Gogol's story portrait full content. Nikolai Gogol: Portrait

The story begins with a tragic story that happened to the talented but very poor artist Chartkov. Once, for the last two kopecks, he bought a portrait of an Asian man in national clothes in a shop in the Shchukinsky yard. The portrait stood out from the general mass of paintings in that the old man’s eyes in it seemed to be alive. Having brought the portrait home, Chartkov learns that in his absence the owner came and demanded payment for the apartment.

The poor artist has already begun to regret his unplanned purchase. The gaze of the old man from the portrait frightens Chartkov, and he even covers the picture with sheets. And at night he had a nightmare in which the old man from the portrait came to life, walked up to the artist’s bed, sat down at his feet and began counting the money he had brought with him in a bag. The frightened Chartkov, however, was not taken aback and quietly hid one package with the inscription “1000 chervonets”; when he woke up, he was still desperately clutching his empty hand. Throughout the night, nightmares follow each other, and in the morning Chartkov wakes up completely broken. The owner of the apartment comes to him again for payment, and upon hearing that the artist has no money, he invites him to pay with his works.

The portrait of an Asian man attracts the attention of the owner, and when he carelessly takes it in his hands, the very same package on which “1000 ducats” is written falls to the floor.

Chartkov's life changed dramatically. He paid the owner, rented a luxurious apartment on Nevsky, dressed richly, advertised in the newspaper, and the very next day received a noble customer. The lady ordered a portrait of her daughter from him. Chartkov shows great diligence, but the customer is not satisfied with the excessively true resemblance (yellowness of the face, shadows under the eyes). As a result, the disgruntled artist passes off his own as a portrait. old job, Psyche, which was only slightly updated. The customer is quite happy with this option.

Thus, Chartkov very quickly becomes fashionable artist, paints many portraits, satisfying the desires of wealthy customers. He himself also becomes wealthy, visiting aristocratic houses. Chartkov speaks harshly and arrogantly about other artists. Those who knew him before are surprised how he could so quickly turn from a novice but talented artist into a mediocre miser. One day, seeing at the Academy of Arts the perfect work of his former comrade, sent from Italy, Chartkov suddenly realized how low he had fallen. Locked in his workshop, Chartkov gets to work, but ignorance of the elementary truths, which he neglected from the very beginning, became a hindrance in his work. Sudden envy gripped the artist, he began to buy the best works of art, on which he spent all the remaining money. He brutally destroyed the purchased masterpieces. Soon Chartkov fell ill with a fever, combined with consumption, and then died completely alone, only the old man’s terrible eyes haunted him until the last minute.

Some time later, at one of the auctions in St. Petersburg, a strange portrait of an Asian man with lively eyes attracts everyone's attention. The price for it had already quadrupled when a certain artist B. addressed those present, he stated that he had special rights to this painting and told the story of his father.

The story began with a description of a part of the city called Kolomna. Then a certain Asian-looking moneylender who lived there is described. People turned to him for money because his interest rates and debt repayment terms seemed very tempting at first. But over time, the debt increased several times, and the person found himself in a hopeless situation. But the most interesting thing is that the character of the person who took money from the moneylender changed. For example, one young man in love came to take a loan from a moneylender in order to marry his chosen one, whose parents were against their wedding due to the groom’s lack of finances. As a result, after the wedding, such traits as aggressive jealousy, intolerance and rudeness appeared in the husband’s character. He even attempted to kill his wife and then committed suicide. There were a great many such terrible stories associated with the name of the moneylender.

The narrator's father was a self-taught artist and lived next door to a terrible moneylender. One day he turned to the artist with a request to draw his portrait so that he would appear “as if alive.” The artist gets to work, but the better the portrait he gets and the more lively the moneylender’s eyes look in it, the more painful feelings take possession of the master. He develops a disgust for this work, but the Asian begs to finish the portrait and says that it will preserve his life after death. These words completely frightened the artist; he runs away without finishing the work. The maid brought him an unfinished portrait, and the moneylender died the next day. Time passes, the artist began to notice changes in his character: he feels envious of his student’s success and secretly harms him. The moneylender's eyes begin to show in his work. He wants to burn the hated portrait, but one friend begs it for himself, then sells it to his nephew, who also soon hurries to get rid of it. scary picture. After the death of his wife and little son, the artist is sure that part of the soul of the Asian moneylender moved into that portrait and continues to cause evil to people. He places his eldest son in the Academy of Arts, and he himself goes to a monastery, where he leads an exceptionally righteous and strict life. He tells his son, who came to visit him and say goodbye before leaving for Italy, the story of the moneylender. He also asks to find and destroy the portrait. After fifteen years of futile searching, the narrator finally found this portrait, but when he and the rest of the listeners turned towards the painting, it was no longer there. Someone said, "Stolen." Perhaps this is true.

Portrait

Nowhere did so many people stop as in front of the art shop in Shchukin’s courtyard. This shop truly represented the most heterogeneous collection of curiosities: the paintings were mostly painted 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 cuffs than a man - these are their usual subjects.

At this time, the young artist Chartkov, passing by, involuntarily stopped in front of the shop. An old overcoat and an unfashionable dress showed in him a man who was selflessly devoted to his work and did not have time to worry about his outfit, which always has a mysterious appeal to youth. He stopped in front of the shop and at first laughed inwardly at these ugly pictures. Finally, an involuntary thought took possession of him: he began to think about who would need these works. That the Russian people were looking at the Eruslan Lazarevichs, at eating and drinking, at Thomas and Yerema, it did not seem surprising to them: the depicted objects were very accessible and understandable to the people; but where are the buyers of these colorful, dirty oil paintings? who needs these Flemish men, these red and blue landscapes, which show some claim to a somewhat higher step in art, but in which all its deep humiliation was expressed? These, it seemed, were not at all the works of a self-taught child. Otherwise, despite all the insensitive caricature of the whole, a sharp impulse would burst out in them. But here one could see simply stupidity, a powerless, decrepit mediocrity, which arbitrarily entered the ranks of the arts, while its place was among the low crafts, mediocrity, which was, however, faithful to its calling and brought its craft into art itself. The same colors, the same manner, the same stuffed, habitual hand, which belonged more likely to a crudely made machine gun than to a person! . . He stood for a long time in front of these dirty pictures, finally not thinking about them at all, and meanwhile the owner of the shop, a little gray man in a frieze overcoat, with a beard that had not been shaved since Sunday, had been talking to him for a long time, bargaining and agreeing on a price, not yet finding out what he liked and what he needed.

For these peasants and for the landscape, I’ll take the little white one. What a painting! It'll just hurt your eye; just received from the exchange; The varnish is not yet dry. Or here it is winter, take winter! Fifteen rubles! One frame is worth it.

What a winter it is! - Here the merchant gave a light click to the canvas, probably to show all the goodness of winter. - Will you order them to be tied together and taken down behind you? Where would you like to live? Hey kid, give me some rope.

But wait, I’ll see if there’s anything here for me,” and, bending down, he began to take out from the floor the cumbersome, worn out, dusty old paintings, which, apparently, did not enjoy any respect. There were old family portraits, the descendants of which, perhaps, could not be found in the world, completely unknown images with torn canvas, frames devoid of gilding - in a word, all sorts of old rubbish. But the artist began to look, thinking secretly: “Perhaps something will be found.”

He had heard more than once stories about how sometimes paintings by great masters were found in copies of popular print sellers.

The owner, seeing where he was going, abandoned his fussiness and, having assumed his usual position and proper weight, positioned himself again at the door, calling passers-by and pointing to the bench with one hand: “Here, father, here are the paintings!” come in, come in; received from the exchange."

He had already shouted enough and mostly fruitlessly, talked his fill to 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 his back on the people and went inside.

“What, father, did you choose 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 slightly.

He was an old man with a bronze-colored face, high cheekbones, and stunted; the features of the face seemed to be captured in a moment of convulsive movement and responded not with northern strength. The fiery afternoon was captured in them. He was draped in a loose Asian suit. No matter how damaged and dusty the portrait was, when he managed to clean the dust from his face, he saw traces of the work of the great artist. The portrait, it seemed, was not finished; but the power of the brush was striking. Most extraordinary of all were the eyes: it seemed as if the artist had used all the power of his brush and all his diligent care 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, the eyes looked even stronger. They made almost the same impression among the people. A woman who stopped behind him cried out: “He’s looking, he’s looking,” and backed away. He felt some unpleasant feeling, incomprehensible to himself, and put the portrait on the ground.

Well, take the portrait! - said the owner.

How much? - said the artist.

I do not know why; Then he says that the rent has not been paid.

Well, what will come of it?

I don't know what will happen; he said: if he doesn’t want to, then let him, he said, move out of the apartment; They both wanted to come tomorrow.

Let them come,” Chartkov said with sad indifference. And a bad mood completely took possession of him.

Young Chartkov was an artist with a talent that prophesied much: in flashes and moments his brush responded with observation, intelligence, and a strong impulse to get closer to nature. “Look, brother,” his professor told him more than once, “you have talent; It will be a sin if you destroy him. But you're impatient. One thing will lure you, one thing you will fall in love with - you are busy with it, and the rest is rubbish, you don’t care about the rest, you don’t even want to look at it. Be careful that you don't become a fashionable painter. Even now your colors are starting to scream too loudly. Your drawing is not strict, and sometimes even weak, the line is not visible; You are already chasing fashionable lighting, after what catches the first eye. Look, you'll just end up in the English family.

The professor was partly right. Sometimes our artist really wanted to party, to show off - in a word, to show off his youth here and there. But despite all this, he could take power over himself. At times he could forget everything, taking up his brush, and would tear himself away from it as if from a wonderful, interrupted dream. His taste developed noticeably. He did not yet understand the full depth of Raphael, but he was already captivated by Guid’s fast, wide brush, stopped in front of Titian’s portraits, and admired the Flemings. The still darkened appearance that clothed the old paintings had not entirely disappeared before him; but he already saw something in them, although inwardly he did not agree with the professor that the ancient masters should leave us so unattainably; it even seemed to him that the nineteenth century was significantly ahead of them in some ways, that the imitation of nature had somehow now become brighter, more lively, closer; in a word, he thought in this case as youth thinks, having already comprehended something and feeling it in its proud inner consciousness. Sometimes he became annoyed when he saw how a visiting painter, French or German, sometimes not even a painter by vocation, with just his habitual manner, the quickness of his brush and the brightness of his colors, made a general noise and instantly accumulated monetary capital for himself. This came to his mind not when, completely occupied with his work, he forgot drink, and food, and the whole world, but when the need finally came, when there was nothing to buy brushes and paints, when the unobtrusive owner came ten times a day to demand payment for the apartment. Then the fate of the rich painter enviably pictured in his hungry imagination; Then even the thought that often runs through the Russian head ran through my mind: 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! How much money will I use for lunch tomorrow? No one will give you a loan. And if I were to sell all my paintings and drawings, they would 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? sketches, attempts - and there will still be sketches, attempts, and there will be no end to them. And who will buy it without knowing me by name? and who needs drawings from antiques from nature, or my unfinished love of Psyche, or the perspective of my room, or the portrait of my Nikita, although it is, really, better than the portraits of some fashionable painter? What really? Why do I suffer and, like a student, fumble over the ABCs, when I could shine no worse than others and be like them, with money.

Having said this, the artist suddenly trembled and turned pale: someone’s convulsively distorted face was looking at him, leaning out from behind the canvas he had placed. Two terrible eyes stared directly at him, as if preparing to devour him; a threatening command to remain silent was written on his lips. Frightened, he wanted to scream and call Nikita, who had already started a heroic snoring in his hallway; but suddenly he stopped and laughed. The feeling of fear subsided instantly. It was a portrait he had bought, which he had completely forgotten about. The radiance of the moon, having illuminated the room, fell on him and gave him a strange liveliness. He began to examine it and scrub it. He dipped a sponge in water, passed it over it several times, washed off almost all the accumulated and accumulated dust and dirt, hung it on the wall in front of him and marveled at the even more extraordinary work: his whole face almost came to life, and his eyes looked at him so that he finally shuddered and, backing away, said in an astonished voice: “He looks, he looks with human eyes!” A story that he had heard long ago from his professor suddenly came to his mind, about a portrait of the famous Leonardo da Vinci, over which Great master worked for several years and still considered it unfinished and which, according to Vasari, was, however, respected by everyone for the most perfect and final work of art. The most important thing about him was his eyes, which amazed his contemporaries; even the slightest, barely visible veins in them were not missed and were given to the canvas. But here, however, in this portrait that was now before him, there was something strange. This was no longer art: it even destroyed the harmony of the portrait itself. They were alive, they were human eyes! It was as if they had been cut out of a living person and pasted here. Here there was no longer that high pleasure that embraces the soul when looking at the work of an artist, no matter how terrible the object he took; there was some kind of painful, languid feeling here. "What is this? - the artist involuntarily asked himself. - After all, this is, however, nature, this is living nature; Why is this strangely unpleasant feeling? Or is slavish, literal imitation of nature already an offense and seems like a bright, discordant cry? Or, if you take an object indifferently, insensitively, without sympathizing 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 is revealed when, wanting to comprehend wonderful person, you arm yourself with an anatomical knife, cut through its insides and see a disgusting person? Why does simple, low nature appear in one artist in some light, and you don’t 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 in another artist seem low, dirty, and by the way, he was also faithful to nature? But no, there is nothing illuminating in her. It’s just like a view in nature: no matter how magnificent it is, everything is missing something 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 definitely looking at him. It was no longer a copy from life, it was that strange liveliness that would illuminate the face of a dead man rising from the grave. Whether it was the light of the month, which carried with it the delirium of dreams and clothed everything in other images, the opposite of a positive day, or what else was the reason for this, only he suddenly, for some unknown reason, became afraid to sit alone in the room. He quietly walked away from the portrait, turned in the other direction and tried not to look at it, and meanwhile his eye involuntarily, of itself, glanced sideways at it. Finally he even became afraid to walk around the room; It seemed to him as if that very moment someone else would start walking behind him, and every time he timidly looked back. 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 look over his shoulder into his face.

Having done this, he lay down in bed more peacefully, began to think about the poverty and pitiful fate of the artist, about the thorny path ahead of him in this world; and meanwhile his eyes involuntarily looked through the crack of the screens 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 wanting to make sure that this was nonsense. But finally, in reality... he sees, sees clearly: the sheet is no longer there... the portrait is completely open and looks past everything that is around, straight into him, just looks inside him... His heart sank. . And he sees: the old man moved and suddenly leaned against the frame with both hands. Finally, he raised himself up on his hands and, sticking out both legs, jumped out of the frames... Through the crack of the screens, only empty frames were visible. The sound of footsteps echoed throughout the room, finally getting closer and closer to the screens. The poor artist's heart began to pound faster. With a deep breath of fear, he expected that the old man was about to look at him from behind the screen. And so he looked, as if behind the screens, with the same bronze face and wide eyes. Chartkov tried to scream - and felt that he had no voice, he tried to move, to make some kind of movement - his limbs did not move. With his mouth open and his breath frozen, he looked at this terrible phantom, in some kind of wide Asian robe, and waited to see 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, grabbing 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 on each was displayed: “1000 ducats.” Sticking his long bony arms out of his wide sleeves, the old man began to unwrap the packages. Gold flashed. No matter how great the painful feeling and unconscious fear of the artist, he stared all into the gold, looking motionless as it unfolded in his bony hands, glittered, rang thinly and dully, and wrapped itself again. Then he noticed one package that had rolled away from the others, at the very foot of his bed, in his head. Almost convulsively he grabbed it and, full of fear, watched to see if the old man would notice. But the old man seemed very busy. He collected all his bundles, put them back in the bag and, without looking at him, went behind the screen. Chartkov's heart was beating strongly when he heard the rustle of retreating steps echoing through the room. He clutched his bundle tightly in his hand, trembling with his whole body for it, and suddenly he heard footsteps approaching the screens again - apparently the old man remembered that one bundle was missing. And so - he glanced at him again behind the screen. Full of despair, he squeezed the bundle in his hand with all his strength, made every effort to move, screamed - and woke up.

Cold sweat covered him all over; his heart beat as hard as it could beat; her chest was so tight, as if her last breath wanted to fly out of her. “Was it really a dream?” - he said, taking his head with both hands; but the terrible vividness of the phenomenon was not like a dream. He saw, having already awakened, how the old man went into the frame, even the hem of his wide robe flashed, and his hand clearly felt that a minute before it was holding some kind of weight. The light of the moon illuminated the room, causing a canvas to emerge from its dark corners, a plaster arm, a drapery left on a chair, trousers 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 just couldn’t understand. He was even more amazed that the entire portrait was open and there really was no sheet on it. He looked at him with motionless fear and saw how living human eyes stared directly at him. Cold sweat broke out on his face; he wanted to move away, but he felt as if his feet were 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 towards him, as if they wanted to suck him out... With a cry of despair, he jumped back - and woke up.

And it was also a dream! He jumped out of bed, crazy, unconscious, and could no longer explain what was happening to him: the pressure of a nightmare or a brownie, delirium of fever or a living vision. Trying to somehow calm down the emotional unrest and the fluttering blood that was beating 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 cabman’s droshky reached his ears, who was sleeping somewhere in an invisible alley, lulled by his lazy nag, waiting for a belated rider. He looked for a long time, sticking his head out the window. Signs of the approaching dawn were already appearing in the sky; at last he felt the approaching slumber; He slammed the window, walked away, went to bed and soon fell asleep like the dead, in the deepest sleep.

He woke up very late and felt in himself that unpleasant state that takes over a person after a stupor; his head ached unpleasantly. The room was dim; an unpleasant phlegm hung in the air and passed through the cracks of his windows, filled with paintings or primed canvas. Overcast, dissatisfied, like a wet rooster, he sat down on his tattered sofa, not knowing what to do, what to do, and finally remembered his whole dream. As he remembered, this dream seemed so painfully vivid in his imagination that he even began to suspect whether it was really a dream and simple delirium, whether there was something else here, whether this was a vision. Pulling off the sheet, he examined this terrible portrait in daylight. The eyes certainly struck with their extraordinary liveliness, but he did not find anything particularly terrible in them; it was as if some inexplicable, unpleasant feeling remained in my soul. Despite all this, he still could not be completely sure that this 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 old man’s very look and expression something seemed to say that he was with him that night; his hand felt the heaviness that had just been lying within it, as if someone had snatched it from him only a minute before. It seemed to him that if he had only held the bundle more tightly, it would probably have remained in his hand even after waking up.

“My God, if only part of this money!” - he said, sighing heavily, and in his imagination all the packages he had seen with the tempting inscription: “1000 red rubles” began to pour out of the bag. The bundles unwrapped, the gold glittered, was wrapped again, and he sat, staring motionless and meaninglessly into the empty air, unable to tear himself away from such an object - like a child sitting in front of a sweet dish and seeing, swallowing saliva, how others eat it . Finally there was a knock at the door, causing him to wake up unpleasantly. The owner entered with the quarterly overseer, whose appearance for small people, as we 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 the color of a worn-out frock coat. In his youth he was a captain and a loudmouth, he was also used in civilian affairs, he was a good carver, he was efficient, a dandy, and a fool; but in his old age he merged all these sharp features into a kind of dull vagueness. He was already a widow, he was already retired, he no longer flaunted, did not brag, did not bully himself, he only loved to drink tea and chat all sorts of nonsense behind him; walked around the room, straightening the tallow candle;

At the end of each month he carefully visited his tenants for money; went out into the street with a key in his hand to look at the roof of his house; several times he drove the janitor out of his kennel, where he hid to sleep; in a word, a retired man, who, after all his disturbed life and shaking on the crossroads, is left with only vulgar habits.

Please see for yourself, Varukh Kuzmich,” said the owner, turning to the policeman and spreading his arms, “he’s not paying the rent, he’s not paying.”

What if there is no money? Wait, I'll pay.

“Yes, if you’ve got yourself in order, then please pay,” said the quarterly overseer, with a slight shake of his head and putting his finger behind the button of his uniform.

But what to pay? - question. I don't have a penny now.

“In that case, satisfy Ivan Ivanovich with the products of your profession,” said the policeman, “he may agree to take the paintings.”

No, father, thank you for the pictures. It would be nice if there were paintings with noble content, so that you could hang on the wall, at least some general with a star or a portrait of Prince Kutuzov, otherwise he painted a guy, a guy in a shirt, a servant rubbing paint. I can also draw a portrait from him, a pig; I'll stab him in the neck: he pulled all the nails out of my bolts, the swindler.

Look at the objects: here he is painting a room. It would have been nice to have a tidy and tidy room, but this is how he painted it, with all the rubbish and squabbles that were lying around. Look how dirty my room is, if you please, see for yourself. Yes, I have tenants who live for seven years, colonels, Anna Petrovna Bukhmisterova... No, I’ll tell you: there is no worse tenant than a painter: a pig lives like a pig, just God forbid.

And the poor painter had to listen to all this patiently. Meanwhile, the quarterly overseer began looking at the paintings and sketches and immediately showed that his soul was more alive than his master’s and was even no stranger to artistic impressions.

Heh,” he said, pointing his finger at one canvas where a naked woman was depicted, “the subject is that... playful.” Why is it so black under his nose? Did he put some tobacco on himself?

“Shadow,” answered Chartkov sternly and without turning his eyes to him.

Well, it could be taken somewhere else, but the place under your nose is too visible,” said the policeman, “whose portrait is this?” - he continued, approaching the portrait of the old man, - he’s too scary. As if he really was so scary; wow, he's just looking! Oh, what a Thunderbolt! Who did you write from?

“No way, the money jingled,” said the policeman, who heard the knock of something falling on the floor and could not see it due to the speed with which Chartkov rushed to clean up.

What business is it of yours to know what I have?

But the thing is that you now have to pay the owner for the apartment; that you have money, but you don’t want to pay, that’s what.

Well, I'll pay him today.

Well, why didn’t you want to pay before, but you’re disturbing the owner, and you’re also disturbing the police?

Because I didn’t want to touch this money; I’ll pay him everything this evening and move out of the apartment tomorrow, because I don’t want to stay with such a landlord.

Well, Ivan Ivanovich, he’ll pay you,” said the policeman, turning to the owner. - And if it’s about the fact that you won’t be properly satisfied this evening, then excuse me, Mr. Painter.

Having said this, he put on his triangular hat and went out into the hallway, followed by the owner, holding his head down and, as it seemed, in some kind of thought.

Thank God the devil took them away! - said Chartkov when he heard the door in the front door close.

He looked out into the hall, sent Nikita away for something so that he could be completely alone, locked the door behind him and, returning to his room, began to unwrap the package with a strong heart fluttering. There were chervonets in it, every single one of them new, hot as fire. Almost mad, he sat behind the golden heap, still asking himself if it was all a dream. There were exactly a thousand of them in the bundle; his appearance was exactly the same as he had seen them in his dream. For several minutes he went through them, reviewed them, and still could not come to his senses. In his imagination, suddenly all the stories about treasures, caskets with hidden drawers, left by ancestors for their ruined grandchildren, in firm confidence in the future of their squandered situation, were resurrected. He thought like this: “Hasn’t some grandfather come up with the idea of ​​leaving a gift for 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: wasn’t the existence of the portrait connected with his own existence, and wasn’t its very acquisition already some kind of predestination? He began to examine the portrait frame with curiosity. In one side of it there was a hollowed-out groove, pushed in with a plank so deftly and inconspicuously that if the capital hand of the quarterly overseer had not made a breach, the chervonets would have remained alone until the end of time. Examining the portrait, he again marveled at the high workmanship and the extraordinary finishing of the eyes; they no longer seemed scary to him, but an involuntarily unpleasant feeling still remained in his soul every time. “No,” he said to himself, “whose grandfather you are, I will put you behind glass and make you golden frames for it.” Here he threw his hand on the golden heap that lay in front of him, and his heart began to beat strongly from such a touch. “What should we do with them? - he thought, staring at them. - Now I am provided for at least three years, I can lock myself in a room and work. Now I have paints; for lunch, for tea, for maintenance, for an apartment; Now no one will bother or bother me; I’ll buy myself an excellent manken, order a plaster torso, shape the legs, pose a Venus, buy engravings from the first paintings. And if I work for three years for myself, slowly, not for sale, I’ll kill them all, and I can be a glorious artist.”

So he spoke at the same time as his reason told him; but another voice was heard from inside, more audible and louder. And when he looked at the gold again, his twenty-two years and ardent youth began to speak within him. Now he had in his power everything that he had previously looked at with envious eyes, which he had admired from afar, swallowing his saliva. Wow, how zealous he was when he just thought about it!

Dress in a fashionable tailcoat, break his fast after a long fast, rent himself a nice apartment, go that same hour to the theater, to the pastry shop, to... and so on - and he, having grabbed the money, was already on the street.

All the things and everything that was there: the machine, the canvas, the paintings were transported to the magnificent apartment that same evening. He placed what was better in prominent places, what was worse, he threw it into a corner and walked around the magnificent rooms, constantly looking into the mirrors. An irresistible desire was revived in his soul to grab glory right away by the tail and show himself to the world. He could already imagine shouts: “Chartkov, Chartkov! Have you seen Chartkov's painting? What a fast brush Chartkov has! What a strong talent Chartkov has!” He walked around his room in an ecstatic state, rushing off to God knows where. The next day, taking ten ducats, he went to one publisher of a walking newspaper, asking for generous help; was received cordially by the journalist, who immediately called him “most respectable,” shook both hands, asked him in detail about his name, patronymic, place of residence, and the next day an article with the following title appeared in the newspaper, following the announcement of newly invented tallow candles: “ About Chartkov’s extraordinary talents”: “We hasten 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 the most beautiful faces, but until now there has not been a means of transferring them to the 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 airy, light, charming, wonderful beauty, like moths fluttering among 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 new zeal. Hurry, hurry, come from a party, from a walk to a friend, to a cousin, to a brilliant store, hurry, from wherever. The artist’s magnificent studio (Nevsky Prospekt, such and such a number) is filled with portraits by his brush, worthy of Vandykov and Titian. You don’t know what to be surprised at: the fidelity and similarity to the originals or the extraordinary brightness and freshness of the brush. Praise be to you, artist! you took out a lucky ticket from the lottery. Vivat, Andrei Petrovich (the journalist, apparently, loved familiarity)! Celebrate yourself and us. We know how to appreciate you. A general crowd, and at the same time money, although some of our fellow journalists rebel against them, will be your reward.”

The artist read this announcement with secret pleasure; his face lit up. They started talking about him in print - it was news to him; He reread the lines several times. The comparison with Vandyck and Titian greatly flattered him. The phrase “Vivat, Andrey Petrovich!” I also really liked it; in print they call him by his first name and patronymic - an honor completely unknown to him to this day. He quickly began walking 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, 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 fur-lined livery overcoat, and along with the lady entered a young eighteen-year-old girl, her daughter.

Are you Monsieur Chartkov? - said the lady.

The artist bowed.

They write so much about you; your portraits, they say, are the height of perfection. - Having said this, the lady pointed her lorgnette at her eye and ran quickly to inspect the walls, on which there was nothing. -Where are your portraits?

They brought it out,” said the artist, somewhat confused, “I just moved into this apartment, so they’re still on the road... they haven’t arrived yet.”

Have you been to Italy? - said the lady, pointing her lorgnette at him, not finding anything else to point him at.

No, I wasn’t, but I wanted to be... however, now I put it off for now... Here are the chairs, sir, are you tired?..

Thank you, I sat in the carriage for a long time. Ah, I finally see your work! - said the lady, running to the opposite wall and pointing her lorgnette at his sketches, programs, perspectives and portraits standing on the floor. - C'est charmant! Lise, Lise, venez ici!

The room is in Tenier's style, you see: disorder, disorder, a table, on it is a bust, a hand, a palette; there's dust - see how the dust is painted! C'est charmant! But on another canvas there is a woman washing her face - a quelle jolie figure! Ax, man! Lise, Lise, a man in a Russian shirt! look: man! So you don't just do portraits?

Tell me, what is your opinion about today's portrait painters? Isn’t it true that now there are no people like Titian? There is no that power in color, there is no that... what a pity that I cannot express to you in Russian (the lady was a lover of painting and ran around all the galleries in Italy with a lorgnette). However, Monsieur Zero... oh, how he writes! What an extraordinary brush! I find that he has even more expression in his faces than Titian. You don't know Monsieur Nohl?

Who is this Zero? - asked the artist.

Monsieur Zero. Oh, what talent! he painted a portrait of her when she was only twelve years old. We definitely need you to be with us. Lise, show him your album. You know that we came so that we could begin a portrait of her right away.

Well, I'm ready this minute.

And in an instant he moved the machine with the finished canvas, took the palette in his hands, and fixed his eyes on his daughter’s pale face.

If he had been a connoisseur of human nature, he would have read on him in one minute the beginning of a childish passion for balls, the beginning of melancholy and complaints about the length of time before and after dinner, the desire to run around in a new dress at festivities, heavy traces of indifferent diligence in various arts , inspired by the mother to elevate the soul and feelings. But the artist saw in this gentle face only the almost porcelain transparency of the body, tempting for the brush, the captivating light languor, the thin light neck and the aristocratic lightness of the figure. And he was already preparing in advance to triumph, to show the lightness and brilliance of his brush, which until now had dealt only with the hard features of rough models, with strict antiques and copies of some classical masters. He was already imagining in his mind how this light little face would come out.

“You know,” said the lady with a somewhat touching expression on her face, “I would like... she’s wearing a dress now; I confess that I would not want her to be in the dress to which we are so accustomed; I would like her to be dressed simply and sit in the shade of greenery, in view of some fields, with herds in the distance or a grove... so that it would not be noticeable that she is going somewhere to a ball or a fashionable evening. Our balls, I admit, so kill the soul, so kill the remnants of feelings... simplicity, simplicity so that there is more.

Chartkov got down to business, sat down the original, figured it all out somewhat in his head; he ran a brush through the air, mentally establishing points; He narrowed several eyes, leaned back, looked from a distance - and in one hour he began and finished the underpainting. Pleased with her, he began to write; the work attracted him. He had already forgotten everything, even forgot that he was in the presence of aristocratic ladies, and sometimes even began to show some artistic skills, saying out loud different sounds, at times singing along, as happens with an artist who is immersed with all his soul in his work. Without any ceremony, with one movement of his brush, he forced the original to raise its head, which finally began to spin violently and express complete fatigue.

Enough, enough for the first time,” said the lady.

Just a little more,” said the forgotten artist.

No, it's time! Lise, three o'clock! - she said, taking out a small watch hanging on a gold chain from her sash, and cried out: - Oh, how late!

Just a minute,” Chartkov said in the simple-minded and pleading voice of a child.

But the lady, it seems, was not at all inclined to please his artistic needs this time and promised instead to sit longer next time.

“This, however, is annoying,” Chartkov thought to himself, “the hand just parted.” And he remembered that no one interrupted or stopped him when he was working in his workshop on Vasilyevsky Island; Nikita used to sit stiffly in one place - write from him as much as you like; he even fell asleep in the position ordered for him. And, dissatisfied, he put his brush and palette on a chair and stood vaguely in front of the canvas. A compliment said by a society lady awakened him from his slumber. He rushed quickly to the door to see them off; on the stairs received an invitation to visit, to come to next week dinner and returned to his room with a cheerful look. The aristocratic lady completely charmed him. Until now, he had looked at such creatures as something inaccessible, who were born only to rush along in a magnificent carriage with livery footmen and a dandy coachman and cast an indifferent glance at a man walking on foot in a poor raincoat. And suddenly now one of these creatures entered his room; he paints a portrait and is invited to dinner at an aristocratic house. An extraordinary contentment took possession of him;

During all these days, ordinary work did not come to his mind at all. He was just getting ready and waiting for the minute the bell would ring. Finally, the aristocratic lady arrived with her pale daughter. He sat them down, moved the canvas with dexterity and pretensions to social manners, and began to paint. The sunny day and clear lighting helped him a lot. He saw in his light original a lot of things that, if captured and transferred to the canvas, could give high dignity to the portrait; he saw that something special could be done if everything was done in such finality as nature now seemed to him. His heart even began to flutter slightly when he felt that he would express something that others had not yet noticed. The work occupied him entirely; he immersed himself entirely in his brush, again forgetting about the aristocratic origin of the original. As I caught my breath, I saw how his light features emerged and the almost transparent body of a seventeen-year-old girl. He caught every shade, a slight yellowness, a barely noticeable blue under his eyes, and was even preparing to grab a small pimple that had popped up on his forehead, when he suddenly heard his mother’s voice above him. “Oh, why is that? “It’s not necessary,” the lady said. “You also have... here, in some places... it seems to be somewhat yellow and here it’s completely like dark spots.” The artist began to explain that these spots and yellowness are played out well, that they make up the pleasant and light tones of the face. But they answered him that they would not create any tones and were not played out at all, and that it only seemed so to him. “But let me touch a little yellow paint here in just one place,” said the artist innocently. But this was not allowed to him. It was announced that Lise was just a little out of sorts today, and that there was no yellowness in her and her face was particularly striking with the freshness of her paint. With sadness, he began to erase what his brush had forced to appear on the canvas. Many almost imperceptible features disappeared, and along with them the similarity partially disappeared. He insensitively began to tell him that, which is given by heart and turns even faces taken from life into some kind of coldly ideal one, visible in student programs. But the lady was pleased that the offensive coloring had been banished altogether. She only expressed surprise that the work was taking so long, and added that she had heard that he finished a complete portrait in two sessions. The artist couldn’t find anything to answer to this. The ladies got up and were about to leave. He put down his brush, walked them to the door, and after that for a long time remained vaguely in the same place in front of his portrait. He looked at him stupidly, and meanwhile in his head there were those light feminine features, those shades and airy tones that he noticed, which his brush mercilessly destroyed. Being completely full of them, he put the portrait aside and found somewhere the abandoned head of Psyche, which he had long ago sketched on the canvas. It was a face, cleverly painted, but absolutely ideal, cold, consisting only common features, which has not taken on a living body. Having nothing else to do, he now began to walk through it, remembering on it everything that he had happened to notice in the face of the aristocratic visitor. The features, shades and tones he captured lay down here in the purified form in which they appear when the artist, having looked at nature, moves away from it and produces a creation equal to it. The psyche began to come to life, and the barely visible thought began to little by little take on a visible body. The type of young society girl was involuntarily communicated to Psyche, and through this she received a unique expression that gives her the right to the name of a truly original work. It seemed that he had taken advantage, piece by piece and together, of everything that the original had presented to him, and had become completely attached to his work. For several days he was occupied only with her. And at this very work he was caught by the arrival of some ladies he knew. He did not have time to remove the painting from the machine. Both ladies let out a joyful cry of amazement and clasped their hands.

Lise, Lise! Ah, how similar! Superbe, superbe! How nice of you to dress her in Greek costume. Oh, what a surprise!

The artist did not know how to get the ladies out of their pleasant delusion. Feeling ashamed and lowering his head, he said quietly:

This is Psyche.

In the form of Psyche? C'est charmant! - the mother said, smiling, and her daughter smiled too. - Isn’t it true, Lise, it suits you best to be depicted as Psyche? Quelle idee delicieuse! But what a job! This is Corredge. I admit, I read and heard about you, but I didn’t know you had such talent. No, you must definitely paint a portrait of me as well.

The lady, apparently, also wanted to appear in the form of some kind of Psyche.

“What should I do with them? - thought the artist. “If they themselves want it, then let Psyche go for what they want,” and said out loud:

Take the trouble to sit down a little more, I’ll touch something a little.

Oh, I'm afraid that somehow you won't... she looks so much like that now.

But the artist realized that there were concerns about yellowness, and calmed them down, saying that it would only give more shine and expression to the eyes. And to be fair, he was too ashamed and wanted to at least give it some more resemblance to the original, so that no one would reproach him for decisive shamelessness. And sure enough, the pale girl’s features finally began to emerge more clearly from Psyche’s appearance.

Enough! - said the mother, who was beginning to fear that the resemblance might finally come too close.

The artist was rewarded with everything: a smile, money, a compliment, a sincere handshake, an invitation to dinner; in short, he received a thousand flattering awards. The portrait created a stir throughout the city. The lady showed it to her friends; everyone was amazed at the art with which the artist was able to preserve the resemblance and at the same time give beauty to the original. The latter was noticed, of course, not without a slight hint of envy on his face. And the artist was suddenly besieged by works. It seemed that the whole city wanted to write with him. The doorbell rang every minute. On the one hand, this could be good, presenting him with endless practice with variety, many faces. But, unfortunately, these were all people with whom it was difficult to get along, a people who were hasty, busy, or belonged to the world - therefore, even busier than anyone else, and therefore impatient to the extreme. From all sides they just demanded that it be good and soon. The artist saw that it was absolutely impossible to finish, that everything had to be replaced with dexterity and quick agility of the brush. To grasp only one whole, one general expression and not to delve into subtle details with a brush; in a word, it was absolutely impossible to follow nature in its finality. Moreover, it must be added that almost all of those who wrote had many other claims for different things. The ladies demanded that mainly only the soul and character be depicted in portraits, and that sometimes the rest should not be adhered to at all, that all corners should be rounded, all flaws should be lightened, and even, if possible, avoided altogether. Finally he figured out what the matter was, and there was no difficulty at all. Even from two or three words, he figured out who wanted to portray himself with what. Whoever wanted Mars, he shoved Mars in his face; whoever aimed at Byron, he gave him Byron's position and turn. Whether the ladies wanted to be Corinne, Undine, or Aspasia, he agreed with great willingness to everything and added plenty of good looks of his own, which, as we know, does not spoil anything and for which sometimes even the very dissimilarity will be forgiven the artist. Soon he himself began to marvel at the wonderful speed and agility of his brush. And those who wrote, it goes without saying, were delighted and proclaimed him a genius.

Chartkov became a fashionable painter in all respects. He began to go to dinners, accompany ladies to galleries and even to festivities, dress smartly and publicly assert that an artist should belong to society, that his title should be supported, that artists dress like shoemakers, do not know how to behave decently, do not observe the highest tone and deprived of any education. At home, in his studio, he introduced neatness and cleanliness to the highest degree, appointed two magnificent footmen, got smart students, changed clothes several times a day in different morning suits, curled his hair, began to improve the various manners with which to receive visitors, and began decorating in every possible way. by means of his appearance in order to make a pleasant impression on the ladies; in a word, soon it was impossible to recognize him at all as that modest artist who had once worked unnoticed in his shack on Vasilievsky Island. He now spoke sharply about artists and art: he argued that too much dignity had already been attributed to previous artists, that all of them before Raphael painted not figures, but herrings; that the thought exists only in the imagination of the observers, as if the presence of some kind of holiness is visible in them; that Raphael himself did not even write everything well and many of his works retained their fame only by legend; that Miquel Angel is a braggart because he only wanted to boast of his knowledge of anatomy, that there is no grace in him and that true brilliance, power of brush and color must be sought only now, in the present century. Here, naturally, the matter involuntarily came to itself.

No, I don’t understand, he said, the stress of others to sit and pore over work. This man, who spends several months poring over a painting, is, to me, a worker, not an artist. I don't believe he has any talent. A genius creates boldly and quickly. “For me,” he said, usually addressing visitors, “I painted this portrait in two days, this head in one day, this in a few hours, this in just over an hour. No, I... I confess, I don’t recognize as art what is put together line by line; This is a craft, not an art.

This is what he told his visitors, and the visitors marveled at the strength and agility of his brush, they even uttered exclamations when they heard how quickly they were produced, and then told each other: “This is talent, true talent! Look how he speaks, how his eyes sparkle! Il y a quelque chose d’extraordinaire dans toute sa figure!

The artist was flattered to hear such rumors about himself. When printed praise for him appeared in magazines, he rejoiced like a child, although this praise was bought by him with his own money. He carried such a printed sheet everywhere and, as if inadvertently, showed it to his acquaintances and friends, and this amused him to the point of his most simple-minded naivety. His fame grew, his works and orders increased. He had already begun to tire of the same portraits and faces, whose positions and expressions had become memorized to him. Already without much desire, he wrote them, trying to sketch out only one head, and let the rest be completed by his students. Before, he was still looking to give some new position, to amaze with force and effect. Now he was getting bored with this too. The mind was tired of inventing and thinking.

He couldn’t bear it, and he didn’t have time: his distracted life and society, where he tried to play the role of a secular man, all this took him far from work and thoughts. His brush grew cold and dull, and he insensitively enclosed himself in monotonous, definite, long-worn forms. The monotonous, cold, always tidy and, so to speak, buttoned-up faces of officials, military and civilians did not provide much field for the brush: it forgot the magnificent draperies, and strong movements, and passions. There was nothing to say about groups, about artistic drama, about its high premise. Before him were only a uniform, a corset, and a tailcoat, before which the artist feels cold and all imagination fades. Even the most ordinary merits were no longer visible in his works, and yet they still enjoyed fame, although true experts and artists only shrugged their shoulders when looking at his latest works. And some who knew Chartkov before could not understand how a talent could disappear in him, the signs of which were already clearly visible in him at the very beginning, and in vain they tried to figure out how a talent could fade away in a person, while he had only just reached its full potential. development of all your powers. But the intoxicated artist did not hear these rumors. He was already beginning to reach the age of sedateness of mind and years; began to get fat and apparently expand in width. Already in newspapers and magazines he read adjectives: “our venerable Andrei Petrovich,” “our honored Andrei Petrovich.” They have already begun offering him positions of honor, inviting him to exams and to committees. He had already begun, as always happens in years of honor, to strongly take the side of Raphael and, - not because he was fully convinced of their high dignity, but because he wanted to poke them in the eyes of young artists. He had already begun, as is the custom of all those entering such years, to reproach the youth without exception for immorality and a bad direction of spirit. He was already beginning to believe that everything in the world was done simply, there was no inspiration from above, and everything must necessarily be subjected to one strict order neatness and uniformity. In a word, his life has already touched those years when everything that breathes with impulse is compressed in a person, when a powerful bow weaker reaches the soul and does not wrap around the heart with piercing sounds, when the touch of beauty no longer turns virgin forces into fire and flame, but everything burnt-out feelings become more accessible to the sound of gold, listen more attentively to its tempting music and little by little insensitively allow it to completely lull itself to sleep. Fame cannot give pleasure to those who stole it and did not deserve it; it produces constant awe only in those worthy of it. And therefore all his feelings and impulses turned to gold. Gold became his passion, ideal, fear, pleasure, goal. Bunches of banknotes grew in the chests, and like anyone who inherits this terrible gift, he began to become boring, inaccessible to everything except gold, a causeless miser, a dissolute collector, and was already ready to turn into one of those strange creatures, of which there are many that come across in our insensitive light, at which a person full of life and heart looks with horror, to whom they seem to be moving stone coffins with a dead man inside instead of a heart. But one event greatly shocked and awakened his entire life.

One day he saw a note on his desk in which the Academy of Arts asked him, as a worthy member of it, to come and give his opinion on a new work sent from Italy by a Russian artist who had perfected himself there. This artist was one of his former comrades, who from carried within himself a passion for art, with the fiery soul of a worker, plunged into it with all his soul, broke away from friends, from relatives, from sweet habits and rushed to where, in the sight of the beautiful skies, the majestic hotbed of arts sings - to that wonderful Rome, with the name which the artist’s fiery heart beats so fully and strongly. There, like a hermit, he plunged into work and unentertained activities. He did not care whether they talked about his character, about his inability to deal with people, about his failure to observe social decorum, about the humiliation that he caused to the title of artist with his scanty, unfashionable attire. He didn't care whether his brothers were angry with him or not. He neglected everything, gave everything to art. Tirelessly visited galleries, stood for hours in front of the works of great masters, catching and pursuing a wonderful brush. He did not finish anything without speaking with these great teachers several times and reading silent and eloquent advice for himself in their creations. He did not engage in noisy conversations and arguments;

he stood neither for the purists nor against the purists. He equally gave his due to everything, extracting from everything only what was beautiful in him, and finally left only the divine Raphael as his teacher. Just as a great poet-artist, having read many different works, filled with many charms and majestic beauties, finally left only Homer’s Iliad as his reference book, discovering that it contains everything you want, and that there is nothing that is not reflected here already in such deep and great perfection. And on the other hand, he took from his school the majestic idea of ​​creation, the mighty beauty of thought, the lofty charm of the heavenly brush.

Pure, immaculate, beautiful, like a bride, stood before him the artist’s work. Modest, divine, innocent and simple, like a genius, it rose above everything. It seemed that the heavenly figures, amazed by so many gazes fixed on them, shyly lowered their beautiful eyelashes. With a feeling of involuntary amazement, experts contemplated the new, unprecedented brush. Everything here seemed to come together: the study of Raphael, reflected in the high nobility of the positions, the study of Correggius, breathing in the final perfection of the brush. But most powerfully visible was the power of creation, already contained in the soul of the artist himself. The last object in the picture was imbued with it; in everything they will comprehend the law and inner strength . Everywhere was caught this floating roundness of lines, contained in nature, which is seen only by one eye of the artist-creator and which comes out at the corners of the copyist. It was clear how the artist first contained everything extracted from the outside world into his soul and from there, from the spiritual spring, directed it with one consonant, solemn song. And it became clear even to the uninitiated what an immeasurable gap exists between the creation and a simple copy from nature. It was almost impossible to express that extraordinary silence that involuntarily enveloped everyone who had their eyes fixed on the picture - not a rustle, not a sound; and meanwhile the picture seemed higher and higher every minute; brighter and more wonderfully separated from everything and everything finally turned into one moment, the fruit of a thought that flew from heaven onto the artist, a moment for which all human life is only preparation. Involuntary tears were ready to roll down the faces of the visitors surrounding the painting. It seemed that all the tastes, all the daring, incorrect deviations of taste merged into some kind of silent hymn. Chartkov stood motionless, with his mouth open, in front of the painting, and finally, when little by little visitors and experts began to make noise and began to talk about the merits of the work, and when they finally turned to him with a request to announce his thoughts, he came to his senses; I wanted to assume an indifferent, ordinary look, I wanted to say the ordinary, vulgar judgment of callous artists, like the following: “Yes, of course, it’s true, you can’t take talent away from an artist; there is something; it is clear that he wanted to express something; however, as for the main thing...” And after this add, of course, such praise that would not be good for any artist. He wanted to do this, but the speech died on his lips, tears and sobs burst out discordantly in response, and he ran out of the hall like a madman.

For a minute, motionless and emotionless, he stood in the middle of his magnificent workshop. His entire composition, his whole life was awakened in an instant, as if youth had returned to him, as if extinguished sparks of talent flared up again. The bandage suddenly came off his eyes. God! and destroy so mercilessly the best years of your youth; to destroy, to extinguish the spark of fire, perhaps that was warming in the chest, perhaps now developing in greatness and beauty, perhaps also tearing out tears of amazement and gratitude! And destroy it all, destroy it without any pity! It seemed as if at that moment, at once and suddenly, those tensions and impulses that had once been familiar to him came to life in his soul. He grabbed the brush and approached the canvas. The sweat of effort appeared on his face; He turned entirely into one desire and was fired up by one thought: he wanted to portray a fallen angel. This idea was most in agreement with the state of his soul. But, alas! his figures, poses, groups, thoughts lay forced and incoherently. His brush and imagination were already too confined to one measure, and the powerless impulse to transgress the boundaries and fetters he had thrown over himself already felt like irregularity and error. He neglected the tedious, long ladder of gradual information and the first fundamental laws of the great future. Annoyance penetrated him., all the lifeless fashionable pictures, all the portraits of hussars, ladies and state councilors. He locked himself alone in his room, did not order anyone to be let in, and completely immersed himself in work. Like a patient youth, like a student, he sat at his work. But how mercilessly and ungratefully was everything that came out from under his brush! At every step he was stopped by ignorance of the most primitive elements; a simple, insignificant mechanism cooled the entire impulse and stood as an unsurpassable threshold for the imagination. The hand involuntarily turned to rigid forms, the arms folded in one memorized manner, the head did not dare to make an unusual turn, even the very folds of the dress responded to the rigidity and did not want to obey and drape in an unfamiliar position of the body. And he felt, he felt and saw it himself!

“But did I really have talent? - he finally said, “have I been deceived?” And, having uttered these words, he approached his previous works, which were once worked so purely, so disinterestedly, there, in a poor shack on a secluded Vasilyevsky Island, far away people, abundance and all sorts of whims. He now approached them and began to carefully examine them all, and along with them his whole previous poor life began to appear in his memory. “Yes,” he said desperately, “I had talent. Everywhere, on everything, its signs and traces are visible...”

He stopped and suddenly shook all over; his eyes met those motionlessly staring at him. This was the extraordinary portrait that he bought at Shchukin’s yard. It was closed all the time, cluttered with other pictures and completely out of his thoughts. Now, as if on purpose, when all the fashionable portraits and paintings that filled the studio had been taken out, he looked up along with the previous works of his youth. How he remembered his whole strange story, how he remembered that in some way he, this strange portrait, was the reason for his transformation, that the treasure of money he received in such a miraculous way gave birth to all the vain impulses in him that ruined his talent - he was almost ready for rage. was to break into his soul. At that very moment he ordered the hated portrait to be taken away. But the emotional unrest did not pacify because of this: all the feelings and the entire composition were shaken to the bottom, and he recognized that terrible torment that, as a striking exception, sometimes appears in nature when a weak talent tries to express itself in a size that exceeds it and cannot express itself; It seemed that he personified that terrible demon that Pushkin ideally portrayed. His lips uttered nothing except a poisonous word and eternal reproach. Like some kind of harpy, he came across him on the street, and everyone, even his acquaintances, seeing him from afar, tried to dodge and avoid such a meeting, saying that it would be enough to poison the whole day.

Fortunately for the world and the arts, such intense and violent life could not continue for long: the size of her passions was too irregular and colossal for her weak strength. Attacks of rage and madness began to appear more often, and finally it all turned into the most terrible disease. A severe fever, combined with the most rapid consumption, took possession of him so fiercely that in three days only a shadow remained of him. Added to this were all the signs of hopeless madness. Sometimes several people could not hold him. He began to imagine the long-forgotten, living eyes of the extraordinary portrait, and then his rage was terrible. All the people surrounding his bed seemed like terrible portraits to him. He doubled, quadrupled in his eyes;

all the walls seemed hung with portraits, staring at him with their motionless, living eyes. Terrible portraits looked from the ceiling, from the floor, the room expanded and continued endlessly to accommodate these motionless eyes. The doctor, who had taken upon himself the responsibility of using it and had already heard a little about its strange history, tried with all his might to find the secret relationship between the ghosts he dreamed of and the events of his life, but could not manage to do anything. The patient did not understand or feel anything except his torment, and uttered only terrible screams and incomprehensible speeches. Finally, his life was interrupted in the last, now silent, burst of suffering. His corpse was terrible. They also could not find anything from his enormous wealth; but, having seen the cut pieces of those high works of art, the price of which exceeded millions, they realized their terrible use. began in front of a bench in the Shchukinsky yard, where, among many paintings depicting peasants or landscapes, he spotted one and, having given the last two kopecks for it, brought it home. This is a portrait of an old man in Asian clothes, seemingly unfinished, but captured with such a strong brush that the eyes in the portrait looked as if they were alive. At home, Chartkov learns that the owner came with a policeman, demanding payment for the apartment. The annoyance of Chartkov, who has already regretted the two-kopeck piece and is sitting, due to poverty, without a candle, is multiplied. He reflects, not without bile, on the fate of a young talented artist, forced to a modest apprenticeship, while visiting painters “with just their usual manners” make noise and collect a fair amount of capital. At this time, his gaze falls on the portrait, which he has already forgotten - and the completely alive eyes, even destroying the harmony of the portrait itself, frighten him, giving him some kind of unpleasant feeling. Having gone to sleep behind the screens, he sees through the cracks a portrait illuminated by the moon, also staring at him. In fear, Chartkov curtains it with a sheet, but then he imagines eyes shining through the canvas, then it seems that the sheet has been torn off, and finally he sees that the sheet is really gone, and the old man has moved and crawled out of the frame. The old man comes behind the screen to him, sits down at his feet and begins to count the money he takes out of the bag he brought with him. One package with the inscription “1000 chervonets” rolls to the side, and Chartkov grabs it unnoticed. Desperately clutching the money, he wakes up; the hand feels the heaviness that was just in it. After a series of successive nightmares, he wakes up late and heavy. The policeman who came with the owner, learning that there is no money, offers to pay with work. The portrait of an old man attracts his attention, and, looking at the canvas, he carelessly squeezes the frames - a bundle known to Chartkov with the inscription “1000 chervonets” falls on the floor.

On the same day Chartkov pays the owner and, consoled by stories about treasures, drowning out the first impulse to buy paints and lock himself in the studio for three years, rents a luxurious apartment on Nevsky, dresses dandy, advertises in a popular newspaper, and the next day receives the customer. An important lady, having described the desired details of the future portrait of her daughter, takes her away when Chartkov, it seemed, had just signed and was ready to grab something important in her face. The next time she remains dissatisfied with the similarity that appears, the yellowness of the face and the shadows under the eyes, and finally mistakes Chartkov’s old work, Psyche, slightly updated by the disgruntled artist, for a portrait.

In a short time, Chartkov becomes fashionable: grasping one general expression, he paints many portraits, satisfying a variety of demands. He is rich, accepted in aristocratic houses, and speaks harshly and arrogantly about artists. Many who knew Chartkov before are amazed how his talent, so noticeable at the beginning, could disappear. He is important, reproaches young people for immorality, becomes a miser, and one day, at the invitation of the Academy of Arts, coming to look at a canvas sent from Italy by one of his former comrades, he sees perfection and understands the entire abyss of his fall. He locks himself in the workshop and plunges into work, but is forced to stop every minute due to ignorance of elementary truths, the study of which he neglected at the beginning of his career. Soon he is overcome by terrible envy, he begins to buy the best works of art, and only after his early death from a fever combined with consumption, it becomes clear that the masterpieces, for the acquisition of which he used all his enormous fortune, were cruelly destroyed by him. His death was terrible: he saw the old man’s terrible eyes everywhere.

Chartkov's story had some explanation a short time later at one of the auctions in St. Petersburg. Among the Chinese vases, furniture and paintings, the attention of many is attracted by an amazing portrait of a certain Asian man, whose eyes are painted with such art that they seem alive. The price quadruples, and then the artist B. comes forward, declaring his special rights to this canvas. To confirm these words, he tells a story that happened to his father.

Having first outlined a part of the city called Kolomna, he describes a moneylender who once lived there, a giant of Asian appearance, capable of lending any amount to anyone who wanted it, from old women to wasteful nobles. His interest seemed small and the payment terms were very favorable, but by strange arithmetic calculations the amount to be returned increased incredibly. Worst of all was the fate of those who received money from the hands of the sinister Asian. The story of a young brilliant nobleman, whose disastrous change in character brought upon him the wrath of the empress, ended in his madness and death. The life of a wonderful beauty, for the sake of her wedding with whom her chosen one made a loan from a moneylender (for the bride’s parents saw an obstacle to the marriage in the upset state of affairs of the groom), a life poisoned in one year by the poison of jealousy, intolerance and whims that suddenly appeared in the previously noble character of her husband. Having even encroached on the life of his wife, the unfortunate man committed suicide. Many less remarkable stories, since they happened in the lower classes, were also associated with the name of the moneylender.

The narrator's father, a self-taught artist, planning to portray the spirit of darkness, often thought about his terrible neighbor, and one day he himself came to him and demanded that he draw a portrait of himself in order to remain in the picture “exactly as alive.” The father happily gets down to business, but the better he manages to capture the old man’s appearance, the more vividly his eyes appear on the canvas, the more painful a feeling takes over him. No longer having the strength to endure the growing disgust for work, he refuses to continue, and the pleas of the old man, explaining that after death his life will be preserved in the portrait supernatural power, completely frighten him. He runs away, the old man’s maid brings him the unfinished portrait, and the moneylender himself dies the next day. Over time, the artist notices changes in himself: feeling envious of his student, he harms him, the eyes of a moneylender appear in his paintings. When he is about to burn a terrible portrait, a friend begs him. But he too was soon forced to sell it to his nephew; his nephew also got rid of him. The artist understands that part of the moneylender’s soul has entered into the terrible portrait, and the death of his wife, daughter and young son finally assures him of this. He places the elder in the Academy of Arts and goes to a monastery, where he leads a strict life, seeking all possible degrees of selflessness. Finally he takes up his brush and whole year writes the Nativity of Jesus. His work is a miracle, filled with holiness. To his son, who came to say goodbye before traveling to Italy, he communicates many of his thoughts about art and, among some instructions, telling the story of the moneylender, he conjures to find a portrait passing from hand to hand and destroy it. And now, after fifteen years of futile searches, the narrator has finally found this portrait - and when he, and with him the crowd of listeners, turns to the wall, the portrait is no longer on it. Someone says: "Stolen." Maybe you are right.

A tragic story happened to the young talented artist Andrei Chartkov. He lived very poorly, but once he did not regret paying the last two kopecks for a painting he liked in Shchukin’s yard. It was a portrait of an old man in Asian clothes.

It seemed to Chartkov that the painting was painted by a famous master, but for some reason was not finished. The old man's eyes seemed alive.

At home, the artist found out: the owner came and demanded payment for housing. The young man immediately regretted that he had given his last money for the portrait. Chartkov plunged into thoughts about his poverty and life's injustice. He doesn’t even have money for a candle; he has to sit in the dark. And then the artist’s gaze fell on the portrait.

The old man’s “living” eyes looked out from the picture and frightened him. An inexplicable sinister force emanated from the portrait. Before going to bed, Chartkov looked at the portrait again. Once again it seemed to him that the old man’s eyes, illuminated by the moon, were looking intently into his soul. In fear, the artist threw a sheet over the portrait, but this did not help. The matter began to move, and the old man's gaze was everywhere.

Suddenly Chartkov saw that the sheet was lying on the floor, and the old man came out of the frame and sat down on his bed. In the Asian’s hand there was a bag of money with the inscription on it: “1000 chervonets.” Suddenly the bag fell out of the old man’s hands and rolled to the side. Chartkov tried to quietly take the money, but at that moment he woke up. For a long time he felt the pleasant weight of the bag of money in his hand.

In the morning the owner of the apartment came again. Having learned that there was no money, he offered Chartkov to pay with work. The owner was interested in the portrait of the old man. While examining it, he accidentally touched the frame, from which a bag with the inscription “1000 chervonets” fell out. After such luck, Chartkov immediately paid the owner of the apartment and moved out of his place.

For a long time the artist drove away bad thoughts about the old man and convinced himself that he had simply found a treasure. Extortion desire To buy brushes and paints with all the money, he rented a luxurious apartment on Nevsky that same day. Chartkov began to live in a new way. He began to dress fashionably and advertised in the newspaper for the services of an artist. The lady came first and ordered a portrait of her daughter. In his haste, Chartkov did not have time to remember his daughter’s facial features well and therefore the portrait did not turn out. The customer did not like the yellowness of her face and the circles under her eyes. Then Chartkov gave her his old work called “Psyche”, updating the picture a little. The minor conflict was resolved.

The artist began to receive orders. He paints many portraits, satisfying the desires of rich people. Chartkov is now received in the best aristocratic houses. But along with wealth, the young man himself changes, becoming tough and cynical. He speaks harshly and arrogantly about other masters. Chartkov criticizes everyone, does not recognize a single talent.

Those who knew Chartkov before are amazed at such dramatic changes in him. It is difficult to understand how a talented artist turned into a miser in such a short time. Anger and hatred now become Chartkov’s faithful companions.

One day a young man was invited to the Academy of Arts to see a painting by an old friend sent from Italy. And then Chartkov realized how low he had fallen, how insignificant his paintings were in comparison with the works of other artists.

Chartkov closes himself in the workshop and tries to rectify the situation. He immerses himself in his work, but is forced to constantly interrupt it due to basic gaps in knowledge that he neglected at the beginning of his artistic career. The master is overwhelmed with envy and anger. Chartkov begins to buy the best works from all over the world, but soon dies of consumption. The artist’s death was terrible - he saw the eyes of an old Asian man everywhere. Later it turned out that all the masterpieces on which Chartkov spent a huge fortune were destroyed by him.

Part II

Soon another part of the story became known, which happened to the young artist Andrei Chartkov. At an auction in St. Petersburg, among Chinese vases, paintings, old furniture and other things, a portrait of an old Asian man was sold, whose eyes looked like they were alive. When the price quadrupled, a certain artist B. claimed his rights to the painting. In confirmation, he told a story that happened to his father in Kolomna. Once upon a time there lived an Asian moneylender. He was huge and scary, like a demon. His terms seemed very favorable, but when the time came to pay, according to strange arithmetic calculations, the interest turned out to be huge, growing several times.

The fate of those who took money from the Asian was terrible. So, a young and fairly successful nobleman took a loan from a moneylender, after which negative changes occurred in his character. The matter ended in complete madness and the death of the nobleman. There was also a story with a girl whose boyfriend asked an Asian man for help. He had to take this step so that the bride's parents would give the go-ahead for their union. However, disastrous changes also occurred in the character of this person. The man was burned with terrible jealousy, he even attempted the life of his young wife, and then decided to commit suicide. And there were a lot of such stories told.

The artist's father B. painted temples, but for some reason he very often wanted to depict the spirit of darkness on canvas. One day a terrible neighbor, a moneylender, came to see him and asked him to paint a portrait so that he would look “as if alive.” The artist happily took on the job, but the better he got at the old man’s appearance, the more terrible and heavier his soul became. The artist felt an incomprehensible fear that emanated from the portrait.

The master could not stand such tension and decided to refuse the order. But the old man begged to finish the portrait, saying that he would live in it after death. This frightened the artist even more. He ran away, and the moneylender died the next day.

Soon the artist noticed changes in himself: he began to envy and harm his students, and the eyes of an Asian moneylender began to appear in his paintings. Therefore, the artist’s father B. decided to burn the terrible portrait. But at the last moment this painting was begged by a friend who gave the painting to his nephew. He soon also got rid of the portrait.

The author of the ill-fated painting began to understand that in some incomprehensible way an Asian moneylender had possessed the portrait. The death of my relatives finally convinced me of this. The artist went to a monastery, and sent his eldest son to the Academy of Arts.

When the artist’s father B. took up his brush again, he painted one work for a whole year - “The Nativity of Jesus,” which was full of holiness and light. He wanted to atone for the fatal portrait.

Artist B. graduated from the Academy of Arts and before traveling to Italy, he stopped by to visit his father. He told his son scary story about a moneylender. He asked the heir to find and destroy the portrait.

It took fifteen years to find the deadly canvas. Artist B. asked to give him the portrait in order to destroy it forever. People, after listening to this terrible story, agreed.

When everyone turned to the wall where the portrait hung, they saw with horror that the painting had disappeared. Maybe it was just stolen. But who knows...

"Portrait"- story by Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Part 1 "Portrait" summary

A tragic story happened to the young talented artist Andrei Chartkov. He lived very poorly, but once he did not regret paying the last two kopecks for a painting he liked in Shchukin’s yard. It was a portrait of an old man in Asian clothes.

It seemed to Chartkov that the painting was painted by a famous master, but for some reason was not finished. The old man's eyes seemed alive.

At home, the artist found out: the owner came and demanded payment for housing. The young man immediately regretted that he had given his last money for the portrait. Chartkov plunged into thoughts about his poverty and life's injustice. He doesn’t even have money for a candle; he has to sit in the dark. And then the artist’s gaze fell on the portrait.

The old man’s “living” eyes looked out from the picture and frightened him. An inexplicable sinister force emanated from the portrait. Before going to bed, Chartkov looked at the portrait again. Once again it seemed to him that the old man’s eyes, illuminated by the moon, were looking intently into his soul. In fear, the artist threw a sheet over the portrait, but this did not help. The matter began to move, and the old man's gaze was everywhere.

Suddenly Chartkov saw that the sheet was lying on the floor, and the old man came out of the frame and sat down on his bed. In the Asian’s hand there was a bag of money with the inscription on it: “1000 chervonets.” Suddenly the bag fell out of the old man’s hands and rolled to the side. Chartkov tried to quietly take the money, but at that moment he woke up. For a long time he felt the pleasant weight of the bag of money in his hand.

In the morning the owner of the apartment came again. Having learned that there was no money, he offered Chartkov to pay with work. The owner was interested in the portrait of the old man. While examining it, he accidentally touched the frame, from which a bag with the inscription “1000 chervonets” fell out. After such luck, Chartkov immediately paid the owner of the apartment and moved out of his place.

For a long time the artist drove away bad thoughts about the old man and convinced himself that he had simply found a treasure. Overcoming a strong desire to buy brushes and paints with all the money, he rented a luxurious apartment on Nevsky that same day. Chartkov began to live in a new way. He began to dress fashionably and advertised in the newspaper for the services of an artist. The lady came first and ordered a portrait of her daughter. In his haste, Chartkov did not have time to remember his daughter’s facial features well and therefore the portrait did not turn out. The customer did not like the yellowness of her face and the circles under her eyes. Then Chartkov gave her his old work called “Psyche”, updating the picture a little. The minor conflict was resolved.

The artist began to receive orders. He paints many portraits, satisfying the desires of rich people. Chartkov is now received in the best aristocratic houses. But along with wealth, the young man himself changes, becoming tough and cynical. He speaks harshly and arrogantly about other masters. Chartkov criticizes everyone, does not recognize a single talent.

Those who knew Chartkov before are amazed at such dramatic changes in him. It is difficult to understand how a talented artist turned into a miser in such a short time. Anger and hatred now become Chartkov’s faithful companions.

One day a young man was invited to the Academy of Arts to see a painting by an old friend sent from Italy. And then Chartkov realized how low he had fallen, how insignificant his paintings were in comparison with the works of other artists.

Chartkov closes himself in the workshop and tries to rectify the situation. He immerses himself in his work, but is forced to constantly interrupt it due to basic gaps in knowledge that he neglected at the beginning of his artistic career. The master is overwhelmed with envy and anger. Chartkov begins to buy the best works from all over the world, but soon dies of consumption. The artist’s death was terrible - he saw the eyes of an old Asian man everywhere. Later it turned out that all the masterpieces on which Chartkov spent a huge fortune were destroyed by him.

Part II "Portrait" summary

Soon another part of the story became known, which happened to the young artist Andrei Chartkov. At an auction in St. Petersburg, among Chinese vases, paintings, old furniture and other things, a portrait of an old Asian man was sold, whose eyes looked like they were alive. When the price quadrupled, a certain artist B. claimed his rights to the painting. In confirmation, he told a story that happened to his father in Kolomna. Once upon a time there lived an Asian moneylender. He was huge and scary, like a demon. His terms seemed very favorable, but when the time came to pay, according to strange arithmetic calculations, the interest turned out to be huge, growing several times.

The fate of those who took money from the Asian was terrible. So, a young and fairly successful nobleman took a loan from a moneylender, after which negative changes occurred in his character. The matter ended in complete madness and the death of the nobleman. There was also a story with a girl whose boyfriend asked an Asian man for help. He had to take this step so that the bride's parents would give the go-ahead for their union. However, disastrous changes also occurred in the character of this person. The man was burned with terrible jealousy, he even attempted the life of his young wife, and then decided to commit suicide. And there were a lot of such stories told.

The artist's father B. painted temples, but for some reason he very often wanted to depict the spirit of darkness on canvas. One day a terrible neighbor, a moneylender, came to see him and asked him to paint a portrait so that he would look “as if alive.” The artist happily took on the job, but the better he got at the old man’s appearance, the more terrible and heavier his soul became. The artist felt an incomprehensible fear that emanated from the portrait.

The master could not stand such tension and decided to refuse the order. But the old man begged to finish the portrait, saying that he would live in it after death. This frightened the artist even more. He ran away, and the moneylender died the next day.

Soon the artist noticed changes in himself: he began to envy and harm his students, and the eyes of an Asian moneylender began to appear in his paintings. Therefore, the artist’s father B. decided to burn the terrible portrait. But at the last moment this painting was begged by a friend who gave the painting to his nephew. He soon also got rid of the portrait.

The author of the ill-fated painting began to understand that in some incomprehensible way an Asian moneylender had possessed the portrait. The death of my relatives finally convinced me of this. The artist went to a monastery, and sent his eldest son to the Academy of Arts.

When the artist’s father B. took up his brush again, he painted one work for a whole year - “The Nativity of Jesus,” which was full of holiness and light. He wanted to atone for the fatal portrait.

Artist B. graduated from the Academy of Arts and before traveling to Italy, he went to visit his father. He told his son a terrible story about a moneylender. He asked the heir to find and destroy the portrait.

It took fifteen years to find the deadly canvas. Artist B. asked to give him the portrait in order to destroy it forever. People, after listening to this terrible story, agreed.

When everyone turned to the wall where the portrait hung, they saw with horror that the painting had disappeared. Maybe it was just stolen. But who knows…