The palace in which my servant had thought to enter by force, instead of leaving me, badly injured as I was, spending the night in the open, was one of those constructions that mixed glory and melancholy that for many years they raised their arrogant foreheads before the Apennines. Both in real life and in Mrs. Radcliffe's imagination.
Judging by appearances, they had left the castle recently, but temporarily. We entered one of the smaller rooms with modest furnishings. It was in a tower set apart from the rest of the palace. It was richly decorated, however it had deteriorated and everything was very old. The walls were covered with thick wallpaper and sported heraldic trophies of various sizes, from which hung a staggering number of paintings contemporary in their style, protected by gold frames in the Arabian style.
They piqued my interest greatly and perhaps my emerging hallucination was the cause; Those pictures that hung not only from the walls, but also from a few corners nestled in the extravagant architecture of that building, made it inevitable. I ordered Pedro to close the huge shutters in the room; since the hour was high, to light the multi-branched chandelier at the side of my headboard and to open wide the heavy dark velvet curtains, kept by festoons that surrounded the bed. That is how I wanted it to be able, in case of not falling asleep, to distract myself contemplating the paintings and reading a light volume, which they had left on my pillow and which addressed their analysis and criticism.
I was reading for a long time, looking at the religious portraits with devotion; the hours passed, swift and silent, until midnight came. The position of the candelabrum made me uncomfortable, I scratched my arm with difficulty so as not to interrupt my servant's sleep and arranged it so that its light shone fully on top of the book. But this move had a totally unexpected consequence. The light from its many candles fully illuminated a bedroom niche that, until then, had been hidden by the shadow of one of the bed columns
I noticed a painting that I hadn't noticed before, wrapped in bright light. It was a portrait of a girl already formed, practically a woman. I looked at her quickly and closed my eyes. Why? He wasn't able to explain it to me at first, but while my eyelids remained closed, I analyzed why. It had been an involuntary reflex to buy time and reflect, to make sure that my eyes were not deceived, to calm and prepare my spirit for a more logical and serene contemplation. After a brief moment, I stared back at the canvas. It was impossible to doubt, even if he wanted to; because the first ray of light, when illuminating the painting, had blurred the stupor that was dulling my senses, making me return to the real side of life.
The canvas represented, as I already mentioned, a girl. It was a half-length portrait, all in his style; Called in technical language, vignette style, it revealed Sully's method of painting on their favorite heads. His chest, arms, and the ends of his shiny hair hung in a faint but deep shadow that enhanced the image.
The frame was oval, preciously gilded and in the Moorish style. It was probably not the technique of the work, nor the impressive beauty of his features that managed to impress me in such an unexpected and profound way. I refused to believe that my imagination, escaping his delirium, had believed that his head was that of a living person.
However, the details of the drawing, the style of the vignette and the appearance of the frame, left no room for doubt. Lost in my thoughts, I stayed an hour without taking my eyes off the portrait. That inexplicable feeling of reality and life, which at first had given me chills, ended up overpowering me. Flooded with a fearful respect, I returned the candelabrum to its previous position and, looking away from the reason for my concern, I took once more the volume that related the history and description of the paintings.I immediately looked up the number that corresponded to the oval portrait and read the peculiar and strange story below:
She was a wench of delicate beauty, as gentle as she was graceful, who in bad luck fell in love with the painter and married him.
