the mysterious portrait-第3章

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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

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　wildl