第 59 节
作者:管他三七二十一      更新:2021-04-30 16:22      字数:6328
  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