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　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　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！
  End　of　The　Works　of　Edgar　Allan　Poe　V。　1