按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
for lightness and rapidity； to catch only the general expression； and
not waste labour on delicate details。
Moreover； nearly all of his sitters made stipulations on various
points。 The ladies required that mind and character should be
represented in their portraits； that all angles should be rounded； all
unevenness smoothed away； and even removed entirely if possible； in
short； that their faces should be such as to cause every one to stare
at them with admiration； if not fall in love with them outright。 When
they sat to him； they sometimes assumed expressions which greatly
amazed the artist； one tried to express melancholy； another；
meditation； a third wanted to make her mouth appear small on any
terms； and puckered it up to such an extent that it finally looked
like a spot about as big as a pinhead。 And in spite of all this； they
demanded of him good likenesses and unconstrained naturalness。 The men
were no better： one insisted on being painted with an energetic；
muscular turn to his head； another； with upturned； inspired eyes； a
lieutenant of the guard demanded that Mars should be visible in his
eyes； an official in the civil service drew himself up to his full
height in order to have his uprightness expressed in his face； and
that his hand might rest on a book bearing the words in plain
characters； 〃He always stood up for the right。〃
At first such demands threw the artist into a cold perspiration。
Finally he acquired the knack of it； and never troubled himself at all
about it。 He understood at a word how each wanted himself portrayed。
If a man wanted Mars in his face； he put in Mars： he gave a Byronic
turn and attitude to those who aimed at Byron。 If the ladies wanted to
be Corinne； Undine； or Aspasia； he agreed with great readiness； and
threw in a sufficient measure of good looks from his own imagination；
which does no harm； and for the sake of which an artist is even
forgiven a lack of resemblance。 He soon began to wonder himself at the
rapidity and dash of his brush。 And of course those who sat to him
were in ecstasies； and proclaimed him a genius。
Tchartkoff became a fashionable artist in every sense of the word。 He
began to dine out； to escort ladies to picture galleries； to dress
foppishly； and to assert audibly that an artist should belong to
society； that he must uphold his profession； that artists mostly dress
like showmakers； do not know how to behave themselves； do not maintain
the highest tone； and are lacking in all polish。 At home； in his
studio； he carried cleanliness and spotlessness to the last extreme；
set up two superb footmen； took fashionable pupils； dressed several
times a day； curled his hair； practised various manners of receiving
his callers； and busied himself in adorning his person in every
conceivable way； in order to produce a pleasing impression on the
ladies。 In short； it would soon have been impossible for any one to
have recognised in him the modest artist who had formerly toiled
unknown in his miserable quarters in the Vasilievsky Ostroff。
He now expressed himself decidedly concerning artists and art；
declared that too much credit had been given to the old masters； that
even Raphael did not always paint well； and that fame attached to many
of his works simply by force of tradition： that Michael Angelo was a
braggart because he could boast only a knowledge of anatomy； that
there was no grace about him； and that real brilliancy and power of
treatment and colouring were to be looked for in the present century。
And there； naturally； the question touched him personally。 〃I do not
understand；〃 said he； 〃how others toil and work with difficulty： a man
who labours for months over a picture is a dauber； and no artist in my
opinion； I don't believe he has any talent： genius works boldly；
rapidly。 Here is this portrait which I painted in two days； this head
in one day； this in a few hours； this in little more than an hour。 No；
I confess I do not recognise as art that which adds line to line； that
is a handicraft； not art。〃 In this manner did he lecture his visitors；
and the visitors admired the strength and boldness of his works；
uttered exclamations on hearing how fast they had been produced； and
said to each other； 〃This is talent； real talent！ see how he speaks；
how his eyes gleam！ There is something really extraordinary in his
face！〃
It flattered the artist to hear such reports about himself。 When
printed praise appeared in the papers； he rejoiced like a child；
although this praise was purchased with his money。 He carried the
printed slips about with him everywhere； and showed them to friends
and acquaintances as if by accident。 His fame increased； his works and
orders multiplied。 Already the same portraits over and over again
wearied him； by the same attitudes and turns； which he had learned by
heart。 He painted them now without any great interest in his work；
brushing in some sort of a head； and giving them to his pupil's to
finish。 At first he had sought to devise a new attitude each time。 Now
this had grown wearisome to him。 His brain was tired with planning and
thinking。 It was out of his power； his fashionable life bore him far
away from labour and thought。 His work grew cold and colourless； and
he betook himself with indifference to the reproduction of monotonous；
well…worn forms。 The eternally spick…and…span uniforms； and the
so…to…speak buttoned…up faces of the government officials； soldiers；
and statesmen； did not offer a wide field for his brush： it forgot how
to render superb draperies and powerful emotion and passion。 Of
grouping； dramatic effect and its lofty connections； there was
nothing。 In face of him was only a uniform； a corsage； a dress…coat；
and before which the artist feels cold and all imagination vanishes。
Even his own peculiar merits were no longer visible in his works； yet
they continued to enjoy renown； although genuine connoisseurs and
artists merely shrugged their shoulders when they saw his latest
productions。 But some who had known Tchartkoff in his earlier days
could not understand how the talent of which he had given such clear
indications in the outset could so have vanished； and strove in vain
to divine by what means genius could be extinguished in a man just
when he had attained to the full development of his powers。
But the intoxicated artist did not hear these criticisms。 He began to
attain to the age of dignity； both in mind and years： to grow stout；
and increase visibly in flesh。 He often read in the papers such
phrases as； 〃Our most respected Andrei Petrovitch； our worthy Andrei
Petrovitch。〃 He began to receive offers of distinguished posts in the
service； invitations to examinations and committees。 He began； as is
usually the case in maturer years； to advocate Raphael and the old
masters； not because he had become thoroughly convinced of their
transcendent merits； but in order to snub the younger artists。 His
life was already approaching the period when everything which suggests
impulse contracts within a man； when a powerful chord appeals more
feebly to the spirit； when the touch of beauty no longer converts
virgin strength into fire and flame； but when all the burnt…out
sentiments become more vulnerable to the sound of gold； hearken more
attentively to its seductive music； and little by little permit
themselves to be completely lulled to sleep by it。 Fame can give no
pleasure to him who has stolen it； not won it； so all his feelings and
impulses turned towards wealth。 Gold was his passion； his ideal； his
fear； his delight； his aim。 The bundles of bank…notes increased in his
coffers； and； like all to whose lot falls this fearful gift； he began
to grow inaccessible to every sentiment except the love of gold。 But
something occurred which gave him a powerful shock； and disturbed the
whole tenor of his life。
One day he found upon his table a note； in which the Academy of
Painting begged him； as a worthy member of its body； to come and give
his opinion upon a new work which had been sent from Italy by a
Russian artist who was perfecting himself there。 The painter was one
of his former comrades； who had been possessed with a passion for art
from his earliest years； had given himself up to it with his whole
soul； estranged himself from his friends and relatives； and had
hastened to that wonderful Rome； at whose very name the artist's heart
beats wildly and hotly。 There he buried himself in his work from which
he permitted nothing to entice him。 He visited the galleries
unweariedly； he stood for hours at a time before the works of the
great masters； seizing and studying their marvellous methods。 He never
finished anything without revising his impressions several times
before these great teachers； and reading in their works silent but
eloquent counsels。 He gave each impartially his due； appropriating
from all only that which was most beautiful； and finally