Tynan Portillo presents...featuring the best horror stories of the 19th century...welcome to The Poe Show podcast. Narrated by Tynan Portillo.

Today's episode, The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe.

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 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 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 Oval Portrait is one of Edgar Allan Poe's shortest stories of horror, spanning only about 3 pages, at least in the book that I have. It was written in 1842, and published by Graham's Magazine, but had a later publication in April of 1845. It's original title was "Life in Death" and it also had some extra paragraphs written in. These paragraphs described how the main character had gotten wounded and say that he had taken opium to relieve his pain, however, Poe eventually took these out probably because he saw then as unnecessary and because the opium might suggest the whole account was more like a hallucination.

It's one of the only ones I've ever read of Poe's work that uses a frame narrative, or a story within a story. Here we have a main character unconnected to the actual story of the portrait, giving us their account of it. Which makes sense because the chateau in which the portrait hangs had apparently been long abandoned. So in this story, we have two characters breaking into a chateau to have some shelter for the night. The narrator of this story seemingly wounded and weak, but this is the character who is curious enough to start investigating all of these records of that art pieces around him.

There's plenty of questions we get to ask as the audience too, seeing as there are so many pieces of extravagant art and rich golden arabesque. Why would anyone leave all this valuable art to rot here? Why did the artist becomes so obsessed with his art? Was he seeking greatness or was it to pay a kind of ultimate respect to his wife? Why didn't the wife just move and say, "Stop painting for one damn second, I need to get some food." Obviously this story shows she's very loving and obedient but to just sti there and die, I mean that's very loving.

We also have to infer the reaction that the painter had to seeing his wife dead. He was obviously appalled at his painting being life itself, but I wonder how he reacted to seeing that he was the cause of his loving wife's death. Maybe it was like The Black Cat, the second episode on this podcast, where it mattered less to the main character what they did for or to their wife, and mattered more what they did to this other thing, a black cat or a painting. In this story, it seems that the comparison between art and life is much more negative. More negative than I've ever heard before, at least.

An obsessed painter ignores the lives around him and subsequently it leads his lover to her death. It almost seems like one of the messages is art can never get too close to life, otherwise it's not art. And it can suck the life out of its own inspiration - it just becomes life. And the reason we appreciate art is because there's a certain highetened quality to it that can take something like a bowl of fruit and make it resemble a bowl of fruit while not just being a bowl of fruit. Does that make sense?

Like, as an actor, I've heard before that if you perform Shakespeare completely realistically, the audience would lose more than half of the message, the dialogue and the meaning. There's always something that helps us remember that this piece of art isn't real, it's make believe. A movie is a movie, and we can get scared while watching a horror movie, but we still get to walk out of the theater or turn our bedroom lights back on. So perhaps the sentiment of not letting art get too close to real life is being shared here.

It also says that the wife became very jealous of her husband's obsession with his work and it became her rival. A competitor for her husband's love. Maybe that is what kept her sitting there until death, less of love and admiration and more of jealousy and spite. Or to prove that she is more worhty of her husband's love. Or there could be a more positive message of love and requiring sacrifice. And thereby making his wife a martyr for unending love. There's so many ways this story could go with this meaning.

This is yet another story that Poe has written concerning the death of a beautiful woman as well. I think it's appropriate to assume that to Poe the most beautiful topic for art is that which speaks of the deepest wells of the soul, where grief and pain stir until allowed to spring up. Which is very inspiring. The idea that accepting that pain hurts, but that it's also a part of our human condition, something that everyone experiences, something that we aren't alone in -  we aren't alone in our pain. That someone not only understand our pain but also carries that pain with us. That's very powerful.

The painter also seems to be obsessed with perfection. Each brush stroke and tint ahd to be done perfectly, had to capture his wife's essence perfectly. And I think this is a perfect example of how seeking perfection can drain us of our ability to live. And don't get me wrong, I think it's good to look for ways you can improve your craft or hone your skills, but perfection is impossible. If we waste our time trying to be perfect, that's all it'll lead to. Wasted time. We can look for ways to improve but scrutinizing every little move we make in order to be perfect is something that can kill us, if not physically then at least creatively or psychologically.

You know, for a good example, when I first took piano lessons, I was taught a certain way to play. If I messed up any note, I would go back just a little bit and play that section again. But I think I took that way of learning into other areas of my life. And to me, that's detrimental. It's much more advantageous for me to just keep going, instead of obsessing over little mistakes and trying to start over every time. It's like a speed bump, I can slow down as I get over it, but if I keep starting over, I'll never progress. And maybe if the painter hadn't been so obsessed with making each little thing perfect or at least given himself and his wife a break every now and they might've had a happier ending.

The power of art is so immense that it can directly influence and inspire many people's lives in ways we can't imagine. From the beginning of this story, we see that despite everyone seemingly forgettig the works of this painter, one man found his work, appreciated it and share it with others. With us! We now know of this painter and we know the tragic story of his wife because of just one other person. In short, this story demonstrates that whatever impact we think our deeds will have on the world is less important than the fact and the miracle that we can do anything at all.

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