the mysterious portrait-第6部分

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had　some　time　before　thrown　on　canvas　in　a　sketchy　manner。　It　was　a

pretty　little　face；　well　painted；　but　entirely　ideal；　and　having　cold；

regular　features　not　lit　up　by　life。　For　lack　of　occupation；　he　now

began　to　tone　it　up；　imparting　to　it　all　he　had　taken　note　of　in　his

aristocratic　sitter。　Those　features；　shadows；　tints；　which　he　had

noted；　made　their　appearance　here　in　the　purified　form　in　which　they

appear　when　the　painter；　after　closely　observing　nature；　subordinates

himself　to　her；　and　produces　a　creation　equal　to　her　own。



Psyche　began　to　live：　and　the　scarcely　dawning　thought　began；　little

by　little；　to　clothe　itself　in　a　visible　form。　The　type　of　face　of　the

fashionable　young　lady　was　unconsciously　transferred　to　Psyche；　yet

nevertheless　she　had　an　expression　of　her　own　which　gave　the　picture

claims　to　be　considered　in　truth　an　original　creation。　Tchartkoff　gave

himself　up　entirely　to　his　work。　For　several　days　he　was　engrossed　by

it　alone；　and　the　ladies　surprised　him　at　it　on　their　arrival。　He　had

not　time　to　remove　the　picture　from　the　easel。　Both　ladies　uttered　a

cry　of　amazement；　and　clasped　their　hands。



〃Lise；　Lise！　Ah；　how　like！　Superb；　superb！　What　a　happy　thought；　too；

to　drape　her　in　a　Greek　costume！　Ah；　what　a　surprise！〃



The　artist　could　not　see　his　way　to　disabuse　the　ladies　of　their

error。　Shamefacedly；　with　drooping　head；　he　murmured；　〃This　is

Psyche。〃



〃In　the　character　of　Psyche？　Charming！〃　said　the　mother；　smiling；　upon

which　the　daughter　smiled　too。　〃Confess；　Lise；　it　pleases　you　to　be

painted　in　the　character　of　Psyche　better　than　any　other　way？　What　a

sweet　idea！　But　what　treatment！　It　is　Correggio　himself。　I　must　say

that；　although　I　had　read　and　heard　about　you；　I　did　not　know　you　had

so　much　talent。　You　positively　must　paint　me　too。〃　Evidently　the　lady

wanted　to　be　portrayed　as　some　kind　of　Psyche　too。



〃What　am　I　to　do　with　them？〃　thought　the　artist。　〃If　they　will　have　it

so；　why；　let　Psyche　pass　for　what　they　choose：〃　and　added　aloud；　〃Pray

sit　a　little：　I　will　touch　it　up　here　and　there。〃



〃Ah！　I　am　afraid　you　will　。　。　。　it　is　such　a　capital　likeness　now！〃



But　the　artist　understood　that　the　difficulty　was　with　respect　to　the

sallowness；　and　so　he　reassured　them　by　saying　that　he　only　wished　to

give　more　brilliancy　and　expression　to　the　eyes。　In　truth；　he　was

ashamed；　and　wanted　to　impart　a　little　more　likeness　to　the　original；

lest　any　one　should　accuse　him　of　actual　barefaced　flattery。　And　the

features　of　the　pale　young　girl　at　length　appeared　more　closely　in

Psyche's　countenance。



〃Enough；〃　said　the　mother；　beginning　to　fear　that　the　likeness　might

become　too　decided。　The　artist　was　remunerated　in　every　way；　with

smiles；　money；　compliments；　cordial　pressures　of　the　hand；　invitations

to　dinner：　in　short；　he　received　a　thousand　flattering　rewards。



The　portrait　created　a　furore　in　the　city。　The　lady　exhibited　it　to

her　friends；　and　all　admired　the　skill　with　which　the　artist　had

preserved　the　likeness；　and　at　the　same　time　conferred　more　beauty　on

the　original。　The　last　remark；　of　course；　was　prompted　by　a　slight

tinge　of　envy。　The　artist　was　suddenly　overwhelmed　with　work。　It

seemed　as　if　the　whole　city　wanted　to　be　painted　by　him。　The　door…bell

rang　incessantly。　From　one　point　of　view；　this　might　be　considered

advantageous；　as　presenting　to　him　endless　practice　in　variety　and

number　of　faces。　But；　unfortunately；　they　were　all　people　who　were

hard　to　get　along　with；　either　busy；　hurried　people；　or　else　belonging

to　the　fashionable　world；　and　consequently　more　occupied　than　any　one

else；　and　therefore　impatient　to　the　last　degree。　In　all　quarters；　the

demand　was　merely　that　the　likeness　should　be　good　and　quickly

executed。　The　artist　perceived　that　it　was　a　simple　impossibility　to

finish　his　work；　that　it　was　necessary　to　exchange　power　of　treatment

for　lightness　and　rapidity；　to　catch　only　the　general　expression；　and

not　waste　labour　on　delicate　details。



Moreover；　nearly　all　of　his　sitters　made　stipulations　on　various

points。　The　ladies　required　that　mind　and　character　should　be

represented　in　their　portraits；　that　all　angles　should　be　rounded；　all

unevenness　smoothed　away；　and　even　removed　entirely　if　possible；　in

short；　that　their　faces　should　be　such　as　to　cause　every　one　to　stare

at　them　with　admiration；　if　not　fall　in　love　with　them　outright。　When

they　sat　to　him；　they　sometimes　assumed　expressions　which　greatly

amazed　the　artist；　one　tried　to　express　melancholy；　another；

meditation；　a　third　wanted　to　make　her　mouth　appear　small　on　any

terms；　and　puckered　it　up　to　such　an　extent　that　it　finally　looked

like　a　spot　about　as　big　as　a　pinhead。　And　in　spite　of　all　this；　they

demanded　of　him　good　likenesses　and　unconstrained　naturalness。　The　men

were　no　better：　one　insisted　on　being　painted　with　an　energetic；

muscular　turn　to　his　head；　another；　with　upturned；　inspired　eyes；　a

lieutenant　of　the　guard　demanded　that　Mars　should　be　visible　in　his

eyes；　an　official　in　the　civil　service　drew　himself　up　to　his　full

height　in　order　to　have　his　uprightness　expressed　in　his　face；　and

that　his　hand　might　rest　on　a　book　bearing　the　words　in　plain

characters；　〃He　always　stood　up　for　the　right。〃



At　first　such　demands　threw　the　artist　into　a　cold　perspiration。

Finally　he　acquired　the　knack　of　it；　and　never　troubled　himself　at　all

about　it。　He　understood　at　a　word　how　each　wanted　himself　portrayed。

If　a　man　wanted　Mars　in　his　face；　he　put　in　Mars：　he　gave　a　Byronic

turn　and　attitude　to　those　who　aimed　at　Byron。　If　the　ladies　wanted　to

be　Corinne；　Undine；　or　Aspasia；　he　agreed　with　great　readiness；　and

threw　in　a　sufficient　measure　of　good　looks　from　his　own　imagination；

which　does　no　harm；　and　for　the　sake　of　which　an　artist　is　even

forgiven　a　lack　of　resemblance。　He　soon　began　to　wonder　himself　at　the

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。