the inner pocket of his coat a page from the draft of his memoirs.
“Do you remember, Pyotr, on the eve of a battle with Napoleon in 1812, Kutuzov had brought before the regular army—and we officers were watching as well—that sacred painting of the Virgin of Smolensk? That beautiful icon? Kutuzov himself knelt alongside all the soldiers.
“Do you remember?”
Viazemsky nodded.
“This is what I now think of that,” said Prince Andrei, and he began to read:
“In kneeling before the holy relic, Marshal Kutuzov and his troops were not seeking divine assistance in the forthcoming battle…they were accepting the existence of a spiritual power more enduring than the temporal powers locked in battle and symbolized by created objects of artistic beauty present amid the ugliness of war.”
“Pyotr, this is what I have come to believe and feel now that this terrible war is so far behind us.”
Viazemsky bowed his head and was silent.
