Heather-scented winds rush down from the mountains, ruffle the serene and darkly mirrored face of the tarn that laps against the ancient stones of my ancestral home, and trail icy perfumed fingers through my hair and across my tear-stained cheeks as I wait - oh, so impatiently! - for the voice of my lost love, my beautiful Jenny Dolorosa, to call me into her cold and comfortless arms for a final embrace. Oh God, what have I done? What has my pride, my hubris, my overweening vanity, finally wrought? Into what hellish existence have I trapped my lost and lovely Jenny Dolorosa... And to what terrible revenge does she summon me now? For I hear her, like a raven-feathered angel, singing sweetly - oh, so sweetly! - and whispering a maddening melody that wraps in coils around my fevered brain, binds my blood and bone to her will in delicate threads of music that are nevertheless stronger than cables of steel. She calls and I have no choice but to answer. With hesitant steps and bitter blackness seeping into my soul, I go to join her - my lady of darkness whom I murdered as surely as if I had plunged a dagger into her breast. My burning, bright and deadly love... my Jenny Dolorosa.
My name is Lady Mary McN-- and I am the last scion of a once noble Scottish clan. All that remained of my ancestor's greatness was a crumbling castle and its lands but, despite my family's penurious state, Father spent much of my childhood regaling me with gilded tales of the McN-- clan's glorious past and even more rapturous future until I came to believe that someday, I would restore my house to the rank of kings, wear a coronet upon my white brow and vanquish our enemies as of old. My sex was a grave disappointment to Father, who had depended upon a son to resurrect his tarnished dreams, and I suppose he never gave up hope that it would all turn out to be some grand mistake on the midwife's part. Despite my female state, I received a university education; it was in my third year that Father finally died, and the burdens of estate and title - not to mention bills and mortgages - settled firmly on my shoulders. I left school and embarked on a Continental Tour, determined to make my mark upon the world before I must at last return to the dank heap of watermarked stones that was my ancestral home. I was a painter, a portraitist of uncanny skill - or so it was said - and full of youthful pride and arrogance, I believed it so. T'was said that I could capture the sitter's soul upon my canvas, and soon after I gained the attention of several noble patrons, it seemed all the blue blood of Europe came knocking on my door. I became fashionable, I suppose. I did not bow and scrape to my patrons; I bullied and insulted them, tormented them by insisting on elaborate, heavy costumes and awkward poses from which they could not move an inch, lest the painting be ruined. Surprisingly, they bore it well and returned for more helpings of the acid-bitter fare I dished out. They were wealthy, I was not. They lived comfortably, with servants and plate and carriages; I had a garret apartment with an iron bed and cracked washstand for company, my only future prospect a mountain of creditors. I hated them, with their glittering gowns and diamond buckles, ruby lips and high-piled powdered wigs. So I poured glowing coals of envy on their heads and they lapped it up, delighted at the novelty, which only made me hate them more. My situation became a little better and I moved to Paris, City of Lights and Love. Many were the court beauties, the bold, coquettish girls with pale faces and bulging, tightly-laced breasts, who swooned and fluttered into my studio, cradling flowers, spoiled dogs and equally spoiled pages against their rustling silk gowns. In truth, I was growing weary - oh, so weary! - of the never ending parade of perfect china doll faces that were all the same, and the dull, dull murmur of their flirting chatter filled every daylight hour. I was stagnating, smothered in perfume and bon-bons... And then I met my lovely Jenny Dolorosa. That was not her real name; she was French, of course, maidservant to one of the noble ladies whom I had grown to abhor. But to me, she was Jenny Dolorosa, and the moment I saw her, I knew my heart was no longer my own. She was tall and slender, with hair the color of a raven's wing and eyes that were pale sapphires set into the perfect frame of her sad, serious face. She did not walk but floated; she did not speak but sing. I was captivated and captured, my soul burning and writhing in bonds of exquisite torment. I had to have her, my lovely Jenny Dolorosa. I had to possess her or die. I wooed and cajoled, seduced and sighed, used all the lover's cunning wiles to win this beauty that I could not resist. When, at last, she surrendered so sweetly - oh, God! how sweetly - to my embrace, all the glories and wonders and riches of Heaven could not have drawn me out of her arms. Ah, Jenny! Our love was kept secret, for such liaisons are forbidden in nearly every country. So by day, I painted Jenny with oils and brushes, but at night I painted her skin with feverish kisses and cunning caresses that made her cry out, lifted on fiery wings to the vault of the star-sprinkled sky, a rainbow of jeweled brightness bursting against her closed eyelids, a sound like a dying swan's note rising from the ivory column of her throat. Her fingers clutched and held me tight, my Jenny Dolorosa, and sometimes she would weep from the sheer beauty and wonderment of it all. Inevitably, we were discovered, and forced to flee to my home in Scotland. I was determined to continue my career and scheduled a showing at a gallery whose owner had not yet gotten wind of the scandal we'd left behind in France. I would work day and night if I had to, with Jenny as my only model. She was the only woman I would paint from now on; any other face, I felt, would only taint the canvas. I made a lonely tower of the castle into my studio with a sleeping chamber above. But I rarely slept and when I did, dreamed only of picking up brush and oils once more. Wonderful woman that she was, Jenny never complained but sat and stood and posed at my bidding, staying rigid for hours at a time, forsaking rest and even food if I wished. We spent all the summer, autumn and winter in this fashion and the grand passion we shared never waned. One day, in the middle of winter, with snow sweeping down from the mountains, I devised a painting that I was sure would be my greatest masterpiece. I was inspired to undreamed-of heights, my brain overflowing and bubbling with the muse's touch. I could not wait but immediately snatched up my paints and began the portrait, every now and then glancing up from the canvas to the figure of my Jenny, whose lovely pale eyes, full of love and trust, gazed upon me steadily. A dab of ochre here; a dash of rose madder; a splash of azure and gold. I hurled paint upon the canvas, unheeding and blinded to all else but the burning urge of creativity. As I worked, I did not notice the chill wind that crept through crevices in the stone. I did not see the gradual bluing of her lips; I did not hear the gentle chattering of her teeth. I did not notice the shadow that fell across her face - a sweep of vast, midnight wings that coldly whispered of guttering candles, weeping stone angels and drooping fringes of yew trees. I was blind to the fevered glaze that brightened her eyes, the falsely hot scarlet that blossomed on her cheeks. I existed only for the portrait that grew beneath my brush strokes; nothing else mattered. Oh, God! Would that I had never allowed this seed of madness to grow! Finished at last, I looked up and cast a kindly eye upon my poor Jenny. The portrait had perfectly captured the dark wings of her brows, the hair that spilled like ink over her shoulders, the glow in her pale sapphire eyes. The image was so life-like that I almost expected it to smile and speak. I had never painted better and while I was exhausted, I felt my bones glowing in triumph. A masterpiece, indeed! Daubs of paint, no matter how skillfully rendered, could never really reflect the creamy tint of her complexion, the glints in her hair, the expression of love that went beyond mere muscle and skin, mirroring the beauty of her soul - but I had done it. With my own hand I had created a miracle. It was as if I had taken the living woman and somehow translated her onto the stretched canvas. This was a magic that I could never hope to duplicate and I took a perverse pride in that fact. Night had fallen; small drifts of powdered snow were batted to and fro along the floor by an icy breeze. I had not felt the cold, so heated had I been by my labors, but now I began to shiver. When I spoke, the white froth of my breath billowed around my face like a cloud. "T'is done, my love! Come and see... it is you to the very life, I swear!" There was no answer from the model's dais. I stepped out from behind my easel and lit another candle. The flame flickered and danced. Jenny did not move. "My love...?" I drew closer. The candle fell from my hand as I shrieked, a spiraling cry of horror and pure disbelief that reverberated into the silent, snowy night, wrenched from my throat and piercing my sanity like a dagger. I staggered backwards, still screaming a denial. My Jenny was dead! Frozen to the dais like a mannequin, small pyramids of snow covering her wide open, sightless eyes. My lady of darkness was dead! My lovely Jenny Dolorosa was gone, snatched from this world by the cruel talons of angels, her song forever silenced! I had never noticed her slipping away, this child of summer and light, condemned by my pride and arrogance, murdered by snow and ice. I swooned, too overcome by grief and madness to do more than whisper her name.
A month after her funeral, it began. I had burned my paints and canvases, tossing them in a frenzy on a great bonfire. But the portrait I kept, hanging it upon the wall in my bedchamber; this picture was all I had left to remind me of my lost love. At night, when I tossed and turned in sweat soaked sheets, burning with a furious melancholy I could not fight against, I would open my eyes and stare into hers, sometimes burying my face into the pillow we had shared in the hopes of discovering some faint trace of the spicy fragrance she had worn. From disbelief to grief, from sadness to depression, I alternately turned in lunatic circles, always and forever unable to forget my lovely and carelessly lost Jenny Dolorosa. Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa! Then, one night when curtains of dark clouds had been swept away from the face of the moon, and ripples of pale light washed across the canvas that both tormented and comforted me, I heard Jenny's voice, calling. At first, I was convinced it was a dream, a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much weeping. But I heard it again, more insistently than before, and almost against my will slowly - oh, so slowly! - focused my gaze on the portrait. As I have said, the image was Jenny to the life, so real seeming that the viewer could almost see the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. It was a full-length portrait of my love in all her natural glory, set against a tangled garden of vines and flowers and fruits, such as the magi say grew in the Garden of Eden. Jenny was my Eve, my Lilith; my temptress, friend and lover, and I missed her with such force and sorrowful fury that I could have breached the very gates of Heaven or the fiery pits of Hell in my quest to regain her love. I looked at the painting, icy perspiration gushing from every pore, my hair stirring and trying to rise as I gazed into the face of my Jenny Dolorosa... and saw the painted lips begin to move, forming words whose sound was no more than a muttered hush, the arms rising and extending beyond the canvas, beckoning me to anguished doom. She called me, my lost love, and sang a pitifully sweet melody that I could not understand. It drove hooks into my soul, lashed my brain with terror and I fled, screaming, from the room. Her vengeful spirit had returned to the one responsible for her untimely death. Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa! Still screaming, I ran out into the night.
Every evening it was the same. For some time I avoided the tower, even though it was the most habitable place in the ruined castle I was forced to call my home. But no matter what hidden corner or secret chamber I chose, when the moon cast its watery beams of light across the landscape, I would hear the voice of my Jenny Dolorosa, calling and calling in sad, tear-laced tones that made me shudder uncontrollably. I wept and begged for mercy but what pity could she have for a monster such as me? I finally understood what I had done. Somehow, during that final, terrible night, with my brushes and paints, uncanny skill and muse-wrought madness, I had not only captured the image of Jenny... I had unwittingly stolen her soul, imprisoning it forever within the portrait. Trapped by her murderer's hand, unable to rise to Heaven or sink to Hell, I could not blame my love for wanting revenge. Days passed and Jenny's song grew stronger and clearer, though I still could not make out the words. It didn't matter; I already knew the imprecations and oaths she was doubtlessly heaping upon my head. Having destroyed the woman I loved beyond all life - oh! what had my cursed pride and vanity done! - I could, in the end, do nothing but meekly submit to whatever punishment she desired. Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa! So now I make my way to the tower one last time, the siren song of Jenny Dolorosa drawing me closer and closer, blotting out even the loud lapping of the dark tarn waters against the walls of the castle. I can no longer avoid my fate. One by one, I mount the steps that lead to the bedchamber where the portrait of Jenny still hangs upon the wall. One by one, my heartbeats falter until the slow, steady thudding of my pulse beats in a false and erratic rhythm. My blood boils in my veins; my soul is heavy with the weight of sorrow and bitter regret. Jenny Dolorosa calls. I must go on.
The heather-scented wind now claws and screeches at the stones. My hair, once a shade that Titian would have envied, has grown dull and brittle, and lashes at my eyes, making them sting. The bedroom is as I left it. The portrait - oh, God! that cursed, cursed portrait! - is fastened to the wall opposite my bed. Moonlight illuminates the canvas, washing out the bold and brilliant colors, lending an eldrich dusting of silver across Jenny's painted skin. I stand directly before the painting. Jenny's pale sapphire eyes bore into mine. I am no longer afraid. I say, "What is it, my love? What will you have of me?" and wait for the answer. The face, composed only of ground pigments and oils, stares down at me. Slowly, ever so slowly, the lips begin to move, the arms to rise. I stand unflinching, waiting for the pain I know will come, patiently surrendering to the deadly will of my lost and lovely Jenny. I am prepared for anything for I know what torments I deserve. A flash of lightning gives a febrile bluish tint to her complexion. The arms begin to extend beyond the frame, the canvas stretching impossibly, molding itself to her ghostly form like a well fitting glove. The lips are still moving; although her song is stronger than it has ever been before, I cannot make out the words. Her fingertips are reaching for my cheek. I close my eyes, unable to suppress the shudders that wrack my frame. Just as those painted fingertips brush the surface of my face, I hear her voice clearly for the first time. "I forgive you," she whispers. My eyes fly open. It is a trick, I think to myself. A teasing taste of mercy to be snatched away before the real pain begins. "I forgive you," she insists. No! I cannot, will not, believe this! "I forgive you," she sighs, caressing my cheek. Her fingers are warm and soft. And finally, seeing only love reflected in her pale eyes, I surrender. Sobbing, tears flowing like a summer storm, I fall on my knees, kissing that unreal hand over and over again, the stains of grief and madness washing away from my soul. Through my stifled moans, I hear her say, "I love you." and then, "Goodbye." Immediately, I look up and with blurred vision see the figure of Jenny moving backwards, further into the background of the portrait. Her hand withdraws from mine and more quickly than I could have imagined, she is being swallowed up by the jungle of Eden. "No!" I scream. "No! I will not lose you again!" Another lightning flash. I snatch the portrait from the wall and clutch the frame so tightly it creaks. Thrusting my face against the canvas, I shout, "Jenny! Don't leave me again! Please!" The expression on her face is one of sorrow but she does not halt her retreat. I can just make out the silvery tracks of tears on her cheeks. "Noooo!" I howl. Sheer desperation gave me an idea. I shove a hand directly at the portrait, half expecting the tough surface to rip and tear, but instead... It yields. My arm dives into the world I created, this painted garden of paradise. I can feel crisp green vines rubbing against my skin, cup a round orange in my palm. I no longer care what the consequences might be. Metaphysics and religion do not not enter into it at all; I am simply determined not to lose my love again. Holding the portrait upright in both hands once more, I lift my right leg and push it through. Cool earth, moist and fecund, tickles the sole of my foot. The other leg quickly follows. Grabbing my journal, I hasten to scribble down these last few words of explanation for those who may come after, seeking to solve mysteries that are beyond the reach of human understanding. Once finished, I will leave these ink-blotted pages to serve as the final memorial of a love that will endure until the throne of ages crumbles into dust. My Jenny Dolorosa calls... And joyfully I answer her song.
FROM THE OFFICIAL REPORT OF COLONEL HENRI de BRANARD January 21, 1678 Monsieur le Director: As per my orders, I and my men made our way to Scotland, following the trail of the criminals Lady Mary McN-- and the French girl known as Jenny, in an attempt to bring them back to face French justice for unnatural depravity and perversion, as specified in the arrest warrant. It was some months before we had even a trace of a lead; the natives of this benighted land are unfriendly and dour, unwilling to surrender one of their own even to His Glorious Majesty's duly appointed servants. At long last, having found the ruined castle of the McN-- clan, it was the middle of winter. Snow was falling heavily and some of my men were succumbing to the fierce cold. How the Scottish barbarians withstand this terrible weather in their little skirts is beyond my understanding! The bulk of the castle is completely unhabitable, an utter wreck and ruin. However, one of the towers is reasonably solid and it was here that I first concentrated my efforts. I regret to inform Monsieur le Director that the castle proved to be empty with no trace of the two women to be found. I will therefore be forced to widen the circle of my search; it could be that they have fled to the Continent once more. However, Monsieur, do not think I come away empty-handed from Scotland. It is clear that the artist and her paramour lived here for some months, for I have found the most wonderful portrait, fallen from the bedroom wall and lying carelessly on the floor. Fortunately, it was not damaged. The floor is scattered with a wet pulp of papers from which the ink has long ago been soaked; I suppose it was this cushion which protected the painting in its fall. It appears to be a self portrait of the artist, Lady McN--, accompanied by the girl. They are embracing in a wonderful garden, a true fantasy of flowers, fruits and vines. Really, Monsieur, the quality of the work is so exquisite that you would swear the women were alive! It is uncanny. Their eyes seem to follow one around the room and this morning, I was almost certain that the girl winked at me! Such skill comes only from the hand of God, Monsieur... or the Devil. I shall have the portrait shipped to you at once. Frankly, I can no longer stand looking at the thing. It frightens me. I'm beginning to imagine I hear them laughing and talking, although I know it is just this terrible weather that is getting me down. Monsieur may also wish to know that the title of the piece has been burned into the back of the canvas, etched in a fine hand. It says, "For love of Jenny Dolorosa." An interesting choice, I think. Expect the portrait to be on the next ship to Paris. Your Servant, Respectfully,
THE END |
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