London. Winter. 1850.

Michael Colonessi drank as if that night was his last.

He celebrated the completion of his latest painting, a portrait of Lord ? He couldn't remember the name. Old moneybags the art dealer, had secured that and other commissions on his behalf. Michael could care less, but at least they afforded him painting supplies and a little extra for liquor and whores; Two were at that moment asleep on a make-shift cot in a corner of his gloomy studio. As long as he made enough to continue his craft, he was content.

He lived in a squalid part of east London's dockland area, on the banks of the River Thames.

It was a far cry from the patrons who purchased his work.

His room, an abandoned warehouse, had mildew infested walls and ceilings, with a cracked skylight that continually leaked filthy rain water onto the warped floor, below.

Dense fog surrounded the grimy dwellings and their forgotten inhabitants; thieves, pimps and beggars.

It was early morning, when he finally could take no more alcohol, and passed out next to the snoring women...

...'Please move along the viewing room so that everyone can see.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you are looking at what is considered to be one of the greatest works of art ever painted. Michael Colonessi's masterpiece. His self-portrait.'

A large gathering of people of all ages stood before him. They were dressed in strange clothing, and some of the women showed naked arms and legs. All eyes were intently focused on him.

'Move in a little closer, Please...'

The artist awoke with a start. His head ached, but the dream burned brightly.

'Michael Colonessi's masterpiece. His self-portrait.' A superstitious man, he wondered if it was some kind of premonition or good omen. Whatever it might be, it was the inspiration he looked for.

Suddenly re - energized, Colonessi threw himself into his latest project; a self-portrait. He felt that it would be his greatest painting, ever.

The whores had long since gone, along with the remains of his money.

Michael worked all that day until darkness filled the studio, and exhausted lay down on the bare floor next to his easel and slept...

...'Ladies and Gentlemen, you are looking at what is considered to be one of the greatest works of art ever painted. Michael Colonessi's masterpiece. His self-portrait.'...

Old moneybags awoke him the next morning.

'Take this payment, my lad. It is not as much as I had hoped, but I dare say it will suffice, eh? What is this? A self-portrait? It has promise. However, no one will purchase it, my lad. Expect me in two days. I have yet another commission... Well, must be off, my carriage is waiting.'

He left with the portrait of Lord What's-his-name underarm.

Michael had dreamed, again. There was no doubt in his mind. It was a glimpse of things to come.

He studied his portrait.

'No! It is not good enough! It is not as my dream!' He painted over the canvas, and started again.

One of the women arrived in the afternoon with bread and wine. He kept the wine, threw her out along with the bread, and continued at the easel like a man possessed.

When he could paint no more, he sat and drank.

Michael contemplated the portrait. He was still not satisfied, and one by one emptied the flagons of wine while he brooded over the painting.

For the first time in his life he felt inadequate as an artist. Helpless, he sank to his knees.

'I have never been much of a praying man. I had no use for it. But if it be true, and you do exist, I beg of you. Please hear my prayers and grant me this one wish. In return I promise to do your bidding and follow your path forever. This I swear on my life. Help me create my masterpiece. I fear that I cannot accomplish the task alone'.

He continued to paint by candle light. Outside, river fog clawed at the windows.

In the morning, a beautiful young man arrived at his room carrying a parcel. He seemed out of place in that forsaken section of town.

'Good morning, sir. May I enter?'

'Please do.' Colonessi was mesmerized by the young man's gentle demeanour. 'Care for wine?'

'No, thank you, sir. Begging your pardon. Are you not well?'

'Tired. Just tired.' He drank. 'Now, I am rather busy, as you can see...'

'Sir. If I may be so bold. Your work is absolutely marvellous. I am embarrassed to show you this.'

The man unwrapped his package and handed the artist a painting. It was a portrait of Michael Colonessi. An exact likeness of the portrait in his dreams. He was stunned. The painting was magnificent. His own work looked amateurish to him in comparison.

'Begging your pardon, sir. Is it to your liking?'

'It is miraculous... Why do you bring it to me?'

'You asked for help, sir. Here it is.'

...'I do not understand. Who are you?'

'It is of no importance, sir.'

'Who sent you? What do you want?'

'Sir, I am instructed to leave the portrait in your care.' The young man turned to leave.

'Wait! Where did you acquire this painting?' Michael was confused and wary.

'Sir, I painted it'

'You? I am not familiar with your work, and I know most of the artists...'

'I am not an artist'. The man smiled. 'This is my only painting. After some time I shall return for it. One warning. Do not alter the canvas in any way. Good day, sir.'

'I do not understand? Why would I alter it...' but the young man had departed.

Colonessi stood in front of the portrait.

'How is it possible that he could produce such a masterpiece? Am I not the artist?...I need a drink!'

He threw an old cape about his shoulders, locked the door to the room, and descended a flight of stairs to the mudded street, below.

Michael wandered aimlessly along narrow streets and alleyways. He felt dejected and humbled by the young man's portrait.

It was bitter cold, and fog enveloped everything in it's path. A thick, suffocating fog that clawed at skin and stung his eyes. He was unable to see more than a step in any direction. Even the lamplighters had forgotten his miserable neighbourhood, that morning. Colonessi wondered what could have possessed his parents to abandon their ancestral birthplace and warmer climes of Naples, to immigrate to such a place? In recent years he had often asked that very question, but would never know the answer. It had not occurred to him, while they lived, for those were happier times and it seemed the sun always shone.

Street vendors went about their business, undaunted by the demonic darkness that engulfed their world. He found momentarily relief as he passed by a chestnut-seller's oven, and felt a surge of heat from fiery coals.

Michael's spirits were raised somewhat once he beheld the welcoming lights of The Anchor and Hope tavern, ahead.

Inside he was greeted by the usual scene.

In a corner of the room, men played cards as a young girl sat on the dealer's lap and pick-pocketed his money; Drunks danced with harlots to noisy, harsh music; Two women fought over a sailor who was passed out on a table; In the darkness of a booth an elderly couple crudely embraced.

Colonessi sat at a table and drank. That day he was nothing more than a spectator. As he watched the dramas being played out, his thoughts went to the young man. Michael had never seen such a face. He imagined the man's fate if he had accompanied him to the tavern. For sure, it would not be a happy ending. 'Where did he come from', he wondered? 'Was he the answer to my pray?'

Later, he returned to his studio determined to put envy aside and to learn from the young man's portrait.

The artist painted over his own inferior attempt, set the portrait next to the empty canvas and tried to emulate the young man's work.

The portrait was perfection. Brush strokes were light as a feather, colours incandescent.

Time after time Michael painted, and then re-painted his canvas.

All through that day he toiled, until at last he could paint no more.

He examined both portraits for a long time, and then rage finally overtook him. Colonessi pushed his own painting to the floor and kicked it away.

'Is this how you help me? 'Damn you! I prayed to you, begged you, and this is how you reward my prayers? To send this portrait to mock me? As far a I am concerned you do not exist! To Hell with you!'

At the tavern, he sat with the whores and drank his fill.

In his mind a cruel trick had been played on him. In the studio sat a masterpiece, but he did not paint it and could not reproduce anything to satisfy his desire for perfection.

Michael wished he had never laid eyes on either the portrait or the young man. But what of his dreams? What did it all mean?

Try as he might he found it impossible to stay away from his room and the portrait that evening. He soon returned alone through the grim streets.

As the artist turned into a narrow alley he heard a woman singing with an angelic voice in the shadow of a doorway, but when he passed by was shocked to see an old streetwalker.

'Lookin' for a good time, ducky?' She asked in a shrill voice, and continued her song.

He wondered how it was possible that such a sweet melodious voice could originate from a grotesque.

Later that night the young man arrived at the studio.

'Sir, I am here for the painting.'

Colonessi stood looking at the portrait.

'Oh...It is you? At this time of night?'

'Sir, you desired to be rid of the portrait.'

Colonessi laughed nervously. He quickly blocked the young man's path to the painting. 'That was in my rage, sir. I did not mean it. Can you not leave the portrait with me for a day or two more?'

'That is not my decision to make, sir'

'But you said that it was yours. Did you not?'

'No. I said only that I painted it.'

'Well, no matter. Here it is.'

Without any warning, Colonessi suddenly lunged at the young man and stabbed him with his artist's knife. The man collapsed to the floor in pain, holding his stomach.

'Why?..' But Michael ignored his pleas. Instead, he took a pillow from his bed and pushed it roughly into the young man's face to muffle his cries while he plunged the knife deep into his chest.

'You do see that I could not allow you to take it from me?' He mumbled as he cradled the young man in his arms.

It was dead of night, when he pulled the unmoving body onto the landing at the back of the building and threw it down a flight of stairs to the stone floor below. Nobody in the other rooms stirred, and if someone heard a sound, they ignored it.

Outside, thick fog reeked of soot and sewage. The backyard was derelict. Nothing moved but rats scurrying from one meal to another.

Bathed in cold sweat, Colonessi carried the body towards the river.

Suddenly, the young man moaned loudly. Michael froze with fear and dropped him to the ground. He looked anxiously about the yard expecting his crime to be discovered...

But the bloody mess did not move, and he stood alone in the silence, heart pounding.

Slowly the artist regained his composure and dragged the lifeless body the rest of the way.

He struggled to push the dead weight up onto a wharf and into the murky River Thames.

As he sank below the surface, it seemed to Colonessi that the young man opened his eyes and smiled up at him.

He returned to his studio with only one thought. The portrait was now his, and his alone.

Michael knew that the police would discover the young man sooner or later, but that did not concern him. They dragged bodies from the Thames every day. London's morgues were overflowing with the unclaimed and unwanted.

'Why had the young fool not signed the painting?' The artist pondered as he poured wine. 'It is proof enough that he intended me to claim soul ownership to it.' A toast to my masterpiece!'

He took his brush in hand, but was now hesitant to touch the portrait...

'I am the fool if I stop now. It is mine!'

He signed it: Michael Colonessi.

National Art Gallery. London. Summer. 2007.

'Please move along the room so that everyone can see...

Ladies and gentleman! Welcome to the National Gallery's newly opened viewing room. It gives me great pleasure to present Michael Colonessi's masterpiece. His self-portrait!

It has now been six months since this portrait was discovered by accident in the vaults of the National Gallery. And during those months, the world's most renowned art experts have scrutinised every aspect of the painting. It has undergone extensive carbon dating, as well as paint, canvas and even handwriting tests. The results conclude that it is authentic and without doubt the work of the artist Michael Colonessi. No flash photography, please...

Before this portrait came to light, Colonessi's 'unsigned' self-portrait, as it is famously known, was considered to be his last and greatest work of art. And along with Da Vinci's Mona Lisa, has been the standard by which we perceive greatness. But even these two monumental achievements pale in comparison. This new find has turned the art establishment on it's ear!

His other works are magnificent in their own right, but this self-portrait is one of a kind, and Colonessi was assuredly touched by genius when he painted it. See how delicately the artist captured the eyes? One feels that the portrait is almost alive and his eyes make contact, such is the brilliance of this achievement.

But how was this masterpiece overlooked for over one hundred and fifty years? And why has there never even been a mention of it's existence?

It is another piece of the puzzle that has surrounded Michael Colonessi for almost two centuries. Sir, please tell your child not to touch that pedestal. Thank you...

There are no historic records of his last days, and we can only rely on an account given by his closest friend, an art dealer.

According to his story, he had commissioned Colonessi to paint a self-portrait. When he arrived one morning at the artist's studio, he found the un-signed self-portrait waiting for him, but there was no sign of Michael Colonessi, and he was never seen nor heard from again.

What happened to him? He seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. Was he murdered? Did he commit suicide? And why was his body never found? Did he find a watery grave in the River Thames?

It is a mystery, to be sure, and one that will probably never be solved. Colonessi knows what took place, but he has long since gone to his maker. What remains is this magnificent work of art for all to appreciate.

That concludes our tour for today. Thank you for your time. Please make your way to the exits. The Gallery will be closing in fifteen minutes.' The beautiful young man said, and smiled at the departing people.

'He knows the truth, believe me, but he lies to you! He always lies and deceives! Can you not hear me? Listen to me. Look at me, I live! See? I move my eyes. How can you not see? You are but a few paces in front of me. I am the portrait! Please look! My eyes. I can move my eyes. I beg you. Someone. Let me out! Why can no one ever hear me?...No! Do not go. Do not leave me alone with him!.. God, please forgive my sins. Save me from this Hell!'

The End

(Portrait of Evil is now available as a Two Act Play for the Stage. Read it @ redbubble.com or triond.com)

Keyword: richard-davies short-stories horror-tales victorian-london

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Comments (3)

Posted by liz robles 2007-09-21 13:52:32 .... that was pretty good! creepy... :eek + Report this comment    + Delete this comment
Posted by Richard Davies 2007-10-15 13:44:25 Catherine by Richard Davies I have just finished 'Catherine'. It's a romantic fantasy, mystery nonella. I hope you will read it @ Triond.com. http://www.authspot.com/Short-Stories/Catherine.49434 + Report this comment
Posted by richardlilijon 2008-02-28 13:58:16 Portrait of Evil. A scary play. I have adapted Portrait of Evil into a two act play. I hope you will read it. http://www.authspot.com/Plays/Portrait-of-Evil-A-Scary-Play-in-Two-Acts.82107 + Report this comment

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