The Oval Portrait
Duckie
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 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!
-The End-