Many carriages, droshky and carriages stood in front of the entrance of the house, in which the auction sale of the things of one of those rich art lovers who sweetly dozed off all their lives, immersed in marshmallows and cupids, who innocently passed for patrons of the arts and innocently spent for this the millions accumulated by them solid fathers, and often even their own previous works. As you know, there are no such patrons now, and our 19th century has long acquired the boring face of a banker who enjoys his millions only in the form of numbers put up on paper. The long hall was filled with the most motley crowd of visitors who swooped down like birds of prey on an untidy body. There was a whole flotilla of Russian merchants from Gostiny Dvor and even the market place, in blue German frock coats. Their appearance and facial expressions were somehow firmer, freer, and were not signified by that sugary helpfulness that is so visible in a Russian merchant when he is in his shop in front of a buyer. Here they did not at all repair, despite the fact that in the same hall there were many of those aristocrats, before whom they were ready in another place with their bows to sweep away the dust caused by their own boots. Here they were completely cheeky, touching books and pictures without ceremony, wanting to know the goodness of the goods, and boldly interrupting the price added by the connoisseur counts. There were many indispensable visitors to the auctions who decided to visit it every day instead of breakfast; aristocratic connoisseurs, who considered it their duty not to miss the opportunity to increase their collection and did not find another occupation from 12 to 1 hour; finally, those noble gentlemen, whose dresses and pockets are very thin, who come every day without any mercenary purpose, but only to see what will end up, who will give more, who will give less, who will kill whom and what will be left for whom. A lot of pictures were scattered completely to no avail; furniture was mixed with them, and books with the monograms of the former owner, who, perhaps, had no commendable curiosity to look into them. Chinese vases, marble tabletops, new and old furniture with curved lines, with vultures, sphinxes and lion's paws, gilded and ungilded, chandeliers, kenkets - everything was piled up, and not at all in the same order as in the shops. Everything was a kind of chaos of art. In general, the feeling we feel at the sight of the auction is terrible: everything in it responds with something similar to a funeral procession. The hall in which it is produced is always somehow gloomy; windows, cluttered with furniture and paintings, sparingly pour out light, silence spilled over faces, and the funeral voice of the auctioneer, tapping with a hammer and performing a funeral service for the poor, so strangely encountered here arts. All this seems to add to an even stranger unpleasantness of the impression.
The auction seemed to be in full swing. A whole crowd of decent people, moving together, fussed about something vying with each other. The words "Ruble, ruble, ruble" were heard from all sides, did not give the auctioneer time to repeat the added price, which had already increased four times more than the announced one. The crowd around was bustling about the portrait, which could not but stop everyone who had any idea in painting. The artist's high brush was evident in him. The portrait, apparently, had already been restored and refurbished several times, and represented the swarthy features of some Asiatic in a wide dress, with an unusual, strange expression on his face; but most of all those who surrounded were struck by the unusual liveliness of the eyes. The more one peered into them, the more they seemed to rush inwards to each one. This oddity, this unusual focus of the artist, captured the attention of almost everyone. Many of those who have already competed for it have retreated, because the price has been unbelievably high. Only two well-known aristocrats remained, lovers of painting, who did not want to refuse such an acquisition for anything. They got excited and would probably fill the price to impossibility, if suddenly one of those who were looking at it right there did not say:
Let me stop your argument for the time being. I, perhaps more than anyone else, have the right to this portrait.
These words instantly drew everyone's attention to him. He was a slender man, about thirty-five, with long black curls. A pleasant face, filled with some kind of bright carelessness, showed a soul alien to all languishing worldly upheavals; in his outfit there were no pretensions to fashion: everything showed him an artist. It was, for sure, the artist B., personally known by many of those present.
No matter how strange my words will seem to you, he continued, seeing the general attention rushing to himself, but if you dare to listen a little story perhaps you will see that I had the right to pronounce them. Everyone assures me that the portrait is the one I'm looking for.
A very natural curiosity flared up in almost everyone's faces, and the auctioneer himself, gaping, stopped with a hammer raised in his hand, preparing to listen. At the beginning of the story, many involuntarily turned their eyes to the portrait, but then they all stared at one narrator, as his story became more entertaining.
You know that part of the city, which is called Kolomna. So he began. Everything here is unlike other parts of St. Petersburg; it is neither a capital nor a province; you seem to hear, having crossed into the streets of Kolomna, how all sorts of young desires and impulses leave you. The future does not enter here, here everything is silence and resignation, everything that has settled from the metropolitan movement. Retired officials, widows, poor people who are familiar with the Senate and therefore have condemned themselves here for almost their entire lives move here to live; seasoned cooks who jostling all day in the markets, chatting nonsense with a peasant in a petty shop and taking five kopecks worth of coffee and four sugar every day, and, finally, all that category of people that can be called in one word: ashy, people who with their dress, face, hair, eyes, they have a kind of cloudy, ashy appearance, like a day when there is neither storm nor sun in the sky, but sometimes it’s just neither: fog is sown and takes away all sharpness from objects. Here you can include retired theater ushers, retired titular advisers, retired pets of Mars with a gouged eye and swollen lip. These people are completely impassive: they walk without turning their eyes to anything, they are silent, not thinking about anything. There is not much good in their room; sometimes just a damask of pure Russian vodka, which they monotonously suck all day without any strong rush in the head, excited by a strong reception, which they usually like to ask themselves Sundays a young German craftsman, this daring Meshchanskaya street, who alone owns the entire pavement when the time passed after twelve o'clock at night.
Life in Kolomna is a fearful solitary one: rarely will a carriage appear, except perhaps the one in which the actors ride, which alone confuses the general silence with its thunder, ringing and rattling. It's all pedestrians; the cabman very often trudges without a rider, dragging hay for his bearded horse. You can find an apartment for five rubles a month, even with coffee in the morning. Widows receiving a pension are the most aristocratic surnames; they behave well, often sweep their room, talk with friends about the high cost of beef and cabbage; they often have a young daughter, a silent, mute, sometimes pretty creature, an ugly little dog and a wall clock with a sadly tapping pendulum. Then come the actors whose salary does not allow them to leave Kolomna, the people are free, like all artists who live for pleasure. They, sitting in dressing gowns, mend a pistol, glue all sorts of gizmos useful for the house out of cardboard, play checkers and cards with a friend who has come, and so they spend the morning, doing almost the same thing in the evening, with the occasional addition of punch. After these aces and the aristocracy of Kolomna, unusual fractions and trifles follow. It is as difficult to name them as it is to count the many insects that are born in old vinegar. There are old women here who are praying; old women who get drunk; old women who both pray and drink together; old women who make a living by incomprehensible means, like ants, carry old rags and linen with them from Kalinkin Bridge to the crowded market in order to sell it there for fifteen kopecks; in a word, often the most unfortunate remnant of humanity, for which no benevolent political economist could find means to improve its condition.
For this reason I have brought them to show you how often this people is in need of seeking only sudden, temporary help, resorting to loans; and then a special kind of usurers settle among them, supplying small amounts on mortgages and at high interest. These small usurers are several times more insensitive than any big ones, because they arise in the midst of poverty and brightly displayed beggarly rags, which the rich usurer, who deals only with those who come in carriages, does not see. And that is why it is already too early Removes in their souls any feeling of humanity. Among such usurers there was one ... but it does not prevent you from saying that the incident about which I began to tell relates to the past century, namely to the reign of the late Empress Catherine II. You can understand for yourself that the very appearance of Kolomna and the life inside it had to change significantly. So, among the usurers there was one being in all respects extraordinary, who had settled for a long time in this part of the city. He walked around in a wide Asian outfit; the dark complexion of his face indicated his southern origin, but what kind of nation he was: an Indian, a Greek, a Persian, no one could say for sure about this. Tall, almost unusual growth, a swarthy, skinny, flushed face and some incomprehensibly terrible color of it, large eyes of unusual fire, overhanging thick eyebrows, distinguished him strongly and sharply from all the ashen inhabitants of the capital. His dwelling itself was not like other small wooden houses. It was a stone building, like those that the Genoese merchants had once set up to their heart's content, with irregular windows of unequal size, with iron shutters and bolts. This usurer differed from other usurers already in that he could provide any amount of money to everyone, from a poor old woman to a prodigal court noble. The most brilliant carriages often showed up in front of his house, from the windows of which the head of a luxurious secular lady sometimes looked. The rumor, as usual, spread that his iron chests were full without counting money, jewelry, diamonds and any pledges, but that, however, he did not at all have that self-interest, which is characteristic of other usurers. He gave money willingly, distributing, it seemed, very profitably the terms of payments; but by some strange arithmetic calculations he forced them to rise to exorbitant percentages. So, at least, the rumor said. But what is strangest of all, and what could not but strike many, was the strange fate of all those who received money from him: they all ended their lives in an unfortunate way. Whether it was just people's opinion, absurd superstitious rumors, or deliberately spread rumors remains unknown. But a few examples that happened in a short time before the eyes of everyone were vivid and striking.
From among the then aristocracy, a young man soon drew attention to himself best surname, who distinguished himself already at a young age in the state field, an ardent admirer of everything true, sublime, a zealot of everything that gave rise to art and the mind of a person who prophesied a patron of the arts. Soon he was worthily distinguished by the empress herself, who entrusted him with a significant position, completely in accordance with his own requirements, a place where he could do a lot for the sciences and for the good in general. The young nobleman surrounded himself with artists, poets, scientists. He wanted to give everything a job, to encourage everything. He undertook many useful publications on his own account, gave many orders, announced consolation prizes, spent a lot of money on this, and finally got upset. But, full of generous movement, he did not want to lag behind his business, he looked everywhere to borrow and finally turned to a well-known usurer. Having made a significant loan from him, this man changed completely in a short time: he became a persecutor, a persecutor of a developing mind and talent. In all the writings he began to see the bad side, he interpreted every word crookedly. Then, unfortunately, it happened French revolution. This suddenly served him as a tool for all possible vile things. He began to see in everything some kind of revolutionary direction, in everything he seemed to have hints. He became suspicious to such an extent that he finally began to suspect himself, began to compose terrible, unjust denunciations, and made a lot of unfortunate people. It goes without saying that such deeds could not fail to finally reach the throne. The magnanimous empress was horrified and, full of the nobility of the soul that adorns the crowned bearers, she uttered words that, although they could not pass on to us in all accuracy, their deep meaning was impressed in the hearts of many. The Empress noticed that it is not under monarchical rule that lofty, noble movements of the soul are oppressed, it is not there that creations of the mind, poetry and art are despised and persecuted; that, on the contrary, only monarchs were their patrons; that Shakespeares and Molières flourished under their generous protection, while Dante could not find a corner in his republican homeland; What true geniuses arise during the splendor and power of sovereigns and states, and not during the ugly political phenomena and republican terrorism, which hitherto have not given the world a single poet; that it is necessary to distinguish poets-artists, for they bring only peace and beautiful silence into the soul, and not excitement and grumbling; that scientists, poets and all producers of arts are pearls and diamonds in the imperial crown: with them the era of the great sovereign flaunts and receives even greater splendor. In a word, the empress, who uttered these words, was divinely beautiful at that moment. I remember that the old people could not talk about it without tears. Everyone took part in the case. To the credit of our national pride, it must be noted that in the Russian heart there always dwells a wonderful feeling to take the side of the oppressed. The grandee who deceived the power of attorney was punished approximately and removed from his place. But he read a much more terrible punishment on the faces of his compatriots. It was a resolute and universal contempt. It is impossible to tell how the vainglorious soul suffered; pride, deceived ambition, shattered hopes - all joined together, and in fits of terrible madness and rage his life was interrupted.
Another striking example also occurred in the sight of everyone: from the beauties, which ours was not poor at that time, northern capital, one won decisive superiority over all. It was some kind of wonderful fusion of our northern beauty with the beauty of noon, a diamond that rarely comes across in the world. My father confessed that he had never seen anything like it in all his life. Everything seemed to be united in her: wealth, intelligence and spiritual charm. There was a crowd of seekers, and among them the most remarkable of all was Prince R., the noblest, best of all young people, the most beautiful in face and chivalrous, generous impulses, the high ideal of novels and women, Grandison in every respect. Prince R. was passionately and madly in love; the same fiery love was his answer. But the party seemed uneven to the relatives. The family estates of the prince had not belonged to him for a long time, the surname was in disgrace, and everyone knew his bad state of affairs. Suddenly, the prince leaves the capital for a while, as if in order to improve his affairs, and after a short time is surrounded by pomp and incredible splendor. Brilliant balls and holidays make him known to the court. The beauty's father becomes supportive, and the city plays out interesting wedding. Where such a change and the unheard-of wealth of the groom came from, no one could surely explain this; but it was said on the side that he entered into some kind of conditions with an incomprehensible usurer and made at him a loan. Be that as it may, but the wedding occupied the whole city, and the bride and groom were the subject of general envy. Howling was known for their ardent, constant love, the long languor endured on both sides, the high merits of both. Fiery women outlined in advance the heavenly bliss that the young spouses would enjoy. But everything turned out differently. In one year there was a terrible change in her husband. The poison of suspicious jealousy, intolerance and inexhaustible whims poisoned the hitherto noble and beautiful character. He became a tyrant and tormentor of his wife and, which no one could have foreseen, resorted to the most inhuman deeds, even beatings. In one year, no one could recognize the woman who until recently shone and attracted crowds of obedient admirers. Finally, unable to endure any longer her hard fate, she was the first to talk about divorce. The husband went berserk at the mere thought of it. In the first movement of fury, he burst into her room with a knife and, no doubt, would have stabbed her right there if he had not been seized and restrained. In a fit of frenzy and despair, he turned the knife on himself and ended his life in terrible agony.
In addition to these two examples, which took place in the eyes of the whole society, many were told that happened in the lower classes, which almost all had a terrible end. There an honest, sober man became a drunkard; there a merchant clerk robbed his master; there a cab driver, who had been driving honestly for several years, stabbed a rider for a penny. It is impossible that such incidents, sometimes told not without additions, did not induce a kind of involuntary horror on the modest inhabitants of Kolomna. No one doubted the presence of evil spirits in this man. It was said that he offered such conditions from which a hair stood on end and which the unfortunate man never then dared to transfer to another; that his money has a burning property, glows by itself, and bears some strange signs... in a word, there were a lot of all sorts of absurd rumors. And the remarkable thing is that all this Kolomna population, this whole world of poor old women, petty officials, petty artists and, in a word, all the small fry that we just named, agreed to endure and endure the last extreme rather than turn to a terrible usurer; they even found old women who died of hunger, who agreed to kill their bodies rather than destroy their souls. Meeting him on the street, involuntarily felt fear. The pedestrian cautiously backed away and looked back for a long time afterwards, following his exorbitant figure disappearing in the distance. tall figure. There was already so much extraordinary in one image that anyone would be forced to involuntarily ascribe to it a supernatural existence. These strong traits, embedded as deeply as they ever do in a human being; that hot bronzed complexion; this exorbitant thick eyebrows, unbearable, scary eyes, even the widest folds of his Asian clothes everything seemed to say that before the passions moving in this body, all the passions of other people were pale. Every time my father stopped motionless when he met him, and every time he could not help saying: “The devil, the perfect devil!” But I must quickly introduce you to my father, who, by the way, is the real subject of this story.
My father was a remarkable man in many respects. He was an artist, of which there are few, one of those miracles that only Rus' alone spews from its unopened womb, a self-taught artist who himself found in his soul, without teachers and schools, rules and laws, carried away only by one thirst for improvement and walking, reasons, perhaps unknown to him, only one path indicated from the soul; one of those self-born miracles that contemporaries often honor with the insulting word “ignorant” and who do not cool off from blasphemy and their own failures, receive only new zeal and strength, and already far in their souls go away from those works for which they received the title of ignoramus. With a high inner instinct he sensed the presence of thought in every object; got it on its own true value the words "historical painting"; comprehended why a simple head, a simple portrait of Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, Correggio can be called historical painting and why a huge picture of historical content will still be a tableau de genre, despite all the artist’s claims to historical painting. Both his inner feeling and his own conviction turned his brush towards Christian subjects, the highest and last step of the lofty. He had no ambition or irritability, so inseparable from the nature of many artists. He was a firm character, an honest, direct person, even rude, covered on the outside with a somewhat stale bark, not without some pride in his soul, speaking of people together and condescendingly and sharply. “Why look at them,” he used to say, “because I don’t work for them. I won't take my pictures into the living room, they'll put them in the church. Whoever understands me will thank me, who does not understand will still pray to God. A secular person cannot be blamed for not understanding painting; on the other hand, he understands cards, knows a lot about good wine, horses, why should a gentleman know more? Still, perhaps, as soon as he tries one and the other, and goes to be smart, then there will be no life from him! To each his own, let each do his own. For me, it’s better that person who says bluntly that he doesn’t know any sense than the one who poses as a hypocrite, says that he knows what he doesn’t know, and only spoils and spoils. He worked for a small wage, that is, for wages that he only needed to support his family and to provide him with the opportunity to work. Moreover, he never refused to help another and extend a helping hand to a poor artist; he believed in the simple, pious faith of his ancestors, and that is why, perhaps, on the faces depicted by him that high expression appeared by itself, which brilliant talents could not get to the bottom of. Finally, by the constancy of his work and the steadfastness of the path outlined for himself, he even began to gain respect from those who honored him as an ignorant and home-grown self-taught. He was constantly given orders in the church, and his work was not translated. One of the jobs occupied him greatly. I don’t remember what exactly the plot of it consisted of, I only know that it was necessary to place the spirit of darkness in the picture. For a long time he thought about what image to give him; he wanted to realize in his face all the heavy, oppressive man. With such reflections, the image of a mysterious usurer sometimes flashed through his head, and he thought involuntarily: "I wish I could write the devil from someone." Judge his astonishment when once, while working in his workshop, he heard a knock on the door, and immediately after that a terrible usurer came straight in to him. He could not help but feel some kind of internal trembling that ran involuntarily through his body.
Are you an artist? he said without ceremony to my father.
Artist, said the father in bewilderment, anticipating what would happen next.
Good. Draw a portrait of me. I may die soon, I have no children; but I don't want to die completely, I want to live. Can you draw a portrait that is completely alive?
My father thought: “What is better? He himself asks to be the devil in my picture.” I gave my word. They agreed on the time and price, and the next day, grabbing a palette and brushes, my father was already with him. The high courtyard, the dogs, the iron doors and shutters, the arched windows, the chests covered with antique carpets, and, finally, the extraordinary host himself, who sat motionless in front of him, all this made a strange impression on him. The windows, as if on purpose, were crowded and cluttered from below so that they gave i no from only one top. “Damn it, how well his face is now lit up!” he said to himself and began to write greedily, as if fearing that the happy illumination would somehow disappear. “What power!” he repeated to himself. If I even half depict him as he is now, he will kill all my saints and angels; they will turn pale before him. Which devilish power! it will simply jump out of my canvas if I am only a little true to nature. What extraordinary features! he repeated incessantly, intensifying his zeal, and he already saw for himself how certain features began to pass onto the canvas. But the more he approached them, the more he felt some kind of painful, disturbing feeling, incomprehensible to himself. However, in spite of this, he set himself to pursue with literal accuracy every imperceptible feature and expression. First of all, he took up the decoration of the eyes. There was so much power in those eyes that it seemed impossible even to think of rendering them exactly as they were in nature. However, by all means, he decided to find in them the last small feature and shade, to comprehend their secret ... But as soon as he began to enter and delve into them with a brush, such a strange disgust revived in his soul, such an incomprehensible burden that he had to give up the brush for some time and then take it up again. Finally, he could no longer endure it, he felt that those eyes pierced his soul and produced in it incomprehensible anxiety. On the next, on the third day, it was even stronger. He became afraid. He dropped the brush and flatly said that he could no longer write with it. One should have seen how the strange usurer changed at these words. He threw himself at his feet and begged him to finish the portrait, saying that his fate and existence in the world depended on this, that he had already touched his living features with his brush, that if he conveyed them correctly, his life would be retained in the portrait by supernatural power, that he will not die completely because he needs to be present in the world. My father felt horror at such words: they seemed so strange and terrible to him that he threw down his brushes and palette and rushed headlong out of the room.
The thought of that worried him all day and all night, and in the morning he received a portrait from the usurer, which was brought to him by some woman, the only creature who was in his service, who immediately announced that the owner did not want a portrait, did not give for it nothing and sends back. In the evening of the same day he learned that the usurer had died and that they were going to bury him according to the rites of his religion. All this seemed to him inexplicably strange. Meanwhile, from that time on, a perceptible change appeared in his character: he felt a restless, anxious state, for which he himself could not understand the reasons, and he soon performed such an act that no one could have expected from him. For some time now, the works of one of his students began to attract the attention of a small circle of connoisseurs and amateurs. My father always saw talent in him and showed him his special disposition for that. He suddenly felt envious of him. General participation and talk about it became unbearable to him. Finally, to the top of his annoyance, he learns that his student was offered to paint a picture for the newly rebuilt rich church. It blew him up. “No, I won't let the sucker triumph!” he said. It's too early, brother, he decided to put the old people in the mud! Still, thank God, I have the strength. Here we will see who will soon put someone in the mud. And a straightforward, honest-in-heart man used intrigues and intrigues, which until then he had always abhorred; finally achieved that a competition was announced for the picture and other artists could also enter with their works. After which he locked himself in his room and set about his brush with ardor. It seemed that he wanted to gather all his strength, all of himself here. And for sure, it came out one of his best works. No one doubted that he did not have the championship. The pictures were presented, and all the others appeared before her like night before day. Suddenly, one of the members present, if I am not mistaken, a spiritual person, made a remark that amazed everyone. “There is certainly a lot of talent in the artist's painting,” he said, “but there is no holiness in the faces; there is even, on the contrary, something demonic in the eyes, as if an impure feeling was leading the hand of the artist. Everyone looked and could not but be convinced of the truth of these words. My father rushed forward to his picture, as if in order to believe himself offensive remark, and saw with horror that he had given almost all the figures the eyes of a usurer. They looked so demonically crushingly that he himself shuddered involuntarily. The picture was rejected, and he had to hear, to his indescribable annoyance, that the primacy remained with his student. It was impossible to describe the fury with which he returned home. He almost killed my mother, dispersed the children, broke brushes and an easel, grabbed a portrait of a usurer from the wall, demanded a knife and ordered a fire to be lit in the fireplace, intending to cut it into pieces and burn it. This movement was caught by his friend, a painter, who, like him, was a merry fellow, always pleased with himself, not carried away by any distant desires, working cheerfully at everything that came across, and even more cheerfully taking to dinner and feasting.
What are you doing, what are you going to burn? he said and went to the portrait. Have mercy, this is one of your best works. This is a moneylender who recently died; yes, this is the perfect thing. You just hit him not in the eyebrow, but in the very eyes. So eyes have never looked into life, as they look at you.
But I'll see how they will look in the fire, said the father, making a movement to throw it into the fireplace.
Stop, for God's sake! said the friend, holding him, give it to me, if it pricks your eyes to such an extent.
The father was at first stubborn, finally agreed, and the merry fellow, extremely pleased with his acquisition, dragged the portrait with him.
After his departure, my father suddenly felt calmer. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his soul along with the portrait. He himself was amazed at his malicious feeling, his envy, and the obvious change in his character. Having considered his deed, he was saddened in soul and, not without inner sorrow, said:
No, it was God who punished me; my picture rightly suffered disgrace. She was plotted to destroy her brother. The demonic feeling of envy drove my brush, the demonic feeling should have been reflected in it.
He immediately went looking for former student his own, embraced him tightly, asked his forgiveness and tried as much as he could to make amends for his guilt before him. His works flowed again, as serenely as before; but thoughtfulness began to show more often on his face. He prayed more, was more often silent and did not express himself so sharply about people; the coarsest exterior of his character somehow softened. Soon one circumstance shocked him even more. He had not seen his comrade for a long time, who begged him for a portrait. I was about to go and visit him, when suddenly he himself unexpectedly entered his room. After a few words and questions from both sides, he said:
Well, brother, it was not for nothing that you wanted to burn the portrait. Damn him, there is something strange in him ... I don’t believe in witches, but, your will: evil spirits sit in him ...
How? said my father.
And so that since I hung it in my room, I felt such anguish ... just as if I wanted to kill someone. In my life I did not know what insomnia was, and now I have experienced not only insomnia, but such dreams ... I myself can’t tell whether these are dreams or something else: it’s as if a brownie is strangling you, and the accursed old man keeps imagining. In a word, I cannot tell you my condition. This has never happened to me. I wandered like a madman all these days: I felt some kind of fear, an unpleasant expectation of something. I feel that I can not say anything cheerful and sincere word; just as if a spy was sitting next to me. And only since I gave the portrait to my nephew, who asked for it, did I feel like a stone had suddenly fallen from my shoulders: I suddenly felt cheerful, as you can see. Well, brother, you concocted the devil!
During this story, my father listened to him with undistracted attention and finally asked:
And now your nephew has a portrait?
Where is the nephew! could not stand it, said the merry fellow, to know that the soul of the usurer himself moved into him: he jumps out of the frames, paces around the room; and what the nephew says is simply incomprehensible to the mind. I would have taken him for a madman if I had not partly experienced it myself. He sold it to some collector of paintings, and even he could not stand it and also sold it to someone.
This story made a strong impression on my father. He fell into thought in earnest, fell into hypochondria, and finally became completely convinced that his brush had served as a diabolical tool, that part of the life of a usurer had indeed turned into a portrait somehow and was now disturbing people, inspiring demonic impulses, seducing the artist from the path, giving rise to terrible torments of envy, and so on and so forth. Three misfortunes that followed, three sudden death wife, daughter and young son he considered himself a heavenly punishment and decided to leave the light without fail. As soon as I was nine years old, he placed me in the Academy of Arts and, having paid off his debts, retired to a secluded monastery, where he soon took the monastic vows. There, with the severity of life, vigilant observance of all the monastic rules, he amazed all the brothers. The abbot of the monastery, having learned about the art of his brush, demanded that he write main image in church. But the humble brother flatly said that he was not worthy to take up the brush, that it was defiled, that by labor and great sacrifices he must first purify his soul in order to be worthy to begin such a work. They didn't want to force him. He himself increased for himself, as much as possible, the severity of monastic life. Finally, she, too, became insufficient for him and not quite strict. With the blessing of the abbot, he retired to the desert, to be completely alone. There he built a cell out of tree branches, ate only raw roots, dragged stones from place to place, stood from sunrise to sunset in the same place with his hands raised to heaven, continuously reading prayers. In a word, he seemed to seek out all possible degrees of patience and that incomprehensible self-sacrifice, examples of which can only be found in the lives of saints alone. Thus, for a long time, for several years, he exhausted his body, strengthening it at the same time with the life-giving power of prayer. Finally, one day he came to the monastery and said firmly to the rector: “Now I am ready. If God wills, I will do my work.” The item he took was the Nativity of Jesus. For a whole year he sat behind him, not leaving his cell, barely feeding himself harsh food, praying incessantly. After a year, the picture was ready. It was, indeed, a miracle of the brush. It is necessary to know that neither the brothers nor the rector had much knowledge in painting, but everyone was struck by the extraordinary holiness of the figures. The feeling of divine humility and meekness in the face of the Most Pure Mother, bending over the Infant, a deep mind in the eyes of the Divine Infant, as if already seeing something in the distance, the solemn silence of the kings struck by the divine miracle, bowed down at His feet, and, finally, holy, inexpressible silence embracing the whole picture, all this appeared in such a harmonious force and power of beauty that the impression was magical. All the brothers fell on their knees before the new image, and the tender rector said: “No, it is impossible for a person with the help of human art alone to produce such a picture: a holy, higher power led your brush, and the blessing of heaven rested on your labor.”
At this time, I completed my studies at the Academy, received gold medal and with it the joyful hope of a journey to Italy best dream twenty year old artist. I had only to say goodbye to my father, from whom I had parted for twelve years. I confess that even the very image of him has long since disappeared from my memory. I had already heard a little about the stern holiness of his life and imagined in advance to meet the callous appearance of a hermit, alien to everything in the world, except for his cell and prayer, exhausted, dried up from eternal fasting and vigil. But how amazed I was when a beautiful, almost divine old man appeared before me! And there were no traces of exhaustion on his face: it shone with the lordship of heavenly joy. A snow-white beard and thin, almost airy hair of the same silvery color scattered picturesquely over his chest and over the folds of his black cassock and fell to the very cord that girded his wretched monastic clothes; but most of all it was amazing for me to hear from his lips such words and thoughts about art, which, I confess, I will keep in my soul for a long time and would sincerely wish that every one of my brothers did the same.
I have been waiting for you, my son, he said as I approached his blessing. You will have a path along which your life will flow from now on. Your path is clear, do not deviate from it. You have a talent; talent is the most precious gift of God do not destroy it. Explore, study everything that you see, subdue everything with your brushes, but be able to find the inner thought in everything and try most of all to comprehend high secret creations. Blessed is the chosen one who owns it. He has no low object in nature. In the insignificant the artist-creator is as great as in the great; in the contemptible, he no longer has the contemptible, for the beautiful soul of the Creator shines invisibly through him, and the contemptible has already received a high expression, for it has flowed through the purgatory of his soul. A hint of a divine, heavenly paradise is contained for man in art, and for that alone it is already above all. And how many times the solemn peace is higher than any worldly excitement; how many times creation is higher than destruction; how many times an angel, by the pure innocence of his bright soul alone, is higher than all the innumerable forces and proud passions of Satan, so many times higher than anything that exists in the world, a high creation of art. Offer everything to him and love him with all your passion. Not a passion breathing earthly lust, but a quiet heavenly passion; without it, a person has no power to rise from the earth and cannot give wonderful sounds of calm. For in order to calm and reconcile all, a high creation of art descends into the world. It cannot instill murmuring in the soul, but with resounding prayer strives eternally towards God. But there are moments, dark minutes...
He stopped, and I noticed that his bright face suddenly darkened, as if some momentary cloud had come running over him.
There is one incident in my life, he said. To this day, I cannot understand what that strange image from which I wrote the image. It was definitely some kind of diabolical phenomenon. I know the light rejects the existence of the devil, and therefore I will not speak of him. But I will only say that I wrote it with disgust, I did not feel at that time any love for my work. I forcibly wanted to conquer myself and soullessly, drowning out everything, to be true to nature. It was not a creation of art, and therefore the feelings that embrace everyone when looking at it are already rebellious feelings, disturbing feelings, not the feelings of an artist, for an artist breathes peace even in anxiety. I was told that this portrait goes from hand to hand and dispels lingering impressions, engendering in the artist a feeling of envy, gloomy hatred for his brother, an evil thirst for persecution and oppression. May the Almighty protect you from these passions! There are none scarier. It is better to endure all the bitterness of possible persecution than to inflict one shadow of persecution on someone. Save the purity of your soul. Whoever has a talent in himself, he must be purer than all in soul. Much will be forgiven to another, but he will not be forgiven. A man who left the house in bright festive clothes has only to be splashed with one spot of dirt from under the wheel, and all the people have already surrounded him, pointing their fingers at him, and talking about his slovenliness, while the same people do not notice the multitude spots on other passers-by, dressed in everyday clothes. For stains are not seen on everyday clothes.
He blessed me and hugged me. Never in my life have I been so exalted. Reverently, more than with the feeling of a son, I clung to his chest and kissed his scattered silver hair. A tear glistened in his eyes.
Fulfill, my son, one of my requests, he told me already at the very parting. Maybe you will happen to see somewhere the portrait that I told you about. You suddenly recognize him by his unusual eyes and their unnatural expression, exterminate him by all means...
You can judge for yourself whether I could not promise to fulfill such a request with an oath. In the course of fifteen whole years I did not happen to come across anything that would in any way resemble the description made by my father, when suddenly now, at an auction ...
Here the artist, without finishing his speech, turned his eyes to the wall in order to look once more at the portrait. The same movement was made in an instant by the entire crowd of those who listened, looking for an unusual portrait with their eyes. But, to the greatest amazement, it was no longer on the wall. Indistinct chatter and noise ran through the whole crowd, and after that the words were clearly heard: "Stolen." Someone has already managed to pull it off, taking advantage of the attention of listeners who were carried away by the story. And for a long time all those present remained in perplexity, not knowing whether they really saw these extraordinary eyes or whether it was just a dream that appeared only for a moment to their eyes, bothered by a long examination of ancient paintings.
Part one
The young artist Chartkov enters an art shop in Schukin's yard. Among the mediocre popular prints, he discovers an old portrait. “It was an old man with a bronze-colored face, high cheekbones, stunted; the features of the face seemed to be seized in a moment of convulsive movement and did not respond to the northern force. The fiery noon was imprinted in them. He was draped in a wide Asian costume. No matter how damaged and dusty the portrait was, but when it was possible to clean off the dust from it, he saw traces of work high artist. The portrait, it seemed, was not finished, but the power of the brush was striking. The most extraordinary thing were the eyes... They just looked, looked even from the portrait itself, as if destroying its harmony with their strange liveliness. Chartkov buys a portrait for two kopecks.
Chartkov, as real artist, lives in poverty, experiences financial difficulties, but resists the temptation to become a fashionable painter, preferring to develop his talent. Chartkov is always in debt for the apartment.
At home, Chartkov approaches the portrait more than once, trying to understand the secret it contains. “It was no longer a copy from nature, it was that strange liveliness that would light up the face of a dead man who had risen from the grave.” Chartkov is afraid to walk around the room, he falls asleep, in a dream he sees that the old man crawls out of his portrait, takes out bundles from the bag, and in bundles - money. Chartkov grabs one of the bundles with the inscription "1000 chervonets", doing his best to prevent the old man from noticing his movement. The artist wakes up several times, unable to return to his reality. In reality, it turns out that in his room there really is a bundle of money.
The owner of the apartment with a policeman knocks on the door, they demand the immediate payment of the debt. Chartkov pays everything in full, hires a new luxury apartment, moves in and decides to paint fashionable portraits (in which there is not a drop of resemblance to the original, but there is only a custom-made mask). Chartkov dresses beautifully, orders a commendable article about himself in the newspaper, and soon receives the first customers - a rich lady and her daughter, whose portrait he must paint. The artist paints the girl’s face quite vividly, but the mother does not like either some yellowness of the skin, or some other “defect” that enlivens her daughter’s pretty face so much. Finally, the customers are satisfied; Chartkov receives money and flattering reviews. He has more and more clients, he draws what is required of him, embellishes faces, removes "flaws", gives them an unusual expression. Money flows like a river. Chartkov himself wonders how he could have spent so much time working on one portrait before. Now a day is enough for him to finish the picture. He is a fashionable painter; he is accepted everywhere, he is a welcome guest, he allows himself to judge other artists in society (including Raphael), they write about him in the newspapers, his savings are increasing.
The Academy of Arts invites Chartkov to express his opinion on the work of a young artist who trained in Italy. He is already preparing to casually criticize, slightly praise, casually express his own vision of the depicted subject, but the work of the young painter shocks him with his magnificent performance. Chartkov thinks about his ruined talent, about the fact that he exchanged his true purpose in life for gold. He goes home, tries to portray fallen angel, but the brush does not obey him, because the hand is already accustomed to depicting something hardened. The artist despairs, meets the eyes of the old man in the portrait. He decides that the portrait was the reason for the fact that his life has changed dramatically, and orders the portrait to be taken away.
Chartkov is overcome by envy of all talented painters. He buys everything best paintings, brings them home and cuts them into pieces. Attacks of rage and madness are repeated more and more often, the artist constantly sees the eyes of the old man from the portrait. Chartkov dies in terrible agony. After him, there is no fortune left: he spent everything on the beautiful canvases of other masters, which he destroyed.
Part two
The portrait is being sold at auction. For him they give a lot high price. Two rich art connoisseurs do not want to give each other an amazing picture. Suddenly, a man of about thirty-five interrupts the auction, explaining that he has been looking for this portrait for many years, and that the portrait should go to him. He tells the incredible story of painting.
Many years ago, on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Kolomna, there lived a strange usurer, “an extraordinary being in all respects ... He walked in a wide Asian outfit; the dark complexion of his face indicated his southern origin, but what kind of nation he was: an Indian, a Greek, a Persian, no one could say for sure about this ... This usurer differed from other usurers already in that he could provide any amount of money to everyone, starting from a poor old woman to a wasteful court nobleman ... But what is strangest of all and what could not help but amaze many - it was a strange fate for all those who received money from him: they all ended their lives miserably.
A young man of aristocratic origin patronized people of art and went bankrupt. He applied for a loan to the Kolomna usurer and changed dramatically: he became a persecutor talented people, saw signs of an impending revolution everywhere, suspected everyone, composed unfair denunciations. Rumors about his behavior reach the Empress. He is punished and dismissed. Everyone despise him. He dies in a fit of madness and rage.
Prince R. is in love with the first beauty of St. Petersburg, she reciprocates with him. But the affairs of the prince are upset, and the girl's relatives do not accept his proposals.
The prince leaves the capital and through a short time returns a fabulously rich man (apparently, he turned to the Kolomna usurer). played magnificent wedding. But the prince becomes painfully jealous, intolerant, capricious, beats his young wife, torments her with his suspicions. The woman starts talking about divorce. The husband rushes at her with a knife, they try to keep him, he stabs himself.
father young man present at the auction, was a talented artist. On one of the canvases, he intended to depict the spirit of darkness and imagined him in no other way than in the form of a Kolomna usurer. Unexpectedly, the usurer himself comes to the artist's studio and asks to paint his portrait. Lighting is conducive to starting work, and the painter takes up the brush. The similarity is striking, but the better the details are written out, the more disgust the artist feels towards the work. He refuses to continue the portrait. The usurer throws himself on his knees in front of him, begging him to finish the picture, explaining that he will live on the portrait even after death. The artist drops his brushes and palette and runs away.
In the evening the usurer dies. The artist feels that unpleasant changes are taking place in him: he envies his talented student, deprives him of a profitable order, tries to present his picture instead of the student’s work, but the choice of the commission still falls on the student. The artist sees that on his own picture all the figures have the eyes of a usurer. He returns home in a rage, intending to burn the portrait. Fortunately, one of his friends comes to him at that moment and takes the portrait for himself. The artist immediately feels how peace of mind returns to him. He asks for forgiveness from his disciple.
Having once met his friend, he learns that the portrait brought misfortune to him, and he gave it to his nephew. He also sold the portrait from his hands, so the picture ended up in the art shop.
The artist thinks deeply about how much evil he brought to people with his work. When his son turns nine years old, he sends him to the Academy of Arts, and he himself takes the tonsure and voluntarily increases the severity of monastic life for himself. For many years he does not paint pictures, atoning for his sin. Finally, the artist dares to paint the Nativity of Jesus. This is a marvel of the brush; all the monks agree that the divine power led the hand of the artist. He meets with his son, blesses him and tells the story of the creation of the picture, warns against temptations like those that this portrait causes in people. “Save the purity of your soul. Whoever has a talent in himself, he must be purer than all in soul. Much will be forgiven to another, but he will not be forgiven. The artist bequeaths to his son to find the portrait and destroy it.
Everyone present at the auction turns to the portrait, but it is no longer on the wall. Perhaps someone managed to steal it.
Very interesting and instructive - comes the understanding of what semantic load performs central image- artist Chartkov. This character- an indicator of the conflict between real art and commercial art, obviously paid, well-fed, fundamentally turned to the life of most decent people. The disastrous metamorphoses caused by the Portrait and happened to a talented person are allegorically shown in the work.
St. Petersburg genre painter Chartkov paints good pictures, but vegetates on Vasilevsky Island in poverty. He tirelessly develops as an artist. In his paintings, smears of hard-hitting truth are visible. The latter causes irritation among solvent citizens. (During the period of work on "Portrait" Gogol was in Italy, temporarily leaving Russia due to the persecution of the "Inspector"). But he stubbornly goes to his goal.
Everything changed the case. One day, at the Shchukin yard, Chartkov sees an image of an Asian man with amazingly painted (simply alive) eyes. And he buys this portrait for the last money. Gogol's work further tells about the ensuing mysterious metamorphoses of Chartkov's personality. He began to have terrible dreams, where the old man, painted on the portrait, was invariably present. Even hanging these amazing eyes at night, the next morning the artist discovers a torn veil. Once he dreamed that the old man, having stirred, got out of the frame and began to count his money, packed in bags. The writer imperceptibly hid one of the sacks with the inscription "one thousand chervonets" behind the frame of the portrait.
(As you, dear readers, understand, the analysis of Gogol's story "Portrait" defines its genre as a mystical story, a story-allegory). Chartkov woke up from a knock on the door. The owner of the apartment building, having enlisted the support of the quarterly, came to expel him for non-payment. Quarterly, taking the painted portraits into account for the rent, accidentally grabbed the frame of the old man's portrait - suddenly a bag, seen in Chartkov's dream, fell on the floor. The discovered money allows the artist not only to pay off, but also to start a new life. He rents expensive housing on Nevsky Prospekt, updates his wardrobe, advertises orders.
The first customer is a wealthy lady who commissioned a portrait of her daughter. Chartkov takes up the job, but it doesn't go well. Let's think about what the analysis of Gogol's story "Portrait" will tell us at this stage? Something inside the artist has changed. In a nutshell, the talent is gone. Slightly altering his earlier portrait of Psyche, he still gets the job done. Suddenly he is lucky, his paintings are in vogue. Orders are coming one after another. Chartkov is now wealthy, we invite you. However, his new canvases, not marked by talent, surprise art connoisseurs who previously admired him. The creative crisis is accompanied by a personal crisis, now he is a curmudgeon and a curmudgeon. One day he is invited to the Academy of Arts for the presentation of a canvas by an old friend.
Standing in front of Chartkov's talented painting, he is shocked. An analysis of Gogol's story "Portrait" in this symbolic episode shows that the author brings real art and its antagonist face to face. At first, Chartkov wants to regain his ability to create, but cannot. Closing himself in the workshop and working without sleep, he feels the impotence of his brush. The final realization of the lost talent deprives him of reason. are numbered. Chertkov feverishly begins to buy available talented paintings. When he is found dead at home from consumption and nervous exhaustion, they discover that he destroyed everything that was ransomed. Everything but the portrait.
However, Gogol does not end his story on this.
Already after the death of Chartkov, a portrait of an Asian appeared at the St. Petersburg auction. The price of it quickly increases four times. Young artist B from Kolomna declares that he has a special right to purchase. And he tells the story of the man depicted on the canvas - an Asian giant who gave loans. Loans were profitable, but they were invariably accompanied by the fatal fate of the borrowers. So, a nobleman close to the Court, having taken a loan, fell into disfavor with the empress, lost his mind and died. The young landowner, who took a loan for the wedding, suffered a complete deformation of his personality: violence, an attempt on the life of the bride, and, finally, suicide.
The portrait was painted by the father of artist B, commissioned by an Asian. Ordering his image, he explained the idea. An extraordinary portrait painted will grow old, but the usurer will live forever. Having already begun work, the father of the artist B was frightened, because the image of the spirit of darkness was obtained. After the interruption of work, the sinister customer died. A friend of the artist begged for the portrait, but the canvas, carrying troubles, did not stay with him either. Since then, a terrible portrait appears here and there ...
The end of the story is in the spirit of American thrillers. Carried away by the story of artist B, the listeners suddenly notice that a terrible portrait has been stolen from an auction. Literary analysis Gogol's story "Portrait" indicates the non-randomness and logical conditionality of such plot twist. After all, the problem raised by the classic is eternal.
Are the ideas of the "Portrait" relevant today? Undoubtedly. The problem of role and significance is really important today. How lacking now are the "rays of light" illuminating the "dark realm"!
Ticket 4. Question 1.
Composition, characters, problems of the story by N.V. Gogol "Portrait".
The story was Gogol's favorite genre. He created three cycles of stories, and each of them became an important milestone in the history of Russian literature. (- "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka", "Mirgorod", "Petersburg Tales"). The third cycle of stories includes five works, including the story "Portrait", published in 1842. The general theme of the cycle is social inequality, the tragic disorder of life.
Theme of "Portrait" associated with magic power art, man's responsibility for his own destiny, the destructive power of money.
The story "Portrait" is the story of an artist who betrayed art and was punished for treating creativity as a profitable craft. We are given a comparison of two options for the behavior of art servants, their attitude to life, creativity, people. Gogol shows the reader that the artist, more than anyone else, is responsible for his own destiny. His art awakens good or evil feelings in people. Therefore, the artist is responsible not only for his future, but also for the fate of other people.
The story consists of two interrelated parts.
The first part of the story tells the viewer about a young artist named Chartkov, who once bought a portrait of an old man in an art shop. This portrait has diabolical power. The old man's eyes had a strange vivacity; and destroyed the harmony with their reality. Chartkov buys a portrait and takes it to his poor house. At that time, the artist had taste, talent, ability to work, he knew how to distinguish genuine art from mediocrity. The professor warns him that impatience and a thirst for quick success can lead to the death of talent: “It is tempting to write, you can start writing fashionable pictures, portraits for money. Why, this is where talent is ruined, not developed. Be patient." Meanwhile, Chartkov's dream is to get rich and become a fashionable painter, in general, to become one of the many artisans. Chartkov doubts, grumbles “Be patient! Be patient! .. and with what money will I dine tomorrow? The hungry artist goes to bed and dreams that the old man has crawled out of his portrait and shows him a sack full of bundles of money. In a dream, the artist quietly hides one of them, and in the morning he really discovers the money. Devilish power intervenes in his fate. Chartkov hires new apartment, begins to paint fashionable portraits in which he embellishes his faces. Money flows like a river. Chartkov becomes a fashionable artist, but his talent is gradually disappearing, "his brush is growing cold and dull." One day, the Academy of Arts asks him to express his opinion about the work of a young artist. Chartkov was about to criticize the picture, but suddenly he sees how magnificent the work of the young talent is. Chartkov recognizes in this work the hand of an artist who gave everything for the sake of art and became a genius. And then he realizes that he once exchanged his talent for money. And then he was seized with envy of all talented artists, “envy to the point of madness” - he begins to buy up the best paintings and destroys them. At the same time, Chartkov constantly sees the eyes of the old man from the portrait. He soon dies, in a frenzy, leaving nothing behind.
In the second part of the story he tells about the circumstances of the creation of the portrait and the fate of its authors. The man who bought the portrait at auction tells an incredible story. For a long time there lived a usurer in St. Petersburg, distinguished by the ability to lend any amount of money. But strange feature- everyone who received money from him ended his life sadly. A certain young man patronized art and went bankrupt, hating art. Or - a certain prince falls in love with a beauty. But he cannot marry her, because he is ruined. Turning to the usurer, marry her and becomes jealous. Somehow he even rushes at his wife with a knife, but in the end he stabs himself.
Once a moneylender asked a young icon painter to portray him. But the longer he draws, the more he feels disgust for the old man. It seems to the artist that some kind of evil passes through the portrait. He is unable to complete the portrait, but the usurer says that he will now live in the portrait, and dies the next evening. Changes are taking place in the artist himself: he begins to envy the talent of the student, and he himself cannot fulfill the order to paint the church, because. he was possessed by pride and a thirst for superiority. When a friend takes the portrait, peace returns to the artist. It soon turns out that the portrait brought misfortune to a friend, and he sold it. The artist understands how much trouble his creation can bring. Having accepted, tonsured a monk, cleanses his soul from passions and bequeaths to his son to find and destroy the portrait. He says: “Whoever has talent in himself must be the purest of all in soul.” People listening to the story turn to the portrait, but it is no longer there - someone managed to steal it. So ends the story of N.V. Gogol Portrait.
Only after reading the story, you understand that the events of the second part precede the first: first, the portrait was painted by a young icon painter, and then came to Chartkov. This change in chronology allows Gogol to keep the reader in suspense, because the main mystery of the portrait is revealed in the second part.
The meaning of the title of the story also becomes clear - it is a fantastic portrait that plays a crucial role in the life of the characters, and the creations of the artists depicted by the writer, and, finally, portraits of the painters themselves.
At the beginning of his career, Chartkov also attracted by the best human aspirations. BUT he so mediocrely ruined his talent and crippled his life for the sake of money, fame, society. Here we clearly see the motive of temptation, temptation. In the story, the character and vitality of Chartkov's talent are tested for strength. The reader understands that the main idea of the story is that true service to art requires moral stamina and courage from a person, the artist bears moral responsibility for his works.
With a young talented artist Andrey Chartkov happened tragic story. He lived very poorly, but one day he did not regret paying the last two kopecks for a painting he liked in Shchukin's yard. It was a portrait of an old man in Asian clothes.
It seemed to Chartkov that the picture was painted famous master but for some reason it didn't finish. The old man's eyes seemed to be alive.
At home, the artist found out: the owner came and demanded payment for housing. The young man immediately regretted that he had given the last money for the portrait. Chartkov immersed himself in thoughts about his poverty and life's injustice. He has no money even for a candle, he has to sit in the dark. And then the artist's gaze fell on the portrait.
The "living" eyes of the old man looked from the picture, frightened. An inexplicable ominous power emanated from the portrait. Before going to sleep, Chartkov again glanced at the portrait. Once again it seemed to him that the eyes of the old man, illuminated by the moon, were staring into the soul. The artist, in fear, threw a sheet over the portrait, but this did not help. Matter began to stir, and the old man's gaze was everywhere.
Suddenly Chartkov saw that the sheet was lying on the floor, and the old man came out of the frame and sat down on his bed. In the Asian's hand was a bag of money, on it was the inscription: "1000 chervonets." Suddenly, the pouch fell out of the old man's hands and rolled to the side. Chartkov tried to quietly take the money, but at that moment woke up. For a long time he felt the pleasant weight of the money bag in his hand.
In the morning the landlord came again. Upon learning that there was no money, he offered Chartkov to pay with work. The owner was interested in the portrait of the old man. Examining it, he accidentally touched the frame, from which a bag with the inscription "1000 chervonets" fell out. After such luck, Chartkov immediately paid off the owner of the apartment and moved out from him.
The artist for a long time drove away bad thoughts about the old man and convinced himself that he had simply found a treasure. requisitions desire to buy brushes and paints with all the money, he rented a luxurious apartment on Nevsky on the same day. Chartkov began to live in a new way. He began to dress fashionably, advertised in the newspaper for the services of an artist. The lady came first and commissioned a portrait of her daughter. In a hurry, Chartkov did not have time to remember his daughter's facial features well, and therefore the portrait did not work out. The customer did not like the yellowness of the face and circles under the eyes. Then Chartkov gave her his old work called "Psyche", slightly updating the picture. A small conflict has been settled.
The artist began to receive commissions. He paints many portraits, satisfying the desires of wealthy people. Chartkov is now accepted in the best aristocratic houses. But along with wealth, the young man himself changes, becomes tough, cynical. He speaks harshly and arrogantly of other masters. Chartkov criticizes everyone, does not recognize a single talent.
Those who knew Chartkov before are amazed at such a striking change in him. It is difficult to understand how in such a short time talented artist turned into a curmudgeon. Anger and hatred from now on become Chartkov's faithful companions.
Once a young man was invited to the Academy of Arts to see a painting by an old friend sent from Italy. And then Chartkov realized how low he had fallen, how insignificant his paintings were in comparison with the works of other artists.
Chartkov closes himself in the workshop and tries to rectify the situation. He plunges into work, but is forced to constantly interrupt it due to elementary gaps in knowledge, which he neglected at the beginning of his artistic career. Masters are overwhelmed by envy and anger. Chartkov starts buying the best works from all over the world, but soon dies of consumption. The death of the artist was terrible - he saw the eyes of an old Asian man everywhere. Later it turned out that all the masterpieces on which Chartkov spent a huge fortune were destroyed by him.
Part II
Soon another part of the story became known, which happened to the young artist Andrei Chartkov. At an auction in St. Petersburg, among Chinese vases, paintings, old furniture and other things, a portrait of an old Asian man was sold, whose eyes looked like they were alive. When the price quadrupled, a certain artist B. claimed his rights to the painting. In confirmation, he told a story that happened to his father in Kolomna. Once upon a time there lived an Asiatic pawnbroker. He was huge and scary, like a demon. His terms seemed very favorable, but when it came time to pay, according to strange arithmetic calculations, the interest turned out to be huge, growing several times.
Terrible was the fate of those who took money from the Asian. So, a young and rather successful nobleman borrowed from a moneylender, after which negative changes occurred in his character. The case ended in complete madness and death of the nobleman. There was also a story with a girl whose chosen one asked an Asian for help. He had to take this step so that the bride's parents would give the green light to their union. However, a disastrous change also took place in the character of this man. A terrible jealousy burned the man, he even attempted on the life of his young wife, and then decided to commit suicide. And there were many such stories.
The artist's father B. painted temples, but for some reason he very often wanted to depict the spirit of darkness on the canvas. One day, a terrible neighbor-usurer looked in and asked him to paint a portrait, so much so that it looked “as if alive” on it. The artist gladly set to work, but the better he got the appearance of the old man, the more terrible and heavier it became in his soul. The artist felt an incomprehensible fear that emanated from the portrait.
The master could not stand such tension and decided to refuse the order. But the old man begged to finish the portrait, saying that he would live in it after death. This further frightened the artist. He ran away, and the moneylender died the next day.
Soon the artist noticed a change in himself: he began to envy and harm his students, and the eyes of an Asian usurer began to appear in his paintings. Therefore, the father of the artist B. decided to burn a terrible portrait. But in last moment this canvas was begged for by a friend who gave the painting to his nephew. He soon also got rid of the portrait.
The author of the ill-fated painting began to understand that in some incomprehensible way, the Asian pawnbroker moved into the portrait. The death of relatives finally convinced me of this. The artist went to a monastery, and sent his eldest son to the Academy of Arts.
When the father of the artist B. again took up the brush, then whole year wrote one work - "The Nativity of Jesus", which was full of holiness and light. He wanted to atone for the fatal portrait.
Artist B. graduated from the Academy of Arts and before traveling to Italy stopped by to visit his father. He told his son scary story about the moneylender. He asked the heir to find and destroy the portrait.
It took fifteen years to find the deadly canvas. The artist B. asked to give him a portrait in order to destroy it forever. People listening to this creepy story, agreed.
When everyone turned to the wall where the portrait hung, they saw with horror that the picture had disappeared. Maybe it was just stolen. But who knows...
