Текст книги "The Collected tales of Nikolai Gogol"
Автор книги: Николай Гоголь
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"Yes! be patient, be patient!" he said with vexation. "But patience finally runs out. Be patient! And on what money will I have dinner tomorrow? No one will lend to me. And if I were to go and sell all my paintings and drawings, I'd get twenty kopecks for the lot. They've been useful, of course, I feel that: it was not in vain that each of them was undertaken, in each of them I learned something. But what's the use? Sketches, attempts-and there will constantly be sketches, attempts, and no end to them. And who will buy them, if they don't know my name? And who needs drawings from the antique, or from life class, or my unfinished Love of Psyche, or a perspective of my room, or the portrait of my Nikita, though it's really better than the portraits of some fashionable painter? What is it all, in fact? Why do I suffer and toil over the ABC's like a student, when I could shine no worse than the others and have money as they do?"
Having said that, the artist suddenly shuddered and went pale: gazing at him, peering from behind the canvas on the easel, was someone's convulsively distorted face. Two terrible eyes were fixed directly on him, as if preparing to devour him; on the mouth was written the threatening command to keep silent. Frightened, he wanted to cry out and call Nikita, who had already managed to set up a mighty snoring in the front room; but suddenly he stopped and laughed. The feeling of fear instantly subsided. It was the portrait he had bought, which he had quite forgotten about. Moonlight illuminated the room and, falling on it, endowed it with a strange aliveness. He began studying it and cleaning it. Wetting a sponge, he went over it several times, washed off almost all the dust and dirt that had accumulated and stuck to it, hung it on the wall before him, and marveled still more at the extraordinary work: the whole face almost came to life, and the eyes stared at him so that he finally gave a start and stepped back, saying in an amazed voice, "It stares, it stares at you with human eyes!" A story he had heard long ago from his professor suddenly came to his mind, about a certain portrait by the famous Leonardo da Vinci, which the great master had labored over for several years and still considered unfinished, but which, according to the words of Vasari, 7 everyone nevertheless considered a most perfect and finished work of art. Most finished of all in it were the eyes, at which his contemporaries were amazed; even the tiniest, barely visible veins were not omitted but were rendered on the canvas. But here, in the portrait now before him, there was nevertheless something strange. This was no longer art: it even destroyed the har– mony of the portrait itself. They were alive, they were human eyes! It seemed as if they had been cut out of a living man and set there. Here there was not that lofty pleasure which comes over the soul at the sight of an artist's work, however terrible its chosen subject; here there was some morbid, anguished feeling. "What is it?" the artist asked himself involuntarily. "It's nature all the same, it's living nature-why, then, this strangely unpleasant feeling? Or else the slavish, literal imitation of nature is already a trespass and seems like a loud, discordant cry? Or else, if you take the subject indifferently, unfeelingly, with no feeling for it, it inevitably stands out only in its terrible reality, not illumined by the light of some incomprehensible, ever-hidden thought, stands out in that reality which is revealed only when, wishing to understand a beautiful man, one arms oneself with an anatomical knife, cuts into his insides, and sees a repulsive man? Why, then, does simple, lowly nature appear with one artist in such a light that you have no lowly impression; on the contrary, it seems as if you enjoy it, and after that everything around you flows and moves more calmly and evenly? And why, with another artist, does that same nature seem low, dirty, though he has been just as faithful to nature? But no, some radiance is missing. Just as with a natural landscape: however splendid, it still lacks something if there's no sun in the sky."
He went up to the portrait again, so as to study those wondrous eyes, and noticed with horror that they were indeed staring at him. This was no longer a copy from nature, this was that strange aliveness that would radiate from the face of a dead man rising from the grave. Either it was the light of the moon bringing delirious reveries with it and clothing everything in other images, opposite to positive daylight, or there was some other cause, only suddenly, for some reason, he felt afraid to be alone in the room. He quietly withdrew from the portrait, turned away and tried not to look at it, and yet his eyes, of themselves, involuntarily cast sidelong glances at it. Finally he even became frightened of walking about the room; it seemed to him that some other would immediately start walking behind him, and he kept timorously looking back. He had never been a coward; but his imagination and nerves were sensitive, and that evening he was unable to explain this involun– tary fear to himself. He sat in the corner, but there, too, it seemed to him that someone was about to look over his shoulder into his face. Not even the snores of Nikita resounding from the front room could drive away his fear. Finally, timorously, without raising his eyes, he stood up, went behind his screen, and got into bed. Through a chink in the screen he could see his room lit up by moonlight, and directly opposite him he could see the portrait on the wall. The eyes were fixed still more terribly, still more meaningly, on him, and seemed not to want to look at anything but him. Filled with an oppressive feeling, he decided to get up, grabbed a bedsheet, and, going over to the portrait, covered it completely.
Having done so, he went back to bed more calmly, began thinking about the poverty and pitifulness of the artist's lot, about the thorny path that lay before him in this world; and meanwhile his eyes involuntarily looked through the chink in the screen at the sheet-covered portrait. The moonlight intensified the whiteness of the sheet, and it seemed to him that the terrible eyes even began to glow through the cloth. In fear, he fixed his eyes on it more intently, as if wishing to assure himself that it was nonsense. But finally, indeed now… he saw, saw clearly: the sheet was no longer there… the portrait was all uncovered and staring, past whatever was around it, straight into him, simply staring into his insides… His heart went cold. And he saw: the old man stirred and suddenly leaned on the frame with both hands. Finally he propped himself on his hands and, thrusting out both legs, leaped free of the frame… Now all that could be seen through the chink in the screen was the empty frame. The noise of footsteps sounded in the room, finally coming closer and closer to the screen. The poor artist's heart began to pound harder. Breathless with fear, he expected the old man to look behind the screen at any moment. And then he did look behind the screen, with the same bronze face, moving his big eyes. Chartkov tried to cry out and found that he had no voice, tried to stir, to make some movement, but his limbs would not move. Open-mouthed and with bated breath, he looked at this terrible phantom, tall, in a loose Asian robe, waiting for what he would do. The old man sat down almost at his feet and then took something from under the folds of his loose garment. It was a sack. The old man untied it and, taking it by the corners, shook it upside down: with a dull sound, heavy packets shaped like long posts fell to the floor, and each was wrapped in blue paper and had "1,000 Gold Roubles" written on it. Thrusting his long, bony hands from the wide sleeves, the old man began to unwrap the packets. Gold gleamed. However great the oppressive feeling and frantic fear of the artist, still all of him gazed at the gold, staring fixedly as it was unwrapped by the bony hands, gleaming, clinking thinly and dully, and then wrapped up again. Here he noticed one packet that had rolled farther away than the rest, just near the leg of his bed, by its head. He seized it almost convulsively and looked fearfully to see whether the old man would notice. But it seemed the old man was very busy. He gathered up all his packets, put them back into the sack, and, without looking at him, went out from behind the screen. Chartkov's heart pounded heavily as he heard the shuffle of the retreating steps in the room. He clutched his packet tighter in his hand, his whole body trembling over it, when suddenly he heard the footsteps approaching the screen again-evidently the old man had remembered that one packet was missing. And now-he looked behind the screen again. Filled with despair, the artist clutched the packet in his hand with all his might, tried as hard as he could to make some movement, cried out-and woke up.
He was bathed in a cold sweat; his heart could not have pounded any harder; his chest was so tight that it was as if the last breath was about to fly out of it. "Could it have been a dream?" he said, clutching his head with both hands; but the terrible aliveness of the apparition was not like a dream. Awake now, he saw the old man going into the frame, even caught a glimpse of the skirts of his loose clothing, and his hand felt clearly that a moment before it had been holding something heavy. Moonlight lit up the room, drawing out of its dark corners now a canvas, now a plaster arm, now some drapery left on the floor, now trousers and a pair of unpolished boots. Only here did he notice that he was not lying in bed but standing right in front of the portrait. How he got there– that he simply could not understand. He was still more amazed that the portrait was all uncovered and there was in fact no sheet over it. In motionless fear he gazed at it and saw living, human eyes peer straight into him. Cold sweat stood out on his brow; he wanted to back away, but felt as if his feet were rooted to the ground. And he saw-this was no longer a dream-the old man's features move, his lips begin to stretch toward him, as if wishing to suck him out… With a scream of despair, he jumped back-and woke up.
"Could this, too, have been a dream?" His heart pounding to the point of bursting, he felt around him with his hands. Yes, he was lying on his bed in the same position in which he had fallen asleep. Before him stood the screen; moonlight filled the room. Through the chink in the screen he could see the portrait properly covered with a sheet-as he himself had covered it. And so, this, too, had been a dream! But his clenched hand felt even now as if something had been in it. The pounding of his heart was hard, almost terrible; the heaviness on his chest was unbearable. He looked through the chink and fixed his eyes on the sheet. And now he saw clearly that the sheet was beginning to come away, as if hands were fumbling under it, trying to throw it off. "Lord God, what is this!" he cried out, crossing himself desperately, and woke up.
And this had also been a dream! He jumped from the bed, half demented, frantic, no longer able to explain what was happening to him: the oppression of a nightmare or a household spirit, delirious raving or a living vision. Trying to calm somewhat his mental agitation and the stormy blood that throbbed in tense pulsations through all his veins, he went to the window and opened the vent pane. A chill breath of wind revived him. Moonlight still lay on the roofs and white walls of the houses, though small clouds passed across the sky more often. Everything was still: occasionally there came the distant rattle of a droshky, whose coachman was sleeping somewhere in an out-of-sight alley, lulled by his lazy nag as he waited for a late passenger. He gazed for a long time, thrusting his head out the vent. The sky was already beginning to show signs of approaching dawn; finally he felt the approach of drowsiness, slammed the vent shut, left the window, went to bed, and soon fell sound asleep, like the dead.
He woke up very late and felt himself in the unpleasant condition that comes over a man after fume poisoning; his head ached unpleasantly. The room was bleak; an unpleasant dampness drizzled through the air, penetrating the cracks in his windows, obstructed by paintings or primed canvases. Gloomy, disgruntled, he sat down like a wet rooster on his tattered couch, not knowing himself what to undertake, what to do, and finally recalled the whole of his dream. As he recalled it, the dream presented itself to his imagination so oppressively alive that he even began to wonder whether it had indeed been a dream and a mere delirium, and not something else, not an apparition. Pulling off the sheet, he studied this terrible portrait in the light of day. The eyes were indeed striking in their extraordinary aliveness, yet he found nothing especially terrible in them; only, it was as if some inexplicable, unpleasant feeling remained in one's soul. For all that, he still could not be completely certain that it had been a dream. It seemed to him that amidst the dream there had been some terrible fragment of reality. It seemed that even in the very gaze and expression of the old man something was as if saying that he had visited him that night; his hand felt the heaviness that had only just lain in it, as if someone had snatched it away only a moment before. It seemed to him that if he had only held on to the packet more tightly, it would surely have stayed in his hand after he woke up.
"My God, if I had at least part of that money!" he said, sighing heavily, and in his imagination all the packets he had seen, with the alluring inscription of "1,000 Gold Roubles" began to pour from the sack. The packets came unwrapped, gold gleamed, was wrapped up again, and he sat staring fixedly and mindlessly into the empty air, unable to tear himself away from such a subject– like a child sitting with dessert in front of him, his mouth watering, watching while others eat. Finally there came a knock at the door, which roused him unpleasantly. His landlord entered with the police inspector, whose appearance, as everyone knows, is more unpleasant for little people than the face of a petitioner is for the rich. The owner of the small house where Chartkov lived was such a creature as owners of houses somewhere on the Fifteenth
Line of Vasilievsky Island or on the Petersburg side or in a remote corner of Kolomna 8 usually are-a creature of which there are many in Russia and whose character is as difficult to define as the color of a worn-out frock coat. In his youth, he had been a captain and a loudmouth, had also been employed in civil affairs, had been an expert at flogging, an efficient man, a fop, and a fool; but in his old age, he had merged all these sharp peculiarities in himself into some indefinite dullness. He was a widower, he was retired, he no longer played the fop, stopped boasting, stopped bullying, and only liked drinking tea and babbling all sorts of nonsense over it; paced the room, straightened a tallow candle end; visited his tenants punctually at the end of every month for the money; went outside, key in hand, to look at the roof of his house; repeatedly chased the caretaker out of the nook where he hid and slept; in short-a retired man who, after all his rakish life and jolting about in post chaises, is left with nothing but trite habits.
"Kindly look for yourself, Varukh Kuzmich," the landlord said, addressing the inspector and spreading his arms. "You see, he doesn't pay the rent. He doesn't pay."
"And what if I have no money? Just wait, I'll pay up."
"I cannot wait, my dear," the landlord said angrily, gesturing with the key he was holding. "I've had Potogonkin, a lieutenant colonel, as a tenant for seven years now; Anna Petrovna Bukhmisterova also rents a shed and a stable with two stalls, she has three household serfs with her-that's the sort of tenants I have. I am not, to put it to you candidly, in the habit of letting the rent go unpaid. Kindly pay what you owe and move out."
"Yes, since that's the arrangement, kindly pay," said the police inspector, shaking his head slightly and putting one finger behind a button of his uniform.
"But what to pay with-that's the question. Right now I haven't got a cent."
"In that case, you'll have to satisfy Ivan Ivanovich with your professional productions," said the inspector. "Perhaps he'll agree to be paid in pictures."
"No, my dear fellow, no pictures, thank you. It would be fine if they were pictures with some noble content, something that could be hung on the wall, maybe a general with a star, or a portrait of Prince Kutuzov; 9 but no, he's painted a peasant, a peasant in a shirt, the servant who grinds paints for him. What an idea, to paint a portrait of that swine! He'll get it in the neck from me: he pulled all the nails out of the latches on me, the crook! Look here, what subjects: here he's painted his room. It would be fine if he'd taken a neat, tidy room, but no, he's painted it with all this litter and trash just as it's lying about. Look here, how he's mucked up my room, kindly see for yourself. I've had tenants staying on for seven years now-colonels, Bukhmisterova, Anna Petrovna… No, I tell you, there's no worse tenant than a painter: they live like real pigs, God spare us."
And the poor painter had to listen patiently to all that. The police inspector was busy meanwhile studying the paintings and sketches, and showed straight away that his soul was more alive than the landlord's and was even no stranger to artistic impressions.
"Heh," he said, jabbing a finger into one canvas on which a naked woman was portrayed, "the subject's a bit… playful. And this one, why is it all black under his nose? Did he spill snuff there or what?"
"A shadow," Chartkov answered sternly and without turning his eyes to him.
"Well, it could have been moved somewhere else, under the nose it's too conspicuous," said the inspector. "And whose portrait is that?" he continued, going up to the portrait of the old man. "Much too terrifying. Was he really as terrible as that? Look how he stares! Eh, what a Gromoboy! 10 Who was your model?"
"But that's some…" said Chartkov, and did not finish. A crack was heard. The inspector must have squeezed the frame of the portrait too hard, owing to the clumsy way his policeman's hands were made; the side boards split inward, one fell to the floor, and along with it a packet wrapped in blue paper fell with a heavy clank. The inscription "1,000 Gold Roubles" struck Chartkov's eyes. He rushed like a madman to pick it up, seized the packet, clutched it convulsively in his hand, which sank from the heavy weight.
"Sounds like the clink of money," said the inspector, hearing something thud on the floor and unable to see it for the quickness of Chartkov's movement as he rushed to pick it up.
"And what business is it of yours what I have?"
"It's this: that you have to pay the landlord for the apartment right now; that you've got money but don't want to pay-that's what."
"Well, I'll pay him today."
"Well, why didn't you want to pay before? Why make the landlord worry, and bother the police besides?"
"Because I didn't want to touch this money. I'll pay him everything by this evening and leave the apartment by tomorrow, because I don't wish to remain with such a landlord."
"Well, Ivan Ivanovich, he's going to pay you," said the inspector, turning to the landlord. "And in the event of your not being properly satisfied by this evening, then I beg your pardon, mister painter."
So saying, he put on his three-cornered hat and went out to the front hall, followed by the landlord, his head bowed, it seemed, in some sort of reflection.
"Thank God they got the hell out of here," said Chartkov when he heard the front door close.
He peeked out to the front hall, sent Nikita for something so as to be left completely alone, locked the door behind him, and, returning to his room, began with wildly fluttering heart to unwrap the packet. There were gold roubles in it, every one of them new, hot as fire. Nearly out of his mind, he sat over the heap of gold, still asking himself if he was not dreaming. There was an even thousand of them in the packet, which looked exactly the same as the ones he had seen in his dream. For several minutes he ran his fingers through them, looking at them, and still unable to come to his senses. In his imagination there suddenly arose all the stories about treasures, about boxes with secret compartments, left by forebears to their spendthrift grandchildren in the firm conviction of their future ruined condition. He reflected thus: "Mightn't some grandfather have decided even now to leave his grandson a gift, locking it up in the frame of a family portrait?" Full of romantic nonsense, he even began thinking whether there might not be some secret connection with his destiny here: whether the existence of the portrait might not be connected with his own existence, and whether its very acquisition had not been somehow predestined? He began studying the frame of the portrait with curiosity. On one side a groove had been chiseled out, covered so cleverly and inconspicuously with a board that, if the inspector's weighty hand had not broken through it, the roubles might have lain there till the world's end. Studying the portrait, he marveled again at the lofty workmanship, the extraordinary finish of the eyes; they no longer seemed terrible to him, but all the same an unpleasant feeling remained in his soul each time. "No," he said to himself, "whoever's grandfather you were, I'll put you under glass for this and make you a golden frame." Here he placed his hand on the heap of gold that lay before him, and his heart began to pound hard at the touch of it. "What shall I do with it?" he thought, fixing his eyes on it. "Now I'm set up for at least three years, I can shut myself in and work. I have enough for paints now, enough for dinners, for tea, for expenses, for rent; no one will hinder and annoy me anymore; I'll buy myself a good mannequin, order a plaster torso, model some legs, set up a Venus, buy prints of the best pictures. And if I work some three years for myself, unhurriedly, not to sell, I'll beat them all, and maybe become a decent artist."
So he was saying together with the promptings of his reason; but within him another voice sounded more audibly and ringingly. And as he cast another glance at the gold, his twenty-two years and his ardent youth said something different. Now everything he had looked at till then with envious eyes, which he had admired from afar with watering mouth, was in his power. Oh, how his heart leaped in him as soon as he thought of it! To put on a fashionable tailcoat, to break his long fast, to rent a fine apartment, to go at once to the theater, the pastry shop, the… all the rest-and, having seized the money, he was already in the street.
First of all he stopped at a tailor's, got outfitted from top to toe, and, like a child, began looking himself over incessantly; bought up lots of scents, pomades; rented, without bargaining, a magnifi– cent apartment on Nevsky Prospect, the first that came along, with mirrors and plate-glass windows; chanced to buy an expensive lorgnette in a shop; also chanced to buy a quantity of various neckties, more than he needed; had his locks curled at a hairdresser's; took a couple of carriage rides through the city without any reason; stuffed himself with sweets in a pastry shop; and went to a French restaurant, of which hitherto he had heard only vague rumors, as of the state of China. There he dined, arms akimbo, casting very proud glances at others, and ceaselessly looking in the mirror and touching his curled locks. There he drank a bottle of champagne, which till then he had also known more from hearsay. The wine went to his head a little, and he left feeling lively, pert, devil-may-care, as the saying goes. He strutted down the sidewalk like a dandy, aiming his lorgnette at everyone. On the bridge, he noticed his former professor and darted nimbly past him as if without noticing him at all, so that the dumbfounded professor stood motionless on the bridge for a long time, his face the picture of a question mark.
All his things, and whatever else there was-easel, canvases, paintings-were transported to the magnificent apartment that same evening. The better objects he placed more conspicuously, the worse he stuck into a corner, and he walked through the magnificent rooms, ceaselessly looking in the mirrors. An irresistible desire was born in him to catch fame by the tail at once and show himself to the world. He could already imagine the cries: "Chartkov, Chartkov! Have you seen Chartkov's picture? What a nimble brush this Chartkov has! What a strong talent this Chartkov has!" He walked about his room in a state of rapture, transported who knows where. The next day, taking a dozen gold roubles, he went to the publisher of a popular newspaper to ask for his magnanimous aid; the journalist received him cordially, called him "most honorable sir" at once, pressed both his hands, questioned him in detail about his name, patronymic, place of residence. And the very next day there appeared in the newspaper, following an advertisement for newly invented tallow candles, an article entitled "On the Extraordinary Talents of Chartkov": "We hasten to delight the educated residents of the capital with a won– derful-in all respects, one may say-acquisition. Everyone agrees that there are many most beautiful physiognomies and most beautiful faces among us, but so far the means have been lacking for transferring them to miracle-working canvas, to be handed on to posterity; now this lack has been filled: an artist has been discovered who combines in himself all that is necessary. Now the beautiful woman may be sure that she will be depicted with all the graciousness of her beauty-ethereal, light, charming, wonderful, like butterflies fluttering over spring flowers. The respectable paterfamilias will see himself with all his family around him. The merchant, the man of war, the citizen, the statesman-each will continue on his path with renewed zeal. Hurry, hurry, come from the fete, from strolling to see a friend or cousine, from stopping at a splendid shop, hurry from wherever you are. The artist's magnificent studio (Nevsky Prospect, number such-and-such) is all filled with portraits from his brush, worthy of Van Dycks and Titians. One hardly knows which to be surprised at: their faithfulness and likeness to the originals, or the extraordinary brightness and freshness of the brush. Praised be you, artist! You drew the lucky ticket in the lottery! Viva, Andrei Petrovich!" (The journalist evidently enjoyed taking liberties.) "Glorify yourself and us. We know how to appreciate you. Universal attraction, and money along with it, though some of our fellow journalists rise up against it, will be your reward."
The artist read this announcement with secret pleasure: his face beamed. He was being talked about in print-a new thing for him. He read the lines over several times. The comparison with Van Dyck and Titian pleased him very much. The phrase "Viva, Andrei Petrovich!" also pleased him very much; to be called by his first name and patronymic in print was an honor hitherto completely unknown to him. He began to pace the room rapidly, ruffling his hair, now sitting down on a chair, now jumping up and moving to the couch, constantly picturing himself receiving visitors, men and women, going up to a canvas and making dashing gestures over it with a brush, trying to impart graciousness to the movement of his arm. The next day his bell rang; he rushed to open the door. A lady came in, preceded by a lackey in a livery overcoat with fur lining, and together with the lady came a young eighteen-year-old girl, her daughter.
"Are you M'sieur Chartkov?" asked the lady.
The artist bowed.
"You are written about so much; your portraits, they say, are the height of perfection." Having said this, the lady put a lorgnette to her eye and quickly rushed to examine the walls, on which nothing was hung. "But where are your portraits?"
"Taken down," said the artist, slightly confused. "I've only just moved to this apartment, they're still on the way… haven't come yet."
"Have you been to Italy?" said the lady, aiming her lorgnette at him, since she found nothing else to aim it at.
"No, I haven't, but I wanted to… however, I've put it off for the time being… Here's an armchair, madam, you must be tired…"
"No, thank you, I sat in the carriage for a long time. Ah, there, I see your work at last!" said the lady, rushing across the room to the wall and aiming her lorgnette at the sketches, set pieces, perspectives, and portraits standing on the floor. "C'est charmant! Lise, Lise, venez ici! A room to Teniers' 11 taste, you see-disorder, disorder, a table with a bust on it, an arm, a palette. There's dust, see how the dust is painted! C'est charmant! And there, on that other canvas, a woman washing her face– quelle jolie figure! Ah, a peasant! Lise, Lise, a little peasant in a Russian shirt! look-a peasant! So you don't do portraits only?"
"Oh, it's rubbish… Just for fun… sketches…"
"Tell me, what is your opinion regarding present-day portraitists? Isn't it true that there are none like Titian nowadays? None with that strength of color, that… a pity I can't express it in Russian" (the lady was a lover of art and had gone running with her lorgnette through all the galleries of Italy). "However, M'sieur Null… ah, what a painter! Such an extraordinary brush! I find his faces even more expressive than Titian's. Do you know M'sieur Null?"
"Who is this Null?" asked the artist.
"M'sieur Null. Ah, such talent! He painted her portrait when she was only twelve. You absolutely must come and visit us. Lise, you shall show him your album. You know, we came so that you could start at once on her portrait."
