It is to be my greatest work – “The Temptation of St. Anthony”. In this space here the great Saint will be on his knees with his arms up to heaven as he is surrounded in the desert by the most foul trickery the devil can conjure. I shall be using both subtlety and the explicit to depict the temptations; this line here will be the long path that St. Anthony has walked. Over here will be a creature representing sloth and I will draw the viewer’s eyes to the blisters on the Saint’s feet – that is just one of many examples that I will create in this piece.

The work has been commissioned by none other than Prince Albert of Monaco himself, I might add, and a thousand hours alone have been spent on the primary sketches. The canvas I had specially made, due to it size, by sailmakers in La Rochelle, and I have not been able to enter my humble bedroom for three weeks now, as that has been given over to stockpiling the paint needed for my masterpiece.

My greatest preparation has been, however, facing the devil and the demons in my own soul. For forty days and forty nights, I did not leave this building and created my own hell by taking residence on the roof, and existing with nothing but the clothes I wear now and drinking nothing but Absinthe – I know my demons’ names.

Today, I start on working on the Virgin Temptress who will be standing inches away from St.Anthony, offering herself unconditionally to him. In this void here, I will create beauty, temptation and strength. And … ah, here comes the model herself, recommended by my good … well, friend Toulouse-Lautrec

“Bonjour, Madame, are you ready for pure beauty in encapsulation?”

“I’ve heard it called a lot of things in my time, but not that. How do you want me, on top or below?”

“What are you doing?” I cried, as she started to unbutton my flies.

“Oh right, it’s that and not the other – silly me. You would not believe this morning I’ve had. I don’t know If I am coming or going and…”

Mon Dieu! I thought, as I noticed she had teeth befitting the English, but still she did have a certain femme fatale look about her. “Madame, if you wouldn’t mind, we have a lot to do and I want to capture you before I lose the magnificent light coming through the skylight.”

“Right then, who am I am going to be then? Last week I was Arse-Miss”

“Arse-Miss ?”

” Arrrssseee-Miss-I was standing there bow in one hand with a doggie at me feet”

“You mean Artemis, the Greek Goddess of hunting?”

“Yeah, thats the one, Arse-Miss.”

I sighed before continuing, “I am painting the Temptation of St Anthony.”

“Who was he then?”

“He was the father of all monks who had a divine connection with the heavenly and fought a supernatural battle of the mind against temptation from the devil.”

“You’ll have to go a bit slower, I didn’t quite get that all, now his father was a monk and…?”

“Madame, please if you don’t mind …the light. Now if you could just disrobe and I need you to show Temptation…. No, no need to put your hand out… or your leg…. or your hand on your hip… Do you mind if I…?”

“Brrr, your hands are cold.”

“Now Madame, if you can just hold this pose.”

“No problem, you know I was with Bernard last week, and he said Elita if there is one thing you do good, and that is to hold…”

“Madame, please – the light. I really do need to get started.” Finally, I said silently as I began to mix the Tempera with my brush. As any artist will tell you, you can not beat that first stroke to canvas and… Christ, why had this creature begun laughing? “Madame?”

“Up there, that picture behind you?”

“Pandora opening the box? What about it ?” God knows why I asked.

“Yeah, that’s Eloise from the Ruse Des Moulins isn’t it? I’d recognize that bum anywhere! Amount of laughs me and her have had. One time it was the both of us and this Greek gentlemen who wanted us to …”

“MADAME! The light! Please! ”

“Sorry, here I am chatting away and you’re trying to ..”

“MADAME!” Ah, silence at last, but then: “Madame, did you just pass wind?

“Sorry, as I said, been running around all morning. Been on my back, up against a wall, only had had time to gulp my lunch before I came….”

I scowled at her, which seemed to do the trick. Finally my brush was on canvas and I could begin my magic, oh Christ!

“Do you think my left boob is slightly smaller than the right?”

–00–

…It was just shortly after that, that I grabbed my pallet knife and well, I imagine it was the women below me who ran out to the street when the screaming started. I do have to say Gendarme, I am surprised how little time it took you to turn up. Normally there is never a policeman when you need one in this part of town. I have to say, for such a horrid creature, she looks wonderfully peaceful lying there – despite all the blood. Would it be terribly rude of me, if i grabbed my sketchbook? … oh.

“Et tu Brute?”

The words echoed loudly around the room as Brutus thrust his dagger into Caesars Chest and watched silently as the dictators body, now devoid of any life, fell to the floor.  The lights came down and the crowd went wild.

Duke Vessèy had done it again, as the lights came back on and the crowd shouted “Bravo!”, he stepped forward still holding the knife and bowed to the audience who continued to shower him with praise.

He only put on one play a year and it was normally of a historical context and strictly for one night only. The audience were invited personally by the Duke himself and he carefully selected people he believed to be of a certain bel espirit.  There were many who had tried and failed miserably to obtain an invitation by bribery, for his plays were the talk of legend in European aristocracy.

The plays were written by the Duke himself who was fluent in Ancient Greek, Latin and French and even if the time period was not classical or part of French history, he would normally assimilate the play into one of those languages.  The preparation work that went into them was staggering and he would spend all of the 364 days between them as a recluse, meticulously planning, writing and organising the next one.

He paid the patronage of several artists at the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture in Paris and  in return, they provided set designs and backdrops, which were masterpieces in their own right . Three years ago the play had been about the Rape of the Sabine women the main backdrop of a burning city was so atmospheric that the audience swore that somehow the Duke had made the flames move. One scene in this year’s play had featured Caesar giving a speech in the city of Rome and the perspective was so perfect and the illusion set, that the audience started looking around the room trying to trace the continuation of imaginary walls.

The Duke had set up a palazzo in Florence for the sole purpose of making the costumes each year and they were made of the finest silks and materials money could buy. Cleopatra’s robes had taken over  two thousand man hours and was sewn with real gold thread. The costumes from previous years’ plays were proudly displayed in the great hall at his Château which his guests would walk past on their way to the theatre he had set up in the East wing – perfect for getting his audience in the mood.

No expense was spared on props either: last years play had been based on the story of Ivan the Terrible and the Tsar’s staff had been decorated by no less than fourteen of the finest goldsmiths of  London. This year twelve  armourers were employed and installed on the grounds to produce the Armour for the large battle scene depicting Caesar conquering the Gauls.

The effects were also perfectly executed: the audience dived to the floor as a volley of arrows flew past their heads into the Gauls on stage. Huge gas lamps high above the audience made them sweat as the action moved to ancient Egypt, but it was the blood they loved most. The front row was sprayed as a Centurion brought his sword across a barbarian’s neck, to which they responded with a cheer. When King Ptolemy brought the freshly decapitated head of the General Pompey through the audience, splattering them in blood and entrails, they let up a large roar of approval.

The crowd rose to their feet as the house lights came up, and the Duke continued to bathe in the ovation. He stood there for a good five minutes before bringing his fingers to his lips and requesting his guests to join him out on the patio – he would of course get changed first so as not to shatter the illusion of the world he had just created.

As the guests piled out, no one had noticed that Caesar hadn’t moved.

I have come to fear the nights in here as much as I fear the sound of artillery. It is bedlam when the lights go out and nightmares are relived. It always begins in the same way – the names of the fallen are screamed out, and too-late warnings are issued. Silence always follows, and then the sobbing begins. We cry for those we have lost, for the wounds we have endured, and for those we miss. I ask: Is this what it is like to be damned?

The day never seems to bring light and the air is thick with death. There is a brown stream of watery blood and mud which comes in from under the door, but I do not know if this is real or not. I spend my time peeling back the sounds; from the corridor I hear the people coming in and the bodies going out. In another ward I hear a man who is always weeping slowly, and past that the noise of engines as vehicles go back empty and come back full. The distant sound of explosions and gunfire remind me constantly where I am – Hell.

Of the seven I arrived with, three now lie in the morgue and a fourth has contracted tuberculosis. The other two I choose not to remember. I am not sure if they are still men. I am not even sure if I am. My skin feels metallic, my mouth tastes of mud, and my blood feels like acid. I scratch hard at my wounds so I can feel the pain.

The nurses, doctors and orderlies seem to float here, and I lay in my bed and worry that the monster which is grinding its way through the men out in the fields, will soon come for them. At night I hear them weep too, but each day they come back. They are braver than I.

I will not write to you about any of these things. Instead I will start my letter as I always do. I will ask how you and father are doing, how my younger brother is, and has he got in any more fights at school. I will then tell you how I am getting better and how I hope to be out of this place in four weeks. I will tell you how frustrated I am to not be at the front, and the sooner I’m back there fighting the better. I will then conclude on an amusing story or a comment about a pretty nurse, and sign off by saying how one day we will all be together again.

I will write this way, because I want you to be proud of me, to love me and to remember me. Without your loving thoughts in my mind, I would truly be damned.