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from all only that which was most beautiful； and finally became the
pupil of the divine Raphael alone； as a great poet； after reading many
works； at last made Homer's 〃Iliad〃 his only breviary； having
discovered that it contains all one wants； and that there is nothing
which is not expressed in it in perfection。 And so he brought away
from his school the grand conception of creation； the mighty beauty of
thought； the high charm of that heavenly brush。
When Tchartkoff entered the room； he found a crowd of visitors already
collected before the picture。 The most profound silence； such as
rarely settles upon a throng of critics； reigned over all。 He hastened
to assume the significant expression of a connoisseur； and approached
the picture； but； O God！ what did he behold！
Pure； faultless； beautiful as a bride； stood the picture before him。
The critics regarded this new hitherto unknown work with a feeling of
involuntary wonder。 All seemed united in it： the art of Raphael；
reflected in the lofty grace of the grouping； the art of Correggio；
breathing from the finished perfection of the workmanship。 But more
striking than all else was the evident creative power in the artist's
mind。 The very minutest object in the picture revealed it； he had
caught that melting roundness of outline which is visible in nature
only to the artist creator； and which comes out as angles with a
copyist。 It was plainly visible how the artist； having imbibed it all
from the external world； had first stored it in his mind； and then
drawn it thence； as from a spiritual source； into one harmonious；
triumphant song。 And it was evident； even to the uninitiated； how vast
a gulf there was fixed between creation and a mere copy from nature。
Involuntary tears stood ready to fall in the eyes of those who
surrounded the picture。 It seemed as though all joined in a silent
hymn to the divine work。
Motionless； with open mouth； Tchartkoff stood before the picture。 At
length； when by degrees the visitors and critics began to murmur and
comment upon the merits of the work； and turning to him； begged him to
express an opinion； he came to himself once more。 He tried to assume
an indifferent； everyday expression； strove to utter some such
commonplace remark as； 〃Yes； to tell the truth； it is impossible to
deny the artist's talent； there is something in it；〃 but the speech
died upon his lips； tears and sobs burst forth uncontrollably； and he
rushed from the room like one beside himself。
In a moment he stood in his magnificent studio。 All his being； all his
life； had been aroused in one instant； as if youth had returned to
him； as if the dying sparks of his talent had blazed forth afresh。 The
bandage suddenly fell from his eyes。 Heavens！ to think of having
mercilessly wasted the best years of his youth； of having
extinguished； trodden out perhaps； that spark of fire which； cherished
in his breast； might perhaps have been developed into magnificence and
beauty； and have extorted too； its meed of tears and admiration！ It
seemed as though those impulses which he had known in other days
re…awoke suddenly in his soul。
He seized a brush and approached his canvas。 One thought possessed him
wholly； one desire consumed him； he strove to depict a fallen angel。
This idea was most in harmony with his frame of mind。 The perspiration
started out upon his face with his efforts； but； alas！ his figures；
attitudes； groups； thoughts； arranged themselves stiffly；
disconnectedly。 His hand and his imagination had been too long
confined to one groove； and the fruitless effort to escape from the
bonds and fetters which he had imposed upon himself； showed itself in
irregularities and errors。 He had despised the long； wearisome ladder
to knowledge； and the first fundamental law of the future great man；
hard work。 He gave vent to his vexation。 He ordered all his later
productions to be taken out of his studio； all the fashionable；
lifeless pictures； all the portraits of hussars； ladies； and
councillors of state。
He shut himself up alone in his room； would order no food； and devoted
himself entirely to his work。 He sat toiling like a scholar。 But how
pitifully wretched was all which proceeded from his hand！ He was
stopped at every step by his ignorance of the very first principles：
simple ignorance of the mechanical part of his art chilled all
inspiration and formed an impassable barrier to his imagination。 His
brush returned involuntarily to hackneyed forms： hands folded
themselves in a set attitude； heads dared not make any unusual turn；
the very garments turned out commonplace； and would not drape
themselves to any unaccustomed posture of the body。 And he felt and
saw this all himself。
〃But had I really any talent？〃 he said at length： 〃did not I deceive
myself？〃 Uttering these words； he turned to the early works which he
had painted so purely； so unselfishly； in former days； in his wretched
cabin yonder in lonely Vasilievsky Ostroff。 He began attentively to
examine them all； and all the misery of his former life came back to
him。 〃Yes；〃 he cried despairingly； 〃I had talent： the signs and traces
of it are everywhere visible〃
He paused suddenly； and shivered all over。 His eyes encountered other
eyes fixed immovably upon him。 It was that remarkable portrait which
he had bought in the Shtchukinui Dvor。 All this time it had been
covered up； concealed by other pictures； and had utterly gone out of
his mind。 Now； as if by design； when all the fashionable portraits and
paintings had been removed from the studio； it looked forth； together
with the productions of his early youth。 As he recalled all the
strange events connected with it； as he remembered that this singular
portrait had been； in a manner； the cause of his errors； that the
hoard of money which he had obtained in such peculiar fashion had
given birth in his mind to all the wild caprices which had destroyed
his talentmadness was on the point of taking possession of him。 At
once he ordered the hateful portrait to be removed。
But his mental excitement was not thereby diminished。 His whole being
was shaken to its foundation； and he suffered that fearful torture
which is sometimes exhibited when a feeble talent strives to display
itself on a scale too great for it and cannot do so。 A horrible envy
took possession of himan envy which bordered on madness。 The gall
flew to his heart when he beheld a work which bore the stamp of
talent。 He gnashed his teeth； and devoured it with the glare of a
basilisk。 He conceived the most devilish plan which ever entered into
the mind of man； and he hastened with the strength of madness to carry
it into execution。 He began to purchase the best that art produced of
every kind。 Having bought a picture at a great price； he transported
it to his room； flung himself upon it with the ferocity of a tiger；
cut it； tore it； chopped it into bits； and stamped upon it with a grin
of delight。
The vast wealth he had amassed enabled him to gratify this devilish
desire。 He opened his bags of gold and unlocked his coffers。 No
monster of ignorance ever destroyed so many superb productions of art
as did this raging avenger。 At any auction where he made his
appearance； every one despaired at once of obtaining any work of art。
It seemed as if an angry heaven had sent this fearful scourge into the
world expressly to destroy all harmony。 Scorn of the world was
expressed in his countenance。 His tongue uttered nothing save biting
and censorious words。 He swooped down like a harpy into the street：
and his acquaintances； catching sight of him in the distance； sought
to turn aside and avoid a meeting with him； saying that it poisoned
all the rest of the day。
Fortunately for the world and art； such a life could not last long：
his passions were too overpowering for his feeble strength。 Attacks of
madness began to recur more frequently； and ended at last in the most
frightful illness。 A violent fever； combined with galloping
consumption； seized upon him with such violence； that in three days
there remained only a shadow of his former self。 To this was added
indications of hopeless insanity。 Sometimes several men were unable to
hold him。 The long…forgotten； living eyes of the portrait began to
torment him； and then his madness became dreadful。 All the people who
surrounded his bed seemed to him horrible portraits。 The portrait
doubled and quadrupled itself； all the walls seemed hung with
portraits； which fastened their living eyes upon him； portraits glared
at him from the ceiling； from the floor； the room widened and
lengthened endlessly； in order to make room for more of the motionless
eyes。 The doctor who had undertaken to attend him； having learned
something of his strange history； strove with all his might to fathom
the secret connection between the visions of his fancy and the
occurrences of his life； but without the