The Wax Figures Of Collinsworth Hall

'Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault'.—Oscar Wilde

I shall relate a tale of life and deception that haunts the core of the human mind, and leaves you cogitating within such a grave manner as you ask then, how consequential is life seen, through the perceptive eyes of a wretch and of an artist? My name is Edgar Franklin, and of myself I shall only confess the following, I was once merry and connubial, but my life had tumbled into a Stygian despair of an abyss. I became a dispirited man, and participant to the inscrutable fate that was never beholden to my every desire. This reminiscence had stirred a maelstrom I could not bear any longer, as the constant murk enveloped within the desolation of living that I had struggled incessantly to repress. Never did I suspect that my days of desultory felicity would abdicate and be replaced, with the taunting despondency that I had abhorred daily. Thenceforth, my soul began to wane in token intervals of insanity, with the helpless rage and guilt that had foreshadowed brief bouts of enjoyment.

It all began one gloomy day of autumn in the year of 1880, as I had chosen to leave my home behind, and search for better things in this world. I had grown too weary of life and velleity, and the course of its direction was too unbearable to endure another day. Thus, with resolution, I had consciously thought it better to quit my home than to suffer such depravation any longer; but fate would supervene and intervene, with a chilling and swift apprehension. I had lost a wife, my home, my status in society and was condemned to the deplorable state of abject poverty. Hope had seemed was nothing more than an unattainable possibility to aspire daily. I had implored the hour of my fruition. My sufferance was so oppressive that I was becoming apathetic to the passing of the illimitable days, weeks and months.

Whither, I had believed to be, my last indelible view of my home. I abode the veil of darkness of death to escort me, to the ambiguous waters of the swashing seas, as I had braced myself for my new life. I was a deckhand then, and Scotland was the destination for my first trip. I had heard the voice of a strange woman, 'Tell me your name! Do not go aboard laddie, for danger awaits you!'

It was an eldritch quirk of subtle irony that had occurred, before we embarked to the sea from the harbour of Dover. I was boarding the ship at that precise moment, when an anile woman of Gypsy origin had stopped me by grabbing my arm, then said to me these disconcerting words that perplexed me suddenly. Forsooth, I was not quite certain what had caused this bizarre woman to say and express such ominous words of direness. I saw the profound austere intensity of conviction and meaning elicited in the old lady of cinereous hair, whose penetrating eyes were passionately enthralled with her utterance. This stern warning definitely had befuddled me for an instance, but I dismissed her words of severe admonition, as foolish and idle gibberish. I could not understand the significance of her behaviour.

'Go away woman, for I do not have time now, for your blatant incoherence. If you must peddle your black magic to someone, then seek another poor soul to deceive!' I had ejaculated.

As I was on board, I had heard her voice cursing me, 'Fool, you will remember my words of warning! Thus, you will be condemned to your blind fate, laddie!'

Upon the fortnight through the English Channel, the ship had sailed the hypenemious seas, until one unfortunate day, a tempest struck the hull of the ship, leaving the ship to be totally shipwrecked and incapacitated afterwards. The mast was the only remnant salvageable that had allowed the boat to reach the shoreline of Yorkshire, beyond the safety of the shale. Of all the crew members aboard, I along with a shipmate by the name of Gustaf Svenson had survived the shipwreck. I was told that the shipmaster, the crew, were all dead. I was in the lower deck of the ship, when a fire had started. There was smoke all over, and I had tried to escape. That was all I remembered, as I reached the upper deck. I had lost complete consciousness, with the smoke and the abrupt and apparent storm. Thus, I was left motionless on the beach, abandoned to the undetermined fate that had awaited me.

When I had opened my eyes anew, I saw the presence of a mysterious stranger, who stood in front of me, as I lay in the bed within a listless torpor. I then heard the eerie voice of a nobleman addressing me nigh. I could not speak or could I move much, due to the severity of my injury I had succumbed to, a minor fracture to my right leg that was of an inconvenience.

'The apparent Devil has smiled on you my good man suddenly. You are extremely lucky to have survived the tempest. The wrath of the tempest at times cannot be remediable so easily, as one is led to believe it to be soluble. You see my good man, when your ship hit the shore, you were unconscious. This was the state that I had found you in'.

'Gustaf, what has happened to him, my shipmate?' I had asked.

'Gustaf, I am afraid that he did not survive his terrible wounds and you were the only one that had survived the shipwreck', he replied.

'My God! The ship, what can you tell me about the status of the ship?'

'Gone—it was not repairable! It was a lamentable blanscue. You see death is not a facile thing vaguely to be imposed beseemingly. The eternal sea once the watchet and vast sea of beauty and perfection can become a turbulent graveyard, for the deceased sailors of the sea that seek the tropaean winds. Moreover, you are fortunate that you have been found alive'.

'Where am I, and who are you, sir?'

'Inherited guilt, will not eradicate any remnant of insurmountable iniquity, my good man. Persuasion will not induce you to a precipitous dissuasion, if you do not acquiesce. As for your question, you are in a room of my home. Welcome, to my manor, I am Lord Alfred Collinsworth'.

I was told that the surname Collinsworth was an honourable and proud appellation and venerable lineage of England. At first, the nobleman had frightened me, with his peculiar Gothic attire and physiognomy. He was fully dressed in a sable hue of mystery, from a shirt, waistcoat, trousers, and his radiant polished shoes that had reflected. His face was jovial, resembling a young man in his thirties. He had appeared to be reverent and humble in his decorum, but my initial anxiety would not be allayed by his comportment. My heart had pounded so quickly that I felt within me, the ponderous throbbing that was constricting me like an inexorable serpent. My rapid fear had supplanted my rational logic and planning, as I failed to understand my situation. The vast shade of the crescent darkness of the night had been seen looming, from the rear window.

In my opium dream, I could have not envisioned my final demise in a bed, before a man whose odd guise evoked eccentricity and distrust. The invariable thought of death had obsessed my mind, and the dissolution in my soul depleted the vim and verve I retained ere. Never—never—did that rumination, preclude my death in the most atrocious form ascertained through clairvoyance. I had attempted to rise to my feet but was unable, and after several minutes, I realised that I could not walk or put much weight upon the leg. Thus, I was at the unfortunate mercy of my injury and the volition of Lord Collinsworth. The pain in my leg was excruciating that he had given me morphine to reduce the swelling along with the pain. I had thought of resisting the morphine, but as I elucidate, I could not bear much the continuous discomfort I was experiencing. Therefore, for two months I had sojourned in the Collinsworth Estate, until my leg healed.

'Are you a wealthy nobleman, if I may enquire?' I had asked.

His response was succinct, but telling as he chuckled, 'I am not a plutocrat and what intrigues me to know is who you are! I do not want to bore you any more, with such jejune trivialities of my life of self-indulgence so suddenly, my good man'.

I had hesitated for a moment, till I answered his question, 'I am Edgar Franklin sir'.

I had no place to go, for I was wantsome. Lord Collinsworth was kind enough to allow me to stay. He was an artist who enjoyed sculptures and wax figures, and I had obtained his confidence. My curiosity of his true identity or origin I had placated for the nonce. Every time I had attempted to know more of him, he was evasive, and only was interested in my well-being. I had no actual knowledge of his whereabouts at times, since he came and went like day and night, whilst I gradually began to recuperate. He had offered me employment, and I became his gate keeper and was assigned to guarding the main entrance to the estate, and lived in a small quaint cottage attached to the gate. He was indeed a man of much mystery, for he often had travelled from place to place in Great Britain. And his guests were very convivial, but none had stayed more than a night.

The description of the manor I can only describe in the following aspect, it had an ample garden, with a striking rose window above the Gothic portico that displayed a less than apprehensible view. There were lifeless trees of sullen transparency, beside the paved cobblestones leading the way to the front entrance. The former smicker daffodils and clematises that had once grown were now cernuous or replaced, with teeming black roses and lilies. When I had asked Lord Collinsworth of the Cimmerian colours of gloom of the estate, he said that it was due to his solemn reverence to the colour black. The manor was located upon a mall plateau overlooking a bend in a river, nigh a causeway and tussocks. Inside it had living accommodations upstairs and downstairs. In the stately hall made of ashlar, there was an intimate hearth always lit, surrounded by an oak panel and a plasterwork ceiling. The furnishings were oak and wrought in the magnificence of embroidery. In the rear entrance, there was a small pond adjoined with a prickly thicket of thorns.

It was strange to see the merry revelers that wined and feasted with Lord Collinsworth, and the numerous wax figures he had in the manor. The manifold rooks who had flocked and roosted upon the gable roof of the home in crocitation, from early morning till midnight were as well prevalent. I could see them from the cottage peering below, with their ebony guise of dominion. They were manifest to the eye always, as protectors of the manor, and passionately devoted they were to the house and to Lord Collinsworth. I was told that ruddocks once had filled the roof of the manor. There was a mystery to unfold, but Lord Collinsworth had entrusted me, with the solicitude of the estate, and I did not see it proper to betray his deferential trust.

The months became years, and it had been five years, since I was living and working for Lord Collinsworth. We had built a strong rapport between us, and though he was the sole proprietor of the manor, he occasionally invited me to dine with him, when none of the bidden visitors were present, which was rare. Upon one occasion, I had sat with him at his table, and dined and wined as well. Never did he once chide me about my obligations, for I was a loyal servant of the ancient manor. Our private conversations were always around the subject of life, death and art, which he had mastered with his sagacity and connoisseurship. He always had addressed me by my surname Franklin.

'Franklin my boy, what do you perceive death to be, when your soul is condemned to the Hades of eternal sufferance?'

At first, I had remained silent, then I answered as usually I did, 'My lord, I am only a mere man; but if you must know, I believe that when a soul perishes on this earth, the soul must proceed to a place'.

'Are you referring Franklin, to what the Catholics name purgatory?' He had asked directly.

'Perhaps so my lord, but I must suppose that infinity is a definite abode for all of us mortals', I uttered.

'Yes, Franklin, for it is a daring omen. Man, who is parviscient is embedded, with the gormless need of rapacity and wealth that he forsakes his soul for this. Thus, he reduces himself to being nothing more than a pompous swine and haughty conniver of prurience and celeberrimous accomplishments that are worthless like Elagabulus. He will never be beneath his predilection and urge to be the mere cockalorum. He could be bequeathed a fortune and messuages also; but he will forsake that, for a castle and a kingdom always. All that he dawdles his time is in senseless things intrinsicated that are inapposite. Wars and destruction are all he knows truly, for it is evident in his genes and lineage. Religion is nothing more than the fabrication of human corruption expounded on the Rhadamanthine beliefs man has altered blindly, when astray or in a concealed manner. Indeed, man may maintain his faculties through faith, but he cannot tame completely his animalistic behaviour and instincts that may appear dormant. He begins to fret with suspicion that I expose of an inficete dolt, and imposes his maniacal opinions of religion to others, with a fervent zeal. I pity Tertullian as a philonoist myself, for he was a blatant fool to pander to religion. Man's reasonable thoughts of logic soon become uncontrollable and impulsive that are understood, as garrulous blatteration. I often ponder the ambagious nihilism of Gorgias. Never forget this Franklin. Let it serve as a poignant commonition. Do not be like the archetypal louche gent, for it will destroy you', he replied.

'I shall hope not, my lord!'

'What is your opinion on vanity Franklin? What do you perceive exactly of vanity?' Lord Collinsworth had asked.

'I am afraid, my lord, that my humble opinion on the matter is very vague, since I have never considered myself to be extremely vain', I responded.

'Rubbish—pure rubbish Franklin—for man is always Machiavellian in nature in one form or the other. His inclination for vanity is such a prominent and indicative part of his character. Yes Franklin, I was once a vain man of greed and this self-admiration we all crave for. Although I must admit, this is all nothing more than the common guise of self-regard and dishonesty of which I have paid considerably for this fallibility. Henceforth, I have found my comfort and pleasure in the manor as a galliard, and have been entertained by all the lepid guests who have visited me. You see vanity is a terrible trait to bear, but it fascinates me and has inspired my brilliant sculptures that you see in the manor. I have preserved their essence each of them, and this vainglory that mortal men desire endlessly. They are well deserving of callisteia each, for their beauty is a divinity and kalon I have elaborated, like the statues of the Greek Gods or Goddesses in Athens. Alas, I fancy the whims of the Eupatrids that had once lived. I know you may wonder how I stay so young and debonaire in my seemliness and appearance, and do not age or have wrinkles. It is the beauty of the essence of the art found in my wax figures that maintain my youth', he said.

'Indeed, my lord and vanity for me has led me astray, when I have sought it as a dizzard', I had confessed to him.

'I admire your intellect and jannock wit my boy, and for that reason alone, I entrust you even with the affairs of my estate', he replied.

He had paused for a moment before continuing, 'You see Franklin, I shall be away for a week tending to my other demesne, and I need you to be my devoted eyes. You have served me well and obediently now for five years. Therefore, I shall promote you to the status of my loyal confidant. For now, I need you to be the steward of the manor. I shall ask that you stay here and not in your cottage, and that you be vigilant—the wandering eyes of the manor. Can I rely on you to execute this course of action?'

I had agreed, 'Yes, of course, my lord. Although I may not be worthy of this position for my lack of experience, nevertheless, I shall be fain to be at your disposition'.

He smiled and had responded, 'Franklin, do not fret my boy, for you will soon be wont to the familiar occurrences of the manor’s doing. After all, the manor is always subservient to our needs daily my good man'.

'Yes, sir!'

The social intercourse was left for another occasion, and I thought only of the task that was imposed upon me by Lord Collinsworth. Then, he departed upon the early morrow, while I had remained in the manor as the steward. His departure was nothing of the unordinary, with the exception that he left his walking cane. When I had noticed that the cane was left behind, it was too late, for he was gone. I stood at the gate, as his carriage had departed through the country road. I had seldom strayed beyond the vast tract of land of the estate that led to the solitary village, within the area. Although I had a desire to know the village, my tasks would always impede me to venture much outside of the estate. Hence, my contact with the villagers was limited to say the least, aside from the visitors that had arrived at the manor. Once Lord Collinsworth departed, I had returned to the manor.

Inside, I had accomplished the undertakings of the manor, with the utmost diligence and elements afforded to me. The servants of the manor had remained in their quarters or were away from the manor. The first couple of days and nights, all was calm and silent, except the caws of the rooks, and the bustle of the wind that blew, with a heavy echo. Shortly, upon the placidity of the day and night, appeared a mist of vicissitude that had begun to engulf the estate, including the manor as well. The brume did not seem to bother much the rooks, as they had continued with their stir and vigilance. Often the sound of the caws began to inundate me with episodes of terror, as I had found myself alone in the fuscous manor with scialytic lamps. The paintings, the armorial shields, the Gothic walls and corridors had also started to haunt me. Even though, I had been inside the manor dining and wining with Lord Collinsworth, never did the manor haunt me as it did then.

Anon, the sound of voices I had started to hear, beyond the parlour. It came from the wax figures and behind the walls of the corridor. A wailing sound had resounded and raught my chair, as I sat pondering the strange occurrence. The wails had increased, and the wind wildly accompanied the wails, like an orotund chorus in consonance. I rose to my feet forthwith and stood there in the parlour, until I had the courage to proceed to investigate. Thereafter, I did. Manifold thoughts of terror and uncertainty had penetrated my mind, as the lurking conclusion of death resurfaced in me. No, no, no—this is nothing more than the sounds of the eerie nature of the weather, I had admitted to myself. My body began to quiver with the madness, and the temptation of my demise was manifesting itself slowly. Was my madness nothing more than the insane effects of excessive thoughts of irrational fears?

I passed the corridor slowly and attentively, until I had arrived at the hall. Afterwards, I hesitated and harked to the wailing sound of dread that had worried me. I had busied myself at once to investigate more the mystery. It was then that I had arrived at the stairway leading upstairs to one of the sundry chambers above of the manor. The stairway had a creepy Gothic guise that could mesmerise or impress with an incantation. There was this unassailable aura of death attached to the manor that was easily ignored by the visitors. I had never felt this sinister solicitude before.

Thus, I had made the decision to climb the stairs and head towards the mysterious chamber of wails. Slowly, I walked then towards the corridor, and had arrived at the surreptitious chamber. The door was shut, but I had the keys. Consequently, I entered the chamber and what I had descried was a shocking and vile image of sheer horror. Inside the chamber were multifarious figures of strange beings murmuring. They were not human, for they were more wax figures. It was a terrible dream—no, no, this could not be transpiring! Absolute fear had entered my body, as I discerned the figures to be the bidden visitors of Lord Collinsworth. There in the third row of the figures, I had noticed the presence of what appeared to be Gustaf, my shipmate. He was standing with a listless expression on his face, as he was stiff and cold.

Using one of the keys that I had at my disposal, I began to carve into his face, and as I did this, his face began to melt and disintegrate, as he had shrieked. His figure fell to the ground and had shattered, as I stumbled to the floor. I rose to my feet quickly and left the chamber and had scurried to the stairway. I ran down the stairs, and towards the hall. There, I went to the cabinet to grab some Médoc, so that I could assuage my unsettling nerves. I took a glass and had opened the bottle. I had a draught of the Médoc. I attempted to convince myself that all I had seen was surreal but not real. No—no, it is only the deception of my delusion. The Médoc began to mollify my angst a bit. As I lingered in doubt, the sounds of the wailing had persisted. The unyielding wailing did not cease, and the clamours of the walls were loud. The walls, the wax figures had started to call my name.

The powerful reverberations of the cawing rooks had increased. The madness, the madness, compelled me to attempt to leave the manor. I stood before the stairway, whilst the voices had intensified. Once more the horrendous voices, but this time, they were louder. The urgent need to escape the manor had prevailed over me even more. My heart beat quickly, as my legs had felt a heavy hebetude restraining my movement. I took a deep breath and had remained at the front edge of the stairway. I would be thwarted then, by Lord Collinsworth, who was standing behind me. Suddenly, I had heard his unforgettable voice uttered.

'Indeed, you are a worthy adversary Franklin, but rest assure, you will soon understand the complexity of your fate'.

I had turned around startled by his presence, 'My God, since when have you returned Lord Collinsworth. And what do you mean I shall understand my fate—understand what?'

He had looked into my eyes and replied, 'The absolute voices you hear, the wax figures, the rooks outside. And the oppressive gates around the estate'. He had paused before he continued.

'You see Franklin, all is not what it seems'.

'What do you mean by that? What the devil is happening? Who are you?' I had eagerly enquired.

He responded, 'I am the artist that had saved you, when you were dying and a wretch. Hitherto, you are my splendid work of art, Franklin. Through my mansuetude as a philocalist, I have given you this gift of impeccable life to treasure. Do not forsake it my good man, for such unmerited and ruthless cruelty that will be your harsh reality once more, if you forever depart this manor'.

'You are mad, Lord Collinsworth. I am leaving this house of hell now!' I had ejaculated.

'Go whither Franklin? Can he who was dead emerge, from the utter darkness of his soul? You see, my boy, you are nothing more than a mere wax figure, like the ones you see around you. Wax is analogous to the ancient ichor of the Greek Gods. Verily, there is no need to dramatise the situation. We shall prepare for a sumptuous dinner to reconcile our simplistic differences and accept it as a genuine offering of my generosity', Lord Collinsworth had responded.

I was mindful of his prevenancy, and I took the lamplight from the corridor and had thrown it at the draperies causing a massive fire that spread to the manor engulfing the hall we were in. It was then that the fire had started to burn Lord Collinsworth, as he attempted to prevent the fire from consuming him entirely. The manor was quickly enveloped in the burning inferno that had blazed. His face began to melt as with the wax figures, then his whole body that was cered melted in the fire. Desperation compelled me to escape with such urgency. I had managed miraculously to escape the manor and the fire, but not before the fire began to reach me, as the skin on my arm was melting. I knew then that Lord Collinsworth was correct and I too was made of wax. I did not bleed, for under my skin was the wax that Lord Collinsworth had sculpted my body with and foremade. It was a shocking revelation that I had discovered. I Edgar Franklin was not human, instead a walking corpse of wax.

What was discovered about the others and me was known, through a journal I had left behind. My body had burnt, with the wreck. I was dying when Lord Collinsworth found and saved me along the shoreline, with the fierce scourge of the tempest. He had kept me alive through the wrought sculpture of wax. The same wax that burns slowly from a candle. The manor had burnt into scant ashes. It was alive only when Lord Collinsworth was alive. The madness of the wax figures of Collinsworth Hall was finally over, and the horrible realisation of living was an eternal breath of no pre-eminence I had entreated. I had accepted my fate at last, as I was then cognisant of my unknown truth. I had wandered the earth as a liegeless solitudinarian whose heart beat and beat, inside a body of wax.

Death is never a wanted preference, but the temptation of living as an immortal we yearn passionately with desire. The seed of immortality is poignantly sought within the depth of our soul, and the urge to resolve the irrepressible obsession, with the quandary we impose willingly that is called expiry. Too sublunary is the thought that we contrive in our minds, the variable and Barmecidal world we search for that is non-existent. Thus, the unwanted encumbrance that drains us bears no serendipity or edification.

Instead, it is an empty dourness void of any placentious joy forever susceptible, when it is laden. Henceforth let us ponder for a moment, the thought of death, within a vision so stark and luculent. A reality we shall all contemplate at length and our minds shall ponder, within a sheer fright that consumes one like a lambent flame. Horror does not attempt to beguile you with mere deception, but something more feasible to comprehend, the thought of death and the vanity, we all have within us.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport