The Oval Portrait
by Edgar Allan Poe
THE chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible
entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition,
to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled
gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines,
not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all
appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We
established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously
furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building.
Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were
hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial
trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited
modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these
paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main
surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of
the chateau rendered necessary -- in these paintings my incipient
delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I
bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room -- since it was
already night -- to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which
stood by the head of my bed -- and to throw open far and wide the
fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I
wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep,
at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and
the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow,
and which purported to criticise and describe them.
Long, long I read -- and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and
gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position
of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with
difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it
so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.
But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays
of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche
of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one
of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed
before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into
womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed
my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own
perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in my
mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to
gain time for thought -- to make sure that my vision had not deceived
me -- to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain
gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.
That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first
flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the
dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at
once into waking life.
The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It
was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a
vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully.
The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted
imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the
back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and
filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more
admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither
the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the
countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least
of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half
slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw
at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and
of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea -- must have
prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon
these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half
reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length,
satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within
the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute
life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally
confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I
replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep
agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume
which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the
number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague
and quaint words which follow:
"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full
of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded
the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already
a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more
lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as
the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the
Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and
other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance
of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear
the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride.
But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in
the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale
canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his
work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And
he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in
reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so
ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits
of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on
and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter
(who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his
task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him,
yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some
who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words,
as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of
the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so
surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its
conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the
painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his
eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his
wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon
the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him.
And when many weeks bad passed, and but little remained to do,
save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the
spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the
socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the
tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced
before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he
yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and
crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned
suddenly to regard his beloved: -- She was dead!"
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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