As foreshadowing his masterpiece The Beast in the Jungle, the new Henry James opens the reunion after a long absence of twelve years between a man Oliver Lyon, recognized and celebrated painter, and the woman who has spurned and marries another, Colonel Capadose which he soon discovers the intriguing and ridiculous mythomania. If hope is permitted, the artist in his pride wounded man would at least avenge the misfortune of his fate, snatching a "sign" to the loved woman, a confession that she was miserably misguided in the choice of her husband: "It would be supremely happy if she would just let him know, even by a mute sign, she recognized that her life with him would have been nice." And to achieve his ends, Lyon has the most formidable instrument of vengeance that is: his art. What matters therefore malice and cynicism of the scheme at work, since this is to ensure the triumph of truth over falsehood art of life. But is this not ignore the abysmal power of love and the miracle of his blindness opposing the tragic reality denials that seal its beauty and unwavering purity? This is very thought of taking ... Cruel fable of penetration and a dizzying intellect, coupled with a kaleidoscopic play of mind on the relationship between art and life, lies and truth, the text draws dully image the artist burdened with a secret wound that all power and mastery of his talent is sufficient to relieve the face of the human heart unpredictable resources. The pathological liar, and the love of the artist, which ment more to itself? Henry James is here at the top of a genius who cultivates the paradox with such subtlety that lying shines the splendor of the truth. Truth stabbed repeatedly on the canvas and the masochistic heart of the character she will relentlessly slashing. If the brush strokes of Lyon "sometimes were a little feverish, as the artist was thinking in his heart more than his hand," there is the contrary from the pen of the writer Henry James something fatal and Criminal: hands are trembling ever.