Very brief oval portrait. Edgar Allan Poe The Oval Portrait

Edgar Poe

Ovalportrait.

Translated by M. A. Engelhardt

"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 required for the first dose, comparing it with a whole lump of opium 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, 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 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!"

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.

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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.”

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Edgar Allan Poe

Oval portrait

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 people frown in life 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 an unusually large number of inspirational paintings of our day 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 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 possibly take him half asleep and for a 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 remained in intense thought for perhaps 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 absolute lifelikeness an expression that 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 she sat in a 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, the testimony 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 doesn't wished 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 smear 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 tearing himself away 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!

"The Oval Portrait"

translated from English by K. D. Balmont

Egli e vivo e parlerebbe se non osservasse la rigola del silentio.

An inscription under one Italian portrait of St. Bruno.

* He is alive and would have spoken if he had not observed the rule of silence.

My fever was persistent and prolonged. All means that could be obtained in this wilderness near the Apennines were exhausted, but without any results. My servant, and my only companion in the secluded castle, was too agitated and too unskillful to dare to let me bleed, which, it is true, I had already lost too much in the fight with the bandits. I also could not let him go with a calm heart to look for help somewhere. Finally, unexpectedly, I remembered a small roll of opium, which lay with tobacco in a wooden box: in Constantinople I got into the habit of smoking tobacco along with such a medicinal admixture. Pedro handed me the box. After rummaging, I found the coveted drug. But when it came to the need to separate the proper part, I was seized with reflection. When smoking, it was almost indifferent how much was consumed. I used to fill my pipe halfway with opium and tobacco, and mix the two half and half. Sometimes, having smoked all this mixture, I did not experience any special effect; sometimes, having barely smoked two-thirds, I noticed symptoms of a brain disorder that were even threatening and warned me to abstain. True, the effect produced by opium, with a slight change in quantity, was completely alien to any danger. Here, however, things were quite different. I have never taken opium by mouth before. I have had occasions when I have had to take laudanum and morphine, and about these drugs I would have no reason to hesitate. But the opium pure form was unknown to me. Pedro knew no more about it than I did, and thus, in such critical circumstances, I was in complete indecision. However, I was not particularly distressed by this and, on reflection, decided to take opium gradually. The first dose should be very limited. If it proved invalid, I thought, it could be repeated; and so it will be possible to continue until the fever subsides, or until a beneficial sleep comes to me, which has not visited me for almost a whole week. Sleep was a necessity, my senses were in a kind of intoxication. It was this vague state of mind, this dull intoxication, which undoubtedly prevented me from noticing the incoherence of my thoughts, which was so great that I began to talk about large and small doses, without having previously any definite standard for comparison. At that moment I had absolutely no idea that the dose of opium, which seemed to me unusually small, could in fact be unusually large. On the contrary, I am well aware that, with the most imperturbable self-confidence, I determined the quantity necessary for the reception, in relation to the whole piece at my disposal. The portion which I finally swallowed, and swallowed fearlessly, was no doubt a very small part of the total number of branches in my hands.

The castle, where my servant decided to penetrate by force rather than allow me, exhausted and wounded, to spend the whole night on outdoors, was one of those gloomy and majestic buildings of the masses, which for so long frown among the Apennines, not only in the fantasy of Mistress Radcliffe, but in reality. Apparently it was abandoned for a while and quite recently. We settled into one of the smallest and least luxuriously furnished rooms. She was in a secluded tower. The furnishings were rich, but worn and old. The walls were upholstered and hung with all sorts of military armor, as well as a whole host of very stylish contemporary paintings in rich gold frames with arabesques. They hung not only on the main parts of the wall, but also in numerous corners, which the strange architecture of the building made necessary - and I began to look at these paintings with a feeling of deep interest, perhaps due to my incipient delirium; so I ordered Pedro to close the heavy shutters - for it was already night - to light the candles in the tall candelabra that stood near the bed near the pillows, and completely draw back the black fringed velvet curtains that wrapped around the bed itself. I decided that if I couldn't fall asleep, then at least I would look at these pictures one by one and read a small volume that I laid on my pillow and contained a critical description of them.

For a long, long time I read - and looked at the creations of art with admiration, with reverence. Wonderful moments quickly fled, and the deep hour of midnight crept up. The position of the candelabra seemed to me uncomfortable, and, with difficulty stretching out my hand, I avoided the undesirable need for me to wake my servant, and rearranged it myself in such a way that the sheaf of rays fell more fully on the book.

But my movement produced a completely unexpected effect. The rays of numerous candles (for there were indeed many) now fell into the niche, which had previously been shrouded in a deep shadow that fell from one of the bedposts. In this way, in the brightest light, I saw a picture that I had not noticed at all before. It was a portrait of a young girl who had just developed into full femininity. I quickly glanced at the picture - and closed my eyes. Why I did this, it was at first incomprehensible to me. But while my eyelashes remained closed, I began to think feverishly why I closed them. It was an instinctive move, to buy time - to make sure that my sight did not deceive me - to calm down and submit my fantasy to a more sober and accurate observation. After a few moments, I again fixed my gaze on the picture.

Now there was not the slightest doubt that I saw clearly and correctly; for the first bright flash of candles that illuminated this canvas, apparently dispelled that drowsy stupor that had taken possession of all my feelings, and immediately returned me to real life.

As I said, it was a portrait of a young girl. Only the head and shoulders - in the style of a vignette, technically speaking; many of the strokes were reminiscent of Sully's manner in his favorite heads. Arms, chest, and even the ends of radiant hair, imperceptibly merged with an indefinite deep shadow that the background the whole picture. The frame was oval, luxuriously gilded and filigree, in Moorish style. Considering the picture as a work of art, I found that nothing could be more beautiful than it. But it was not by the performance itself and not by the immortal beauty of the face that I was struck so suddenly and so strongly. Of course, I could never think that my fantasy, evoked from a state of half-drowsiness, was too vividly attuned, and that I mistook the portrait for the head of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the drawing, its vignette character, and the quality of the frame, should have destroyed such an idea at first glance - should have protected me from even a momentary illusion. Persistently thinking about this, I remained for perhaps an hour, half-sitting, half-lying, fixing my gaze on the portrait. Finally, having had my fill of the hidden secret of the artistic effect, I lay back on the bed. I realized that the charm of the picture lay in the extraordinary vitality of the expression, which, first striking me, then confused, subdued, and horrified. With a feeling of deep and respectful fear, I moved the candelabra to its original place. Having thus removed from my eyes the cause of my deep agitation, I eagerly found a volume in which the maps were discussed and the history of their origin was described. Opening it to the page where the oval portrait was described, I read a vague and bizarre story: “She was a girl of the rarest beauty, and was as beautiful as she was cheerful. And the hour was unfortunate when she saw and fell in love with the artist, and became passionate, completely devoted to his studies, and strict, he almost had a bride in his art; she was a girl of the rarest beauty, and was as beautiful as cheerful: all - laughter, all - a radiant smile, she was frisky and playful, like a young doe: she loved and cherished everything she touched: she hated only the Art that competed with her: she was afraid only of palettes and brushes and other obnoxious tools that took away her beloved from her. Terrible news was for this woman to hear that the artist wants to paint a portrait of the newlywed herself, but she was humble and obedient, and she sat meekly for whole weeks in a high and dark room located in a tower, where the light, gliding, streamed only from above onto the canvas. But he, the artist, put all his genius into the work, which grew and was created, from hour to hour, from day to day. And he was a passionate, and bizarre, crazy man, lost in his soul in his dreams; and he did not want to see that the pale light that streamed so gloomy and gloomy into this tower consumed the gaiety and health of the newlywed, and everyone saw that she was fading away, but not he. And she kept smiling and smiling, and did not utter a word of complaint, for she saw that the artist (whose fame was great) found fiery and burning pleasure in his work, and day and night he tried to recreate on the canvas the face of the one who loved him so much, which from day to day became more and more languishing and pale. Indeed, those who saw the portrait spoke in a low voice about the resemblance as a powerful miracle, and as proof not only of the artist's creative power, but also of his deep love for that which he recreated so wonderfully. But, at last, when the work began to draw to a close, no one found access to the tower anymore; because the artist, with the self-forgetfulness of madness, devoted himself to work, almost did not take his eyes off the canvas, almost did not even look at the face of his wife. And he did not want to see that the colors that he spread over the canvas were removed from the face of the one who was sitting near him. And when long weeks had passed, and only a little was left to finish, one stroke near the mouth, one sparkle on the eye, the soul of this woman flared up again, like a fading lamp, burnt out to the end. And now, a stroke is laid, and now, a sparkle is laid; and for a moment the artist paused, overwhelmed with rapture, in front of a work he had created himself; but immediately, without taking his eyes off him, he trembled and turned pale, and, full of horror, exclaiming loudly: “Why, this is Life itself!”, he quickly turned around to look at his beloved: “She was dead!”