Euridyce's Lament

by Brian Stableford

  Why?

  Because he loved her, of course. But what kind of love was it? Not my kind, for sure. Dellacrusca’s kind. Possessive love; love that demanded obedience, compliance; love that insisted on molding its object to a rigid framework of desire planned in advance, and love that would brook no contradiction.

  I understood, as Hecate had, the texture and the nature of Eurydice’s lament. I understood how the nymph had really died: that she had not been bitten by a snake at all, but struck dead by a single angry, screaming chord of Orpheus’ lyre, when she told him that she no longer wanted to be subject to him, that she wanted to be free. Passion had overwhelmed him, and anger had caused his fingers to lash out, at an instrument that had the power to charms and compel every animal in creation… and, in consequence, the power to kill.

  Doubtless he had regretted it at a moment after he had done it, because he really did love her. Doubtless, he had been heartbroken as well as wrathful—but what had his reaction being to the realization that he had killed the thing he loved most in all the world, in a fit of stupid petulance? To mourn? No—not for an instant. To strike back, to demand from the death itself the reversal of his own recklessness. He had plunged into the Underworld, ready to do whatever it took to undo his fatal reflex, to charm death itself, and to command Hades to let one victim go: just one; the one that Orpheus considered to be his property. No benevolence there—a kind of love, yes, but no benevolence.

  And he had succeeded. He had charmed the shades. He had charmed Hades himself; he had learned and mastered the language of sighs and had turned it to his own purpose. And Hades had been forced to let his precious prisoner go, even though she did not want to go.

  But Hades—Death—had provided Eurydice with an escape clause. He had disguised his permission just sufficiently to tempt Orpheus to a violation, to allow Eurydice to pause, and not to cross the threshold of life into the particular kind of slavery that Orpheus had in store for her.

  Did she regret that? Of course. She had loved Orpheus in her fashion, which was as real, in its own way, as his, and perhaps more real, depending on one’s definition of love. Would she have regretted surrendering to his domination and control even more? Yes. That was not the kind of life she wanted. It was not the kind of life she could accept. Her lament, from beyond the grave, was a lament for the impossibility of her predicament, for the terrible situation in which Orpheus’ obsessive, all-consuming, all-devouring and all-demanding love had placed her, because rather than in spite of the fact that she loved him too.

  It was easy enough, too, to fill in the end of the story. Orpheus had succeeded in bending Hades to his will. He had exercised his power of command over a god—and that was not something that could be done with impunity. Orpheus had thought himself invulnerable, that there was nothing beyond his control, but he had been wrong. He could not control or command madness. He could not command or control maenads. Even Hades could not really command maenads—but he could inspire them. He could aim them, like a weapon, and let them loose.

  So Orpheus had died, and his severed head had floated down the river, still singing—or possibly screaming—with the image of Eurydice, his personal Nemesis, still in his eyes.

  It made sense. At least, it made sense to me. It made sense as a work of art, and was therefore true, in my eyes.

  And when Hecate ceased sighing, and Elise laid down her bow, I sighed myself, not merely with satisfaction but with relief, at having been delivered from the monster named enigma, the insidious poisonous reptile that had been undermining my endeavor.

  I was being selfish—but all artists are egomaniacs, even those capable of a truer love than the perverted phantom that some consider “true” because it cannot tolerate dissent.

  I did not have time to collect the impressions of the other members of the audience, because the harsh sound of the doorbell cut through the soft silence left by Hecate and Elise, jerking all of us out of a light esthetic trance.

  Jean-Jacques answered the door, and ushered in Tommaso Dellacrusca.

  “Are you all unhurt?” was his first question.

  “Yes,” I replied, on behalf of us all. “Not a scratch between us.”

  He sighed himself, with genuine relief. “That’s good,” he said. Vashti Savage is unhurt too, and Niklaus Hylne. We killed all eight of the Dionysians, but they got five of his, including Father and Mesmay, and wounded a dozen more. Lorenzo got a bad gash on his arm and lost a lot of blood. They got the parchment too—they couldn’t take it away, but they tore it to pieces. Fortunately, we still have two fine copies, made by a consummate artist. They have one, taken from the Convent, but perhaps, on due reflection, that’s not entirely a bad thing. It might help ease the competition and prevent escalation. Luckily, Fion Commonal was on hand in the ballroom, and he organized the help for the wounded. He stitched Lorenzo’s cut himself, but Lory had to lie down. Commonal says that no one else is likely to die, but even so, covering up what happened is going to be the Devil’s own job.”

  “Covering it up?” I said, incredulously. “There must have been forty people there, at least, maybe fifty. Your father, Mesmay and three others are dead. How on earth can you cover it up?”

  “Apart from the insiders, two unattached members of the Council and the people in this room,” Tommaso said, in a perfectly level tone, “there was only the medium and Hylne. We can keep the Council members and Hylne quiet easily enough—and none of you, including Vashti Savage, have any interest in spreading the story, or contradicting whatever fictions we concoct to account for the five deaths—which will, you understand, all take place elsewhere, in our version.”

  “What about the Sisters of Shalimar?” I said, skeptically. “You don’t think they’ll be concerned about the violation of their convent?”

  “Of course they will,” Tommaso replied, “but being concerned and kicking up a fuss are two different things—and they didn’t see what happened at Mesmay’s house. Aethne went round there as soon as the last Dionysian was dead. The nuns were distressed, understandably, but not hurt. Even the Dionysians have limits they won’t cross. The Mother Superior will know everything soon enough—Aethne will need her counsel and support more than ever before, now—but she has no reason to challenge publicly whatever version of events we come up with. It’s vitally important, you understand, that the affairs of the cult remain secret, especially in an instance like this.”

  I wasn’t at all sure that I did understand, and I certainly didn’t sympathize. “You can’t possibly control the servants,” I told him. “This is Mnemosyne. The story will be all round the island in a matter of days.”

  “The story is all around the island right now that the Devil has extended his cloak over the island, blotting out the sun, that the reek of brimstone is everywhere, and that plague and pestilence are about to descend. Do you think, in the midst of all that, that anyone on the mainland, let alone the Capital, is going to take seriously a story about a gang of maenads disguised as nuns attacking the audience at a concert? Even the people telling the story won’t believe it—and even those who saw it happen will begin to doubt it, when it’s juxtaposed with the version to which all the surviving members of the Island Council, the widowed Marquise of Mesmay and a dozen other respected citizens will swear. You, of all people, Master Rathenius, should know that the truth is just the work of art that everyone agrees to believe.”

  I spread my arms wide in a gesture of helplessness.

  Tommaso walked past me then, and went to confront his niece.

  “We haven’t even introduced,” he said. “I’m your Uncle Tommaso. I wish that I had time to spare to get to know you, but things are very complicated at the moment, and my brother and I have to get back to the Capital as soon as possible. We inherit the money and the property automatically, but all the rest—all the positions he held in the government and the society—are going to be the object of fierce competitions, which Lory and I can’t possibly win. We’ll have to work hard
to clarify our new situation. But I don’t want you to think that we’ve forgotten you, or that we don’t care about you. You’re family. At the very least, we’ll see you next summer, and every summer, when we come to spend time here. In the past, we’ve only come to lark around, and it will be different from now on, but we’ll still make time for a little amusement. And when things have settled down, there’ll be opportunities for you to visit us in the Capital, if you wish.”

  He turned to Charles Parenot and Mariette who were standing together. “On behalf of my brother and myself,” he said, “I’d like to thank you both for taking care of our niece for all these years, while she was lost, and we’d like to beg you, if you don’t mind, to look after her for a little longer—with our help, although that will have to be at a distance for a while. We never met our sister, or her husband, so we’re happy to regard you as her mother and father, and as honorary members of the family. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  He shook Charles Parenot’s hand, and actually kissed Mariette’s wrist before turning once again, this time to Myrica Mavor.

  “I have bad news for you, I fear, Madame Mavor,” he said. “The commissions you discussed with my father are null and void—and to be perfectly frank, Lorenzo and I thought the fees that he offered were too high. We are, however, willing to discuss the possibility of commissioning a portrait of Elise to be painted by her father, for the family gallery, at a reasonable price. We’d rather, however, that it’s a formal portrait, without the musical instrument. As for the Marquis of Mesmay’s triptych, we’ll guarantee that you and Master Rathenius receive the remainder of the fee, whether the Marquise wants to take delivery of it or not.”

  “What about the other portrait?” Myrica ventured, ever the agent. “Now that Mariette is an honorary member of your family, she wouldn’t be out of place somewhere in your principal residence.”

  Tommaso weighed that up for a moment. “We can discuss that too,” he said. “But not here and not now. Come to see us in the Capital, after the funeral. I have to say, though, that we have no interest in a mythological painting of Persephone. We’d prefer a picture of Madame Parenot as herself—and it seems to me that Master Rathenius would be better able to paint that than her husband, who might not be able to see her with such a clinical eye.”

  He turned back to Elise. “May I give you a farewell kiss, until we meet again, my Niece?” he asked, politely.

  “Of course, Uncle,” she replied, and offered her forehead, which he kissed very decorously.

  He nodded to Hecate, and said: “I’m sorry that your performance was spoiled, Mademoiselle Rain. I hope to see it this summer, during the season.”

  She nodded in reply.

  “Show me out, Master Rathenius,” he said, a note of command creeping into his voice for the first time.

  At the front door, as he peered into the icy darkness, he said. “Are we even now, Master Rathenius?”

  “Better than even,” I assured hm. “I’m in your debt.”

  “How am I doing, as Lord Dellacrusca?”

  “A magnificent performance,” I said. “I knew that you had it in you, but it’s a privilege to see it. You say that you have two copies of the enigmatic text?”

  “We’ve recovered Hylne’s,” he said. “We didn’t think that the Dionysians even knew what had happened, but we assumed that if they did, they’d go for that one, so we set an ambush there. We really couldn’t imagine that they’d go for the Convent instead, let alone… the rest. They’re only bits of paper, when all said and done. Nobody is ever going to be able to read them, are they?”

  “Probably not,” I said, “Except...”

  “Except that we don’t know how the maenads produced that incredible scream. Dionysian craziness. Bizarre.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he believed what he was saying, or whether it was just the story that he and his fellows were making up, or their own consumption and satisfaction.

  He took a step into the night, but then paused and looked back. “I’m glad she’s here and not living on the Mount,” he said, softly. “She’ll be a lot safer, especially with you nearby to keep an eye on her. You will do that, won’t you, Master Rathenius?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “But I won’t be able to resist her any more than anyone else. One day, she might be Empress, even without your father to mold her.”

  He shook his head, but not because he was denying my assertion of possibility. He found the whole thing incredible. Perhaps it was.

  “They must have really wanted to get back at your father, and make a point,” I observed. “Did he, perchance, order the poisoning of the late Monsieur de Toustain when Guillot first told him who he really was?”

  Tommaso shook his head. “I really don’t know,” he said. “But I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Neither would I, but I saw no need to say so.

  Tommaso raised his hand in a polite salute. “I have a great deal to do, Master Rathenius. You might not see me again for some time.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I won’t forget you.”

  I closed the door, glad to shut out the cold and the dark—but Charles Parenot and Mariette were right behind me, with their honorary daughter.

  “We’d better go home now,” said the painter. “Elise needs to go to bed. Thank you—for everything.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said, realizing with a slight pang of regret that it was true. I had worked no magic and employed no cunning. Hecate had done something, and Tommaso Dellacrusca had done a great deal, as had Elise, but I had been a mere bystander. Even my heroic gesture in saving Hecate had probably been superfluous.

  “I look forward to sitting for you, Master Rathenius, if Madame Mavor can strike a deal with the new Lords Dellacrusca,” said Mariette, with deliberate politeness, as she left.

  “As do I,” I assured her, and kissed her hand, as Tommaso Dellacrusca had done. I only patted Elise on the head, though; she wasn’t my niece.

  When I had shaken Charles Parenot’s hand and the door had closed again, it occurred to me that even though the twins were identical, and had been born mere minutes apart, only one of the “new Lords Dellacrusca” could, in law, inherit the title and the entailed fraction of the estate. I hoped that the twins would settle things between them amicably, without either one feeling compelled to murder the other. Perhaps, as I was the only person in the world that could tell them apart, they could take turns.

  “You must both stay the night,” I told Hecate and Myrica, when I leaned my head round the studio door. “It’s far too cold and dark for Jean-Jacques to take the carriage out again. I’ll tell Luzon to make up beds for you and light fires in the rooms to take the chill off them.”

  Having done that, I went back to the studio.

  They were both standing in front of the unfinished triptych.

  “You might not even have to finish it now, if Aethne de Mesmay doesn’t want it,” Hecate observed.

  “I shall finish it,” I said. “It was a challenge, which I accepted—and thanks to you, I now have the narrative complete in my mind. It won’t be obvious to people looking at it, but you and I will know the true story. Thank you for that.”

  “It was just a reflex action,” she said, with a half-smile.

  “I was thanking the reflex action,” I said, responding to the cue.

  “You two really ought to get married,” said Myrica Mavor, who hadn’t understood the narrative at all.

  “Why spoil a beautiful friendship?” said Hecate. “In fact, Axel, I’m rather tired, after that performance. Sighing is surprisingly energy-consuming, by comparison with merely talking. Do you mind if I go to bed right away”

  “Not in the least,” I assured her, and kissed her on the cheek.

  When she had gone, I looked at Myrica. “Well,” I said, “things seem to have worked out well for you, at least. The new Lords Dellacrusca might strike a slightly harder bargain than their father, bu
t they could well be good clients for the next twenty or thirty years, and they’ll always know that you and I know one of their darkest family secrets.”

  She studied me for a few seconds, and then said: “You can drop the act, Axel. I know you did it. The others have no suspicion, but I was here. I saw you, remember.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” I told her. “What am I supposed to have done?”

  “You killed Dellacrusca.”

  The enormity of the accusation took my breath away. When I got it back, I said: “How am I supposed to have done that?”

  “By means of sorcery,” she said. “I watched you. You even said, in so many words, if I remember correctly: ‘If I could stop it by sorcery, I would.’”

  “If I remember correctly,” I said, “I finished the sentence by saying that I couldn’t.”

  “But you were actually doing it as you spoke, weren’t you. You were painting Dellacrusca as a severed head, torn off by maenads.”

  “And you really believe that with a mere twitch of a paintbrush, I conjured eight maenads out of thin air, and immobilized the Sisters of Shalimar while my phantoms stole their habits and marine trumpets? Come on, Myrica—that took planning, and incredible daring, but it wasn’t sorcery. Insanity, yes, but not sorcery. And I can assure you that I have never killed anyone in my entire life, and hopefully never will—not even a Dellacrusca. If I really had been able to stop him by sorcery, do you think I’d have gone about it in such a barbaric fashion, and killed four innocent people along with him, not to mention the maenads? That takes insult way beyond mere wordplay, Myrica. It’s a monstrous suggestion, as well as an insane one.”

  “Oh, I don’t say that you did it consciously,” she said. “You’re an artist. Your whole modus operandi is to give your unconscious free creative rein to manufacture narratives. But you must have realized, as it was happening, that your wish was coming true, albeit without your careful conscious scruples and inhibitions.”