By Edgar Allan
Oval portrait
Edgar Alan Poe
Oval portrait
The castle that my valet dared to break into so that I, stricken with a serious illness, would not have to spend the night under open air, was one of those heaps of despondency and pomp that in life frown among the Apennines as often as in the imagination of Mrs. Radcliffe (1*). Apparently, he was left for a short time and very recently. We stayed in one of the smallest and least luxurious apartments. He was in a remote tower of the building. Its rich antique decoration is extremely dilapidated. On the tapestry-covered walls hung numerous and varied weapons, coupled with unusual a large number inspired works of painting of our days in golden frames covered with arabesques. I felt a deep interest in these paintings, hanging not only on the walls, but also in the endless corners and niches inevitable in a building of such bizarre architecture, perhaps caused by the fever that was beginning to develop within me; so I asked Pedro to close the heavy shutters—it was already evening—to light all the candles in the tall candelabra at the heads of my bed, and to open the fringed curtain of black velvet as wide as possible. I wished this so that I could devote myself, if not to sleep, then at least to the contemplation of the paintings and the study of the volume found on the pillow and dedicated to their analysis and description.
For a long, long time I read - and looked closely, intently. The swift, blissful hours flew by, and it was deep midnight. I didn’t like the way the candelabra stood, and, stretching out my hand with difficulty so as not to disturb my sleeping valet, I placed the candelabra so that the light fell better on the book. But this had a completely unexpected effect. The rays of countless candles (there were a lot of them) illuminated the niche of the room, hitherto immersed in the deep shadow cast by one of the canopy pillars. Therefore, I saw a brightly illuminated picture that I had not noticed at all before. It was a portrait of a young, just blossoming girl. I quickly looked at the portrait and closed my eyes. Why I did this was not clear to me at first. But while my eyelids remained drooping, I mentally searched for the reason. I wanted to gain time for reflection - to make sure that my vision had not deceived me - to calm and suppress my fantasy for the sake of a more sober and confident look. Only a few moments passed, and I again looked intently at the picture.
Now I could not and did not want to doubt that I was seeing correctly, for the first ray that hit the canvas seemed to drive away the sleepy numbness that had taken over my senses, and at once returned me to wakefulness.
The portrait, as I already said, depicted a young girl. It was just a bust image, done in the so-called vignette style, much like the style of heads favored by Sally (2*). Hands, chest and even golden hair disappeared imperceptibly into the vague but deep shadow that formed the background. The frame was oval, heavily 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. There was no way I could mistake him, half asleep, for a living woman. I immediately saw that the features of the drawing, the manner of painting, the frame would instantly force me to reject such an assumption - would not allow me to believe it even for a single moment. I remained in intense thought for perhaps a whole hour, reclining and not taking my eyes off the portrait. Finally, having comprehended the true secret of the effect produced, I leaned back on the pillows. The picture fascinated me with the absolute life-like expression, which at first amazed me, and then caused confusion, depression and fear. With deep and reverent reverence I returned the candelabra to its original place. No longer seeing what had so deeply moved me, I eagerly grabbed the volume containing descriptions of the paintings and their history. Having found the number under which the oval portrait was listed, I read the following unclear and strange words:
“She was a maiden of the rarest beauty, and her gaiety was equal to her charm. 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 rare beauty, whose gaiety was equal to her charm, all light, all smile, playful as a young doe, hated only Painting, her rival; she was afraid only of the palette, brushes and other powerful tools that deprived her of contemplation of her beloved. I was horrified when I heard the painter express his desire to paint a portrait of his young wife. But she was meek and obedient and sat for many weeks in a high tower, where only light streamed from above onto the pale canvas. But he, the painter, was intoxicated by his labor that lasted. from hour to hour, from day to day. And he, obsessed, unbridled, gloomy, 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 was fading; Everyone noticed except him. But she smiled and smiled, without complaining, for she saw that the painter (famous everywhere) drew a burning rapture from his work and worked day and night in order to capture the one who loved him so much and yet became more dejected and weaker every day. Indeed, some who saw the portrait whispered about the resemblance as a great miracle, evidence of the artist’s gift 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 work the painter fell into a frenzy and rarely took his eyes off the canvas even to look 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 woman sitting next to him. And when many weeks had passed and all that remained was to put one stroke on the lips and one half-tone 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 halftone was laid; and for just one moment the painter froze, spellbound 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!”, suddenly turned to his beloved: “She was dead.”
OVAL PORTRAIT
(THE OVAL PORTRAIT)
First published in Graham's Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine (Philadelphia) in April 1842 under the title "Life in Death" Last lifetime edition in The Broadway Journal, April 26, 1845, abridged and revised. In particular, the Italian epigraph to the story was removed: “He is alive and would have spoken if he had not kept a vow of silence (Inscription on Italian painting, depicting St. Bruno)" and a description of the effect of opium on the hero with whom the story opened:
"My fever was strong and persistent. I tried all the remedies that could be obtained in the wild region of the Apennines, and all without success. My servant and only assistant, with whom we found ourselves in a secluded castle, was too nervous and awkward to let I need blood, and I already lost a lot of it in the battle with the bandits. I also couldn’t send him for help. Finally, I remembered the small supply of opium that I kept along with tobacco: in Constantinople I was used to smoking tobacco with this potion. Pedro handed me the box. I found opium in it. But here a difficulty arose: I did not know how much it was supposed to take at one time. When smoking, the amount of opium did not matter. , sometimes without experiencing any special effect. It happened that, having smoked two thirds, I noticed signs of mental disorder that forced me to quit the pipe. In any case, the effect of opium manifested itself so gradually that it did not pose a serious danger. Now the case was completely different. I have never taken opium internally before. I have had occasion to resort to laudanum and morphine, and regarding these remedies I would not hesitate. But I was not at all familiar with the use of opium. Pedro knew no more about this than I did, so I had to act at random. However, I did not hesitate for long, deciding to take it gradually. For the first time, I thought, I will take very little. If this does not work, I will increase the dose until the fever subsides or the beneficial sleep appears, which I so needed, but which has already been escaping my confused feelings for a week. Without a doubt, the state in which I was - and I was already on the threshold of delirium - prevented me from realizing the absurdity of my intention to establish large and small doses, without having any scale for comparison. It never occurred to me that a dose of pure opium, which seems insignificant to me, could actually be enormous. On the contrary, I well remember that I determined with complete confidence the quantity required for the first dose, comparing it with a whole piece of opium at my disposal. The portion that I swallowed without any fear represented a very small part of the entire piece in my hands."
Oval portrait Edgar Poe
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Title: Oval portrait
Author:
Year: 1845
Genre: Foreign classics, Foreign fantasy, 19th century literature, Stories, Horror and Mystery
About the book “The Oval Portrait” by Edgar Poe
Long before Oscar Wilde and his “Portrait of Dorian Gray,” Edgar Allan Poe spoke about the mystical connection between the artist and the canvas he creates. Written in the mid-nineteenth century, this work reflects the aesthetic trends of that time. Namely, a craving for gothicism, mysticism and emerging notes of decadence.
The story “The Oval Portrait” went through two editions. In the first, exhausted by a lack of morphine main character(who is also the narrator) and his servant Pedro are located in a castle lost in the Apennine mountains. And although there is no one in the castle (and its door had to be broken down), its furnishings are rich, and portraits hang on the walls.
In the middle of the night, the hero, wanting to turn the candelabra, accidentally illuminates a portrait he had not noticed before - an oval image of a lady of almost unearthly beauty. She is so beautiful that Edgar Allan Poe's hero doubts whether such a beauty could really live. But a book describing the stories of all the paintings in this house dispels the character’s doubts. The lady in the photo is the artist's wife. She was beautiful and cheerful, she loved everything in this life, and especially the artist. Only he cheated on her... with painting. Having once desired to paint a portrait of his wife, he delved into his work, not noticing that strange things were happening to the beautiful model...
The story “The Oval Portrait” belongs to Gothic literature both in theme and in spirit. A miraculous rescue in a castle in the mountains, deserted rooms filled, however, with silent portraits, an image of a mysterious stranger, which at first makes the narrator freeze and close his eyes... All this recreates an atmosphere of mystery and fear.
Later, the part with suffering from a lack of morphine was cut out by the author, but this did not in any way affect the quality of the story itself, and even enhanced its expressiveness. The irrational fear that the narrator experienced while looking at the portrait, and the story read in the book, is not the fruit of drug-induced fantasies or fever. This is the reality that the character accidentally encountered. Equally incredible, but nevertheless real, is the appearance of a book with the stories of all the portraits in the castle. Edgar Poe makes sure that the painting is able to speak and tell the reader scary story. In the Gothic surroundings of the castle, any mysticism is possible, so the author will complete the story with an inserted story about a portrait of the artist’s wife, and not a story about a narrator who got lost in the mountains.
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Quotes from the book “The Oval Portrait” by Edgar Poe
It was a terrible blow for the newlywed to hear that the artist wanted to capture his young wife on canvas. But she was meek and obedient and sat obediently for whole weeks in a high dark tower, where light only streamed from above onto the pale canvas. He, the artist, put his whole soul into this work, which moved forward from hour to hour, from day to day.
The inscription on the Italian painting of St. Bruno
The castle, which my valet dared to break into so that I, stricken with a serious illness, would not have to spend the night in the open air, was one of those heaps of gloom and pomp that frown in life among the Apennines as often as in the imagination of Mrs. Radcliffe. Apparently, he was left for a short time and very recently. We stayed in one of the smallest and least luxurious apartments. He was in a remote tower of the building. Its rich antique decoration is extremely dilapidated. On the tapestry-covered walls hung numerous and varied weapons, together with an unusually large number of inspired paintings of our day in golden frames covered with arabesques. I felt a deep interest in these paintings, hanging not only on the walls, but also in the endless corners and niches inevitable in a building of such bizarre architecture, perhaps caused by the fever that was beginning to develop within me; so I asked Pedro to close the heavy shutters—it was already evening—to light all the candles in the tall candelabra at the heads of my bed, and to open the fringed curtain of black velvet as wide as possible. I wished this so that I could devote myself, if not to sleep, then at least to the contemplation of the paintings and the study of the volume found on the pillow and dedicated to their analysis and description.
For a long, long time I read - and looked closely, intently. The swift, blissful hours flew by, and it was deep midnight. I didn’t like the way the candelabra stood, and, stretching out my hand with difficulty so as not to disturb my sleeping valet, I placed the candelabra so that the light fell better on the book. But this had a completely unexpected effect. The rays of countless candles (there were a lot of them) illuminated the niche of the room, hitherto immersed in the deep shadow cast by one of the canopy pillars. Therefore, I saw a brightly illuminated picture that I had not noticed at all before. It was a portrait of a young, just blossoming girl. I quickly looked at the portrait and closed my eyes. Why I did this was not clear to me at first. But while my eyelids remained drooping, I mentally searched for the reason. I wanted to gain time for reflection - to make sure that my vision had not deceived me - to calm and suppress my fantasy for the sake of a more sober and confident look. Only a few moments passed, and I again looked intently at the picture.
Now I could not and did not want to doubt that I was seeing correctly, for the first ray that hit the canvas seemed to drive away the sleepy numbness that had taken over my senses, and at once returned me to wakefulness.
The portrait, as I already said, depicted a young girl. It was just a full-length image, done in what is called a vignette style, much like the style of heads favored by Sally. Hands, chest and even golden hair disappeared imperceptibly into the vague but deep shadow that formed the background. The frame was oval, heavily 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. There was no way I could mistake him, half asleep, for a living woman. I immediately saw that the features of the drawing, the manner of painting, the frame would instantly force me to reject such an assumption - would not allow me to believe it even for a single moment. I remained in intense thought for perhaps a whole hour, reclining and not taking my eyes off the portrait. Finally, having comprehended the true secret of the effect produced, I leaned back on the pillows. The picture fascinated me with the absolute life-like expression, which at first amazed me, and then caused confusion, depression and fear. With deep and reverent reverence I returned the candelabra to its original place. No longer seeing what had so deeply moved me, I eagerly grabbed the volume containing descriptions of the paintings and their history. Having found the number under which the oval portrait was listed, I read the following unclear and strange words:
“She was a maiden of rare beauty, and her gaiety was equal to her charm. And the hour marked by evil fate was when she saw the painter and fell in love with him and became his wife. He, obsessed, stubborn, harsh, was already engaged - to Painting; she, a maiden of the rarest beauty, whose gaiety was equal to her charm, all light, all smile, playful as a young doe, hated only Painting, her rival; she was afraid only of the palette, brushes and other powerful instruments that deprived her of contemplation of her lover. And she was horrified when she heard the painter express his desire to paint a portrait of his young wife. But she was meek and obedient and sat for many weeks in a high tower, where only light streamed from above onto the pale canvas. But he, the painter, was intoxicated by his work, which lasted from hour to hour, from day to day. And he, obsessed, unbridled, gloomy, indulged in his dreams; and he could not see that the spiritual strength and health of his young wife were melting away from the eerie light in the lonely tower; she was fading, and everyone noticed it except him. But she smiled and smiled, without complaining, for she saw that the painter (famous everywhere) drew a burning rapture from his work and worked day and night in order to capture the one who loved him so much and yet became more dejected and weaker every day. Indeed, some who saw the portrait whispered about the resemblance as a great miracle, evidence of the artist’s gift 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 work the painter fell into a frenzy and rarely took his eyes off the canvas even to look 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 woman sitting next to him. And when many weeks had passed and all that remained was to put one stroke on the lips and one half-tone 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 halftone was laid; and for just one moment the painter froze, spellbound 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!”, suddenly turned to his beloved: “She was dead.”
Epigraph under the image of St. Bruno.
The fever with which I fell was long-lasting and could not be treated; all the means that could be used in the wild mountainous region 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 the clash with the robbers. In the same way, I could not decide to let him go in search of help. But fortunately, I completely unexpectedly remembered a pack of opium, which was located along with tobacco in a wooden box: - back in Constantinople, I acquired the habit of smoking such a mixture. Having ordered Pedro to hand me the box, I looked for this narcotic drug. But when it was necessary to take a certain dose of it, I was overcome by indecision. For smoking, the amount of opium consumed made no difference, 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 experienced the following symptoms nervous disorder, which were a warning to me. Of course, opium, with a slight error in dosage, could not pose any danger. But in in this case the situation was different, since I never had to use opium, as internal means. Although I had to take laudanum and morphine internally, I never took opium in pure form. Of course, Pedro was as ignorant in this matter as I was, and thus I did not know what to decide. But, after thinking a little, I decided to start with a minimal dose and gradually increase the dose. If the first dose does not produce any effect, I thought, then it will have to be repeated until the temperature drops, or until the desired sleep comes, which was necessary for me, since I had been suffering from insomnia for a whole week and was in some kind of sleeplessness. then a strange state of half-asleep, similar to intoxication. Probably, my darkened consciousness was the reason for the incoherence of my thoughts, as a result of which I, without any data for comparison, began to talk about possible doses of opium to take; at that time I could not orient myself in the 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 to penetrate by force rather than 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 Mrs. Radcliffe. 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 a remote tower of the building. Its rich antique-style decoration was falling into ruin. The walls were covered with carpets and decorated with numerous heraldic trophies various shapes, as well as a huge amount new, stylish paintings in rich gilded frames with arabesques. I became terribly interested (perhaps the reason for this was the beginning of delirium) in these paintings that decorated not only the main walls, but also a whole host of nooks and crannies, which were the inevitable result of the bizarre 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 candelabra with several horns that stood at my head and to draw back the black velvet canopy with fringe.
I wanted this so that, in case of insomnia, I could entertain myself 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 looked at the pictures. Time flew quickly and night fell. I didn’t like the position of the candelabra, and with difficulty I reached 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 couldn’t explain to myself at first. But while I lay with my eyes closed, I tried hastily to analyze the reason that forced me to act in this way and came to the conclusion that it was an unconscious movement in order to gain time, to decide that my vision had not deceived me - and to calm down and prepare myself for more cold and precise contemplation. After a few minutes passed, I again began to look closely at the picture. Even if I wanted, I could not doubt that I saw her clearly, since the first rays of light from the candelabra that fell on this picture dispelled the drowsy apathy of my feelings and returned me to reality.
As I said, it was a portrait of a young girl. The portrait depicted her head and shoulders in a style that bears the technical name of the vignette style: the painting was reminiscent of Sully’s style in his favorite heads. The arms, chest, and even the halo that framed the head of the hair blurred imperceptibly against the vague deep shadow that served as the background. The frame was oval in shape, magnificently gilded, 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 execution or on the beauty of the face. Even less could I admit that I, in a state of half-asleep, could mistake this head for the head of a living woman. I immediately discerned the details of the design, and the style of the vignette and the appearance of the frame would immediately dispel this fantasy and prevent me from the possibility of even a fleeting illusion on this score. Fixing my eyes on the portrait and taking a half-lying, half-sitting position, I spent perhaps an hour solving this riddle. In the end, apparently having solved it, I sank back onto the pillows. I came to the conclusion that the whole charm of this picture lay in the vital expression unique to living beings, which first made me shudder, then confused, captivated and horrified me. With a feeling of deep and reverent horror, I put the candelabra back in its original place. Having thus removed the object from the sphere of my vision, former cause In my great excitement, I hastily took the volume, which contained criticism of the paintings and their history. Under the number indicating the oval portrait, I read the following strange and mysterious story:
"This is a portrait of a young girl of rare beauty, endowed by nature with as much friendliness as gaiety. May that hour of her life be cursed when she fell in love and married the 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 friendly as she is cheerful; she was all light and joyful, like a young gazelle, she loved and had mercy on everything that surrounded her, she hated only art, which was her enemy and was afraid only. palettes, brushes and other unbearable instruments that robbed her of her lover.
“When she found out that the artist wanted to paint a portrait of her, she was seized with insurmountable horror. But, being meek and obedient, she resigned herself to her fate and meekly sat for whole weeks in a dark and high room in the tower, where only the canvas was illuminated by the pale light falling from the ceiling. The artist, in search of the glory that this painting was supposed to create for him, worked tirelessly on it for hours, day after day; a passionate worker, somewhat strange and thoughtful, immersed in his dreams, he did not want to notice that the gloomy lighting of this one. towers were undermined by health and good location the spirit of his wife, who was growing weaker 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 enjoyed great fame) brought great and burning pleasure to the painting and he worked day and night to depict on the canvas the features of the one who loved him so dearly , but who was weakening and losing strength every day. And, indeed, everyone who saw the portrait spoke in a whisper about its resemblance to the original, as a wonderful miracle and as a strong proof of the artist’s talent and his powerful love for the one that he so perfectly reproduced in his painting. But over time, when the work was already nearing completion, access unauthorized persons the tower was terminated; the artist seemed completely distraught in the heat of his work and almost did not take his eyes off the canvas, if only to glance at the original. And he did not want to see that the paint that 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 around the mouth and a highlight in the eye, the breath of life in the young woman still flickered, like a flame in the burner of a dying lamp. And so the line was applied to the canvas, the highlight was thrown, and the artist continued to stand in ecstasy in front of the completed work; but a minute later, continuing to look at 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 Oval Portrait"
translated from English by K. D. Balmont
Egli e vivo e parlerebbe se non osservasse la rigola del silentio *.
The inscription under one Italian portrait of St. Bruno.
* He is alive, and he 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 comrade in the secluded castle was too excited and too inexperienced to decide to let me bleed, which, however, I had already lost too much in the battle with the bandits. I also could not with a calm heart let him go to look for help somewhere. Finally, unexpectedly, I remembered a small bundle of opium, which lay along with tobacco in a wooden box: in Constantinople I acquired the habit of smoking tobacco along with such a medicinal admixture. Pedro handed me the box. After rummaging around, I found the desired drug. But when it came to the need to separate the proper part, I was overcome with thought. When smoking, it made almost no difference how much was consumed. I usually filled the pipe halfway with opium and tobacco, and mixed both - half and half. Sometimes, after smoking this whole 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, the situation was completely different. I had never taken opium internally before. I have had cases where I had to take laudanum and morphine, and regarding these drugs I would have no reason to hesitate. But opium in its pure form was unknown to me. Pedro knew no more about this than I did, and thus, being in such critical circumstances, I was in complete uncertainty. Nevertheless, I was not particularly upset by this and, having reasoned, decided to take opium gradually. The first dose should be very limited. If it turns out to be invalid, I thought, it will be possible to repeat it; and this can continue until the fever subsides, or until a beneficial dream comes to me, which has not visited me for almost a whole week. Sleep was a necessity, my feelings were in a state of some kind of intoxication. It was precisely this vague state of mind, this dull intoxication, that 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 previously having any definite scale for comparison. At that moment I had absolutely no idea that the dose of opium, which seemed unusually small to me, could in fact be unusually large. On the contrary, I am well aware that with the most imperturbable self-confidence I determined the quantity required for intake in relation to the whole piece at my disposal. The portion that I finally swallowed, and swallowed fearlessly, was undoubtedly a very small part of the entire quantity in my hands.
The castle, into which my servant decided to enter by force rather than allow me, exhausted and wounded, to spend the whole night in the open air, was one of those gloomy and majestic buildings of masses that have so long frowned among the Apennines, not only in the imagination of Mrs. Radcliffe , but also 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 in it were rich, but worn out and ancient. The walls were covered with upholstery and hung with various types of military armor, as well as a whole host of very stylish modern paintings in rich gold frames with arabesques. They hung not only on the main parts of the wall, but also in numerous corners that the strange architecture of the building made necessary - and I began to look at these pictures with a feeling of deep interest, perhaps due to my beginning 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 by the bed near the pillows, and to completely draw back the black velvet curtains with fringes that enveloped the bed itself. I decided that if I couldn’t sleep, I would at least look at these paintings one by one and read the small volume that lay on the 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. The wonderful moments quickly fled away, and the deep hour of midnight crept up. The position of the candelabra seemed inconvenient to me, and, with difficulty stretching out my hand, I avoided the unwanted need for me to wake up my servant, and myself rearranged it so 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 indeed there were many of them) now fell into the niche, which had previously been shrouded in a deep shadow falling from one of the bedposts. In this way, in the brightest light, I saw a picture that I had completely missed before. It was a portrait of a young girl just developing into full womanhood. I quickly glanced at the picture and closed my eyes. Why I did this was not clear to me at first. But while my eyelashes remained closed, I began to feverishly think about why I closed them. This was an instinctive movement, in order to gain time - to make sure that my vision did not deceive me - to calm and subordinate my imagination to more sober and accurate observation. A few moments later I again fixed my gaze on the painting.
Now there was not the slightest doubt that I was seeing clearly and correctly; for the first bright flash of candles that illuminated this canvas seemed to dispel that drowsy stupor that had taken possession of all my senses, 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 Sölly’s style in his favorite heads. Arms, chest, and even the ends of radiant hair, imperceptibly merged with the vague deep shadow that made up the background the whole picture. The frame was oval, luxuriously gilded and filigree, in the Moorish taste. Considering the picture as a creation of art, I found that nothing could be more beautiful than it. But it was not the performance itself or the immortal beauty of the face that I was struck so suddenly and so strongly. Of course, I could not possibly think that my fantasy, evoked from a state of half-asleep, was too vividly tuned, and that I mistook the portrait for the head of a living person. I immediately saw that the features of the drawing, its vignette character, and the quality of the frame, should have destroyed such a thought at first glance - should have protected me even from a momentary illusion. Thinking persistently about this, I remained, perhaps for a whole hour, half sitting, half lying, fixing my gaze on the portrait. Finally, having had my fill of the hidden mystery of artistic effect, I leaned back on the bed. I realized that the charm of the picture lay in the extraordinary vitality of expression, which, at first astonishing me, then confused, conquered, and horrified me. With a feeling of deep and respectful fear, I moved the candelabra to its original place. Having thus removed from view the cause of my deep excitement, I eagerly found a volume where the pictures 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 most rare beauty, and was as beautiful as she was cheerful. And the hour was ill-fated 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 most rare beauty, and she was as beautiful as she was cheerful: all laughter, all radiant smile, she was playful. and playful, like a young doe: she loved and cherished everything she touched: she hated only Art, which competed with her: she was afraid only of the palette and brush and other unbearable tools that took her beloved away from her. It was terrible news for this woman to hear. that the artist wanted to paint a portrait of the newlywed herself. But she was humble and obedient, and she sat resignedly for whole weeks in a high and dark room located in a tower, where the light, sliding, 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 whimsical, crazy man, lost in his soul in his dreams; and he did not want to see that the pale light, flowing so gloomily and gloomily into this tower, was consuming the gaiety and health of the newlywed, and everyone saw that she was fading away, but not he. And she smiled and smiled, 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 create on the canvas the face of the one who loved him so much, who day by day became more and more languid and pale. Indeed, those who saw the portrait spoke in a quiet 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 the one he created so wonderfully. But finally, when the work began to draw to a close, no one could find access to the tower anymore; because the artist, who devoted himself to his work with self-forgetfulness and madness, almost did not take his eyes off the canvas, almost did not even look at his wife’s face. And he did not want to see that the colors that he had spread across the canvas had been removed from the face of the one who was sitting near him. And when the long weeks had passed, and only a little remained to be completed, one stroke around the mouth, one sparkle on the eye, the soul of this woman flared up again, like a dying lamp that had burned out to the end. And now, a stroke has been laid, and now, a sparkle has been laid; and for a moment the artist stood, overcome with delight, before the work which he himself had created; but immediately, still without taking his eyes off, he trembled and turned pale, and, full of horror, exclaiming loudly: “But this is Life itself!”, He quickly turned around to look at his beloved: “She was dead!”