"Enough, that's enough for the first time," said the lady.
"A little longer," said the artist, forgetting himself.
"No, it's time, Lise, it's three o'clock!" she said, taking out a small watch hanging on a golden chain from her belt and exclaiming, "Ah, how late!"
"Only one little minute," Chartkov said in the simple-hearted and pleading voice of a child.
But the lady did not seem at all disposed to cater to his artistic needs this time, and instead promised a longer sitting the next time.
"That's annoying, though," Chartkov thought to himself. "My hand just got going." And he recalled that no one had interrupted him or stopped him when he was working in his studio on Vasilievsky Island; Nikita used to sit in one spot without stirring- paint him as much as you like; he would even fall asleep in the position he was told. Disgruntled, he put his brush and palette down on a chair and stopped vaguely before the canvas. A compliment uttered by the society lady awakened him from his oblivion. He rushed quickly to the door to see them off; on the stairs he received an invitation to visit, to come the next week for dinner, and with a cheerful look he returned to his room. The aristocratic lady had charmed him completely. Till then he had looked at such beings as something inaccessible, born only to race by in a magnificent carriage with liveried lackeys and a jaunty coachman, casting an indifferent glance at the man plodding along on foot in a wretched cloak. And now suddenly one of these beings had entered his room; he was painting a portrait, he was invited to dinner in an aristocratic house. An extraordinary contentment came over him; he was completely intoxicated and rewarded himself for it with a fine dinner, an evening performance, and again took a carriage ride through the city without any need.
During all those days he was unable even to think about his usual work. He was preparing and waiting only for the moment when the bell would ring. At last the aristocratic lady arrived with her pale daughter. He sat them down, moved the canvas over, with adroitness now and a pretense to worldly manners, and began to paint. The brightness of the sunny day was a great help to him. He saw much in his light model of that which, if caught and transferred to canvas, might endow the portrait with great merit; he saw that he might do something special, if everything was finally executed according to the idea he now had of his model. His heart even began to throb lightly when he sensed that he was about to express something others had never noticed. The work occupied him totally, he was all immersed in his brush, again forgetting about his model's aristocratic origin. With bated breath, he saw the light features and nearly transparent body of a seventeen-year-old girl emerge from under his brush. He picked up every nuance, a slight yellowness, a barely noticeable blue under the eyes, and was even about to catch a small pimple that had broken out on her forehead, when suddenly he heard the mother's voice at his ear. "Ah, why that? There's no need for it," the lady said. "And you've also… look, in a few places… it seems a bit yellow, and look, here it's just like dark spots." The artist started to explain that it was precisely those spots and the yellowness that had played out so well, and that they made up the pleasing and light tones of the face. To which he received the reply that they did not make up any tones and had not played out in any way, and that it only seemed so to him. "But allow me to touch in a little yellow here, just in this one place," the artist said simple-heartedly. But that precisely he was not allowed to do. It was declared that Lise was merely a bit indisposed that day, and there had never been any yellowness in her face, that it was always strikingly fresh in color. Sadly, he began to wipe out what his brush had brought forth on the canvas. Many barely noticeable features disappeared, and the likeness partly disappeared along with them. Unfeelingly, he began to lend it the general color scheme that is given by rote and turns even faces taken from nature into something coldly ideal, such as is seen in student set pieces. But the lady was pleased that the offensive colors had been quite driven out. She only expressed surprise that the work was taking so long, and added that she had heard he finished a portrait completely in two sittings. The artist found nothing to reply to that. The ladies rose and prepared to leave. He put down his brush, saw them to the door, and after that stood vaguely for a long time on the same spot in front of the portrait. He gazed at it stupidly, and meanwhile those light feminine features raced through his head, those nuances and ethereal tones he had observed and which his brush had mercilessly destroyed. All filled with them, he set the portrait aside and found somewhere in the studio an abandoned head of Psyche, which he had roughly sketched out on canvas once long ago. It was a deftly painted face, but completely ideal, cold, consisting only of general features that had not taken on living flesh. Having nothing to do, he now began going over it, recalling on it all that he had happened to observe in the face of the aristocratic visitor. The features, nuances, and tones he had caught laid themselves down here in that purified form in which they come only when an artist, having looked long enough at the model, withdraws from it and produces a creation equal to it. Psyche began to come to life, and the barely glimpsed idea gradually began to be clothed in visible flesh. The facial type of the young society girl was inadvertently imparted to Psyche, and through that she acquired the distinctive expression which gives a work the right to be called truly original. It seemed he made use of both the parts and the whole of what his model had presented to him, and he became totally caught up in his work. For several days he was occupied with nothing else. And it was at this work that the arrival of his lady acquaintances found him. He had no time to remove the painting from the easel. Both ladies uttered joyful cries of amazement and clasped their hands:
"Lise, Lise! Ah, what a likeness! Superbe, superbe! What a good idea to dress her in Greek costume. Ah, such a surprise!"
The artist did not know what to do with the agreeably deceived ladies. Embarrassed and looking down, he said quietly:
"It's Psyche."
"In the guise of Psyche? C'est charmant!" the mother said, smiling, and the daughter smiled as well. "Don't you think, Lise, that it's most becoming for you to be portrayed as Psyche? Quelle idee delicieuse! But what work! It's Correge. 12 I confess, I had read and heard about you, but I didn't know you had such talent. No, you absolutely must paint my portrait as well."
The lady evidently also wanted to be presented as some sort of Psyche.
"What am I to do with them?" thought the artist. "If they want it so much themselves, let Psyche pass for whatever they want." And he said aloud:
"Be so good as to sit for a little while, and I'll do a little touching up.
"Ah, no, I'm afraid you might… it's such a good likeness now."
But the artist understood that there were apprehensions regarding yellow tints and reassured them by saying that he would only give more brightness and expression to the eyes. For, in all fairness, he felt rather ashamed and wanted to give at least a little more resemblance to the original, lest someone reproach him for decided shamelessness. And, indeed, the features of the young girl did finally begin to show more clearly through the image of Psyche.
"Enough!" said the mother, beginning to fear that the resemblance would finally become too close.