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——
BY EDGAR A. POE. ——
[column 1:]  MY fever had been excessive and of long duration. All the remedies
attainable in
this wild Appennine region had been
exhausted to no
purpose. My valet and sole attendant in the lonely chateau, was too
nervous and
too grossly unskilful to venture upon
letting blood —
of which indeed I had already lost too much in the affray with the
banditti.
Neither could I safely permit him to leave me in search of assistance.
At
length I bethought me of a little pacquet
of opium
which lay with my tobacco in the hookah-case; for at Constantinople
I had acquired the habit of smoking the
weed with the
drug. Pedro handed me the case. I sought and found the narcotic. But
when about to cut off a portion I felt the necessity
of
hesitation. In smoking it was a matter of little importance how
much
was employed. Usually, I had half filled the bowl of the hookah with
opium and
tobacco cut and mingled intimately, half and half. Sometimes when I had
used
the whole of this mixture I experienced no very peculiar effects; at
other
times I would not have smoked the pipe more than two-thirds out, when
symptoms
of mental derangement, which were even alarming, warned me to desist.
But the
effect proceeded with an easy gradation which deprived the indulgence
of all
danger. Here, however, the case was different. I had never swallowed
opium before. Laudanum and morphine I had occasionally used, and about them
should have had no reason to hesitate. But the solid drug I had never
seen
employed.
Pedro knew no more respecting the proper quantity to be taken, than
myself —
and thus, in the sad emergency, I was left altogether to conjecture.
Still I
felt no especial uneasiness; for I resolved to proceed by degrees.
I
would take a very small dose in the first instance. Should this
prove
impotent, I would repeat it; and so on, until I should find an
abatement of the
fever, or obtain that sleep which was so pressingly requisite, and with
which
my reeling senses had not been blessed for now more than a week. No
doubt it
was this very reeling of my senses — it was the
dull delirium which
already
oppressed me — that prevented me from perceiving
the incoherence of my
reason —
which blinded me to the folly of defining any thing as either large or
small
where I had no preconceived standard of comparison. I had not, at the
moment,
the faintest idea that what I conceived to be an exceedingly small dose
of
solid opium might, in fact, be an excessively large one. [column 2:]
On the
contrary I well
remember that I judged confidently of the quantity to be taken by
reference to
the entire quantity of the lump in possession. The portion which, in
conclusion, I swallowed, and swallowed without fear, was no doubt a
very small
proportion of the piece which I held in my hand. The chateau
into which Pedro 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 fantastic 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. Day by day we expected the return of the family
who tenanted it, when the misadventure which had befallen me would, no
doubt, be received as sufficient apology for the intrusion. Meantime,
that this intrustion might be taken in better part, we had established
ourselves in one of the smallest
and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay high 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 having swallowed the opium, as before told,
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. I felt meantime, the voluptuous narcotic stealing its way to my
brain. I felt that in its magical influence lay much of the gorgeous
richness and variety of the frames — much of the ethereal hue that [page
201:] gleamed from the canvas — and much of
the wild interest of
the book which I perused. Yet this consciousness rather strengthened
than impaired the delight of the illusion, while it weakened the
illusion itself. 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 so placed it 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
into
waking life as if with the shock of a galvanic battery. 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, yet fantastically gilded and filagreed. As a
work of
art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. The
loveliness of the face surpassed that of the fabulous Houri. 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
some
hours perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted
upon
the portrait. At length, satisfied of the true secret of its effect,
I fell back within the bed. I had found
the spell of the picture in a perfect life-likeliness of
expression, which at first
startling,
finally
confounded, subdued and appalled me. I could no longer support the sad
meaning smile of the half-parted [column 2:] lips, nor the too
real lustre of the wild eye. With a 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 frolicksome 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 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 ghastlily in that lone turret withered the health
and
the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Ye [[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 visage from the canvas rarely,
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 [[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 yet he gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid,
and aghast, and crying with a loud voice 'This is indeed Life
itself!'
turned suddenly round to his beloved — who was dead.
The painter then added — 'But is this indeed Death?' " |
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