Edgar is an oval portrait. Edgar Allan By "Oval Portrait"

I was tormented by a strong fever. Only my servant took me for me. In this abandoned Castle, the servant broke and dragged me, wounded by the gangsters so I do not leave on the street. As a temporary overnight, we chose one of the small dark rooms.

The servant did not resolve the blood to me, since I lost it so much, or ask for someone third-party help. But I remembered the opium in time, stored in my bins. Sometime I smoked him, mixing with tobacco in the tube, but now I was tormented by doubts about the dosage. Before that I used only morphine, and opium in pure form - Never. Then I decided to start with a very small dose and, if necessary, increase it. I did not consider that an insignificant amount of pure opium in my state could be enormous.

At night, I walked, dreaming to fall asleep or at least read calm the book found in the bed room. This volume contained the descriptions and history of the creation of all works of art stored in the castle. The servant already slept. In lit corner, I suddenly saw unusual picture. It was a portrait of a young woman in an oval golden frame. For almost an hour, I intently examined her face. It seemed that she was alive. It delighted, and scarecrow me. From the point of view of skill, the artist's work was flawless.

I quickly found a girl portrait in the list. The description said that this wonderful young beauty fell in love and married a painter. But the artist was captured by no means his young wife: his heart fully belonged to the art that caused bitterness and jealousy of the spouse. An annoying for her was even the desire of the spouse to capture her on canvas, but, being submissive and in love, she picked up for a long day for his portrait.

Every day she seemed increasingly weaker and calamed from longing. It seemed to everyone that this amazing portrait is a direct proof of the love of the artist to the spouse. But no one knew that when the work on the picture was already approaching the end, the painter practically did not look at the girl, but with burning eyes and painful excitement peered into his work.

And so he is in last time I swung my brush and made the final smear on the canvas. The man was fascinated by his work and looked at the canvas in admiration for a long admiration with some reverence and trembling. Finally, he exclaimed: "This is life itself!". And only here he glanced at his spouse and noticed that she was already dead.

In the "oval portrait" sounds already familiar to Edgar on the idea that art competes with life, and in art and death is one nature.

Image or drawing oval portrait

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Fever, which I got sick was lasting and did not give in to treatment; All means, what could be used in the Wild Highland Apennine, were exhausted, without having gone to me any relief. My servant and the only satellite did not resolve themselves due to fear and ineptly to put blood to me, which I, however, lost a lot in a collision with robber. Similarly, I could not decide to let him go to search for help. But fortunately, I completely unexpectedly remembered the pack of opium, who was together with tobacco in a wooden box: - In Constantinople, I gained a habit of smoking such a mixture. By ordering Pedro to file me a box, I found it a narcotic agent. But when it was necessary to take it a certain dose, I wore an indecision. For the smoke, the amount of opium used was indifferent to the smoke, and I usually took half on half of that and the other and stirred together. Smoking this mixture sometimes did not make any action on me, sometimes such symptoms of nervous disorder were observed, which were caution for me. Of course, the opium with a small error in dispensing could not be no danger. But in this case, the case was different, since I had never had to use the opium as an inner agent. Although I had to take inside the Laudanum and Morphy, but I never used opium in pure form. Of course, Pedro on this issue was also unstuck, like me, and so, I did not know what to decide. But, after thinking a little, I decided to start with minimal reception and gradually increase the dose. If the first reception does not make any action, I thought, it would have to repeat it until the temperature drops, or until the desired dream is coming, which was necessary for me, since I suffered insompery a week and was in any The strange state of half aid, similar to intoxication. Probably my darkened consciousness and was the reason for the incoherence of my thoughts, as a result of which I, without any data for comparison, began to argue about the possible doses of opium, at that time I could not navigate the scale and that dose of opium, which seemed to me Very small, in fact could be very big. Meanwhile, I perfectly remember that I accurately and coolly determined the dose of opium, compared with the whole number of drugs I had on the face and, fearlessly swallowed her that I could do with a calm heart since she was a minor fraction of the total number in my disposal.

The castle, in which my servant decided to penetrate the force than to allow me, heavily wounded, spend the night in the courtyard, was one of those majestic and dark buildings, which for a long time proudly tower among the Apennel, both in reality and in the fantasy of Mrissa Radcliffe. Apparently, he was recently abandoned with his inhabitants. We fit in one of the smallest and not very luxurious furnished rooms located in the distant tower of the building. Its rich decoration of ancient style came into destruction. The walls were covered with carpets and decorated with numerous heraldic trophies of various shapes, as well as huge number new stylish pictures In rich gilded frames with Arabesque. I'm terribly interested (maybe the reason for this was the beginning of nonsense), these pictures that were adorned not only by the main walls, but also the whole mass of the bouncer who was the inevitable result of the bizarre architecture of the castle. This interest was so strong that I ordered Pedro to close heavy shutters in the room, since the night had already occurred, to light the big candelabr in several horns, standing at my headboard and take a black velvet canopy with a fringe.

I wanted it to be the goal that in the case of insomnia to entertain himself alternately with the examination of these paintings and reading a small Tomik, found by me on the pillow and concluded their description and criticism. I read a very long time and carefully, and a reverently considered paintings. Time flew quickly, and night came. I did not like the position of Kandelabra, and I hardly stretched my hand myself, so as not to disturb the servant who fell asleep and rearranged the candelabr in such a way that the light fell right on my book.

But his movement made a completely unexpected result. The light of numerous candles of the candelabra, with his new position, fell on one of the niches of the room, which, due to her shadows that had fallen on it from one of the columns of the bed, was in the darkness. And then, with bright light, I noticed a picture that did not see before. It was a portrait of a completely developed young girl, there may be even a woman. Ocking the picture with a rapid look, I closed my eyes. Why I did it, - I could not give myself a report in the first minute. But while I lay with closed eyesI tried to hastily analyze the reason that made me proceed in this way and came to the conclusion that it was an unconscious movement in order to win time, decide that my vision did not deceive me - and calm and cook yourself to a colder and accurate contemplation. After a few minutes, I again began to look at a close picture. If I even wanted, I could not doubt that I clearly see her, since the first rays of the edge of the candelabra, who fell on this picture, scattered the radiant apathy of my feelings and returned me to reality.

As I said, it was a portrait of a young girl. In the portrait, her head was depicted, shoulders in that style that wears the technical name of the style of Vignette: Painting resembled Maneru Sully in his favorite heads. Hands, chest and even halo, framing the head of the hair, imperceptibly broke up on an indefinite deep shadow that served the background. The frame was an oval form, magnificent gilding, with patterns in the Mauritan style. From point of view pure art Painting was amazing. But it is very possible that a strong sudden impression made on me by this picture did not depend on the artistic artism, nor from the beauty of the face. An even less I could assume that I could take this head for the head of a living woman. I immediately distinguished the details of the drawing, and the style of the vignette and the type of frame would immediately scatter this fantasy and would stop me from the possibility of even the fleeting illusion on this. Eripping the eyes on the portrait and accepting the half-sided half-sidier position I, maybe a whole hour solved this riddle. In the end, apparently, solving it, I again dropped on the pillows. I came to the conclusion that all the charm of this picture was in life expression, solely inherent in only living beings, which first made me shudder, then embarrassed, conquered and terrible. With a sense of deep and reverent horror, I put the candelabr to the previous place. To select, thus, from the sphere of my vision, the subject former reasons My strong excitement, I hurriedly took Tomik, who entered into his criticism of paintings and their history. Under the number indicated by an oval portrait, I read the following strange and mysterious story:

"This is a portrait of a young girl of a rare beauty, endowed with nature to the same extent of the friendly, as well as greasiness. And that hour of her life will be damned when she loved and married an artist. He was a passionate harsh worker who had all his soul forces and hearts art; she is a young girl of rare beauty, in the same extent having fun and joy; she walked like a young gazelle, she loved and culled everything that surrounded her, hated only the art that was her enemy and was afraid only Palettes, brushes and other irreposed tools that took her lover her beloved.

"When she learned that the artist wants to write a portrait from her, she was covered by an insurmountable horror. But, being a meek and obedient, she submits her fate and submissively squatting all weeks in the dark and high tower room, where only the cloth was illuminated by pale light that fell From the ceiling. The artist in search of glory, which this picture was supposed to create him, tirelessly worked on it with whole hours, day after day; a passionate worker, a somewhat strange and thoughtful, immersed in his dreams, he did not want to notice that the gloomy coverage of this The towers undermined the health and good location of his wife's spirit, which Harel every day, which was clear for everyone, except for him. Meanwhile, she continued to smile and did not complain about anything, because she saw that the artist, (who used his best known ) the picture delivered a huge and burning pleasure and he worked the day and night to portray the features of the feature of the one that he so hotly loved, but which every day of the weak Bela and lost their strength. And, indeed, all seen portrait of a whisper spoke about his similarity with the original, as a wonderful miracle and as a test of proof of the artist's talent and his mighty love for the one that he was so superbly reproduced in his picture. But over time, when the work has already become close to the end, the access of unauthorized persons to the tower was discontinued; The artist seemed to be distressed in the heat of his work and almost did not take his eyes from the canvas, at least in order to take a glance at the original. And he did not want to see the paint he put on the canvas, was taken from his wife who was sitting near him. And when there was a lot of weeks and remained only to add a dash near the mouth and the glare in the eye, the breath of life in the young woman fluttered as the flame in the burner of the dumping lamp. And so the dash was applied to the canvas, the glare was thrown, and the artist continued to stand in ecstasy before the finished labor; But after a minute, continuing to consider the portrait, he suddenly shoved, pale and was horrified. Exclaiming a thunder voice: - "Indeed, this is life itself!", He suddenly turned around to look at his beloved spouse. - She was dead!

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Edgar Allan P.

Oval portrait

The castle in which my valer dared to break up to me, affected by a serious ailment, do not spend the night under open skyHe was one of those rags of despondency and pomp, which in life frowning among the Apennine as often as often as Mrs. Radcliffe. Apparently, he was leaving for a short time and recently. We are located in one of the smallest and least luxurious apartments. He was in the distant tower of the building. His rich ancient decoration extremely dilapidated. On the walls covered with tapestries hung a numerous and diverse weapon together with unusual large number Inspirational works of painting of our days in gold frames covered with Arabesque. To these pictures hanging not only on the walls, but also in endless corners and niches, inevitable in the building of such a bizarre architecture, I experienced a deep interest, caused, perhaps, who started with me; So I asked Pedro to close heavy shutters - it was already coming, - to light all the candles of high candelabra in my bed heads and open the black velvet-covered canopy as widely as possible. I wished it to surrender if not sleep, then at least contemplation of paintings and the study of Tomika, found on the pillow and dedicated to their discern and description.

Long, I read for a long time - and intently, stared intently. They flew rapid, blissful hours, and came deep midnight. I did not like how the candelabre stands, and, with difficulty, stretching his hand, so as not to disturb my sleeping chamber, I put the candelabr so that the light went better on the book.

But it produced a completely unexpected action. The rays of countless candles (there were a lot of them) lit a niche of the room, Dotole immersed in a deep shadow, discarded by one of the pillars of Baldakhin. Therefore, I saw a brightly illuminated picture, I previously not noticed at all. It was a portrait of a young, only a flourishing girl. I quickly looked at the portrait and closed my eyes. Why I did it, first it was unclear to me myself. But while my eyelids remained lowered, I mentally found the cause. I wanted to win time for thinking - make sure that my eyesight did not deceive me, - calm and suppress my fantasy for the sake of a more sober and confident look. Total a few moments passed, and I again looked at the picture.

Now I could not and did not want to doubt that I see right, because the first beam, who fell on the canvas, caught a sleepy stupor, who mastered my feelings, and once he returned me to wake.

Portrait, as I said, I portrayed a young girl. It was just a sulfur image made in the so-called vignette manner, in many ways reminding the style of heads, favorite Sally. Hands, chest and even golden hair missed in an unclear, but deep shadow forming the background. The frame was oval, densely gilded, covered by the Moorish ornament. As a work of art, nothing could be more beautiful than this portrait. But neither his execution nor the imperishable beauty of the image could be so suddenly and strongly excited me. I could not take it in half aid and for a living woman. I immediately saw that the features of the drawing, the style of painting, the frame instantly forced me to reject such an assumption - would not allow me to believe him and for a single moment. I stayed in a tense reflection, perhaps a whole hour, half a walk and not overlooking the view from the portrait. Finally, having fed the true secret of the effect, I leaned back on the pillows. The picture faded me absolute vitality The expressions at first struck me and then caused embarrassment, depression and fear. With deep and awe's reverence, I set the candelabra to the previous place. Without seeing moreover that I was so deeply excited me, I was looking forward to Tomik, containing descriptions of paintings and their history. Finding a room under which an oval portrait was listed, I read the following obscure and strange words:

"She was the Deva of the Rarest Beauty, and the greasiness of her was equal to her charm. And there was an evil rock was an hour when she saw a painter and loved him and became his wife. He, obsessed, stubborn, harsh, was already engaged - with painting; She, the Deva of the Rarest Beauty, whose cheerfulness was equal to her charm, all - the light, the whole - a smile, walking, like a young lan, hated one painting, his rival; Only palettes, brushes and other power guns, who deprived her contemplation of their beloved were afraid. And she experienced horror, having heard the painter expressed a desire to write a portrait of his young wife. But she was a mug and obedient and a lot of weeks sat in a high tower, where only above the light on a pale canvas. But he, painter, was drunk by his work, which lasted out of the hour per hour, day after day. And he, obsessed, unbridled, sullen, betrayed his dreams; and he could not see that from terrible light in a lonely thawal spiritual powers and the health of his young wife; She faded, and it was noticed all except him. But she smiled and smiled and smiled, without complaining, for he saw that the painter (everywhere glorious) scratched in the work of his burning exhaustion and worked in day and night, so that he loved him so much so that he was so worried and weaker every day. And indeed, some who saw the portrait, whisper talked about similarity as a great miracle, testimony and gift of the painter, and his deep love for the one he portrayed with such unsurpassed art. But finally, when the work was nearing completion, strangers stopped in the tower; For in the dust of Labor, the painter fell into acendment and rarely took the eyes from the canvas even in order to look at his wife. And he is not whale See that the shades applied to the canvas took away the lounge sitting next to him. And, when many weeks passed and it remained only to put one smear on the mouth and one halftone on the pupil, the spirit of the beauties flashed again as the flame in the lamp. And then the brush touched the canvas, and halftone was laid; And on the moment MIG, the painter froze, confined to his creation; But in the next, still without breaking away from the canvas, he fluttered, scary pale and, exclaiming a loud voice: "Yes, life is truly the life!", Suddenly turned to his beloved: - She was dead! "

The main character And his chamellier stop overnight in a deserted castle, so as not to sleep on the street. They are located in small apartments that are located in the longest tower. On the walls hung weapons and numerous paintings to which the main character showed interest.

Pedro closed shutters, lit a candle in the candelabra and opened the canopy. The main character looked at the pictures for a long time and read Tomik, dedicated to the description and discernment of these paintings. He did not like how the candelabre stands and not to wake his chamelner, he helped him with difficulty. The rays of the moved candelabra were consecrated by one of the niches, where the picture was not previously noticed by the hero. It was a portrait of a girl.

The main character closed his eyes to calm his fantasy and look at the picture with a confident glance. It passed quite a bit of time, and the hero again examined the picture. This was lovely portrait Young girl in oval frame. The picture fascinated the main character with his life vehicle. He put the candelabr to the previous place and read the picture description. It turned out that the picture shows the girl of an extraordinary beauty that loved and became a wife of a painter. But he was already engaged with the only rival of that girl - with painting.

Painter's wife - Young, smiling and light hated only painting. But she was a mug and obedient and therefore could not refuse her husband when he wasveling writing her portrait. Every day and every hour the painter worked on a portrait, not noticing how the beauty and health of his wife gradually fade. But she did not complain. And the artist did not want to see that the shades that he imposes on the canvas were taken away from his wife.

And when the portrait was completed and similar to life, the painter suddenly turned to his beloved, but it was too late: she died.

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