Again, that wretched sadness took me, and I could not escape it; and from sadness it became languor, and then madness. Would I have lost myself again, and never be able to find myself again? And who would have bought me this time? My soul was in the picture, and I could not defend it from the eyes of others. He stood up and kissed me for a long time: did he know I was leaving?
That night I couldn't sleep. My dreams were strange calls from worlds lost in time. Then I realised that it was the painted door that was calling me. I ran into the garden and the painting moved. The door was now open and was showing a black abyss of shadows and, in the background, colours. I jumped in and couldn't get out anymore: like the captive nature I had been sculpted in the canvas, and I was dead.
Since that day he hasn't painted any more paintings and hasn't sold any, because he doesn't know where my soul took refuge: and since then the trees are grey and the faces of the Angels have disappeared like smoke. He can't recognize the light from the night, and he can' t distinguish fire from water. And I can no longer tell him, now, because I am behind the door, where he could never see me again. Now I cry, feeling miserable in my human weakness.
Everything is over. And I no longer have a voice to confess that I stole his colours from him...
THE DEVIL'S MUSIC
RED
They said that music was composed by the devil.
Rumours, jokes, superstitions? But he played that music several times and never saw the devil. And he certainly, he knew how it was like, with those sharp horns, the swaggering air and the black hat, as it usually appears, and then it's scary because you feel his warm breath on you. But as he didn't feel fear, on the contrary, the music seemed to lift him up high where the devil, as they say, shouldn't be. And each time a deep peace descended in his heart, which no earthly thing is able to give. It was that love for the universe that was beating in his chest, when he played, that spurred him on to continue to do so, that strange satisfaction of the senses. And then he felt good, or rather eager to do good, even if goodness bored him as much as evil, and every time he ended up folding back on himself and he didn’t care about those feelings.
So, every day: satisfied of himself and then unhappy, longing to concentrate on those notes and then tired of them. And then there was that strange nausea for people and for himself, after playing, that he didn't understand but couldn't help but wanting it. In the end he got used to that too and didn't pay attention to it anymore, considering it as a small price to pay to enjoy a precious gift.
"The devil? He doesn't exist! "- he said, using his own happiness as proof. "I have never stolen or hurt anyone, and I am happy. So, the devil no longer drags to perdition the mortals who enjoy his companions and limbs? Then, if so, welcome devil! "
And he caressed the chin of his young wife with a heavy, pregnant belly, a sign that the child was healthy and growing well, yet another sign of divine blessing. But the woman died in the spring giving birth to that child. But to say this is not even correct, because the child remained locked in her dead mother's womb until a disconcerting lament forced someone to take her out with an unexpected Caesarean section. Her eyes were open, and she was alive. And then everyone thought there was something evil about it, and that those signs were bad. And when it finally turned out that the strange creature didn't speak, even though it could, and that it just looked at the world with detached and angry eyes, then everyone left them all alone, and the father and his daughter lived alone all the years of their lives.
In the end they disappeared, as if they swallowed up out of nowhere, and everyone said that it was the devil who asked for the reward of their souls. But I know how it went, because I was the only one who decided to mingle with their misfortune, driven by a feeling of pity for that poor creature who grew up out of nowhere, and to whom I myself could only bring a little food. What happened still frightens me, but I'm old now and I'm not given to fear anything but death. So, my friends, listen to my poor chatter and then forget it. There have been so many words already.
So, he kept playing that music, and sinking day after day into the oblivion. Playing it, he found peace, deluding himself that he was no longer himself and escaping from that hopeless reality. Nothing interested him except that music: and when he realised that he could no longer do without it, even though he hated it, he began to hate himself because he hated it. He couldn't do anything anymore: and watching his daughter melting like a candle as well, even though she was healthy, and she didn't speak a word.
"Damn this music! "He blasphemed to himself. And every day he vowed never to touch her again, knowing that he would not hesitate a moment later to pick up the instruments to do so. And every time those sounds went up to the sky in a magical enchantment on his body, shadows of exhaustion were drawn, that dark spot that every day took more form and became clearer, until it exploded with its horrible appearance and he could no longer avoid seeing it. That hairy paw was born on his chest and it was the sign of the devil, who he had never feared and still was not yet afraid but full of horrors and deceit. There was no escape: that music was the covenant of blood that had sucked his soul and that had granted it as a gift to the dark Lord. He had now touched it and held it in his hand, feeding on its pride and lack of faith. And the contagion passed from man to man through the sounds of that music that stimulates the senses towards the sin that cannot be committed, but which, in your heart, is precisely why you have already committed it. A silent plague that every creature brings to another, repeating the cycle endlessly. Then he wondered how many massacres he had committed, bringing that music into the world. How many other sins were waiting to explode, how many more sins were spinning in the air waiting to be caught? He had been blind but now he saw and understood that this music had to be destroyed immediately, because if there was still a chance of salvation that would prevent men from following his own path it depended only on him. He raised his arms to take the score... but he couldn't. That music still spoke to him and enchanted him, playing an easy game against the will of the victorious man. He understood in a moment that he did not want to destroy it at all, but on the contrary, to play it, because there is no stronger temptation for the human being than that of dragging his brother to perdition.
"You must burn it" - whispered a voice behind him at that moment.
It was that mute daughter's voice who was now speaking, and she stood straight before him, pale and suffering in the face and trembling all over.
"You must burn it" - she repeated, uncovering a breast. There, too, the spot had taken shape.
The paw that had settled on her breast had now dug and devoured it all, piercing its heart as well.
"You see how I am reduced. You must burn that music, and you must burn me too. "
Then he understood that there was no more hope or time: they piled up the little stuff they had on the shore and made a great campfire of it. Then he threw his daughter's body over it and finally that music. And he waited in silence for the fire to go out completely, watching the last pieces of his life leave with it.
And when everything was done, he felt old and tired: not because he had lost his only daughter, but because he could no longer play his music. And when this thought was clear and sharp in his mind the stain on his chest began to burn, and to suffocate him in a vice, until even his body was consumed, and his flesh consumed.
So, he went back to his room and killed himself.
