the mysterious portrait-第5部分

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！



flattered　him　extremely。　The　praise；　〃Long　live　Andrei　Petrovitch；〃

also　pleased　him　greatly：　to　be　spoken　of　by　his　Christian　name　and

patronymic　in　print　was　an　honour　hitherto　totally　unknown　to　him。　He

began　to　pace　the　chamber　briskly；　now　he　sat　down　in　an　armchair；　now

he　sprang　up；　and　seated　himself　on　the　sofa；　planning　each　moment　how

he　would　receive　visitors；　male　and　female；　he　went　to　his　canvas　and

made　a　rapid　sweep　of　the　brush；　endeavouring　to　impart　a　graceful

movement　to　his　hand。



The　next　day；　the　bell　at　his　door　rang。　He　hastened　to　open　it。　A

lady　entered；　accompanied　by　a　girl　of　eighteen；　her　daughter；　and

followed　by　a　lackey　in　a　furred　livery…coat。



〃You　are　the　painter　Tchartkoff？〃



The　artist　bowed。



〃A　great　deal　is　written　about　you：　your　portraits；　it　is　said；　are

the　height　of　perfection。〃　So　saying；　the　lady　raised　her　glass　to　her

eyes　and　glanced　rapidly　over　the　walls；　upon　which　nothing　was

hanging。　〃But　where　are　your　portraits？〃



〃They　have　been　taken　away〃　replied　the　artist；　somewhat　confusedly：

〃I　have　but　just　moved　into　these　apartments；　so　they　are　still　on　the

road；　they　have　not　arrived。〃



〃You　have　been　in　Italy？〃　asked　the　lady；　levelling　her　glass　at　him；

as　she　found　nothing　else　to　point　it　at。



〃No；　I　have　not　been　there；　but　I　wish　to　go；　and　I　have　deferred　it

for　a　while。　Here　is　an　arm…chair；　madame：　you　are　fatigued？〃



〃Thank　you：　I　have　been　sitting　a　long　time　in　the　carriage。　Ah；　at

last　I　behold　your　work！〃　said　the　lady；　running　to　the　opposite　wall；

and　bringing　her　glass　to　bear　upon　his　studies；　sketches；　views　and

portraits　which　were　standing　there　on　the　floor。　〃It　is　charming。

Lise！　Lise；　come　here。　Rooms　in　the　style　of　Teniers。　Do　you　see？

Disorder；　disorder；　a　table　with　a　bust　upon　it；　a　hand；　a　palette；

dust；　see　how　the　dust　is　painted！　It　is　charming。　And　here　on　this

canvas　is　a　woman　washing　her　face。　What　a　pretty　face！　Ah！　a　little

muzhik！　So　you　do　not　devote　yourself　exclusively　to　portraits？〃



〃Oh！　that　is　mere　rubbish。　I　was　trying　experiments；　studies。〃



〃Tell　me　your　opinion　of　the　portrait　painters　of　the　present　day。　Is

it　not　true　that　there　are　none　now　like　Titian？　There　is　not　that

strength　of　colour；　thatthat　What　a　pity　that　I　cannot　express

myself　in　Russian。〃　The　lady　was　fond　of　paintings；　and　had　gone

through　all　the　galleries　in　Italy　with　her　eye…glass。　〃But　Monsieur

Nohlah；　how　well　he　paints！　what　remarkable　work！　I　think　his　faces

have　been　more　expression　than　Titian's。　You　do　not　know　Monsieur

Nohl？〃



〃Who　is　Nohl？〃　inquired　the　artist。



〃Monsieur　Nohl。　Ah；　what　talent！　He　painted　her　portrait　when　she　was

only　twelve　years　old。　You　must　certainly　come　to　see　us。　Lise；　you

shall　show　him　your　album。　You　know；　we　came　expressly　that　you　might

begin　her　portrait　immediately。〃



〃What？　I　am　ready　this　very　moment。〃　And　in　a　trice　he　pulled　forward

an　easel　with　a　canvas　already　prepared；　grasped　his　palette；　and

fixed　his　eyes　on　the　daughter's　pretty　little　face。　If　he　had　been

acquainted　with　human　nature；　he　might　have　read　in　it　the　dawning　of

a　childish　passion　for　balls；　the　dawning　of　sorrow　and　misery　at　the

length　of　time　before　dinner　and　after　dinner；　the　heavy　traces　of

uninterested　application　to　various　arts；　insisted　upon　by　her　mother

for　the　elevation　of　her　mind。　But　the　artist　saw　only　the　tender

little　face；　a　seductive　subject　for　his　brush；　the　body　almost　as

transparent　as　porcelain；　the　delicate　white　neck；　and　the

aristocratically　slender　form。　And　he　prepared　beforehand　to　triumph；

to　display　the　delicacy　of　his　brush；　which　had　hitherto　had　to　deal

only　with　the　harsh　features　of　coarse　models；　and　severe　antiques　and

copies　of　classic　masters。　He　already　saw　in　fancy　how　this　delicate

little　face　would　turn　out。



〃Do　you　know；〃　said　the　lady　with　a　positively　touching　expression　of

countenance；　〃I　should　like　her　to　be　painted　simply　attired；　and

seated　among　green　shadows；　like　meadows；　with　a　flock　or　a　grove　in

the　distance；　so　that　it　could　not　be　seen　that　she　goes　to　balls　or

fashionable　entertainments。　Our　balls；　I　must　confess；　murder　the

intellect；　deaden　all　remnants　of　feeling。　Simplicity！　would　there

were　more　simplicity！〃　Alas；　it　was　stamped　on　the　faces　of　mother　and

daughter　that　they　had　so　overdanced　themselves　at　balls　that　they　had

become　almost　wax　figures。



Tchartkoff　set　to　work；　posed　his　model；　reflected　a　bit；　fixed　upon

the　idea；　waved　his　brush　in　the　air；　settling　the　points　mentally；

and　then　began　and　finished　the　sketching　in　within　an　hour。　Satisfied

with　it；　he　began　to　paint。　The　task　fascinated　him；　he　forgot

everything；　forgot　the　very　existence　of　the　aristocratic　ladies；

began　even　to　display　some　artistic　tricks；　uttering　various　odd

sounds　and　humming　to　himself　now　and　then　as　artists　do　when　immersed

heart　and　soul　in　their　work。　Without　the　slightest　ceremony；　he　made

the　sitter　lift　her　head；　which　finally　began　to　express　utter

weariness。



〃Enough　for　the　first　time；〃　said　the　lady。



〃A　little　more；〃　said　the　artist；　forgetting　himself。



〃No；　it　is　time　to　stop。　Lise；　three　o'clock！〃　said　the　lady；　taking

out　a　tiny　watch　which　hung　by　a　gold　chain　from　her　girdle。　〃How　late

it　is！〃



〃Only　a　minute；〃　said　Tchartkoff　innocently；　with　the　pleading　voice

of　a　child。



But　the　lady　appeared　to　be　not　at　all　inclined　to　yield　to　his

artistic　demands　on　this　occasion；　she　promised；　however；　to　sit

longer　the　next　time。



〃It　is　vexatious；　all　the　same；〃　thought　Tchartkoff　to　himself：　〃I　had

just　got　my　hand　in；〃　and　he　remembered　no　one　had　interrupted　him　or

stopped　him　when　he　was　at　work　in　his　studio　on　Vasilievsky　Ostroff。

Nikita　sat　motionless　in　one　place。　You　might　even　paint　him　as　long

as　you　pleased；　he　even　went　to　sleep　in　the　attitude　prescribed　him。

Feeling　dissatisfied；　he　laid　his　brush　and　palette　on　a　chair；　and

paused　in　irritation　before　the　picture。



The　woman　of　the　world's　compliments　awoke　him　from　his　reverie。　He

flew　to　the　door　to　show　them　out：　on　the　stairs　he　received　an

invitation　to　dine　with　them　the　following　week；　and　returned　with　a

cheerful　face　to　his　apartments。　The　aristocratic　lady　had　completely

charmed　him。　Up　to　that　time　he　had　looked　upon　such　beings　as

unapproachable；　born　solely　to　ride　in　magnificent　carriages；　with

liveried　footmen　and　stylish　coachmen；　and　to　cast　indifferent　glances

on　the　poor　man　travelling　on　foot　in　a　cheap　cloak。　And　now；　all　of　a

sudden；　one　of　these　very　beings　had　entered　his　room；　he　was　painting

her　portrait；　was　invited　to　dinner　at　an　aristocratic　house。　An

unusual　feeling　of　pleasure　took　possession　of　him：　he　was　completely

intoxicated；　and　rewarded　himself　with　a　splendid　dinner；　an　evening

at　the　theatre；　and　a　drive　through　the　city　in　a　carriage；　without

any　necessity　whatever。



But　meanwhile　his　ordinary　work　did　not　fall　in　with　his　mood　at　all。

He　did　nothing　but　wait　for　the　moment　when　the　bell　should　ring。　At

last　the　aristocratic　lady　arrived　with　her　pale　daughter。　He　seated

them；　drew　forward　the　canvas　with　skill；　and　some　efforts　of

fashionable　airs；　and　began　to　paint。　The　sunny　day　and　bright　light

aided　him　not　a　little：　he　saw　in　his　dainty　sitter　much　which；　caught

and　committed　to　canvas；　would　give　great　value　to　the　portrait。　He

perceived　that　he　might　accomplish　something　good　if　he　could

reproduce；　with　accuracy；　all　that　nature　then　offered　to　his　eyes。

His　heart　began　to　beat　faster　as　he　felt　that　he　was　expressing

something　which　others　had　not　even　seen　as　yet。　His　work　engrossed

him　completely：　he　was　wholly　taken　up　with　it；　and　again　forgot　the

aristocratic　origin　of　the　sitter。　With　heaving　breast　he　saw　the

delicate　features　and　the　almost　transparent　body　of　the　fair　maiden

grow　beneath　his　hand。　He　had　caught　every　shade；　the　slight

sallowness；　the　almost　imperceptible　blue　tinge　under　the　eyesand

was　already　preparing　to　put　in　the　tiny　mole　on　the　brow；　when　he

suddenly　heard　the　mother's　voice　behind　him。



〃Ah！　why　do　you　paint　that？　it　is　not　necessary：　and　you　have　made　it

here；　in　several　places；　rather　yellow；　and　here；　quite　so；　like　dark

spots。〃



The　artist　undertook　to　explain　that　the　spots　and　yellow　tinge　would

turn　out　well；　that　they　brought　out　the　delicate　and　pleasing　tones

of　the　face。　He　was　informed　that　they　did　not　bring　out　tones；　and

would　not　turn　out　well　at　all。　It　was　explained　to　him　that　just

to…day　Lise　did　not　feel　quite　well；　that　she　never　was　sallow；　and

that　her　face　was　distinguished　for　its　fresh　colouring。



Sadly　he　began　to　erase　what　his　brush　had　put　upon　the　canvas。　Many　a

nearly　imperceptible　feature　disappeared；　and　with　it　vanished　too　a

portion　of　the　resemblance。　He　began　indifferently　to　impart　to　the

picture　that　commonplace　colouring　which　can　be　painted　mechanically；

and　which　lends　to　a　face；　even　when　taken　from　nature；　the　sort　of

cold　ideality　observable　on　school　programmes。　But　the　lady　was

satisfied　when　the　objectionable　tone　was　quite　banished。　She　merely

expressed　surprise　that　the　work　lasted　so　long；　and　added　that　she

had　heard　that　he　finished　a　portrait　completely　in　two　sittings。　The

artist　could　not　think　of　any　answer　to　this。　The　ladies　rose；　and

prepared　to　depart。　He　laid　aside　his　brush；　escorted　them　to　the

door；　and　then　stood　disconsolate　for　a　long　while　in　one　spot　before

the　portrait。



He　gazed　stupidly　at　it；　and　meanwhile　there　floated　before　his　mind's

eye　those　delicate　features；　those　shades；　and　airy　tints　which　he　had

copied；　and　which　his　brush　had　annihilated。　Engrossed　with　them；　he

put　the　portrait　on　one　side　and　hunted　up　a　head　of　Psyche　which　he

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

pret