"Poe,_Edgar_Allan_-_The_Oval_Portrait" - читать интересную книгу автора (Poe Edgar Allan)
Edgar Allan Poe: The Oval Portrait
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
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!
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: The Oval Portrait
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
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!
THE END
|