Chapter XI: Part 11

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!”