The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe

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One of my favorite memories of scaring
myself as a child was getting a compilation

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book of Edgar Allan Poe stories from
my elementary school library. It brought me

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so much fear and so much excitement. I remember running home from school with

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that book in my backpack as the
sky was dark and a storm was coming.

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I was in my childhood living room, but I wasn't alone. I

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had a pizza and the books of
Poe. Every so often I'll bring you

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a tale of Poe, and I
hope it gives you that scary fun sense,

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just the same as it does for
me. So listen to these words

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from our sponsors, and when the
clock strikes midnight, the story will begin.

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The Oval portrait by Edgar Allan Poe. The chateau in which my valet

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

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

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piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which
have so long frowned among the Appennines,

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not less in fact, than in
the fancy of Missus Radcliffe. To all

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appearance, it had been temporarily and
very lately abandoned, we established ourselves in

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

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

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Its walls were hung with tapestry and
bedecked 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 in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather
than disturbed my slumbering valet, I placed

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

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

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there were many, now fell within
a niche of the room, which had

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hitherto been thrown into deep shade by
one of the bed posts. I thus

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saw in vivid light a picture,
all unnoticed before. It was the portrait

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

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

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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 was

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

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

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more certain gaze. In the very
few moments I again looked fixedly at the

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painting that I now saw. Aright, I could not and would not doubt,

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for the first flashing of the candles
upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate

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

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

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of a young girl. It was
a mere head and shoulders, done in

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what is technically termed 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 formed the background of the

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

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thing of art. Nothing 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

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

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slumber, had mistaken the head for
that of a living person. I saw

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at once that the peculiarities of the
design, of the vignetting and of the

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frame must have instantly dispelled such idea, much have prevented even in its momentary

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entertainment. Thinking 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. At

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length, satisfied with the true secret
of its effect, I fell back within

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the bed. I had found the
spell of the picture, in an absolute

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life likeliness of expression, which,
at first startling, finally confounded, subdued,

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and appalled me With deep and reverent
awe. I replaced the candelabrum in

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its former position, the cause of
my deep agitation being thus shut from view,

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

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

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quaint words which follow She was a
maiden of rarest beauty, and not more

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lovely than full of glee and evil. Was the hour when she saw and

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loved and wedded the painter, he
passionate, studio austere, and having already

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

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

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

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was her rival, dreading only the
palate and brushes and other untoward instruments,

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which deprived her of the countenance of
her lover. It was thus a terrible

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thing for this lady to hear the
painters speak of his desire to portray even

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his young bride. But she was
humble and obedient, and sat meekly for

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many weeks in the dark high turret
chamber, where the light dripped upon the

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pale canvas only from overhead. But
he, the painter, took glory in

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his work, which 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, who became lost

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in reveries, so that he would
not see that the light which fell so

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ghastly in that 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 on and still on,

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uncomplainingly, because she saw that the
painter, who had high renown,

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took a fervid and burning pleasure in
his task, and wrought day and night

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to depict her, who so loved
him, yet who grew daily more dispirited

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and weak, and in soothe Some
who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance

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in low words, as of a
mighty marvel, and a proof not less

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of the power of the painter than
of his deep love for her, whom

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he depicted so surpassingly well. But
at length, as the labor drew nearer

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to its conclusion, there were admittedly
none into the turret, for the painter

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had grown wild with the ardor of
his work, and turned his eyes from

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canvas merely even to regard the countenance
of his wife. And he would not

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see that the tints which he spread
upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks

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of her who sate beside him.
And when many weeks bad past, and

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but little remain'd to do save one
brush upon the mouth and one tint upon

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the eye, the spirit 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, and then

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

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

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he grew tremulous, and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a

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loud voice, this is indeed life
itself. Turned suddenly to regard his beloved.

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She was dead.