Prevod
Od Province House, nekdanjega doma kraljevih guvernerjev v Bostonu, ni ostalo nič razen pozlačenega Indijanca, ki je služil kot vetrokaz in s kupole meril s puščico proti vetrovom. Samo hišo je že davno odnesel tako imenovani pohod napredka. V eni njenih sob je visela slika, tako potemnela, da je ob vselitvi namestnika guvernerja Hutchinsona komaj še kdo znal povedati, kaj prikazuje. Namigovali so, da gre za hudičev portret, naslikan na čarovniškem shodu blizu Salema, in da je na predvečer nesreč, ki so zadele provinco, s platna zrl strašen obraz. Shirley ga je videl v noči, ko je padla Ticonderoga, služabniki pa so drhteč zapuščali sobo, prepričani, da so ujeli pogled zlobnega očesa.
Guvernerji pa so vedeli, da portret, če že ni upodabljal samega poglavarja pekla, prikazuje nekoga, ki v očeh ljudstva ni bil nič manjši hudič: izdajalca Edwarda Randolpha, ki je dosegel razveljavitev prve ustanovne listine province in koloniste oropal njihovih svoboščin. Pod prekletstvom ljudstva je bledel, hiral in postajal vse grši, dokler ni bil njegov obraz tako odvraten, da ga ljudje niso hoteli več gledati. Tedaj je dal naslikati svoj portret. Kakih šestdeset let pozneje je Hutchinson sedel v dvorani in se v negotovih mislih spraševal, ali ga bodo prihodnji dogodki izročili enaki sramoti, kakršna je doletela njegovega predhodnika, saj je na njegov poziv v pristanišče priplulo ladjevje s tremi polki rdečesuknjičnikov, poslanih iz Halifaxa, da bi ustrahovali mesto. Prihod mestnih svetnikov, ki so prišli protestirat proti nastanitvi teh čet pri prebivalcih in nadomestitvi civilne oblasti z vojaško, je prekinil njegovo zamišljenost in vnela se je burna razprava. Nazadnje je guverner nepotrpežljivo zgrabil pero in vzkliknil: »Kralj je moj gospodar in Anglija je moja domovina. Z njuno podporo kljubujem drhali.«
Prav ko je hotel podpisati ukaz za prihod čet v mesto, je nekdo odgrnil zaveso, ki je zastirala sliko. Hutchinson je osupel strmel v platno, nato pa zamrmral: »To je Randolphov duh! Peklenski pogled ima.« Zdaj se je videlo, da slika prikazuje moža v starinskem oblačilu, z obupanim, preganjanim, pa vendar zlobnim izrazom na obrazu, in zdelo se je, da strmi naravnost v Hutchinsona.
»To je svarilo,« je dejal eden od navzočih. Hutchinson se je s težavo obvladal in se obrnil proč. »To je prevara,« je vzkliknil; nato se je sklonil nad papir in se podpisal, kakor da se mu obupno mudi. Zatem se je zdrznil, pobledel in si obrisal znoj s čela. Mestni svetniki so odšli molče, a ogorčeni, tisti, ki so Hutchinsona naslednji dan videli na ulicah, pa so zatrjevali, da je portret stopil iz platna in vso noč stal ob njem. Pozneje, ko je ležal na smrtni postelji, je kričal, da mu kri bostonskega pokola zaliva grlo, in ko ga je zapuščala duša, je bil njegov obraz, spačen od muk in besa, obraz Edwarda Randolpha.
Izvirnik
Nothing is left of Province House, the old home of the royal governors, in Boston, but the gilded Indian that served as its weathercock and aimed his arrow at the winds from the cupola. The house itself was swept away long ago in the so-called march of improvement. In one of its rooms hung a picture so dark that when Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson went to live there hardly anybody could say what it represented. There were hints that it was a portrait of the devil, painted at a witch-meeting near Salem, and that on the eve of disasters in the province a dreadful face had glared from the canvas. Shirley had seen it on the night of the fall of Ticonderoga, and servants had gone shuddering from the room, certain that they had caught the glance of a malignant eye.
It was known to the governors, however, that the portrait, if not that of the arch fiend, was that of one who in the popular mind was none the less a devil: Edward Randolph, the traitor, who had repealed the first provincial charter and deprived the colonists of their liberties. Under the curse of the people he grew pale and pinched and ugly, his face at last becoming so hateful that men were unwilling to look at it. Then it was that he sat for his portrait. Threescore or odd years afterward, Hutchinson sat in the hall wondering vaguely if coming events would consign him to the obloquy that had fallen on his predecessor, for at his bidding a fleet had come into the harbor with three regiments of red coats on board, despatched from Halifax to overawe the city. The coming of the selectmen to protest against quartering these troops on the people and the substitution of martial for civic law, interrupted his reverie, and a warm debate arose. At last the governor seized his pen impatiently, and cried, “The king is my master and England is my home. Upheld by them, I defy the rabble.”
He was about to sign the order for bringing in the troops when a curtain that had hung before the picture was drawn aside. Hutchinson stared at the canvas in amazement, then muttered, “It is Randolph's spirit! It wears the look of hell.” The picture was seen to be that of a man in antique garb, with a despairing, hunted, yet evil expression in the face, and seemed to stare at Hutchinson.
“It is a warning,” said one of the company.
Hutchinson recovered himself with an effort and turned away. “It is a trick,” he cried; and bending over the paper he fixed his name, as if in desperate haste. Then he trembled, turned white, and wiped a sweat from his brow. The selectmen departed in silence but in anger, and those who saw Hutchinson on the streets next day affirmed that the portrait had stepped out of its canvas and stood at his side through the night. Afterward, as he lay on his death-bed, he cried that the blood of the Boston massacre was filling his throat, and as his soul passed from him his face, in its agony and rage, was the face of Edward Randolph.
