Edgar's oval portrait characterization of the main characters. "Features of the plot in the short story E

Epigraph under the image of St. Bruno.

The fever with which I fell ill was of a long duration and could not be cured; all the means that could be used in the wild mountainous country of the Apennines were exhausted, without giving me any relief. My servant and only companion did not dare, due to fear and inability to let me bleed, which, however, I lost a lot in a collision with robbers. Similarly, I could not bring myself to let him go in search of help. But fortunately, quite unexpectedly, I remembered a pack of opium, which was together with tobacco in a wooden box: - even in Constantinople, I acquired the habit of smoking such a mixture. Having ordered Pedro to give me a box, I tracked down this drug. But when it was necessary to take a certain dose of it, indecision took possession of me. For smoking, the amount of opium used was indifferent, and I usually took half and half of both and mixed everything together. Smoking this mixture sometimes had no effect on me, but sometimes I observed such symptoms of a nervous breakdown that were a warning to me. Of course, opium, with a slight error in dosing, could not pose any danger. But in this case it was different, as I never had to use opium, as internal remedy. Although I had to ingest laudanum and morphine, I never used opium in pure form. Of course, Pedro was as ignorant as I was in this matter, and thus I did not know what to decide. But after some thought, I decided to start with a minimum dose and gradually increase the dose. If the first method did not produce any effect, I thought, then it would have to be repeated until the temperature dropped, or until the desired sleep came, which was necessary for me, since I had been suffering from insomnia for a whole week and was in some kind of that strange state of half-drowsiness, similar to intoxication. It was probably my obscured consciousness that was the reason for the incoherence of my thoughts, as a result of which, having no data for comparison, I began to talk about possible doses of opium for taking, at that time I could not navigate in any way on a scale and the dose of opium that seemed to me very small, could actually be very large. Meanwhile, I remember very well that I accurately and calmly determined the dose of opium, in comparison with the entire amount of the drug on my face, and fearlessly swallowed it, which I could do with a calm heart, since it was an insignificant fraction of the total amount that was in my disposal.

The castle, into which my servant decided it would be better to penetrate by force than to allow me, seriously wounded, to spend the night in the courtyard, was one of those majestic and gloomy buildings that have long stood proudly among the Apennines, both in reality and in the imagination of the mistress. Radcliff. Apparently, it was recently temporarily abandoned by its inhabitants. We were accommodated in one of the smallest and not very luxuriously furnished rooms, located in the remote tower of the building. Her rich attire old style came to destruction. The walls were upholstered with carpets and decorated with numerous heraldic trophies. various shapes, as well as a huge number of new, stylish paintings in rich gilded frames with arabesques. I became terribly interested (perhaps the reason for this was the beginning delirium) in these paintings, which adorned not only the main walls, but also a whole mass of nooks and crannies, which were the inevitable result of the quaint architecture of the castle. This interest was so strong that I ordered Pedro to close the heavy shutters in the room, since night was already falling, to light a large candelabrum with several horns that stood at my head and draw back the black velvet canopy with fringes.

I desired this for the purpose of amusing myself in case of insomnia by alternately looking at these pictures and reading a small volume that I found on my pillow and containing their description and criticism. I read very long and carefully, and reverently examined the pictures. Time flew by quickly and night fell. I did not like the position of the candelabra, and with difficulty I myself stretched out my hand so as not to disturb the sleeping servant and rearranged the candelabra so that the light fell directly on my book.

But his movement gave a completely unexpected result. The light of the numerous candles of the candelabra, in its new position, fell on one of the niches of the room, which, due to the shadow falling on it from one of the columns of the bed, was in darkness. And then, in bright light, I noticed a picture that I had not seen before. It was a portrait of a fully developed young girl, maybe even a woman. Taking a quick look at the picture, I closed my eyes. Why I did this, I could not give myself an account at first. But while I lay with eyes closed, I tried hastily to analyze the reason that led me to do this and came to the conclusion that it was an unconscious movement in order to gain time, to decide that my sight did not deceive me - and to calm and prepare myself for a colder and more accurate contemplation. After a few minutes, I again began to examine the picture intently. Even if I wanted to, I could not doubt that I saw her clearly, since the first rays of the light of the candelabra that fell on this picture dispelled the drowsy apathy of my feelings and brought me back to reality.

As I said, it was a portrait of a young girl. The portrait showed her head, shoulders in the style that technical name vignette style: painting resembled Sully's manner in his favorite heads. The arms, chest, and even the halo that framed the head of the hair blurred imperceptibly against the indefinite deep shadow that served as the background. The frame was oval, of magnificent gilding, with patterns in the Moorish style. From point of view pure art the painting was amazing. But it is quite possible that the strong sudden impression made on me by this picture did not depend either on the artistry of the performance or on the beauty of the face. Even less could I admit that in a state of half-drowsiness I could take this head for the head of a living woman. I immediately discerned the details of the drawing, and the style of the vignette and the appearance of the frame would immediately dispel this fantasy and prevent me from even a fleeting illusion on this score. Fixing my eyes on the portrait and taking a half-recumbent, half-sitting position, I, perhaps, whole hour solved this riddle. Finally, apparently having figured it out, I sank back into the pillows. I came to the conclusion that the whole charm of this picture lay in the life expression, exclusively inherent only in living beings, which first made me shudder, then confused, subdued and horrified. With a feeling of deep and reverent horror, I replaced the candelabra in its original place. Having thus withdrawn the object from my sphere of vision, the former cause my strong commotion, I hurriedly took the volume containing the criticism of the paintings and their history. Under the number for the oval portrait I read the following strange and enigmatic story:

"This is a portrait of a young girl of rare beauty, endowed by nature as much with friendliness as with gaiety. Cursed be the hour of her life when she fell in love and married an artist. He was a passionate, stern worker who gave all the strength of his soul and heart to art; she is a young girl of rare beauty, as affable as cheerful; she was all light and joy; playful as a young gazelle, she loved and had mercy on everything that surrounded her, hated only art, which was her enemy and was afraid only palettes, brushes and other obnoxious tools that robbed her of her lover.

“When she found out that the artist wanted to paint a portrait of her, she was seized with overwhelming horror. But, being meek and obedient, she resigned herself to her fate and meekly sat for weeks in a dark and high room of the tower, where only the canvas was illuminated by a pale light that fell The artist, in search of the glory that this picture was supposed to create for him, tirelessly worked on it for whole hours, day after day; a passionate worker, somewhat strange and pensive, immersed in his dreams, he towers undermined health and good location the spirit of his wife, who was getting sicker every day, which was clear to everyone except him. Meanwhile, she continued to smile and did not complain about anything, because she saw that the artist (who used great fame) the picture delivered great and burning pleasure, and he worked day and night to depict on the canvas the features of the one who loved him so dearly, but which every day weakened and lost strength. And, indeed, everyone who saw the portrait spoke in a whisper about its resemblance to the original, as a wonderful miracle and as a weighty proof of the artist’s talent and his mighty love for that which he so perfectly reproduced in his picture. But over time, when the work was already drawing to a close, the access of unauthorized persons to the tower was terminated; the artist seemed to be completely mad in the heat of his work and almost did not take his eyes off the canvas, if only to cast a glance at the original. And he did not want to see that the paint, which he put on the canvas, was taken from the face of his wife, who was sitting near him. And when many weeks had passed and all that remained was to add a line near the mouth and a gleam in the eye, the breath of life in the young woman still trembled like a flame in the burner of a dying lamp. And now the dash was applied to the canvas, the highlight was thrown, and the artist continued to stand in ecstasy before the finished work; but a minute later, as he continued to examine the portrait, he suddenly trembled, turned pale, and was horrified. Exclaiming in a thunderous voice: “Indeed, this is life itself!” He suddenly turned around to look at his beloved wife. - She was dead!

The castle, into which my valet dared to break, so that I, stricken with a serious illness, would not spend the night under open sky, 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 a so-called 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 intense contemplation, perhaps for an hour, reclining and not taking my 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 portrayed 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.”

Oval portrait

"Egli e vivo e parlerebtje se non osser - vasse la regola del silentio").

(Inscription on Italian painting St. Bruno).

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 ventured to break into by force, in order not to leave me, wounded, in the open, was one of those gloomy and majestic bulks which, God knows how many centuries, frown among the Apennines, not only in the imagination of Mrs. Ratcliffe, but also 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.

edgar oval portrait
story

Edgar Allan Poe

English

"(eng. The Oval Portrait) is Edgar Allan Poe's short story about tragic history creation mysterious portrait from the castle. This is one of the most short stories Poe, when first published in 1842, it fit on only two pages, and was subsequently further reduced by the author.

• 1 Plot
• 2 Analysis of the work
  • 2.1 Main themes
• 3 Publications
• 4 Criticism and influence
• 5 Translations into Russian
• 6 Bibliography
• 7 Notes
• 8 Links

Plot

The narration is in the first person. The author, traveling through the Apennines with his servant, tired, tormented by a fever and a wound inflicted on him by robbers under unclear circumstances, stays for the night in an old castle. The author suffers from insomnia and, in order to kill time, occupies himself with looking at the paintings in the room allotted to him, referring to the volume of their descriptions and stories of their creation found there. Suddenly he notices a portrait of a young beautiful woman, which at first did not pay attention, since he stood in the shadow behind the column. The picture produces on the author so strong impression that he has to close his eyes to sort out his feelings. Finally, he understands that the reason for such a strange reaction is in the amazing liveliness of the portrait. Intrigued, the author turns to the reference volume.

In the book, the author finds the legend of the creation of the picture. It was written by an artist who gave all his strength to art without a trace. Because of this, his bride was always deprived of attention, but did not grumble, but dutifully obeyed her lover. One day the artist decided to paint her portrait. He worked for weeks on end, and all this time his fiancee patiently posed for him. The portrait turned out beautiful, the artist's friends unanimously said that he had surpassed himself in it. Fascinated by the work, the artist did not notice that the young woman was languishing more and more. Finally, the portrait was ready. The artist laid the last stroke, and exclaimed, pleased with his work, “Yes, this is life itself!” As soon as he said those words, last strength left his beautiful model and she fell dead.

Analysis of the work

The idea of ​​the story is in a strange connection between reality and art. "Oval portrait" art and worship kill him real life embodied in the image of a beautiful young woman. From this we can conclude that art and death have a common nature, since art, like death, competes with life. Similar views were characteristic of Edgar Allan Poe, who considered poetry to be “rhythmic beauty”, and considered the death of a young woman to be the most poetic thing in the world. (See essay "The Philosophy of Creativity" - The Philosophy of Composition, 1846). It is also important to note that the root cause of the death of a beautiful woman, in Poe's understanding, is her own beauty.

On the other hand, art exposes the guilt of the artist and points to the inevitable evil - by creating art, the artist destroys life.

The creative process, in its completion, always seeks to transcend life, reducing it to the state of death. This is also noted by the narrator, shocked by the spirituality of the portrait. Edgar Poe warns the reader about the insidious duality of art and the paradoxical interplay of life and death in its service.

Perhaps Poe saw the idea of ​​the story in the picture of his friend Thomas Sully - a young girl holding a medallion in her hand, the lace of which wraps around her naked neck. Another source of inspiration for Poe could be a painting by Tintoretto (1518-1594), who painted a portrait of his dead daughter. Also in the plot of the "Oval Portrait" there is a similarity with one of the lines of Anna Radcliffe's novel The Mysteries of Udolpho (1802).

Main Topics

• Monomania - see also the stories "Berenice", "Man of the Crowd"
• Death beautiful woman- see "Ligeia", "Morella"

Publications

The first version of the story was called "Life in Death" (Life in Death) and was published in Graham's Magazine in 1842. It is longer than the final version, in particular, it has several introductory paragraphs that reveal the background of the narrator and the circumstances of his injury, as well as a fragment of him eating opium to relieve pain.Poe may have chosen to abandon these parts due to their lack of connection with the main plot, or to prevent the reader from thinking that everything that happened to the narrator is the fruit of his drug hallucinations. , under its final title, was published on April 26, 1845 in the Broadway Journal.

Criticism and influence

There is no doubt about the influence of Poe's story on famous novel Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891). Five years before the novel's release, Wilde spoke approvingly of the expressiveness of Poe's writings. In the novel, the portrait brings evil to the person depicted on it to a much greater extent than to its creator.

A similar plot in Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story " Birthmark(The Birth-Mark, 1843).

French film director Jean-Luc Godard quotes Poe's story in the film Living Your Life (Vivre Sa Vie, 1962).

Translations into Russian

First of famous translations story into Russian - anonymous - was published in the magazine " Russian wealth”, in No. 5 for 1881. In total, there are at least 11 translations of the story. One of them (S. Belsky, 1909) is a free retelling. Only in one translation, by Nora Gal (1976), the initial version of the story is presented, the rest of the translators took the final, abridged version as a basis, but many borrowed elements (epigraph, etc.) from Life in Death. The story was translated by K. Balmont, M. Engelhardt, V. Rogov. Several other early anonymous translations also exist.

Bibliography

• By E. complete collection short stories = The complete tales / Ed. preparation A. A. Elistratova, A. N. Nikolyukin; resp. ed. A. A. Elistratova. - M.: Nauka, 1970. - 800 p. -( Literary monuments). - 55,000 copies.

Notes

1. Hoffman, Daniel. Poe Poe Poe Poe Poe Poe Poe. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1972: 311 ISBN 0-8071-2321-8
2. 1 2 Meyers, Jeffrey. Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Legacy. New York: Cooper Square Press, 1992: 290. ISBN 0-8154-1038-7
3. 1 2 Sova, Dawn B. Edgar Allan Poe: A to Z. New York: Cooper Square Press, 2001: 178. ISBN 0-8160-4161-X
4. Quinn, Arthur Hobson. Edgar Allan Poe: A Critical Biography. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998: 331. ISBN 0-8018-5730-9

Links

• Marnitsyna E. S. Novel by Edgar Allan Poe "Oval Portrait" in Russian translations (comparative analysis).

edgar oval portrait

Oval portrait

Edgar Poe

Ovalportrait.

Translated by M. A. Engelhardt

"Egli e vivo e parlerebtje se non osser- vasse la regola del silentio") [*].

(An inscription on an Italian painting of 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 ventured to break into by force, in order not to leave me, wounded, in the open, was one of those gloomy and majestic bulks which, God knows how many centuries, frown among the Apennines, not only in the imagination of Mrs. Ratcliffe, but also 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, a variety of military armor and modern 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 it was not the exemplary performance, not the divine charm of the face that 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!"