"Kindly look for yourself, Varukh Kuzmich," the landlord said, addressing the inspector and spreading his arms. "You see, he doesn't pay the rent. He doesn't pay."
"And what if I have no money? Just wait, I'll pay up."
"I cannot wait, my dear," the landlord said angrily, gesturing with the key he was holding. "I've had Potogonkin, a lieutenant colonel, as a tenant for seven years now; Anna Petrovna Bukhmisterova also rents a shed and a stable with two stalls, she has three household serfs with her-that's the sort of tenants I have. I am not, to put it to you candidly, in the habit of letting the rent go unpaid. Kindly pay what you owe and move out."
"Yes, since that's the arrangement, kindly pay," said the police inspector, shaking his head slightly and putting one finger behind a button of his uniform.
"But what to pay with-that's the question. Right now I haven't got a cent."
"In that case, you'll have to satisfy Ivan Ivanovich with your professional productions," said the inspector. "Perhaps he'll agree to be paid in pictures."
"No, my dear fellow, no pictures, thank you. It would be fine if they were pictures with some noble content, something that could be hung on the wall, maybe a general with a star, or a portrait of Prince Kutuzov; 9 but no, he's painted a peasant, a peasant in a shirt, the servant who grinds paints for him. What an idea, to paint a portrait of that swine! He'll get it in the neck from me: he pulled all the nails out of the latches on me, the crook! Look here, what subjects: here he's painted his room. It would be fine if he'd taken a neat, tidy room, but no, he's painted it with all this litter and trash just as it's lying about. Look here, how he's mucked up my room, kindly see for yourself. I've had tenants staying on for seven years now-colonels, Bukhmisterova, Anna Petrovna… No, I tell you, there's no worse tenant than a painter: they live like real pigs, God spare us."
And the poor painter had to listen patiently to all that. The police inspector was busy meanwhile studying the paintings and sketches, and showed straight away that his soul was more alive than the landlord's and was even no stranger to artistic impressions.
"Heh," he said, jabbing a finger into one canvas on which a naked woman was portrayed, "the subject's a bit… playful. And this one, why is it all black under his nose? Did he spill snuff there or what?"
"A shadow," Chartkov answered sternly and without turning his eyes to him.
"Well, it could have been moved somewhere else, under the nose it's too conspicuous," said the inspector. "And whose portrait is that?" he continued, going up to the portrait of the old man. "Much too terrifying. Was he really as terrible as that? Look how he stares! Eh, what a Gromoboy! 10 Who was your model?"
"But that's some…" said Chartkov, and did not finish. A crack was heard. The inspector must have squeezed the frame of the portrait too hard, owing to the clumsy way his policeman's hands were made; the side boards split inward, one fell to the floor, and along with it a packet wrapped in blue paper fell with a heavy clank. The inscription "1,000 Gold Roubles" struck Chartkov's eyes. He rushed like a madman to pick it up, seized the packet, clutched it convulsively in his hand, which sank from the heavy weight.
"Sounds like the clink of money," said the inspector, hearing something thud on the floor and unable to see it for the quickness of Chartkov's movement as he rushed to pick it up.
"And what business is it of yours what I have?"
"It's this: that you have to pay the landlord for the apartment right now; that you've got money but don't want to pay-that's what."
"Well, I'll pay him today."
"Well, why didn't you want to pay before? Why make the landlord worry, and bother the police besides?"
"Because I didn't want to touch this money. I'll pay him everything by this evening and leave the apartment by tomorrow, because I don't wish to remain with such a landlord."
"Well, Ivan Ivanovich, he's going to pay you," said the inspector, turning to the landlord. "And in the event of your not being properly satisfied by this evening, then I beg your pardon, mister painter."
So saying, he put on his three-cornered hat and went out to the front hall, followed by the landlord, his head bowed, it seemed, in some sort of reflection.
"Thank God they got the hell out of here," said Chartkov when he heard the front door close.
He peeked out to the front hall, sent Nikita for something so as to be left completely alone, locked the door behind him, and, returning to his room, began with wildly fluttering heart to unwrap the packet. There were gold roubles in it, every one of them new, hot as fire. Nearly out of his mind, he sat over the heap of gold, still asking himself if he was not dreaming. There was an even thousand of them in the packet, which looked exactly the same as the ones he had seen in his dream. For several minutes he ran his fingers through them, looking at them, and still unable to come to his senses. In his imagination there suddenly arose all the stories about treasures, about boxes with secret compartments, left by forebears to their spendthrift grandchildren in the firm conviction of their future ruined condition. He reflected thus: "Mightn't some grandfather have decided even now to leave his grandson a gift, locking it up in the frame of a family portrait?" Full of romantic nonsense, he even began thinking whether there might not be some secret connection with his destiny here: whether the existence of the portrait might not be connected with his own existence, and whether its very acquisition had not been somehow predestined? He began studying the frame of the portrait with curiosity. On one side a groove had been chiseled out, covered so cleverly and inconspicuously with a board that, if the inspector's weighty hand had not broken through it, the roubles might have lain there till the world's end. Studying the portrait, he marveled again at the lofty workmanship, the extraordinary finish of the eyes; they no longer seemed terrible to him, but all the same an unpleasant feeling remained in his soul each time. "No," he said to himself, "whoever's grandfather you were, I'll put you under glass for this and make you a golden frame." Here he placed his hand on the heap of gold that lay before him, and his heart began to pound hard at the touch of it. "What shall I do with it?" he thought, fixing his eyes on it. "Now I'm set up for at least three years, I can shut myself in and work. I have enough for paints now, enough for dinners, for tea, for expenses, for rent; no one will hinder and annoy me anymore; I'll buy myself a good mannequin, order a plaster torso, model some legs, set up a Venus, buy prints of the best pictures. And if I work some three years for myself, unhurriedly, not to sell, I'll beat them all, and maybe become a decent artist."
So he was saying together with the promptings of his reason; but within him another voice sounded more audibly and ringingly. And as he cast another glance at the gold, his twenty-two years and his ardent youth said something different. Now everything he had looked at till then with envious eyes, which he had admired from afar with watering mouth, was in his power. Oh, how his heart leaped in him as soon as he thought of it! To put on a fashionable tailcoat, to break his long fast, to rent a fine apartment, to go at once to the theater, the pastry shop, the… all the rest-and, having seized the money, he was already in the street.
First of all he stopped at a tailor's, got outfitted from top to toe, and, like a child, began looking himself over incessantly; bought up lots of scents, pomades; rented, without bargaining, a magnifi- cent apartment on Nevsky Prospect, the first that came along, with mirrors and plate-glass windows; chanced to buy an expensive lorgnette in a shop; also chanced to buy a quantity of various neckties, more than he needed; had his locks curled at a hairdresser's; took a couple of carriage rides through the city without any reason; stuffed himself with sweets in a pastry shop; and went to a French restaurant, of which hitherto he had heard only vague rumors, as of the state of China. There he dined, arms akimbo, casting very proud glances at others, and ceaselessly looking in the mirror and touching his curled locks. There he drank a bottle of champagne, which till then he had also known more from hearsay. The wine went to his head a little, and he left feeling lively, pert, devil-may-care, as the saying goes. He strutted down the sidewalk like a dandy, aiming his lorgnette at everyone. On the bridge, he noticed his former professor and darted nimbly past him as if without noticing him at all, so that the dumbfounded professor stood motionless on the bridge for a long time, his face the picture of a question mark.