Brief retelling
"Portrait" Gogol N.V. (very briefly)
The artist Chartkov lives in St. Petersburg. He has considerable talent. His art teacher warns Chartkov against being carried away by fashion trends, from the temptation to exchange talent for money.
Chartkov is poor and works hard. Once, in some strange impulse, he bought in an art shop an old portrait of a man in an Asian outfit with piercing eyes. I bought it cheaply - for two kopecks. Only two kopecks was the last one. There is nothing to eat, they are driven from the apartment for non-payment ...
Chartkov sees terrible dreams, where the main character is an old man from a portrait. As if he comes to life, walks, hides a thousand gold coins behind the frame.
In the morning the owner came with a quarter (policeman) to drive the poor artist out of the apartment, the quarter inadvertently shook the frame of the portrait with terrible eyes - and a bundle with a thousand chervonets fell out!
Chartkov paid off the owner and began to dream about how he would live on this money - modestly and industriously, cultivating his talent. However, he was only twenty-two years old!
And the artist immediately began to squander this capital that literally fell on his head: new clothes, a new luxurious apartment, champagne ...
Chartkov hires a lively journalist who gives an article in the newspaper about his talent as a portrait painter - and the first to enter the workshop is a lady who commissions a portrait of a pale daughter who danced at balls. While working on the portrait, it becomes clear to the artist that the clients want not similarity, not truth, but prettiness. And also - the speed and briskness of the brush. Chartkov learned this and became a fashionable painter.
He became interested in secular life, began to dress fashionably, to be in society. He got himself servants and apprentices. Pupils used to finish portraits for him. The thought of creating a real work of art left him, his bright talent faded. The artist earned money by craft alone.
Once Chartkov was invited as a recognized master to evaluate the painting of one of his fellow students - it was the creation of a "heavenly brush". Terrible envy overcame Chartkov. He tried to write at least something similar, but realized that he himself had ruined his talent. As if possessed by the devil - the devil of envy! - he began to buy the best works of art and destroy them: tore, cut into pieces, trampled underfoot. The madness took over him more and more. He burned out from consumption and nerve disorder. His very corpse was terrible.
Some time later, at the auction of paintings, the same portrait was put up, which marked the beginning of the rapid enrichment of Chartkov and his death. A certain young man says that the portrait depicts a pawnbroker who actually walked around in exotic Asian attire and had "extraordinary fire" eyes. He could provide money at interest to anyone - and this money always brought misfortune: marriages broke up, murders occurred. Taking money from this incarnation of the devil meant ruining your soul. To the artist, the father of a young man, the usurer ordered his portrait, claiming that he would live in this portrait even after death.
And in fact: wherever this portrait fell, an atmosphere of envy, anger, and nightmares reigned everywhere. The terrible image passed from hand to hand. The creator of the picture also did not escape the destructive influence, but managed to correct himself and turn to good. He bequeathed to his son to "destroy" this portrait.
The son finally found the portrait at the auction and warns everyone against buying it. The young man must acquire it and destroy it!
But while he was talking, the portrait was stolen by an unknown person. That's right, still walking around the world.
Petersburg stories - 3
sardonios
“N.V. Gogol. Collected Works in 6 volumes. Volume Three: Tales": State Publishing House of Fiction; Moscow; 1949
annotation
The story was first published in "Arabesques" in 1835. Gogol worked on the "Portrait" during 1833-1834. In 1841-1842. the author radically revised the story, and the "Portrait" was published in Sovremennik in 1842 in a new edition (this second edition is presented to the reader).
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, 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, 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!"
"No."
"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!”
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 grew 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, subtle, 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, 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 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."
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. 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 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 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 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 a 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 owner in his heart, 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, did he fall asleep with tobacco?
"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 through 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 to you, artist: you took out a lucky 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.
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.
Part one
The young artist Chartkov enters an art shop in Schukin's yard. Among the mediocre popular prints, he discovers an old portrait. “It was an old man with a bronze-colored face, high cheekbones, stunted; the features of the face seemed to be seized in a moment of convulsive movement and did not respond to the northern force. The fiery noon was imprinted in them. He was draped in a wide Asian costume. No matter how damaged and dusty the portrait was, but when it was possible to clean the dust from it, 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 eyes were the most extraordinary of all... They just looked, looked even from the portrait itself, as if destroying its harmony with their strange liveliness.” Chartkov buys a portrait for two kopecks.
Chartkov, like a real artist, lives in poverty, experiences financial difficulties, but does not give in to the temptation to become a fashionable painter, preferring to develop his talent. Chartkov is always in debt for the apartment.
At home, Chartkov approaches the portrait more than once, trying to understand the secret it contains. “It was no longer a copy from nature, it was that strange liveliness that would light up the face of a dead man who had risen from the grave.” Chartkov is afraid to walk around the room, he falls asleep, in a dream he sees that the old man crawls out of his portrait, takes out bundles from the bag, and in bundles - money. Chartkov grabs one of the bundles with the inscription "1000 chervonets", doing his best to prevent the old man from noticing his movement. The artist wakes up several times, unable to return to his reality. In reality, it turns out that in his room there really is a bundle of money.
The owner of the apartment with a policeman knocks on the door, they demand the immediate payment of the debt. Chartkov pays everything in full, rents a new luxurious apartment, moves in and decides to paint fashionable portraits (in which there is not a drop of resemblance to the original, but there is only a custom-made mask). Chartkov dresses beautifully, orders a commendable article about himself in the newspaper, and soon receives the first customers - a rich lady and her daughter, whose portrait he must paint. The artist paints the girl’s face quite vividly, but the mother does not like either some yellowness of the skin, or some other “defect” that enlivens her daughter’s pretty face so much. Finally, the customers are satisfied; Chartkov receives money and flattering reviews. He has more and more clients, he draws what is required of him, embellishes faces, removes "flaws", gives them an unusual expression. Money flows like a river. Chartkov himself wonders how he could previously spend so much time working on one portrait. Now a day is enough for him to finish the picture. He is a fashionable painter; he is accepted everywhere, he is a welcome guest, he allows himself to judge other artists in society (including Raphael), they write about him in the newspapers, his savings are increasing.
The Academy of Arts invites Chartkov to express his opinion about the work of a young artist who trained in Italy. He is already preparing to casually criticize, slightly praise, casually express his own vision of the depicted subject, but the work of the young painter shocks him with his magnificent performance. Chartkov thinks about his ruined talent, about the fact that he exchanged his true purpose in life for gold. He goes home, tries to portray a fallen angel, but the brush does not obey him, because the hand is already used to depicting something hardened. The artist despairs, meets the eyes of the old man in the portrait. He decides that the portrait was the reason for the fact that his life has changed dramatically, and orders the portrait to be taken away.
Chartkov is overcome by envy of all talented painters. He buys all the best paintings, brings them home and cuts them into pieces. Attacks of rage and madness are repeated more and more often, the artist constantly sees the eyes of the old man from the portrait. Chartkov dies in terrible agony. After him, there is no fortune left: he spent everything on the beautiful canvases of other masters, which he destroyed.
Part two
The portrait is being sold at auction. They give a very high price for it. Two rich art connoisseurs do not want to give each other an amazing picture. Suddenly, a man of about thirty-five interrupts the auction, explaining that he has been looking for this portrait for many years, and that the portrait should go to him. He tells the incredible story of painting.
Many years ago, on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Kolomna, there lived a strange usurer, “an extraordinary being in all respects ... He walked in a wide Asian outfit; the dark complexion of his face indicated his southern origin, but what kind of nation he was: an Indian, a Greek, a Persian, no one could say for sure about this ... This usurer differed from other usurers already in that he could provide any amount of money to everyone, starting from a poor old woman to a wasteful court nobleman ... But what is strangest of all and what could not help but amaze many - it was a strange fate for all those who received money from him: they all ended their lives miserably.
A young man of aristocratic origin patronized people of art and went bankrupt. He applied for a loan to the Kolomna usurer and changed dramatically: he became a persecutor of talented people, everywhere he saw signs of an impending revolution, he suspected everyone, composed unfair denunciations. Rumors about his behavior reach the Empress. He is punished and dismissed. Everyone despise him. He dies in a fit of madness and rage.
Prince R. is in love with the first beauty of St. Petersburg, she reciprocates with him. But the affairs of the prince are upset, and the girl's relatives do not accept his proposals.
The prince leaves the capital and after a short time returns a fabulously rich man (apparently, he turned to the Kolomna usurer). A magnificent wedding is played. But the prince becomes painfully jealous, intolerant, capricious, beats his young wife, torments her with his suspicions. The woman starts talking about divorce. The husband rushes at her with a knife, they try to keep him, he stabs himself.
The father of the young man present at the auction was a talented artist. On one of the canvases, he intended to depict the spirit of darkness and imagined him in no other way than in the form of a Kolomna usurer. Unexpectedly, the usurer himself comes to the artist's studio and asks to paint his portrait. Lighting is conducive to starting work, and the painter takes up the brush. The similarity is striking, but the better the details are written out, the more disgust the artist feels towards the work. He refuses to continue the portrait. The usurer throws himself on his knees in front of him, begging him to finish the picture, explaining that he will live on the portrait even after death. The artist drops his brushes and palette and runs away.
In the evening the usurer dies. The artist feels that unpleasant changes are taking place in him: he envies his talented student, deprives him of a profitable order, tries to present his picture instead of the student’s work, but the choice of the commission still falls on the student. The artist sees that in his own picture all the figures have the eyes of a usurer. He returns home in a rage, intending to burn the portrait. Fortunately, one of his friends comes to him at that moment and takes the portrait for himself. The artist immediately feels how peace of mind returns to him. He asks for forgiveness from his disciple.
Having once met his friend, he learns that the portrait brought misfortune to him, and he gave it to his nephew. He also sold the portrait from his hands, so the picture ended up in the art shop.
The artist thinks deeply about how much evil he brought to people with his work. When his son turns nine years old, he sends him to the Academy of Arts, and he himself takes the tonsure and voluntarily increases the severity of monastic life for himself. For many years he does not paint pictures, atoning for his sin. Finally, the artist dares to paint the Nativity of Jesus. This is a marvel of the brush; all the monks agree that the divine power led the hand of the artist. He meets with his son, blesses him and tells the story of the creation of the picture, warns against temptations like those that this portrait causes in people. “Save the purity of your soul. Whoever has a talent in himself, he must be purer than all in soul. Much will be forgiven to another, but he will not be forgiven. The artist bequeaths to his son to find the portrait and destroy it.
Everyone present at the auction turns to the portrait, but it is no longer on the wall. Perhaps someone managed to steal it.
