Petersburg side, or in the distant regions of Kolomna--individuals whose character is as difficult to define as the colour of a threadbare surtout.In his youth he had been a captain and a braggart, a master in the art of flogging, skilful, foppish, and stupid; but in his old age he combined all these various qualities into a kind of dim indefiniteness.He was a widower, already on the retired list, no longer boasted, nor was dandified, nor quarrelled, but only cared to drink tea and talk all sorts of nonsense over it.He walked about his room, and arranged the ends of the tallow candles; called punctually at the end of each month upon his lodgers for money; went out into the street, with the key in his hand, to look at the roof of his house, and sometimes chased the porter out of his den, where he had hidden himself to sleep.In short, he was a man on the retired list, who, after the turmoils and wildness of his life, had only his old-fashioned habits left.
"Please to see for yourself, Varukh Kusmitch," said the landlord, turning to the officer, and throwing out his hands, "this man does not pay his rent, he does not pay.""How can I when I have no money? Wait, and I will pay.""I can't wait, my good fellow," said the landlord angrily, making a gesture with the key which he held in his hand."Lieutenant-Colonel Potogonkin has lived with me seven years, seven years already; Anna Petrovna Buchmisteroff rents the coach-house and stable, with the exception of two stalls, and has three household servants: that is the kind of lodgers I have.I say to you frankly, that this is not an establishment where people do not pay their rent.Pay your money at once, please, or else clear out.""Yes, if you rented the rooms, please to pay," said the constable, with a slight shake of the head, as he laid his finger on one of the buttons of his uniform.
"Well, what am I to pay with? that's the question.I haven't a groschen just at present.""In that case, satisfy the claims of Ivan Ivanovitch with the fruits of your profession," said the officer: "perhaps he will consent to take pictures.""No, thank you, my good fellow, no pictures.Pictures of holy subjects, such as one could hang upon the walls, would be well enough;or some general with a star, or Prince Kutusoff's portrait.But this fellow has painted that muzhik, that muzhik in his blouse, his servant who grinds his colours! The idea of painting his portrait, the hog!
I'll thrash him well: he took all the nails out of my bolts, the scoundrel! Just see what subjects! Here he has drawn his room.It would have been well enough had he taken a clean, well-furnished room;but he has gone and drawn this one, with all the dirt and rubbish he has collected.Just see how he has defaced my room! Look for yourself.
Yes, and my lodgers have been with me seven years, the lieutenant-colonel, Anna Petrovna Buchmisteroff.No, I tell you, there is no worse lodger than a painter: he lives like a pig--God have mercy!"The poor artist had to listen patiently to all this.Meanwhile the officer had occupied himself with examining the pictures and studies, and showed that his mind was more advanced than the landlord's, and that he was not insensible to artistic impressions.
"Heh!" said he, tapping one canvas, on which was depicted a naked woman, "this subject is--lively.But why so much black under her nose?
did she take snuff?"
"Shadow," answered Tchartkoff gruffly, without looking at him.
"But it might have been put in some other place: it is too conspicuous under the nose," observed the officer."And whose likeness is this?"he continued, approaching the old man's portrait."It is too terrible.
Was he really so dreadful? Ah! why, he actually looks at one! What a thunder-cloud! From whom did you paint it?""Ah! it is from a--" said Tchartkoff, but did not finish his sentence:
he heard a crack.It seems that the officer had pressed too hard on the frame of the portrait, thanks to the weight of his constable's hands.The small boards at the side caved in, one fell on the floor, and with it fell, with a heavy crash, a roll of blue paper.The inscription caught Tchartkoff's eye--"1000 ducats." Like a madman, he sprang to pick it up, grasped the roll, and gripped it convulsively in his hand, which sank with the weight.
"Wasn't there a sound of money?" inquired the officer, hearing the noise of something falling on the floor, and not catching sight of it, owing to the rapidity with which Tchartkoff had hastened to pick it up.
"What business is it of yours what is in my room?""It's my business because you ought to pay your rent to the landlord at once; because you have money, and won't pay, that's why it's my business.""Well, I will pay him to-day."
"Well, and why wouldn't you pay before, instead of giving trouble to your landlord, and bothering the police to boot?""Because I did not want to touch this money.I will pay him in full this evening, and leave the rooms to-morrow.I will not stay with such a landlord.""Well, Ivan Ivanovitch, he will pay you," said the constable, turning to the landlord."But in case you are not satisfied in every respect this evening, then you must excuse me, Mr.Painter." So saying, he put on his three-cornered hat, and went into the ante-room, followed by the landlord hanging his head, and apparently engaged in meditation.
"Thank God, Satan has carried them off!" said Tchartkoff, as he heard the outer door of the ante-room close.He looked out into the ante-room, sent Nikita off on some errand, in order to be quite alone, fastened the door behind him, and, returning to his room, began with wildly beating heart to undo the roll.
