The Oval Portrait, E.A. Poe

It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood...

It was a mere head and shoulders,

done in what is technically termed a vignette manner

- much in the style of the favourite 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 background 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.

I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeness of expression,

which at first startling, finally confounded,

subdued, and appallled me...

'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,

-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 palette 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...

And he... became lost in reveries;

so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly...

withered the health and the spirits of his bride,

who pined visibly to all but him.

Yet she smiled on, uncomplainingly,

because she saw that the painter 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.

... as the labour drew nearer to its conclusion,

there were admitted none into the turret;

for the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work,

and turned the eyes from the canvas rarely...

...and he would not see that the tints

which he spread upon the canvas

were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him.

And when many weeks had 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!

Illustration by
Arthur Rackham (1935)

H.W.Longfellow, The Psalm of Life

H.W. Longfellow in 1868, a photograph
by Julia M. Cameron

Henry Wadsworth

Longfellow
               

1807 - 1882

American poet & educator

he was the first American to translate

Dante Alighieri's The Divine Comedy

A Psalm of Life

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

The poem is written in the form of a psalm and urges us to live life to the full. It is a real call to action: we must stop sleeping as Life is meant to be lived. We have to get up and act as, the poet says,  we cannot be like cattle and go where everyone else goes, never paying attention, as life is passing us by. Our time on this earth is just a moment, but it is a precious moment and we have to learn to value it. We must take action, and make something of our life, because it is our life, and ours only to live!

The Tell-Tale Heart I, E. A. Poe

(I)

True! – nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and I am;

but will you say that I am mad?

The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them.

Above all was the sense of hearing acute.

How then, am I mad?

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain;

but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

Object there was none

Passion there was none.

I loved the old man.

He had never wronged me.

He had never given me insult

For his gold I had no desire.

I think it was his eye!

Yes, it was this!

One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture – a pale blue eye, with a film over it.

Whenever it fall upon me, my blood ran cold; and so… very gradually… I made up my mind to … rid myself of the eye forever.

You fancy me mad.

But you should have seen me… how wisely I proceeded.

Every night I turned the latch of his door and opened it…

and then I thrust in my head… cunningly I thrust it in!

I moved it slowly – very, very slowly,

so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep…

would a madman have been so wise as this?

And then I undid the lantern cautiously…

just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye.

And this I did for seven long nights… 

but I found the eye always closed…

his Evil Eye.

The Tell-Tale Heart II, E. A. Poe

(II)

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door.

Never, before that night, had I felt the extent of my own powers – of my sagacity.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern… and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out –

“Who’s there?’

For a whole hour I did not move a muscle… and I didn’t hear him lie down.

Presently I heard… the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan  of pain or of grief – oh, no! – it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.

I knew the sound well…

I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him…

‘It is nothing but the wind in the chimney’

‘it is only a mouse crossing the floor’

‘it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp’

Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself…

but… all in vain…

because Death,

in approaching him,

had stalked with his black shadow before him,

and enveloped the victim.

… very patiently… I resolved to open… a very little crevice in the lantern… until… a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open – wide open – and I grew furious as I gazed upon it.

And now… there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.

I knew that sound well, too.

It was the beating of the old man’s heart.

It increased my fury…

It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant…

It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!

– do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous so I am.

I thought the heart must burst…

The sound would be heard by a neighbour!

The old man’s hour had come!

He shriek once – once only.

The Tell-Tale Heart III, E. A. Poe

(III)

The old man was dead…

He was stone, stone dead…

His eye would trouble me no more.

The night waned, and I worked hastily…

I dismembered the corpse… then I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings.

There was nothing to wash out – no stain of any kind – no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

It was four o’clock – still dark as midnight.

… there came a knocking at the door…

I went down to open it… for what had I now to fear?

There entered … three officers of the police.

A shriek had been heard…

I smiled, - for what had I to fear?

I took my visitors al lover the house. I led them… to his chamber…

In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest…

while I myself, in the audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot

beneath the corpse of the victim.

My manner had convinced them.

They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.

But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone.

My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears…

The ringing became more distinct…

I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling…

But it continued and gained definitiveness…

The noise was within my ears.

The sound increased – and what could I do?

It was a low, dull, quick sound – much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.

I gasped for breath…

I talked more quickly…

Why would they not be gone?

The noise steadily increate. Oh God! What could I do?

I foamed – I raved – I swore! I swung the chair…

But the noise grew louder – louder – louder!

Was it possible they heard not?

Almighty God! – no, no! They heard! –

they suspected! – they knew! –

they were making a mockery of my horror!

I felt that I must scream or die! – and now – again! hark! louder! louder! louder! –

louder!

“Villains!” I shriek, “dissemble no more!...

… here, here!

– it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Happy, happy birthday Bram !

                                                   
                 Bram Stoker

November 8, 1847 
April 20, 1912


Irish novelist and short story writer

‘Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!’

‘Welcome to my house. Come freely.

Go safely;

and leave something of the happiness you bring!’

‘I’m Dracula and I bid you welcome…’

‘His face was a strong -  a very strong – aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples, but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.   The backs of his hands… seemed rather white and fine… they were coarse – broad, with squat fingers… there were hair in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point.

… I could not repress a shudder… his breath was rank… a horrible feeling of nausea came over me…’

‘Listen to them – the children of the night.

What music they make!’

‘I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear, I think strange things which I dare not confess to my own soul…’

‘I love the shade and the shadow…’

‘My very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down, with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings...’

‘… What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man?’

‘… I raised the lid… and then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-gray; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood; he lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion… There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless.
The very thought drove me mad.
A terrible desire came upon me
to rid the world of such
a monster…’

from ‘Dracula’, by Bram Stoker

Bonfire Night !

"Remember, remember,
the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
We see no reason why
Gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!"

 

Guy Fawkes (1570–1606) belonged to a group of Roman Catholic conspirators who plotted to blow up the English Parliament and King James l, on the day set for the king to open Parliament. The plan, known as the Gunpowder Plot, was prevented by his arrest on 5 November 1605.

The story is remembered each 5th November when 'Guys' 'are burned on a bonfire, commonly accompanied by a firework display. ("Bonfire Night")