the mysterious portrait-第2部分

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worn　dressing…gown。



〃There　has　been　a　gentleman　here；〃　said　Nikita。



〃Yes；　he　came　for　money；　I　know；〃　said　the　painter；　waving　his　hand。



〃He　was　not　alone；〃　said　Nikita。



〃Who　else　was　with　him？〃



〃I　don't　know；　some　police　officer　or　other。〃



〃But　why　a　police　officer？〃



〃I　don't　know　why；　but　he　says　because　your　rent　is　not　paid。〃



〃Well；　what　will　come　of　it？〃



〃I　don't　know　what　will　come　of　it：　he　said；　'If　he　won't　pay；　why；

let　him　leave　the　rooms。'　They　are　both　coming　again　to…morrow。〃



〃Let　them　come；〃　said　Tchartkoff；　with　indifference；　and　a　gloomy　mood

took　full　possession　of　him。



Young　Tchartkoff　was　an　artist　of　talent；　which　promised　great　things：

his　work　gave　evidence　of　observation；　thought；　and　a　strong

inclination　to　approach　nearer　to　nature。



〃Look　here；　my　friend；〃　his　professor　said　to　him　more　than　once；　〃you

have　talent；　it　will　be　a　shame　if　you　waste　it：　but　you　are

impatient；　you　have　but　to　be　attracted　by　anything；　to　fall　in　love

with　it；　you　become　engrossed　with　it；　and　all　else　goes　for　nothing；

and　you　won't　even　look　at　it。　See　to　it　that　you　do　not　become　a

fashionable　artist。　At　present　your　colouring　begins　to　assert　itself

too　loudly；　and　your　drawing　is　at　times　quite　weak；　you　are　already

striving　after　the　fashionable　style；　because　it　strikes　the　eye　at

once。　Have　a　care！　society　already　begins　to　have　its　attraction　for

you：　I　have　seen　you　with　a　shiny　hat；　a　foppish　neckerchief。　。　。　。　It

is　seductive　to　paint　fashionable　little　pictures　and　portraits　for

money；　but　talent　is　ruined；　not　developed；　by　that　means。　Be　patient；

think　out　every　piece　of　work；　discard　your　foppishness；　let　others

amass　money；　your　own　will　not　fail　you。〃



The　professor　was　partly　right。　Our　artist　sometimes　wanted　to　enjoy

himself；　to　play　the　fop；　in　short；　to　give　vent　to　his　youthful

impulses　in　some　way　or　other；　but　he　could　control　himself　withal。　At

times　he　would　forget　everything；　when　he　had　once　taken　his　brush　in

his　hand；　and　could　not　tear　himself　from　it　except　as　from　a

delightful　dream。　His　taste　perceptibly　developed。　He　did　not　as　yet

understand　all　the　depths　of　Raphael；　but　he　was　attracted　by　Guido's

broad　and　rapid　handling；　he　paused　before　Titian's　portraits；　he

delighted　in　the　Flemish　masters。　The　dark　veil　enshrouding　the

ancient　pictures　had　not　yet　wholly　passed　away　from　before　them；　but

he　already　saw　something　in　them；　though　in　private　he　did　not　agree

with　the　professor　that　the　secrets　of　the　old　masters　are

irremediably　lost　to　us。　It　seemed　to　him　that　the　nineteenth　century

had　improved　upon　them　considerably；　that　the　delineation　of　nature

was　more　clear；　more　vivid；　more　close。　It　sometimes　vexed　him　when　he

saw　how　a　strange　artist；　French　or　German；　sometimes　not　even　a

painter　by　profession；　but　only　a　skilful　dauber；　produced；　by　the

celerity　of　his　brush　and　the　vividness　of　his　colouring；　a　universal

commotion；　and　amassed　in　a　twinkling　a　funded　capital。　This　did　not

occur　to　him　when　fully　occupied　with　his　own　work；　for　then　he　forgot

food　and　drink　and　all　the　world。　But　when　dire　want　arrived；　when　he

had　no　money　wherewith　to　buy　brushes　and　colours；　when　his　implacable

landlord　came　ten　times　a　day　to　demand　the　rent　for　his　rooms；　then

did　the　luck　of　the　wealthy　artists　recur　to　his　hungry　imagination；

then　did　the　thought　which　so　often　traverses　Russian　minds；　to　give

up　altogether；　and　go　down　hill；　utterly　to　the　bad；　traverse　his。　And

now　he　was　almost　in　this　frame　of　mind。



〃Yes；　it　is　all　very　well；　to　be　patient；　be　patient！〃　he　exclaimed；

with　vexation；　〃but　there　is　an　end　to　patience　at　last。　Be　patient！

but　what　money　have　I　to　buy　a　dinner　with　to…morrow？　No　one　will　lend

me　any。　If　I　did　bring　myself　to　sell　all　my　pictures　and　sketches；

they　would　not　give　me　twenty　kopeks　for　the　whole　of　them。　They　are

useful；　I　feel　that　not　one　of　them　has　been　undertaken　in　vain；　I

have　learned　something　from　each　one。　Yes；　but　of　what　use　is　it？

Studies；　sketches；　all　will　be　studies；　trial…sketches　to　the　end。　And

who　will　buy；　not　even　knowing　me　by　name？　Who　wants　drawings　from　the

antique；　or　the　life　class；　or　my　unfinished　love　of　a　Psyche；　or　the

interior　of　my　room；　or　the　portrait　of　Nikita；　though　it　is　better；

to　tell　the　truth；　than　the　portraits　by　any　of　the　fashionable

artists？　Why　do　I　worry；　and　toil　like　a　learner　over　the　alphabet；

when　I　might　shine　as　brightly　as　the　rest；　and　have　money；　too；　like

them？〃



Thus　speaking；　the　artist　suddenly　shuddered；　and　turned　pale。　A

convulsively　distorted　face　gazed　at　him；　peeping　forth　from　the

surrounding　canvas；　two　terrible　eyes　were　fixed　straight　upon　him；　on

the　mouth　was　written　a　menacing　command　of　silence。　Alarmed；　he　tried

to　scream　and　summon　Nikita；　who　already　was　snoring　in　the　ante…room；

but　he　suddenly　paused　and　laughed。　The　sensation　of　fear　died　away　in

a　moment；　it　was　the　portrait　he　had　bought；　and　which　he　had　quite

forgotten。　The　light　of　the　moon　illuminating　the　chamber　had　fallen

upon　it；　and　lent　it　a　strange　likeness　to　life。



He　began　to　examine　it。　He　moistened　a　sponge　with　water；　passed　it

over　the　picture　several　times；　washed　off　nearly　all　the　accumulated

and　incrusted　dust　and　dirt；　hung　it　on　the　wall　before　him；　wondering

yet　more　at　the　remarkable　workmanship。　The　whole　face　had　gained　new

life；　and　the　eyes　gazed　at　him　so　that　he　shuddered；　and；　springing

back；　he　exclaimed　in　a　voice　of　surprise：　〃It　looks　with　human　eyes！〃

Then　suddenly　there　occurred　to　him　a　story　he　had　heard　long　before

from　his　professor；　of　a　certain　portrait　by　the　renowned　Leonardo　da

Vinci；　upon　which　the　great　master　laboured　several　years；　and　still

regarded　as　incomplete；　but　which；　according　to　Vasari；　was

nevertheless　deemed　by　all　the　most　complete　and　finished　product　of

his　art。　The　most　finished　thing　about　it　was　the　eyes；　which　amazed

his　contemporaries；　the　very　smallest；　barely　visible　veins　in　them

being　reproduced　on　the　canvas。



But　in　the　portrait　now　before　him　there　was　something　singular。　It

was　no　longer　art；　it　even　destroyed　the　harmony　of　the　portrait；　they

were　living；　human　eyes！　It　seemed　as　though　they　had　been　cut　from　a

living　man　and　inserted。　Here　was　none　of　that　high　enjoyment　which

takes　possession　of　the　soul　at　the　sight　of　an　artist's　production；

no　matter　how　terrible　the　subject　he　may　have　chosen。



Again　he　approached　the　portrait；　in　order　to　observe　those　wondrous

eyes；　and　perceived；　with　terror；　that　they　were　gazing　at　him。　This

was　no　copy　from　Nature；　it　was　life；　the　strange　life　which　might

have　lighted　up　the　face　of　a　dead　man；　risen　from　the　grave。　Whether

it　was　the　effect　of　the　moonlight；　which　brought　with　it　fantastic

thoughts；　and　transformed　things　into　strange　likenesses；　opposed　to

those　of　matter…of…fact　day；　or　from　some　other　cause；　but　it　suddenly

became　terrible　to　him；　he　knew　not　why；　to　sit　alone　in　the　room。　He

draw　back　from　the　portrait；　turned　aside；　and　tried　not　to　look　at

it；　but　his　eye　involuntarily；　of　its　own　accord；　kept　glancing

sideways　towards　it。　Finally；　he　became　afraid　to　walk　about　the　room。

It　seemed　as　though　some　one　were　on　the　point　of　stepping　up　behind

him；　and　every　time　he　turned；　he　glanced　timidly　back。　He　had　never

been　a　coward；　but　his　imagination　and　nerves　were　sensitive；　and　that

evening　he　could　not　explain　his　involuntary　fear。　He　seated　himself

in　one　corner；　but　even　then　it　seemed　to　him　that　some　one　was

peeping　over　his　shoulder　into　his　face。　Even　Nikita's　snores；

resounding　from　the　ante…room；　did　not　chase　away　his　fear。　At　length

he　rose　from　the　seat；　without　raising　his　eyes；　went　behind　a　screen；

and　lay　down　on　his　bed。　Through　the　cracks　of　the　screen　he　saw　his

room　lit　up　by　the　moon；　and　the　portrait　hanging　stiffly　on　the　wall。

The　eyes　were　fixed　upon　him　in　a　yet　more　terrible　and　significant

manner；　and　it　seemed　as　if　they　would　not　look　at　anything　but

himself。　Overpowered　with　a　feeling　of　oppression；　he　decided　to　rise

from　his　bed；　seized　a　sheet；　and；　approaching　the　portrait；　covered

it　up　completely。



Having　done　this；　he　lay　done　more　at　ease　on　his　bed；　and　began　to

meditate　upon　the　poverty　and　pitiful　lot　of　the　artist；　and　the

thorny　path　lying　before　him　in　the　world。　But　meanwhile　his　eye

glanced　involuntarily　through　the　joint　of　the　screen　at　the　portrait

muffled　in　the　sheet。　The　light　of　the　moon　heightened　the　whiteness

of　the　sheet；　and　it　seemed　to　him　as　though　those　terrible　eyes　shone

through　the　cloth。　With　terror　he　fixed　his　eyes　more　steadfastly　on

the　spot；　as　if　wishing　to　convince　himself　that　it　was　all　nonsense。

But　at　length　he　sawsaw　clearly；　there　was　no　longer　a　sheetthe

portrait　was　quite　uncovered；　and　was　gazing　beyond　everything　around

it；　straight　at　him；　gazing　as　it　seemed　fairly　into　his　heart。　His

heart　grew　cold。　He　watched　anxiously；　the　old　man　moved；　and

suddenly；　supporting　himself　on　the　frame　with　both　arms；　raised

himself　by　his　hands；　and；　putting　forth　both　feet；　leapt　out　of　the

frame。　Through　the　crack　of　the　screen；　the　empty　frame　alone　was　now

visible。　Footsteps　resounded　through　the　room；　and　approached　nearer

and　nearer　to　the　screen。　The　poor　artist's　heart　began　beating　fast。

He　expected　every　moment；　his　breath　failing　for　fear；　that　the　old

man　would　look　round　the　screen　at　him。　And　lo！　he　did　look　from

behind　the　screen；　with　the　very　same　bronzed　face；　and　with　his　big

eyes　roving　about。



Tchartkoff　tried　to　scream；　and　felt　that　his　voice　was　gone；　he　tried

to　move；　his　limbs　refused　their　office。　With　open　mouth；　and　failing

breath；　he　gazed　at　the　tall　phantom；　draped　in　some　kind　of　a　flowing

Asiatic　robe；　and　waited　for　what　it　would　do。　The　old　man　sat　down

almo