Portrait of a Dead Man
November 22nd, 1843
Dearest Roderick,
I, your cousin Basil, tremble as I write you this letter. Still perplexed and horrified by the strange phenomenon of the occult I have witnessed, I fear being overtaken by madness. London is a dark place but there are things even more sinister lurking in the shadows that these Londoners have grown indifferent to. Nothing could have prepared me for the unspeakable horror I unknowingly became a participant of. You are the epitome of sense and rationality; hence, I pray thee to help me comprehend the nature of the following events that took place.
As you may already know, my patron, Lord Pembrook, sponsored an apprenticeship under the portrait artist, Monsieur DuPonte. My small flat has a window overlooking the busy streets where all sorts of indecencies take place. At first it was unsettling, but I’ve become acquainted with it and even draw inspiration for my paintings. Do you see what I mean about becoming familiar with the darkness? As the eyes adjust to see in the dark, so the soul assimilates to the malevolence all around in order to remain in it. There have been other pupils who could not stand the impropriety, the odor, or that terrible sense of imminent danger if one has the misfortune of walking at night. Those pupils went back home to the country or anywhere safety and peace of mind could be found. Though I desired to do the same early on, my pride was puffed up, believing my disposition was stronger than theirs because I remained dedicated to my art. Now, I am unable to sleep at night, paralyzed by fear of being watched.
Spectators would visit the school to view our work and even commission some of us to do their portraits or other pieces for them. While it does rattle the nerves to pain as they tower over me and critique openly for all to hear, it is not the same as the ominous feeling of being stalked like prey. I was painting when that sense first appeared. A patron commissioned a portrait of a beautiful young woman in a splendid reception dress whose fabric seemed cut from the heavens. It perfectly brightened her auburn curly locks and fair complexion. Her eyes sparkled brilliantly as a sapphire pendant encircled by diamonds. You would have fallen in love just by looking at her and become jealous of every other man for having shared the privilege of witnessing such a rare treasure of beauty. Were I not a poor sod, I would have asked for her hand immediately. Alas, I was grateful for the opportunity to paint an icon of grace and majesty beyond that of any primrose or daisy.
Entranced as I was by the young beauty, a cold shiver ran down my spine and flooded my body with an eerie sense of dread when I heard the sound of footsteps stop suddenly in the entryway. After a moment, the footsteps continued closer to the crowd observing my painting. I can’t explain why those footsteps evoked such terror deep inside my bones, but I also couldn’t turn away from the painting. Do you remember hiding from your mother in the stable after spilling wine on her muslin gown? The closer she got to us the more scared we felt and wouldn’t dare to look her in the eye. That is the only sensation I can liken it to. I was braver then than I am now, for I was haughty and proud remaining in London while the others could not last. My popularity as a portrait artist was growing. Great aristocrats and noblemen were inviting me to paint portraits at their grand houses. Perhaps my arrogance was greater than my fear then, heaven forgive me.
Paranoia started to accompany me when I walked the dark streets of London, even during the day. Nightmares occurred more frequently than ever before and I turned to wine to calm my nerves. I am ashamed to write, drunkenness became my only remedy for courage to withstand the paralyzing fear. One night, I arrived at my flat late after painting a scene of a ball at a nobleman's house. Stumbling into the room in a drunken stupor, I fell on the hard floor and made a mess of all my supplies. All of the drunkenness left me when a figure appeared out of the shadows in the corner of my room. Before I could cry out for help, the man covered my mouth in one swift motion. “Fear not, I mean you no harm,” spoke the man in a low deep voice as smooth as a wide brass.
“Unhand me!” I shuffled away and crawled to the opposite corner of the room. The figure stood tall and dark. His face was pale and severe, dressed in an overcoat as black as the night.
“Pardon my intrusion,” he bowed slightly, placing a long pale hand on his chest. “My name is Gaspar. I’ve been observing the growth of your talent and you have a unique ability to capture the spark of life in your art.”
I was unable to speak, for my heart was pounding through my head, disorienting my balance. Fear was gripping my throat tightly. My breathing was labored to the point of fainting. The man of shadows seemed to float to my side as quick as a wink. “You are unwell and must lie down.” Gaspar picked me easily and placed me gently on my bed. “I did not mean to frighten you, but my appearance is rather striking, perhaps more so than I realize.” He grinned a sinister smile that haunts me even as I write this letter. “Since you are unable to speak, I will. My proposal to you will come with a handsome reward. If you will paint my portrait on stage before an audience of my invited guests, I will name you heir to my estate. You will begin at sundown and finish by midnight, not a minute later. I haven’t much time to linger about, so I am going to leave you to consider my offer. If you agree, find a woman by the name of Ioana at the Bridge Inn and she will deliver the message to me. If all goes well, my lawyer, Mr. Hardwick will be in touch.” He stood up and bowed courteously before sauntering out of the flat.
When the paralysis spell released me from my stupor, I gathered the easel and began painting what I could remember of Gaspar, the strange pale man. The sun was beginning to rise when I finished. My eyes and limbs were weary from all of the excitement. I collapsed on the bed and dreamed about painting him before a sea of spectators. In this dream, I was so frightened that I could hardly touch the canvas with a brush. Gaspar grew furious with me and plunged a dagger into my heart. The sunlight beamed into the room. To my astonishment, I found the canvas clean and free of paint as if it were new. I know this sounds mad, but my brushes were still wet from painting all night and my colors had diminished. It could have been one of the servants playing a cruel trick. I struggle to comprehend how it is possible even after all I have seen.
For days, I wondered what I should do. I thought about the beautiful young woman from before. If I were a wealthy man she would be more inclined to accept my proposal. I could paint without a patron’s demands and buy a farm out in the country. Thinking about these things, I went to the Bridge Inn and inquired about Iona. She was an elderly woman, well-dressed and charming. Her enchanting smile was delighted to hear my acceptance of Gaspar’s offer. Heaven knows why. Her accent sounded like one of the gypsies, only more refined when she said, “Arrive at the theater before sundown on the first of November. Bring nothing with you. My master will provide everything you will need.” She left immediately afterward as if she were waiting only for me to come.
The following days leading up to the event were filled with insomnia, fever, and bouts of hysteria. Lord Pembrook ordered a physician for leeching to restore me to health. Pembrook and Monsieur DuPonte were already making plans for my new estate once I became a man of property. I knew painting would be a simple task, but the thought of facing Gaspar again was unnerving. The thought of failing or being chastised by him in front of an audience of people would be humiliating. No one would ever hire me again. Perhaps this was an elaborate plot of my rivals to tarnish my reputation, I thought.
November first arrived and I was escorted to the back of the stage by Iona. “Welcome Mr. Basil. The people are settling into their seats. May I offer you a glass of port?”
“Yes please,” I accepted to calm my trembling limbs. My head and heart were burning but my arms were like icicles. She handed me the glass and gently caressed my face before leaving me behind the curtain. The stage was set with an easel, paintbrush, paint, and a platform where Gaspar would stand. Iona returned and said, “wait here off stage right until I present your name.”
The woman was dressed as if she were performing in an opera and stood with all of the grace of an actress. The curtains swung back to the applause of the audience. “Welcome to an exclusive live performance from a young talent, Mr. Basil Parker.” Ioana waved me toward her and I walked onto the stage beside her with a bow. The crowd was full of lords, members of parliament, and other gentlefolk. My heart continued to race, but I breathed long heavy blows to settle it down. “And now, join me in welcoming my master, Lord Gaspar the Great!” The crowd stood in an uproar of applause. Their harmonious approval of this seemingly monstrous man helped pacify my fears. The orchestra boomed as the towering man walked in from stage left in a British officer uniform. He stood on the platform in a position of power, like a marble statue of a Greek god. Once he gave Iona a nod, she asked me to begin before exiting the stage.
The orchestra continued playing as I began to paint. I was grateful that he was not looking at me, but I noticed his face was not as pale as before. Gaspar appeared to be wearing coloring powder to brighten his complexion. I began painting his frame and blending in the colors of his uniform, but the paint slowly began to fade as if it were water evaporating on a hot surface. The first time this happened, I froze and watched it all disappear. The second time, I tried to keep the colors from fading away, but it all vanished too fast. By the time I layered one color, the others would fade. Gasps were coming from the crowd when they noticed the vanishing paint. They were smiling as if it were a trick or an illusion. Gaspar remained stoic, unmoved. Iona walked over to me and whispered, “You must make haste or they will grow impatient. Try something different.”
This had never happened before. What else could I do? I thought. An idea struck me. I began painting the background, working around the invisible silhouette of his body. I imagined him on the battlefield, commanding a legion of men. I was encouraged by comments of approval from the people in the front rows between songs. Over an hour had passed and the background was nearly complete. At first I began with his head and face, but it would vanish quickly. After blending in the areas that were fading with the face, I quickly began working on the shoes. I felt as though I were wrestling with some spirit in the canvas that wouldn’t permit me to paint his likeness. The shoes remained. Then I worked my way up his trousers, the sword, and the hilt. The coat and regalia. Once I noticed they weren’t fading, I began to take my time with the colors and layers to ensure I did them justice. I did not want to develop a reputation for quick and careless portraits.
After a few hours, Gaspar was still frozen in his stance. He did not move to stretch, drink, or rest. Neither had I ceased painting. The band had long ceased playing, entranced in my canvas of invisible paint and the immovable man. People were beginning to murmur about how this was possible. As soon I began painting Gaspar’s hands, it all began to vanish and the women gasped as the men began to hypothesize a rational explanation. I had long forsaken rationality to win the war against the demon inside the canvas. Before midnight, I shall bring this painting to life, so help me God, I prayed.
As we grew closer to midnight, attendees left or fell asleep in their seats. Others had abandoned their seats to stand closer to the stage and argue science, philosophy, and religion to explain the phenomenon before them. I was painting like a madman, splashing paint around the stage in a mad dash to grab the correct color brush, wet with paint. Testing my own theory, I painted gloves over the hands and they finally remained in place. Finally, I painted the head from the hair down and carefully shaped the sharp curves of his face. It was easy because his face was flawless, without blemish, striking as it was. In the same way one admires the mountain but wouldn’t dare climb for fear of falling, I revered his haunting appearance. I wanted to capture the essence of the man worthy of his stature.
His face was complete, down to the neck, and after finishing the final stroke, I yelled, “Look before it is gone!”
Gaspar turned quickly to look with his grave yellow eyes. Tears welled in his ghoulish eyes, slowly turning blue. His severe complexion brightened as rosy as the young woman in the beautiful dress. The corners of his twisted mouth turned to a slight smile momentarily and even I was inspired. Then, horror filled his face and he clutched tightly to his breast before writhing in pain. Iona screeched in terror and gentlemen leapt on the stage to assist him.
The man, Gaspar, died moments later looking more alive than ever before. His face was a picture of serenity. We were all equally aghast when the man, like the painting, also began to fade into nothingness. Ioana fainted and the gentleman attended to her. They were speechless, but I contended with that spirit. The spirit in the canvas removing the paint had now removed the man. “What time is it?” I yelled.
“It is midnight.” answered a gentleman.
I was a rich man, but I could not accept anything that had happened that day or the weeks leading up to it. I looked down at the painting in my hands. It was a headless man standing on the battlefield. They called it the “Portrait of A Dead Man”. It is hanging in one of their grand houses now. I don’t want anything to do with it.
Roderick, help me understand how this could be. Perhaps I’ve gone mad from living in the darkness too long. Mr. Hardwick came to see me, but I was manic when he came to the flat. He told me to come see him when I am well. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. Come and tell me I am mad or if this was real. If I take his inheritance, will I too inherit the darkness I sensed in him. I still don’t know if my art killed him or brought him to life.
I pray to be alive when you come. Please come soon.
You beloved cousin,
Basil
