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The Oval Portrait

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 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 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 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 pourtray 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 be 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 bad 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!

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Comments

Submitted by admin on Wed, 05/14/2003 - 05:06

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this is a story to linger over and marval at its entrancing detail in everything that is present in it apart from its ending which is rather brief but somehow effective. reflecting on the story once finished it seems to be almost an anti climax.but a rivetting story non the less.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 02/04/2005 - 12:56

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This story is one of poes greater works. He hid the meaning and moral of this story very well. It was very hard for me to find the moral in this story because it was so short. I also find it alsost genious to get such a strong point of veiw acrossed in a few pages.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 07/08/2006 - 00:45

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Edgar Allen Poe mastered the use of words to set an atmosphere of expectation and lead the mind to extrapolate horror without gratuitous violence and gore. Excellent fare to share around campfires, on long late-night journeys, and adolescent slumber-parties. Gives me the shivers.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 02/02/2007 - 21:11

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edgar allan poe is a great writer MOST OF THE TIME. i have read many of his stories like the "tale-tell heart" and "goldbug" but this one, ive never heard of and it is sortaaa just a bit boring. Theres nothing great about this one. Just everyone thinks hes a great author so assumes the same about this one but this one isnt one of his best... he must have had a bad day while writing this.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 04/15/2007 - 18:51

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Well, I guess I can see why a lot of people would find this boring. Now a days, people are accustomed to a much different idea and style of writing.

However, this is still Edgar Allen Poe. Theres a reason hes famous; hes one of the greatest writers ever to walk this earth!

I find the horror in this story to be not the kind of horror we see in violent and gory movies, but the kind of horror of realizing how sad you are. The kind of horror you feel when you realize youve just waisted your whole life. Shear horror is often times regret and/or loneliness.

~Skye

Submitted by admin on Sun, 04/29/2007 - 02:29

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oh man, when I read this I was amazed by how critically truthful Poe was being when he wrote this. its almost like hes criticizing his own craft, or the emphasis that a lot of people put on it when they praised it. very thought-provoking and cynical look at art and those who make it.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 04/29/2007 - 02:33

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I completely disagree with it being too long. Edgar Allen Poes known for stories that are completely riveting and more in the genre of "horror." Before I read all the comments, I said that hes criticizing his own craft and those who praise it. Thats all hes doing. I think what hes saying is, very harshly, that art is only an imitation of life and not the other way around.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 07/25/2007 - 20:16

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Concerning Poes opinion (if that is really his opinion) about art being an imitation of life, I have to disagree. Art is a performatic action, therefore, it adds to nature what nature lacks, that is, concepts and beauty. Aristoteles had this opinion too, contrasting Platos opinion (plato too thought that art imitates life, so he condamned it).

Submitted by admin on Mon, 12/10/2007 - 01:40

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"Posted 2006-02-17 17:48:04

Ive never read any of this guys stuff before, is he well
known? The story was all right, nothing special. Maybe
he should change the ending."

Youve seriously GOT to be joking. -Please- say youre kidding, right? Lmao. And I agree with the person that was derogatory to anyone who thought this was too long. I mean, 3 pages; wow. I read "The Arabian Nights" & understood most of it...in the third grade.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 04/24/2009 - 08:15

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This is beautifully descriptive and classically Poe. For those of you who have never heard of this writer, Im amazed ! For those of you criticising the vocabulary, you need to know that Poe died in 1849, which explains the use of narrative and style in which its written. Lovely pace and, like the subject, Poe paints this beautifully with such poetic words. DK

Submitted by admin on Tue, 08/24/2010 - 22:33

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I thought this story was written exceptionally well. I love Poes use of vocabulary and the pacing and placement of terms and actions couldnt be better. The gloomy appartment really adds to the "Classic Poe" environment. I thought this story was a bit confusing. The ending seemed a bit to abrupt, besides that, this story was excellent.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 07/26/2011 - 19:46

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I like the story very much..It`s have
different plot which is rarely found in
other stories..
Beside that,this story have a classic
language which makes it interesting and
give lesson to us.It tought us to
appreciate the people and not being too
obsessed in certain job.The painter for
example ,was too obsessed with his job and
finally kills his wife.Its also tought to
loyal with our beloved one as shown by the
wife but not until kill ourself.;)
Nice work,poe!

Submitted by admin on Sat, 07/30/2011 - 14:34

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i am still liking the story even after i
read the original version. i never thought
the original version of this story will be
a little bit horrifying and confusing
since its using classic English. overall,
this story has its own attraction (to me
at least), and shows another good job from Poe.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 07/31/2011 - 00:21

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the obsession of the man toward his profession in drawing a portrait is very dangerous and can make him to forget about his duties toward others. the man neglected his wife who is very loyal and love him. we must control our feeling toward something before we regret it later. think carefully before making any decision. the woman must control her love toward her husband and try to make her husband to realise his mistake. she must not let the love to control her brain.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 07/31/2011 - 01:35

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The story is interesting, even, it have too many classic words.I feel difficult to understand the meaning of the words,at first.I dont like the characterization of the painter which he was obsessed on doing his job. He feels job is more important than his wife. From the story, the painter was obsessed on drawing a potrait of a woman. He did not spent his time with his wife even looked into her face. Lastly, he feels regret because the woman that he had drawn should be his wife which have been to dead. The lesson from the story are we should sprnd our time with our family even we are busy on doing our works and give your love to them as long as we are alive.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 07/31/2011 - 01:41

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EXCELLENT STORY!
eventhough poe used classic word
its realy exciting short story..
so sad because his wife dead just like that..this short story told us dont to be very obsessed with our work and ignore the beloved one..just balance it in our life..
~jue~

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