The crooked portrait
When I met Auguste, I was young and vulnerable, I had not seen much of the world, I was oblivious to the sensation and power of love. Oh, how foolish was I! I was an artist, but never in any work of art had I found the kind of beauty that I saw in him, even his platitudes were flushed with the kind of exhilaration I had never experienced before. I was in a foreign land, I was alone, or rather lost, and in him I found the familiarity and comfort, I always craved.
I can not remember precisely when and how I fell in love with Auguste, afterall it was so long ago. Or may be because there was no one instant when that happened. Over the days and months of our acquaintance, his singular, yet equanimous disposition, his rather stunning and towering physical stature, his bewitching smile, oh that smile — they slowly but surely made me incapable of conceiving a world that he was not a part of. I could write pages just about his smile, which came rarely but when it did, his curled lips, the dimples that sported and the glint of mischief in his eyes, they made me weak. Every time we would sit across each other and very often it used to happen, I would be intoxicated by his eloquent and at the same time intellectually stimulating conversations. Yes, I may not remember the precise moment when I lost myself and found him but I can not, for my soul, remember a time without him.
I would contain myself from digressing and getting carried away by the nostalgia that only the very fortunate get to live, and describe the more recent and relevant incidents to my tale. As I have mentioned, I am an artist and since meeting Auguste, he became my muse. I painted him incessantly, to his extreme disregard, he considered himself unworthy of such a glorification — which he thought was vain and in bad taste. Hence, I started to hide my portraits from him. When I was not with him, I would paint for hours in solitude, carefully replicating the curve of his slender nose, the faint lines on his ample forehead, the stern and dark beard on his face. It was such an intimate pleasure and I did not have to share it with anyone.
Imagine then my consternation, when I painted Auguste, after countless, flawless attempts and suddenly there was something wanting in the portrait. I matched it with all the previous ones, afterall no two paintings will ever be the same, still I could not point my finger at the imperfection that afflicted my latest venture. Was it lacking the ironic glint in his doleful eyes or was the tip of the nose a bit crooked? I pondered for hours and days on end, painting and repainting over it, but something was gravely amiss in my Auguste and I just could not figure out what.
Weeks passed and my obsession with the crooked painting grew with every passing moment. I was endlessly preoccupied, neither could I sleep nor concentrate on anything other than ruminating over the deficiency in my painting. I could not understand how, after countless successful attempts, my skill was failing me, this spectacularly? In my waking moments I incessantly dwelled on it and in my sleep it returned and haunted me. I did not speak about my acute distress with anyone, how could I have, without being labeled insane? But I was not insane, I was just another artist, tortured by her failing talent and lacking creation.
Having not seen Auguste in days, his invitation to have dinner together that fateful night, was a welcome respite. The anticipation of looking at his flawless visage, and listening to his cavernous voice delighted me so much, I could hardly concentrate on doing anything else. For the sake of my temper, I did not look at the crooked portrait, rather forcibly constrained myself from even thinking about it. I put on the prettiest gown I had and daubed copious amounts of perfume, and left my long raven hair flowing — I was ready to meet him.
After a mesmerizing dinner, we were sitting by the fire, I was still spellbound by his presence. He slowly took my hand in his and prepared to speak to me. I glanced at him as he began to talk in a deeply serious tone, so far unfamiliar to me. He said, “I love you dearly, but I don’t think I can be with you anymore.” I am sorry, he said.
He was sorry.
I was dazed. I do not remember much of the rest of the night, I just remember walking in the rain, drenched and uncomprehending, towards my home. I do not remember for how long I had been walking but my maid’s scream broke my trance and she rushed to usher me into my lodgings. She dried me and put me to bed, but sleep, or reason eluded me. I got up, as if drug addled and walked into my studio.
Staring at me, was the crooked painting of my lost love.
Unable to contain my boundless rage, I took a knife and charged at the portrait with all my strength, stabbing at it constantly and screaming, until my maid rushed to my rescue and appeased my pathetic self. I was crying uncontrollably and blubbering nonsense for hours, until the first rays of sunlight sieved through the curtains and I finally fell asleep.
I don’t know then, how Auguste was found later that day, bloodied and murdered, his face stabbed beyond recognition.
I hope this narration can shed some light on the sordid affair that has driven me into insanity and drowned me in agony that has been beyond my tolerance. I have mentioned every tiny detail to the best of my recollection — infact my story can be corroborated by my maid — the fact that I was at my house, during the precise window of Auguste’s death. It does not matter to me anymore, for I refuse to live a life without Auguste and I have but already slit my veins before I began narrating this bleak tale.
I believe in death I shall find solace and if there is an afterlife, I would not want it any other way but with my Auguste and I would love him as I had when I lived.
