The Shadow Portrait

by Gilbert, Morris

  An embarrassed silence fell over the room, and Phil felt very bad for Clinton, whose face had grown red, his lips tightly closed. Shifting his glance, Phil saw that Cara, too, was humiliated and angered by her father’s harshness. She lifted her eyes to her father and seemed to plead with him to have some understanding.

  “I’d like to see some of your paintings, Miss Cara,” Phil spoke up suddenly, hoping to alleviate the unbearable tension.

  Relieved, Cara stood to her feet. “If you all will excuse us, I will show Mr. Winslow some of the things I’ve done.”

  “You take him right along,” Alice said. “Bring him back down to the drawing room afterward.”

  “That will be too much for her to do, Alice. She’s had too much excitement already. See how pale her cheeks are?” Oliver rose and came over to his daughter. He stood towering over her and looked down. “You may show our guest a few of your paintings, and then I want you to drink your ale, take all your medicines, and go straight to bed.”

  “But I feel fine, Father.”

  Oliver shook his head. “I’m afraid I must insist, my dear. Go along now.” Turning to Phil, he issued one final warning. “I trust you will not overtire my daughter, sir.”

  Recognizing the warning, Phil nodded. “Of course. I won’t be long.”

  The two left the dining room, and Cara led Phil along the hallway to the stairs. Holding on to the railing, she ascended slowly. Phil modified his steps to stay with her.

  She turned to him and said, “I’m sure it must be annoying for you to have to put up with an invalid, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Not at all, and I wish you’d call me Phil.”

  Color flushed in Cara’s cheeks, and she said, “That would be nice, and please call me Cara.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Phil said, “I don’t want to be impertinent, but you’re not really an invalid, are you?”

  “I had a severe illness ten years ago. I’ve never really recovered from it, and the doctors are quite mystified.” Then, as if shutting the door on the subject, she lifted her head and said, “Come, I’ll show you what I’ve done. But I warn you, they’re not like what you’ve seen in Europe.”

  “Some of it was pretty bad,” Phil said. “I don’t know how some of them ever got into the museums.”

  When they stepped inside the room, he swept it with a quick glance. Instantly he recognized that this was the tower in which Cara Lanier hid herself from the world. He took in all of the treasures of her childhood and the pictures of the family. The furniture itself was comfortable, and the room was large and spacious—but a prison, he quickly grasped, all the same.

  “Now that I’m here,” Cara said, turning around, “I . . . I don’t think I want you to see my work.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not—well, I’ve never had anyone except my agent look at it.”

  “You never go to the shows where your pieces are shown?”

  “Oh, never! Father would never permit it!”

  “That’s a shame, but please allow me to see them. I insist.”

  He smiled at her, and at that moment Cara thought he looked very masculine and that he exuded health. She studied the tanned planes of his face, then said quietly, “All right. If you insist.”

  Moving across the room, she opened a large wardrobe that obviously had been made to hold her paintings. She took out two of them, set them on a table, leaning them against the wall, then removed two more and placed them beside the others. “There,” she said and stepped back to watch his reaction.

  Phil instantly made a judgment. He was disappointed in her work, but it was not that they were bad. Rather, they were . . . bland. All four paintings were flower arrangements of roses, tulips, marigolds, and daisies. The technical aspects of them were good indeed, and it was on this quality that he began to speak. “I admire your brushwork in this one,” he said. “It must’ve been very hard to do the centers of these daisies as exactly as you have.” It looked almost like a photograph, except for the colors.

  “It is slow, but then . . .” Cara smiled, “I have plenty of time.”

  As Phil studied the paintings, commenting on the various artistic techniques she had used, he found himself more and more intrigued by this woman. He had found out from Clinton that she was thirty years old. By that age most women were married and raising families. The story of her sickness and of her poor health, of course, could account for her not marrying. But there was something about her that puzzled him. The paleness of her skin could be accounted for simply by being indoors, but he had no sense of the weakness that one usually associates with an invalid. He had the impression that beneath all of the trappings of illness was a strong, vigorous woman. He had no reason for believing this, but he had learned long ago to trust his impressions.

  Her paintings all lacked that spark of inspiration one looks for in true art. It was as if she had painted only from the surface of her mind and talent. Nevertheless, her work did have some special qualities. Somehow, especially in the painting of the daisies, she had managed to capture a picture of vibrant health and strength. The vivid colors seemed to leap off the canvas. It was obviously a scene from the front yard, as were the other three, but she had caught the blue sky, and the sun was magnificent.

  “When I was in Holland, I saw a great deal of the Flemish masters,” he said finally. He stepped closer and peered at the picture of the daisies. “They are most famous for the way they are able to capture sunlight. It’s amazing. You feel like you can almost touch it and your hand would grow warm. Miss Cara,” he said, “you’ve got something of that in this painting here called Daisies in the Morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen light treated any better.”

  Cara’s face flushed at his compliment and her eyes grew warm. “How kind of you to say that.”

  “I don’t think it’s kind. I could make some comments that aren’t quite as amiable.” Phil smiled rather crookedly. “But I’m a guest in your house, so I’d better withhold them.”

  Cara was nonplussed. She stared at him, for she had been guarded from adverse comments. She had no life, except with her family and her painting, and now this tall man had suddenly said there were things wrong with them. She straightened up, and her eyes lost their warmth. “What do you mean, not quite as amiable?” she demanded.

  “Oh, nothing about the technical aspects.” Phil recognized that Cara was not accustomed to bold critiques of her paintings, but he wanted to stir her up to see what lay beneath the fine veneer of manners and careful composure that she showed the world. “Technically these are fine. The brushwork, the proportion, the symmetry, and especially the colors. You have a real flair for that.”

  “Well, what else is there?” she asked coolly.

  Phil hesitated, then shrugged. “There’s more to life than flowers, Cara.”

  “I’m well aware of that!” she answered rather defensively.

  Well, I touched her that time, Phil thought. He considered changing the subject, but he was interested in the woman. She did not have the life and the vitality that he admired in most women, but still, without any evidence, he believed it lay somewhere deep inside, longing to burst forth. He felt about her as he did about a painting that he was just starting. Somewhere in the paint and in the canvas was a masterpiece. He felt all he had to do was make it come together. Of course, as an artist, he could bring paint to the canvas. But how does one stir up a woman who is wealthy and has never known life except as a carefully protected individual, almost as if she were sealed in a cocoon?

  Cara saw his hesitation. “Of course there’s more than flowers, but someone has to paint flowers.”

  “No argument there. Some of the finest paintings I’ve seen in Europe, and in this country too, are of flowers. But my theory of art is that an artist should put things on a canvas that move people, that stir them, that make them angry even. A painting should at least make some sort of statement about the world in which we live.”

 
“But . . . these flowers are a part of our world.”

  Phil had a flash of intuition. “Let me see some of your paintings that aren’t of flowers,” he said and watched her face. He saw it change and knew he had hit a nerve.

  “I . . . I don’t have any.”

  “You see? You love flowers, which is very commendable, but as I said, life is a lot more than flowers.”

  Cara stared at him and felt intimidated by the health and zest for life that radiated from him. She saw a strength in him that she admired. It was not like the strength of her father, for his was no more than indomitable control and harshness. No, this man standing before her was strong, but his strength lay under an amiable exterior, even a fine-looking one. She had had a few sweethearts before her illness, but that had been years ago. Long, long ago she had given up any hope of romance and courtship and marriage. But now, as she looked at Phil Winslow, something stirred within her heart. It was so faint that she was not even fully conscious of it. All she knew was that he was a man who had brought something into her castle that had not been there before. She had been content and satisfied about her painting, confident that it was good, and that she had one small accomplishment to smile about in her confined world. Now this man had come in and challenged the one possession she had. Anger flared up in her, and she said, “I don’t think it behooves you, an artist who has never sold a painting, to bring charges against me!”

  “I’m sorry I’ve angered you,” Phil said quietly. “I didn’t mean to. I think you have great talent, maybe greater than you realize. I believe you’re capable of painting more than a daisy.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more of this!” Cara said, raising her voice.

  “Very well. Once again, I’m sorry we disagree. I didn’t mean to be offensive.” He paused for one moment, then looked into her eyes and said, “Don’t be afraid of life, Cara.”

  A silence fell over the room. Cara could hear only the ticking of the mantel clock. His words seemed to find a lodging somewhere deep inside her. They had a prophetic sound, and very rarely in her life had anything struck her so hard and so sharply. Don’t be afraid of life. The words seemed to echo, like a tolling bell deep within her. Suddenly unable to listen any longer, she said abruptly, “Good-bye, Mr. Winslow.”

  “It’s Phil . . . and good night, Cara.” He turned and left the room, unaware of the devastating effect his visit and his words had made upon her.

  As the door closed, Cara realized that her hands were trembling. She held them together and turned quickly and looked at the pictures of the flowers that she had labored on for so long. She had been so proud of them, and now with one visit, with one phrase, this man she hardly even knew had managed to destroy the foundations of her happiness.

  Don’t be afraid of life.

  The words came to her again and again, and even after she went to bed she could not sleep, mulling over in her mind what he had said. There’s more to life than flowers. A wave of resentment flooded her. “What does he know?” she said aloud. “He’s strong and healthy, and I’m confined to this room and can do nothing! What is there for me in life besides my painting? Now he’s taken the pleasure of even that away from me.”

  Cara lay there thinking of the evening and knew she would not be able to put it out of her mind. She had been impressed by Phil Winslow in a powerful way. True enough, she did not meet many men such as he appeared to be. Her father, she knew, despised him as a worthless trifler in art. It mattered not that Clinton warmly admired him, and she herself had been so grateful to him for the assistance he had offered to Clinton. Now, however, as she lay there, her hands clenched into fists, she whispered, “What do I care what he thinks? He’s just a penniless artist! Father’s right about him!”

  Her sudden agreement with her father did not help the swirl of troubling emotions she felt inside. To her shock and amazement, she found tears running down the sides of her face. She wiped them away quickly and said, “I won’t let him make me cry! He’s wrong. He has to be wrong . . . !”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Time to Live

  Life at the art institute was entertaining but at the same time rather depressing for Phil Winslow. Day after day he would go early, after a sparse breakfast, then paint for hours. One day, however, he had stopped painting. He was sitting and staring out the window when Crumpler, the instructor, came by. “Why aren’t you painting, Winslow?” he demanded.

  “No more canvases.”

  “Buy some.”

  “No money.”

  Crumpler stared at Phil, then shrugged. “Come along.” He took him to a storeroom where hundreds of old canvases, abandoned by former students, were stacked up to the ceiling. “Grab some of those,” he said. “You can use them again.” A look of contempt curled his thick lips. “The world won’t be losing much. Most of it’s junk anyway.”

  Phil grinned. “How do you know I won’t put more junk on it?”

  Crumpler was as sparing with his compliments as Ebenezer Scrooge had been of his money, but now he finally said grudgingly, “You’ve got something in you, Winslow. I’d like to see it come out.”

  As bleak as the words were, they spurred Phil to do more. He now had an unlimited supply of canvases and only had to buy paints and a brush from time to time. He threw himself into the work in a zealous frenzy, irritating the other students, who looked down upon him.

  One of the things about Winslow’s paintings that puzzled Crumpler and annoyed the other students was his choice of subjects. Most of them were painting still lifes, landscapes, or portraits, for that was where the money was. Phil had become almost obsessed in depicting various settings from the streets of New York. He roamed the poor immigrant district near his boardinghouse, and once painted a picture of a German family who had agreed to pose for him. He had managed to make friends with this family by bringing them sweets. He chose their front room as his setting, allowing the dilapidated furniture and a stove with stacked bricks replacing a missing leg to bring out the hard poverty the Schultzes lived in day to day. He depicted honestly the ugly, ill-fitting clothes the children wore, and the way they stared at him with large eyes. He spent a great deal of time on the faces of the father and mother, both lined by poverty, hard work, and disease.

  He had brought the painting to the institute and placed it on the easel, intending to fill in some of the final details. As he started to apply some finishing touches, he noticed that the other students curled their lips up and then passed right on by.

  When Crumpler stopped, he stared at the painting for a long time. Phil sat there waiting for the acid comment that was sure to come.

  “Why did you want to paint this?”

  “I guess because I get tired of daisies and apples and fruit bowls.”

  “No one would ever buy a picture like this.”

  “I didn’t think they would.”

  “Why paint, then, if you can’t sell a picture?”

  “I guess I’m just the artistic type. I’ll probably wind up starving in an attic somewhere.”

  Crumpler was not satisfied with Phil’s flippant response. He continued to study the picture and said, “Have you ever heard of the Ashcan School?”

  “Ashcan School? No, what’s that?”

  Crumpler shrugged his beefy shoulders. “A group of painters who paint stuff like this. I guess they picked the name all right. They like to paint pictures of the backyards of tenements. All pretty grim stuff.”

  “Who are they? What’re their names?”

  “Don’t know most of them. One of them’s named John Sloan. He was a student here for a while a long time ago. Some of his paintings are in the window of an art shop. I don’t know why. They’ll never sell.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “It’s over on Eighteenth Street. Place called Maxim’s.”

  Phil left at once to find Maxim’s. There he saw paintings in the window such as he had never seen before. They were not “nice,” but instantly he realized
that this man Sloan had absorbed the poor of New York into his bloodstream, and now they somehow vividly came to life on his canvas. He stood before one painting of three women out on a rooftop drying their hair. Two of them, a brunette and a blonde, sat on the ledge. All wore clumsy-looking shoes, obviously marking them as lower class, and soot-blackened tenement houses rose up into the smoky air behind them. To one side, a clothesline full of underwear and work clothes flapped in the breeze. The main figure, wearing a white chemise, was pulling her blond hair forward over her shoulder, allowing the sun—what there was of it—to dry her hair.

  Another painting, obviously by a different artist, portrayed two young girls dancing in the street. It was a dark portrait, except for the light that illuminated the faces of the girls. The face of the one on the right glowed, and her hair spun as she danced around. Her expression of joy spoke loudly and contrasted vividly with the poverty shown in her heavy shoes and worn clothing.

  Going inside, Phil wandered around and found himself more impressed than he had been by the paintings in the art museums of Europe. These are real, he thought. They show how life really is. He paused before a portrait of two wrestlers. They were on the mat struggling, one man with his head braced against the mat straining to keep his shoulders from being pinned. Every muscle stood out on the two men, the terrible strain captured in paint. The pink flesh of the central wrestler about to be pinned was the most lifelike thing Phil had ever seen.

  “You like that?”

  Phil twirled to see a man standing beside him, a small man with a bushy red mustache and a pair of alert blue eyes.

  “My name is George Maxim—but everyone just calls me Maxim. You like the painting?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “A man named George Luks did it. You can almost smell the sweat on those fellows, can’t you?”

  “Yes. How much is it?”

  “How much have you got?” Maxim smiled.