The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol

by Nikolai Gogol

  "And in the event of your not being properly satisfied by this evening, then I beg your pardon, mister painter."

  So saying, he put on his three-cornered hat and went out to the front hall, followed by the landlord, his head bowed, it seemed, in some sort of reflection.

  "Thank God they got the hell out of here," said Chartkov when he heard the front door close. He peeked out to the front hall, sent Nikita for something so as to be left completely alone, locked the door behind him, and, returning to his room, began with wildly fluttering heart to unwrap the packet. There were gold roubles in it, every one of them new, hot as fire.

  Nearly out of his mind, he sat over the heap of gold, still asking himself if he was not dreaming. There was an even thousand of them in the packet, which looked exactly the same as the ones he had seen in his dream. For several minutes he ran his fingers through them, looking at them, and still unable to come to his senses. In his imagination there suddenly arose all the stories about treasures, about boxes with secret compartments, left by forebears to their spendthrift grandchildren in the firm conviction of their future ruined condition. He reflected thus: "Mightn't some grandfather have decided even now to leave his grandson a gift, locking it up in the frame of a family portrait?" Full of romantic nonsense, he even began thinking whether there might not be some secret connection with his destiny here: whether the existence of the portrait might not be connected with his own existence, and whether its very acquisition had not been somehow predestined? He began studying the frame of the portrait with curiosity. On one side a groove had been chiseled out, covered so cleverly and inconspicuously with a board that, if the inspector's weighty hand had not broken through it, the roubles might have lain there till the world's end. Studying the portrait, he marveled again at the lofty workmanship, the extraordinary finish of the eyes; they no longer seemed terrible to him, but all the same an unpleasant feeling remained in his soul each time. "No," he said to himself, "whoever's grandfather you were, I'll put you under glass for this and make you a golden frame." Here he placed his hand on the heap of gold that lay before him, and his heart began to pound hard at the touch of it. "What shall I do with it?" he thought, fixing his eyes on it. "Now I'm set up for at least three years, I can shut myself in and work. I have enough for paints now, enough for dinners, for tea, for expenses, for rent; no one will hinder and annoy me anymore; I'll buy myself a good mannequin, order a plaster torso, model some legs, set up a Venus, buy prints of the best pictures. And if I work some three years for myself, unhurriedly, not to sell, I'll beat them all, and maybe become a decent artist."

  So he was saying together with the promptings of his reason; but within him another voice sounded more audibly and ringingly. And as he cast another glance at the gold, his twenty-two years and his ardent youth said something different. Now everything he had looked at till then with envious eyes, which he had admired from afar with watering mouth, was in his power. Oh, how his heart leaped in him as soon as he thought of it! To put on a fashionable tailcoat, to break his long fast, to rent a fine apartment, to go at once to the theater, the pastry shop, the ... all the rest—and, having seized the money, he was already in the street.

  First of all he stopped at a tailor's, got outfitted from top to toe, and, like a child, began looking himself over incessantly; bought up lots of scents, pomades; rented, without bargaining, a magnificent apartment on Nevsky Prospect, the first that came along, with mirrors and plate-glass windows; chanced to buy an expensive lorgnette in a shop; also chanced to buy a quantity of various neckties, more than he needed; had his locks curled at a hairdresser's; took a couple of carriage rides through the city without any reason; stuffed himself with sweets in a pastry shop; and went to a French restaurant, of which hitherto he had heard only vague rumors, as of the state of China. There he dined, arms akimbo, casting very proud glances at others, and ceaselessly looking in the mirror and touching his curled locks. There he drank a bottle of champagne, which till then he had also known more from hearsay. The wine went to his head a little, and he left feeling lively, pert, devil-may-care, as the saying goes. He strutted down the sidewalk like a dandy, aiming his lorgnette at everyone.

  On the bridge, he noticed his former professor and darted nimbly past him as if without noticing him at all, so that the dumbfounded professor stood motionless on the bridge for a long time, his face the picture of a question mark.

  All his things, and whatever else there was—easel, canvases, paintings—were transported to the magnificent apartment that same evening. The better objects he placed more conspicuously, the worse he stuck into a corner, and he walked through the magnificent rooms, ceaselessly looking in the mirrors. An irresistible desire was born in him to catch fame by the tail at once and show himself to the world. He could already imagine the cries:

  "Chartkov, Chartkov! Have you seen Chartkov's picture? What a nimble brush this Chartkov has! What a strong talent this Chartkov has!" He walked about his room in a state of rapture, transported who knows where. The next day, taking a dozen gold roubles, he went to the publisher of a popular newspaper to ask for his magnanimous aid; the journalist received him cordially, called him "most honorable sir" at once, pressed both his hands, questioned him in detail about his name, patronymic, place of residence. And the very next day there appeared in the newspaper, following an advertisement for newly invented tallow candles, an article entitled "On the Extraordinary Talents of Chartkov": "We hasten to delight the educated residents of the capital with a wonderful—in all respects, one may say—acquisition. Everyone agrees that there are many most beautiful physiognomies and most beautiful faces among us, but so far the means have been lacking for transferring them to miracle-working canvas, to be handed on to posterity; now this lack has been filled: an artist has been discovered who combines in himself all that is necessary. Now the beautiful woman may be sure that she will be depicted with all the graciousness of her beauty—ethereal, light, charming, wonderful, like butterflies fluttering over spring flowers. The respectable paterfamilias will see himself with all his family around him. The merchant, the man of war, the citizen, the statesman—each will continue on his path with renewed zeal. Hurry, hurry, come from the fete, from strolling to see a friend or cousine, from stopping at a splendid shop, hurry from wherever you are. The artist's magnificent studio (Nevsky Prospect, number such-and-such) is all filled with portraits from his brush, worthy of Van Dycks and Titians. One hardly knows which to be surprised at: their faithfulness and likeness to the originals, or the extraordinary brightness and freshness of the brush. Praised be you, artist! You drew the lucky ticket in the lottery! Viva, Andrei Petrovich!"

  (The journalist evidently enjoyed taking liberties.) "Glorify yourself and us. We know how to appreciate you. Universal attraction, and money along with it, though some of our fellow journalists rise up against it, will be your reward."

  The artist read this announcement with secret pleasure: his face beamed. He was being talked about in print—a new thing for him. He read the lines over several times. The comparison with Van Dyck and Titian pleased him very much. The phrase "Viva, Andrei Petrovich!" also pleased him very much; to be called by his first name and patronymic in print was an honor hitherto completely unknown to him. He began to pace the room rapidly, ruffling his hair, now sitting down on a chair, now jumping up and moving to the couch, constantly picturing himself receiving visitors, men and women, going up to a canvas and making dashing gestures over it with a brush, trying to impart graciousness to the movement of his arm. The next day his bell rang; he rushed to open the door. A lady came in, preceded by a lackey in a livery overcoat with fur lining, and together with the lady came a young eighteen-year-old girl, her daughter.

  "Are you M'sieur Chartkov?" asked the lady.

  The artist bowed.

  "You are written about so much; your portraits, they say, are the height of perfection."

  Having said this, the lady put a lorgnette to her eye and quickly rushed to ex
amine the walls, on which nothing was hung. "But where are your portraits?"

  "Taken down," said the artist, slightly confused. "I've only just moved to this apartment, they're still on the way . . . haven't come yet."

  "Have you been to Italy?" said the lady, aiming her lorgnette at him, since she found nothing else to aim it at.

  "No, I haven't, but I wanted to . . . however, I've put it off for the time being. . . Here's an armchair, madam, you must be tired .. "

  "No, thank you, I sat in the carriage for a long time. Ah, there, I see your work at last!" said the lady, rushing across the room to the wall and aiming her lorgnette at the sketches, set pieces, perspectives, and portraits standing on the floor. "C'est charmant! Lise, Lise, venez ici! A room to Teniers' 11taste, you see—disorder, disorder, a table with a bust on it, an arm, a palette. There's dust, see how the dust is painted! C'est charmant! And there, on that other canvas, a woman washing her face— quelle jolie figure! Ah, a peasant! Lise, Lise, a little peasant in a Russian shirt! look—a peasant! So you don't do portraits only?"

  "Oh, it's rubbish . . . Just for fun . . . sketches . . ."

  "Tell me, what is your opinion regarding present-day portraitists? Isn't it true that there are none like Titian nowadays? None with that strength of color, that.. a pity I can't express it in Russian" (the lady was a lover of art and had gone running with her lorgnette through all the galleries of Italy). "However, M'sieur Null.. ah, what a painter! Such an extraordinary brush! I find his faces even more expressive than Titian's. Do you know M'sieur Null?"

  "Who is this Null?" asked the artist.

  "M'sieur Null. Ah, such talent! He painted her portrait when she was only twelve. You absolutely must come and visit us. Lise, you shall show him your album. You know, we came so that you could start at once on her portrait."

  "Why, I'm ready this very minute."

  He instantly moved over the easel with a prepared canvas on it, took up the palette, and fixed his eyes on the daughter's pale face. Had he been a connoisseur of human nature, in a single moment he would have read in it the beginnings of a childish passion for balls, the beginnings of boredom and complaints about the length of time before dinner and after dinner, the wish to put on a new dress and run to the fete, the heavy traces of an indifferent application to various arts, imposed by her mother for the sake of loftiness of soul and feelings.

  But the artist saw in this delicate little face nothing but an almost porcelain transparency of body, so alluring for the brush, an attractive, light languor, a slender white neck, and an aristocratic lightness of figure. And he was preparing beforehand to triumph, to show the lightness and brilliance of his brush, which so far had dealt only with the hard features of crude models, with the stern ancients and copies of some classical masters. He could already picture mentally to himself how this light little face was going to come out.

  "You know," said the lady, even with a somewhat touching expression on her face, "I'd like to . . . the dress she's wearing now—I confess, I'd like her not to be wearing a dress we're so used to; I'd like her to be dressed simply and sitting in the shade of greenery, with a view of some fields, with herds in the distance, or a copse .. so that it won't look as if she were going to some ball or fashionable soiree. Our balls, I confess, are so deadly for the soul, so destructive of what's left of our feelings. . . simplicity, there should be more simplicity."

  Alas! it was written on the faces of mother and daughter that they danced themselves away at balls until they nearly turned to wax.

  Chartkov got down to work, seated his model, pondered it all somewhat in his head; traced in the air with his brush, mentally establishing the points; squinted his eye a little, stepped back, looked from a distance—and in one hour had begun and finished the rough sketch. Pleased with it, he now got to painting, and the work carried him away. He forgot everything, forgot even that he was in the presence of aristocratic ladies, even began to exhibit some artistic mannerisms, uttering various sounds aloud, humming along every once in a while, as happens with artists who are wholeheartedly immersed in their work. Without any ceremony, just with a movement of his brush, he made his model raise her head, for she had finally become quite fidgety and looked utterly weary.

  "Enough, that's enough for the first time," said the lady.

  "A little longer," said the artist, forgetting himself.

  "No, it's time, Lise, it's three o'clock!" she said, taking out a small watch hanging on a golden chain from her belt and exclaiming, "Ah, how late!"

  "Only one little minute," Chartkov said in the simple-hearted and pleading voice of a child. But the lady did not seem at all disposed to cater to his artistic needs this time, and instead promised a longer sitting the next time.

  "That's annoying, though," Chartkov thought to himself. "My hand just got going." And he recalled that no one had interrupted him or stopped him when he was working in his studio on Vasilievsky Island; Nikita used to sit in one spot without stirring— paint him as much as you like; he would even fall asleep in the position he was told. Disgruntled, he put his brush and palette down on a chair and stopped vaguely before the canvas. A compliment uttered by the society lady awakened him from his oblivion. He rushed quickly to the door to see them off; on the stairs he received an invitation to visit, to come the next week for dinner, and with a cheerful look he returned to his room. The aristocratic lady had charmed him completely.

  Till then he had looked at such beings as something inaccessible, born only to race by in a magnificent carriage with liveried lackeys and a jaunty coachman, casting an indifferent glance at the man plodding along on foot in a wretched cloak. And now suddenly one of these beings had entered his room; he was painting a portrait, he was invited to dinner in an aristocratic house. An extraordinary contentment came over him; he was completely intoxicated and rewarded himself for it with a fine dinner, an evening performance, and again took a carriage ride through the city without any need.

  During all those days he was unable even to think about his usual work. He was preparing and waiting only for the moment when the bell would ring. At last the aristocratic lady arrived with her pale daughter. He sat them down, moved the canvas over, with adroitness now and a pretense to worldly manners, and began to paint. The brightness of the sunny day was a great help to him. He saw much in his light model of that which, if caught and transferred to canvas, might endow the portrait with great merit; he saw that he might do something special, if everything was finally executed according to the idea he now had of his model. His heart even began to throb lightly when he sensed that he was about to express something others had never noticed. The work occupied him totally, he was all immersed in his brush, again forgetting about his model's aristocratic origin. With bated breath, he saw the light features and nearly transparent body of a seventeen-year-old girl emerge from under his brush. He picked up every nuance, a slight yellowness, a barely noticeable blue under the eyes, and was even about to catch a small pimple that had broken out on her forehead, when suddenly he heard the mother's voice at his ear. "Ah, why that? There's no need for it," the lady said. "And you've also . . . look, in a few places.. it seems a bit yellow, and look, here it's just like dark spots." The artist started to explain that it was precisely those spots and the yellowness that had played out so well, and that they made up the pleasing and light tones of the face. To which he received the reply that they did not make up any tones and had not played out in any way, and that it only seemed so to him. "But allow me to touch in a little yellow here, just in this one place," the artist said simple-heartedly. But that precisely he was not allowed to do. It was declared that Lise was merely a bit indisposed that day, and there had never been any yellowness in her face, that it was always strikingly fresh in color. Sadly, he began to wipe out what his brush had brought forth on the canvas. Many barely noticeable features disappeared, and the likeness partly disappeared along with them. Unfeelingly, he began to lend it the general color scheme that is given b
y rote and turns even faces taken from nature into something coldly ideal, such as is seen in student set pieces. But the lady was pleased that the offensive colors had been quite driven out. She only expressed surprise that the work was taking so long, and added that she had heard he finished a portrait completely in two sittings.

  The artist found nothing to reply to that. The ladies rose and prepared to leave. He put down his brush, saw them to the door, and after that stood vaguely for a long time on the same spot in front of the portrait. He gazed at it stupidly, and meanwhile those light feminine features raced through his head, those nuances and ethereal tones he had observed and which his brush had mercilessly destroyed. All filled with them, he set the portrait aside and found somewhere in the studio an abandoned head of Psyche, which he had roughly sketched out on canvas once long ago. It was a deftly painted face, but completely ideal, cold, consisting only of general features that had not taken on living flesh. Having nothing to do, he now began going over it, recalling on it all that he had happened to observe in the face of the aristocratic visitor.

  The features, nuances, and tones he had caught laid themselves down here in that purified form in which they come only when an artist, having looked long enough at the model, withdraws from it and produces a creation equal to it. Psyche began to come to life, and the barely glimpsed idea gradually began to be clothed in visible flesh. The facial type of the young society girl was inadvertently imparted to Psyche, and through that she acquired the distinctive expression which gives a work the right to be called truly original. It seemed he made use of both the parts and the whole of what his model had presented to him, and he became totally caught up in his work. For several days he was occupied with nothing else. And it was at this work that the arrival of his lady acquaintances found him. He had no time to remove the painting from the easel. Both ladies uttered joyful cries of amazement and clasped their hands: "Lise, Lise! Ah, what a likeness! Superbe, superbe! What a good idea to dress her in Greek costume. Ah, such a surprise!"