May 13, 2025 • 10 mins
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Old Portrait by Hugh Nisbett. Old fashioned frames are
a hobby of mine. I am always on the prowl
among the framers and dealers in curiosities for something quaint
and unique in picture frames. I don't care much for
what is inside them. For being a painter, it is
(00:20):
my fancy to get the frames first and then paint
a picture which I think suits their probable history and design.
In this way I get some curious and I think
also some original ideas. One day in December, about a
week before Christmas, I picked up a fine but dilapidated
specimen of wood carving in a shop near Soho. The
(00:42):
guilding had been nearly worn away and three of the
corners broken off. Yet as there was one of the
corners still left, I hope to be able to repair
the others from it. As for the canvas inside this frame,
it was so smothered with the dirt and time stains
that I could only distinguished It had been a very
badly painted likeness of some sort of some commonplace person,
(01:08):
daubed in by a poor put boiling painter to fill
the second hand frame, which his patron may have picked
up as cheaply as I had done after him, But
as the frame was all right, I took the spoiled
canvas along with it, thinking it might come in handy.
For the next few days my hands were full of
work of one kind and another, so that it was
(01:28):
only on Christmas Eve that I found myself at liberty
to examine my purchase, which had been lying with its
face to the wall since I brought it to my studio.
Having nothing to do on this night and not in
the mood to go out, I got my picture and
frame from the corner, and, laying them upon the table
with a sponge basin of water and some soap, I
(01:49):
began to wash so that I might see them better.
They were in a terrible mess, and I think I
used the best part of a packet of soap powder,
and had to change the water about any times before
the pattern began to show up on the frame, and
the portrait within it asserted its awful crudeness, vile drawing,
and intense vulgarity. It was the bloated, piggish visage of
(02:13):
a publican, clearly with a plentiful supply of jewelry displayed,
as is usual with such masterpieces, where the features are
not considered of so much importance as a strict fidelity
in the depicting of such articles as watch guard and seals,
finger rings and breast pins. These were all there, as
(02:33):
natural and hard as reality. The frame delighted me, and
the picture satisfied me that I had not cheated the
dealer with my price. And I was looking at the
monstrosity as the gaslight beat full upon it, and wondering
how the owner could be pleased with himself as thus depicted,
when something about the background attracted my attention, a slight
(02:57):
marking underneath the thin coating, as if the portrait had
been painted over some other subject. It was not much, certainly,
yet enough to make me rush over to my cupboard,
where I kept my spirits of wine and turpentine, with
which and a plentiful supply of rags, I began to
demolish the publican ruthlessly, in the vague hope that I
(03:18):
might find something worth looking at underneath a slow process
that was as well as a delicate one, so that
it was close upon midnight before the gold cable rings
and vermilion visage disappeared, and another picture loomed up before me,
then giving it a final wash over. I wiped it
(03:39):
dry and set it in a good light on my
easel while I filled and lit my pipe, and then
set down to look at it. What had I liberated
from that vile prison of crude paint? For I did
not require to set it up to know that this
bungler of the brush had covered and defiled a work
as far beyond his comfreyhend as the clouds are from
(04:01):
the caterpillar. The bust and head of a young woman
of uncertain age, merged within a gloom of rich accessories,
painted as only a master hand can paint, who is
above asserting his knowledge, and who has learnt to cover
his technique. It was as perfect and natural in its
somber yet quiet dignity as if it had come from
(04:22):
the brush of morony. A face and neck perfectly colorless
in their pallid whiteness, would the shadow so artfully managed
that they could not be seen, And for this quality
would have delighted the strong minded queen Bess. At first,
as I looked, I saw in the center of a
(04:43):
vague darkness a dim patch of gray gloom that drifted
into the shadow. Then the grayness appeared to grow lighter
as I set from it and leaned back in my chair,
until the features stole out softly and became clear and definite,
while the figures stood out from the background as if tangible.
Although having washed it, I knew that it had been
(05:06):
smoothly painted. An intent face with delicate nose, well shaped,
although bloodless, lips and eyes like dark caverns without a
spark of light in them. The hair loosely about the
neck and oval cheeks, massive silky textured jet black and lustreless,
which hid the upper portion of her brow with the ears,
(05:30):
and fell in straight, indefinite waves over the left breast,
leaving the right portion of the transparent neck exposed. The
dress and background were symphonies of ebony, yet full of
subtle coloring and masterly feeling. A dress of rich brocaded
velvet with a background that represented vast receding space, wondrously
(05:52):
suggestive and awe inspiring. I noticed that the pallid lips
were parted slightly and showed a glimpse of the upper
front teeth, which added to the intent expression of the face.
A short upper lip which curled upward, with the under
lip full and sinsuous or rather, if color had been
in it would have been so. It was an eerie
(06:15):
looking face that I had resurrected on this midnight hour
of Christmas Eve. In its passive pallidity, it looked as
if the blood had drained from its body, and that
I was gazing upon an open eyed corpse. The frame, also,
I noticed for the first time in its details, appeared
to have been designed with the intention of carrying out
(06:36):
the idea of life and death. What had before looked
like a scroll work of flowers and fruit were loathsome
snakelike worms twined amidst carnal house bones, which they half
covered in a decorative fashion, a hideous design, in spite
of its exquisite workmanship, that made me shudder and wish
(06:56):
that I had left the cleaning to be done by daylight.
I am not at all of a nervous temperament, and
would have laughed had anyone told me that I was afraid.
And yet, as I sat here alone, but that portrait
opposite to me in this solitary studio, away from all
human contact, for none of the other studios were tenanted
(07:18):
on this night, and the janitor had gone on his holiday.
I wished that I had spent my evening in a
more congenial manner, For in spite of a good fire
in the stove, in the brilliant gas, that intense face
and those haunting eyes were exercising a strange influence upon me.
I heard the clocks from the different steeples chime out
(07:42):
the last hour of the day, one after the other,
like echoes, taking up the refrain and dying away in
the distance. And still I sat spellbound, looking at that
weird picture, with my neglected pipe in my hand, and
a strange lafeude creeping over me. It was the eyes
(08:03):
which fixed me now, with the unfathomable depths and absorbing intensity.
They gave out no light, but seemed to draw my
soul into them, and with it my life and strength.
As I lay inert before them, until overpowered, I lost
consciousness and drim. I thought that the frame was still
(08:25):
on the easel with the canvas, but the woman had
stepped from them and was approaching me with a floating motion,
leaving behind her a vault filled with coffins, Some of
them shut down, whilst others lay or stood upright and open,
showing the grisly contents in their decaying and stained serenids,
(08:47):
I could only see her head and shoulders, with the
somber drapery of that upper portion and the inky wealth
of hair hanging around. She was with me now, that
pallid face touching my face, and those cold, bloodless lips
glued to mine with a close, lingering kiss, while the
soft black hair covered me like a cloud and thrilled
(09:10):
me through and through with a delicious thrill that, whilst
it made me grow faint, intoxicated me with delight. As
I breathed, she seemed to absorb it quickly into herself,
giving me back nothing, getting stronger as I was becoming weaker,
while the warmth of my contact passed into her and
(09:32):
made her palpitate with vitality. And all at once, the
horror of approaching death seized upon me, and with a
frantic effort, I flung her from me and started up
from my chair, dazed for a moment and uncertain where
I was. Then consciousness returned and I looked around wildly.
The gas was still blazing brightly, while the fire burned
(09:54):
ruddy in the stove. By the time piece on the mantle,
I could see that it was half past. The picture
and frame were still on the easel. Only as I
looked at them, the portrait had changed. A hectic flush
was on the cheeks, while the eyes glittered with life,
and the sensuous lips were red and ripe, looking, with
a drop of blood still upon the nether one, and
(10:17):
a frenzy of horror, I seized my scraping knife and
slashed out the vampire picture. Then, tearing the mutilated fragments out,
I crammed them into my stove and watched them frizzle
with savage delight. I have that frame still, but I
have not yet had courage to paint a suitable subject
(10:37):
for it. End of the old portrait
The Old Portrait by Hugh Nisbett. Old fashioned frames are
a hobby of mine. I am always on the prowl
among the framers and dealers in curiosities for something quaint
and unique in picture frames. I don't care much for
what is inside them. For being a painter, it is
(00:20):
my fancy to get the frames first and then paint
a picture which I think suits their probable history and design.
In this way I get some curious and I think
also some original ideas. One day in December, about a
week before Christmas, I picked up a fine but dilapidated
specimen of wood carving in a shop near Soho. The
(00:42):
guilding had been nearly worn away and three of the
corners broken off. Yet as there was one of the
corners still left, I hope to be able to repair
the others from it. As for the canvas inside this frame,
it was so smothered with the dirt and time stains
that I could only distinguished It had been a very
badly painted likeness of some sort of some commonplace person,
(01:08):
daubed in by a poor put boiling painter to fill
the second hand frame, which his patron may have picked
up as cheaply as I had done after him, But
as the frame was all right, I took the spoiled
canvas along with it, thinking it might come in handy.
For the next few days my hands were full of
work of one kind and another, so that it was
(01:28):
only on Christmas Eve that I found myself at liberty
to examine my purchase, which had been lying with its
face to the wall since I brought it to my studio.
Having nothing to do on this night and not in
the mood to go out, I got my picture and
frame from the corner, and, laying them upon the table
with a sponge basin of water and some soap, I
(01:49):
began to wash so that I might see them better.
They were in a terrible mess, and I think I
used the best part of a packet of soap powder,
and had to change the water about any times before
the pattern began to show up on the frame, and
the portrait within it asserted its awful crudeness, vile drawing,
and intense vulgarity. It was the bloated, piggish visage of
(02:13):
a publican, clearly with a plentiful supply of jewelry displayed,
as is usual with such masterpieces, where the features are
not considered of so much importance as a strict fidelity
in the depicting of such articles as watch guard and seals,
finger rings and breast pins. These were all there, as
(02:33):
natural and hard as reality. The frame delighted me, and
the picture satisfied me that I had not cheated the
dealer with my price. And I was looking at the
monstrosity as the gaslight beat full upon it, and wondering
how the owner could be pleased with himself as thus depicted,
when something about the background attracted my attention, a slight
(02:57):
marking underneath the thin coating, as if the portrait had
been painted over some other subject. It was not much, certainly,
yet enough to make me rush over to my cupboard,
where I kept my spirits of wine and turpentine, with
which and a plentiful supply of rags, I began to
demolish the publican ruthlessly, in the vague hope that I
(03:18):
might find something worth looking at underneath a slow process
that was as well as a delicate one, so that
it was close upon midnight before the gold cable rings
and vermilion visage disappeared, and another picture loomed up before me,
then giving it a final wash over. I wiped it
(03:39):
dry and set it in a good light on my
easel while I filled and lit my pipe, and then
set down to look at it. What had I liberated
from that vile prison of crude paint? For I did
not require to set it up to know that this
bungler of the brush had covered and defiled a work
as far beyond his comfreyhend as the clouds are from
(04:01):
the caterpillar. The bust and head of a young woman
of uncertain age, merged within a gloom of rich accessories,
painted as only a master hand can paint, who is
above asserting his knowledge, and who has learnt to cover
his technique. It was as perfect and natural in its
somber yet quiet dignity as if it had come from
(04:22):
the brush of morony. A face and neck perfectly colorless
in their pallid whiteness, would the shadow so artfully managed
that they could not be seen, And for this quality
would have delighted the strong minded queen Bess. At first,
as I looked, I saw in the center of a
(04:43):
vague darkness a dim patch of gray gloom that drifted
into the shadow. Then the grayness appeared to grow lighter
as I set from it and leaned back in my chair,
until the features stole out softly and became clear and definite,
while the figures stood out from the background as if tangible.
Although having washed it, I knew that it had been
(05:06):
smoothly painted. An intent face with delicate nose, well shaped,
although bloodless, lips and eyes like dark caverns without a
spark of light in them. The hair loosely about the
neck and oval cheeks, massive silky textured jet black and lustreless,
which hid the upper portion of her brow with the ears,
(05:30):
and fell in straight, indefinite waves over the left breast,
leaving the right portion of the transparent neck exposed. The
dress and background were symphonies of ebony, yet full of
subtle coloring and masterly feeling. A dress of rich brocaded
velvet with a background that represented vast receding space, wondrously
(05:52):
suggestive and awe inspiring. I noticed that the pallid lips
were parted slightly and showed a glimpse of the upper
front teeth, which added to the intent expression of the face.
A short upper lip which curled upward, with the under
lip full and sinsuous or rather, if color had been
in it would have been so. It was an eerie
(06:15):
looking face that I had resurrected on this midnight hour
of Christmas Eve. In its passive pallidity, it looked as
if the blood had drained from its body, and that
I was gazing upon an open eyed corpse. The frame, also,
I noticed for the first time in its details, appeared
to have been designed with the intention of carrying out
(06:36):
the idea of life and death. What had before looked
like a scroll work of flowers and fruit were loathsome
snakelike worms twined amidst carnal house bones, which they half
covered in a decorative fashion, a hideous design, in spite
of its exquisite workmanship, that made me shudder and wish
(06:56):
that I had left the cleaning to be done by daylight.
I am not at all of a nervous temperament, and
would have laughed had anyone told me that I was afraid.
And yet, as I sat here alone, but that portrait
opposite to me in this solitary studio, away from all
human contact, for none of the other studios were tenanted
(07:18):
on this night, and the janitor had gone on his holiday.
I wished that I had spent my evening in a
more congenial manner, For in spite of a good fire
in the stove, in the brilliant gas, that intense face
and those haunting eyes were exercising a strange influence upon me.
I heard the clocks from the different steeples chime out
(07:42):
the last hour of the day, one after the other,
like echoes, taking up the refrain and dying away in
the distance. And still I sat spellbound, looking at that
weird picture, with my neglected pipe in my hand, and
a strange lafeude creeping over me. It was the eyes
(08:03):
which fixed me now, with the unfathomable depths and absorbing intensity.
They gave out no light, but seemed to draw my
soul into them, and with it my life and strength.
As I lay inert before them, until overpowered, I lost
consciousness and drim. I thought that the frame was still
(08:25):
on the easel with the canvas, but the woman had
stepped from them and was approaching me with a floating motion,
leaving behind her a vault filled with coffins, Some of
them shut down, whilst others lay or stood upright and open,
showing the grisly contents in their decaying and stained serenids,
(08:47):
I could only see her head and shoulders, with the
somber drapery of that upper portion and the inky wealth
of hair hanging around. She was with me now, that
pallid face touching my face, and those cold, bloodless lips
glued to mine with a close, lingering kiss, while the
soft black hair covered me like a cloud and thrilled
(09:10):
me through and through with a delicious thrill that, whilst
it made me grow faint, intoxicated me with delight. As
I breathed, she seemed to absorb it quickly into herself,
giving me back nothing, getting stronger as I was becoming weaker,
while the warmth of my contact passed into her and
(09:32):
made her palpitate with vitality. And all at once, the
horror of approaching death seized upon me, and with a
frantic effort, I flung her from me and started up
from my chair, dazed for a moment and uncertain where
I was. Then consciousness returned and I looked around wildly.
The gas was still blazing brightly, while the fire burned
(09:54):
ruddy in the stove. By the time piece on the mantle,
I could see that it was half past. The picture
and frame were still on the easel. Only as I
looked at them, the portrait had changed. A hectic flush
was on the cheeks, while the eyes glittered with life,
and the sensuous lips were red and ripe, looking, with
a drop of blood still upon the nether one, and
(10:17):
a frenzy of horror, I seized my scraping knife and
slashed out the vampire picture. Then, tearing the mutilated fragments out,
I crammed them into my stove and watched them frizzle
with savage delight. I have that frame still, but I
have not yet had courage to paint a suitable subject
(10:37):
for it. End of the old portrait
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