Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
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. To this must be added several engraved images: a portrait of Khozrev-Mirza in a sheepskin hat, portraits of some generals in triangular hats with crooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such a shop are usually hung with bundles of works printed in popular prints on large sheets, which testify to the native talent of the Russian person. On one there was Princess Miliktrisa Kirbitievna, on the other the city of Jerusalem, through the houses and churches of which red paint swept without ceremony, capturing part of the land and two praying Russian men in mittens. There are usually few buyers of these works, but there are a lot of viewers. Some drunkard footman is probably already yawning in front of them, holding in his hand containers of dinner from the tavern for his master, who, no doubt, will slurp the soup not too hot. In front of him, probably, is already standing a soldier in an overcoat, this gentleman of the flea market, selling two penknives; a merchant woman with a box filled with shoes. Everyone admires in his own way: men usually point their fingers; gentlemen are considered seriously; footmen boys and craftsmen boys laugh and tease each other with drawn caricatures; old footmen in frieze overcoats look only to yawn somewhere; and the traders, young Russian women, rush by instinct to listen to what the people are babbling about and to see what they are looking at. 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. What do the Russian people look at? Eruslanov Lazarevich, on ate and drank, on Thomas and Erem, this did not seem surprising to him: the objects depicted were very accessible and understandable to the people; but where are the buyers of these motley, 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 that arbitrarily entered the ranks of the arts, while its place was among the low crafts, a mediocrity that was nevertheless 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 an unshaven beard since Sunday, had been talking to him for a long time, bargaining and agreeing on a price, without even knowing 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 will 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 slight 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.” “Wait, brother, not so soon,” said the artist, who came to his senses, seeing that the nimble merchant had seriously begun to tie them together. He felt somewhat ashamed of not taking anything, having stood in the shop for so long, and he said: “But wait, I’ll see if there’s anything for me here,” and, bending down, began to take out the bulky, worn out, dusty old clothes piled up from the floor. paintings that, apparently, did not enjoy any honor. 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: “maybe something will be found.” He had heard more than once stories about how sometimes paintings by great masters were found in the trash 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, inviting passers-by and pointing them with one hand to the bench … “Here, father; here are the pictures! 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, he 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; but when he managed to clean the dust from his face, he saw traces of work high 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. The 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.
“Why should I value it? Give me three quarters!”
“Well, what will you give me?”
“Two kopecks,” said the artist, preparing to go.
“What a price they turned up! Yes, you can’t buy one frame for two kopecks. Apparently you're going to buy it tomorrow? Mister, master, come back! Just think about a kopeck. Take it, take it, give me two kopecks. Really, just for starters, this is just the first buyer.” For this he made a gesture with his hand, as if saying: “So be it, the picture is lost!”
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 in 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. To this must be added several engraved images: a portrait of Khozrev-Mirza in a sheepskin hat, portraits of some generals in triangular hats with crooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such a shop are usually hung with bundles of works printed in popular prints on large sheets, which testify to the native talent of a Russian person. On one there was Princess Miliktrisa Kirbitievna, on the other the city of Jerusalem, through the houses and churches of which red paint swept without ceremony, capturing part of the land and two praying Russian men in mittens. There are usually few buyers of these works, but there are a lot of viewers. Some drunkard footman is probably already yawning in front of them, holding in his hand containers of dinner from the tavern for his master, who, no doubt, will slurp the soup not too hot. In front of him, probably, is already standing a soldier in an overcoat, this gentleman of the flea market, selling two penknives; a merchant woman with a box filled with shoes. Everyone admires in his own way: men usually point their fingers; gentlemen are considered seriously; footmen boys and craftsmen boys laugh and tease each other with drawn caricatures; old footmen in frieze overcoats look only to yawn somewhere; and the traders, young Russian women, rush by instinct to listen to what the people are babbling about and to see what they are looking at. 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. What do the Russian people look at? Eruslanov Lazarevich, on ate and drank, on Thomas and Erem, this did not seem surprising to him: the objects depicted were very accessible and understandable to the people; but where are the buyers of these motley, 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 that arbitrarily entered the ranks of the arts, while its place was among the low crafts, a mediocrity that was nevertheless 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 an unshaven beard since Sunday, had been talking to him for a long time, bargaining and agreeing on a price, without even knowing 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 will 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 slight 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.” “Wait, brother, not so soon,” said the artist, who came to his senses, seeing that the nimble merchant had seriously begun to tie them together. He felt somewhat ashamed of not taking anything, having stood in the shop for so long, and he said: “But wait, I’ll see if there’s anything for me here,” and, bending down, began to take out the bulky, worn out, dusty old clothes piled up from the floor. paintings that, apparently, did not enjoy any honor. 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: “maybe something will be found.” He had heard more than once stories about how sometimes paintings by great masters were found in the trash 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, inviting passers-by and pointing them with one hand to the bench … “Here, father; here are the pictures! 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, he 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; but when he managed to clean the dust from his face, he saw traces of the work of a 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.
“Why should I value it? Give me three quarters!”
“Well, what will you give me?”
“Two kopecks,” said the artist, preparing to go.
“What a price they turned up! Yes, you can’t buy one frame for two kopecks. Apparently you're going to buy it tomorrow? Mister, master, come back! Just think about a kopeck. Take it, take it, give me two kopecks. Really, just for starters, this is just the first buyer.” For this he made a gesture with his hand, as if saying: “So be it, the picture is lost!”
Thus, Chartkov completely unexpectedly bought an old portrait, and at the same time thought: why did I buy it? What do I need it for? but there was nothing to do. He took a two-kopeck piece out of his pocket, gave it to the owner, took the portrait under his arm and dragged it with him. On the way, he remembered that the two-kopeck piece he had given was his last. His thoughts suddenly darkened: vexation and indifferent emptiness embraced him at that very moment. “Damn it! disgusting in the world! he said with the feeling of a Russian whose business is bad. And almost mechanically he walked with quick steps, full of insensibility to everything. The red light of the evening dawn still remained in half the sky; more houses facing that side were slightly illuminated by its warm light; and meanwhile the cold bluish glow of the month was becoming stronger. Translucent light shadows fell like tails onto the ground, cast by houses and the feet of pedestrians. Already the artist began little by little to look at the sky, illuminated by some transparent, thin, dubious light, and almost at the same time the words flew out of his mouth: “what a light tone!” and the words: “It’s a shame, damn it!” And he, straightening the portrait, which was constantly sliding out from under his arms, quickened his pace. Tired and covered in sweat, he dragged himself to the fifteenth line on Vasilievskaya Island. With difficulty and shortness of breath, he climbed up the stairs, doused with slop and decorated with traces of cats and dogs. There was no answer to his knock on the door: the man was not at home. He leaned against the window and settled down to wait patiently, until finally the footsteps of a guy in a blue shirt, his henchman, model, paint polisher and floor sweeper, who immediately soiled them with his boots, were heard behind him. The guy was called Nikita, and spent all his time outside the gate when the master was not at home. Nikita spent a long time trying to get the key into the key hole, which was completely invisible due to the darkness.
As a writer, he is a very mystical person. And the works, accordingly, match the creator. Unusual, fantastic and mysterious events around the characters often leave readers perplexed. What did the author want to say? What's the point? Let's look at one of the works of N.V. Gogol “Portrait”. First, let's remember what the story says.
The first part of the story
A young talented artist with the surname Chartkov buys a portrait of an old man in Asian clothes. The work is old and unfinished. The eyes are clearly depicted on it, they seem to be alive. Chartkov dreams of wealth and fame. However, he tries not to waste his talent and writes his works quite skillfully. But at the same time he lives in poverty, Chartkov doesn’t even have enough to pay for the apartment, for which the owner threatens to kick him out.
The artist comes home and falls asleep, he dreams that an old man comes up to him with a bag. In the bag there are scrolls with the inscription “1000 red notes.” The old man counts the scrolls, and Chartkov quietly steals one of them. When the artist wakes up the next morning, the owner comes to him to collect money for housing. Then the artist finds next to the portrait of the old man a scroll that he stole from him in a dream.
He's paying off his debts, dresses in decent clothes, moves to a new apartment on Nevsky Prospekt and submits an advertisement in the newspaper that he is a brilliant artist. Later he receives an order for a portrait of a young woman and her daughter. Chartkov is interested in the work, but the customer does not like the truthfulness of the picture. Then, for the sake of money, Chartkov embellishes it. Now he is completely different from the customer’s appearance, however, she likes it and the artist gets his money. Then Chartkov understands that there is no need to paint pictures exactly - it is enough to depict the client as he wishes, without conveying his true face.
Soon Chartkov becomes a fashionable, popular artist, everyone praises his talent, writes about him in articles, for which, to tell the truth, he pays out of his own pocket in order to show off to his friends and stroke his pride. Now he has lackeys and even students.
Once Chartkov was asked to evaluate one painting in Italy, after seeing it, the artist realized that he had wasted all his talent and in comparison with this work of art all his works were mediocrity, and he himself was insignificant.
Young artist goes crazy, destroying all works of art that he could get his hands on. He spends all his wealth, buying the most expensive paintings, carefully bringing them to his workshop and “with the fury of a tiger he rushed at her, tore, tore her, cut her into pieces and trampled underfoot.” At the same time, Chartkov constantly sees the eyes of that old man from the portrait, about whom he has already famous artist I completely forgot. He gets hot. By the end of his torment, the artist could no longer speak clearly, emitting terrible screams. “His corpse was terrible,” Gogol reports, taking into account the fact that Chartkov died of mental illness, and the corpse was physically terrible.
Second part of the story
The same portrait of an old Asian man was sold at auction. There was a lot of controversy around it, since so many were going to buy it.
The black-haired artist B., thirty-five years old, told the disputants the story that Once upon a time there lived an Asian moneylender. By old age, she never had children. The moneylender himself was known for lending large amounts both poor and rich, but everyone who received money from him died strange death. The moneylender came to the artist, the father of the artist B., to paint his portrait. The old man said: “I may die soon, I have no children; but I don’t want to die at all, I want to live. Can you draw such a portrait that it looks exactly like a living one?”
And the artist’s father B. got to work. He tormented himself while writing this work, but he still conveyed the old man’s eyes through the paper. The day after the work on the eyes was completed, the old moneylender died. And the artist who painted the portrait became an envious intriguer.
When his painting was rejected at a competition in favor of his student, the artist’s father B. wanted to burn the portrait, but a friend stopped him, taking the portrait for himself, then resold it, explaining that the portrait prevented him from living peacefully and he himself felt as if he was going crazy. The author of the portrait of a moneylender was touched by the story of his friend and decided to go to a monastery. Having learned his story, the monks said that the artist should paint a picture for the church, but he replied that he was not yet worthy of this. After twelve years of solitude and monastic severity, he nevertheless painted the image and, having met with his son, blessed him to destroy the portrait of the moneylender so that he would no longer denigrate anyone’s thoughts.
While artist B. was telling this story to buyers at the auction, the portrait itself disappeared without a trace. Some thought it was stolen, while others thought it evaporated on its own.
Brief analysis of the work
Characteristics of Chartkov
The young artist Chartkov is a victim not only of the devilish influence of the portrait, but also your lack of will. Chartkov’s tragedy is that he himself ruined his talent by exchanging it for money and fame, and when he realized what exactly he had done, it was too late. Chartkov can be compared with Piskarev, the hero of Nevsky Prospekt. Both are dreamers, both are talented artists who lived in poverty. Having retreated from the truth in his creativity, Chartkov embarked on the path of self-destruction not only as an artist, but also as a person.
The role of Nevsky Prospekt in the story
This is not the first time that Nevsky Prospect appears before the reader in the collection “Petersburg Tales”. In any work by N.V. Gogol, which contains a description of Nevsky Prospect, some kind of mysticism occurs. Nevsky Prospekt participates in the works:
- "Nose"
- "Portrait"
Story idea
From the point of view of N.V. Gogol, art is God's gift, which should not touch evil, and the content of the portrait of a moneylender is demonic. In this story, Chartkov’s talent was ruined by the commercialism of society - money is considered the main charm of life, and true art fades into the background. The artist's father B., in turn, was able to stop, although his goal was not wealth, but a challenge to his talent. Will he or will he not be able to paint a portrait as realistically as the customer requires?
Gogol sees deliverance from blind passions by solving the problems of the main characters, in particular, with the help of the church. After all, if talent is given to a person by God, then the purification of talent from unnecessary passions can also be done with God’s help. The main topic of this work is the theme of good and evil in art. Gogol believes that the one who is given talent “must be the purest of souls of all.”
Briefly about the problems posed by the author
N.V. Gogol poses the following social problems in “Portrait”:
- the role of the artist in society;
- the problem of true art;
- theme of immoral choice;
- theme of fate.
This was a summary and brief analysis story “Portrait” online, we hope that this retelling was informative and useful.
Many carriages, droshky and carriages stood in front of the entrance of the house in which the auction sale of the things of one of those rich art lovers was taking place, who sweetly dozed all their lives, immersed in zephyrs and cupids, who innocently passed for patrons of the arts and innocently spent the millions they had accumulated for this purpose. solid fathers, and often even their own previous works. Such patrons, as we know, no longer exist, and our 19th century has long acquired the boring face of a banker, enjoying his millions only in the form of numbers displayed on paper. The long hall was filled with the most motley crowd of visitors, who swooped down like birds of prey on an untidy body. There was a whole flotilla of Russian merchants from Gostiny Dvor and even the flea market, in blue German frock coats. Their appearance and expression on their faces were somehow firmer, more free, and were not indicated by that cloying helpfulness that is so visible in a Russian merchant when he is in his shop in front of a buyer. Here they were not repaired at all, despite the fact that in this same hall there were many of those aristocrats before whom they in another place were ready to sweep away the dust caused by their own boots with their bows. Here they were completely cheeky, feeling books and paintings without ceremony, wanting to know the goodness of the goods, and boldly outbid the price added by the connoisseur counts. There were many of the necessary visitors to the auctions, who decided to come there every day instead of breakfast; aristocratic connoisseurs who considered it their duty not to miss the opportunity to increase their collection and who could not find anything else to do from 12 to 1 hour; finally, those noble gentlemen whose dresses and pockets are very thin, who appear every day without any selfish purpose, but solely to see how it will end, who will give more, who will give less, who will outbid whom and who will be left with what. Many paintings were scattered around completely uselessly; Mixed in with them were furniture and books with monograms from the previous owner, who perhaps did not have the commendable curiosity to look into them. Chinese vases, marble boards for tables, new and old furniture with curved lines, with vultures, sphinxes and lion paws, gilded and without gilding, chandeliers, kenquettes - everything was piled up, and not at all in the same order as in the shops. Everything was a kind of chaos of art. In general, the feeling we feel when we see an auction is scary: everything in it feels something like a funeral procession. The hall in which it is produced is always somehow gloomy; the windows, cluttered with furniture and paintings, sparingly shed light, the silence spilled on the faces, and the funereal voice of the auctioneer, tapping with a hammer and singing a requiem for the poor arts that so strangely met here. All this seems to enhance the even more strange unpleasantness of the experience. The auction seemed to be in full swing. A whole crowd of decent people, huddled together, were vying for something. The words heard from all sides: “Ruble, ruble, ruble,” did not give the auctioneer time to repeat the added price, which had already increased four times the announced price. The surrounding crowd fussed over the portrait, which could not help but stop everyone who had any understanding of painting. The artist's high brush was evident in him. The portrait, apparently, had already been restored and updated several times and represented the dark features of some Asian man in a wide dress, with an unusual, strange expression on his face; but most of all those around were amazed by the extraordinary liveliness of the eyes. The more one looked at them, the more they seemed to rush inside everyone. This oddity, this extraordinary trick of the artist, captured the attention of almost everyone. Many of those who competed for it have already given up because the price they charged was incredible. There were only two famous aristocrats left, lovers of painting, who did not want to give up such an acquisition for anything. They got excited and would probably have increased the price to the point of impossibility, if suddenly one of those immediately looking at it had not said: Let me stop your argument for now. I, perhaps more than anyone else, have the right to this portrait. These words instantly drew everyone's attention to him. He was a slender man, about thirty-five, with long black curls. A pleasant face, filled with a kind of bright carefreeness, showed a soul alien to all the tormenting social upheavals; there were no pretensions to fashion in his outfit: everything showed him as an artist. It was definitely the artist B., known personally by many of those present. “No matter how strange my words may seem to you,” he continued, seeing everyone’s attention directed at himself, “but if you decide to listen to a little story, maybe you will see that I had the right to say them. Everyone assures me that the portrait is the one I am looking for. A very natural curiosity lit up on almost everyone’s faces, and the auctioneer himself, with his mouth open, stopped with a hammer raised in his hand, preparing to listen. At the beginning of the story, many involuntarily turned their eyes to the portrait, but then everyone stared at one narrator, as his story became more interesting. You know that part of the city called Kolomna. So he began. Everything here is unlike other parts of St. Petersburg; this is neither a capital nor a province; It seems that you hear, as you move into the streets of Kolomna, how all sorts of young desires and impulses leave you. The future does not come here, here everything is silence and resignation, everything that has settled from the capital’s movement. Retired officials, widows, poor people who are acquainted with the Senate and therefore have condemned themselves here for almost their entire lives move here to live; cooks who have curried favor, hustling all day long in the markets, chatting nonsense with a peasant in a small shop and taking away five kopecks worth of coffee and four kopecks worth of sugar every day, and, finally, that entire category of people who can be called in one word: ashen, people who with their dress, face, hair, eyes, they have a kind of cloudy, ashy appearance, like a day when there is no storm or sun in the sky, but there is simply neither this nor that: fog is sown and takes away all sharpness from objects. Here we can count retired theatrical ushers, retired titular advisers, retired pets of Mars with a gouged out eye and a swollen lip. These people are completely dispassionate: they walk without paying attention to anything, they are silent, without thinking about anything. There is not much of them in the room; sometimes just a glass of pure Russian vodka, which they monotonously drink all day long without any strong rush in the head, excited by a strong reception, which they usually like to give themselves Sundays a young German artisan, this daredevil of Meshchanskaya Street, who alone owned the entire sidewalk when the time passed past twelve o'clock at night. Life in Kolomna is solitary: rarely will a carriage appear, except perhaps the one in which the actors ride, which alone disturbs the general silence with its thunder, ringing and clanking. It's all pedestrians here; The driver very often trudges along without a rider, dragging hay for his bearded horse. You can find an apartment for five rubles a month, even with coffee in the morning. Widows receiving pensions are the most aristocratic surnames; they behave well, often sweep their room, talk with their friends about the high cost of beef and cabbage; They often have with them a young daughter, a silent, voiceless, sometimes pretty creature, an ugly little dog and a wall clock with a sadly tapping pendulum. Then come the actors, whose salaries do not allow them to leave Kolomna; they are free people, like all artists who live for pleasure. They, sitting in dressing gowns, repair a pistol, glue all sorts of things useful for the house out of cardboard, play checkers and cards with a visiting friend, and so spend the morning, doing almost the same thing in the evening, with the occasional punch thrown in as well. After these aces and aristocracy of Kolomna comes an extraordinary fraction and trifle. It is as difficult to name them as it is to count the multitude of insects that originate in old vinegar. There are old women here who pray; old women who get drunk; old women who pray and drink together; old women who survive by incomprehensible means, like ants - they carry old rags and linen with them from the Kalinkin Bridge to the flea market in order to sell it there for fifteen kopecks; in a word, often the most unfortunate remnant of humanity, for which not a single beneficent political economist would find means to improve his condition. I brought them in order to show you how often these people are in the need to seek only sudden, temporary help, to resort to loans; and then a special kind of moneylenders settle among them, supplying small sums on mortgages and at high interest rates. These small moneylenders are several times more insensitive than any big ones, because they arise among poverty and brightly displayed beggarly rags, which the rich moneylender, who deals only with those who come in carriages, does not see. And that’s why it’s too early to remove all sense of humanity from their souls. Among such moneylenders there was one... but it doesn’t hurt you to tell me that the incident that I began to talk about dates back to the past century, specifically to the reign of the late Empress Catherine the Second. You can understand for yourself that the very appearance of Kolomna and life inside it had to change significantly. So, among the moneylenders there was one creature, extraordinary in all respects, who had settled long ago in this part of the city. He wore wide Asian attire; dark paint His face indicated his southern origin, but exactly what nationality he was: Indian, Greek, Persian, no one could say for sure. His tall, almost extraordinary height, his dark, skinny, sun-burnt face and some incomprehensibly terrible color, his large eyes of extraordinary fire, his thick, overhanging eyebrows distinguished him strongly and sharply from all the ashen inhabitants of the capital. His dwelling itself was not like other small wooden houses. It was a stone building, like those that Genoese merchants had once built in abundance, with irregular windows of unequal size, with iron shutters and bolts. This moneylender differed from other moneylenders in that he could provide anyone with any amount of money, from a poor old woman to a wasteful court nobleman. In front of his house the most brilliant carriages often appeared, from the windows of which the head of a luxurious society lady sometimes looked out. Rumor, as usual, spread that his iron chests were full of countless amounts of money, jewelry, diamonds and all sorts of collateral, but that, however, he did not at all have the self-interest that is characteristic of other moneylenders. He gave money willingly, distributing the terms of payments, it seemed, very favorably; but by some strange arithmetic calculations he made them rise to exorbitant percentages. That's what the rumor said, at least. But what is strangest of all and what could not help but amaze many was the strange fate of all those who received money from him: they all ended their lives in an unhappy way. Whether it was just human opinion, ridiculous superstitious rumors, or deliberately spread rumors - this remains unknown. But several examples that happened in a short time before the eyes of everyone were vivid and striking. From among the aristocracy of that time, a young man of the best surname soon attracted the attention of a young man, who distinguished himself already in his youth in the state field, an ardent admirer of everything true, sublime, a zealot of everything that gave birth to the art and mind of man, who prophesied a philanthropist in himself. Soon he was worthily distinguished by the empress herself, who entrusted him with a significant position, completely in accordance with his own requirements, a place where he could produce a lot for the sciences and for good in general. The young nobleman surrounded himself with artists, poets, and scientists. He wanted to give work to everything, to encourage everything. He undertook a lot of useful publications at his own expense, gave out a lot of orders, announced incentive prizes, spent a lot of money on it and finally got upset. But, full of generous spirit, he did not want to lag behind his business, looked everywhere for borrowing and finally turned to a famous moneylender. Having made a significant loan from him, this man in a short time changed completely: he became a persecutor, a pursuer of a developing mind and talent. He began to see the bad side in all his writings and interpreted every word crookedly. Then, unfortunately, the French Revolution happened. This suddenly served him as a tool for all possible nasty things. He began to see some kind of revolutionary direction in everything; he saw hints in everything. He became suspicious to such an extent that he finally began to suspect himself, began to compose terrible, unfair denunciations, and caused a lot of unfortunate people. It goes without saying that such actions could not fail to finally reach the throne. The magnanimous empress was horrified and, full of the nobility of soul that adorns crown bearers, uttered words that, although they could not come to us in all accuracy, deep meaning they were impressed in the hearts of many. The Empress noted that it is not under monarchical rule that high, noble movements of the soul are oppressed, it is not there that the creations of the mind, poetry and art are despised and persecuted; that, on the contrary, only monarchs were their patrons; that Shakespeare and Moliere flourished under their generous protection, while Dante could not find a corner in his republican homeland; that true geniuses arise during the splendor and power of sovereigns and states, and not during ugly political phenomena and republican terrorism, which have not yet given the world a single poet; that it is necessary to distinguish between poets and artists, because they bring only peace and beautiful silence into the soul, and not excitement and murmur; that scientists, poets and all producers of art are pearls and diamonds in the imperial crown: with them the era of the great sovereign flaunts and receives even greater shine. In a word, the empress who uttered these words was divinely beautiful at that moment. I remember that the old people could not talk about it without tears. Everyone took part in the matter. To the credit of our national pride, it must be noted that in the Russian heart there is always a wonderful feeling of taking the side of the oppressed. The nobleman who deceived the power of attorney was punished approximately and removed from his place. But he read a much more terrible punishment on the faces of his compatriots. It was decisive and universal contempt. It is impossible to tell how the vain soul suffered; pride, deceived ambition, destroyed hopes - everything came together, and in fits of terrible madness and rage his life was interrupted. Another striking example also occurred in the sight of everyone: of the beauties that our northern capital was not poor in at that time, one gained a decisive lead over all. It was some kind of wonderful fusion of our northern beauty with the beauty of midday, a diamond that is rarely found in the world. My father admitted that he had never seen anything like this in his entire life. Everything seemed to be united in her: wealth, intelligence and spiritual charm. There was a crowd of seekers, and among them the most remarkable was Prince R., the noblest, the best of all young people, the most beautiful in face and in chivalrous, generous impulses, the high ideal of novels and women, Grandison in all respects. Prince R. was passionately and madly in love; the same fiery love was his answer. But the relatives thought the game was uneven. The prince's ancestral estates no longer belonged to him for a long time, his family was in disgrace, and his poor state of affairs was known to everyone. Suddenly the prince leaves the capital for a while, as if in order to improve his affairs, and after a short time he appears surrounded by incredible pomp and splendor. Brilliant balls and holidays make him famous at court. The beauty's father becomes supportive, and a most interesting wedding. Where such a change and the unheard-of wealth of the groom came from, no one could explain with certainty; but they said on the side that he had entered into some terms with an incomprehensible moneylender and made at him a loan. Be that as it may, the wedding occupied the whole city, and the bride and groom were the subject of general envy. The howl was known for their ardent, constant love, the long languor endured on both sides, the high dignity of both. Fiery women outlined in advance the heavenly bliss that the young spouses would enjoy. But everything turned out differently. One year a terrible change occurred in my husband. The poison of suspicious jealousy, intolerance and inexhaustible whims poisoned the hitherto noble and beautiful character. He became a tyrant and tormentor of his wife and, which no one could have foreseen, resorted to the most inhumane acts, even beatings. One year, no one could recognize the woman who had recently shone and attracted crowds of obedient admirers. Finally, unable to bear her difficult fate any longer, she was the first to talk about divorce. The husband flew into a rage at the mere thought of it. In the first movement of fury, he burst into her room with a knife and, no doubt, would have stabbed her right there if he had not been grabbed and restrained. In a fit of frenzy and despair, he turned the knife on himself and ended his life in terrible pain. In addition to these two examples, which happened in the eyes of the whole society, they told many things that happened in the lower classes, which almost all had a terrible end. There, an honest, sober person became a drunkard; there a merchant's clerk robbed his master; there a cab driver, who had been driving honestly for several years, killed his rider for a penny. It is impossible for such incidents, sometimes told not without additions, to instill a kind of involuntary horror on the modest inhabitants of Kolomna. No one doubted the presence of evil spirits in this man. They said that he offered such conditions that made hair stand on end and which the unfortunate man never dared to convey to another; that his money has a burning property, heats up on its own and bears some strange signs... in a word, there was a lot of all sorts of absurd talk. And the remarkable thing is that all this population of Kolomna, this whole world of poor old women, petty officials, petty artists and, in a word, all the small fry that we have just named, agreed to endure and endure the last extreme rather than turn to the terrible usurer; They even found old women who died of hunger and who would rather agree to kill their bodies than to destroy their souls. When meeting him on the street, we couldn’t help but feel fear. The pedestrian carefully backed away and looked back for a long time after that, following his exorbitant tall figure disappearing in the distance. There was so much unusualness in this image alone that it would have forced anyone to involuntarily attribute a supernatural existence to it. These strong traits, cut as deeply as does not happen in humans; that hot bronze complexion; this exorbitant thickness of eyebrows, unbearable, scary eyes, even the widest folds of his Asian clothes - everything seemed to say that before the passions moving in this body, all the passions of other people were pale. My father stopped motionless every time he met him, and every time he could not resist saying: “The devil, the perfect devil!” But I need to quickly introduce you to my father, who, by the way, is the real plot of this story. My father was a wonderful man in many respects. He was an artist, of which there are few, one of those miracles that only Rus' alone spews from its untapped bosom, a self-taught artist who found in his soul, without teachers or school, rules and laws, carried away only by the thirst for improvement and walked according to reasons, perhaps unknown to himself, only indicated from the soul by the road; one of those natural miracles that contemporaries often honor an offensive word“ignorants” and who do not cool down from slander and their own failures, receive only new zeal and strength, and already move far in their souls from those works for which they received the title of ignorant. With a high inner instinct he sensed the presence of thought in every object; I realized by myself the true meaning of the word “historical painting”; I understood why a simple head, a simple portrait of Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, Correggio can be called historical painting and why a huge painting historical content it will still be a tableau de genre, despite all the artist’s claims to historical painting. Both his inner feeling and his own conviction turned his brush to Christian subjects, the highest and final stage of the lofty. He did not have ambition or irritability, so inseparable from the character of many artists. He was a strong character, an honest, straightforward person, even rude, covered on the outside with a somewhat callous bark, not without some pride in his soul, who spoke about people both condescendingly and harshly. “Why look at them,” he used to say, “after all, I’m not working for them. I won’t take my paintings to the living room; they will be placed in the church. Whoever understands me will thank me, will not understand, but will still pray to God. There is nothing to blame a secular person for not understanding painting; but he knows cards, knows a lot about good wine, about horses, why should a master know more? Perhaps, as soon as he tries this and that and starts being clever, then there will be no life from him! To each his own, let everyone do his own thing. For me, it’s better to be the person who says directly that he doesn’t know anything, than the one who pretends to be a hypocrite, says that he knows what he doesn’t know, and only spoils things.” He worked for a small pay, that is, for the pay that he needed only to support his family and to give him the opportunity to work. Moreover, he never refused to help another and lend a helping hand to a poor artist; He believed in the simple, pious faith of his ancestors, and that is why, perhaps, on the faces he depicted there naturally appeared that lofty expression that brilliant talents could not reach. Finally, by the constancy of his work and the steadfastness of the path he had outlined for himself, he even began to gain respect from those who considered him ignorant and home-grown self-taught. He was constantly given orders in the church, and his work was not transferred. One of the jobs kept him busy. I don’t remember what exactly its plot was, I only know that the spirit of darkness had to be placed in the picture. He thought for a long time about what image to give him; he wanted to realize in his person all the heavy, oppressive things of a person. With such reflections, sometimes the image of a mysterious moneylender flashed through his head, and he involuntarily thought: “That’s who I should have painted the devil from.” Judge his amazement when one day, while working in his workshop, he heard a knock on the door, and after that a terrible moneylender walked right in to him. He couldn't help but feel some kind of internal trembling that ran involuntarily through his body. “Are you an artist?” he said without any ceremony to my father. “An artist,” said the father in bewilderment, waiting for what would happen next. Okay. Draw a portrait of me. I may die soon, I have no children; but I don’t want to die at all, I want to live. Can you draw a portrait that looks exactly like life? My father thought: “What’s better? He himself is asking to be the devil in my picture.” Gave my word. They agreed on time and price, and the next day, having grabbed the palette and brushes, my father was already with him. The high courtyard, the dogs, the iron doors and shutters, the arched windows, the chests covered with antique carpets, and, finally, the extraordinary owner himself, who sat motionless in front of him - all this made a strange impression on him. The windows, as if on purpose, were blocked and cluttered at the bottom so that they only showed in from one top. “Damn it, how well his face is lit up now!” he said to himself and began to write greedily, as if fearing that the happy light might somehow disappear. “What strength!” he repeated to himself. If I portray him even half as he is now, he will kill all my saints and angels; they will turn pale before him. What devilish power! it will simply jump out of the canvas if I’m just a little true to nature. What extraordinary features!” he repeated incessantly, increasing his zeal, and already saw for himself how certain features began to transfer to the canvas. But the more he approached them, the more he felt some kind of painful, anxious feeling, incomprehensible to himself. However, despite this, he decided to pursue with literal precision every imperceptible feature and expression. First of all, he started finishing the eyes. There was so much power in those eyes that it seemed impossible to even imagine conveying them exactly as they were in real life. However, at any cost, he decided to look for the last small feature and shade in them, to comprehend their secret... But as soon as he began to enter and go deeper into them with his brush, such a strange disgust was reborn in his soul, such an incomprehensible burden that he had to stop brushing for a while and then start again. Finally, he could no longer bear it; he felt that those eyes were piercing into his soul and creating an incomprehensible anxiety in it. The next, third day it was even stronger. He felt scared. He threw down the brush and flatly said that he could no longer paint with it. You should have seen how the strange moneylender changed at these words. He threw himself at his feet and begged him to finish the portrait, saying that his fate and existence in the world depended on this, that he had already touched his living features with his brush, that if he conveyed them correctly, his life would supernatural power will remain in the portrait, that through this he will not die completely, that he needs to be present in the world. My father felt horror from such words: they seemed so strange and terrible to him that he threw down both his brushes and palette and rushed headlong out of the room. The thought of this troubled him all day and all night, and in the morning he received from the moneylender a portrait, which was brought to him by some woman, the only creature who was in his service, who immediately announced that the owner did not want the portrait, would not give for it nothing and sends it back. That evening he learned that the moneylender had died and that they were going to bury him according to the rites of his religion. All this seemed inexplicably strange to him. Meanwhile, from that time on, there was a noticeable change in his character: he felt a restless, anxious state, for which he himself could not understand the reason, and he soon performed an act that no one could have expected from him. For some time, the works of one of his students began to attract the attention of a small circle of experts and amateurs. My father always saw talent in him and showed him his special affection for that. Suddenly he felt jealous of him. Everyone's participation and talk about him became unbearable for him. Finally, to complete his chagrin, he learns that his student was offered to paint a picture for the newly built rich church. It blew him away. “No, I won’t let the sucker triumph!” he said. It’s too early, brother, to put old people in the mud! Thank God I still have strength. Now we’ll see who’s more likely to put whom in the mud.” And the straightforward, honest-at-heart man used intrigues and intrigues, which he had always abhorred until then; Finally, he achieved that a competition was announced for the painting and other artists could also enter with their works. After which he locked himself in his room and eagerly began to paint his brush. It seemed that he wanted to gather all his strength, all of himself here. And for sure, this turned out to be one of his best works. No one doubted that the championship would not remain his. The pictures were presented, and all the others appeared before her like night before day. Suddenly one of the members present, if I am not mistaken, a spiritual person, made a remark that amazed everyone. “There is definitely a lot of talent in the artist’s painting,” he said, “but there is no holiness in the faces; There is even, on the contrary, something demonic in the eyes, as if an unclean feeling was guiding the artist’s hand.” Everyone looked and could not help but be convinced of the truth of these words. My father rushed forward to his picture, as if to believe such an offensive remark himself, and saw with horror that he had given almost all the figures the eyes of a moneylender. They looked so demonically crushing that he himself involuntarily shuddered. The picture was rejected, and he had to hear, to his indescribable chagrin, that the primacy remained with his student. It was impossible to describe the fury with which he returned home. He almost killed my mother, scattered the children, broke his brushes and easel, grabbed a portrait of a moneylender from the wall, demanded a knife and ordered a fire to be lit in the fireplace, intending to cut it into pieces and burn it. This movement was caught by a friend who entered the room, a painter, like him, a merry fellow, always pleased with himself, not carried away by any distant desires, happily working on whatever came his way, and even more cheerfully taking in the dinner and feast. “What are you doing, what are you going to burn?” he said and walked up to the portrait. For mercy, this is one of your best works. This is a moneylender who recently died; Yes, this is the most perfect thing. You just hit him not in the eyebrow, but in the very eyes. Eyes have never looked into life like they do in yours. “But I’ll see how they look in the fire,” said the father, making a move to throw him into the fireplace. “Stop, for God’s sake!” said the friend, holding him back, “It’s better to give him to me if he stabs your eye to such an extent.” At first the father persisted, but finally agreed, and the merry fellow, extremely pleased with his acquisition, took the portrait with him. After he left, my father suddenly felt calmer. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his soul along with the portrait. He himself was amazed at his evil feeling, his envy and the obvious change in his character. Having examined his act, he was saddened in soul and, not without inner sorrow, said: No, it was God who punished me; My picture deservedly suffered shame. It was intended to destroy her brother. A demonic feeling of envy drove my brush, and the demonic feeling should have been reflected in it. He immediately went to look for his former student, hugged him tightly, asked him for forgiveness and tried as much as he could to make amends to him. His work flowed again as serenely as before; but thoughtfulness began to appear more often on his face. He prayed more, was silent more often and did not express himself so harshly about people; the roughest exterior of his character somehow softened. Soon one circumstance shocked him even more. He had not seen his friend for a long time, who had begged him for a portrait. I was just about to go and see him, when suddenly he himself unexpectedly entered his room. After a few words and questions from both sides, he said: Well, brother, it’s not for nothing that you wanted to burn the portrait. Damn him, there is something strange in him... I don’t believe in witches, but, as you please: there is an evil spirit in him... “How?” said my father. And so that since I hung it in my room, I felt such melancholy... just as if I wanted to stab someone. In my life I didn’t know what insomnia was, and now I’ve experienced not only insomnia, but such dreams... I myself can’t tell whether they’re dreams or something else: it’s as if a brownie is strangling you, and you keep imagining a damned old man. In a word, I cannot tell you my condition. This has never happened to me. I wandered around like crazy all these days: I felt some kind of fear, an unpleasant expectation of something. I feel that I cannot say a cheerful and sincere word to anyone; It’s as if some kind of spy is sitting next to me. And only since I gave the portrait to my nephew, who asked for it, did I feel as if some kind of stone had suddenly been lifted from my shoulders: I suddenly felt cheerful, as you can see. Well, brother, you've cooked up a devil! During this story, my father listened to him with unentertained attention and finally asked: And your nephew now has the portrait? Where to the nephew! “I couldn’t stand it,” said the merry fellow, “you know, the soul of the moneylender himself moved into him: he jumps out of the frames, walks around the room; and what the nephew says is simply incomprehensible to the mind. I would have taken him for a madman if I had not partly experienced it myself. He sold it to some art collector, but he couldn’t bear it and also sold it to someone else. This story produced strong impression on my father. He began to think seriously, fell into hypochondria, and finally became completely convinced that his brush had served as a devilish tool, that part of the moneylender’s life had actually somehow passed into the portrait and was now disturbing people, inspiring demonic impulses, seducing the artist from the path, giving rise to terrible torments of envy, and so on, and so on. He considered the three misfortunes that followed, the three sudden deaths of his wife, daughter and young son, to be a heavenly execution and decided to leave the world without fail. As soon as I was nine years old, he placed me in the Academy of Arts and, having paid off his debtors, retired to a secluded monastery, where he soon became a monk. There, by his strictness of life and vigilant observance of all monastic rules, he amazed all the brothers. The abbot of the monastery, having learned about the art of his brush, demanded that he paint main image in church. But the humble brother flatly said that he was not worthy to take up the brush, that it was desecrated, that through labor and great sacrifices he must first cleanse his soul in order to be worthy to begin such a task. They didn't want to force him. He himself increased for himself, as much as possible, the severity of monastic life. Finally, she too was becoming insufficient and not quite strict for him. With the blessing of the abbot, he retired into the desert to be completely alone. There he built himself a cell from tree branches, ate only raw roots, carried stones on himself from place to place, stood from sunrise to sunset in the same place with his hands raised to the sky, reading prayers continuously. In a word, he seemed to seek all possible degrees of patience and that incomprehensible selflessness, examples of which can only be found in the lives of the saints. In this way, for a long time, over the course of several years, he exhausted his body, strengthening it at the same time with the life-giving power of prayer. Finally, one day he came to the monastery and firmly said to the abbot: “Now I am ready. If God wills, I will do my work.” The object he took was the Nativity of Jesus. Whole year He sat behind him, without leaving his cell, barely feeding himself on hard food, praying incessantly. After a year, the painting was ready. It was truly a miracle of the brush. You need to know that neither the brothers nor the abbot had much knowledge in painting, but everyone was amazed at the extraordinary holiness of the figures. The feeling of divine humility and meekness in the face of the Most Pure Mother, bending over the Infant, deep intelligence in the eyes of the Divine Infant, as if already seeing something in the distance, the solemn silence of the kings, struck by the divine miracle, cast down at His feet, and, finally, holy, inexpressible silence , embracing the whole picture, all this appeared in such consistent strength and power of beauty that the impression was magical. All the brothers fell to their knees before the new image, and the touched abbot said: “No, it is impossible for a person, with the help of human art alone, to produce such a picture: a holy, higher power guided your brush, and the blessing of heaven rested on your work.” At this time I finished my studies at the Academy, received a gold medal and with it the joyful hope of traveling to Italy best dream twenty year old artist. All I had to do was say goodbye to my father, from whom I had been separated for twelve years. I admit, even the very image of him has long disappeared from my memory. I had already heard a little about the harsh holiness of his life and had previously imagined meeting the callous appearance of a hermit, alien to everything in the world except his cell and prayer, exhausted, dried out from eternal fasting and vigil. But how amazed I was when a beautiful, almost divine old man appeared before me! And no traces of exhaustion were noticeable on his face: it shone with the lightness of heavenly joy. A snow-white beard and thin, almost airy hair of the same silver color scattered picturesquely over his chest and along the folds of his black cassock and fell to the very rope that girded his wretched monastic robe; but most of all it was amazing for me to hear from his lips such words and thoughts about art, which, I confess, I will cherish in my soul for a long time and would sincerely wish that every brother of mine would do the same. “I was waiting for you, my son,” he said when I approached his blessing. You have a path along which your life will flow from now on. Your path is clear, do not stray from it. You have talent; talent is the most precious gift of God; do not destroy it. Explore, study everything you see, conquer everything, but be able to find the inner thought in everything and most of all try to comprehend high secret creation. Blessed is the chosen one who owns it. There is no low object in nature for him. In the insignificant, the artist-creator is as great as in the great; in the despised he no longer has the despicable, for the beautiful soul of the creator shines through him invisibly, and the despicable has already received a high expression, for it has flowed through the purgatory of his soul. A hint of a divine, heavenly paradise is contained for man in art, and for that alone it is already above all else. And how many times is solemn peace higher than any worldly excitement; how many times is creation greater than destruction; how many times an angel with pure innocence alone bright soul above all the countless forces and proud passions of Satan, so many times above everything that is in the world, a lofty creation of art. Sacrifice everything to him and love him with all your passion. Not a passion breathing earthly lust, but a quiet heavenly passion; Without it, a person does not have the power to rise from the earth and cannot give wonderful sounds of calm. For to calm and reconcile everyone, a lofty creation of art descends into the world. It cannot cause grumbling in the soul, but with resounding prayer it strives forever towards God. But there are moments, dark moments... He stopped, and I noticed that his bright face suddenly darkened, as if some instant cloud had come over him. “There is one incident in my life,” he said. To this day I cannot understand what that strange image was from which I painted the image. It was definitely some kind of devilish phenomenon. I know that the world denies the existence of the devil, and therefore I will not talk about him. But I will only say that I wrote it with disgust; at that time I did not feel any love for my work. He forcibly wanted to conquer himself and soullessly, drowning out everything, be true to nature. This was not a creation of art, and therefore the feelings that surround everyone when looking at it are already rebellious feelings, anxious feelings, not the feelings of the artist, for the artist breathes peace even in anxiety. I was told that this portrait passes from hand to hand and dispels painful impressions, engendering in the artist a feeling of envy, gloomy hatred of his brother, an evil desire to carry out persecution and oppression. May the Almighty protect you from these passions! There are none more terrible. It is better to endure all the bitterness of possible persecution than to inflict one shadow of persecution on anyone. Save the purity of your soul. He who has talent within himself must have the purest soul of all. Much will be forgiven to another, but it will not be forgiven to him. A man who has left his house in light holiday clothes has only to be sprinkled with one spot of dirt from under a wheel, and the whole people have already surrounded him, pointing their fingers at him, and talking about his slovenliness, while the same people do not notice the multitude stains on others passing by, dressed in everyday clothes. For stains are not noticeable on everyday clothes. He blessed me and hugged me. Never in my life have I been so sublimely moved. Reverently, more than with the feeling of a son, I clung to his chest and kissed his scattered silver hair. A tear flashed in his eyes. “Fulfill, my son, one of my requests,” he told me right when we parted. Maybe you will happen to see somewhere that portrait that I told you about. You suddenly recognize him by his extraordinary eyes and their unnatural expression, destroy him at all costs... You can judge for yourself whether I could not promise to fulfill such a request on oath. For fifteen whole years I did not happen to come across anything that would even remotely resemble the description made by my father, when suddenly now, at an auction... Here the artist, not yet finishing his speech, turned his eyes to the wall in order to look again at the portrait. The entire crowd of listeners made the same movement in an instant, searching with their eyes for the extraordinary portrait. But, to the greatest amazement, it was no longer on the wall. Indistinct talk and noise ran through the entire crowd, and after that the words were clearly heard: “Stolen.” Someone had already managed to steal it, taking advantage of the attention of the listeners, captivated by the story. And for a long time all those present remained in bewilderment, not knowing whether they really saw these extraordinary eyes or whether it was just a dream that appeared only for a moment to their eyes, tired of looking at ancient paintings for a long time.
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 old work, Psyche, which he has only slightly updated, as a portrait. 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 wonder how he could go from being a beginner so quickly, but talented artist, into a mediocre miser. One day, having seen the perfect work of his former comrade, sent from Italy, Chartkov suddenly realizes how low he has 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 in all 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 out 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. Such creepy stories There were a great many 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 exclusively 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 searching in vain, 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.
