The Portrait

By  Zhong Wanting

 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed

The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

-“I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN”, William Wordsworth

-

The first rays of daybreak slanted through the shutters, casting a genteel glow on the young man in the room. Draped in a stained, crinkled shirt, he looked worn and faded amid the collection of colorful cans and brushes and crunched paper that cluttered the floor, a slightly hunched man in front of easel and canvas.

Rubbing his chin, the young artist sighed and dropped his paintbrush onto the floor. With a small clatter it joined the rest of the mess. He covered his eyes and sank into the settee in the corner of the room, trying to recall the dimmed profiles in his dream, on the edge of dawn. His fist clenched and unclenched, reaching out to the empty space, as if to grasp any remaining traces there might be. The image that he was trying to recapture in lines and colors seemed to be just hovering in front of him, almost within reach, yet still a step away from his touch.

Still there was something amiss. He muttered silently to himself. Something he could not quite capture, and probably would never fathom. His eyes swept across the floor, finding the dozens of crumpled up drafts discarded amidst his palettes and paintbrushes.

The warm honey glow now spilled into the workshop. Threads of soft gold traced the rough sketches on the barren canvas, dimly making out the outlines of a young girl.

-

It was hard for the young artist to see the girl often. Most of the time she would not make an appearance in the fancy country balls, nor even in the village. He could only expect to see her—and only by chance—at the village market, where she visited sometimes to buy food and cloth and utensils. If he was fortunate enough on that day, he could accidentally run into her at the fruit stand and they would have a very brief conversation about the weather and their life. Then she would be gone and he would be left drifting in his thoughts all day, in his quiet musings about her.

One would think that they were friends. Yet he often thought sadly, however much he wished for it to be true, this was far from reality. Almost acquaintances, decidedly not friends, perhaps the best way to define them was half strangers.

And even this was a grace to him, for he knew that to other people, her existence was virtually unknown. This was not surprising, for she was not the eye-catching type, and would most assuredly be overshadowed by the other vivid, attractive village girls. And above all, she had never attempted to be eye-catching.

But it did not matter to him. All he knew was that he had noticed her of all people, without attempting to notice. And for him, that was enough.

Yet ironically, what he indeed knew about her was pathetically scanty. All he could say for sure was that she lived alone, in a little cottage by the springs of Dove. Despite the quiet, secluded beauty of that place, nobody seemed to care to trace their footsteps there. Rather, they would probably pass it once, and never give it second thought. And he said to himself, only he, apart from she, could appreciate the simple, subdued beauty hidden far from the madding crowd. And he understood why she would have chosen to live there, a place that girls would dismiss as being too quiet, too forlorn, and too out of the world. Yet she was unlike all the other common girls, who longed to be the center of the social cycle, and this was the one place that could give her a suited home. The only way for her life to be was there, safely and peacefully tucked into the arms of nature.

Yet it would seem ridiculous, almost absurd, he thought, that he did not even know her name by now. Never once, in their seemingly chance encounters, had he ever asked her for a name, nor had he ever told her what he was called. Perhaps he could not bring himself to do so abrupt a thing, quiet and reticent as he was. Or perhaps, he told himself, it was because he thought it unnecessary to know. She was an existence not confined by the earthly code of a name. A nameless nymph, a daughter of nature. He had his own name for her. He called her Lucy.

Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. Like light, like a distant star. Two simple syllables, chaste and crystal clear, so different from the intricate Fredericas and Rosalinds, and so befitting the girl who is so humbly, purely simple. Sometimes, in a room still drenched in the darkness of night, he would suddenly awake from sleep, a faded whisper still lingering upon his lips.

‘Lucy.’

Somehow, it felt as though the gravity of the name had been upon him for years, calling out to him, on the verge of dream and reality. As though he had known all along that he would one day see a girl like that. Or it was pure chance that he could have spotted her on that day, a girl who fitted in perfectly with the dim image in his mind. He did not know.

Still, he rubbed his eyes and thought, what a stupid thing to call her just that. Most probably she was not Lucy. He mused to himself what she would think if she knew he called her a name he arbitrarily chose for her himself. Would she think him crazy, outrageous?

He sighed. The name escaped his lips once more. Lucy.

Nevertheless, he still called her so.

-

Night and day he toiled with the undone portrait, tearing up old sketches and drawing up new ones. The lines were always a bit screwed, and with all the colors spilled from the palette, he could not find a satisfactory tone to suit her complexion.

Lucy was always there in his dreams, bathed in the bright sunlight by the springs of Dove. Sometimes he could see her clearly, when she would come so close to him that he could see her tangled locks and long dark eyelashes, when he was drifting on the verge of slumber and reality. It was dawn, and the fair star of Venus was shining in the early morning sky.

And every time he called to her, or reached out to touch her hair, she would turn around and disappear. He would jerk awake from the state of dizziness, and try to recall her young, innocent face that he had seen. When twilight stole into his workshop he would already be bent over his easel, adding touches here and there.

Decidedly, she was simple yet elusive, settled with that tranquil eternity yet not without motion. There was this transient intricacy hard to capture within a piece of canvas. He had done numerous portraits before, portraits to be hung in the homes of fancy country gentlemen and their glamorous ladies, yet never once had he found the task to be so daunting. And as it goes, never before had he ever felt such a strong yearning to create a work of the most supreme. By doing this he was putting in all his skills and efforts and emotions. He wanted to give a soul to this portrait. He wanted to bring out the soul in Lucy.

And as he applied one more brushstroke to the canvas, he told himself that once the portrait was finally completed, he would go to the Dove springs and bequeath it to her.

-

It must be crazy for him, he thought, to lavish his time on her portrait like that. Yet sometimes, even he could not understand why he would have done things so strange, so unlike him. Things like strange fits of passion he had never known.

He remembered once, on a dimly-lit night, standing alone by his workshop window. The darkened shapes of hills and meadows rippled in the silvery haze, like well-inked silhouettes in a woodcut. He thought of the quiet chortle of the Dove springs, the clusters of heather in the shadows of rocks, and the solitary little cottage concealed in the shades of woods. What it might look like in the night, when nobody would set a step near, save for the breezes that forever roamed the countryside.

Five minutes later, he was already riding in the silky night air. Horse hooves paved the cool night breeze to his familiar hillside, and his heart thudded with anticipation and anxiety with each step.

From afar, the silvery ripples of the stream swirled under the misty moonlight. The horse moved forward several more steps, and all of a sudden, the silhouette of the modest little cottage loomed into view from the camouflage of woods. Small, calm, inconspicuous, the air of gentle humbleness----the mirror of its sole inhabitant.

He stopped his horse at the cottage gate and looked up. There was a single lit lamp on the upper floor, its warm glow tinting the curtains a soft orange yellow. He imagined her, enveloped in the gentle aura of her lamp, probably working intently on her sewing, or reading a book of poetry, her slender fingers carefully turning through the yellowed pages.

Step by step, he approached the door, and raised his hand. His long fingers hovered above the knocker, blood thundering through his veins. For a split second he tried to coax himself to bring his knuckles down, but he paused and checked himself, perhaps just a second longer. How would she react if he were to knock upon her door at this moment? What was he going to say to her, that he had suddenly been thinking about her, worrying that she would be lonely in the secluded house? Would she be surprised, annoyed, frightened that a half-stranger should turn up without prior notice, in this middle of nowhere?

Then, as suddenly as the wild yearning had first appeared, all the wishes and longings died down. Blood cooled in his veins. Too abrupt, almost insane, for he who did not even know her name to come bolting into her home at this hour of the night. He sighed, took a step back, and looked up again. The curtains fluttered just a little in the comforting glow.

He did not know how long he stood there, his head tilted backward, gazing at the golden patch of light that told him she was there. His horse gnawed at the grass patiently, its long tail swaying lazily left and right. Then, after what seemed like ages, or perhaps only seconds, the cozy glow in the room was extinguished, engulfing the whole cottage in a still, peaceful darkness.

It was after a long time that he finally mounted his horse and made to leave. The moon had already disappeared amongst the wooded hills. Only a single star glimmered quietly in the vast skies, like a solitary beacon in the endless waters of the ocean. He noted to himself, how fair that lone star was, the only source of light in the heavens above.

-

As time waned from spring to summer, the portrait was taking due shape, though he was never satisfied with the feeling it conveyed. Apart from this, he still made irregular detours to the Dove springs. Sometimes he only watched from afar as Lucy sat reading on the porch, sunlight streaming onto her flowing auburn hair, toning it reddish gold. Sometimes he would pluck up the courage to stop by and exchange a few words with her, talking about the most recent fair, the current goings-on in the village or perhaps, how nicely her clothes brought out the sky and sea in her limpid blue eyes. She would only give him a small smile, and say meekly how kind he was to tell her that.

Sometimes when Lucy was not at home—he fancied her to be in the village, shopping for necessities, or probably pausing at the church to listen to the sermons—he would gather violets and heathers and set them neatly onto her windowsill. The tufts of blue and purple and white were not striking colors, only simple and modest and perhaps even dull. But he never cared about that. When other people fawned about the pretty roses and briars, he only set his eyes on the pure, humble violets and heath, nature’s nymphs of inconspicuous, innocent charm.

The days dwindled into autumn, and the artist left his countryside workshop for a commission in the city. He left most of his things and his works in the workshop, packed up his easel and brushes and palette, and locked up the place. He had not forgotten to put the unfinished portrait of Lucy in his case.

The commission went successfully. He still kept the habit of awakening before daybreak and set to work at the always unfinished portrait, Lucy’s face shimmering in his memory. Day by day, the girl on the canvas became more like Lucy, and the soul within her. And in the depth of the night, the young artist would gaze at the portrait for a long time, thinking of the cottage by the springs, auburn locks and crystal eyes, and the warm, golden glow of a lamp in the dark.

When the young artist found himself in the carriage back to his English countryside, the precious portrait was already carefully wrapped and packed in his luggage.

-

He was never prepared for what he would face back at home.

‘What did you just say?’ Beads of sweat gathered on his brow and his fingers clenched impulsively. It must not be true, he must have heard it wrong, for it could not simply be, not now, not at this moment, when he had worked so hard and studiously, and had come home with a heart so full of anticipation and delight.

The local vicar looked upon the frustrated young man kindly, though his voice was finality.

‘I’m sorry to tell you so. But it’s the truth, young man, it’s the truth.’

He did not want to hear, did not want to accept. By admitting it himself would be betrayal.

‘She is dead.’

He did not know how empty his eyes must have looked when he stood there, as the priest told her how she was discovered one day at her home, life already snuffed out at the malicious hands of some sudden disease. He refused to think what she must have been through, lying alone on the bed and waiting for death to come and take her away.

The vicar then said how he finally managed to identify her name and called down her distant relatives from the north, who agreed to take her back for burial in the family graveyard. They left one day, unknown by the village, just as she had also left, unknown by anybody, unknown by him.

‘Her grave is not here.’ The vicar sighed. ‘But her house still is, and…you may go and look if you wish. It is no longer locked now that…nobody lives there anymore.’

His feet carried him out, out from the gloomy church and into the crisp, carefree sunlight of autumn. The world had shattered, gone from under his feet, and he thought he would also shatter at any minute. It angered him so, that nobody seemed to care that a girl he called Lucy was already gone from this world. (Yes, it did not matter that now he knew her true name; Lucy was a habit, a habit he refused to give up.) They were talking about how lovely the weather was, and how expensive things had become recently, and how crowded and festive the next village fair would be. No, it did not register with them that Lucy was there no longer. They would not have known.

When he finally found himself again, standing by the springs of Dove where he had so often come before, all the senses seemed to be suddenly restored to his body. The clamped doors and windows, the muted tone of the walls, the solemn, silent sadness that hung over the place, all seemed to be registering the single, simple fact. That the owner was no longer there, and was no longer to be found anywhere.

And as he raised his head toward the heavens, trying to fight back the sting in his eyes, he saw that the sky was exactly as it was on the day he first saw her, clear and sunny and carefree. It would not even shed a tear for Lucy, now that she was dead and gone, wrapped in earth’s folds with rock and dirt and stone. And he thought of the sweet, idle spring afternoon he first saw her, when he lost his way on the springs of Dove. She had been there to guide him just then, and he could not help but notice her innocent fairness. It could not be compared with that glamour and charm of usual beauties. The only thing that came to his head was that she seemed a creature not to be touched by earthly years, so simple and innocent she was.

The irony of it, as he thought of her, somewhere in a grave, her body entwined with earth’s own soil, and never, never again, to be touched by the flowing of time. And he wanted to hate nature for it, for taking her all for itself. Still, at least he had her portrait, the perfect portrait that he had taken such pains to create. But then he thought, his stomach burning, there could never be a greater difference.

He moved slowly to the house, his knees weak. He wanted to push open the door, to at least take a final look at the place where she had called home, but he found he could not do so. Not now, of all times. Instead he slowly walked to the window, on which he usually put his little tributes of flowers.

A single violet was still there, dried and withered on the windowsill. With shaking fingers he picked up the muted flower. It crumbled to dust in his fingers.

 

A/N: This is actually what I wrote for one of my western literature classes, as a short story inspired by Wordsworth’s ‘She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways’ (although I used another of the Lucy poems as the prompt here). So maybe it’s a bit rushed due to the word limit set (and a little cliché maybe?). Anyway, constructive criticism very welcome, please do read and drop in a little review! Thanks!

 

- Siduri

 

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