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The Oval portrait by Edgar Allan Poll. The chateau into which my valet had

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ventured to make forcible entrance rather than
permit me, in my desperately wounded condition,

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to pass a night in the open
air, was one of those piles

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of commingled gloom and grandeur which have
so long frowned among the Apennine, not

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less in fact, than in the
fancy of Missus Radcliffe. To all appearance,

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it had been temporarily and very lately
abandoned. We established ourselves in one

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of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished
apartments. It lay in a remote turret

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of the building. Its decorations were
rich, yet tattered and antique. Its

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walls were hung with tapestry and be
decked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies,

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together with an unusually great number of
very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich

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golden Arabesque. In these paintings,
which depended from the walls, not only

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in their main surfaces, but in
very many nooks, which the bizarre architecture

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of the chateau rendered necessary. In
these paintings, my incipient delirium perhaps had

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caused me to take deep interest,
so that I bade Pedro to close the

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heavy shutters of the room, since
it was already night, to light the

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tongues of a tall candelabrum, which
stood by the head of my bed,

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and to throw open far and wide
the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped

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the bed itself. I wished all
this done that I might resign myself,

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if not to sleep, at least
alternately, to the contemplation of these pictures

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and the perusal of a small volume
which had been found upon the pillow,

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and which purported to criticize and describe
them. Long long I read, and

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devoutly, devotedly, I gazed,
rapidly and gloriously. The hours flew by,

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and the deep midnight came. The
bozza of the candelabrum displeased me,

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and, out reaching my hand with
difficulty, rather than disturbed my slumbering ballet,

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I placed it so as to throw
its rays more fully upon the book.

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But the action produced an effect altogether
unanticipated. The rays of the numerous

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candles, for there were many,
now fell within a niche of the room,

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which had hitherto been thrown into deep
shade by one of the bedposts.

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I thus saw in vivid light a
picture all and notice before it was the

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portrait of a young girl just ripening
into womanhood. I glanced at the painting

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hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at

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first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut,

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I ran over in my mind my
reason for so shutting them. It

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was an impulsive movement to gain time
for thought, to make sure that my

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vision had not deceived me, to
calm and subdue my fancy for a more

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sober and more certain gaze. In
a very few moments, I again looked

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fixedly at the painting. But I
now saw aright. I could not and

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would not doubt for the first flashing
of the candles upon that canvass had seemed

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to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was
stealing over my senses, and to startle

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me at once into waking life.
The portrait I have already said, was

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that of a young girl. It
was a mere head and shoulders done what

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is technically termed a vignette manner,
much in the style of the favorite heads

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of Sully. The arms, the
bosom, and even the ends of the

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radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague
yet deep shadow which formed the background of

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the whole. The frame was oval
richly gilded and filigreed in moresque as a

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thing of art. Thing could be
more admirable than the painting itself. But

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it could have been neither the execution
of the work, nor the immortal beauty

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of the countenance which had so suddenly
and so vehemently moved me. Least of

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all could it have been that my
fancy, shaken from its half slumber,

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had mistaken the head for that of
a living person. I saw at once

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that the peculiarities of the design,
of the vignetting and of the frame must

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have instantly dispelled such idea, must
have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking

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earnestly upon these points, I remained
for an hour, perhaps half sitting,

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half reclining, with my vision riveted
upon the portrait. At length, satisfied

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with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed.

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I had found the spell of the
picture, in an absolute life likeliness of

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expression, which, at first startlingly, finally confounded, abdued, and appalled

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me with deep and reverent awe.
I replaced the candelabrum in its former position,

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the cause of my deep agitation being
thus shut from my view, I

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sought eagerly the volume which discussed the
paintings and their histories. Turning to the

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number which designated the Oval portrait,
I there read the vague and quaint words

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which follow. She was a maiden
of rarest beauty, and not more lovely

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than full of glee and evil was
the hour when she saw and loved and

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wedded the painter, he passionate,
studious, austere, and having already a

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bride in his art. She a
maiden of rarest beauty, and not more

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lovely than full of glee, all
light and smiles and frolicsome as the young

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fawn, loving and cherishing all things, hating only the art which was her

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rival, dreading only the palate and
brushes and untoward instruments which deprived her of

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the countenance of her lover. It
was thus a terrible thing for this lady

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to hear the painter speak of his
desire to portray even his young bride.

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But she was humble and obedient,
and sat meekly for many weeks in the

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dark high turret chamber, where the
light dripped upon the pale canvas only from

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overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which

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went on from hour to hour and
from day to day. And he was

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a passionate and wild and moody man, who became lost in reveries so that

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he would not see that the light
which fell so ghastly in that lone turret,

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withered the health and the spirits of
his bride, who pined visibly to

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all but him. Yet she smiled
on and still on, uncomplainingly, because

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she saw that the painter, who
had high renown, took a fervid and

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burnt pleasure in his task, and
wrought day and night to depict her,

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who so loved him, yet who
grew daily more dispirited and weak, and

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in sooth. Some who beheld the
portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words,

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as of a mighty marble, and
a proof not less of the power

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of the painter than of his deep
love for her, whom he depicted so

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surpassingly well. But at length,
as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion,

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there were admitted none into the turret, For the painter had grown wild

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with the ardor of his work,
and turned his eyes from canvas, merely

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even to regard the countenance of his
wife. And he would not see that

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the tints which he spread upon the
canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her

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who sat beside him. And when
many weeks had passed, and but little

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remained to do save one brush upon
the mouth and one tint upon the eye,

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the spirit of the lady again flickered
up as the flame within the socket

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of the lamp. And then the
brush was given, and then the tint

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was placed. And for one moment
the painter stood entranced before the work which

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he had wrought. But in the
next while he yet gazed, he grew

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tremulous, and very pallid, and
aghast, and crying with a loud voice,

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this is indeed life itself. Turned
suddenly to regard his beloved. She

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was dead. End of the Oval
portrait