I came to the room, a silver platter in my hands. The room smelled of turpentine and color. My eyes looked at the brush, then the hand holding it. He was wearing a red shirt with puffy sleeves, a light beam shining on his hands and the canvas. I could see the dust in the air; everything looked a bit foggy, mysterious.
He noticed me standing there looking at him. He turned to me with a smile, and I told him, “I brought you something to eat.” I put the platter on a table next to him.
He had a mustache and a beard, always taking such good care of himself. I asked him about the painting, and as he explained every stroke of his brush-the colors, the lights and shadows-I stood there fascinated by the painting in front of me and his talent. His passion for the art… and at the same time I was thinking: this is going to end soon. I will never see him again once the painting is finished.
So I stalled. I kept asking him about his art. It seemed to me he didn’t want it to end either. I came up with an idea:
“Have you heard of the new art from France? When they paint outside?”
“Yes, I did.”
We agreed he could paint me again, in this new style.
I ran down the stairs to my parents. My father and mother were both sitting at the table; he was reading some newspapers and she was drinking her tea. I sat next to them and told them the painting was almost done, and that he could paint us as a family-all three of us. They agreed, and to that I added that he would paint another portrait of me. My mother wasn’t particularly happy about that until I told her, “It’s for free, Mama.” To which she and my father both agreed.
So I got some extra time with my painter after all.
The next time I saw him, we met at a garden. He was to paint the portrait as I had requested, in the new French style that was becoming so popular. It looked like a secret garden-just a canvas and the two of us there, surrounded by wildflowers. Before he started painting me, he told me to put down my hair.
I looked around; I was a little nervous as this was not usual, and I was afraid someone might see us.
“Are you sure nobody is here? That we are alone?” I asked the painter.
He confirmed, “Yes, I made sure nobody will come as long as I paint you, so I can focus.”
I agreed. “Ok, then let me loosen up my hair. But nobody can know. You have to lie and say you only imagined it.”
He came to me and helped me take my pins out. He was talking about his travels as he was painting me. I told him about the books I read and how amazing it sounded to be at places like Paris and Florence. I told him to have a break and come sit next to me.
We spent hours talking-me about my books and he about his traveling, the cities and places he had seen.
“I wish I could see those places. The books don’t give them justice. I feel that when you tell me about them, it’s like I am there with you,” I said to him.
He took my hands into his and said he had an idea:
“Become my wife, and then you’ll see them all with me. We could travel together.”
I told him yes.
The days went by, and I was waiting with excitement for my painter to come ask my parents for my hand in marriage. My mother called for me to come to my father’s office. I knew that’s it! He went to ask them!
When I entered, a strange man in a top hat was standing there. My parents introduced us. He was the man I was meant to marry. I was confused, shocked. That wasn’t right-where was my painter? My father said there was no way he was an eligible bachelor, as he was from a bankrupt, poor family, and this gentleman right here was perfect for me. He was the most sought-out man in our society-rich and handsome.
The man in the top hat said he had fallen in love with me.
“How could you?!” I yelled at him. “You never met me, you don’t know me. You can’t fall in love with me if you don’t know me.”
He said he had seen my painting and I was beautiful, and he knew right there and then he loved me.
I got mad. I yelled at my mother:
“So that’s why you had me painted?! So you could send it out to people and sell me out like I’m some kind of property! Like I’m a pig!”
And I stormed out of the office.
As I stormed off, my servant handed me a letter. It was from my painter. He wrote:
“I will go out to the world. I will make a name for myself and I will become rich. I will come back for you, my love.”
I sat broken on my bed, staring at that letter. My mother came to my room. She kneeled to me and was pleading,
“That man is perfect, my daughter. You will learn to love him. Every woman wants him. He is the most eligible bachelor right now.”
I stood up and went to look out of the window.
“You don’t understand, Mother. Did you know people can die because of a broken heart? I will never marry that man.”
I have no idea how much time passed. I was lying in my bed for days. I wasn’t eating. I wanted to die. My mother came and she forced me out of bed, saying that going for a ride in the fresh air was going to help me.
The gentleman I was to marry was accompanying me on my ride. He wanted to help me to get on the horse.
“I can do it myself,” I said as I got up.
I rode with the wind in my hair, trying to run away from that man. As I was coming back to our house, a carriage was arriving on our pathway. It caught my attention. From that carriage he got out-my painter.
I jumped off the horse and ran toward him. I jumped into his arms, so happy he came back. He told me he was now a court painter. He painted the Queens.
But it was too late for us. I was too sick. He sat at my bed in my last days. The day I died, a couple of days after he came back, he was sitting all night at my bedside. I saw myself leave my body and stood there, feeling guilty I left him all alone in there. His heart broke.
He put all of himself into his paintings, into his art, becoming the best artist there was, becoming rich, and yet he had nobody to give this to. The day he died, I came to him again, in spirit. He was there, old and broken. He fell deadly ill, and he was waiting for me-to meet again.
We left together.
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