Gogol full portrait. Cross-reference with holy scripture

Nowhere did so many people stop as in front of the picture shop in Shchukin's yard. This shop represented, for sure, the most diverse collection of curiosities: the pictures were mostly painted oil paints , covered with dark green lacquer, in dark yellow tinsel frames. Winter with white trees, a completely red evening, similar to the glow of a fire, a Flemish peasant with a pipe and a broken arm, looking more like an Indian rooster in his cuffs than a man - these are their usual plots. To this we must add several engraved images: a portrait of Khozrev-Mirza in a ram's hat, portraits of some generals in triangular hats, with crooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such a shop are usually hung with bundles of works printed with popular prints on large sheets, which testify to the native talent of a Russian person. On one was Princess Miliktrisa Kirbityevna, on the other was the city of Jerusalem, through the houses and churches of which red paint swept without ceremony, seizing part of the land and two praying Russian peasants in mittens. There are usually few buyers of these works, but there are a lot of spectators. Some goofy lackey is probably already yawning in front of them, holding in his hand bowls with dinner from the tavern for his master, who, no doubt, will sip the soup not too hot. In front of him, no doubt, there is a soldier in an overcoat, this cavalier of the flea market, selling two penknives; an okhtenka merchant with a box filled with shoes. Everyone admires in his own way: the peasants usually poke their fingers; gentlemen are considered seriously; footmen-boys and boy-workers laugh and tease each other with drawn caricatures; old lackeys in frieze overcoats look only to yawn somewhere; and the merchants, young Russian women, rush by instinct to hear what the people are babbling about and see what they are looking at. At this time, the young artist Chartkov, who was passing by, involuntarily stopped in front of the shop. The old greatcoat and the dainty dress showed in him that man who was devoted to his work with selflessness and did not have time to take care of his outfit, which always has a mysterious attraction for youth. He stopped in front of the shop and at first laughed inwardly at these ugly pictures. Finally, an involuntary reflection took possession of him: he began to think about who would need these works. That the Russian people looked at the Yeruslans Lazarevichs, at eating and drinking, at Foma and Yerema, it did not seem surprising to him: the depicted objects were very accessible and understandable to the people; but where are the buyers of these motley, dirty, oily paintings? who needs these Flemish peasants, these red and blue landscapes, which show some kind of claim to a somewhat higher level of art, but in which all its deep humiliation is expressed? It did not seem to be the work of a self-taught child at all. Otherwise, despite the insensible caricature of the whole, a sharp impulse would burst out in them. But here one could see simply stupidity, impotent, decrepit mediocrity, which self-willedly entered the ranks of the arts, while its place was among the low crafts, mediocrity, which was nevertheless true to its vocation and introduced its craft into art itself. The same colours, the same manner, the same full, accustomed hand, which belonged rather to a crudely made automaton than to a man!... For a long time he stood in front of these dirty pictures, no longer thinking at all about them, and meanwhile the owner of the shop, a gray little man , in a frieze overcoat, with a beard unshaven since Sunday, had been talking to him for a long time, haggling and agreeing on a price, not yet knowing what he liked and what he needed. “I’ll take a white one for these peasants and for the landscape. What a painting! just break the eye; just received from the exchange; the polish hasn't dried yet. Or here is winter, take winter! Fifteen rubles! One frame is worth it. Wow, what a winter! Here the merchant gave a light click on the canvas, probably to show all the goodness of winter. “Will you order them to be tied together and demolished after you? Where would you like to live? Hey, little one, give me a rope." “Wait, brother, not so soon,” said the artist, who had come to his senses, seeing that the nimble merchant had begun, in earnest, to tie them together. He felt a little ashamed not to take anything, having stood for so long in the shop, and he said: “But wait, I’ll see if there’s something for me here” and, bending down, began to get from the floor bulky, worn, dusty old painting, apparently not used by any honor. There were old family portraits, whose descendants, perhaps, could not be found in the world, completely unknown images with a torn canvas, frames devoid of gilding, in a word, all sorts of old rubbish. But the artist began to examine, thinking in secret: "maybe something will be found." He heard more than once stories about how sometimes the paintings of the great masters were found in the rubbish of popular sellers. The owner, seeing where he climbed, left his fussiness and, having assumed his usual position and proper weight, placed himself again at the door, calling passers-by and pointing to the bench with one hand ... “Here, father; here are the pictures! come in, come in; received from the exchange. He had already shouted to his heart's content, and for the most part futilely, had talked his fill with the patchwork salesman, who was also standing opposite him at the door of his shop, and finally, remembering that he had a buyer in his shop, he turned the people's backs and went into it. “What, father, have you chosen something?” But the artist had already stood motionless for some time in front of one portrait in large, once magnificent frames, but on which traces of gilding now shone a little. It was an old man with a bronzed 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 he managed to clean the dust from his face, 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: it seemed that the artist used all the power of the brush and all the diligent care of his artist in them. They simply looked, looked even from the portrait itself, as if destroying its harmony with their strange liveliness. When he brought the portrait to the door, his eyes looked even stronger. They made almost the same impression among the people. The woman, who had stopped behind him, cried out: "Looking, looking," and backed away. He felt some unpleasant, incomprehensible feeling to himself and put the portrait on the ground.

“Well, take a portrait!” said the owner.

"And how much?" said the artist.

“Yes, what is there to value for him? three quarters, let's go!"

"Well, what can you give me?"

"Two kopecks," said the artist, getting ready to go.

“What a price they wrapped up! Yes, you can’t buy one frame for two kopecks. It looks like you're going to buy tomorrow? Sir, lord, come back! at least think of a dime. Take it, take it, give me two kopecks. Right, for the sake of an initiative only, that's just the first buyer. After this, he made a gesture with his hand, as if saying: “So be it, the picture is gone!”

Thus, Chartkov quite unexpectedly bought an old portrait, and at the same time thought: why did I buy it? what is he to me? but there was nothing to be done. He took a two kopeck piece out of his pocket, gave it to the owner, took the portrait under his arm and dragged it with him. On the way he remembered that the two-kopeck piece he had given was his last. His thoughts suddenly darkened: vexation and indifferent emptiness embraced him at that very moment. “Damn it! ugly in the world! he said with the feeling of a Russian who is doing badly. And almost mechanically he walked with quick steps, full of insensibility to everything. The red light of the evening dawn still remained in half the sky; even the houses facing the other side were slightly illuminated by its warm light; meanwhile, the already cold bluish radiance of the moon was growing stronger. Translucent light shadows fell in tails to the ground, cast by houses and the feet of pedestrians. The artist was already beginning to look, little by little, at the sky, illuminated by some kind of transparent, thin, dubious light, and almost at the same time the words flew out of his mouth: “what a light tone!” and the words: "It's a shame, damn it!" And he, correcting the portrait, constantly moving out from under his armpits, quickened his pace. Tired and covered in sweat, he dragged himself to the fifteenth line on Vasilyevsky Island. With difficulty and shortness of breath he climbed the stairs, doused with slops and adorned with the tracks of cats and dogs. There was no answer to his knock on the door: the man was not at home. He leaned against the window and settled down to wait patiently, until at last the footsteps of a guy in a blue shirt, his henchman, sitter, painter and floor sweeper, were heard behind him, soiling them right there with his boots. The guy was called Nikita, and spent all the time outside the gate when the master was not at home. Nikita struggled for a long time to get the key into the lock hole, which was completely invisible because of the darkness.

Finally the door was unlocked. Chartkov stepped into his antechamber, unbearably cold, as always happens with artists, which, however, they do not notice. Without giving Nikita his overcoat, he went with her into his studio, square room, large, but low, with frozen windows, lined with all sorts of artistic rubbish: pieces of plaster hands, frames covered with canvas, sketches started and abandoned, drapery hung on chairs. He was very tired, threw off his overcoat, placed the absent-mindedly brought portrait between two small canvases, and threw himself on a narrow sofa, which could not be said to be covered with leather, because the row of copper studs that had once attached it had long since remained by itself. to himself, and the skin also remained on top by itself, so that Nikita thrust black stockings, shirts and all unwashed linen under it. After sitting and lying down as long as he could on this narrow sofa, he finally asked for a candle.

"There is no candle," said Nikita.

"How not?"

"Why, it wasn't even yesterday," said Nikita. The artist remembered that indeed there had not yet been a candle yesterday, calmed down and fell silent. He let himself be undressed, and put on his tightly and heavily worn dressing gown.

"Yes, here's another, the owner was," said Nikita.

“Well, did you come for money? I know,” said the artist, waving his hand.

“Yes, he did not come alone,” said Nikita.

"With whom?"

“I don’t know with whom ... some kind of quarterly.”

"And why quarterly?"

"I do not know why; speaks for the fact that the apartment is not paid.

"Well, what will come of it?"

“I don't know what will come out; he said, if he doesn’t want to, then let him, he says, move out of the apartment; both wanted to come back tomorrow.”

"Let them come," Chartkov said with sad indifference. And the inclement mood took possession of him completely.

Young Chartkov was an artist with a talent that prophesied many things: in flashes and moments, his brush responded with observation, consideration, a shrewd impulse to get closer to nature. “Look, brother,” his professor told him more than once, “you have a talent; it will be a sin if you destroy him. But you are impatient. One thing will lure you, one thing will make you fall in love with him - you are busy with him, and the rest is rubbish with you, the rest is nothing to you, you don’t even want to look at him. See that you do not become a fashionable painter. Even now your colors are starting to scream too brightly. Your drawing is not strict, and sometimes even completely weak, the line is invisible; you are already chasing fashionable lighting, for what hits the first eye - look, just get into the English genus. beware; the light is already beginning to pull you; I already see sometimes a smart scarf around your neck, a glossy hat ... It is tempting, you can set off to write fashionable pictures, portraits for money. Why, this is where talent is ruined, not developed. Be patient. Think over all work, give up panache - let other money take them. Yours won't leave you."

"Portrait". Pre-revolutionary silent film based on the novel by N. V. Gogol, 1915

The professor was partly right. Sometimes, for sure, our artist wanted to show off, to show off, in a word, to show his youth in some places. But with all that, he could take power over himself. At times he could forget everything, taking up the brush, and tearing himself away from it in no other way than from a beautiful interrupted dream. His taste has developed noticeably. He did not yet understand the full depth of Raphael, but he was already carried away by the quick, broad brush of Guid, stopped before the portraits of Titian, admired the Flemings. The still darkened appearance, clothed with old pictures, did not completely disappear before him; but he already saw something in them, although inwardly he did not agree with the professor that the old masters should leave us so unattainably; it even seemed to him that the nineteenth century was in some respects considerably ahead of them, that the imitation of nature had somehow become brighter, more alive, closer now; in a word, he thought in this case as youth thinks, having already comprehended something and feeling it in a proud inner consciousness. Sometimes he felt annoyed when he saw how a visiting painter, a Frenchman or a German, sometimes not even a painter at all by vocation, with his habitual manner, briskness of brush and brightness of colors, made a general noise and accumulated money capital in an instant. This came to his mind not when, occupied with all his work, he forgot both drink, and food, and all the world, but when, at last, necessity strongly arose, when there was nothing to buy brushes and paints, when the intrusive owner came ten times a day to demand rent. Then the fate of a rich painter was enviably drawn in his hungry imagination; then even the thought ran through, which often runs through the Russian head: to give up everything and go on a spree out of grief in spite of everything. And now he was almost in that position.

"Yes! be patient, be patient!" he said with annoyance. “There is finally an end to patience. Be patient! and with what money will I have lunch tomorrow? After all, no one will lend. And if I bear to sell all my paintings and drawings: for them they will give me two kopecks for everything. They are useful, of course, I feel it: each of them was undertaken for good reason, in each of them I learned something. But what's the use? etudes, attempts - and there will be etudes, attempts, and there will be no end to them. And who will buy, not knowing my name; and who needs drawings from antiques from the natural class, or my unfinished love of Psyche, or the perspective of my room, or a portrait of my Nikita, although it is really better than portraits of some fashionable painter? What really? Why am I suffering and, like a student, delving into the alphabet, then how could I shine no worse than others and be like them, with money. Having said this, the artist suddenly trembled and turned pale; gazing at him, leaning out from behind a set canvas, was a convulsively distorted face. Two terrible eyes stared directly at him, as if preparing to devour him; on his lips was written a threatening command to be silent. Frightened, he wanted to scream and call for Nikita, who had already managed to launch heroic snoring in his hall; but suddenly he stopped and laughed. The feeling of fear subsided in an instant. It was a portrait he bought, which he completely forgot about. The radiance of the moon, illuminating the room, fell on him too, and imparted to him a strange liveliness. He began to examine it and scrub it. He dipped a sponge into the water, passed it over it several times, washed away almost all the accumulated and clogged dust and dirt from it, hung it in front of him on the wall and marveled at an even more extraordinary work: his whole face almost came to life and his eyes looked at him in such a way that he finally shuddered and, stepping back, said in an astonished voice: he looks, looks with human eyes! He suddenly came to mind a story that he had long heard from his professor, about one portrait of the famous Leonard da Vinci, on which the great master worked for several years and still considered him unfinished and which, according to Vasari, was nevertheless honored by everyone for the most perfect and the ultimate work of art. The final thing about him was his eyes, which amazed his contemporaries; even the smallest, barely visible veins in them were not missed and attached to the canvas. But here, however, in this portrait now before him, there was something strange. It was no longer art: it even destroyed the harmony of the portrait itself. They were alive, they were human eyes! It seemed as if they had been cut from a living person and inserted here. It wasn't there anymore high pleasure, which embraces the soul when looking at the work of the artist, no matter how terrible the subject he takes; there was a kind of painful, agonizing feeling. "What is this? the artist involuntarily asked himself. After all, this is still nature, it is living nature: why is this strangely unpleasant feeling? Or is a slavish, literal imitation of nature already a misdemeanor and seems like a bright, discordant cry? Or, if you take an object indifferently, insensibly, without sympathy with it, it will certainly appear only in its terrible reality, not illuminated by the light of some incomprehensible thought hidden in everything, it will appear in that reality that opens when, wanting to comprehend the beautiful man, arm yourself with an anatomical knife, cut through his insides and see a disgusting person. Why, then, is simple, low nature seen by one artist in some kind of light, and one does not feel any low impression; on the contrary, it seems as if you have enjoyed it, and after that everything flows and moves around you more calmly and evenly. And why does the same nature of another artist seem low, dirty, and by the way, he was also faithful to nature. But no, there is nothing illuminating in it. It's the same as a view in nature: no matter how magnificent it is, something is still missing if there is no sun in the sky.

He again approached the portrait in order to examine those wonderful eyes, and noticed with horror that they were exactly looking at him. 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. Whether the light of the moon, carrying with it the delirium of a dream and dressing everything in other images, opposite to a positive day, or what else was the reason for this, only he suddenly, for no reason, became afraid to sit alone in a room. He quietly moved away from the portrait, turned away in the other direction and tried not to look at it, but meanwhile the eye involuntarily, looking askance, looked at him. At last he even became afraid to walk up and down the room; it seemed to him as if someone else would immediately walk behind him, and every time he looked back timidly. He was never cowardly; but his imagination and nerves were sensitive, and that evening he himself could not explain to himself his involuntary fear. He sat down in a corner, but even here it seemed to him that someone was about to glance over his shoulder at his face. Nikita's very snoring, coming from the hall, did not drive away his fear. At last, timidly, without raising his eyes, he got up from his seat, went to his room behind the screen, and got into bed. Through the cracks in the screens, he saw his room illuminated by the moon and saw a portrait hanging directly on the wall. The eyes stared still more terribly, even more significantly into him, and it seemed they did not want to look at anything else but at him. Full of a painful feeling, he decided to get out of bed, grabbed a sheet and, approaching the portrait, wrapped it all up. Having done this, he lay down in bed more calmly, began to think about poverty and the miserable fate of the artist, about the thorny path ahead of him in this world; meanwhile, his eyes involuntarily looked through the slit of the screen at the portrait wrapped in a sheet. The radiance of the moon intensified the whiteness of the sheet, and it seemed to him that the terrible eyes even began to shine through the canvas. With fear, he fixed his eyes more intently, as if trying to convince himself that this was nonsense. But finally, in reality… he sees, he sees clearly: the sheet is no longer there… the portrait is completely open and looks past everything that is around, right into it, looks simply into it inside… His heart sank. And he sees: the old man stirred and suddenly rested against the frame with both hands. Finally, he raised himself on his hands and, sticking out both legs, jumped out of the frames ... Only empty frames were already visible through the crack of the screen. The sound of footsteps echoed through the room, finally getting closer and closer to the screens. The poor artist's heart began to beat faster. With a frightened breath, he expected that the old man was about to look at him behind the screen. And then he looked, as if, behind the screen with the same bronzed face and moving his big eyes. Chartkov tried to cry out and felt that he had no voice, he tried to move, to make some kind of movement - the members did not move. WITH open mouth and with a frozen breath, he looked at this terrible phantom of high growth, in some kind of wide Asian cassock, and waited what he would do. The old man sat down almost at his very feet and then pulled something out from under the folds of his wide dress. It was a bag. The old man untied it, and, seizing the two ends, shook it: with a dull sound, heavy bundles in the form of long columns fell to the floor; each was wrapped in blue paper and displayed on each: 1,000 chervons. Sticking his long, bony arms out of his wide sleeves, the old man began to unroll the bundles. Gold flashed. No matter how great was the painful feeling and unconscious fear of the artist, but he stared all the way into the gold, looking motionless as it unfolded in bony hands, shone, rang thinly and deafly, and wrapped up again. Then he noticed one bundle, rolling away from the others at the very foot of his bed in his head. He grabbed it almost convulsively and, full of fear, looked to see if the old man would notice. But the old man seemed to be very busy. He collected all his bundles, put them back into the sack, and, without looking at him, went behind the screen. Chartkov's heart was beating violently when he heard the rustle of receding footsteps resounding through the room. He clutched his bundle tighter in his hand, trembling with his whole body for it, and suddenly he heard that the steps were again approaching the screens - apparently the old man remembered that one bundle was missing. And now - he looked at him again behind the screen. Full of despair, he squeezed the bundle in his hand with all his strength, made every effort to make a movement, cried out and woke up. Cold sweat covered him all over; his heart was beating as hard as it was possible to beat: his chest was so tight, as if his last breath wanted to fly out of it. Was it a dream? he said, taking his head with both hands; but the terrible vivacity of the apparition was not like a dream. Having already woken up, he saw how the old man went into the frame, even the hem of his wide clothes flashed, and his hand clearly felt that he had been holding some kind of weight a minute before. The light of the moon illuminated the room, forcing it to emerge from its dark corners, where the canvas, where the plaster hand, where the drapery left on the chair, where the pantaloons and uncleaned boots. It was only then that he noticed that he was not lying in bed, but was standing on his feet right in front of the portrait. How he got here he couldn't figure out. He was even more amazed that the portrait was all open and there really was no sheet on it. He looked at him with immovable fear and saw how living human eyes stared straight into him. Cold sweat broke out on his face; he wanted to move away, but he felt that his legs seemed to be rooted to the ground. And he sees: this is no longer a dream; the old man's features moved, and his lips began to stretch out towards him, as if they wanted to suck him out ... with a cry of despair, he jumped back and woke up. “Was that a dream, too?” With a beating heart, he felt around him with his hands. Yes, he lies on the bed in exactly the same position as he fell asleep. There are screens in front of him: the light of the moon filled the room. Through a slit in the screens, a portrait was visible, properly covered with a sheet, just as he had covered it himself. So it was also a dream! But the clenched hand still feels as if there was something in it. The beating of the heart was strong, almost frightening; the heaviness in the chest is unbearable. He fixed his eyes on the crack and stared at the sheet. And now he clearly sees that the sheet begins to open, as if hands were floundering under it and trying to throw it off. "My God, my God, what is this!" he cried, crossing himself desperately, and awoke. And it was also a dream! He jumped out of bed, half-witted, unconscious, and could no longer explain what was happening to him: the pressure of a nightmare or a brownie, or delirium of a fever, or a living vision. Trying to calm down a little bit his mental agitation and the rushing blood that beat with a tense pulse through all his veins, he went to the window and opened the window. The cold smelling wind revived him. The moonlight still lay on the roofs and white walls of the houses, although small clouds began to cross the sky more often. Everything was quiet: from time to time the distant rattle of a cab driver's droshky reached his ears, who, somewhere in an invisible alley, was sleeping, lulled by his lazy horse, waiting for a belated rider. He stared for a long time, sticking his head out the window. The signs of the approaching dawn were already born in the sky; at last he felt drowsiness approaching, slammed the window, walked away, lay down in bed, and soon fell asleep as if he had been killed by the deepest sleep.

He woke up very late and felt in himself that unpleasant state that takes possession of a person after a fumes: his head hurt unpleasantly. The room was dim: an unpleasant phlegm sowed in the air and passed through the cracks of his windows, lined with paintings or primed canvas. Cloudy, dissatisfied, like a wet rooster, he sat down on his tattered sofa, not knowing himself what to do, what to do, and finally remembered his entire dream. As he remembered, this dream appeared in his imagination so painfully alive that he even began to suspect whether it was just a dream and simple delirium, whether there was something else here, whether this was a vision. Pulling back the sheet, he examined this terrible portrait in the daylight. His eyes certainly struck with their unusual liveliness, but he did not find anything especially terrible in them; only as if some inexplicable, unpleasant feeling remained in his soul. For all that, he still could not be completely sure that it was a dream. It seemed to him that in the midst of the dream there was some terrible fragment of reality. It seemed that even in the very look and expression of the old man something seemed to say that he had been with him that night; his hand felt the heaviness that had just been lying in itself, as if someone had snatched it from him just a minute before. It seemed to him that if he had only held the bundle a little stronger, it would probably have remained in his hand even after waking up.

“My God, if only some of this money!” he said with a heavy sigh, and in his imagination all the bundles he had seen with the tempting inscription began to pour out of the bag: 1000 chervonny. The bundles unfolded, the gold shone, wrapped again, and he sat, staring motionlessly and senselessly his eyes into the empty air, unable to tear himself away from such an object - like a child sitting before a sweet dish and seeing, swallowing his saliva, how others eat him. Finally, there was a knock at the door that made him uncomfortably awake. The owner entered with the quarter warden, whose appearance for small people, as you know, is even more unpleasant than for the rich the face of a petitioner. The owner of the small house in which Chartkov lived was one of the creatures that owners of houses usually are somewhere in the fifteenth line of Vasilyevsky Island, on the Petersburg side, or in a remote corner of Kolomna - a creation of which there are many in Rus' and whose character is just as difficult determine how the color of a worn frock coat. In his youth he was a captain and a loudmouth; but in his old age he merged all these sharp features in himself into a kind of dull indefiniteness. He was already a widow; walked up and down the room, straightening out a tallow stub; carefully at the end of each month he visited his tenants for money, went out into the street with a key in his hand in order to look at the roof of his house; several times drove the janitor out of his kennel, where he hid himself to sleep; in a word, a retired man who, after all his life of tambourines and shaking on the benches, is left with only vulgar habits.

“If you please, look for yourself, Varukh Kuzmich,” said the owner, turning to the quarterly and spreading his arms: “He doesn’t pay for the apartment, he doesn’t pay.”

“What if there is no money? Wait, I'll pay."

“I can’t wait, father,” said the host in an angry gesture, making a gesture with the key that he held in his hand; Lieutenant colonel Potogonkin has been living with me, he has been living for seven years; Anna Petrovna Bukhmisterova hires a barn and a stable for two stalls, three servants with her - that's what kind of tenants I have. I, to tell you frankly, do not have such an institution as not to pay for an apartment. If you please, pay the money right now, and move out.”

“Yes, if you’ve got it right, then please pay,” said the quarterly warden with a slight shake of his head and placing his finger behind the button of his uniform.

“Yes, how to pay? question. I don't have a penny now."

“In that case, satisfy Ivan Ivanovich with the products of your profession,” said the quarterly: “he may agree to take pictures.”

“No, father, thanks for the pictures. It would be nice to have pictures with a noble content, so that you can hang on the wall, at least some general with a star or Prince Kutuzov’s portrait, otherwise he painted a peasant, a peasant in a shirt, a servant that rubs paint. Still with him, pigs, a portrait to draw; I'll chop his neck: he pulled all the nails out of my bolts, a swindler. Look at what objects: here he is drawing a room. It would be nice to have taken the room tidied up, tidy, and he just painted it with all the rubbish and squabbles that were lying around. Look how he messed up my room, if you please see for yourself. Yes, tenants live with me for seven years, colonels, Bukhmisterova Anna Petrovna ... No, I’ll tell you: there is no worse tenant than a painter: a pig lives like a pig, just God forbid.

And all this had to be listened to patiently by the poor painter. The quarter warden, meanwhile, was engaged in examining paintings and sketches and immediately showed that his soul was more alive than the master's and was even not alien to artistic impressions.

"Heh," he said, poking his finger at one canvas, which depicted a naked woman, "the subject, that ... playful. And why is it so black under his nose, with tobacco or something, he fell asleep to himself?

"Shadow," answered Chartkov sternly, without turning his eyes to him.

“Well, it could be taken somewhere else, but under the nose is too prominent a place,” said the quarterly; "Whose portrait is this?" he continued, going up to the portrait of the old man: “it’s too scary. As if he really was so scary; wow, he's just looking. Oh, what a Thunderbolt! Who did you write with?

"And this is from one ..." said Chartkov, and did not finish the word: a crack was heard. The quarterly shook the frame of the portrait too tightly, thanks to the clumsy device of his police hands; the side boards broke inward, one fell to the floor and with it fell, with a heavy jingle, a bundle in blue paper. Chartkov was struck by the inscription: 1000 chervonny. Like a madman, he rushed to pick it up, grabbed the bundle, squeezed it convulsively in his hand, which sank down from the weight.

“The money rang in no way,” said the quarterly, who heard the knock of something falling on the floor and could not see it for the speed of movement with which Chartkov rushed to clean up.

“What do you care to know what I have?”

“But such a thing is that you now have to pay the landlord for an apartment; that you have money, but you do not want to pay - that's what.

"Well, I'll pay him today."

“Well, why didn’t you want to pay before, but you are disturbing the owner, but are you also disturbing the police?”

“Because I didn’t want to touch this money; I’ll pay him everything tonight and move out of the apartment tomorrow, because I don’t want to stay with such an owner.

“Well, Ivan Ivanovich, he will pay you,” said the quarterly, turning to the owner. And if about the fact that you will not be satisfied, as you should, tonight, then excuse me, mister painter. Having said this, he put on his three-cornered hat and went out into the passage, followed by the master, holding his head down and, as it seemed, in some kind of meditation.

"Thank God, the devil took them away!" said Chartkov when he heard the door shut in the front. He looked out into the hall, sent Nikita away to be completely alone, locked the door behind him, and, returning to his room, began to unfold the parcel with great trembling of the heart. It contained chervonets, every one of them new, hot as fire. Almost insane, he sat behind the golden heap, still asking himself if all this was a dream. There were exactly a thousand of them in the bundle; his appearance was exactly the same as he saw them in his dream. For several minutes he went over them, reviewed them, and still could not come to his senses. All the stories about treasures, caskets with hidden drawers, left by the ancestors for their ruined grandchildren, in firm confidence in the future of their squandered position, suddenly revived in his imagination. He thought this way: did some grandfather come up with a gift to leave his grandson, enclosing it in the frame of a family portrait. Full of romantic delirium, he even began to think whether there was some secret connection with his fate, whether the existence of the portrait was connected with its own existence, and whether its very acquisition was already some kind of predestination. He began to examine the frame of the portrait with curiosity. In one side of it was a hollowed-out groove, pushed in by a plank so deftly and inconspicuously that if the capital hand of the quarter overseer had not made a breach, the chervonets would have remained at rest until the end of the century. Examining the portrait, he marveled once again at the high workmanship, the extraordinary decoration of the eyes: they no longer seemed terrible to him: but an involuntarily unpleasant feeling still remained in his soul every time. “No,” he said to himself, “whoever grandfather you are, I will put you behind glass and make you golden frames for it.” Here he threw his hand over the golden heap that lay before him, and his heart began to beat violently at such a touch. "What to do with him?" he thought, fixing his eyes on them. “Now I am provided for at least three years, I can lock myself in a room, work. On the paints now I have; for lunch, for tea, for maintenance, for an apartment; no one will interfere and bother me now: I will buy myself an excellent manken, I will order a plaster torso, I will shape the legs, I will put Venus, I will buy engravings from the first paintings. And if I work for three years for myself, slowly, not for sale, I will kill them all, and I can be a glorious artist.

Thus he spoke at the same time as reason prompted him; but from within came another voice, louder and louder. And as he looked once more at the gold, 22 years and his ardent youth spoke in him. Now in his power was everything that he had hitherto looked at with envious eyes, what he had admired from afar, swallowing his saliva. Oh, how zealous throbbed in him when he just thought about it! Dress in a fashionable tailcoat, break the fast after a long fast, rent a glorious apartment for himself, go at the same hour to the theater, to the confectionery, to ...... .. and so on, and having grabbed the money, he was already on the street. First of all, he went to the tailor, dressed from head to toe, and, like a child, began to inspect himself incessantly; bought perfumes, lipsticks, hired, without bargaining, the first magnificent apartment on Nevsky Prospekt that came across, with mirrors and solid glass; I accidentally bought an expensive lorgnette in a shop, I also accidentally bought an abyss of all sorts of ties, more than I needed, curled my curls at the hairdresser, rode twice around the city in a carriage for no reason, ate too much candy in a pastry shop and went to a Frenchman's restaurant, about which hitherto heard the same vague rumors as about the Chinese state. There he dined with his hands on his hips, casting rather proud glances at the others, and incessantly adjusting his curled curls against the mirror. There he drank a bottle of champagne, which had hitherto also been more familiar to him by ear. The wine made a little noise in his head, and he went out into the street alive, lively, according to the Russian expression: the devil is not a brother. He walked along the pavement like a gogol, pointing a lorgnette at everyone. On the bridge he noticed his former professor and darted dashing past him, as if not noticing him at all, so that the dumbfounded professor stood motionless on the bridge for a long time, making a question mark on his face. All things and everything that was: a machine tool, a canvas, paintings, were transported to a magnificent apartment that same evening. He put what was better in prominent places, what was worse, threw it into a corner, and walked around the magnificent rooms, constantly looking into the mirrors. An irresistible desire revived in his soul to seize glory this very hour by the tail and show himself to the world. He could already hear shouts: “Chartkov, Chartkov! Have you seen Chartkov's painting? What a quick brush Chartkov has! What a strong talent Chartkov has!” He walked in an enthusiastic state around his room - he was carried away to no one knows where. The next day, having taken a dozen chervonets, he went to one publisher of a walking newspaper, asking for generous help; was received cordially by a journalist, who called him the same hour “most respectable”, shook both hands with him, asked in detail about his name, patronymic, place of residence, and the next day an article appeared in the newspaper following the announcement of the newly invented tallow candles with the following title: Chartkov’s extraordinary talents: “We are in a hurry to please the educated residents of the capital with a wonderful acquisition, one might say, in all respects. Everyone agrees that we have many of the most beautiful physiognomies and most beautiful faces, but until now there has been no means of transferring them to a miraculous canvas, for transmission to posterity; now this deficiency has been replenished: an artist has been found who combines what is needed. Now the beauty can be sure that she will be conveyed with all the grace of her beauty, airy, light, charming, wonderful, like moths fluttering over spring flowers. The venerable father of the family will see himself surrounded by his family. A merchant, a warrior, a citizen, a statesman - everyone will continue his career with renewed zeal. Hurry, hurry, come from a walk, from a walk taken to a friend, to a cousin, to a brilliant store, hurry, wherever you are. The artist's magnificent studio (Nevsky Prospekt, such and such number) is full of portraits of his brush, worthy of the Vandyks and Titians. You don’t know what to be surprised at, whether faithfulness and similarity with the originals, or the extraordinary brightness and freshness of the brush. Praise be to you, artist: you took out happy ticket from the lottery. Vivat, Andrei Petrovich (the journalist apparently loved familiarity)! Glorify yourself and us. We can appreciate you. The general concourse, and with it the money, although some of our brother journalists rebel against them, will be your reward.

With secret pleasure the artist read this announcement; his face beamed. They started talking about him in print - this was news to him; he read the lines several times. The comparison with Wandik and Titian flattered him greatly. Phrase: "Vivat, Andrey Petrovich!" also liked very much; they call him by his first name and patronymic - an honor that is completely unknown to him until now. He soon began to walk around the room, ruffling his hair, then sat down on chairs, then jumped up from them and sat on the sofa, imagining every minute how he would receive visitors and visitors, approached the canvas and made a dashing brush stroke over it, trying to communicate graceful hand movements. The next day the bell rang at his door; he ran to open the door, a lady entered, led by a footman in a livery overcoat with fur, and together with the lady a young 18-year-old girl, her daughter, entered.

"Are you Monsieur Chartkov?" said the lady. The artist bowed.

“So much is written about you; your portraits, they say, are the height of perfection. Having said this, the lady pointed a lorgnette to her eye and ran quickly to inspect the walls, on which there was nothing. "Where are your portraits?"

“They took it out,” the artist said, somewhat confused: “I just moved to this apartment, so they are still on the road ... they haven’t arrived.”

"Have you been to Italy?" said the lady, pointing her lorgnette at him, finding nothing else to point him at.

“No, I wasn’t, but I wanted to be ... but now I’ve put it aside for the time being ... Here are the chairs, sir; are you tired… "

“Thank you, I sat in the carriage for a long time. Ah, I finally see your work!” said the lady, running to the opposite wall and pointing her lorgnette at his sketches, programs, perspectives and portraits standing on the floor. “C’est charmant, Lise, Lise, venez ici: a room in the taste of Tenier, you see: a mess, a mess, a table, on it is a bust, a hand, a palette; there is the dust, you see how the dust is drawn! c'est charmant. But on another canvas, a woman washing face– quelle jolie figure! Ah, man! Lise, Lise, a man in a Russian shirt! look man! So you do more than just portraits?”

“Oh, this is nonsense ... So, naughty ... sketches ...”

“Tell me, what is your opinion about the current portrait painters? Isn't it true that now there is no one like Titian? There is not that strength in color, there is not that ... what a pity that I cannot express it to you in Russian (the lady was a lover of painting and ran around all the galleries in Italy with a lorgnette). However, Monsieur Zero... oh, how he writes! What an amazing brush! I find that he has even more expression in his faces than Titian. You don't know Monsieur Zero?"

"Who is this Zero?" asked the artist.

"Monsieur Zero. Ah, what a talent! he painted a portrait of her when she was only 12 years old. We need you to be with us. Lise, show him your album. You know that we have come to start a portrait of her at once.”

"Well, I'm ready this minute." And in an instant he moved the machine with the finished canvas, picked up the palette, fixed his eyes on the pale face of his daughter. If he were a connoisseur of human nature, he would have read on it in one minute the beginning of a childish passion for balls, the beginning of melancholy and complaints about the length of time before dinner and after dinner, the desire to run around in a new dress on festivities, heavy traces of indifferent diligence in various arts inspired by the mother to elevate the soul and feelings. But the artist saw in this delicate face only the almost porcelain transparency of the body, enticing light languor, a thin light neck and aristocratic lightness of the body, alluring for the brush. And he was already preparing in advance to triumph, to show the lightness and brilliance of his brush, which until now had dealt only with the harsh features of rough models, with strict antiques and copies of some classical masters. He already imagined in his mind how this light little face would come out.

“Do you know,” said the lady, with a somewhat touching expression on her face, “I would like to: she is wearing a dress now; I confess, I would not want her to be in the dress to which we are so accustomed: I would like her to be dressed simply and sit in the shade of greenery, in view of some fields, so that the flocks are far away, or a grove ... so that it was imperceptible that she was going somewhere to a ball or a fashionable evening. Our balls, I confess, so kill the soul, so kill the remnants of feelings ... simplicity, simplicity so that there is more. (Alas, it was written on the faces of both mother and daughter that they danced so much at balls that they both became almost wax.)

Chartkov set to work, seated the original, figured it all out somewhat in his head; passed through the air with a brush, mentally setting points; screwed up a few eyes, leaned back, looked from a distance, and in one hour began and finished the underpainting. Satisfied with her, he began to write, the work lured him. He had already forgotten everything, he even forgot that he was in the presence of aristocratic ladies, he even sometimes began to show some artistic tricks, uttering various sounds aloud, at times singing along, as happens with an artist who is immersed with all his soul in his work. Without any ceremony, with one movement of the brush, he forced the original to raise its head, which at last began to turn violently and express complete weariness.

"Enough, enough for the first time," said the lady.

“A little more,” said the forgotten artist.

"No, it's time! Lise, three o'clock!" she said, taking out a small watch that hung on a gold chain at her sash, and cried out: "Oh, how late!"

"Just a moment," said Chartkov in the ingenuous and pleading voice of a child.

But the lady, it seems, was not at all in the mood to cater to his artistic needs this time, and instead promised to stay longer next time.

"It's annoying, though," thought Chartkov to himself, "the hand just parted." And he remembered that no one interrupted or stopped him when he worked in his workshop on Vasilevsky Island; Nikita used to sit without shifting in one place - write from him as much as you like; he even fell asleep in the position ordered to him. And, dissatisfied, he put his brush and palette on a chair, and stood vaguely before the canvas. A compliment from a lady of the world woke him from his sleep. He rushed quickly to the door to see them off; on the stairs he received an invitation to visit, to come to dinner next week, and with a cheerful look returned to his room. The aristocratic lady completely charmed him. Until now, he had looked at such creatures as something inaccessible, who were born only to rush in a magnificent carriage with livery footmen and a smart coachman and cast an indifferent glance at a man wandering on foot in a poor raincoat. And suddenly now one of these creatures entered his room; he paints a portrait, invited to dinner in an aristocratic house. An extraordinary contentment took possession of him; he was completely intoxicated and rewarded himself for this with a glorious dinner, an evening performance, and again drove around the city in a carriage without any need.

All these days regular work didn't cross his mind at all. He just got ready and waited for the minute when the bell would ring. At last the aristocratic lady arrived with her pale daughter. He seated them, moved the canvas forward with dexterity and pretensions to secular manners, and began to write. The sunny day and clear lighting helped him a lot. He saw in his light original a lot of things that, being caught and transferred to the canvas, could give high dignity to the portrait; he saw that something special could be done if everything was done in such finality as nature now seemed to him. His heart even began to flutter slightly when he felt that he would express something that others had not yet noticed. The work occupied him all, he immersed himself in the brush, forgetting again about aristocratic origin original. With a breath taken in, I saw how light features came out of him and this almost transparent body of a seventeen-year-old girl. He caught every shade, a slight yellowness, a barely noticeable blueness under his eyes, and was already preparing to even grab a small pimple that popped up on his forehead, when he suddenly heard his mother’s voice above him: “Ah, why is this? it is not necessary,” said the lady. "You have too ... here, in some places ... like it's a little yellow and here it's just like dark specks." The artist began to explain that these specks and yellowness are exactly played out well, that they make up pleasant and light tones of the face. But he was told that they would not form any tones and would not play out at all; and that it only seems so to him. “But let me touch here in one place only with a little yellow paint,” said the artist ingenuously. But he was not allowed to do this. It was announced that only today Lise was a little undisposed, and that there was no yellowness in her, and her face was especially striking in the freshness of the paint. Sadly, he began to smooth out what his brush had forced to appear on the canvas. Many almost imperceptible features disappeared, and with them partly the similarity also disappeared. He insensibly began to communicate to him that general coloring that is given by heart and turns even faces taken from nature into some kind of cold-ideal, visible on student programs. But the lady was pleased that the offensive coloring was completely banished. She only expressed surprise that the work was taking so long, and added that she had heard that he completed a portrait perfectly in two sittings. The artist did not find any answer to this. The ladies got up and were about to leave. He laid down his brush, led them to the door, and after that he remained vaguely in the same spot in front of his portrait for a long time. He looked at him stupidly, and meanwhile those light feminine features, those shades and airy tones that he had noticed, which his brush had mercilessly destroyed, were rushing through his head. Being all full of them, he put the portrait aside and found somewhere in his place the abandoned head of Psyche, which he had once sketched on the canvas long ago. It was a face, deftly painted, but absolutely perfect, cold, consisting of nothing but common features that did not take a living body. Having nothing to do, he now began to walk through it, recalling on it everything that he had happened to notice in the face of an aristocratic visitor. The features, shades and tones that he had captured lay down here in the purified form in which they appear when the artist, having looked at nature, already moves away from it and produces an equal creation for it. Psyche began to come to life, and the barely perceptible thought began, little by little, to clothe herself in a visible body. The type of face of a young secular girl was involuntarily communicated to Psyche, and through that she received a peculiar expression, giving the right to the name true original work. He seemed to take advantage, piecemeal and collectively, of everything that the original presented to him, and became completely attached to his work. For several days he was occupied only with her. And behind this very work, the arrival of familiar ladies found him. He did not have time to remove the picture from the machine. Both ladies let out a joyful cry of amazement and threw up their hands.

"Lise, Lise! oh how it looks! Superbe, superbe! How well you thought you dressed her in a Greek costume. Ah, what a surprise!

The artist did not know how to get the ladies out of a pleasant delusion. Ashamed and bowing his head, he said quietly: "This is Psyche."

“In the form of Psyche? C'est charmant!" said the mother, smiling; And the daughter also smiled. “Isn't it true, Lise, that you are most suited to be depicted as Psyche? Quelle idee delicieuse! But what a job! This is Korreg. I confess that I read and heard about you, but I did not know that you had such a talent. No, you must certainly paint a portrait of me as well. The lady, apparently, also wanted to appear in the form of some kind of Psyche.

"What should I do with them?" the artist thought: “if they themselves want it, then let Psyche go for what they want,” and he said aloud: “Sit down a little more, I’ll touch something a little.”

"Ah, I'm afraid you somehow don't ... she looks so much like that now." But the artist realized that there were concerns about yellowness, and reassured them, saying that he would only give more brilliance and expression to the eyes. And in fairness, he was too ashamed and wanted to give at least some more resemblance to the original, so that someone would not reproach him for decided shamelessness. And indeed, the features of the pale girl finally began to emerge more clearly from the appearance of Psyche.

"Enough!" said the mother, who was beginning to fear lest the resemblance should at last come too near. The artist was rewarded with everything: a smile, money, a compliment, a sincere handshake, an invitation to dinners; In a word, he received a thousand flattering awards. The portrait made a noise in the city. The lady showed it to her friends; everyone was amazed at the art with which the artist was able to preserve the likeness and at the same time give beauty to the original. The latter was noticed, of course, not without a slight flush of envy in his face. And the artist was suddenly besieged by works. It seemed that the whole city wanted to write with him. At the door the bell rang constantly. On the one hand, it could be good, presenting him with an endless practice with variety, with many faces. But unfortunately, it was all a people with whom it was difficult to get along, a people hurried, busy, or belonging to the world, therefore, even more busy than any other, and therefore impatient to the extreme. From all sides they only demanded that it be good and soon. The artist saw that it was absolutely impossible to finish, that everything had to be replaced by dexterity and quick briskness of the brush. Grasp only one whole, one general expression and not go deep with a brush into refined details; in a word, it was decidedly impossible to follow nature in its finality. Moreover, it must be added that all those who almost wrote had many other claims to different things. The ladies demanded that mostly only the soul and character be depicted in portraits, so that sometimes the rest was not adhered to at all, all corners were rounded, all flaws were alleviated and even, if possible, avoided altogether. In a word, so that you can stare at your face, if not completely fall in love. And as a result, when they sat down to write, they sometimes adopted such expressions that astonished the artist: she tried to portray melancholy in her face, another daydreaming, a third wanted to shrink her mouth at all costs and squeezed it to such an extent that it finally turned in one point, no more than a pinhead. And, despite all this, they demanded from him similarity and unconstrained naturalness. The men were no better than the ladies either. One demanded to be depicted in a strong, energetic turn of the head; the other with inspired eyes raised to the top; the lieutenant of the guard demanded without fail that Mars be visible in the eyes; the civil dignitary strove so that there was more directness, nobility in the face and that the hand rested on a book on which it would be written in clear words: "always stood for the truth." At first, the artist was thrown into a sweat with such demands: all this had to be figured out, thought over, and meanwhile, very little time was given. At last he got to what was the matter, and no longer hesitated at all. Even from two, three words, he could think ahead, who wanted to portray himself with what. Who wanted Mars, he put Mars in the face; who aimed at Byron, he gave him Byron's position and turn. Whether the ladies wanted to be Corinna, Undine, or Aspasia, he willingly agreed to everything and added from himself to everyone enough goodness, which, as you know, will not spoil anywhere and for which they sometimes forgive the artist even the most dissimilarity. Soon he himself began to marvel at the wonderful speed and briskness of his brush. And those who wrote, of course, were delighted and proclaimed him a genius.

Chartkov became a fashionable painter in all respects. He began to go to dinners, accompany ladies to galleries and even to festivities, dress smartly and state publicly that an artist must belong to society, that his rank must be maintained, that artists dress like shoemakers, do not know how to behave decently, do not observe the highest tone and devoid of any education. At home, in his studio, he introduced neatness and cleanliness to the highest degree, identified two excellent lackeys, acquired smart pupils, changed clothes several times a day in different morning costumes, curled his hair, occupied himself with improving the various manners with which to receive visitors, occupied himself with decoration in every possible way. by means of his appearance, in order to make a pleasant impression on the ladies; in a word, it was soon impossible to recognize in him at all that modest artist who had once worked unnoticed in his shack on Vasilyevsky Island. About artists and about art, he now spoke sharply: he argued that too much dignity was already attributed to the former artists, that all of them before Raphael painted not figures, but herrings; that the thought exists only in the imagination of the observers, as if the presence of some kind of holiness is visible in them; that Raphael himself did not even write everything well, and for many of his works fame was retained only according to legend; that Miquel-Angel is a braggart, because he only wanted to boast of his knowledge of anatomy, that there is no grace in him, and that real brilliance, strength of brush and color must be sought only now, in this century. Here, naturally, involuntarily, the matter came to oneself. "No, I don't understand," he said, "the tensions of others to sit and pore over toil. This man, who digs for several months over the picture, for me is a worker, not an artist. I don't believe he has any talent. Genius creates boldly, quickly. “Here I am,” he said, usually addressing visitors: “I painted this portrait in two days, this head in one day, this is in a few hours, this is in a little over an hour. No, I ... I, I confess, do not recognize as art that line after line is molded; It's a craft, not an art." So he told his visitors, and the visitors marveled at the strength and briskness of his brush, even uttered exclamations when they heard how quickly they were produced, and then retold to each other: “This is a talent, true talent! Look how he talks, how his eyes sparkle! Il y a quelque chose d'extraordinaire dans toute sa figure! »

The artist was flattered to hear such rumors about himself. When a printed praise of him appeared in the magazines, he rejoiced like a child, although this praise was bought by him with his own money. He carried such a printed sheet everywhere and, as if not on purpose, showed it to his acquaintances and friends, and this amused him to the point of the most ingenuous naivety. His fame grew, work and orders increased. He was already beginning to tire of the same portraits and faces, whose position and turns had become memorized to him. Already without great desire he wrote them, trying to sketch only somehow one head, and left the rest to his students to finish. Before, he still sought to give some new position, to strike with force, effect. Now that was getting boring for him. The mind is tired of inventing and thinking. It was beyond his power, and indeed there was no time: scattered life and society, where he tried to play the role of a secular person, all this carried him away from work and thoughts. His brush grew cold and dull, and he insensibly settled into monotonous, definite, long-worn forms. The monotonous, cold, always tidied up and, so to speak, buttoned up faces of military and civilian officials did not offer much scope for the brush: she forgot both magnificent draperies, and strong movements and passions. About groups, about artistic drama, there was nothing to say about her high tie. Before him were only a uniform and a corset, and a tailcoat, before which the artist feels cold and any imagination falls. Even the most ordinary virtues were no longer visible in his works, and yet they still enjoyed fame, although true connoisseurs and artists only shrugged their shoulders, looking at his latest works. And some, who knew Chartkov before, could not understand how the talent could disappear in him, the signs of which were already bright in him at the very beginning, and they tried in vain to figure out how a talent could die out in a person, while he had just reached full development of all his powers.

But the intoxicated artist did not hear these rumors. Already he began to reach the pores of the degree of mind and years: he began to get fat and apparently be distributed in width. Already in newspapers and magazines he read adjectives: our venerable Andrei Petrovich, our honored Andrei Petrovich. Already they began to offer him places of honor in the service, invite him to exams, to committees. He was already beginning, as always happens in honorable years, to take Raphael's side strongly and old artists, not because he was fully convinced of their high dignity, but because to prick them in the eyes of young artists. He already began, according to the custom of all who enter such years, to reproach the youth without exception for immorality and a bad direction of spirit.

He was already beginning to believe that everything in the world is done simply, there is no inspiration from above, and everything must necessarily be subjected to one strict order of accuracy and uniformity. In a word, his life has already touched those years when everything, breathing with impulse, shrinks in a person, when the powerful bow reaches the soul more weakly and does not twine with piercing sounds around the heart, when the touch of beauty no longer turns virgin forces into fire and flame, but everything burnt-out feelings become more accessible to the sound of gold, listen more attentively to its tempting music and, little by little, insensitively allow themselves to be completely lulled by it. Glory cannot give pleasure to the one who stole it and did not deserve it; it produces a constant thrill only in those who are worthy of it. And so all his feelings and impulses turned to gold. Gold became his passion, ideal, fear, pleasure, goal. Bunches of banknotes grew in chests, and like anyone who gets this terrible gift, he began to become boring, inaccessible to everything except gold, an unreasonable miser, a dissolute collector, and was already ready to turn into one of those strange creatures, of which there are many comes across in our insensible light, at which a person full of life and heart looks with horror, to whom they seem to be moving stone coffins with a dead person inside in place of the heart. But one event greatly shocked and awakened his entire life structure.

One day he saw a note on his desk in which the Academy of Arts asked him, as a worthy member, to come and give his opinion on a new work sent from Italy by a Russian artist who had improved there. This artist was one of his former comrades, who from an early age carried a passion for art, with the fiery soul of a worker plunged into it with all his soul, broke away from friends, from relatives, from sweet habits, and rushed to where, in view of the beautiful heaven will sing the majestic hotbed of arts, into that wonderful Rome, in the name of which beats so full and strong fiery heart artist. There, like a hermit, he immersed himself in work and in undistracted pursuits. He did not care whether they talked about his character, about his inability to deal with people, about non-observance of secular decorum, about the humiliation that he caused the title of an artist with his meager, not smart outfit. He didn't care whether or not his brothers were angry with him. He neglected everything, he gave everything to art. Tirelessly visited galleries, stagnated for hours in front of the works of great masters, catching and pursuing a wonderful brush. He did not finish anything without not believing himself several times with these great teachers and in order not to read silent and eloquent advice to himself in their creations. He did not enter into noisy conversations and disputes; he was neither for purists nor against purists. He equally gave his due part to everything, extracting from everything only what was beautiful in him, and finally left himself only the divine Raphael as a teacher. Just as a great poet-artist, having read many different works, full of many delights and majestic beauties, finally left only Homer's Iliad as a reference book, having discovered that it contains everything that you want, and that there is nothing that is not already reflected. here in such deep and great perfection. And on the other hand, he brought out of his school the majestic idea of ​​creation, the mighty beauty of thought, the high charm of the heavenly brush.

Entering the hall, Chartkov already found a whole huge crowd of visitors gathered in front of the picture. The deepest silence, which rarely occurs between crowded connoisseurs, this time reigned everywhere. He hurried to assume the significant physiognomy of a connoisseur and approached the picture; but, God, what did he see!

Pure, immaculate, beautiful as a bride, stood before him the work of the artist. Modestly, divinely, innocently and simply, like a genius, it rose above everything.

It seemed as if the celestial figures, amazed at so many gazes directed at them, bashfully lowered their beautiful eyelashes. With a feeling of involuntary amazement connoisseurs contemplated a new unprecedented brush. Everything seemed to come together here: the study of Raphael, reflected in the high nobility of the positions, the study of Correggia, breathing in the final perfection of the brush. But most powerful of all was the power of the “Just a little more,” said the forgotten artist. A tribute already contained in the soul of the artist himself. The last subject in the picture was imbued with it; in everything the law is comprehended and inner strength. Everywhere this floating roundness of lines was captured, enclosed in nature, which only one eye of the artist-creator sees and which comes out at the corners of the copyist. It was evident how the artist first enclosed everything extracted from the external world into his soul and from there, from the spiritual spring, he directed it with one consonant, solemn song. And it became clear even to the uninitiated what an immeasurable gulf exists between a creature and a simple copy from nature. It was almost impossible to express the extraordinary silence that involuntarily enveloped everyone who fixed their eyes on the picture - not a rustle, not a sound; and the picture, meanwhile, every minute seemed higher and higher; brighter and more wonderfully separated from everything and finally turned into one moment, the fruit of a thought that had flown from heaven to the artist, a moment for which all human life is nothing but preparation. Involuntary tears were ready to roll down the faces of the visitors who surrounded the picture. It seemed that all tastes, all bold, wrong deviations of taste, merged into some kind of silent hymn to the divine work. Chartkov stood motionless, with his mouth open, in front of the picture, and finally, when little by little the visitors and connoisseurs began to make noise and began to talk about the merits of the work, and when they finally turned to him with a request to declare their thoughts, he came to his senses; I wanted to take on an indifferent, ordinary air, I wanted to say the ordinary, vulgar judgment of callous artists, along the lines of the following: “Yes, of course, it’s true, talent cannot be taken away from an artist; there is something, it is clear that he wanted to express something, however, as far as the main thing is concerned ... “And after this, add, of course, such praises from which no artist would be greeted. I wanted to do it, but the speech died on his lips, tears and sobs escaped discordantly in response, and he ran out of the hall like a madman.

For a moment, motionless and insensible, he stood in the middle of his magnificent workshop. The whole composition, his whole life was awakened in an instant, as if youth had returned to him, as if the extinguished sparks of talent flared up again. The bandage suddenly fell off his eyes. God! and ruin so mercilessly the best years of his youth; to exterminate, to extinguish the spark of fire, perhaps that was glimmering in the chest, perhaps now it would develop into grandeur and beauty, perhaps it would also shed tears of amazement and gratitude! And destroy it all, destroy without any pity! It seemed as if at that moment all at once and suddenly came to life in his soul those tensions and impulses that had once been familiar to him. He grabbed the brush and approached the canvas. The sweat of effort broke out on his face; he was all turned into one desire and burned with one thought: he wanted to depict a fallen angel. This idea was most consistent with the state of his soul. But, alas! his figures, poses, groups, thoughts lay down forcibly and incoherently. His brush and imagination were already too much in the same measure, and the impotent impulse to transcend the boundaries and fetters he had thrown over himself was already reeking of wrongness and error. He neglected the tedious, long ladder of gradual information and the first fundamental laws of the great future. Annoyance penetrated him. He ordered everything to be taken out of his workshop latest works, all lifeless fashionable pictures, all portraits of hussars, ladies and state councilors. He locked himself in his room alone, ordered no one to let in, and plunged into his work. Like a patient young man, like a student, he sat at his work.

But how mercilessly-ungrateful was everything that came out from under his brush! At every step he was stopped by ignorance of the most primitive elements; a simple, insignificant mechanism cooled the whole impulse and stood as an unbridgeable threshold for the imagination. The hand involuntarily turned to hardened forms, the hands folded in one learned manner, the head did not dare to make an unusual turn, even the very folds of the dress responded to the hardened and did not want to obey and drape in an unfamiliar position of the body. And he felt, he felt and saw it himself!

“But did I really have talent?” he said at last: "Am I not deceived?" And having uttered these words, he approached his former works, which had once been worked so cleanly, so disinterestedly, there, in a poor shack, on a secluded Vasilyevsky Island, far away from people, abundance and all sorts of whims. He now approached them and began to carefully examine them all, and together with them all his former poor life began to appear in his memory. “Yes,” he said desperately, “I had a talent. Everywhere, on everything, its signs and traces are visible ... "

He stopped and suddenly trembled all over: his eyes met those fixedly staring at him. It was that extraordinary portrait that he bought at Shchukin's yard. All the time it was closed, cluttered with other pictures and completely out of his thoughts. Now, as if on purpose, when all the fashionable portraits and paintings that filled the workshop were taken out, he looked up along with the former works of his youth. As he recalled his whole strange story, as he remembered that in some way he, this strange portrait, was the cause of his transformation, that the treasure of money he received in such a miraculous way gave birth in him to all the vain impulses that ruined his talent - almost rage was ready break into his soul. At that very moment he ordered that the hated portrait be taken away. But the excitement of the soul did not reconcile from this: all the senses and the whole composition were shaken to the bottom, and he recognized that terrible torment, which, as a striking exception, sometimes appears in nature, when a weak talent tries to show itself in excess of its size and cannot show itself, that torment that in a young man gives birth to great things, but in one who has gone beyond dreams turns into fruitless thirst, that terrible torment that makes a person capable of terrible atrocities. He was seized with a terrible envy, envy to the point of madness. Bile appeared on his face when he saw a work that bore the stamp of talent. He gnashed his teeth and devoured him with the gaze of a basilisk. The most infernal intention that a man had ever harbored was revived in his soul, and with furious strength he rushed to carry it out. He began to buy up all the best that only art produced. Having bought the picture at a high price, he carefully brought it into his room and, with the fury of a tiger, rushed at it, tore it, tore it, cut it into pieces and trampled it underfoot, accompanying it with laughter of pleasure. The innumerable riches he had accumulated provided him with every means to satisfy this infernal desire. He untied all his golden bags and opened the chests. Never has a monster of ignorance destroyed so many beautiful works how many this ferocious avenger exterminated. At all the auctions, where only he showed up, everyone despaired in advance in acquiring an artistic creation. It seemed as if the angry sky had deliberately sent this terrible scourge into the world, wanting to take away all its harmony from it. This terrible passion threw some kind of terrible color on him: eternal bile was present on his face. The blasphemy against the world and the denial were portrayed by itself in its features. It seemed that he personified that terrible demon, which Pushkin ideally portrayed. His mouth uttered nothing but a poisonous word and eternal censure. Like some kind of Harpy, he came across on the street, and all his even acquaintances, seeing him from afar, tried to dodge and avoid such a meeting, saying that it was enough to poison the whole day later.

Fortunately for the world and the arts, such an intense and violent life could not last long: the scale of the passions was too irregular and colossal for her weak forces. Attacks of rage and insanity began to appear more often, and, finally, all this turned into the most terrible disease. A cruel fever, combined with the most rapid consumption, seized him so fiercely that in three days only a shadow remained of him. Added to this were all the signs of hopeless madness. Sometimes a few people could not hold him. He began to see the long-forgotten, living eyes of an extraordinary portrait, and then his fury was terrible. All the people who surrounded his bed seemed to him terrible portraits. He doubled, quadrupled in his eyes; all the walls seemed to be hung with portraits, fixing their motionless, living eyes on him. Terrible portraits looked from the ceiling, from the floor, the room expanded and continued indefinitely in order to more accommodate these motionless eyes. The doctor, who had taken it upon himself to use it and had already heard a little about its strange history, tried with all his might to find a secret relationship between the ghosts he dreamed of and the events of his life, but could not manage to do anything. The patient did not understand and did not feel anything, except for his torments, and uttered only terrible cries and incomprehensible speeches. Finally, his life was interrupted in the last, already silent impulse of suffering. His corpse was terrible. They could not find anything from his huge wealth either; but, seeing the cut pieces of those high works of art, whose price exceeded millions, they realized their terrible use.

PART II

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 physiognomy of a banker who enjoys his millions only in the form of figures 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 a flea market 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 perform at all, despite the fact that in the same hall there were many of those aristocrats, in front of 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, who will give more, who will give less, who will kill whom and who will be left with what. A lot of pictures were scattered completely to no avail; they were mixed with furniture and books with the monograms of the former owner, who, perhaps, had no commendable curiosity to look into them. Chinese vases, marble boards for tables, 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 stores. 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 had evidently already been restored and refurbished several times and showed 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 him were struck by the unusual liveliness of his eyes. The more they peered into them, the more they seemed to rush into each one inside. 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 have filled the price to impossibility if suddenly one of those who were considering it did not say: “Let me stop your dispute for a while. 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 attire 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. “Strange as my words may seem to you,” he continued, seeing the general attention directed at him, “but if you dare to listen to a little story, perhaps you will see that I had the right to utter them. Everything 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 everyone 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 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 away every day for 5 kopecks coffee and four sugar, and finally all that category of people that can be called in one word: ashen, people who with their clothes , face, hair, eyes have some kind of muddy, ashy appearance, like a day when there is neither storm nor sun in the sky, but it happens just neither this nor that: 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 sidewalk, when the time passed after 12 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 families here; 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 home 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 follows extraordinary fraction and trifle. 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 survive by incomprehensible means, like ants dragging 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. I brought them here 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 sums 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 therefore any feeling of humanity dies too early in their souls. Among these usurers was one .... but it doesn’t stop 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 - a creature in all respects unusual, 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 height, swarthy, skinny, flushed face and some incomprehensibly terrible color of it, large eyes of unusual fire, hanging 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 structure of the kind that the Genoese merchants had once set up to their heart's content, with irregular windows of unequal size, 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. In front of his house, the most brilliant carriages often showed up, from the shackles 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, jewels, 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 profitable 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 human opinion, absurd superstitious rumors, or intentionally spread rumors - this remained 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 of the best family soon drew attention to himself, having already distinguished himself in his young years 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, prophesying 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 in general for good. The young nobleman surrounded himself with artists, poets, scientists. He wanted to give everything a job, to encourage everything. He undertook many useful publications at his own expense, 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 the trouble 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; that true geniuses arise during the brilliance and power of sovereigns and states, and not during ugly political phenomena and republican terrorism, which have not yet 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 scholars, poets, and all art-makers are pearls and diamonds in the imperial crown; they flaunt and receive even greater brilliance the era of the great sovereign. 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 vain soul suffered; pride, deceived ambition, shattered hopes—everything came together, and his life was cut short in fits of terrible madness and rage. - Another striking example also occurred in the minds of all: of the beauties that our northern capital was not poor at that time, 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 combined 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, Grandinson 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 incredible splendor and 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 a loan from him. Whatever it was, but the wedding occupied the whole city. Both the bride and groom were the subject of common envy. Everyone knew 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 it 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 an attractive property, glows by itself and wears some strange signs ... in a word, there were a lot of all sorts of absurd rumors. And it is remarkable 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 after that, watching his exorbitant tall figure disappearing in the distance. 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, terrible eyes, even the widest folds of his Asiatic 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 restrain himself from 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 for reasons , perhaps, unknown to him, only one path indicated from the soul; one of those native miracles that contemporaries often honor offensive 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; comprehended by itself the true meaning of the word: 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 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 both condescendingly and sharply. “Why look at them,” he usually said: “after all, 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, thanks me, does not understand - 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 from that, 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 his path, 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 was, 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 mind, 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 then 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.

"You are an artist?" he said without any ceremony to my father.

"Artist," said the father in bewilderment, anticipating what would happen next.

"Fine. 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 paint such a portrait that it is completely alive?

My father thought: “What is better? he himself asks to be the devil to see me in the 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. High yard, dogs, iron doors and shutters, arched windows, chests covered with strange carpets, and finally the extraordinary host himself, sitting 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 light only from 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. What diabolical 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 already he himself saw 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, at all costs, 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 to him so strange and terrible that he threw away 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, there was a perceptible change 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, the works of one of his students it 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 complete 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, to take it into his head 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 definitely 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 to believe such an insulting remark himself, 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 was 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. At this movement, his friend, a painter, who, like himself, was caught in the room, was 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 up to the portrait. “Have mercy, this is one of your best works. This is a moneylender who recently died; yes, it 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 motion to throw him into the fireplace.

"Stop, for God's sake!" said the friend, holding him back: “It’s better to 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 grief, 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 to look for his former student, hugged 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 asked 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?" my father said.

“And so, 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 is, 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 damned 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 like I can't say anything fun to anyone and sincere word; just as if a spy was sitting next to me. And only since I gave the portrait to my nephew, who had 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: “Does your nephew have a portrait now?”

“Where is the nephew! could not stand it,” said the merry fellow: “to know, 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 bear 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, etc. and so on. Three misfortunes that followed, three sudden death he considered his wife, daughter and young son a heavenly punishment for himself and decided to leave the world 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, by 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 abbot: “Now I am ready. God willing, I'll do my job." The item he took was the birth 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 truly 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 baby, a deep mind in the eyes of the divine baby, 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 consonant strength 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 saint high power led with your brush and the blessing of heaven rested on your labor.

At this time, I completed my studies at the academy, received a gold medal and with it the joyful hope of traveling to Italy - best dream twenty year old artist. I had only to say goodbye to my father, with whom I had parted for 12 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 rope 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 any of my brothers did the same.

"I have been waiting for you, my son," he said as I approached his blessing. “You have a path ahead of you, 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 the high secret of creation. 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 concluded for a person in art, and therefore alone it is already above everything. 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 everything that is in the world, a lofty creation of art. Sacrifice everything to him and love him with all your passion, not with a passion that breathes earthly lust, but with 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 a resounding prayer strives eternally towards God. But there are minutes, 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, anxious 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 mud from under the wheel, and all the people have already surrounded him and point their fingers at him and talk about his slovenliness, while the same people do not notice the many spots on others passing by, dressed in everyday clothes. For on everyday clothes stains are not noticed. 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 said to me already at the very parting. “Perhaps you will happen to see somewhere that portrait of which I spoke to you. You suddenly recognize him by his unusual eyes and their unnatural expression - by all means, destroy him ... “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 even in the least 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 “stolen” were clearly heard. Someone has already managed to pull it off, taking advantage of the attention of the listeners, 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.

Current page: 1 (total book has 4 pages)

Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
Portrait

Part I

Nowhere did so many people stop as in front of the picture shop in Shchukin's yard. This shop represented, for sure, the most diverse collection of curiosities: the paintings were mostly painted with oil paints, covered with dark green varnish, in dark yellow tinsel frames. Winter with white trees, a completely red evening, like the glow of a fire, a Flemish peasant with a pipe and a broken arm, looking more like an Indian rooster in his cuffs than a man - these are their usual plots. To this we must add several engraved images: a portrait of Khozrev-Mirza in a ram's hat, portraits of some generals in triangular hats, with crooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such a shop are usually hung with bundles of works printed with popular prints on large sheets, which testify to the native talent of a Russian person. On one was Princess Miliktrisa Kirbityevna, on the other was the city of Jerusalem, through the houses and churches of which red paint swept without ceremony, seizing part of the land and two praying Russian peasants in mittens. There are usually few buyers of these works, but there are a lot of spectators. Some goofy lackey is probably already yawning in front of them, holding in his hand bowls with dinner from the tavern for his master, who, no doubt, will sip the soup not too hot. In front of him, no doubt, there is a soldier in an overcoat, this cavalier of the flea market, selling two penknives; an okhtenka merchant with a box filled with shoes. Everyone admires in his own way: the peasants usually poke their fingers; Cavaliers are treated seriously; footmen-boys and boy-workers laugh and tease each other with drawn caricatures; old lackeys in frieze overcoats look only to yawn somewhere; and the merchants, young Russian women, rush by instinct to hear what the people are babbling about and see what they are looking at.

At this time, the young artist Chartkov, who was passing by, involuntarily stopped in front of the shop. The old greatcoat and the dainty dress showed in him that man who was devoted to his work with selflessness and did not have time to take care of his outfit, which always has a mysterious attraction for youth. He stopped in front of the shop and at first laughed inwardly at these ugly pictures. Finally, involuntary reflection took possession of him: he began to think about who would need these works. What the Russian people look at Yeruslanov Lazarevich, on ate and drank, on Foma and Yerema, this did not seem surprising to him: the depicted objects were very accessible and understandable to the people; but where are the buyers of these motley, dirty oil paintings? who needs these Flemish peasants, these red and blue landscapes, which show some kind of claim to a somewhat higher level of art, but in which all its deep humiliation is expressed? It did not seem to be the work of a self-taught child at all. Otherwise, despite the insensible caricature of the whole, a sharp impulse would burst out in them. But here one could see simply stupidity, impotent, decrepit mediocrity, which arbitrarily entered the ranks of the arts, while its place was among the low crafts, mediocrity, which was true, however, to its vocation and introduced its craft into art itself. The same colors, the same manner, the same full, accustomed hand, which belonged rather to a crudely made automaton than to a person! .. For a long time he stood in front of these dirty pictures, finally not thinking about them at all, and meanwhile the owner of the shop, a little gray man in a frieze overcoat, with a beard that had not been shaved since Sunday, had been talking to him for a long time, haggling and agreeing on a price, not yet knowing what he liked and what he needed.

- I'll take a white one for these peasants and for the landscape. What a painting! Just an eye pierce; just received from the exchange; the polish hasn't dried yet. Or here is winter, take winter! Fifteen rubles! One frame is worth it. Wow, what a winter! - Here the merchant gave a light click on the canvas, probably to show all the good O that winter. “Would you like me to tie them together and take them down after you?” Where would you like to live? Hey kid, give me a rope.

“Wait, brother, not so soon,” said the artist, who had come to his senses, seeing that the nimble merchant had begun, in earnest, to tie them together. He felt somewhat ashamed not to take anything, having stagnated so long in the shop, and he said:

“But wait, I’ll see if there’s something here for me,” and, bending down, he began to get from the floor heaped bulky, worn, dusty old paintings, which, apparently, did not enjoy any respect. There were old family portraits, whose descendants, perhaps, could not be found in the world, completely unknown images with a torn canvas, frames devoid of gilding - in a word, all kinds of old rubbish. But the artist began to examine, thinking in secret: "Perhaps something will be found." He heard more than once stories about how sometimes paintings by great masters were found in the rubbish of popular sellers.

The owner, seeing where he had climbed, left his fussiness and, having assumed his usual position and proper weight, again placed himself at the door, calling passers-by and pointing to the bench with one hand: “Here, father, here are the pictures! come in, come in; received from the stock exchange. He had already shouted to his heart's content, and for the most part fruitlessly, had talked his fill with the patchwork salesman, who also stood opposite him at the door of his shop, and, finally, remembering that he had a buyer in his shop, turned his back on the people and went inside it. “What, father, have you chosen something?” But the artist had already stood motionless for some time in front of one portrait in large, once magnificent frames, but on which traces of gilding now shone a little.

It was an old man with a bronzed 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, but when he managed to clean the dust from his face, he saw traces of the work of a high artist. The portrait, it seemed, was not finished; but the power of the brush was striking. The most extraordinary thing were the eyes: it seemed that the artist used all the power of the brush and all the diligent care of his artist in them. They simply looked, looked even from the portrait itself, as if destroying its harmony with their strange liveliness. When he brought the portrait to the door, his eyes looked even stronger. They made almost the same impression among the people. The woman, who had stopped behind him, cried out: "Looks, looks," and backed away. He felt some unpleasant, incomprehensible feeling to himself and put the portrait on the ground.

- Well, take a portrait! - said the owner.

– How much? – said the artist.

- What's to be valued for it? three quarters, let's go!

- Well, what can you give me?

“Two kopecks,” said the artist, getting ready to go.

- What a price they wrapped up! Yes, you can’t buy one frame for two kopecks. It looks like you're going to buy tomorrow? Sir, lord, come back! at least think of a dime. Take it, take it, give me two kopecks. Right, for a start only, that's just that the first buyer.

After this, he made a gesture with his hand, as if saying: “So be it, the picture is gone!”

Thus, Chartkov quite unexpectedly bought an old portrait and at the same time thought: “Why did I buy it? what is he to me? But there was nothing to be done. He took a two kopeck piece out of his pocket, gave it to the owner, took the portrait under his arm and dragged it with him. On the way he remembered that the two-kopeck piece he had given was his last. His thoughts were suddenly darkened; Annoyance and indifferent emptiness embraced him at that very moment. "Damn it! ugly in the world! he said with the feeling of a Russian who is doing badly. And almost mechanically he walked with quick steps, full of insensibility to everything. The red light of the evening dawn still remained in half the sky; even the houses facing the other side were slightly illuminated by its warm light; meanwhile, the already cold bluish radiance of the moon was growing stronger. Translucent light shadows fell in tails to the ground, cast by houses and the feet of pedestrians. Already the artist began little by little to peer into the sky, illuminated by some kind of transparent, thin, dubious light, and almost at the same time the words “What a light tone!” and the words: “It’s annoying, damn it!” And he, correcting the portrait, constantly moving out from under his armpits, quickened his pace.

Tired and covered in sweat, he dragged himself to the Fifteenth Line on Vasilievsky Island. With difficulty and shortness of breath he climbed the stairs, doused with slops and adorned with the tracks of cats and dogs. There was no answer to his knock on the door: the man was not at home. He leaned against the window and settled down to wait patiently, until finally, behind him, the footsteps of a guy in a blue shirt, his henchman, sitter, painter and floor sweeper, who immediately soiled them with his boots, were heard. The guy was called Nikita and spent all the time outside the gate when the master was not at home. Nikita struggled for a long time to get the key into the lock hole, which was completely invisible because of the darkness. Finally the door was unlocked. Chartkov stepped into his antechamber, unbearably cold, as always happens with artists, which, however, they do not notice. Without giving Nikita his overcoat, he went with her into his studio, a square room, large but low, with freezing windows, lined with all sorts of artistic rubbish: pieces of plaster hands, frames covered with canvas, sketches started and abandoned, drapery hung on chairs . He was very tired, threw off his overcoat, placed the absent-mindedly brought portrait between two small canvases and threw himself on a narrow sofa, which could not be said to be covered with leather, because the row of copper studs that once fastened it had long since remained by itself. , and the skin also remained on top by itself, so that Nikita thrust black stockings, shirts and all unwashed linen under it. After sitting and lying down as long as he could on this narrow sofa, he finally asked for a candle.

“There is no candle,” said Nikita.

- How not?

"But it wasn't even yesterday," said Nikita.

The artist remembered that indeed there had not yet been a candle yesterday, calmed down and fell silent. He allowed himself to be undressed and put on his heavily worn dressing gown.

- Yes, here's another, the owner was, - said Nikita.

- Well, did you come for money? I know,” said the artist, waving his hand.

“Yes, he didn’t come alone,” said Nikita.

- With whom?

- I don’t know with whom ... some kind of quarterly.

- Why quarterly?

- I do not know why; says, then, that the rent has not been paid.

- Well, what will come of it?

- I don't know what will happen; he said: if he doesn’t want to, then let him, he says, move out of the apartment; both wanted to come tomorrow.

“Let them come,” Chartkov said with sad indifference. And the inclement mood took possession of him completely.

Young Chartkov was an artist with a talent that prophesied many things: in flashes and moments, his brush responded with observation, consideration, a shrewd impulse to get closer to nature. “Look, brother,” his professor told him more than once, “you have a talent; it will be a sin if you destroy him. But you are impatient. One thing will lure you, one thing will make you fall in love with him - you are busy with him, and the rest is rubbish with you, you don’t care about the rest, you don’t even want to look at him. See that you do not become a fashionable painter. Even now your colors are starting to scream too brightly. Your drawing is not strict, and sometimes it is completely weak, the line is not visible; you are already chasing fashionable lighting, for what hits the first eye. Look, just get into the English genus. beware; the light is already beginning to pull you; I already see sometimes a smart scarf around your neck, a glossy hat ... It is tempting, you can set off to write fashionable pictures, portraits for money. Why, this is where talent is ruined, not developed. Be patient. Think over all work, give up panache - let other money take them. Yours won't leave you."

The professor was partly right. Sometimes, for sure, our artist wanted to show off, to flaunt, in a word, to show his youth in some places. But with all that, he could take power over himself. At times he could forget everything, taking up the brush, and tearing himself away from it in no other way than from a beautiful interrupted dream. His taste has developed noticeably. He did not yet understand the full depth of Raphael, but he was already carried away by the quick, broad brush of Guid, stopped in front of the portraits of Titian, admired the Flemings. The still darkened appearance, clothed with old pictures, did not completely disappear before him; but he already saw something in them, although inwardly he did not agree with the professor that the old masters would leave us so unattainably; it even seemed to him that the nineteenth century was in some respects considerably ahead of them, that the imitation of nature had somehow become brighter, more alive, closer now; in a word, he thought in this case as youth thinks, having already comprehended something and feeling it in a proud inner consciousness. Sometimes he felt annoyed when he saw how a visiting painter, a Frenchman or a German, sometimes not even a painter by vocation, by his habitual manner, briskness of brush and brightness of colors, made a general noise and instantly accumulated money capital for himself. This came to his mind not when, occupied with all his work, he forgot both drink, and food, and all the world, but when, at last, necessity arose strongly, when there was nothing to buy brushes and paints, when the obsessive landlord came ten times a day to demand payment for the apartment. Then the fate of a rich painter was enviably drawn in his hungry imagination; then even the thought ran through, which often runs through the Russian head: to drop everything and go on a spree out of grief in spite of everything. And now he was almost in that position.

- Yes! be patient, be patient! he said with annoyance. - There is, finally, the end of patience. Be patient! and with what money will I have lunch tomorrow? After all, no one will lend. And if I sell all my paintings and drawings, they will give me two kopecks for everything. They are useful, of course, I feel it: each of them was undertaken for good reason, in each of them I learned something. But what's the use? etudes, attempts - and there will be etudes, attempts, and there will be no end to them. And who will buy, not knowing my name? and who needs drawings from antiques from the natural class, or my unfinished love of Psyche, or the perspective of my room, or a portrait of my Nikita, although it is really better than portraits of some fashionable painter? What really? Why do I suffer and, like a student, delve into the alphabet, while I could shine no worse than others and be like them, with money.

Having said this, the artist suddenly trembled and turned pale: someone's convulsively distorted face was looking at him, leaning out from behind a set canvas. Two terrible eyes stared directly at him, as if preparing to devour him; on his lips was written a threatening command to be silent. Frightened, he wanted to scream and call for Nikita, who had already managed to launch heroic snoring in his hall; but suddenly he stopped and laughed. The feeling of fear subsided in an instant. It was a portrait he bought, which he completely forgot about. The radiance of the moon, illuminating the room, fell on him too, and imparted to him a strange liveliness. He began to examine it and scrub it. He dipped a sponge into the water, passed it over it several times, washing off almost all the accumulated and accumulated dust and dirt from it, hung it in front of him on the wall and marveled at an even more extraordinary work: his whole face almost came to life, and his eyes looked at him in such a way that he , finally, shuddered and, stepping back, said in an astonished voice: “He looks, looks with human eyes!” He suddenly came to mind a story that he had long heard from his professor, about one portrait of the famous Leonardo da Vinci, on which the great master worked for several years and still considered him unfinished and which, according to Vasari, was, however, honored by all for the most perfect and final work of art. The final thing about him was his eyes, which amazed his contemporaries; even the smallest, barely visible veins in them were not missed and attached to the canvas. But here, however, in this portrait now before him, there was something strange. It was no longer art: it even destroyed the harmony of the portrait itself. They were alive, they were human eyes! It seemed as if they had been cut from a living person and inserted here. Here there was no longer that lofty pleasure that embraces the soul when looking at the work of an artist, no matter how terrible the subject he takes; there was a kind of painful, agonizing feeling. "What is this? the artist involuntarily asked himself. - After all, this, however, is nature, this is living nature; Why is this strange, unpleasant feeling? Or is a slavish, literal imitation of nature already a misdemeanor and seems like a bright, discordant cry? Or, if you take an object indifferently, insensibly, without sympathy with it, it will certainly appear only in its terrible reality, not illuminated by the light of some incomprehensible thought hidden in everything, it will appear in that reality that opens when, wanting to comprehend a beautiful person, arm yourself with an anatomical knife, cut through his insides and see a disgusting person? Why, then, is simple, low nature seen by one artist in some kind of light, and one does not feel any low impression; on the contrary, it seems as if you have enjoyed it, and after that everything flows and moves around you more calmly and evenly? And why does the same nature of another artist seem low, dirty, and, by the way, he was also faithful to nature? But no, there is nothing illuminating in it. It's the same as a view in nature: no matter how magnificent it is, something is still missing if there is no sun in the sky.

He again approached the portrait in order to examine those wonderful eyes, and noticed with horror that they were exactly looking at him. 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. Whether the light of the moon, carrying with it the delirium of a dream and dressing everything in other images, opposite to a positive day, or what else was the reason for this, only he suddenly, for no reason, became afraid to sit alone in a room. He quietly walked away from the portrait, turned away in the other direction and tried not to look at it, but meanwhile the eye involuntarily, of itself, looking askance, looked at him. At last he even became afraid to walk up and down the room; it seemed to him as if someone else would immediately walk behind him, and every time he looked back timidly. He was never cowardly; but his imagination and nerves were sensitive, and that evening he himself could not explain to himself his involuntary fear. He sat down in a corner, but even here it seemed to him that someone was about to glance over his shoulder at his face. Nikita's very snoring, coming from the hall, did not drive away his fear. At last, timidly, without raising his eyes, he got up from his seat, went to his room behind the screen, and got into bed. Through the cracks in the screens, he saw his room illuminated by the moon and saw a portrait hanging directly on the wall. The eyes stared still more terribly, even more significantly into him, and it seemed they did not want to look at anything else but at him. Full of a painful feeling, he decided to get out of bed, grabbed a sheet and, approaching the portrait, wrapped it all up.

Having done this, he lay down in bed more calmly, began to think about poverty and the miserable fate of the artist, about the thorny path ahead of him in this world; meanwhile, his eyes involuntarily looked through the slit of the screen at the portrait wrapped in a sheet. The radiance of the moon intensified the whiteness of the sheet, and it seemed to him that the terrible eyes even began to shine through the canvas. With fear, he fixed his eyes more intently, as if trying to convince himself that this was nonsense. But, finally, in reality… he sees, he sees clearly: there is no longer a sheet… the portrait is completely open and looks past everything that is around, right into it, looks simply inside him… His heart sank. And he sees: the old man stirred and suddenly rested against the frame with both hands. Finally, he got up on his hands and, sticking out both legs, jumped out of the frames ... Only empty frames were visible through the crack of the screen. The sound of footsteps echoed through the room, finally getting closer and closer to the screens. The poor artist's heart began to beat faster. With a frightened breath, he expected that the old man was about to look at him behind the screen. And then he looked, as if behind the screen, with the same bronzed face and moving his big eyes. Chartkov tried to cry out - and felt that he had no voice, he tried to move, to make some kind of movement - the members did not move. With his mouth open and his breath stopped, he looked at this terrible phantom of high growth, in some kind of wide Asian cassock, and waited what he would do. The old man sat down almost at his very feet and then pulled something out from under the folds of his wide dress. It was a bag. The old man developed it and, grabbing it by the two ends, shook it: with a dull sound, heavy bundles in the form of long columns fell to the floor; each was wrapped in blue paper, and on each was displayed: "1000 chervonny". Sticking his long, bony arms out of his wide sleeves, the old man began to unroll the bundles. Gold flashed. No matter how great was the painful feeling and unconscious fear of the artist, but he stared all the way into the gold, looking motionless as it unfolded in bony hands, shone, rang thinly and dully, and wrapped again. Then he noticed one bundle, rolled away from the others, at the very foot of his bed, in his head. He grabbed it almost convulsively and, full of fear, looked to see if the old man would notice. But the old man seemed to be very busy. He collected all his bundles, put them back into the sack, and, without looking at him, went behind the screen. Chartkov's heart was beating violently when he heard the rustle of receding footsteps resounding through the room. He clutched his bundle tighter in his hand, trembling all over for it, and suddenly he heard footsteps approaching the screens again—apparently the old man remembered that one bundle was missing. And now - he looked at him again behind the screen. Full of despair, he squeezed the bundle in his hand with all his strength, made every effort to make a movement, cried out - and woke up.

Cold sweat covered him all over; his heart was beating as hard as it could beat; her chest was so tight, as if her last breath wanted to fly out of her. "Was it really a dream?" he said, taking his head with both hands; but the terrible vivacity of the apparition was not like a dream. Having already woken up, he saw how the old man went into the frame, even the hem of his wide clothes flashed, and his hand clearly felt that he had been holding some kind of weight a minute before. The light of the moon illuminated the room, forcing it to emerge from its dark corners where there was a canvas, where a plaster hand, where a drapery left on a chair, where pantaloons and uncleaned boots. It was only then that he noticed that he was not lying in bed, but was standing on his feet right in front of the portrait. How he got here he couldn't figure out. He was even more amazed that the portrait was all open and there really was no sheet on it. He looked at him with immovable fear and saw how living human eyes stared straight into him. Cold sweat broke out on his face; he wanted to move away, but he felt that his legs seemed to be rooted to the ground. And he sees: this is no longer a dream, - the old man's features moved, and his lips began to stretch towards him, as if they wanted to suck him out ... With a cry of despair, he jumped back - and woke up.

“Was that a dream, too?” With a beating heart, he felt around him with his hands. Yes, he lies on the bed in exactly the same position as he fell asleep. There are screens before him; the light of the moon filled the room. Through a slit in the screens, a portrait was visible, properly covered with a sheet, just as he himself had covered it. So it was also a dream! But the clenched hand still feels as if there was something in it. The beating of the heart was strong, almost frightening; the heaviness in the chest is unbearable. He fixed his eyes on the crack and stared at the sheet. And now he clearly sees that the sheet begins to open, as if hands were floundering under it and trying to throw it off. “Lord, my God, what is this!” he cried, crossing himself desperately, and woke up!

And it was also a dream! He jumped out of bed, half-witted, unconscious, and could no longer explain what was happening to him: the pressure of a nightmare or a brownie, or delirium of a fever or a living vision. Trying to calm down a little bit his mental agitation and the rushing blood that beat with a tense pulse through all his veins, he went to the window and opened the window. The cold smelling wind revived him. The moonlight still lay on the roofs and white walls of the houses, although small clouds began to cross the sky more often. Everything was quiet: from time to time the distant rattle of the droshky of a cab reached the ear, who was sleeping somewhere in an invisible alley, lulled by his lazy horse, waiting for a belated rider. He stared for a long time, sticking his head out the window. The signs of the approaching dawn were already born in the sky; at last he sensed an approaching drowsiness, slammed the window, walked away, lay down in bed, and soon fell asleep like the dead, the soundest sleep.

He woke up very late and felt in himself that unpleasant state that takes possession of a person after intoxication; his head hurt badly. The room was dim; an unpleasant phlegm sowed in the air and passed through the cracks of his windows, lined with paintings or primed canvas. Gloomy, dissatisfied, like a wet rooster, he sat down on his tattered sofa, not knowing himself what to do, what to do, and finally remembered his whole dream. As he remembered, this dream appeared in his imagination so painfully alive that he even began to suspect whether it was just a dream and simple delirium, whether there was something else here, whether this was a vision. Pulling back the sheet, he examined this terrible portrait in the daylight. His eyes certainly struck with their unusual liveliness, but he did not find anything especially terrible in them; only as if some inexplicable, unpleasant feeling remained in his soul. For all that, he still could not be completely sure that it was a dream. It seemed to him that in the midst of the dream there was some terrible fragment of reality. It seemed that even in the very look and expression of the old man something seemed to say that he had been with him that night; his hand felt the heaviness that had just been lying in itself, as if someone had snatched it from him just a minute before. It seemed to him that if he had only held the bundle more firmly, it would surely have remained in his hand even after waking up.

“My God, if only some of this money!” he said with a heavy sigh; and in his imagination all the bundles he had seen with the tempting inscription began to spill out of the bag: "1000 chervonny". The parcels unfolded, the gold shone, wrapped again, and he sat, staring his eyes motionless and senselessly into the empty air, unable to tear himself away from such an object - like a child sitting before a sweet dish and seeing, swallowing his saliva, how others eat him . At last there was a knock at the door, which made him uncomfortably awake. The owner entered with the quarter warden, whose appearance for small people, as you know, is even more unpleasant than for the rich the face of a petitioner. The owner of the small house in which Chartkov lived was one of the creatures that owners of houses usually are somewhere in the Fifteenth Line of Vasilyevsky Island, on the Petersburg side or in a remote corner of Kolomna - a creation of which there are many in Rus' and whose character is just as difficult determine how the color of a worn frock coat. In his youth he was a captain and a loudmouth; but in his old age he merged all these sharp features in himself into a kind of dull indefiniteness. He was already a widow; walked up and down the room, straightening out a tallow stub; carefully at the end of each month he visited his tenants for money; went out into the street with a key in his hand, in order to look at the roof of his house; several times drove the janitor out of his kennel, where he hid himself to sleep; in a word, a retired man who, after all his life of tambourines and shaking on the benches, is left with only vulgar habits.

“If you please, look for yourself, Varukh Kuzmich,” said the owner, turning to the quarterly and spreading his arms, “he doesn’t pay for the apartment, he doesn’t pay.

- What if there is no money? Wait, I'll pay.

“I can’t wait, father,” the owner said in an angry gesture, making a gesture with the key that he held in his hand, “Potogonkin, a lieutenant colonel, has been living with me, he has been living for seven years; Anna Petrovna Bukhmisterova hires a barn and a stable for two stalls, three servants with her - these are the kind of tenants I have. I, to tell you frankly, do not have such an institution as not to pay for an apartment. If you please, pay the money right now, and move out.

“Yes, if you’ve got it right, then please pay,” said the quarter warden, with a slight shake of his head and putting his finger behind the button of his uniform.

- How to pay? - question. I don't have a penny now.

“In that case, satisfy Ivan Ivanovich with the products of your profession,” said the quarterly, “perhaps he will agree to take pictures.

- No, father, thanks for the pictures. It would be nice to have pictures with a noble content, so that you can hang on the wall, at least some general with a star or Prince Kutuzov’s portrait, otherwise he painted a peasant, a peasant in a shirt, a servant that rubs paint. Still with him, pigs, a portrait to draw! I'll chop his neck: he pulled all the nails out of my valves, a swindler. Look at what objects: here he is drawing a room. It would be nice to have taken a room tidied up, tidy, and he painted it like that, with all the rubbish and squabbles that were lying around. Here, look how he messed up my room, if you please, see for yourself. Yes, tenants live with me for seven years, colonels, Bukhmisterova Anna Petrovna ... No, I’ll tell you: there is no worse tenant than a painter: a pig lives like a pig, just God forbid.

And all this had to be listened to patiently by the poor painter. The quarter warden, meanwhile, was engaged in examining paintings and sketches and immediately showed that his soul was more alive than the master's and was even not alien to artistic impressions.

“Heh,” he said, pointing his finger at one of the canvases, which depicted a naked woman, “an object that is… playful.” And why is it so black under his nose? tobacco, or what, he fell asleep to himself?

44f683a84163b3523afe57c2e008bc8c

In a shop in Shchukin's yard, the young artist Chartkov admired the paintings. He had no money, but, not wanting to leave empty-handed, he began to look for an inexpensive painting in a pile of rubbish that was not in demand. There he found an unfinished portrait of an Asiatic, painted by a skilled craftsman, and bargained it for two kopecks.

Returning home, he learns that the owner of the apartment came to him with a quarterly, with the intention of expelling the artist for non-payment. The professor considered Chartkov a talented artist and advised him not to "paint" for money. But in a moment of despair, Chartkov scolded himself that he had not chosen the easy way - to write to please the customer for a fee. At that moment, he was pierced by the gaze of an Asian from a portrait. Chartkov was afraid. Even when he lay down to sleep behind the screen, this look pierced him through the crack of the screen, through the sheet with which the portrait was wrapped. IN moonlight the artist imagined that the old man had stepped down from the portrait. The Asian sat down almost at the very feet of the stunned artist, took out a bag with bundles, on each of which was written "1000 chervonny". One bundle rolled aside and the artist, unnoticed by the old man, took it away.

Chartkov woke up standing in front of the portrait and not understanding how he got there. It was a dream, but his hand felt the weight of gold, and the old man looked at him with a terrible look. The artist screamed and woke up.

The next day the payment was due. The owner drew attention to the portrait of an Asian, the quarterly took it and a scroll with the inscription "1000 chervonny" fell out from under the frame. From that time on, the life of the young artist went differently: he bought himself good clothes and rented an apartment on Nevsky. He wanted fame. In the newspaper, he placed an ad that spoke of his genius. Soon the artist received an order for a portrait of a young lady. The work fascinated him, but the customer did not like the veracity of the portrait. Chartkov had to correct what he had written. The resemblance disappeared, but the artist was rewarded with money and social honors. A little time passed, and Chartkov was recognized as a fashionable painter.

At a time when Chartkov became rich and popular, he was invited to evaluate the painting sent from Italy. The depth of the artist's talent impressed Chartkov so much that he realized how insignificant he was when drawing fashionable portraits. Envy arose in his soul, which forced him to buy up and destroy talented paintings. He fell into madness and died, leaving behind only tormented works of art.

A portrait of an Asian was being sold at the auction. The price has risen to incredible heights. The artist stopped the disputes by telling the story of the portrait to those present. The Asiatic was a usurer who gave money to both the poorest and the richest. Everyone who took money from him met a strange fate. The most beautiful intentions of the soul of the borrowers took on ugly and ugly forms. The usurer began to inspire fear and horror.

Once an Asian came to the workshop of a talented artist - the father of the storyteller. The artist was self-taught, and his soul burned with Christian virtue. He worked hard for the church. On one of the works, he had to portray the spirit of darkness. The image of a pawnbroker popped into his head at that thought. And so, the Asian himself came to his studio and ordered a portrait, saying that he had no heirs, but he wanted to live after death. They agreed on a price and started painting the portrait.

The artist was passionate about work, trying to reflect every detail. He was overcome by a painful feeling, but he did not retreat. The eyes of the Asian struck him greatly, and he decided to write them as realistically as possible. The whole period of his work was haunted by disgust. He quit his job and took it up again. The portrait was never finished. The pawnbroker returned it without paying anything. In the evening, the artist learned that the Asian had died. Since that time, envy appeared in the artist's heart. He began to weave intrigues. The artist decided to burn the portrait, but his friend prevented him from doing so, taking the painting for himself. Everyone who got the portrait suffered misfortune. The artist went to the monastery, giving his son to study painting. When he finished the course and came to his father for a blessing, the artist told him the story of the portrait and bequeathed to destroy the painting if his son ever finds it.

The young artist did not have time to finish. Turning their eyes to the place where the portrait was, everyone saw that it had disappeared.

The artist Chartkov was examining paintings in the Shchukinsky courtyard, and then his eyes fell on a portrait of an old man in oriental attire. Having paid the last money for the painting, Chartkov goes home. Later, he will regret the purchase, because he even has nothing to pay for housing. Looking at the old man from the portrait, he becomes uncomfortable with his eyes - they seemed so alive. Chartkov even curtained the picture at night so as not to cross his eyes with the old man. But a terrible thing happened at night: the sheet was pulled off the picture, and an old man came out of the frame. There was money in his bag, and he began to count them. The artist had such nightmares for several nights in a row.

The owner of the apartment demands payment, but since Chartkov has no money, he wanted to take the portrait of the old man on account of his debt. When looking at the picture, a bundle of money falls out of the frame, already familiar to Chartkov from dreams. With this money, he was able to pay the debt for housing, rent a bigger apartment, dress up. The artist posted an ad that he paints portraits to order. Suddenly, popularity hits him, and he becomes a fashionable portrait painter. Old acquaintances are only amazed at how much he has lost his skill and talent. Soon the artist himself realized his fall. In desperation, he locked himself up and tried to write something, but everywhere he saw the eyes of the old man from that portrait. Chartkov died in consumption.

After some time, a portrait of an old Asian with a surprisingly lively look was put up for sale at an auction. Many wanted to buy it, but then the artist B. came out, telling his story to those present. Once upon a time there lived a usurer in Kolomna. Everyone to whom he gave money soon died in a very tragic way. B.'s father was an artist and a neighbor of this usurer. Once an Asian came to him with an order to paint himself on canvas. The more the painter painted the portrait, the more alive the eyes turned out. Every day, the artist inside grew disgusted with his work. The pawnbroker dropped that after his death, all his power will go into this picture. These words finally frightened the artist, and he runs away without finishing the work, but he was nevertheless handed over the portrait in person, and the next day the usurer died. The artist gets into trouble and tries to get rid of the painting. Trying to escape from the curse of the old man, the artist goes to the monastery and begins to paint on biblical motives. Before his death, he bequeathed to his eldest son to find and destroy the cursed portrait.

Having finished the story about his father, B. turns around to look at the portrait, but then everyone sees that he is not there.

the main idea

The work contrasts two different fates of artists. The author emphasized that only by abandoning the worldly fuss, the master can reveal his talent and not turn into an artisan.

You can use this text for a reader's diary

Gogol. All works

• Evening on the eve of Ivan Kupala
• Portrait
• overcoat

Portrait. Picture for the story

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Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Nowhere did so many people stop as in front of the picture shop in Shchukin's yard. This shop represented, for sure, the most diverse collection of curiosities: the paintings were mostly painted with oil paints, covered with dark green varnish, in dark yellow tinsel frames. Winter with white trees, a completely red evening, similar to the glow of a fire, a Flemish peasant with a pipe and a broken arm, looking more like an Indian rooster in his cuffs than a man - these are their usual plots. To this we must add several engraved images: a portrait of Khozrev-Mirza in a ram's hat, portraits of some generals in triangular hats, with crooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such a shop are usually hung with bundles of works printed with popular prints on large sheets, which testify to the native talent of a Russian person. On one was Princess Miliktrisa Kirbityevna, on the other was the city of Jerusalem, through the houses and churches of which red paint swept without ceremony, seizing part of the land and two praying Russian peasants in mittens. There are usually few buyers of these works, but there are a lot of spectators. Some goofy lackey is probably already yawning in front of them, holding in his hand bowls with dinner from the tavern for his master, who, no doubt, will sip the soup not too hot. In front of him, no doubt, there is a soldier in an overcoat, this cavalier of the flea market, selling two penknives; an okhtenka merchant with a box filled with shoes. Everyone admires in his own way: the peasants usually poke their fingers; gentlemen are considered seriously; footmen-boys and boy-workers laugh and tease each other with drawn caricatures; old lackeys in frieze overcoats look only to yawn somewhere; and the merchants, young Russian women, rush by instinct to hear what the people are babbling about and see what they are looking at. At this time, the young artist Chartkov, who was passing by, involuntarily stopped in front of the shop. The old greatcoat and the dainty dress showed in him that man who was devoted to his work with selflessness and did not have time to take care of his outfit, which always has a mysterious attraction for youth. He stopped in front of the shop and at first laughed inwardly at these ugly pictures. Finally, an involuntary reflection took possession of him: he began to think about who would need these works. What the Russian people look at Yeruslanov Lazarevich, on ate and drank on Foma and Yerema, this did not seem surprising to him: the objects depicted were very accessible and understandable to the people; but where are the buyers of these motley, dirty, oily paintings? who needs these Flemish peasants, these red and blue landscapes, which show some kind of claim to a somewhat higher level of art, but in which all its deep humiliation is expressed? It did not seem to be the work of a self-taught child at all. Otherwise, despite the insensible caricature of the whole, a sharp impulse would burst out in them. But here one could see simply stupidity, impotent, decrepit mediocrity, which self-willedly entered the ranks of the arts, while its place was among the low crafts, mediocrity, which was nevertheless true to its vocation and introduced its craft into art itself. The same colors, the same manner, the same stuffed, accustomed hand, which belonged rather to a crudely made automaton than to a person. !.. For a long time he stood in front of these dirty pictures, no longer thinking at all about them, and meanwhile the owner of the shop, a gray little man, in a frieze overcoat, with an unshaven beard since Sunday, had been explaining to him for a long time, bargaining and agreeing on a price, not yet knowing what he liked and what he needed. “I’ll take a white one for these peasants and for the landscape. What a painting! just break the eye; just received from the exchange; the polish hasn't dried yet. Or here is winter, take winter! Fifteen rubles! One frame is worth it. Wow, what a winter! Here the merchant gave a light click on the canvas, probably to show all the goodness of winter. “Will you order them to be tied together and demolished after you? Where would you like to live? Hey, little one, give me a rope." “Wait, brother, not so soon,” said the artist, who had come to his senses, seeing that the nimble merchant had begun, in earnest, to tie them together. He felt a little ashamed not to take anything, having stood for so long in the shop, and he said: “But wait, I’ll see if there’s something for me here” and, bending down, began to get from the floor bulky, worn, dusty old painting, apparently not used by any honor. There were old family portraits, whose descendants, perhaps, could not be found in the world, completely unknown images with a torn canvas, frames devoid of gilding, in a word, all sorts of old rubbish. But the artist began to examine, thinking in secret: "maybe something will be found." He heard more than once stories about how sometimes the paintings of the great masters were found in the rubbish of popular sellers. The owner, seeing where he had climbed, left his fussiness and, having assumed his usual position and proper weight, placed himself again at the door, calling passers-by and pointing them with one hand to the bench. … “Here, father; here are the pictures! come in, come in; received from the exchange. He had already shouted to his heart's content, and for the most part futilely, had talked his fill with the patchwork salesman, who was also standing opposite him at the door of his shop, and finally, remembering that he had a buyer in his shop, turned the people's backs and went into it. “What, father, have you chosen something?” But the artist had already stood motionless for some time in front of one portrait in large, once magnificent frames, but on which traces of gilding now shone a little. It was an old man with a bronzed 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 he managed to clean the dust from his face, he saw traces of the work of a high artist. The portrait, it seemed, was not finished; but the power of the brush was striking. The most extraordinary thing were the eyes: it seemed that the artist used all the power of the brush and all the diligent care of his artist in them. They simply looked, looked even from the portrait itself, as if destroying its harmony with their strange liveliness. When he brought the portrait to the door, his eyes looked even stronger. They made almost the same impression among the people. The woman, who had stopped behind him, cried out: "Looking, looking," and backed away. He felt some unpleasant, incomprehensible feeling to himself and put the portrait on the ground.

“Well, take a portrait!” said the owner.

"And how much?" said the artist.

“Yes, what is there to value for him? three quarters, let's go!"

"Well, what can you give me?"

"Two kopecks," said the artist, getting ready to go.

“What a price they wrapped up! Yes, you can’t buy one frame for two kopecks. It looks like you're going to buy tomorrow? Sir, lord, come back! at least think of a dime. Take it, take it, give me two kopecks. Really, for the sake of an initiative only, that's just the first buyer. After this, he made a gesture with his hand, as if saying: “So be it, the picture is gone!”