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
