mysterybadger
Executioner
A demoness in distress. Although the poem suggests she may wriggle out of it.
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Erotic helplessness : a study of the history of the Damsel in Distress theme in art
- Thread starter coldturkey
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A demoness in distress. Although the poem suggests she may wriggle out of it.
mysterybadger
Executioner
Read all about it...murder most horrid...
I feel we lost something when illustrations gave way to photographs.
I feel we lost something when illustrations gave way to photographs.
mysterybadger
Executioner
More penny dreadful mayhem
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mysterybadger
Executioner
The fine art of murder.
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mysterybadger
Executioner
Pierrot assassin de sa femme.
A pantomime, by Paul Margueritte
Art by Alphonse Willette
![[Sarah_Bernhardt_dans_'Pierrot_assassin'_[...]Nadar_Paul_btv1b8438725m.JPEG](https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/data/attachments/1499/1499054-5db065f380e3f1d207b3ed8d448ec91f.jpg "[Sarah_Bernhardt_dans_'Pierrot_assassin'_[...]Nadar_Paul_btv1b8438725m.JPEG")
![[Sarah_Bernhardt_dans_'Pierrot_assassin'_[...]Nadar_Paul_btv1b8438725m (3).JPEG](https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/data/attachments/1499/1499078-9c6d4893a033b589ad7eff0526ae9200.jpg "[Sarah_Bernhardt_dans_'Pierrot_assassin'_[...]Nadar_Paul_btv1b8438725m (3).JPEG")
From a white, low-necked, pleated blouse, with large buttons, a bead and hands emerge, as white as plaster. The head: conspicuous for the eyes and lips, the former black, the latter red: thus is sharpened the gaze of the right eye— the other is closed— and the laugh wrinkling a single corner of the mouth. The forehead: enlarged by a white skullcap, hemmed in by a second in black velvet. The hands: also plaster-white; and the wrists are encased in tight cuffs beneath the ample and floating sleeves. Large trousers: the pantlegs clear the top of the instep and the gold-buckled shoes.
The room with its somber old oak wainscots is dark; here a cupboard, there a set of shelves, their backs to the wall; a chair at the right, a table at the left, broken-necked bottles on the floor. Drawing and holding the eye, there, at the rear of the stage: a portrait of Columbine, a bed. Bed and portrait detach themselves from the shadows in astonishing relief and give, despite their inertness, the impression of life. In her gold frame, Columbine, fleshy, with naked breasts, is laughing throatily— alive.
(The scene opens with Pierrot drinking with the undertaker. There is a falling out)
The undertaker is beaten and driven out shamefully by kicks in the ass. Pierrot bursts into long, convulsive laughter. Then, calmer, he opens his mouth, prepares to make a great confession.
"Columbine, my dear, my wife, the Columbine of the portrait, was sleeping. She was sleeping, there, in the great bed. I killed her. Why? Ah, now that’s the question. She stole my money, drank my wine beat my back, beat it hard; and as for my head . . . she furnished it with a little bit of hardware. Cuckoo, yes, that’s w'hat she made me, and went about it to extreme lengths. But what does that matter? I killed her because I wanted to, what other reason is there? To kill her, yes lust the idea of it delights me. But how to do it?
Here’s surely the rope? Give it a twist — squeak! — it’s done. Yes. but the tongue hanging out, the frightful-looking face? No. —A knife? Or a saber, a huge saber? Zlip! through the heart . . . yes, but the blood running out, in torrents, streaming down. — Hunh! damn! . . . Poison? a little phial of just . . . nothing at all, tossed off, and then . . . yes! and then the stomach cramps, the suffering, the torments, agh! it’s horrible (obvious too). You could always use a gun: poom! but poom! somebody’d hear it. Nothing. I can’t find anything.
—I’ve got it. I’ll tickle my wife to death , that’s it! Tickle her very obligingly, yes! A very nice idea. Ah! yes, but quietly . . . gently . . . let’s see . . .
With the stealth of a fox he approaches the red bed and listens.
— She’s sleeping, good!
He opens the curtains halfway, looks in.
— Sleeping soundly — get ready!
Violently, risking all, he throws open the curtains with a single yank and, bent over, at the head of the empty bed, he takes a look.
-Nothing. Hasn't stirred. Still sleeping. Here, love, here’s a kiss. She’s so pretty, asleep: a tiny face, with sweet little eyes, a nose as long as a pin, gently sagging breasts, a backside that shows clearly
Having abandoned himself for a moment to a retrospective lust Pierrot pulls himself together.
— Lets get to it! First the ropes.
Ties Columbine up tightly.
—So you can’t budge, legs or arms. Next, a gag.
Lifts up the sheet, slips his hands under the covers: they begin to fly.
— To work. Laugh, give me a smile; good morning. Columbine
She wakes up.
—Its you, Pierrot, oh ah ha ha! you’re tickling me, oh ah ho ho! stop! oh! stop! hee ha ha! I’m going to break the ropes, oh! oh! oh! you’re hurting me! . . . ah! all! you’re hurting me! .
Pierrot jumps out at the foot of the bed and tickles: without speaking without laughing, his face a crucifixion. And he tickles insanely, he tickles madly he tickles relentlessly.
.
She writhes with horrible gaiety. One of her arms comes free and helps free the other, and these two dementedly imprecate Pierrot with curses. She bursts out with genuine, strident, fateful laughter; rises halfway up; tries to throw herself from the bed; and the tickled, tortured, epileptic feet keep dancing. It is a death-struggle. She rises up once or twice more— a final spasm!— opens her mouth for a last malediction, and
falls back; draped over the bed; head and arms dangling down.
— So! No more. She doesn’t move. Is she . . .! Dead. Yes, but is she completely done for? Lets take a look: the heart? No beat. The pulse? Not a flutter. The eyes? Turned in. The tongue? Sticking out. Dead! It's finished. Let’s arrange things properly now. The head first, on the pillow we’ll just take care of the expression . . .
Under Pierrot’s sacrilegious fingers, the dead woman’s face becomes, little bv little, calm and smiling.
. . . take off the ropes . . . just straighten the bed . . . smooth out the wrinkles, and . . . it’s done, nothing else, they’ll be completely fooled. Columbine’s sleeping just as she was a moment ago, quite peaceful. There! n-no no, it’s finished.
He closes the curtains, turns around. Winking one eye, given over to a sense of pure joy, a pale smile on his lunar face, he rubs his hands together, for a good long time.
— Dead! quite dead, and nobody’ll see a thing, not one thing! The policeman, with his big saber and moustache, he comes knocking on my door, bam! bam! I go to open up. Grabs me by the collar. Me? Oh Mr Policeman, look for yourself: there she is , dead in her bed, quite prettily:
I wash my hands of it, you know. And prison, handcuffs, bolts — not for me. not any more: dead in her bed, nothing of the kind. And the guillotine, wham! the slam of the blade, my head rolling off . . . ah! no! not for me, ha ha ha.
And Pierrot laughs a long silent laugh.
A pantomime, by Paul Margueritte
Art by Alphonse Willette
From a white, low-necked, pleated blouse, with large buttons, a bead and hands emerge, as white as plaster. The head: conspicuous for the eyes and lips, the former black, the latter red: thus is sharpened the gaze of the right eye— the other is closed— and the laugh wrinkling a single corner of the mouth. The forehead: enlarged by a white skullcap, hemmed in by a second in black velvet. The hands: also plaster-white; and the wrists are encased in tight cuffs beneath the ample and floating sleeves. Large trousers: the pantlegs clear the top of the instep and the gold-buckled shoes.
The room with its somber old oak wainscots is dark; here a cupboard, there a set of shelves, their backs to the wall; a chair at the right, a table at the left, broken-necked bottles on the floor. Drawing and holding the eye, there, at the rear of the stage: a portrait of Columbine, a bed. Bed and portrait detach themselves from the shadows in astonishing relief and give, despite their inertness, the impression of life. In her gold frame, Columbine, fleshy, with naked breasts, is laughing throatily— alive.
(The scene opens with Pierrot drinking with the undertaker. There is a falling out)
The undertaker is beaten and driven out shamefully by kicks in the ass. Pierrot bursts into long, convulsive laughter. Then, calmer, he opens his mouth, prepares to make a great confession.
"Columbine, my dear, my wife, the Columbine of the portrait, was sleeping. She was sleeping, there, in the great bed. I killed her. Why? Ah, now that’s the question. She stole my money, drank my wine beat my back, beat it hard; and as for my head . . . she furnished it with a little bit of hardware. Cuckoo, yes, that’s w'hat she made me, and went about it to extreme lengths. But what does that matter? I killed her because I wanted to, what other reason is there? To kill her, yes lust the idea of it delights me. But how to do it?
Here’s surely the rope? Give it a twist — squeak! — it’s done. Yes. but the tongue hanging out, the frightful-looking face? No. —A knife? Or a saber, a huge saber? Zlip! through the heart . . . yes, but the blood running out, in torrents, streaming down. — Hunh! damn! . . . Poison? a little phial of just . . . nothing at all, tossed off, and then . . . yes! and then the stomach cramps, the suffering, the torments, agh! it’s horrible (obvious too). You could always use a gun: poom! but poom! somebody’d hear it. Nothing. I can’t find anything.
—I’ve got it. I’ll tickle my wife to death , that’s it! Tickle her very obligingly, yes! A very nice idea. Ah! yes, but quietly . . . gently . . . let’s see . . .
With the stealth of a fox he approaches the red bed and listens.
— She’s sleeping, good!
He opens the curtains halfway, looks in.
— Sleeping soundly — get ready!
Violently, risking all, he throws open the curtains with a single yank and, bent over, at the head of the empty bed, he takes a look.
-Nothing. Hasn't stirred. Still sleeping. Here, love, here’s a kiss. She’s so pretty, asleep: a tiny face, with sweet little eyes, a nose as long as a pin, gently sagging breasts, a backside that shows clearly
Having abandoned himself for a moment to a retrospective lust Pierrot pulls himself together.
— Lets get to it! First the ropes.
Ties Columbine up tightly.
—So you can’t budge, legs or arms. Next, a gag.
Lifts up the sheet, slips his hands under the covers: they begin to fly.
— To work. Laugh, give me a smile; good morning. Columbine
She wakes up.
—Its you, Pierrot, oh ah ha ha! you’re tickling me, oh ah ho ho! stop! oh! stop! hee ha ha! I’m going to break the ropes, oh! oh! oh! you’re hurting me! . . . ah! all! you’re hurting me! .
Pierrot jumps out at the foot of the bed and tickles: without speaking without laughing, his face a crucifixion. And he tickles insanely, he tickles madly he tickles relentlessly.
.
She writhes with horrible gaiety. One of her arms comes free and helps free the other, and these two dementedly imprecate Pierrot with curses. She bursts out with genuine, strident, fateful laughter; rises halfway up; tries to throw herself from the bed; and the tickled, tortured, epileptic feet keep dancing. It is a death-struggle. She rises up once or twice more— a final spasm!— opens her mouth for a last malediction, and
falls back; draped over the bed; head and arms dangling down.
— So! No more. She doesn’t move. Is she . . .! Dead. Yes, but is she completely done for? Lets take a look: the heart? No beat. The pulse? Not a flutter. The eyes? Turned in. The tongue? Sticking out. Dead! It's finished. Let’s arrange things properly now. The head first, on the pillow we’ll just take care of the expression . . .
Under Pierrot’s sacrilegious fingers, the dead woman’s face becomes, little bv little, calm and smiling.
. . . take off the ropes . . . just straighten the bed . . . smooth out the wrinkles, and . . . it’s done, nothing else, they’ll be completely fooled. Columbine’s sleeping just as she was a moment ago, quite peaceful. There! n-no no, it’s finished.
He closes the curtains, turns around. Winking one eye, given over to a sense of pure joy, a pale smile on his lunar face, he rubs his hands together, for a good long time.
— Dead! quite dead, and nobody’ll see a thing, not one thing! The policeman, with his big saber and moustache, he comes knocking on my door, bam! bam! I go to open up. Grabs me by the collar. Me? Oh Mr Policeman, look for yourself: there she is , dead in her bed, quite prettily:
I wash my hands of it, you know. And prison, handcuffs, bolts — not for me. not any more: dead in her bed, nothing of the kind. And the guillotine, wham! the slam of the blade, my head rolling off . . . ah! no! not for me, ha ha ha.
And Pierrot laughs a long silent laugh.
RedOrc
Magistrate
I like the third one with the woman tied to the bedpost by her hair. It is a shame she is overdressed.
mysterybadger
Executioner
Some illustrations:
can you really strangle someone with their own hair?
can you really strangle someone with their own hair?
Rupert_137
Governor
Jean-Léon Gérôme (French, 1824-1904) - The Slave Market, 1866
This painting depicts a Middle Eastern or North African setting where a man inspects the teeth of a nude, female Caucasian slave in the context of the Barbary slave trade.
This painting depicts a Middle Eastern or North African setting where a man inspects the teeth of a nude, female Caucasian slave in the context of the Barbary slave trade.
Please avoid pictures with children. Do check out 'Terms and rules' at the bottom of every page.
