the mysterious portrait-第8章

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rapidity　and　dash　of　his　brush。　And　of　course　those　who　sat　to　him

were　in　ecstasies；　and　proclaimed　him　a　genius。



Tchartkoff　became　a　fashionable　artist　in　every　sense　of　the　word。　He

began　to　dine　out；　to　escort　ladies　to　picture　galleries；　to　dress

foppishly；　and　to　assert　audibly　that　an　artist　should　belong　to

society；　that　he　must　uphold　his　profession；　that　artists　mostly　dress

like　showmakers；　do　not　know　how　to　behave　themselves；　do　not　maintain

the　highest　tone；　and　are　lacking　in　all　polish。　At　home；　in　his

studio；　he　carried　cleanliness　and　spotlessness　to　the　last　extreme；

set　up　two　superb　footmen；　took　fashionable　pupils；　dressed　several

times　a　day；　curled　his　hair；　practised　various　manners　of　receiving

his　callers；　and　busied　himself　in　adorning　his　person　in　every

conceivable　way；　in　order　to　produce　a　pleasing　impression　on　the

ladies。　In　short；　it　would　soon　have　been　impossible　for　any　one　to

have　recognised　in　him　the　modest　artist　who　had　formerly　toiled

unknown　in　his　miserable　quarters　in　the　Vasilievsky　Ostroff。



He　now　expressed　himself　decidedly　concerning　artists　and　art；

declared　that　too　much　credit　had　been　given　to　the　old　masters；　that

even　Raphael　did　not　always　paint　well；　and　that　fame　attached　to　many

of　his　works　simply　by　force　of　tradition：　that　Michael　Angelo　was　a

braggart　because　he　could　boast　only　a　knowledge　of　anatomy；　that

there　was　no　grace　about　him；　and　that　real　brilliancy　and　power　of

treatment　and　colouring　were　to　be　looked　for　in　the　present　century。

And　there；　naturally；　the　question　touched　him　personally。　〃I　do　not

understand；〃　said　he；　〃how　others　toil　and　work　with　difficulty：　a　man

who　labours　for　months　over　a　picture　is　a　dauber；　and　no　artist　in　my

opinion；　I　don't　believe　he　has　any　talent：　genius　works　boldly；

rapidly。　Here　is　this　portrait　which　I　painted　in　two　days；　this　head

in　one　day；　this　in　a　few　hours；　this　in　little　more　than　an　hour。　No；

I　confess　I　do　not　recognise　as　art　that　which　adds　line　to　line；　that

is　a　handicraft；　not　art。〃　In　this　manner　did　he　lecture　his　visitors；

and　the　visitors　admired　the　strength　and　boldness　of　his　works；

uttered　exclamations　on　hearing　how　fast　they　had　been　produced；　and

said　to　each　other；　〃This　is　talent；　real　talent！　see　how　he　speaks；

how　his　eyes　gleam！　There　is　something　really　extraordinary　in　his

face！〃



It　flattered　the　artist　to　hear　such　reports　about　himself。　When

printed　praise　appeared　in　the　papers；　he　rejoiced　like　a　child；

although　this　praise　was　purchased　with　his　money。　He　carried　the

printed　slips　about　with　him　everywhere；　and　showed　them　to　friends

and　acquaintances　as　if　by　accident。　His　fame　increased；　his　works　and

orders　multiplied。　Already　the　same　portraits　over　and　over　again

wearied　him；　by　the　same　attitudes　and　turns；　which　he　had　learned　by

heart。　He　painted　them　now　without　any　great　interest　in　his　work；

brushing　in　some　sort　of　a　head；　and　giving　them　to　his　pupil's　to

finish。　At　first　he　had　sought　to　devise　a　new　attitude　each　time。　Now

this　had　grown　wearisome　to　him。　His　brain　was　tired　with　planning　and

thinking。　It　was　out　of　his　power；　his　fashionable　life　bore　him　far

away　from　labour　and　thought。　His　work　grew　cold　and　colourless；　and

he　betook　himself　with　indifference　to　the　reproduction　of　monotonous；

well…worn　forms。　The　eternally　spick…and…span　uniforms；　and　the

so…to…speak　buttoned…up　faces　of　the　government　officials；　soldiers；

and　statesmen；　did　not　offer　a　wide　field　for　his　brush：　it　forgot　how

to　render　superb　draperies　and　powerful　emotion　and　passion。　Of

grouping；　dramatic　effect　and　its　lofty　connections；　there　was

nothing。　In　face　of　him　was　only　a　uniform；　a　corsage；　a　dress…coat；

and　before　which　the　artist　feels　cold　and　all　imagination　vanishes。

Even　his　own　peculiar　merits　were　no　longer　visible　in　his　works；　yet

they　continued　to　enjoy　renown；　although　genuine　connoisseurs　and

artists　merely　shrugged　their　shoulders　when　they　saw　his　latest

productions。　But　some　who　had　known　Tchartkoff　in　his　earlier　days

could　not　understand　how　the　talent　of　which　he　had　given　such　clear

indications　in　the　outset　could　so　have　vanished；　and　strove　in　vain

to　divine　by　what　means　genius　could　be　extinguished　in　a　man　just

when　he　had　attained　to　the　full　development　of　his　powers。



But　the　intoxicated　artist　did　not　hear　these　criticisms。　He　began　to

attain　to　the　age　of　dignity；　both　in　mind　and　years：　to　grow　stout；

and　increase　visibly　in　flesh。　He　often　read　in　the　papers　such

phrases　as；　〃Our　most　respected　Andrei　Petrovitch；　our　worthy　Andrei

Petrovitch。〃　He　began　to　receive　offers　of　distinguished　posts　in　the

service；　invitations　to　examinations　and　committees。　He　began；　as　is

usually　the　case　in　maturer　years；　to　advocate　Raphael　and　the　old

masters；　not　because　he　had　become　thoroughly　convinced　of　their

transcendent　merits；　but　in　order　to　snub　the　younger　artists。　His

life　was　already　approaching　the　period　when　everything　which　suggests

impulse　contracts　within　a　man；　when　a　powerful　chord　appeals　more

feebly　to　the　spirit；　when　the　touch　of　beauty　no　longer　converts

virgin　strength　into　fire　and　flame；　but　when　all　the　burnt…out

sentiments　become　more　vulnerable　to　the　sound　of　gold；　hearken　more

attentively　to　its　seductive　music；　and　little　by　little　permit

themselves　to　be　completely　lulled　to　sleep　by　it。　Fame　can　give　no

pleasure　to　him　who　has　stolen　it；　not　won　it；　so　all　his　feelings　and

impulses　turned　towards　wealth。　Gold　was　his　passion；　his　ideal；　his

fear；　his　delight；　his　aim。　The　bundles　of　bank…notes　increased　in　his

coffers；　and；　like　all　to　whose　lot　falls　this　fearful　gift；　he　began

to　grow　inaccessible　to　every　sentiment　except　the　love　of　gold。　But

something　occurred　which　gave　him　a　powerful　shock；　and　disturbed　the

whole　tenor　of　his　life。



One　day　he　found　upon　his　table　a　note；　in　which　the　Academy　of

Painting　begged　him；　as　a　worthy　member　of　its　body；　to　come　and　give

his　opinion　upon　a　new　work　which　had　been　sent　from　Italy　by　a

Russian　artist　who　was　perfecting　himself　there。　The　painter　was　one

of　his　former　comrades；　who　had　been　possessed　with　a　passion　for　art

from　his　earliest　years；　had　given　himself　up　to　it　with　his　whole

soul；　estranged　himself　from　his　friends　and　relatives；　and　had

hastened　to　that　wonderful　Rome；　at　whose　very　name　the　artist's　heart

beats　wildly　and　hotly。　There　he　buried　himself　in　his　work　from　which

he　permitted　nothing　to　entice　him。　He　visited　the　galleries

unweariedly；　he　stood　for　hours　at　a　time　before　the　works　of　the

great　masters；　seizing　and　studying　their　marvellous　methods。　He　never

finished　anything　without　revising　his　impressions　several　times

before　these　great　teachers；　and　reading　in　their　works　silent　but

eloquent　counsels。　He　gave　each　impartially　his　due；　appropriating

from　all　only　that　which　was　most　beautiful；　and　finally　became　the

pupil　of　the　divine　Raphael　alone；　as　a　great　poet；　after　reading　many

works；　at　last　made　Homer's　〃Iliad〃　his　only　breviary；　having

discovered　that　it　contains　all　one　wants；　and　that　there　is　nothing

which　is　not　expressed　in　it　in　perfection。　And　so　he　brought　away

from　his　school　the　grand　conception　of　creation；　the　mighty　beauty　of

thought；　the　high　charm　of　that　heavenly　brush。



When　Tchartkoff　entered　the　room；　he　found　a　crowd　of　visitors　already

collected　before　the　picture。　The　most　profound　silence；　such　as

rarely　settles　upon　a　throng　of　critics；　reigned　over　all。　He　hastened

to　assume　the　significant　expression　of　a　connoisseur；　and　approached

the　picture；　but；　O　God！　what　did　he　behold！



Pure；　faultless；　beautiful　as　a　bride；　stood　the　picture　before　him。

The　critics　regarded　this　new　hitherto　unknown　work　with　a　feeling　of

involuntary　wonder。　All　seemed　united　in　it：　the　art　of　Raphael；

reflected　in　the　lofty　grace　of　the　grouping；　the　art　of　Correggio；