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Speaker 1: The Oval portrait by Edgar Allan Poll. The chateau into

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which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance rather

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than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass

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a night in the open air, was one of those

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piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long

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frowned among the Apennine, not less in fact, than in

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the fancy of Missus Radcliffe. To all appearance, it had

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been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in

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one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It

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lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations

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were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung

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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

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paintings in frames of rich golden Arabesque. In these paintings,

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which depended from the walls, not only in their main surfaces,

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but in very many nooks, which the bizarre architecture of

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

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perhaps had caused me to take deep interest, so that

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I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room,

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since it was already night, to light the tongues of

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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

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of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished

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all this done that I might resign myself, if not

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to sleep, at least alternately, to the contemplation of these

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pictures and the perusal of a small volume which had

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been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticize

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and describe them. Long long I read, and devoutly, devotedly,

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

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

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out reaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturbed my

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slumbering ballet, I placed it so as to throw its

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rays more fully upon the book. But the action produced

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an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles,

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for there were many, now fell within a niche of

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the room, which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade

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by one of the bedposts. I thus saw in vivid

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light a picture all and notice before it was the

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portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I

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glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes.

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Why I did this was not at first apparent even

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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

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shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time

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for thought, to make sure that my vision had not

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deceived me, to calm and subdue my fancy for a

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

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I again looked fixedly at the painting. But I now

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saw aright. I could not and would not doubt for

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the first flashing of the candles upon that canvass had

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seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over

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my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.

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The portrait I have already said, was that of a

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young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders done

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what is technically termed a vignette manner, much in the

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style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom,

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and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly

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into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background

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of the whole. The frame was oval richly gilded and

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filigreed in moresque as a thing of art. Thing could

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be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could

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have been neither the execution of the work, nor the

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immortal beauty of the countenance which had so suddenly and

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so vehemently moved me. Least of all could it have

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been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had

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mistaken the head for that of a living person. I

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saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of

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the vignetting and of the frame must have instantly dispelled

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

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

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half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait.

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At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect,

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I fell back within the bed. I had found the

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spell of the picture, in an absolute life likeliness of expression, which,

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at first startlingly, finally confounded, abdued, and appalled me with

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deep and reverent awe. I replaced the candelabrum in its

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former position, the cause of my deep agitation being thus

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shut from my view, I sought eagerly the volume which

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discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number

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which designated the Oval portrait, I there read the vague

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and quaint words which follow. She was a maiden of

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rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee

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and evil was the hour when she saw and loved

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

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already a bride in his art. She a maiden of

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rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee,

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all light and smiles and frolicsome as the young fawn,

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loving and cherishing all things, hating only the art which

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was her rival, dreading only the palate and brushes and

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untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover.

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It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to

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hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even

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his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and

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sat meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret chamber,

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where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead.

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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.

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And he was a passionate and wild and moody man,

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who became lost in reveries so that he would not

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see that the light which fell so ghastly in that

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lone turret, withered the health and the spirits of his bride,

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who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled

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on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter,

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who had high renown, took a fervid and burnt pleasure

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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

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and weak, and in sooth. Some who beheld the portrait

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spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a

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mighty marble, and a proof not less of the power

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of the painter than of his deep love for her,

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whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as

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the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted

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none into the turret, For the painter had grown wild

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with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes

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from canvas, merely even to regard the countenance of his wife.

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And he would not see that the tints which he

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spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of

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her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed,

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and but little remained to do save one brush upon

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the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit

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of the lady again flickered up as the flame within

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the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given,

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and then the tint was placed. And for one moment

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the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought.

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But in the next while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous,

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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.

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She was dead. End of the Oval portrait