I suffered from a severe fever. Only my servant took care of me. A servant broke into this abandoned castle and dragged me, wounded by bandits, so that I would not freeze in the street. As a temporary lodging for the night, we chose one of the small dark rooms.
The servant did not dare to bleed me, since I had already lost so much of it, or to ask someone for outside help. But in time I remembered the opium that I kept in my bins. I used to smoke it mixed with tobacco in a pipe, but now I was tormented by doubts about the dosage. Before that, I used only morphine, and opium in pure form- never. Then I decided to start with a very small dose and increase it if necessary. I did not take into account that the tiny amount of pure opium in my condition could be enormous.
At night, I lay down, dreaming of falling asleep or at least reading a book in peace, found in the room by the bed. This volume contained descriptions and history of the creation of all the works of art stored in the castle. The servant was already asleep. In a corner lit by candles, I suddenly saw unusual picture. It was a portrait of a young woman in an oval gold frame. For almost an hour I stared at her face. It seemed that she was alive. It both delighted and frightened me. In terms of craftsmanship, the artist's work was impeccable.
I quickly found a portrait of a girl on the list. The description said that this beautiful young beauty fell in love and married a painter. But the artist was by no means captivated by his young wife: his heart completely belonged to Art, which caused bitterness and jealousy of his wife. Even her husband's desire to capture her on canvas was annoying for her, but, being submissive and in love, she posed for a portrait for him for many days.
Every day she seemed to be getting weaker and languishing from melancholy. It seemed to everyone that this amazing portrait was a direct proof of the artist's love for his wife. But no one knew that when the work on the painting was already drawing to a close, the painter practically did not look at the girl, but peered at his work with burning eyes and painful excitement.
And here he is in last time waved the brush and made the final stroke on the canvas. The man was fascinated by his work and looked at the canvas for a long time in admiration with some reverence and awe. Finally, he exclaimed: “This is life itself!”. And only then did he glance at his wife and notice that she was already dead.
In The Oval Portrait, the idea, already familiar to Edgar Poe, sounds that art competes with life, and art and death have the same nature.
Picture or drawing Oval portrait
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The work of Edgar Allan Poe fits into the time frame of such a noticeable and powerful phenomenon in art as romanticism. Romanticism originated in Europe at the very late XVIII century and continued throughout the first half of XIX. Romanticism challenged modernity and at the same time was the brightest phenomenon of modernity, fashionable among educated people. The great poets of romanticism, whose work took place at the beginning of the century - Byron, Coleridge, Shelley, Zhukovsky, Lermontov - had powerful roots in previous literature, and they themselves set the "tone" for long years, and we can find echoes of romanticism in the work of the symbolists and modernists.
However, this is European romanticism, while the American one had its own characteristics. The specifics of the American romantic literature lies not in any special literary devices or themes, but for the most part in the soil in which she grew up. Chronologically, it appeared simultaneously with the European one, but their paths quickly diverged “at the very beginning and never truly crossed” 1.
It turned out so because, although the craving for the mysterious, the unconscious and even the frightening of European romanticism and American romanticism was common, and the ideals were also common, but at the same time, American romanticism and European were in different position, in an unequal "weight category" (so to speak). From here, a hidden controversy arose between them, sometimes breaking through, but never turning into a state of open confrontation.
The reason for this was as follows, as Anastasyev writes: “Europeans are successors, they had someone to conduct a dialogue with, no matter how tense and even dramatic forms it took. Americans are pioneers, pioneers.
That is, the American Romantics had no American predecessors. America's own literature began precisely with the American Romantics, who managed to push aside the printer who published European literature And " useful books", and put an American writer next to him, convincing his compatriots that "the sky in a cup of a flower" is a subject no less worthy than the cereals that need to be harvested during the harvest" 3. Largely based on the European literary tradition, drawing a lot from However, the American romantics still had their own view of the world, its past, present and future, different from their European "clubmates". The problem and peculiarity of American romanticism was precisely that it had no literary roots in domestic soil. He had no prior American literary tradition and in this sense there was no one to argue with, nothing to overcome, nothing to challenge, and nothing to yearn for. If European romantics looked longingly into the past, then Americans thought more about the present.
The difference also lies in the socio-economic processes that took place at that time in Europe and America. In Europe, this was a time of active advancement of the third estate forward, more and more high levels. The bourgeoisie captured more and more new positions with money, penetrating into more and more high spheres and pushing the impoverished noble aristocracy aside. The aristocracy is losing its former influence, its former positions, and money is becoming increasingly important. The third estate, thus, having generated an adversary in the image of the proletariat by its merciless exploitation, the spirit of acquisitiveness and gain, has generated an adversary for itself in the sphere of the aristocratic, intelligent - in the image of a poet (let's call it a romantic writer, because romanticism is characterized by close interaction between poetry and prose) . The romantic poet was alien to the spirit of profit that permeated his contemporary society, and he was not interested and not satisfied with the goals “here and now”, he was not attracted by the probable future, he considered his time to be a time that had lost heroes, it was alien to him. And therefore, the romantic poet turned his gaze to the past, finding heroes in the era of the Middle Ages, and even antiquity. Longing for the "time of heroes", gloominess in relation to the present and a tense look into the past in search of an ideal - character traits European romanticism.
And in America, literature only mirrored, upside down, reflected the European situation. The writers here had nothing to rely on, nothing to look back at, and, probably, they should not have. Their past was nearby, it was only necessary to free it from unnecessary (in their opinion) layers, habits, traditions and, taking all living things, move forward.
American romanticism flourished on fertile soil: it was a time of real, genuine and complete conquest of America, a time of heroes. And if for a European romantic there was no hero in modern times, then for an American, modernity was, so to speak, overflowing with them. The era of conquest of the lands, the era of pioneers was for America and the era of the heyday of democracy - with all its bad and good sides, the era of inventions (the sewing machine, revolver, conveyor, telegraph were invented), the era of making capital. And although the spirit of hoarding and money-grubbing filled her, there was also a refreshing stream of desire to build a new society, a new state, to conquer open spaces. Nothing like this happened in Europe. The third estate in America was, firstly, in some sense healthier than the European one, and secondly, it constituted an almost absolute majority, since everyone had a chance to make a fortune for themselves. Everything here was shaky and new. Therefore, American romanticism was more optimistic and rationalistic than European. American romantics were not afraid to look to the future and did not shy away from the present, for they almost did not have a past yet.
Such was the soil on which the talent of Edgar Allan Poe grew.
Edgar Allan Poe stood out among his compatriots in everything: talent, fate, and the philosophy of life and work (which for him, as for a true romantic, were inseparable).
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January 19, 1809 in a family of actors and was left an orphan at the age of two. little boy adopted a childless rich tobacco merchant John Allan. There is a legend (one of the many that surrounded the name of Poe during his lifetime) that Poe's parents were burned alive in a theater fire. He himself repeatedly heard this story in his childhood from his Negro nanny, who loved to tell the boy horror stories. Perhaps this had an impact on his work.
In the house of John Allan, Edgar grew up in abundance, not knowing anything was denied. He received an excellent education, visited England with his adoptive father, where he came into close contact with romanticism, absorbed its spirit. Upon his return from England, Edgar begins to feel mental imbalance for the first time due to the realization that he is a step-son and completely dependent on the favor of his step-father. In the end, this leads to the fact that in 1825, as a student at the University of Virginia, he quarreled with his adoptive father because he refused to pay his "debts of honor" - Edgar Poe played cards and was very unsuccessful.
Having quarreled with Allan, Poe runs away from home and leaves for Boston, where he publishes his first collection of poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems of a Bostonian. The poems were not successful. Po was left completely without a livelihood and was forced to enlist in the army, where he served for two years. After returning from the army, he briefly reconciled with John Allan, but after the death of his adoptive mother, the last thread that somehow connected them broke, and they quarreled completely, Allan deleted Edgar from his will.
Edgar Poe lives in Baltimore with his aunt, his father's sister, meets her daughter, young Virginia, who is destined to become his wife and great love all life. Edgar would later reflect the features of his beloved Virginia in many portraits of his heroines, as refined, tender, incredibly beautiful and almost unreal as Virginia herself.
Left without money, Poe tries to publish, and from starvation he is saved by a fee for the novel "Manuscript Found in a Bottle", published in the magazine "Saturday Visitor" in 1833. In the future, Po writes novels, works in various publications as a journalist and editor.
The death of Virginia in 1847 was a blow to him from which he never recovered and died mysteriously in 1849.
Edgar Allan Poe's work is controversial: " romantic influences and extremely rationalistic creative theory and practice; "aristocratic" isolation and brightly pronounced features"Americanism", images of otherworldly ideal beauty and artistic providence" 4 - these are its main features.
As mentioned above, American romanticism is characterized by optimism. Edgar Allan Poe at first glance falls out of this definition. If a romantic poet should be unhappy, a dissident, a brawler, a brawler - By them he was. And a romantic should be incomprehensible to contemporaries. And he was. As a poet and writer, Poe “returned” to America after his death and in a roundabout way, through Europe.
Indefatigable fantasy is inherent in his work, and the fantasy is painful, he seems even too mystical writer at first sight. However, if we take a closer look at his work, we will see that in fact his mysticism receives a more or less rational explanation, through the painful states of the psyche and consciousness, into which the hero enters due to illness or intoxication.
His prose was the prose of a romantic poet, he made the same demands on it as on poetry, therefore prerequisite there was mystery, mystery. Prose has become the realm of fantasy. But everything supernatural is subject to harsh logic, the mysterious is overgrown with carefully selected details. For the impossible, a pattern is established. “The most improbable plot, frightening and mysterious atmosphere, terrible events in his short stories they are supported by such real, vitally truthful details and details that they give the impression of real ones ”5. Many works are written in the form of a philosophical mystery, explicit or hidden, they seem to speak of some kind of knowledge that can only be bestowed on the poetic imagination.
American literature began with the novel. Novella - "a small genre of epic, short story in prose, characterized by a sharp plot, often paradoxical, compositional refinement, lack of descriptiveness ”6. And it was with the short story that recognition began American Literature as independent literature, having the right to exist and able to confirm it. Edgar Allan Poe is one of the founders of the short story genre in American literature. with good reason can be called one of the fathers of American literature. “By the turn of the century, in America, to some extent, the canonical form of the story had already developed - an action-packed short story, full of dynamism, with an unexpected ending, in which all the power of the story is concentrated. Often a novella is built on the contrast between content and ending. All these features, which can be called stable features of the genre, were defined and artistically demonstrated by Edgar Allan Poe. 7 In the definition of the essence of the short story as a genre by Edgar Allan Poe, the generic feature of the short story - novelty - retains its significance. Only the qualitative content of the concept of "novelty" is somewhat transformed in connection with the peculiarities of the romantic worldview. The element of exclusivity comes to the fore. For romantics, the new is identical to the exceptional, unusual, and through it the romantic tries to cognize reality. In Edgar Poe's short story, the focus is always on the exceptional situation around which everything revolves. Moreover, Poe expands the sphere of the exceptional by depicting pathological states of the psyche, “this determines the content of the effect, the requirements for which form the basis of the theory of Poe’s short story” 8. For Poe, the plot is not so important as the atmosphere, the general emotional intensity, and novelty is precisely in them.
Conventionally, Edgar Poe's short stories can be divided into two groups: "logical" short stories, where the novelty and sharpness of the plot lie precisely in logical riddles(it was these short stories that formed the foundation detective genre), and "Gothic", or "fantastic". It was in them that the peculiar aesthetics of Poe's work was most fully expressed. The basis of this aesthetic is a deep and specific perception of death. Death is an ominous figure, constantly standing behind the poet's shoulder, a symbol not only of the end of life, but also of suffering and pain. Poe's category of horror is inextricably linked with this special, personal perception of death. Terrible in Po is not otherworldly horror, but inner world man, the pain of his soul and suffering from disharmony and emptiness.
But at the same time, Poe's aesthetics in a certain sense optimistic, because death for him does not mean the irrevocable end of everything that we see, for example, in the short story "The Oval Portrait".
The world of "Gothic" short stories by Edgar Allan Poe is inhabited by ghosts, an atmosphere of fear prevails here, everything is imbued with decay. In the short story "The Oval Portrait" the action takes place in an old abandoned castle, which "was gloomy and majestic ... the decoration here was rich, but ancient and dilapidated", in the room where the nameless hero of the short story settled down, the bed was with a heavy canopy of black velvet. Mysteriousness arises from the very first words - and not because something incomprehensible and strange is happening, no. The beginning of the novel is quite prosaic: the hero was sick and wounded, and his servant found him refuge in a deserted abandoned castle. The disease does not let the hero go, he suffers from a fever and is forced to take opium in order to somehow alleviate his suffering. This is the first part of the novel, like an introduction. The novella itself consists of two parts of different size.
The writer is not interested in intrigue, he is curious about something else - the “undercurrent of thought”, not circumstances, but the “philosophy of circumstances”, not objects, but shadows of objects. We see all this in the short story "The Oval Portrait". Po's fantasy has no limits, but it's a sick fantasy. The beginning of the novel, although rich in gloomy colors and images, is quite prosaic and there is nothing supernatural in it, despite the fact that there are all the prerequisites for this. The situation is presented in such a way that the reader is constantly waiting in tension for the appearance of this supernatural, and the author gradually leads the reader to the phenomenon of the otherworldly. The otherworldly is a traditional image for Edgar Allan Poe's work - as soon as the hero takes opium and his consciousness approaches the borderline state, the play of light from many burning candles showed him a portrait in an oval gilded frame. And here is the culmination of the action, because the plot was the hero's taking opium and, as a result, the altered state of the hero's consciousness, in which he becomes most receptive to the touch of the eternal.
The portrait depicts a beautiful young girl - like all Poe's heroines, she is beautiful with an inhumanly ghostly, heavenly beauty. Moreover, the artist's art is so great that the hero is even frightened by this portrait - it seems so alive. The shoulders, chest and head of the girl seem to protrude from the shadows, as if she is looking at the nameless hero of the novel from the other world - yes, however, maybe this is so? After all, what follows is the denouement, the second part of the short story, in which we learn the history of the portrait - mysterious and frightening. In the denouement, the central idea of the novel about great power art that can immortalize through death: “The magic consisted in an extraordinary living expression, with which I was at first amazed, and in the end both embarrassed, and depressed, and frightened. I no longer had the strength to see the sadness lurking in the smile of half-open lips, and the genuinely bright gleam of fearfully dilated pupils. The portrait appeared before the hero alive and real, much more real than everything that surrounded him. But (as always in his short stories) Edgar Allan Poe does not claim anything from himself - we see what is happening through the eyes of a hero, immersed in a borderline state of consciousness due to fever and opium. Here, as is very often the case with Poe, there is an element of autobiography, and not even a very hidden one - it is known that the writer himself often smoked opium, therefore, the symptoms of this state were familiar to him. Poe scares the reader not with truly “Gothic horrors”, as European romantics, especially Hoffmann, did, no, his horrors do not come from somewhere outside, but lie inside the person himself, in his fantasy and imagination, under the influence of illness or drug generating monsters. Poe is too rationalistic for a romantic, but this makes him no less "gothic" than the same Hoffmann. In the "Oval Portrait" we see not the appearance in the world of people of the other world, but an echo of the catastrophe of consciousness, which was much more clearly shown in "The Fall of the House of Usher". The illusion of authenticity reinforced by the first-person narrative does not mean that Po actually wants to tell us what we first think he is saying. The right to decide what is shown is reliable and what is not, he leaves to the reader - they say, "if you want - believe it, if you want - no." It is not so important for the writer himself how much we believe him, it is important for him whether we hear what he really wants to tell us. Lack of understanding, suspense and mystery begin to accumulate from the very beginning, and the denouement comes at the end. Edgar Allan Poe needs the terrible, unusual in order to introduce the reader into a state of horror and thereby “tear him out of everyday wholeness and make him shudder at contact with the world of eternity, with its “supremacy of novelty” 9. This contact in the short story “Oval Portrait takes place in the second part.
The second part of the short story is three times smaller than the first part, and is something like an insert story, a short story within a short story. However, it goes hand in hand with common property short stories by Poe, in the composition of which the last paragraph is the key to the whole work, reveals the author's intention, formalizes the idea. The hero, fascinated and frightened by the appearance of a living portrait, leafs through a notebook in which the paintings are described and their stories are told. Together with the hero and in his perception, we learn the secret of the portrait.
The denouement comes, and the reader touches the world of eternity. The artist who painted the portrait was madly in love with his art, but he was also madly in love with his young wife. And in his mind, these two feelings mingled. Supernaturally, without noticing it himself, he took away the earthly, mortal life of his beloved and gave her eternal youth on canvas: “the paints that he applied to the canvas, he took away from the one who sat in front of him and became paler and more transparent from hour to hour ". That's why the portrait was alive - the whole life of the one from whom the portrait was written went into the image imprinted on the canvas. Here we again meet the cross-cutting for creativity Po idea of the horror of a lonely soul, the discord in the harmony of mind and feelings, expressed in the imaginary opposition of life and death, love and art, characteristic of Po, and the idea of “envious”, “vengeful” death, always standing behind the creator’s shoulder . No matter how ambiguous the figure of death for Poe, its main semantic content is the cruel “never”. This doom, however, is also imaginary - after all, the beauty of the nameless wife of the artist has not disappeared anywhere, she is immortal, because she was granted from above, as well as art, thanks to which there is no death. The tragic key moment of the novel is actually optimistic: death, having won in the fleeting world of the flesh, lost the battle in the imperishable world of art: “And then the artist said:“ But is this death?
1- M. Anastasiev "Budivnichi (American Romanticism)" //Vikno v svіt, 1999 No. 4, p. 33
2- same place
3- same place
4- Eishiskina N. Edgar Poe, his life and work // Questions of Literature, 1963, No. 10, p. 206
5- Gordєєva L.V. Edgar Poe // Foreign Literature in Headlines, 1997, No. 3, p. 22
6- Modern dictionary-reference book on literature. M. 1999, p. 259
7- Akhmedova U. Edgar Poe - master of the short story // Soviet Dagestan, 1980, No. 5, p. 69
8 - ibid., p. 70
9- Nefedova T. Some features of plot situations in E. Poe's short stories // Problems of poetics and history of literature, Saransk, 1973, p. 248
Main character and his valet stay overnight in a deserted castle to avoid sleeping on the street. They are located in small apartments, which are located in the farthest tower. Weapons and numerous paintings hung on the walls, in which the protagonist showed interest.
Pedro closed the shutters, lit the candles in the candelabra, and flung open the canopy. The protagonist looked at the paintings for a long time and read a volume dedicated to the description and analysis of these paintings. He did not like the way the chandelier stood, and in order not to wake his valet, he moved it himself with difficulty. The beams of the moved candelabra consecrated one of the niches, where there was a painting that the hero had not noticed before. It was a portrait of a girl.
The protagonist closed his eyes to calm his imagination and look at the picture with a confident look. Quite a bit of time passed, and the hero again examined the picture with interest. It was a beautiful portrait of a young girl in an oval frame. The picture fascinated the protagonist with its lifelikeness. He replaced the candelabra in its original place and read the description of the painting. It turned out that the picture depicts a girl of extraordinary beauty, who fell in love and became the wife of the painter. But he was already engaged to the only rival of that girl - to Painting.
The painter's wife, young, smiling and bright, hated only Painting. But she was meek and obedient and therefore could not refuse her husband when he desired to paint her portrait. Every day and every hour the painter worked on the portrait, not noticing how the beauty and health of his wife were gradually fading. But she didn't complain. And the artist did not want to see that the shades that he imposes on the canvas were taken from his wife.
And when the portrait was finished and similar to life itself, the painter suddenly turned to his beloved, but it was too late: she died.
You can use this text for reader's diary
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Oval portrait. Picture for the story
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Edgar Poe
Ovalportrait.
Translated by M. A. Engelhardt
Text Source: Selected Writings of Edgar Allan Poe. Stories. Volume I, State Publishing House, Berlin, MCMXXIII. pp. 247-251. (World Literature/ Conn. PC. Sev. America) Text version: , August 2011"Egli e vivo e parlerebtje se non osser- vasse la regola del silentio") [*].
(The inscription on Italian painting St. Bruno).
[*] - "He is alive and would have spoken if he had not kept a vow of silence." My fever was strong and persistent. I have tried every means that could be obtained in the wild region of the Apennines, and all without success. My servant and only assistant in a secluded castle was too nervous and awkward to let me bleed, which, however, I already lost a lot in the fight with the bandits. Nor could I send him for help. Finally, I remembered a small supply of opium, which I kept with tobacco: in Constantinople, I used to smoke tobacco with this potion. Pedro handed me the box. I found opium in it. But then a difficulty arose: I did not know how much to separate him for the reception. When smoking, the amount was indifferent. I used to fill my pipe half with tobacco and half with opium, mix it up, and sometimes smoke the whole mixture without feeling any special effect. It also happened that, after smoking two-thirds, I noticed signs of mental breakdown that made me quit. In any case, the effect of opium developed so gradually that it did not pose a serious danger. Now the case was quite different. I have never taken opium internally. I have had recourse to laudanum and morphine, and with regard to these remedies I would not hesitate. But I was not at all familiar with the use of opium. Pedro knew no more about it than I did, so it was a matter of luck. However, I did not hesitate for a long time, deciding to take it gradually. For the first time, I thought, I will take a very small dose. If it does not work, I will repeat until the fever subsides, or until a beneficial sleep appears, which was extremely necessary for me, but has been running from my agitated feelings for a whole week. No doubt this very excitement - a vague delirium that had already taken possession of me - prevented me from understanding the absurdity of my intention to establish large or small doses, having no scale for comparison. It never occurred to me that a dose of pure opium, which I consider negligible, could actually be huge. On the contrary, I well remember that I determined with complete certainty the amount needed for the first dose, comparing it with a whole lump of opium that was at my disposal. The portion, which I swallowed without any fear, represented a very small part of the whole piece, which was in my hands. The castle, into which my servant decided to break into by force, just not to leave me, wounded, under open sky, was one of those gloomy and majestic bulks that God knows how many centuries frown among the Apennines, not only in the imagination of Mrs. Ratcliffe, but in reality. Apparently, he was abandoned by the owners very recently and only for a while. We chose a smaller and simpler room in a distant turret. Its furnishings were rich, but dilapidated and ancient. The walls were hung with carpets, various military armor and contemporary paintings in rich gold frames. These paintings, which hung not only on the open walls, but also in all the nooks and crannies created by the bizarre architecture of the building, aroused in me a deep curiosity, perhaps aroused by the beginning delirium, so I ordered Pedro to close the heavy shutters (night had already come), light the candles in a tall chandelier that stood beside the bed, and pull back the black velvet curtain with fringe that covered the bed. I figured that if I couldn't sleep, I would at least look at the pictures and read their descriptions in the little volume that ended up on the pillow. For a long, long time I read - and intently, reverently examined. The hours flew by in a quick and wonderful succession - midnight came. The position of the candelabra seemed uncomfortable to me and, not wanting to wake the sleeping servant, I with an effort stretched out my hand and rearranged it so that the light illuminated the book more brightly. But this change had an entirely unexpected effect. The rays of numerous candles (there were indeed many) fell into the niche, which, until then, was shrouded in thick shadow from one of the bedposts. I saw a brightly lit picture that I had not noticed before. It was a portrait of a young girl, in the first flowering of awakened femininity. I glanced at the picture and closed my eyes. Why, I myself did not understand at first. But while my eyelashes were still lowered, I began to think about why I lowered them. It was an involuntary movement to buy time for reflection, to make sure that my sight did not deceive me, to calm and curb fantasy with more reliable and sober observation. After a few moments, I looked at the painting again. Now I could not doubt that I was seeing clearly and not being deceived, because the first flash of candles that illuminated the picture, apparently, dispelled the sleepy stupor that had taken possession of my feelings, and at once brought me back to real life. As I said once, it was a portrait of a young girl; head and shoulders, in a vignette style, technically speaking, reminiscent of the style of Selly's heads. The arms, chest, and even the ends of her golden hair merged imperceptibly with the indefinite but deep shadow that formed the background of the picture. The oval gilded frame was decorated with Moorish filigree work. Painting represented the height of perfection. But not exemplary performance, not the divine charm of the face shocked me so suddenly and so powerfully. Least of all could I allow my fantasy, awakened from half-drowsiness, to take this face for a living one. I immediately saw that the features of the drawing, style, frame should have destroyed such an idea at the moment of its occurrence, without allowing even a fleeting self-deception. Thinking hard about this, I spent perhaps an hour half-sitting, half-lying, and never taking my eyes off the portrait. Finally, having had my fill of the mystery of artistic action, I lay back on the bed. I was convinced that the charm of the picture lay in the perfect vitality of the expression, which at first struck me, and then confused, suppressed and horrified. With deep and reverent fear, I put the candelabra back in its place. Having thus eliminated the cause of my excitement, I hurriedly leafed through the volume with descriptions of the paintings. Finding the number under which the oval portrait was listed, I read the following strange cryptic lines: "She was a girl of rare beauty and as cheerful as beautiful. In an evil hour she saw, fell in love and became the artist's wife. He is passionate, diligent, stern and has already found a bride in his art, and she is a girl of rare beauty , as cheerful as beautiful; all joy and laughter; frisky, like a young doe, full of love and affection for everything, who hated only her rival - Art; frightened only by palettes, brushes and other annoying tools that took away her lover from her. It was a terrible blow for the newlywed to hear that the artist wanted to take a portrait even of his young wife. But she was meek and obedient, and dutifully sat for whole weeks in a high dark tower, where the light only streamed from above onto a pale canvas. He, the artist, put his whole soul into this work, which moved forward from hour to hour, from day to day. He was a passionate, wild and wayward man, absorbed in his dreams; and he did not want to see that the light, so ominously illuminating the secluded tower, was ruining the health and soul of his young wife, that she was melting before the eyes of everyone, and only he did not notice it. But she smiled and did not want to complain, because she saw that the artist (who enjoyed high fame) found feverish and burning pleasure in his work, and worked day and night on a portrait of the one who loved him so much and still languished and languished with day by day. Indeed, those who saw the portrait spoke in an undertone about the wonderful resemblance and found in it proof not only of the artist's talent, but also of his deep love for the one he painted with such amazing perfection. But, when the work was already nearing completion, outsiders were no longer allowed into the tower, because the artist indulged in work with insane enthusiasm, and almost did not take his eyes off the canvas, did not even look at his wife's face. And he did not want to see that the colors that he threw on the canvas ran away from the face of the one who was sitting next to him. And when many weeks had passed, and it only remained to complete the picture by touching her mouth and eyes with a brush, the spirit of the young woman flared up again, like the flame of a fading lamp. And so, the last stroke was made, the final stroke was laid, and for a moment the artist stopped, fascinated by his creation, but at that very moment, without taking his eyes off the portrait, he trembled, turned pale, and was horrified, and exclaiming in a loud voice: - Yes it's herself life turned quickly to look at his beloved, she was dead!"
The castle, into which my valet dared to break in, so that I, stricken with a serious illness, should not spend the night in the open, was one of those heaps of despondency and pomp that in life they frown among the Apennines as often as in the imagination of Madame Radcliffe. Apparently, it was left for a short time and quite recently. We settled in one of the smallest and least luxurious apartments. He was in a distant tower of the building. Its rich antique decoration is extremely dilapidated. Numerous and varied weapons hung on the tapestry-covered walls, along with unusual a large number inspired paintings of our days in gold frames covered with arabesques. In these paintings, which hung not only on the walls, but also in the endless nooks and crannies that are inevitable in a building of such bizarre architecture, I felt a deep interest, caused, perhaps, by the fever that began in me; so I asked Pedro to close the heavy shutters—it was already evening—to light all the candles of the high candelabra at the head of my bed, and to throw open as far as possible the black velvet fringed canopy. I wished this in order to give myself up, if not to sleep, then at least to the contemplation of the pictures and the study of the volume found on the pillow and devoted to their analysis and description.
For a long, long time I read - and intently, intently looked. Hurrying, blissful hours flew by, and deep midnight came. I did not like the way the chandelier stood, and, with difficulty stretching out my hand so as not to disturb my sleeping valet, I set the chandelier so that the light fell better on the book. But it produced a completely unexpected effect. The rays of countless candles (there were a lot of them) illuminated the niche of the room, hitherto immersed in a deep shadow cast by one of the pillars of the canopy. Therefore, I saw a brightly illuminated picture, which I had not noticed at all before. It was a portrait of a young, just blossoming girl. I quickly glanced at the portrait and closed my eyes. Why I did this, at first it was not clear to me. But while my eyelids remained closed, I mentally searched for the cause. I wanted to buy time for reflection - to make sure that my eyes were not deceiving me - to calm and suppress my fantasy for a more sober and confident look. Only a few moments passed, and I again stared at the picture.
Now I could not and did not want to doubt that I was seeing correctly, for the first ray that fell on the canvas, as it were, drove away the sleepy stupor that had taken possession of my feelings, and at once returned me to wakefulness.
The portrait, as I said, depicted a young girl. It was just a bust, done in what is known as a vignette style, much like the head style favored by Sally. Hands, chest and even golden hair imperceptibly dissolved in a vague but deep shadow that formed the background. The frame was oval, thickly gilded, covered with Moorish ornaments. As a work of art, nothing could be more beautiful than this portrait. But neither its execution, nor the imperishable beauty of the image depicted, could so suddenly and strongly excite me. I could not accept him half asleep and for living woman. I immediately saw that the features of the drawing, the manner of painting, the frame would instantly make me reject such an assumption - would not allow me to believe him even for a single moment. I was in deep thought, maybe whole hour, reclining and not taking his eyes off the portrait. Finally, having comprehended the true secret of the effect produced, I leaned back against the pillows. The picture fascinated me with the absolute lifelikeness of the expression, which first struck me, and then caused confusion, depression and fear. With deep and tremulous reverence, I put the candelabra back in its place. Seeing nothing more than what so deeply moved me, I impatiently grabbed a volume containing descriptions of the paintings and their history. Finding the number under which the oval portrait was listed, I read the following obscure and strange words:
“She was a virgin of the rarest beauty, and her gaiety equaled her charms. And the hour was marked by evil fate when she saw the painter and fell in love with him and became his wife. He, obsessed, stubborn, stern, was already betrothed - to Painting; she, a maiden of the rarest beauty, whose gaiety equaled her charm, all light, all smile, playful as a young doe, hated only Painting, her rival; she was afraid only of palettes, brushes and other powerful tools that deprived her of the contemplation of her lover. And she was horrified to hear the painter express his desire to paint a portrait of his young wife. But she was meek and obedient, and for many weeks sat in high tower, where only light oozed from above onto a pale canvas. But he, the painter, was intoxicated with his work, which lasted from hour to hour, from day to day. And he, obsessed, unbridled, sullen, indulged in his dreams; and he could not see that from the terrible light in the lonely tower the spiritual strength and health of his young wife were melting; she was fading, and it was noticed by everyone except him. But she kept smiling and smiling, without complaining, for she saw that the painter (glorified everywhere) drew in his work a burning rapture and worked day and night in order to capture the one who loved him so much and yet every day became more dejected and weaker. Indeed, some who saw the portrait spoke in a whisper about the resemblance as a great miracle, evidence and gift of the painter and his deep love for the one whom he depicted with such unsurpassed art. But finally, when the work was nearing completion, outsiders were no longer allowed into the tower; for in the heat of his labor the painter fell into a frenzy, and seldom took his eyes off the canvas even to glance at his wife. And he did not want to see that the shades applied to the canvas were taken away from the cheeks of the one sitting next to him. And when many weeks had passed and it remained only to put one stroke on the lips and one semitone on the pupil, the spirit of the beauty flared up again, like a flame in a lamp. And then the brush touched the canvas, and the semitone was laid; and for just one moment the painter froze, fascinated by his creation; but the next, still not looking up from the canvas, he trembled, turned terribly pale, and, exclaiming in a loud voice: “Yes, this is truly Life itself!”, he suddenly turned to his beloved: “She was dead.”
