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lock； which was quite invisible； by reason of the darkness。
Finally the door was opened。 Tchartkoff entered his ante…room； which
was intolerably cold； as painters' rooms always are； which fact；
however； they do not notice。 Without giving Nikita his coat； he went
on into his studio； a large room； but low； fitted up with all sorts of
artistic rubbishplaster hands； canvases； sketches begun and
discarded； and draperies thrown over chairs。 Feeling very tired； he
took off his cloak； placed the portrait abstractedly between two small
canvasses； and threw himself on the narrow divan。 Having stretched
himself out； he finally called for a light。
〃There are no candles；〃 said Nikita。
〃What； none？〃
〃And there were none last night；〃 said Nikita。 The artist recollected
that； in fact； there had been no candles the previous evening； and
became silent。 He let Nikita take his coat off； and put on his old
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 signif