The oval portrait I'm not particularly interested in horrors, but there are some I quite like. One of them is a short story by Edgar Allan Poe with the name "The oval portrait". And this is the story I'd like to retell in my own words. The story begins with a man, which is maybe the author himself, that in his desperately wounded condition looked for a place where he, together with his valet, could pass a night. They found a mansion which seems to be very lately abandoned. They established themselves in a room. The room was very richly decorated with paintings, which hung on all the walls. In the room there was also a book, which was full of stories about the pictures. The man decided to read the book and looked at the pictures described in it, while his servant was slumbering. For getting more light he replaced the candelabrum. That started to throw its rays on the picture, which was hidden in shade before. The picture fascinated the man so much, that he looked at it for a very long time. Finally he decided to read the story behind it. The story went: The girl on the picture was very young, happy and cherishing about things. But there was something she hated. It was the art, because her husband, she loved so much, was a very passionate painter. He spent more time with his art than with her, so she considered the art her rival. She was obviously very terrified when his husband wanted to portray even her. But she was obedient and so she agreed and sat meekly for many hours and days as a model for his portrait. The painter worked for a very long time and looked at the face of his wife very little. Almost all of the time he looked only on the canvas, so he couldn't notice that the tint on his brush was actually that of the girl's cheek and that she withered and withered. When his work was very close to the conclusion, he placed the last tint on the canvas and being tremulous yelled “This is the life itself!”. Then he finally turned and looked at the girl and saw that she was dead.