THE OVAL PORTRAIT

The château 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 château

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 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

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 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!”