The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1

  THE OVAL PORTRAIT

  THE chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance,rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass anight in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom andgrandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less infact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had beentemporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in oneof the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in aremote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tatteredand antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked withmanifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusuallygreat number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich goldenarabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not onlyin their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarrearchitecture of the chateau rendered necessary--in these paintings myincipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; sothat I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room--since it wasalready night--to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood bythe head of my bed--and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtainsof black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this donethat I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to thecontemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume whichhad been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise anddescribe them.

  Long--long I read--and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly andgloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position ofthe candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty,rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw itsrays more fully upon the book.

  But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays ofthe numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche ofthe room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of thebed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. Itwas the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glancedat the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did thiswas not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lidsremained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so shuttingthem. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought--to makesure that my vision had not deceived me--to calm and subdue my fancy fora more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again lookedfixedly at the painting.

  That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the firstflashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate thedreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me atonce into waking life.

  The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was amere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignettemanner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, thebosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly intothe vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. Theframe was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing ofart nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But itcould have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortalbeauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently movedme. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its halfslumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw atonce that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of theframe, must have instantly dispelled such idea--must have prevented evenits momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, Iremained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with myvision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the truesecret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spellof the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, atfirst startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deepand reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. Thecause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerlythe volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turningto the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vagueand quaint words which follow:

  “She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full ofglee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded thepainter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bridein his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than fullof glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; lovingand cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival;dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instrumentswhich deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus aterrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire toportray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and satmeekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the lightdripped 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 today. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lostin reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell soghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of hisbride, 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 andnight to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispiritedand weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of itsresemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less ofthe power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depictedso surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to itsconclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painterhad grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes fromcanvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he wouldnot see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn fromthe cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks had passed,and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and onetint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as theflame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given,and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stoodentranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, whilehe yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and cryingwith a loud voice, ‘This is indeed Life itself!’ turned suddenly toregard his beloved:--She was dead!”