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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
almost on his very feet； and then pulled out something from among the
folds of his wide garment。 It was a purse。 The old man untied it； took
it by the end； and shook it。 Heavy rolls of coin fell out with a dull
thud upon the floor。 Each was wrapped in blue paper； and on each was
marked； 〃1000 ducats。〃 The old man protruded his long； bony hand from
his wide sleeves； and began to undo the rolls。 The gold glittered。
Great as was the artist's unreasoning fear； he concentrated all his
attention upon the gold； gazing motionless； as it made its appearance
in the bony hands； gleamed； rang lightly or dully； and was wrapped up
again。 Then he perceived one packet which had rolled farther than the
rest； to the very leg of his bedstead； near his pillow。 He grasped it
almost convulsively； and glanced in fear at the old man to see whether
he noticed it。
But the old man appeared very much occupied： he collected all his
rolls； replaced them in the purse； and went outside the screen without
looking at him。 Tchartkoff's heart beat wildly as he heard the rustle
of the retreating footsteps sounding through the room。 He clasped the
roll of coin more closely in his hand； quivering in every limb。
Suddenly he heard the footsteps approaching the screen again。
Apparently the old man had recollected that one roll was missing。 Lo！
again he looked round the screen at him。 The artist in despair grasped
the roll with all his strength； tried with all his power to make a
movement； shriekedand awoke。
He was bathed in a cold perspiration； his heart beat as hard as it was
possible for it to beat； his chest was oppressed； as though his last
breath was about to issue from it。 〃Was it a dream？〃 he said； seizing
his head with both hands。 But the terrible reality of the apparition
did not resemble a dream。 As he woke； he saw the old man step into the
frame： the skirts of the flowing garment even fluttered； and his hand
felt plainly that a moment before it had held something heavy。 The
moonlight lit up the room； bringing out from the dark corners here a
canvas； there the model of a hand： a drapery thrown over a chair；
trousers and dirty boots。 Then he perceived that he was not lying in
his bed； but standing upright in front of the portrait。 How he had
come there； he could not in the least comprehend。 Still more surprised
was he to find the portrait uncovered； and with actually no sheet over
it。 Motionless with terror； he gazed at it； and perceived that the
living； human eyes were fastened upon him。 A cold perspiration broke
out upon his forehead。 He wanted to move away； but felt that his feet
had in some way become rooted to the earth。 And he felt that this was
not a dream。 The old man's features moved； and his lips began to
project towards him； as though he wanted to suck him in。 With a yell
of despair he jumped backand awoke。
〃Was it a dream？〃 With his heart throbbing to bursting； he felt about
him with both hands。 Yes； he was lying in bed； and in precisely the
position in which he had fallen asleep。 Before him stood the screen。
The moonlight flooded the room。 Through the crack of the screen； the
portrait was visible； covered with the sheet； as it should be； just as
he had covered it。 And so that； too； was a dream？ But his clenched
fist still felt as though something had been held in it。 The throbbing
of his heart was violent； almost terrible； the weight upon his breast
intolerable。 He fixed his eyes upon the crack； and stared steadfastly
at the sheet。 And lo！ he saw plainly the sheet begin to open； as
though hands were pushing from underneath； and trying to throw it off。
〃Lord God； what is it！〃 he shrieked； crossing himself in despairand
awoke。
And was this； too； a dream？ He sprang from his bed； half…mad； and
could not comprehend what had happened to him。 Was it the oppression
of a nightmare； the raving of fever； or an actual apparition？ Striving
to calm； as far as possible； his mental tumult； and stay the wildly
rushing blood； which beat with straining pulses in every vein； he went
to the window and opened it。 The cool breeze revived him。 The
moonlight lay on the roofs and the white walls of the houses； though
small clouds passed frequently across the sky。 All was still： from
time to time there struck the ear the distant rumble of a carriage。 He
put his head out of the window； and gazed for some time。 Already the
signs of approaching dawn were spreading over the sky。 At last he felt
drowsy； shut to the window； stepped back； lay down in bed； and quickly
fell； like one exhausted； into a deep sleep。
He awoke late； and with the disagreeable feeling of a man who has been
half…suffocated with coal…gas： his head ached painfully。 The room was
dim： an unpleasant moisture pervaded the air； and penetrated the
cracks of his windows。 Dissatisfied and depressed as a wet cock； he
seated himself on his dilapidated divan； not knowing what to do； what
to set about； and at length remembered the whole of his dream。 As he
recalled it； the dream presented itself to his mind as so oppressively
real that he even began to wonder whether it were a dream； whether
there were not something more here； whether it were not really an
apparition。 Removing the sheet； he looked at the terrible portrait by
the light of day。 The eyes were really striking in their liveliness；
but he found nothing particularly terrible about them； though an
indescribably unpleasant feeling lingered in his mind。 Nevertheless；
he could not quite convince himself that it was a dream。 It struck him
that there must have been some terrible fragment of reality in the
vision。 It seemed as though there were something in the old man's very
glance and expression which said that he had been with him that night：
his hand still felt the weight which had so recently lain in it as if
some one had but just snatched it from him。 It seemed to him that； if
he had only grasped the roll more firmly； it would have remained in
his hand； even after his awakening。
〃My God； if I only had a portion of that money！〃 he said； breathing
heavily； and in his fancy； all the rolls of coin； with their
fascinating inscription； 〃1000 ducats；〃 began to pour out of the
purse。 The rolls opened； the gold glittered； and was wrapped up again；
and he sat motionless； with his eyes fixed on the empty air； as if he
were incapable of tearing himself from such a sight； like a child who
sits before a plate of sweets； and beholds； with watering mouth； other
people devouring them。
At last there came a knock on the door； which recalled him
unpleasantly to himself。 The landlord entered with the constable of
the district； whose presence is even more disagreeable to poor people
than is the presence of a beggar to the rich。 The landlord of the
little house in which Tchartkoff lived resembled the other individuals
who own houses anywhere in the Vasilievsky Ostroff； on the St。
Peter