Edgar Allan Poe, The Oval Portrait.

Edgar Poe oval portrait
story

Edgar Allan Poe

English

"(English: The Oval Portrait) - Edgar Allan Poe's story about the tragic story of the creation of a mysterious portrait from the castle. This is one of Edgar Poe's shortest stories; when first published in 1842, it fit on only two pages, and was subsequently further shortened by the author.

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

Plot

The narration comes from the first person. The author, traveling through the Apennines with his servant, tired, tormented by fever and a wound inflicted on him by robbers under unclear circumstances, remains overnight in an old castle. The author suffers from insomnia and, in order to kill time, occupies himself by looking at the paintings in the room assigned to him, checking with the volume of their descriptions and stories of their creation found there. Suddenly he notices a portrait of a young beautiful woman, which he did not pay attention to at first, since it was standing in the shadows behind a column. The picture makes such a strong impression on the author that he is forced to close his eyes to understand his feelings. Finally, he understands that the reason for his strange reaction is the amazing vividness of the portrait. Intrigued, the author turns to the reference volume.

In the book, the author finds the legend of the creation of the painting. It was written by an artist who devoted all his strength to art without reserve. Because of this, his bride was always deprived of attention, but did not complain, but obediently obeyed her lover. One day the artist decided to paint her portrait. He worked for weeks on end, and all this time his bride patiently posed for him. The portrait turned out beautiful; the artist’s friends unanimously said that he had surpassed himself in it. Carried away by his work, the artist did not notice that the young woman wasted away more and more. Finally, the portrait was ready. The artist applied the last stroke and exclaimed, pleased with his work, “Yes, this is life itself!” As soon as he uttered these words, the last strength left his beautiful model and she fell dead.

Analysis of the work

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

On the other hand, art exposes the artist’s guilt and points out an inevitable evil - by creating art, the artist destroys life.

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

Perhaps Poe saw the idea for the story in a painting by his friend Thomas Sully - a young girl holds a medallion in her hand, the cord of which covers her naked neck. Another source of inspiration for Poe could have been a painting by Tintoretto (1518-1594), who painted a portrait of his dead daughter. Also, the plot of “The Oval Portrait” reveals similarities with one of the lines of Anna Radcliffe’s novel The Mysteries of Udolpho (1802).

Main topics

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

Publications

The first version of the story was called "Life in Death" and was published in Graham's Magazine in 1842. It is longer than the final version, in particular, it contains several introductory paragraphs revealing the background of the narrator and the circumstances of his injury, as well as a fragment of him eating opium, in order to relieve pain.Perhaps Poe decided to abandon these parts due to their disconnection from the main plot, or so that the reader would not have the idea that everything that happened to the narrator was the fruit of his drug hallucinations. Abridged version , under its final title, was published on April 26, 1845 in the Broadway Journal.

Criticism and influence

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

There is a similar plot in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story “The Birth-Mark” (1843).

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

Translations into Russian

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

Bibliography

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

Notes

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

Links

• Marnitsyna E. S. Edgar Poe’s short story “The Oval Portrait” in Russian translations (comparative analysis).

Edgar Poe oval portrait

Oval Portrait Information About

Edgar Allan Poe was the very first professional American author. Before him, no writer had tried to live by his craft. He endlessly edited and rewrote his texts, so every word in Poe's stories is at least the result of a third or fourth edit. He knew the value of art very well. Of course, if you do not read it in the original, you will lose a lot of pleasure from reading the story “The Oval Portrait”. A brief summary of it will allow you to notice that the work is built according to the “story within a story” scheme, unusual for that time.

Plot

The narrator, being wounded, finds himself in a chateau abandoned by people. The one on whose behalf the story is told cannot be considered a completely reliable source, since he feels unwell, is tormented by a fever, and reality seems a little distorted. There are many decorations and paintings in the house. The narrator finds a notebook that describes the history of the creation of many paintings. Suddenly he draws attention to the portrait of a beautiful girl-woman, who for a moment seems to him absolutely alive, and not drawn. The summary of the story “The Oval Portrait” that you are reading will allow you to penetrate into the mystery of the portrait.

Who is this girl? The narrator learns about this from the notebook. The girl painted on canvas was a girl of rare beauty, distinguished by her great cheerfulness and energy. She married an artist out of love, who created an oval portrait depicting her. The summary does not allow us to describe in detail the features of how impressive the artist’s creation looked. The creator paid a huge price for it. But more on this a little later.

The artist is not just a genius, he is a dedicated genius who devotes long hours to his craft. He loves him no less than his young wife. But over time, she develops an aversion to the artist’s work and his tools, because the woman has to compete for her husband’s love with his brush and paints. Although, in general, negative feelings are not typical for her - she is naturally kind and cheerful.

What else is described in the story “The Oval Portrait”? The summary also includes a description of the history of the creation of the portrait. One day, not at all wonderful, the husband wants his wife to pose for him to create a spectacular picture. She doesn't like the idea. But she is obedient and loves her husband, and therefore agrees to spend long hours in the dark tower, where he decided to draw her. By the way, it is in this tower that the wounded narrator of the main story spends the night, reading the story of the creation of the portrait.

When it is almost finished, the artist and his wife lock themselves in the tower and try to complete it with dignity. He is so obsessed with his passion for drawing that he does not notice that his wife is looking worse and worse. The portrait becomes bright and full of life, while the wife turns pale and weaker. He completes his work and exclaims, “This is life itself.” And suddenly he realizes that his wife died when he made the last movement of his brush.

This is how Poe’s work “The Oval Portrait” ends. A summary cannot convey all the language and details, so you should read it in full, especially since the story is not large in size. This work is characterized by a frequent motive for Poe - the destruction of a loved one. The story “Oval Portrait” tells about the betrayal of life and love in the name of art.

I was suffering from a strong fever. Only my servant looked after me. A servant broke into this abandoned castle and dragged me, wounded by bandits, so that I would not freeze to death on the street. We chose one of the small dark rooms for temporary accommodation.

The servant did not dare to bleed me, since I had already lost so much of it, or to ask someone else for help. But I remembered in time about the opium stored in my bins. I had once smoked it mixed with tobacco in a pipe, but now I had doubts about the dosage. Before that, I only used morphine, and never opium in its pure form. I then decided to start with a very small dose and increase it if necessary. I did not take into account that an insignificant amount of pure opium in my condition could turn out to be enormous.

At night I lay down, dreaming of falling asleep or at least quietly reading a book found in the room next to the bed. This volume contained descriptions and histories of the creation of all works of art stored in the castle. The servant was already asleep. In a candlelit corner I suddenly saw an unusual picture. It was a portrait of a young woman in an oval gold frame. For almost an hour I gazed at her face. It seemed that she was alive. This both delighted and frightened me. From the point of view of skill, the artist's work was impeccable.

I quickly found a portrait of a girl on the list. The description said that this beautiful young beauty fell in love and married the painter. But the artist was not captivated by his young wife: his heart completely belonged to Art, which caused bitterness and jealousy of his wife. Even her husband’s desire to capture her on canvas was annoying for her, but, being submissive and in love, she posed for him for a portrait for long days.

Every day she seemed to become more and more weak and wasted away from melancholy. It seemed to everyone that this amazing portrait was direct proof of the artist’s love for his wife. But no one knew that when work on the painting was already nearing completion, the painter practically did not look at the girl, but with burning eyes and painful excitement he peered at his work.

And so he waved his brush for the last time and made the final stroke on the canvas. The man was fascinated by his work and looked at the canvas for a long time in admiration with some kind of reverence and awe. Finally, he exclaimed: “This is life itself!” And only then did he glance at his wife and notice that she was already dead.

In “The Oval Portrait” one can hear the idea, already familiar to Edgar Poe, that art competes with life, and art and death have the same nature.

Picture or drawing Oval portrait

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Edgar Allan Poe

Oval portrait

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 Sally favored. 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 absolutely fascinated me life-likeness an expression that first startled me and then left me confused, depressed and afraid. 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 like 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 both the artist’s gift and his deep love for the one whom he depicted with such unsurpassed skill. 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 doesn't wished 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!

"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 upholstered 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 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 down 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. The arms, chest, and even the ends of the radiant hair imperceptibly merged with the vague deep shadow that formed the background of the entire 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 his wife. 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 was as beautiful as she was cheerful: all - laughter, all - a radiant smile, she was playful and playful as 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 intolerable instruments 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!”