Some strange indefinite evil seemed
hanging over me that I could not avert; something terrible and
loathsome oppressed me that I could not shake off.
I was conscious of
being asleep, and strove to rouse myself, but every effort redoubled
the evil; until gasping, struggling, almost strangling, I suddenly
sprang bolt upright in my chair, and awoke.
The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, and the wick was divided;
there was a great winding sheet made by the dripping wax, on the side
towards me. The disordered taper emitted a broad flaring flame, and
threw a strong light on a painting over the fire-place, which I had not
hitherto observed.
It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, that appeared to be
staring full upon me, and with an expression that was startling. It was
without a frame, and at the first glance I could hardly persuade myself
that it was not a real face, thrusting itself out of the dark oaken
pannel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and the more I gazed the more
it disquieted me. I had never before been affected in the same way by
any painting. The emotions it caused were strange and indefinite. They
were something like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of the
basilisk; or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termed
fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, as if seeking
instinctively to brush away this allusion - in vain - they instantly
reverted to the picture, and its chilling, creeping influence over my
flesh was redoubled.
I looked around the room on other pictures, either to divert my
attention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced by them.
Some of them were grim enough to produce the effect, if the mere
grimness of the painting produced it - no such thing. My eye passed over
them all with perfect indifference, but the moment it reverted to this
visage over the fire-place, it was as if an electric shock darted
through me. The other pictures were dim and faded; but this one
protruded from a plain black ground in the strongest relief, and with
wonderful truth of coloring. The expression was that of agony - the
agony of intense bodily pain; but a menace scowled upon the brow, and a
few sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all
these characteristics - it was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable
antipathy awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings.
I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical; that my brain was
confused by the fumes of mine host's good cheer, and, in some measure,
by the odd stories about paintings which had been told at supper. I
determined to shake off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair,
and walked about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughed
aloud. It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old chamber
jarred upon my ear. I walked to the window; tried to discern the
landscape through the glass. It was pitch darkness, and howling storm
without; and as I heard the wind moan among the trees, I caught a
reflection of this accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it
were staring through the window at me. Even the reflection of it was
thrilling.
How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded myself it was,
to be conquered? I determined to force myself not to look at the
painting but to undress quickly and get into bed. I began to undress,
but in spite of every effort I could not keep myself from stealing a
glance every now and then at the picture; and a glance was now
sufficient to distress me. Even when my back was turned to it, the idea
of this strange face behind me, peering over my shoulder, was
insufferable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed; but still
this visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it from my bed, and for
some time could not take my eyes from it. I had grown nervous to a
dismal degree.
I put out the light, and tried to force myself to sleep; - all in vain!
The fire gleaming up a little, threw an uncertain light about the room,
leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow. What,
thought I, if this be the chamber about which mine host spoke as having
a mystery reigning over it? - I had taken his words merely as spoken in
jest; might they have a real import? I looked around. The faintly
lighted apartment had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted
chamber. It began in my infected imagination to assume strange
appearances. The old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker and
blacker; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among the quaint old
articles of furniture, gave them singular shapes and characters. There
was a huge dark clothes-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and
lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me.
Am I then, thought I, indeed, the hero of the haunted room? Is there
really a spell laid upon me, or is this all some contrivance of mine
host, to raise a laugh at my expense? The idea of being hag-ridden by
my own fancy all night, and then bantered on my haggard looks the next
day was intolerable; but the very idea was sufficient to produce the
effect, and to render me still more nervous. Pish, said I, it can be no
such thing. How could my worthy host imagine that I, or any man would
be so worried by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination that
torments me. I turned in my bed, and shifted from side to side, to try
to fall asleep; but all in vain.
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