the mysterious portrait-第7部分

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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；

breathing　from　the　finished　perfection　of　the　workmanship。　But　more

striking　than　all　else　was　the　evident　creative　power　in　the　artist's

mind。　The　very　minutest　object　in　the　picture　revealed　it；　he　had

caught　that　melting　roundness　of　outline　which　is　visible　in　nature

only　to　the　artist　creator；　and　which　comes　out　as　angles　with　a

copyist。　It　was　plainly　visible　how　the　artist；　having　imbibed　it　all

from　the　external　world；　had　first　stored　it　in　his　mind；　and　then

drawn　it　thence；　as　from　a　spiritual　source；　into　one　harmonious；

triumphant　song。　And　it　was　evident；　even　to　the　uninitiated；　how　vast

a　gulf　there　was　fixed　between　creation　and　a　mere　copy　from　nature。

Involuntary　tears　stood　ready　to　fall　in　the　eyes　of　those　who

surrounded　the　picture。　It　seemed　as　though　all　joined　in　a　silent

hymn　to　the　divine　work。



Motionless；　with　open　mouth；　Tchartkoff　stood　before　the　picture。　At

length；　when　by　degrees　the　visitors　and　critics　began　to　murmur　and

comment　upon　the　merits　of　the　work；　and　turning　to　him；　begged　him　to

express　an　opinion；　he　came　to　himself　once　more。　He　tried　to　assume

an　indifferent；　everyday　expression；　strove　to　utter　some　such

commonplace　remark　as；　〃Yes；　to　tell　the　truth；　it　is　impossible　to

deny　the　artist's　talent；　there　is　something　in　it；〃　but　the　speech

died　upon　his　lips；　tears　and　sobs　burst　forth　uncontrollably；　and　he

rushed　from　the　room　like　one　beside　himself。



In　a　moment　he　stood　in　his　magnificent　studio。　All　his　being；　all　his

life；　had　been　aroused　in　one　instant；　as　if　youth　had　returned　to

him；　as　if　the　dying　sparks　of　his　talent　had　blazed　forth　afresh。　The

bandage　suddenly　fell　from　his　eyes。　Heavens！　to　think　of　having

mercilessly　wasted　the　best　years　of　his　youth；　of　having

extinguished；　trodden　out　perhaps；　that　spark　of　fire　which；　cherished

in　his　breast；　might　perhaps　have　been　developed　into　magnificence　and

beauty；　and　have　extorted　too；　its　meed　of　tears　and　admiration！　It

seemed　as　though　those　impulses　which　he　had　known　in　other　days

re…awoke　suddenly　in　his　soul。



He　seized　a　brush　and　approached　his　canvas。　One　thought　possessed　him

wholly；　one　desire　consumed　him；　he　strove　to　depict　a　fallen　angel。

This　idea　was　most　in　harmony　with　his　frame　of　mind。　The　perspiration

started　out　upon　his　face　with　his　efforts；　but；　alas！　his　figures；

attitudes；　groups；　thoughts；　arranged　themselves　stiffly；

disconnectedly。　His　hand　and　his　imagination　had　been　too　long

confined　to　one　groove；　and　the　fruitless　effort　to　escape　from　the

bonds　and　fetters　which　he　had　imposed　upon　himself；　showed　itself　in

irregularities　and　errors。　He　had　despised　the　long；　wearisome　ladder

to　knowledge；　and　the　first　fundamental　law　of　the　future　great　man；

hard　work。　He　gave　vent　to　his　vexation。　He　ordered　all　his　later

productions　to　be　taken　out　of　his　studio；　all　the　fashionable；

lifeless　pictures；　all　the　portraits　of　hussars；　ladies；　and

councillors　of　state。



He　shut　himself　up　alone　in　his　room；　would　order　no　food；　and　devoted

himself　entirely　to　his　work。　He　sat　toiling　like　a　scholar。　But　how

pitifully　wretched　was　all　which　proceeded　from　his　hand！　He　was

stopped　at　every　step　by　his　ignorance　of　the　very　first　principles：

simple　ignorance　of　the　mechanical　part　of　his　art　chilled　all

inspiration　and　formed　an　impassable　barrier　to　his　imagination。　His

brush　returned　involuntarily　to　hackneyed　forms：　hands　folded

themselves　in　a　set　attitude；　heads　dared　not　make　any　unusual　turn；

the　very　garments　turned　out　commonplace；　and　would　not　drape

themselves　to　any　unaccustomed　posture　of　the　body。　And　he　felt　and

saw　this　all　himself。



〃But　had　I　really　any　talent？〃　he　said　at　length：　〃did　not　I　deceive

myself？〃　Uttering　these　words；　he　turned　to　the　early　works　which　he

had　painted　so　purely；　so　unselfishly；　in　former　days；　in　his　wretched

cabin　yonder　in　lonely　Vasilievsky　Ostroff。　He　began　attentively　to

examine　them　all；　and　all　the　misery　of　his　former　life　came　back　to

him。　〃Yes；〃　he　cried　despairingly；　〃I　had　talent：　the　signs　and　traces

of　it　are　everywhere　visible〃



He　paused　suddenly；　and　shivered　all　over。　His　eyes　encountered　other

eyes　fixed　immovably　upon　him。　It　was　that　remarkable　portrait　which

he　had　bought　in　the　Shtchukinui　Dvor。　All　this　time　it　had　been

covered　up；　concealed　by　other　pictures；　and　had　utterly　gone　out　of

his　mind。　Now；　as　if　by　design；　when　all　the　fashionable　portraits　and

paintings　had　been　removed　from　the　studio；　it　looked　forth；　together

with　the　productions　of　his　early　youth。　As　he　recalled　all　the

strange　events　connected　with　it；　as　he　remembered　that　this　singular

portrait　had　been；　in　a　manner；　the　cause　of　his　errors；　that　the

hoard　of　money　which　he　had　obtained　in　such　peculiar　fashion　had

given　birth　in　his　mind　to　all　the　wild　caprices　which　had　destroyed

his　talentmadness　was　on　the　point　of　taking　possession　of　him。　At

once　he　ordered　the　hateful　portrait　to　be　removed。



But　his　mental　excitement　was　not　thereby　diminished。　His　whole　being

was　shaken　to　its　foundation；　and　he　suffered　that　fearful　torture

which　is　sometimes　exhibited　when　a　feeble　talent　strives　to　display

itself　on　a　scale　too　great　for　it　and　cannot　do　so。　A　horrible　envy

took　possession　of　himan　envy　which　bordered　on　madness。　The　gall

flew　to　his　heart　when　he　beheld　a　work　which　bore　the　stamp　of

talent。　He　gnashed　his　teeth；　and　devoured　it　with　the　glare　of　a

basilisk。　He　conceived　the　most　devilish　plan　which　ever　entered　into

the　mind　of　man；　and　he　hastened　with　the　strength　of　madness　to　carry

it　into　execution。　He　began　to　purchase　the　best　that　art　produced　of

every　kind。　Having　bought　a　picture　at　a　great　price；　he　transported

it　to　his　room；　flung　himself　upon　it　with　the　ferocity　of　a　tiger；

cut　it；　tore　it；　chopped　it　into　bits；　and　stamped　upon　it　with　a　grin

of　delight。