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 criticize 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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