The next day he took ten ducats, and went to the editor of a popular journal asking his charitable assistance.He was joyfully received by the journalist, who called him on the spot, "Most respected sir,"squeezed both his hands, and made minute inquiries as to his name, birthplace, residence.The next day there appeared in the journal, below a notice of some newly invented tallow candles, an article with the following heading:--"TCHARTKOFF'S IMMENSE TALENT"We hasten to delight the cultivated inhabitants of the capital with a discovery which we may call splendid in every respect.All are agreed that there are among us many very handsome faces, but hitherto there has been no means of committing them to canvas for transmission to posterity.This want has now been supplied: an artist has been found who unites in himself all desirable qualities.The beauty can now feel assured that she will be depicted with all the grace of her charms, airy, fascinating, butterfly-like, flitting among the flowers of spring.The stately father of a family can see himself surrounded by his family.Merchant, warrior, citizen, statesman--hasten one and all, wherever you may be.The artist's magnificent establishment [Nevsky Prospect, such and such a number] is hung with portraits from his brush, worthy of Van Dyck or Titian.We do not know which to admire most, their truth and likeness to the originals, or the wonderful brilliancy and freshness of the colouring.Hail to you, artist! you have drawn a lucky number in the lottery.Long live Andrei Petrovitch!" (The journalist evidently liked familiarity.) "Glorify yourself and us.We know how to prize you.Universal popularity, and with it wealth, will be your meed, though some of our brother journalists may rise against you."The artist read this article with secret satisfaction; his face beamed.He was mentioned in print; it was a novelty to him: he read the lines over several times.The comparison with Van Dyck and Titian flattered him extremely.The praise, "Long live Andrei Petrovitch,"also pleased him greatly: to be spoken of by his Christian name and patronymic in print was an honour hitherto totally unknown to him.He began to pace the chamber briskly, now he sat down in an armchair, now he sprang up, and seated himself on the sofa, planning each moment how he would receive visitors, male and female; he went to his canvas and made a rapid sweep of the brush, endeavouring to impart a graceful movement to his hand.
The next day, the bell at his door rang.He hastened to open it.Alady entered, accompanied by a girl of eighteen, her daughter, and followed by a lackey in a furred livery-coat.
"You are the painter Tchartkoff?"
The artist bowed.
"A great deal is written about you: your portraits, it is said, are the height of perfection." So saying, the lady raised her glass to her eyes and glanced rapidly over the walls, upon which nothing was hanging."But where are your portraits?""They have been taken away" replied the artist, somewhat confusedly:
"I have but just moved into these apartments; so they are still on the road, they have not arrived.""You have been in Italy?" asked the lady, levelling her glass at him, as she found nothing else to point it at.
"No, I have not been there; but I wish to go, and I have deferred it for a while.Here is an arm-chair, madame: you are fatigued?""Thank you: I have been sitting a long time in the carriage.Ah, at last I behold your work!" said the lady, running to the opposite wall, and bringing her glass to bear upon his studies, sketches, views and portraits which were standing there on the floor."It is charming.
Lise! Lise, come here.Rooms in the style of Teniers.Do you see?
Disorder, disorder, a table with a bust upon it, a hand, a palette;dust, see how the dust is painted! It is charming.And here on this canvas is a woman washing her face.What a pretty face! Ah! a little muzhik! So you do not devote yourself exclusively to portraits?""Oh! that is mere rubbish.I was trying experiments, studies.""Tell me your opinion of the portrait painters of the present day.Is it not true that there are none now like Titian? There is not that strength of colour, that--that-- What a pity that I cannot express myself in Russian." The lady was fond of paintings, and had gone through all the galleries in Italy with her eye-glass."But Monsieur Nohl--ah, how well he paints! what remarkable work! I think his faces have been more expression than Titian's.You do not know Monsieur Nohl?""Who is Nohl?" inquired the artist.
"Monsieur Nohl.Ah, what talent! He painted her portrait when she was only twelve years old.You must certainly come to see us.Lise, you shall show him your album.You know, we came expressly that you might begin her portrait immediately.""What? I am ready this very moment." And in a trice he pulled forward an easel with a canvas already prepared, grasped his palette, and fixed his eyes on the daughter's pretty little face.If he had been acquainted with human nature, he might have read in it the dawning of a childish passion for balls, the dawning of sorrow and misery at the length of time before dinner and after dinner, the heavy traces of uninterested application to various arts, insisted upon by her mother for the elevation of her mind.But the artist saw only the tender little face, a seductive subject for his brush, the body almost as transparent as porcelain, the delicate white neck, and the aristocratically slender form.And he prepared beforehand to triumph, to display the delicacy of his brush, which had hitherto had to deal only with the harsh features of coarse models, and severe antiques and copies of classic masters.He already saw in fancy how this delicate little face would turn out.
