The Vengeance of the Oval Portrait

by Gabriel de Lautrec

In the course of a journey through Italy he had fallen madly in love with a charming young dancer. He had abducted her and taken her to his seigniorial residence. The woman was named Juana. She had a bewitching and superhuman charm. After a few months, however, the Count had found the long days that formed preludes to the splendors of the evening monotonous. Satisfied by seeing the divine creature on his return, he soon developed the habit of hunting during the daylight hours, pursuing eagles and vultures over the mountain-sides, expending strenuous physical activity in these exercises.

  Alone in the castle, Juana became bored. She soon allowed herself to be seduced by the delicate speeches of the young head groom, who was handsome and eloquent.

  One day, on a high plateau, Don Pablo met an old woman who was said to be a witch He asked her if she knew the whereabouts of the eyrie of a black eagle that he had been hunting since morning.

  “Why pursue so obstinately a bird that has done you no harm?” she replied “There are other malevolent beasts that you ought to kill first.”

  Astonished by these enigmatic words, the noble lord pressed her with questions. He offered her all the gold he had on him. She did not want to accept anything or add anything. He returned to the castle, therefore, full of suspicions, much sooner than was customary.

  When he had passed through the third defensive wall he perceived the groom fleeing like a thief over the balcony of Juana’s apartment. With a superhuman effort, the Count succeeded in controlling himself, but he had the trumpet sounded and ordered that the guilty man be brought before him, without giving him the reason.

  “It’s the first time,” he said to him, “that I shall cross iron with a mere groom. At any rate, this evening, after supper, you will defend yourself to the death in a closed arena. Groom or Count, one of us is surplus here.”

  Juana knew about the challenge. During the last feast that Don Pablo held in company with his friends, she poured a violent soporific into his brandy-glass, which would only take effect at the time for which the combat was arranged.

  The duel with lances took place in the moonlight, in an arena sealed by barricades formed by serried pikes. From the first pass, the astonished Don Pablo felt his hand weakening. He attacked and defended tamely. In a desperate effort, he hurled himself upon his adversary, but the groom’s lance, directed by a rapid and sure gesture, cleaved right through the Count’s breast.

  As he collapsed, the blood gushing from the terrible wound, a trumpet-blast was heard on the drawbridge of the castle, and almost immediately, a young man of proud appearance was seen to appear on the edge of the arena, mounted on a fine black horse. It was Don Arias, who had been armed as a knight the day before and had come to render homage to his liege-lord. He had ridden all night, bloodying the golden spurs that he had hastened to put on.

  He leapt into the arena without further enquiry, seeing nothing but his dead father, leapt upon the groom, and buried his sword all the way to the hilt in the other’s throat.

  When he went into the castle, greeted by universal acclamation, he was informed that his father had a wife that he had never seen before—but she had just fled, terrified, wrapped in a cloak, taking nothing with her but her jewels and the desire to avenge herself against the man who had arrived to kill her happiness.

  Count Arias immediately had it proclaimed by his heralds at every crossroads in the domain that all women, no matter what their age or condition, were to leave his lands within three days, under pain of slow death by asphyxiation on the pyre.

  They left, and the majority of the men went with them. No one any longer remained in Don Arias’ lands but a few old servants whose lugubrious existence had to accord with that of their overlord. Gradually, powerful vegetation invaded the outskirts of the castle, where the young man had shut himself away with two or three domestics, more isolated every day from the rest of the world.

  He spent his time in the ancestral dwelling’s ancient library reading fabulous romances of the Middle Ages or books of magic. The mystery of these books suited the wild and solitary atmosphere in which he lived. His mind, already shaken by the fatal event, filled with new chimeras every day in the isolation of the castle.

  At other times, in his fits of melancholy, he wandered through the corridors and somber galleries. He went through large rooms with walls covered in sumptuous tapestries, which undulated in the wind, leading and appearance of moving reality to the richly-dressed people, the running dogs whose heads were turned, naively folded back, and the falcons borne on wrists, which seemed ready to take flight.

  He wanted to remove one of these tapestries to put it in his bedroom. That was an isolated retreat at the end of the great gallery. Imagine his amazement to find behind the hanging, on the wall, a painting representing a woman of marvelous beauty. She was leaning languidly on her elbow in a red velvet armchair. The delicately-sculpted golden frame was oval in form.

  Don Arias took the painting and transported it to his bedroom.

  Time went by. The lord had fallen madly and unhealthily in love with the lady in the portrait. He had sent his servants on long journeys into all the surrounding regions to try to discover the woman whose image he adored. Their research remained fruitless. Gradually, the conviction took root in his mind that she must have died years ago and that the only reality—a reality that a miracle alone could bring back to life—was that image, the profound eyes of which poured a delicious and mortal enchantment into his own.

  His preliminary studies had prepared him for that idea. He imagined that he might succeed in resuscitating the woman he loved desperately, and who was asleep with open eyes in the coffin of the oblong frame. He consulted old grimoires and learned the formulas of incantation. All day and all night, liturgical prayers rose up in the bedroom transformed into a temple, addressed to the idol who smiled ironically and insouciantly, seemingly awaiting the moment when it would please her to emerge from her colored exile.

  Finally, one day, weary of waiting and furious at seeing all his efforts had been in vain, he climbed up on a stool with a stiletto in his hand, determined to stab the canvas in order to annihilate the dream that refused to make itself his. He had raised the weapon and was about to strike when, all of a sudden, doubtless solicited by that gesture, more powerful than all the incantations, the image appeared to obey.

  The eyes took on a new and savage expression. Don Arias hesitated momentarily, astounded to see his dream realized. But the eyes became animated by a life even more intense. The arms of the portrait detached themselves from the dead, flat surface—and the woman’s hand, seizing the dagger, brandished it and plunged it all the way to the hilt in the amorous man’s throat.

  The unfortunate’s incantations had only succeeded in rendering momentary life to the portrait’s true soul. And as the cadaver fell at the foot of the painting, the image of Juana, her vengeance satisfied, resumed its funereal immobility.

  Sonia’s Soul

  For Rachilde3

  It’s impossible that I am mad. That will become evident. If I am in my right mind, why am I locked up? I think it’s at the instigation of some demon that is pursuing me. We are all prey to larvae and elementary spirits. The physicians know nothing about that, and they laugh ponderously to hide their ignorance when anyone mentions the occult. They’re like the priests of the Middle Ages who sprinkled the possessed with holy water. Today, they give cold showers. Scientists have a horror of novelty; it disconcerts and humiliates them.

  So, I have been in this little rural house for several days. My cell is tidy. The food is tolerable. I have been given paper and ink. I will be able to work on my great work: The Objective of the Subjective. The book is destined to open the doors of the academy to me. Once elected, people will be obliged to admit that I am in my right mind.

  Certainly, I have had an adventure. If the physicians had wanted to take the trouble, they would have understood my situation and they would have been able to take account of my condition scientifically. My case is novel,
I agree, but, in sum, there’s nothing extraordinary about it. It’s one of those accidents that only happen very rarely, but which might occur at any time. Humans are bizarre and fragile beings. One moment of thoughtlessness is sufficient. I drank a soul, by mistake. It was Sonia’s. With mine, that makes two, if I can count.

  I’ll say this very quietly: I’d repeat that thoughtlessness with pleasure. I can’t forget the delicate and delightful sensation that I had at the time.

  But let’s get back to the question. How did it happen? It wasn’t planned. It was literature that doomed me. Poets employ an emphatic language; if one takes them at their word, one risks finding oneself in an absurd situation. I wanted to collect that soul on the lips, like a breath. Ridiculous idea! All it took to kill Sonia, and the first imprudence that I committed, in embracing her, was squeezing my hands a little too strongly around her neck. But what does it matter? All the regrets in the world won’t change anything. It’s necessary to consider the actual situation coolly. I have one soul too many, that’s for sure.

  Oh, at first it was perfect! I felt like another man. When I went through the streets, it seemed to me that everybody was looking at me with curiosity and admiration. I thought of that character of Edgar Poe’s who had lost his breath, and the other one, who had found it.4 What an implausible story, compared with mine! Besides, taking it seriously, I recall that they were as inconvenienced as one another, the first even more so. That’s understandable. Two breaths! It would make one burst. But a soul…a soul isn’t something material, in the relative sense of the term. A soul doesn’t take up any space. There’s nothing less encumbering than a soul. Mine, in any case, I’m sure of it, can’t be very uncomfortable. It ought to fit in very snugly with Sonia’s soul.

  And the latter, since it’s no longer anything but a soul, has naturally lost all its malice. It’s too distressed. Children, when they’re a little bit frightened, hardly ever think of being naughty. And souls, especially women’s souls, are children in eternity.

  It’s necessary to suppose that it’s huddled in some corner of my being, and that it’s looking out from there with a flickering gaze, liked some sly and timid little beast.

  The truth is that her presence doesn’t disturb me at all now. The best moments, before, were those when she sat calmly and meekly in a corner of the room, reading beautiful stories while I worked. I wish the situation were different, but one gets used to things. It’s nothing at all to have drunk a soul.

  It’s sufficient to know it, to take account, coldly, of the slightly abnormal situation and act in consequence.

  A man who has two souls evidently can’t live like everyone else, but it’s easy to keep both ridiculous dread and exaggerated pride at a distance.

  The important thing is the heart.

  I fear, at certain moments, that it might quit its obscure corner and fly towards my heart, and collide with it again.

  How is it made, a soul? I don’t have the slightest idea.

  Sometimes, though, I imagine that it’s prowling around my heart, silently, like a mauve bat around a red lantern.

  It’s mauve! That’s what I wanted to know. I’m sure of it now. What a sudden revelation! It’s mauve. It’s very important to know that.

  And what does it see? What does it think? What impression has the change made upon it? Often, in the evening, when she was alive, we discussed the question of life after death. There was no other issue that preoccupied me as much. I remember long conversations in which we whispered in low voices, in the darkness, thinking about phantoms, until our voices were impregnated with terror. I was able to console her then—but now, I’m afraid that she might be afraid.

  Then again, if one were sure that things will remain as they are—but I think about that. Suppose that the soul were to die, while lodged in my body. Perhaps there time comes when souls, too, die? After all, we don’t know whether souls are mortal or not. Agreed, no one has ever seen one die—but that’s not a peremptory proof, since one can’t see souls at all.

  At any rate, if that happened, I would find myself with the corpse of a soul, which wouldn’t take long to putrefy. It would be necessary for me to get rid of it, no matter what the cost. Should I go to a surgeon? He’d look at me suspiciously. I’d have explanations to make. What good would it do to expose myself to difficulties? Wouldn’t it be better to set it free right away? It would have the time to take advantage of that liberty. Then again, perhaps it’s suffering, and finds itself constricted in its prison. So far as I know, this perpetual contact might not be pleasant for it.

  In the end, it’s a question of right.

  Has one the right to keep a soul prisoner, profiting, as in the present case, from hazard or circumstance? I’m reasoning like a lawyer, but it’s necessary to call things be their name. There has been an undue influence. The fact is undeniable.

  It has, all the same, been lucky enough to have fallen upon an honest man. So many others would have no scruples and would keep it—but it’s egotistical to want two souls. As if that were possible! Let’s see!

  One would remain to me. That’s quite enough.

  My God! I know full well…when one is in love…I could imagine extraordinary things. Two souls making one…just words, follies, at the end of the day. Besides, I didn’t love Sonia. What I said just now was literary, for my amusement. I have to get rid of that soul, immediately.

  For a moment, I thought of killing it, with one of those long pins that women put in their hats—but I’m afraid I might only wound it, and that it will suffer. Then again, I might not reach my heart.

  Besides, why kill it? Isn’t that precisely what I want to avoid—a dead heart? Isn’t it better for it to live and be happy, if it can? It will go out into the world, as light as a bird, a perfume or a musical note, and when it has found some beautiful form—a flower or a woman—it will take that for its home.

  I need to give it a way out. That’s easy. The slightest opening would suffice.

  There’s no point thinking about a revolver. They’ve taken mine away, on some ridiculous pretext. On reflection, I’m glad about that. In a case like this, a revolver isn’t what’s needed at all. It would surely be taken by surprise, and the noise would frighten it. It would start fluttering madly around my breast, bumping into the walls, without finding an exit. A dagger is better. Here’s exactly what I need—they’ve left me the slender knife with a narrow blade that I use to cut the pages of books, to liberate the souls of thinkers enclosed therein.

  Sonia’s soul will fly out through the wound, and I’ll keep mine, tranquilly. It has no reason to leave—provided, dear God, that the other doesn’t want to persuade it and take it away! But I’m not worried. I know my soul. There’s nothing to fear.

  I shall set Sonia free.

  The Burial of Olasryck

  For René Bruneau5

  The snow had been falling without interruption for months. It covered the countryside with a mantle whose thickness was ever-increasing, and which could not be melted by the wan rays of a Sun that was only perceptible at long intervals, like a vague copper disk hidden behind a livid curtain. The town, already isolated, lost in a valley in the high Himalaya, was now definitively cut off from the rest of the world. Even the wild beasts had fled into the mountains, howling, and there had been no birds in the suffocating air for some time.

  Once, a few travelers—bonzes in grey or black woolen bonnets with heavy necklaces of brown-dyed wood around their necks—had arrived at dusk or in the morning light to sound muted appeals on brazen gongs that hung outside the doors on multicolored cords, asking for the road leading to the Temple of Fire. But the last travelers had been buried in the town’s white shroud, and their souls were with Brahma.

  The temple stood on a hill overlooking the entire town of Olasryck. There were tortuous streets rising up to it from the outskirts, bordered with old wooden houses and shops in which meager objects related to the cult of fire were sold. They were naïve images, metal an
d wax tablets, and lamps formed like cups. In each of these shops a torch had once burned before an image of the god on the wall, but the torches had been extinguished a long time ago, having struggled in vain against the multitude of white flies that had swirled in the streets at first, then penetrated indoors by mean of the widows and chimneys. Now, the livid sheet had reached the tops of the houses, and snow was piling up in all the extinct hearths.

  The event had been as unexpected as it was strange. Perhaps the priests had committed some ritual crime, for, by virtue of the mystery and unusual nature of the cause, it was truly reminiscent of a divine punishment.

  On a beautiful summer’s day, one of the mountains that terminated the spur of the mountain chain at the foot of which the town extended was suddenly hollowed out at the summit with a terrible din. Without any landslide slipping down the slope, the peak had collapsed, as if drawn toward the center of the Earth by a giant invisible hand. And from the crater thus formed—a phenomenon in contradiction with all natural laws, which was proof of divine intervention—a geyser of snow had been seen to erupt: a column of densely-packed flakes that rose into the blue sky, darkening it with their thickness.

  And for month after month, the fantastic eruption had not ceased. The snowflakes fell back en masse over all the surrounding territory, gradually burying it as the ash of Vesuvius had buried Pompeii. The cold prevented the snow from melting, and he new ground gradually leveled off.

  It was finally decided that the entire population would take refuge in the temple. Emerging from the windows and roofs of the lower town, the unfortunates climbed the slopes, stumbling and sinking into the soft upper layers of the avalanche, and dropping at every step the poor relics of their past life, too hastily stuck into the folds of their cloaks. They had had some brief joy, however, in finding themselves temporarily safe behind the doors of the edifice, where they had accumulated provisions and livestock, and all the lamps burned night and day in the struggle against the cold and dark.