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."
"Why, I'm ready this very minute."
He instantly moved over the easel with a prepared canvas on it, took up the palette, and fixed his eyes on the daughter's pale face. Had he been a connoisseur of human nature, in a single moment he would have read in it the beginnings of a childish passion for balls, the beginnings of boredom and complaints about the length of time before dinner and after dinner, the wish to put on a new dress and run to the fete, the heavy traces of an indifferent application to various arts, imposed by her mother for the sake of loftiness of soul and feelings. But the artist saw in this delicate little face nothing but an almost porcelain transparency of body, so alluring for the brush, an attractive, light languor, a slender white neck, and an aristocratic lightness of figure. And he was preparing beforehand to triumph, to show the lightness and brilliance of his brush, which so far had dealt only with the hard features of crude models, with the stern ancients and copies of some classical masters. He could already picture mentally to himself how this light little face was going to come out.
"You know," said the lady, even with a somewhat touching expression on her face, "I'd like to… the dress she's wearing now-I confess, I'd like her not to be wearing a dress we're so used to; I'd like her to be dressed simply and sitting in the shade of greenery, with a view of some fields, with herds in the distance, or a copse… so that it won't look as if she were going to some ball or fashionable soiree. Our balls, I confess, are so deadly for the soul, so destructive of what's left of our feelings… simplicity, there should be more simplicity."
Alas! it was written on the faces of mother and daughter that they danced themselves away at balls until they nearly turned to wax.
Chartkov got down to work, seated his model, pondered it all somewhat in his head; traced in the air with his brush, mentally establishing the points; squinted his eye a little, stepped back, looked from a distance-and in one hour had begun and finished the rough sketch. Pleased with it, he now got to painting, and the work carried him away. He forgot everything, forgot even that he was in the presence of aristocratic ladies, even began to exhibit some artistic mannerisms, uttering various sounds aloud, humming along every once in a while, as happens with artists who are wholeheartedly immersed in their work. Without any ceremony, just with a movement of his brush, he made his model raise her head, for she had finally become quite fidgety and looked utterly weary.