{{1842-01: The //1845-02: THE }} chateau into which {{1842-01: Pedro //1845-02: my valet }} had ventured to make forcible entrance {{1845-02: , }} rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those {{1842-01: fantastic }} piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the {{1842-01: Appennines [[Apennines]] //1845-02: Appenines [[Apennines]] }} , not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. {{1842-01: 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 //1845-02: We }} established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay {{1842-01: 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 {{1842-01: 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. {{1842-01: 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 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 {{1842-01: so }} placed it {{1845-02: 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 {{1845-02: at once }} into waking life {{1842-01: 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, {{1842-01: yet fantastically }} gilded and filagreed {{1845-02: in Moresque }} . As a {{1842-01: work //1845-02: thing }} of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. {{1842-01: 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 {{1842-01: half-slumber //1845-02: 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 {{1845-02: , }} and of the frame {{1845-02: , }} must have instantly dispelled such idea — must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for {{1842-01: some hours //1845-02: an hour }} perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied {{1842-01: of // 1845-02: with }} the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in {{1842-01: a perfect //1845-02: an absolute }} life-likeliness of expression, which {{1845-02: , }} at first startling, finally confounded, subdued and appalled me. {{1842-01: I could no longer support the sad meaning smile of the half-parted lips, nor the too real lustre of the wild eye. }} With {{1842-01: 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 {{1845-02: , }} and not more lovely than full of glee: all light and smiles {{1845-02: , }} 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 {{1845-02: , }} 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. {{1842-01: Ye [[Yet]] //1845-02: 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 {{1845-02: , }} 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 {{1842-01: visage //1845-02: eyes }} 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 {{1842-01: sate [[sat]] //1845-02: 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 {{1845-02: he }} yet {{1842-01: he }} gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice ‘This is indeed Life itself!’ turned suddenly {{1842-01: round }} to {{1845-02: regard }} his beloved {{1845-02: : }} — {{1842-01: who //1845-02: She }} was dead. {{1842-01: The painter then added — ‘But is this indeed Death?’ ” }}