Aлександр Грин - The Seeker of Adventure

Ammon decided to examine the hall thoroughly; he put on felt slippers and went out of his room, but he left his revolver, since he saw no need for it. The tranquil silence of the brightly lit corridor had a sobering effect on him; he felt ashamed and wanted to return, but the past day, which had been filled to excess with the humdrum simplicity that waries a lively soul, nudged Ammon towards artificial invigoration of his unsatisfied fantasies. He quickly walked to the end of the corridor and up to the window, making certain that it was closed tightly and fastened by solid upper and lower bolts; he looked around and saw a small door that lacked posts and was flush with the wall – this small door, knocked together from thin boards, was apparently cut out and installed after the house had been built. Looking at the door, Ammon thought that it probably led to some steps that had been constructed in order to enter the garden next to the house from inside the corridor. Now that he had found out where Dogger had disappeared, Ammon quietly reached out, flipped the latch and opened it.

It opened into a corridor. It was dark beyond the door, although several steep steps, leading up and not down, were visible. The staircase was bordered by the narrow walls; in order to enter, it was necessary to bend low. "Is it worth it?" thought Ammon. "This is probably the passage to an attic where clothes are dried or pigeons live... However, Dogger is not a pigeon fancier, and he obviously does not take in laundry. Why did he come here? Oh, Ammon, Ammon, instinct tells me that there is game about. So what if I just fire a blank-if I go up, then at least it will be all over, and I'll sleep until tomorrow's yoghurt with a conscience as clear as a calf's. If for whatever reason Dogger takes it into his head to visit the attic and finds me, I'll pretend that I heard steps there; after all, thieves are always an excellent pretext in cases like this."

Ammon took a look around, closed the door tightly behind himself, and, illuminating the staircase with a match, began to ascend. At a small landing the staircase turned left; on the upper end there proved to be a somewhat more spacious landing, where, beneath the roof's steep pitch, was a door leading to the attic. Like the lower door, it was not locked. Ammon listened in order to make sure that there was nobody behind the door. The silence reassured him. He boldly lifted the latch, and the match was extinguished by a rush of air. Ammon stepped over the threshold into darkness; the rather stuffy air of a habitable room frightened him. In a hurry to make sure that he had not ended up in a worker' or a servant's cubbyhole, Ammon lit a second match, and the shadows raced away from its yellow light into the corners, making the surroundings distinct.

The first thing Ammon saw was a candle on a huge table in the centre of the room, he lit it, and as he looked around retreated to the door. A white curtain on the back wall hung down to the floor; similar curtains were hanging on the walls to the right and the left of the entrance. A screen window in the slanted ceiling let in the light of distant stars. Ammon hastily examined the corners without further scrutinizing the table, which was piled high with a multitude of various objects. He found only neglected litter, crumpled paper, and broken pencils. Ammon straightened up, walked to the back wall where the cords for the curtain were hanging on a nail, and pulled them. The curtain rose.

Ammon stepped back at a sudden flash of daylight-the ground rose to the level of the attic, and the wall disappeared. Three paces from the traveller a woman with small bare feet was standing on a path that led to some hills and had her back turned to him. A simple black dress, which inexplicably laced any hint of mourning, emphasised the whiteness of her bare neck and arms. All the lines of her young body were distinguishable beneath the thin fabric. A thick bun of bronze hair covered the back of her neck. The picture's supernatural, painful veracity went beyond the bounds of the human; a live woman stood before him in the wondrous void of the distant prospect; any moment, Ammon felt, she would turn and look at him over her shoulder. He smiled in perplexity.

But at this point the brilliant brush's triumph was terminated and at the same time intensified. The woman's pose, her slightly drawn back left hand, her temple, the cheek's shape, the fleeting exertion of her neck in turning, and numerous mute traits that were beyond analysis gripped the viewer with the expectation of a miracle. The artist had fixed the instant for eternity; it lasted and remained the same as ever-as if time had disappeared but at each following instant would resume its flight, and the woman would glance over her shoulder at the shaken viewer. In overpowering expectation Ammon looked at the head, which was fearful in its readiness to reveal its mysterious features; his heart was pounding like that of a child who had been left in a dark room; and with an unpleasant feeling of impotence before an unrealisable but clear threat, he let go of the cords. The curtain fell, but it still seemed to him that if he reached out he would encounter a warm, live shoulder beyond the canvas.

"Genius knows neither moderation nor limits!" he said excitedly. "So, Dogger, this is where you leave to milk the cows? My powerful instinct has guided my discovery. I'll shout it to the whole world; I'm ill from ecstasy and fear! But what's over there?"

He rushed to the curtain which hung to the left of the entrance. His hand became tangled in the cords; he impatiently tore at them, pulled them down, and raised the candle over his head. The same woman-in the same charming vivacity that was deepened still further by her face's radiance-stood before him having fulfilled her exquisite threat. She had turned around. The artist had put into this face the total essence of maternal tenderness and feminine caress. The fire of pure, proud youth shone in the tender but resolute eyes; the bronze silk of her hair above her finely etched eyebrows appeared to be a diadem. Her mouth, with its noble and youthful features, exuded love and intelligence. She stood half-turned but had revealed her entire face, and she sparkled with the youthful strength of life and with a joy as disturbing as sleep filled with passionate tears.

Ammon looked at the picture mutely. It seemed to him that he had only to utter a single word in order to break the paints' silence, and then the woman would approach him with lowered eyelashes, still more beautiful in her movements than in the distressing immobility of the miraculously created living body. He saw the dust on her legs, which were ready to move on, and the individual hairs behind her little ear were like the radiant attire on heads of grain. Joy and yearning held him in tender captivity.

"Dogger, you're a despot!" said Ammon. "Could anyone strike a more painful blow to the heart?" He stamped his foot. "I must be delirious," cried Ammon. "To paint like that is impossible; no one on earth could or would dare to do this!"

And the actual eyes of a woman gazed at him still more expressively, more intently, and more deeply.

Ammon was almost frightened, and with his heart beating violently he pulled the curtain over the painting. Something held him to the spot; he could not bring himself to pace up and down, as he usually did when he was disturbed. He was afraid to stir or to look around; the silence, in which only his breathing and the crackling of the burning candle were audible, was as unpleasant as the smell of fumes. Finally, overcoming his numbness, Ammon walked up to the third canvas, uncovered the painting ... and the hair on his head bristled.

What had Dogger done in order to produce a nightmarish effect that could rekindle superstitions? The woman stood before Ammon in the same pose, with her head turned around while she continued walking; but her face was unaccountably transformed, and yet it was the same – down to the last feature-as the one at which Ammon had just looked. The mocking eyes met his with an inscrutable vividness, and the effect was fearsome. Now, at a closer range, their gaze was sombre; the pupils glittered differently; the mouth, which had an evil and base expression, was prepared to bestow a loathsome smile of madness; and the beauty of her wondrous face had become repulsive: it exuded a ferocious, greedy fire and was capable of strangling a person or of sucking someone's blood; a reptile's lust and a demon's passion illuminated its vile oval, which was full of aroused voluptuousness, gloom, and frenzy; and an infinite agony seized Ammon when he looked closely and discerned in this face a readiness to begin speaking. The half-opened lips, between which her teeth shone repulsively, seemed to be whispering; the figure's former soft femininity emphasised still further the horrible aliveness of the head, which all but nodded from the frame. Ammon sighed deeply and let go of the cord; the curtain rustled as it sped down, and he fancied that a diabolical face had winked at him and hidden itself beneath the falling folds.