** Edgar Allan Poe **
(1850)
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 pourtray 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 be 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!