The Art of Melancholia

Maman

I should begin with the time I killed my father - though I feel I must first explain myself. It took me many years to realize the horror of my situation.

I tried to love him, truly I did, or as much as one could love a man such as him. But he was a man of stone, distant and omnipresent, who reigned with unquestionable divine right as he looked down upon your small person. If he made a decision - he was well within his rights. If he beat you - you deserved it. Over time the cracks showed and his body eroded and you would look up at his hard visage and feel no love, not even a shred of respect, and know that was the man who owned you.

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My father, his father, and all the other fathers have served the crown since the mists of time, ever since my my distant ancestor was given his land and titles in reward for his service to the crown. My father, ever the courtier, received some royal grace by giving His Majesty a horse during a hunt and since he waited on promotions, titles, and favors he felt himself entitled to but never came. His position of giving His Majesty his sword in the morning (1), and his mediocre apartments was all he had to show for his service (2). He pointed his finger to his sick wife, the bourgeois (3), and anyone but himself who, I can imagine, inspired dislike in anyone who could benefit him. Surviving merely on the purity of his blood, immense wealth, and the honors he had the rights to by the seniority of his title (4), he decided to retreat to our ancestral lands and rebuild the Chateau de Calais in the latest fashion.

Do not be mistaken to think it was because my father was either poor or sentimental (5). He only enjoyed the provinces for what it gave him - the freedom to do what he pleased and to be the Lord of His Lands and Family away from prying eyes. In Calais, there was nothing left for him to do but manage his estates with the upmost scrutiny and for his service he expected everyone in his family to regard him with the respect and obedience he was entitled to per his rights.

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I remember myself on the floor below the stairs. My body ached as I stared up carved ceiling. I could not move. I could not remember how I got there. I could only focus on the pain that show through my limbs and searing in my head.

"Maman!" I cried when I heard the rustle of my mother's petticoats rush down the stairs as she called my name. Her tear stained face came before my own as she places her hands on the side of my face. She pulled a hand away from my head, and blood ran down her fingers. That's when I felt the stinging slash on my face, where I cut myself on a sharp tile edge, that left a trail of bright red blood down the pure white marble of the grand staircase.

"Charles, what happened?" I heard my mother say but I could not break my focus from the warm liquid that ran down my face.

I could never recall the details. I lied to my mother that I had tripped while going downstairs. But the only thing I could remember before that was the image of my father and that I did something, said something, that compelled him to push me. I was forced to spend many days resting, to the annoyance of my father, as the cut on my head was worse than I had thought and I spent those days in a confused and nauseous haze. I was eight, I believe, and while these matters are quite blurred to me, I still can remember what I felt then and see the faded images that live in my mind - asleep or awake.

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There were many times, after my father had hurt me, that I would sit on my bedroom floor, my legs up to my chest, and I would keep my sight straight before me. I would focus on the bedpost, the curtain, a book, or anything in my room and watch as the world blurred out around me. I would stay in that position for hours, until I could feel my thoughts and emotions separate from me like water and vinegar, or until I fell asleep in my clothes, whichever came first. When I finally saw my father stiff, I wondered if he had felt in his final moments what I did then - frozen and helpless in a situation he could not control. I don't know - but I can dream.