In a small cottage on a grassy hill with a sinuous trail leading down to the bustle of the great town of Corland that housed the seat of Her Highness the Princess’s government of the Principality of Hymnia, Roseanne stood in front of her easel, looking attentively at the large, splendid, and sublime oil on canvas that she had spent four years of her life crafting, polishing, and perfecting.

It was the heart and soul of her pride.

Yet, for the past year, she had been trying to sell it to a patron, but few had been willing to pay more than a few pennies for it. Most simply walked away shaking their head after a moment of glancing through the painting.

Roseanne stood there, staring into the easel, lost in thought.

I pray, night and day, that in the end all my efforts are not wasted.

Every morning, Roseanne would go to a hectic street in town, always noisy during the day with church bells and town criers, where she kept a craftsman’s house atop a workshop. As she was the only painter not in the guild who could do a decent job creating decorative work for the lords’ and the ladies’ entertainments and displays, she was able to sustain herself tolerably well. The only downside was that the quotidian paintings ridden with superficial charms that her patrons always ordered were detestable to her bones. Roseanne deeply resented the idea of creating something to suit the unrefined taste of someone who did not possess any appreciation for art, yet she was impelled to do the type of work which she thus resented, merely so that she could live. It was an inextricable feeling of sorrow that perennially hung over her heart.

Next door to Roseanne’s workshop was an apothecary’s shop, from where she bought all her pigments. The owner of the apothecary’s shop was Mina, who happened to be of the same age as Roseanne. Thus, a natural affinity between the two girls spontaneously developed over the years, and, as Roseanne focused mostly on her work both at home and in town, for a large part she relied upon Mina for some bits of news regarding important local events during their chat when she purchased art supplies from Mina or occasionally when she came to and left her workshop every day.

One afternoon, Roseanne was closing the workshop in preparation for the nightly curfew that was to be imposed in a short moment, when a sudden commotion echoed from one end of the street.

“It’s the Princess,” exclaimed Mina, who came out of her shop after hearing the noise.

“Really? How do you know?” Roseanne turned around and looked at her, with an ebullient curiosity in her voice. She had heard about the famed beauty of the new Princess, who succeeded to the crown only one year before, and it was said that every minstrel in Europe came to Corland to admire Her Highness’s beauty, and was thoroughly filled with astonishment the moment they beheld Jisoo in person, and that they sang so many ingeniously crafted lyric poems that every single object in the world had been used in some metaphor to praise Her Highness’s incomparable allure. Such being the case, Roseanne had always secretly longed to see the Princess in person, even though she had never explicitly realized it herself.

“Look at the purple carriage. That’s Her Highness’s coach.”

Roseanne stared into the source of the noise, and discerned the purple coach that Mina was speaking of. Soon the horses drew near, and the figures of the people inside the coach became distinct. Her heart was pounding fast, and, only for a second before the coach drove past Roseanne’s workshop, she caught a glimpse of the beautiful visage that was Princess Jisoo, who was smiling cheerfully, apparently in the middle of a lighthearted conversation with her companion, whom Roseanne knew to be the girl made famous by L’Enfer at sixteen. Her name was Jennie, if Roseanne remembered right.

The purple coach as quickly disappeared at the other end of the street as it quickly came from the one end. Roseanne was still gazing into the already disappeared commotion, and thinking of the already gone Princess and her smile. She then thought of the girl that was with Jisoo, and could not help asking, “Why is that girl—Jennie is her name, I think—riding with Jisoo?”

“What!” Mina was shocked by Roseanne’s words, “It’s not our place to talk of…‘that girl Jennie’ or…‘Jisoo’… Those are Her Highness the Princess and the Most Honorable the Marchioness of Corland to us.”

“Oh…” Roseanne realized her gauche impropriety, and her heart sank a bit.

“And…” Mina calmed herself after seeing Roseanne’s reaction, “as to your question, Lady Corland lives here and owns this town, and Her Ladyship is also Her Highness’s Peintre Royale. So I can only assume it’s unsurprising that Her Ladyship is riding with Her Highness.”

“I see…” Roseanne lowered her head, still thinking about how her referring to the Princess as “Jisoo” and Lady Corland as “Jennie” stunned Mina. “We’re so insignificant to Her Highness, aren’t we… So small, and meaningless.”

Mina heard the acute twinge in her voice, and looked mournfully at Roseanne. “We can’t change anything.”

Roseanne looked up at Mina, and exclaimed, “Why can’t we? Jennie…Lady Corland used to a commoner like you and me… Her Ladyship is only Her Ladyship because she can paint.”

And I can paint, too…

“Uh…” Mina gasped at her petulance, “No, Lady Corland did not use to be a commoner like us. Her Ladyship had already been the daughter of a baronet before she was created Marchioness of Corland.”

Roseanne bit her lip, writhing in suppressed despair, and could not speak.

Mina sighed after a moment of silence. “I know you can paint, Rosie. You paint extraordinarily well. But my words will never do. You’d need someone of rank to appreciate you.”

Is that so… But who could it possibly be…

“Don’t be upset, now, Rosie,” Mina continued, “We need to shut up the shops now before the curfew.”

At night, Roseanne kneeled before her bed, hands folded, and could hardly suppress her mixed emotions that ensued from all that happened in the afternoon. Amid the keen painfulness that flashed through her heart, the one second that she glimpsed Jisoo in her purple coach kept reemerging. The cherubic smile upon Her Highness’s seraphic face, that fleeted away in the blink of eye, seemed so fugacious, yet so distinct, that Roseanne yearned both to retain forever and to forget right away. She struggled with herself, bitterly and futilely, and the conflict soon turned into an ineffable feeling of hatred toward Jisoo.

Your Highness, I am but nothing to you, aren’t I, like the dust and soot that a gentle brush of wind would disperse, as if I had never existed in the first place.

The nothingness of it all overwhelmed her, and Roseanne started to sob in intense anguish, roiling in the agonizing thought that something so perfect, so supremely beautiful was yet something so faraway, so unattainable that it all seemed unreal.

I am as far apart from you as Lucifer is from God.

A sudden dazzling light dawned onto Roseanne’s cottage, the candles in her bedroom flickered, and were quenched, and vapors rose. She looked up from her impious prayer, eyes red and swollen, and saw a human form slowly descending from the bright sky before her.

“An angel…” murmured Roseanne. At once she wiped the tears off her face, and looked intently at the descended being that gleamed with radiance.

“Not quite,” said the female-formed spirit, “I am the Patron Spirit of Hymnia. With pain and despair you have compelled me to appear before you, as I am moved by your suffering, and your flair and striving that are unjustly ignored.”

Roseanne stared at the spirit in a trance, left speechless by awe and dread.

“How far have you wandered, youthful artist?”

“I…I…I only lived in Corland, from this cottage to town…and never farther.”

“Does it not make you wretched, does it not make your heart ache, that your significance is so little, that you are loved by so few?”

“It…It does… It does so much…” Roseanne hung her head in reflection of her misery, and tears soon filled her eyes.

“Then what is it that you most wish for in life?”

“I wish…to be the greatest and most famous artist in all of Europe…”

And…I wish…to be with Jisoo, to make her mine, and mine only.

“Very well,” the spirit smiled, as if she had heard Roseanne’s unspoken second wish, “I shall make you the greatest painter in Hymnia. You shall be more renowned than even the Marchioness of Corland. You shall bask in glamour and success, and you shall be loved and idolized by all the mortals under the Sun in Hymnia.”

“Really?” Roseanne looked up at the spirit in a thrill, trembling at the notion that she would be thus famed and thus loved.

“Yes, all of it, at only one price: You shall never love anyone. The moment that you start feeling love toward another person shall spell your demise—unless,” the spirit paused for a second, and continued, “you sever the feeling, as quickly as the meteor disappears into the night sky.”

Roseanne was silent after hearing the spirit’s words. She did not know how she might respond to a deal so tempting as the one just offered to her.

“Will I…be more famous than even the Florentine…Michelangelo Buonarroti?” Roseanne asked timidly.

“It shall be in your own hands, whether you will distinguish yourself in Europe outside Hymnia. All of Hymnia is all I can offer you.”

“And…I can make any person in Hymnia fall in love with me?”

“Yes,” the spirit smiled again, “but you shall not love them back.”

Roseanne pondered, calculated, struggled, and remained speechless. After twenty years of coping with the profound conflict between her grandiose dream of fame and the cruel reality of piteous unknownness, the mere thought that she might eventually be celebrated for her artistry across the vast land of Hymnia and perhaps even Europe was already irresistible. The addition that she would be adored and worshipped by everyone in Hymnia, including the beautiful Princess Jisoo, simply made it impossible for her to say no.

Even though I shall never love you…you shall fall for me, pine for me, and feel the heart-rending pain that I am feeling for you… I shall rejoice in seeing you in my current lowly position, seeing you beg me for my love, as I am doing for yours.

It was the lust for vengeance that possessed every unrequited soul.

“Silent artist, what is your answer?”

“Yes,” slowly and steadily, Roseanne uttered the word, looking firmly into the eyes of the spirit. And her eyes that only moments before were filled with tears were now sparkling with triumph, as if she had already been celebrated as the greatest artist that history had ever seen.

“Very good,” the spirit smiled at Roseanne’s prior chaste and innocent stare that now became mixed with swelling ambition, and gradually ascended into the heavenly light as she spoke, “Bring your proudest work to your shop in town tomorrow, and everything will proceed as you wished.”

The glaring radiance disappeared, the tranquility and darkness of the night restored, and the candles again lit up the bedroom. Roseanne was still kneeling before her bed, her hands folded, as if nothing had changed. She looked around the room, her face felt dry from the tears, and her mind was still trying to make sense of all that had happened just a moment before.

Was it all…but a dream?

She trembled at the thought that none of it had in fact happened. She had waited so many years for an opportunity, earthly or otherwise, for her to become recognized, and she could not bear the idea that she had come so close to success merely to see it evaporate in the bliss of a dream. Nevertheless, she managed to convince herself that all of it was true, that she was still sane, and went to sleep after saying a desultory prayer.

The next morning she carried the oil on canvas that had been sitting on the easel in her cottage for a year to her craftsman’s house in town, as the spirit told her, and soon fell into a state of oblivious working in the quotidian noise of church bells and town criers. Everything was still the same. Roseanne was still a nobody, toiling away at some work that she deeply detested.

Suddenly she heard that another patron came into the shop downstairs, and a moment later her apprentice went upstairs and told her that the patron was someone of high importance, so important in fact that she should stop her work at hand and go down to greet them. Roseanne was intrigued as to who it might be, and followed her apprentice downstairs.

“The Right Honorable the Countess of Nomnia,” Lisa’s maid introduced her mistress to Roseanne after seeing her coming downstairs.

“Oh…” Roseanne was quite taken by surprise that a countess would go to a shop in town herself, “Lady Nomnia, what an honor! How may I help Your Ladyship?”

“Nothing much,” Lisa said, and giggled at Roseanne’s cutely amusing mannerisms, “I was just thinking, ‘It would be fun for me to go to town in Corland myself once in a while,’ and so I went. It was indeed really fun, with all the criers and smiths, and I just figured I would go into a shop and do a little shopping myself. I don’t know why, but your little shop here caught my attention, so here I am!”

Roseanne was caught a bit off guard by Lisa’s enthusiastic rambling, and for a second did not know what would be a proper reply.

“Now, let’s see…” Lisa continued herself, “Can you just show me something you think is interesting in your shop here that I can buy?”

“Oh!” Roseanne suddenly remembered the deal she made last night with the spirit, “I do have…a little painting, of which I am rather proud…and which I think would interest Your Ladyship,” her voice quivered as she realized the incredible opportunity that was happening right before her eyes.

“Is that so? Do show it to me now,” Lisa noticed Roseanne’s half-suppressed excitement, but did not think much about it.

“Yes, my lady! Would Your Ladyship care to follow me upstairs?”

“Of course.” And then Lisa followed Roseanne into her craftsman’s house atop the shop, leaving behind her maid and Roseanne’s apprentice.

“This humble painting of mine was completed about a twelvemonth ago, which I hope Your Ladyship will enjoy,” said Roseanne as she put the painting upon the easel.

Lisa looked at the painting, and was immediately drawn to the apparently incompatible colors that were in conflict with each other. “Interesting…” Lisa said, walked nearer the easel, and examined the nuanced mix of thick and thin brushes up close. For a good while Lisa was studying every detail of the oil on canvas intently, and Roseanne waited beside her, anxious to hear her opinion, which she dreaded as much to be the same slighting remark that every single patron of hers had given before as she wished to be an empathetic appreciation.

“Well…” Lisa said after some minutes of scrutiny, “It’s a…truly…marvelous piece of art.”

How relieved was Roseanne to hear, at last, a genuine compliment on her proudest work after receiving one year of thinly veiled insults!

“Thank you…thank you…thank you so much, my lady…” Roseanne exclaimed, her entire body shaking from the flush of emotions that was the result of success after years of hard work and patience. Her heart pounded, her nose twinged, and tears immediately filled her eyes.

“Whoa…” Lisa was amazed by Roseanne’s excessive reaction at a simple praise of hers, “Are you going to cry…”

And tears started streaming down her face the moment she heard the word. “I’m sorry…” murmured Roseanne, sobbing uncontrollably, “I’m so sorry, Your Ladyship… It’s just…just…” She did not know how to describe the intensity of her emotions to a countess.

You never know the feeling of something finally happening, after working, and waiting, for years…because you never need to work, or wait.

“I’m sorry, Your Ladyship…” Roseanne raised her head to look up at the ceiling, and fanned herself with her hands, trying to stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks, “It’s just that I didn’t expect Your Ladyship to be someone with artistic appreciation.”

“Oh?” Seeing Roseanne had almost stopped sobbing, Lisa raised her eyebrows, mildly displeased by her words.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Roseanne collected herself, and wiped the tears off her face, “It’s just that I’ve painted for many lords and ladies, but not one of them has showed any interest in this painting. And Your Ladyship is the only one who appreciates it.”

“Well,” Lisa smiled, and was contented by Roseanne’s clarification, “a close friend of mine also paints, and does so exceptionally well. So it’s natural that I should appreciate a work most people don’t.”

“Now,” not waiting for Roseanne’s reply to her self-congratulatory explanation, Lisa turned her attention back to the painting before her, “speaking of that friend of mine, this oil on canvas actually reminded me very much of one of her paintings.”

“Really?” Hearing Lisa’s descriptions thus far, Roseanne had already formed an idea of who that friend and what that painting might be, “Might I ask who and which painting You Ladyship is referring to?”

“It’s L’Enfer by the Marchioness of Corland.”

“Indeed…” It was exactly as she expected. “I think I may have been quite influenced by Lady Corland’s magnificent piece while I was working on this painting.”

“I see,” Lisa turned and looked at Roseanne, “You look very young for such a gifted painter. I’m curious. How old are you, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not, Your Ladyship. I’m twenty.”

“Twenty precisely?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Wow,” Lisa paused for a second, looking rather admiringly at Roseanne, “It’s almost difficult to believe that someone my own age is such an accomplished artist.”

“Not really, my lady,” Roseanne blushed, “Your Ladyship has accomplished far more than I could ever hope to.”

Lisa smiled, and gave no reply.

“I don’t want to just buy this,” Lisa said after a moment of reflection, “because I think Lady Corland will want to see you and your painting in person. May I have your address?”

“Ah, of course, Your Ladyship,” exclaimed Roseanne, who immediately went to her desk and wrote the direction to her cottage down on a note. “Here, my lady.”

Lisa took the note Roseanne handed to her, and asked, “And your name is?”

“Roseanne, my lady.”

“Very well. Be there tomorrow with the painting, Miss Roseanne, and you can expect Her Highness’s Peintre Royale to call on you then.”

Notes