An Unsuitable Likeness

Four months ago to the day, I commissioned a portrait depicting myself in a moderately somber light, which I felt might lend my sitting room a sophistication I had sensed it lacking since my time in the Italian court. The portrait was to be made by a local artist of some renown, at no little expense. I had heard promising rumors that he was a master of the application of the "golden mean" to the subjects he rendered, to marvelous results. It was said that he managed not only to preserve the true identity of his subject but also to uncover a subtle beauty which the viewer would forevermore perceive in the visage of the painted.

Unfortunately, as I was sitting for the painting a messenger arrived, out of breath and clearly agitated, summoning me on some urgent business involving a homicidal gentleman at Pentonville. I was forced to take my leave a full hour earlier than I or the artist had intended. He assured me that as the underpainting was already complete, the portrait itself would be done and mounted within the day, and delivered straightaway to my residence for hanging. I trusted his craft, and his memory, as he had come so highly recommended.

Throughout the unpleasant dealings with my insane compatriot that day, I found myself distant and distracted, wishing only to return home and observe the glorious effect my portrait would no-doubt render over the decor of my sitting room. I was so deeply lost in these thoughts that I hardly even noticed when the warden administered the tongue clamp. Indeed, I nearly lost a finger when the man was at last released. He made a sudden rush for me, his bloody teeth bared and biting, and it was only by the warden's quick work with the Slap Jack that he was averted in the last moment. It is unwise for one to be distracted while dealing with the criminally insane. At last, my advice for the man's treatment having been given, I set off homeward.

Just after sitting down to tea, however, I was once again called away unexpectedly, and that just moments before the painting arrived, I am now told. This time, it was to attend to some pressing business overseas which I am currently unable to discuss in detail. Suffice it to say it involved a sensitive situation aboard a vessel belonging to an extravagantly wealthy gentleman I happily now call my business associate.

Now, these four months later, I have finally returned home, in great anticipation, only to find this worthless excuse for a portrait darkening my sitting room, for God and man to see. I am quite certain the only element the artist captured bearing any resemblance to reality must be the hilt of my excellent rapier, which he painted in glorious detail. It is impossible to say how many gentlemen, or worse, ladies, have in my absence been deceived into thinking my visage is so equine. God forbid, the rumored permanence-of-effect in the mind of the viewer should prove true for this abomination. From now until glory the unfortunate souls exposed to it might only see in my venerable face the caballine horror - that unsuitable likeness they were so unfortunate as to witness in my "portrait."

Needless to say, I shall have the painting burned tonight; I had considered running the thing through or cutting it to shreds, but ghastly images of Dorian Gray come to mind. Perhaps, in burning the painting, any mote of ugliness within me might perish in the flames. Or at least one can hope the ugliness that no doubt lives on in the minds of those who beheld that wretched canvas - as it certainly bloody well thrives in my own - might be consumed. I fully intend to commission a replacement. Any messenger who attempts to interrupt my next sitting can expect to find himself suddenly and intimately familiar with the "golden mean," of my rapier.