Speaker 1: The Oval portrait by Edgar Allan Poll. 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 Apennine, not less in fact, than in
the fancy of Missus 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 be decked 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 criticize
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 bozza of the candelabrum displeased me, and,
out reaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturbed my
slumbering ballet, 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 bedposts. I thus saw in vivid
light a picture all and notice 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. But I now
saw aright. I could not and would not doubt for
the first flashing of the candles upon that canvass 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
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 background
of the whole. The frame was oval richly gilded and
filigreed in moresque as a thing of art. Thing 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 startlingly, finally confounded, abdued, 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 my 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 palate and brushes and
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 burnt 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 marble, 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 sat beside him. And when many weeks had 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. End of the Oval portrait