The Portrait Read Online Free Page A
the shape of a cross.I even thought, Why paint a canvas without frame or linen? They certainly came up with some strange subjects, the creators of the past.
But now that it was November, the Vatican calendar referred to days called All Soulsâ and All Saintsâ. Lidewij had wondered why, and had suggested that it might be something to do with the leaves of the trees; the last leaves were falling from the trees, and the Vaticanians wanted to celebrate nothing being lost. Her theories made Creator smile.
Weâre so ignorant about these things, Lidewij said. If you ask me, every day on this calendar means something.
I had already heard him outside, a screech of complaint sounding from the birch wood than ran down to the lake on the left of the deep garden, like a giant cat miaowing a loud lament. I knew he was an animal; I had made that much out from scraps of conversation between Creator and Lidewij. While painting, Creator would imitate his cry, making it sound like peeow . After calling, the creature generally walked into the garden to eat chicken feed from an aluminium dish that had been put down just in front of the sliding doors. It was a sound I had often heard while leaning against my wall: something pointy and hard scraping a metal bowl.
Good morning, Creator would say.
It all sounded thoroughly aristocratic. They called him Lord Peacock â but I couldnât imagine what he looked like. According to Lidewij, he had escaped from the playground at Old Valkeveen the previous spring: he heard the pheasants calling during the mating season, and disappeared into the woods. Odd, because pheasants, as I had learnt in the meantime, sound like the horns of old cars, and nowhere near as lofty and elegiac as Lord Peacock.
This is all quite apart from the story of my life, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the fire I am about to feed. But when I finally saw him, that first Saturday in November, when I was free to look out into the world, I felt an immediate pang of regret.
He was as white as a sheet.
He was a completely white creature. As white as me. He was Quadruple-Universal-Primed-Linen white, and yet he could walk. He appeared entirely under his own steam and would, after eating the contents of the bowl, move off somewhere else.
And he didnât notice me.
He scraped the bowl with his vicious beak and dragged a clawed toe towards himself every now and then, making an unpleasant scratching sound. When the chicken feed was finished, he pushed the dish away with an impatient neck movement and looked up.
That was when it happened.
He started to shiver or, better, to shudder, and made gagging movements with his neck and, before I knew it, he had spread his tail, taking up my entire field of vision with his raised, white tail feathers. He didnât stop shuddering; it sounded like he was raising a stormy wind. He made himself even bigger than he was by standing on his toes. The strange thing was that, after the first shock, I immediately realised that it didnât have anything to do with me, this display. He hadnât noticed me at all. He did it because he was seen. But the one who saw him was invisible. He was impressing an invisible viewer. I couldnât see it any other way. The garden was deserted, Creator and Lidewij had walked into the woods, and everything in the studio was motionless.
And, despite his improbable whiteness, I saw that his tail feathers, which spread into circles at the ends, meant something; they were something. How can I put it? They looked like white circles, but they represented something. I could see that very clearly in the sunlight that lit them from the side; the sun must have been over the birch wood. Yes, what I saw very clearly was that they were eyes â hundreds of white eyes on long, shuddering feathers. Lord Peacock had put up all his eyes to exchange all those glances with someone who was nowhere in sight. And he folded them back down into a
But now that it was November, the Vatican calendar referred to days called All Soulsâ and All Saintsâ. Lidewij had wondered why, and had suggested that it might be something to do with the leaves of the trees; the last leaves were falling from the trees, and the Vaticanians wanted to celebrate nothing being lost. Her theories made Creator smile.
Weâre so ignorant about these things, Lidewij said. If you ask me, every day on this calendar means something.
I had already heard him outside, a screech of complaint sounding from the birch wood than ran down to the lake on the left of the deep garden, like a giant cat miaowing a loud lament. I knew he was an animal; I had made that much out from scraps of conversation between Creator and Lidewij. While painting, Creator would imitate his cry, making it sound like peeow . After calling, the creature generally walked into the garden to eat chicken feed from an aluminium dish that had been put down just in front of the sliding doors. It was a sound I had often heard while leaning against my wall: something pointy and hard scraping a metal bowl.
Good morning, Creator would say.
It all sounded thoroughly aristocratic. They called him Lord Peacock â but I couldnât imagine what he looked like. According to Lidewij, he had escaped from the playground at Old Valkeveen the previous spring: he heard the pheasants calling during the mating season, and disappeared into the woods. Odd, because pheasants, as I had learnt in the meantime, sound like the horns of old cars, and nowhere near as lofty and elegiac as Lord Peacock.
This is all quite apart from the story of my life, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the fire I am about to feed. But when I finally saw him, that first Saturday in November, when I was free to look out into the world, I felt an immediate pang of regret.
He was as white as a sheet.
He was a completely white creature. As white as me. He was Quadruple-Universal-Primed-Linen white, and yet he could walk. He appeared entirely under his own steam and would, after eating the contents of the bowl, move off somewhere else.
And he didnât notice me.
He scraped the bowl with his vicious beak and dragged a clawed toe towards himself every now and then, making an unpleasant scratching sound. When the chicken feed was finished, he pushed the dish away with an impatient neck movement and looked up.
That was when it happened.
He started to shiver or, better, to shudder, and made gagging movements with his neck and, before I knew it, he had spread his tail, taking up my entire field of vision with his raised, white tail feathers. He didnât stop shuddering; it sounded like he was raising a stormy wind. He made himself even bigger than he was by standing on his toes. The strange thing was that, after the first shock, I immediately realised that it didnât have anything to do with me, this display. He hadnât noticed me at all. He did it because he was seen. But the one who saw him was invisible. He was impressing an invisible viewer. I couldnât see it any other way. The garden was deserted, Creator and Lidewij had walked into the woods, and everything in the studio was motionless.
And, despite his improbable whiteness, I saw that his tail feathers, which spread into circles at the ends, meant something; they were something. How can I put it? They looked like white circles, but they represented something. I could see that very clearly in the sunlight that lit them from the side; the sun must have been over the birch wood. Yes, what I saw very clearly was that they were eyes â hundreds of white eyes on long, shuddering feathers. Lord Peacock had put up all his eyes to exchange all those glances with someone who was nowhere in sight. And he folded them back down into a
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