Αrt By Ulla Thynell

Vivien McDermid (Scottish, 1981) - Swan Silence (2022)

A Self-Portrait’, of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1847

Illustrations from Stories from Hans Christian Andersen by Edmund Dulac (1911)

Edmund Dulac - The Snow Queen Flies Through the Winter's Night (1911)

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,"

The snow Queen by Artuš Scheiner (1863 – 1938)

“Nastassja Korolevichna” and “Maria Swan White” by Sergey Solomko

Venatio

Men are simple creatures. Base and transparent, like mutts panting after scraps of meat. Rosa had long since deciphered their nature—pliant, lust-driven, leashed by sinew and want rather than reason or virtue. From the dust-creased palms of a Moravian wheat-thresher to the gilded fingers of a newly knighted lord, she had known them all, some intimately, others merely through their desperate attempts to impress. At first, she had sought disproof with the fervour of a scholar chasing lost pages of De Rerum Natura, hoping for her thesis to be flawed.

But each encounter etched the truth more deeply: men were canes domiti—nothing but tamed dogs, slavering beneath a lady's table, ever loyal so long as their lusts were sated.

Young and decrepit, serfs and scions, those who could quote Seneca in Latin and those who could scarce scrawl their own names in the dirt—all bore the same hunger in their eyes. Rosa had yet to meet the exception, though her vanity whispered always that such a man must exist, if only to prove her worthy of one.

Was the Skalitz boy different?

She dared hope so. A village-born son of a blacksmith, raised not on scripture or scrolls but soot and swordplay, he should have been like the rest. Yet he listened. Not with the feigned patience of the lustful, but with the attentive silence of a man who wished to understand. He had brought back the book she had spent years writing, wrapped in cloth to preserve the binding. He had slain the raiders who defiled her estate, though he made it known that he took no pleasure in senseless slaughter. It was not just the deeds, but the manner of them.

And yet, even he—even he—waited like a patient mastiff, biding his time for the kill.

He struck not when her strength was at its fullest, but when sorrow made her limbs slow and her thoughts scattered. Her father taken, her halls pillaged, heirlooms broken or carried off—what was left to her but grief? And in that moment, Henry moved, not as a knight defending honor, but as a hunter who senses the faltering gait of his prey.

But Rosa was no wounded roe, bleeding prettily in the thorns, awaiting the mercy of death. She was a huntress herself—one who had tasted conquest as well as being conquered. Perhaps she allowed the moment. Perhaps she welcomed it. A distraction, after all, was not unwelcome when the world itself seemed to unravel. The embrace of another, even a hound’s, could warm the chill left behind by treachery.

Still, a question lingered: had he come to her aid out of care, or calculation?

She could not say.

Philip Alexius de László 

Hungarian, 1869-1937

The Painter's Honeymoon (c.1864) by Frederic Leighton