Short Story: A Quiet Romance

Short Story: A Quiet Romance

“Katherine, do come quickly, my dear, I do believe I can hear Monsieur Budier’s carriage upon the very threshold of our door!’ Lady Velmon’s voice spilled out into the oak-panelled landing, and out over the staircase to the ears of the young woman moving quickly along the passage below. “It is time for your second sitting, and you simply must be composed if we are to attain the highest standard of completion. Oh, do hurry, child," she continued, her voice ringing clear and loud throughout the large mansion house, "the best artists do so detest to be kept waiting."

The young woman below carried herself upon quick steps, and her long white starched dress swayed back and forth, as she hurried to the morning room.

“Yes, mother...” she offered, as she bustled past the grand staircase.

“Now remember to pose naturally, dear,” boomed her mother, “and don’t pout, it makes your eyes look small and narrow.”

The young woman propelled herself into the bright room, and hurried over to the velvet-backed chair. The sun had filled the morning room with bouncing beams of light, and a lively fire crackled in the granite fireplace. She leant upon the chair, and studied her complexion in the large mirror that hung over the fireplace. In moments, her mother had swept into the room, and the air suddenly became filled with the scent of lavender.

“Now remember to pose naturally,“ repeated Lady Velmon, oblivious of the previous acknowledgement. “You know what happened to Veronica Markham! Why, they do say her form has now become quite unflattering. The countenance and posture she draped vainly before Monsieur Budier, has become remarkably absent - so they say.”

“Ha!" the young woman laughed. "Of course, mother, and his face does colour so at the mention of her name! The poor man must have suffered terribly! Why, Lady Markman is simply bursting with flesh, that I cannot ever imagine how his palette fell into her lap!”

“Enough, child!" rebuked Lady Velmon. "that is no way to speak of your peers." She reached out and pulled the bell cord. “Leave the embroidery, Katherine - why not arrange some flowers to be brought in from the garden? A bouquet will add some good colour to the composition. However, I am sure the artist will keep you amused during the intervals - in fact, I do believe he relishes the task.”

“Mother!”

“Why the surprise, Katherine? Surely you realise the man is hopelessly in love with you. Indeed, as all men seem to be when they gaze upon you. Yet which admirer shall finally catch your heart, I wonder, my dear? Monsieur Budier is a fine specimen of manhood, no doubt, but I don’t think he should be encouraged, Katherine - perhaps a fine officer from the Dragoons? They do have such splendid uniforms,” and the voice of Lady Velmon faded into a tone of quiet disapproval.

A bell rang, and muted voices were heard in the hallway. A neatly-dressed butler entered the morning room crisply.

“There is a gentleman here, Madam, a Monsieur Budier - for the sitting, Madam?”

“Very good Roberts – show him through.”

Many years later, life slowly ticked away within the crumbling walls of an ageing art gallery, and a curator moved slowly about the gloom of its interior. The long corridor of the municipal gallery stretched out defiantly before him, as he went about his duties. He had been part of the gallery for so long that he had reached the twilight of his stewardship, and its studious devotions. His long service had blended his very consciousness into the fabric of the building, such that he seemed to belong to the pictures that lined the perimeter of his world. Yet what sustained him? He was without family, and possessed very few friends, cast alone in a world of canvas and dust.

Simeon finally arrived at the end of the corridor.The answer lay before him, virtually hidden within the shadows of Victorian architecture. It was the portrait of a young woman. He held up his head to gaze at his favourite picture, and was immediately greeted with that vision of loveliness he so yearned for. His only regret, which did make him rather sad, was that the figure in the portrait lacked a smile upon the young face.

“Hello my dear, and how are you this dark day?" said Simeon aloud. "Do you still wonder how the world holds together? Yes, you are there, and here am I - if only you could speak." He moved closer to the portrait to catch the fading afternoon light.

“You are always here, never moving. Yet, were you to smile upon me but once - what a gift! what a gift . . .” His quiet words failed him, and her lips only returned the same familiar silence. He dropped his gaze, hesitated for a moment in thought, and then returned to his circumnavigation of the gallery.

It seemed strange that, at the autumn of his life, a beauty from so long ago had captured his heart. Yet it did not matter, for here was a potion of love that bridged across the long years. The gallery clock thumped out five dull tones to signal the end of his working day, and a gentle reminder to usher out any remaining visitors.

The curator bolted the highly polished entrance doors of the gallery behind him, and ambled away along the cold streets to return to his empty home. A quiet voice spoke to him from out of the darkness. He stopped and turned slowly to face the voice, yet the street was deserted and only the cold spring night air greeted his face.

Loneliness jumped into his being, and he became filled with an overwhelming desire to see the picture - his picture again. He wanted once more to linger in her presence, to drink in the subtle colours and textures of the portrait and the beautiful face that moved him. Returning back along the street, he reached for the bulky keys from within the folds of his raincoat and re-entered the gallery.

Simeon studied the scene of the portrait carefully, and a warm feeling of satisfaction filled him. The scene was of a young woman in a formal sitting pose, with a cluttered background of bric-a-brac and dull furniture. The composition left the subject rather stiff and tight-lipped, however the quality and passion of the portrait shone through. The portraiture clearly displayed her fine detail, and the agile brushstrokes of the artist brought a flow of energetic life to the painting.

“Hello again, my one. I have returned for you,” said Simeon quietly to the picture in the ornate and heavy frame.

The young woman in the portrait looked back from the past with warm eyes. Her crystal blue eyes managed to exude an aura of startling realism, and her fine form was nestled within a cascade of auburn hair that seemed to reach fully down to the floor. All this, and yet no smile, thought Simeon. Why, it almost seemed a crime not have added a light to the face. Nevertheless, his loneliness began to slowly ebb away.

The following day, the curator had a gift for his secret love, a small posy of spring primroses, left abandoned by a schoolchild or forgetful patron. Simeon picked them up carefully, and with a spring in his gait, hurried along the corridor to where she waited for him. He gently laid the fragile flowers upon the half-table that braced the wall beneath the portrait.

“These are for you,” he said, and an expression of glee fell across his cracked face. The gallery clock chimed, and the curator turned once again to lock up and to secure the gallery for another lonely night. Yet what was this new and strange sound, that began to grow quietly around him? As he listened, it seemed as if someone was humming softly nearby. How could this be? All the visitors had left and there was no one to be seen in the long corridor.

Simeon looked back and noticed something different about the picture. He peered into the canvas and stared in disbelief. He looked deeply into the thick oils of the portrait, and his gaze became a fixed stare. Surely this could not be true - the face of his secret love had the most radiant smile! A smile more beautiful that he had ever imagined. It was a warm, yet mischievous smile that now shone back at him. Emotions began to rise within him at the realisation of his dream; and he simply stood to drink in the sweet nectar of his happiness. Yet as he looked again, he noticed the glimmer of new brush strokes, and new oils.

“What trickery is this? Is this another student folly?” he said aloud, to no one. “Who has been at your canvas?”

The emotions that had boiled within him began to subside, and his foolishness lay sore and exposed. He hurt inside, but his love remained undimmed, and so he continued his vigil with the young woman in the picture.

Simeon could not remember how long he had been transfixed. Perhaps it was because the humming had stopped, or that now he felt extremely tired. The time they had shared had now passed. He moved slowly away from the portrait with tears of joy in his eyes. So much so, that as he left, he failed to notice the flowers that he had placed upon the table had disappeared, and within the picture, a bouquet of yellow flowers sat quietly - unnoticed.