[adapted]

by
Edgar Allan Poe

The castle, which my servant had forced his way into—rather than let me, in my badly wounded condition, spend the night outside—was one of those buildings that looked both dark and grand, standing for a long time among the Apennine Mountains, not only in real life but also in the imagination of Mrs. Radcliffe.

It seemed that the castle had been left empty only recently. We settled in one of the smallest and least fancy rooms. It was in a faraway tower of the building. The decorations were rich but old and torn. The walls were covered with tapestries and decorated with many different kinds of coats of arms, along with an unusually large number of modern paintings, full of life, framed in rich gold designs.

These paintings hung not only on the main walls but also in many corners, where the strange shape of the castle made space for them. Perhaps because of my feverish state, I became very interested in these paintings. So, I asked Pedro to close the heavy window shutters—since it was already night—to light the tall candlestick that stood by the head of my bed, and to pull open the long, black velvet curtains that surrounded the bed.

I wanted all this to be done so that, even if I could not sleep, I could at least spend the night looking at the paintings and reading a small book I had found on the pillow. The book gave descriptions and opinions about the paintings.

I read for a long, long time—and I stared at the paintings with deep attention. The hours passed quickly and beautifully, and soon, midnight arrived. The position of the candlestick bothered me, so I stretched out my hand with difficulty—choosing not to wake my sleeping servant—and moved it so that the light would shine more directly on the book.

But this small action had an effect I had not expected. The light from the many candles now reached a corner of the room that had been in deep shadow before, hidden by one of the bedposts. In this new light, I suddenly saw a painting I had not noticed before.

It was a portrait of a young girl who was just becoming a woman. I looked at the painting quickly and then closed my eyes. At first, I did not understand why I had done this. But while my eyes remained shut, I tried to think of a reason. It had been an automatic reaction—to give myself time to think, to make sure I had really seen what I thought I saw, to calm my mind before looking again more clearly and carefully.

After a few moments, I opened my eyes and looked at the painting again, staring at it intensely.

Now, I had no doubt that what I saw was real. The sudden light of the candles on the painting had broken the sleepy feeling that had been coming over me. It had shocked me awake as if pulling me out of a dream.

As I have already said, the portrait was of a young girl. It showed only her head and shoulders, painted in a style known as vignette, similar to the popular portraits by Sully. Her arms, chest, and even the ends of her shining hair faded softly into the deep, shadowy background.

The frame was oval, richly decorated with gold and designed in a Moorish style. As a work of art, the painting was perfect. But it was not just the skill of the artist or the extraordinary beauty of the face that had suddenly and powerfully affected me.

Most of all, I knew that my imagination, still half asleep, had not mistaken the painting for a real person. The unique style of the painting, the way the edges blended softly into the background, and the shape of the frame would have immediately prevented me from thinking it was real—even for a second.

I thought about these things deeply. For almost an hour, I sat halfway up in bed, staring at the portrait, unable to look away. Finally, I understood its strange effect on me. I leaned back on the bed, feeling both amazed and disturbed.

The painting was so incredibly life-like that, at first, it had shocked me. Then, it had confused me. And finally, it had filled me with a strange fear.

With deep respect and awe, I moved the candlestick back to its original place, hiding the painting from my view. Still shaken, I quickly picked up the book that described the paintings in the room. I searched for the page that talked about the oval portrait and read the mysterious and unusual words that followed:

“She was a young woman of rare beauty, and as lovely as she was full of joy. But the moment she met, loved, and married the painter was a tragic one.

He was passionate, serious, and dedicated to his art—so much so that it was as if his true love was painting. She, on the other hand, was full of light and laughter, playful like a young deer. She loved and cared for everything, but she hated only one thing—his art, because it took his attention away from her. She feared the painter’s tools—the palette, the brushes, and all the things that kept him from looking at her.

So, it was painful for her when he told her he wanted to paint her portrait. But she was kind and obedient, so she sat patiently for many weeks in the high, dark tower room, where the light fell only from above onto the pale canvas.

The painter, however, took great pride in his work. He painted for hours, then days, then weeks. He was passionate, wild, and lost in his own thoughts. He did not notice that the cold light in that lonely tower was draining the life and happiness from his wife. She was slowly wasting away before everyone’s eyes—everyone except his.

Yet, she kept smiling. She never complained because she saw how much her husband, who was famous for his paintings, was filled with joy while working. He painted day and night to capture the image of the woman who loved him. But each day, she became weaker and sadder.

Some who saw the portrait whispered about how amazingly lifelike it was. They said it was proof not only of the painter’s great skill but also of his deep love for his wife, whom he painted so perfectly.

At last, as the painting neared its completion, no one was allowed to enter the tower room anymore. The painter had become obsessed with his work. He rarely took his eyes off the canvas, not even to look at his wife’s face.

And he did not see that the colors he put onto the painting were being taken from the cheeks of the woman sitting beside him.

Finally, after many long weeks, there was only one last stroke to add—a final brush upon the lips, a last touch to the eyes. At that moment, his wife’s spirit flickered like the last flame of a candle about to go out.

Then, he added the last brushstroke.

For one moment, the painter stood frozen, completely amazed at the beauty of his finished work. But in the next moment, as he continued to stare, he began to shake. His face turned pale. His eyes filled with horror. And suddenly, he shouted:

“This is truly Life itself!”

Then, he turned quickly to look at his wife—

She was dead.