Corey Farrenkopf 49 Susan E. Wigget

PORTRAIT by Susan E. Wigget

Veronica and her friend Edith entered a capacious studio containing many stools and

easels and two bare tables surrounded by simple ladder-back chairs. Edith had persuaded

Veronica to ask the renowned painter, Charles Harpring, for lessons. Now that she stood in the

studio where he taught, she shook with nerves but at the same time relished the thought of

painting here. Deep shelves supporting props lined one of the walls, while sketches and paintings

by the students covered others. In the center of the room, a space was cleared away for sitters and

for objects to paint: a Persian rug covered the floorboards, and a great overstuffed armchair stood

next to a miniscule table holding a vase full of sunflowers.

No students occupied the room, and Veronica concluded that Edith and she stood alone

with the great artist himself, for a tall man stood with his back to them, as he gazed out the

window. She felt glad she had persuaded Edith to accompany her, and she determined to not

seem missish, despite how timid she actually felt. Now that they had arrived, she almost wished

she had not acted on such a bold decision, but she edged slightly closer to Edith, glad to have her

moral support.

The door closed behind Veronica and Edith. The man at the window turned around to

face them, while they still hovered in front of the door. He walked toward them at a leisurely

pace, while Veronica stood still and grasped her handbag with both hands in front of her. He was

close to forty years old, she estimated, about twice her age. She was surprised to see that he was

handsome, with thick dark curls touching his shoulders and a somewhat square face ending in a

cleft chin; his eyes were wide, dark, and candid. She had half expected him to have a balding

scalp and a squint, since many of the artists she met turned out to be quite homely, as though

they meant their artwork as an apology for their own lack of beauty.

“How do you do, Miss—I’m sorry,” he said, looking back and forth at each of them.

“Ah, Mr. Harpring…m-my friend here… is Edith Morrow, and I-I am Veronica

Amaranth,” Veronica said in a high-pitched voice. “Please forgive us for dropping in on you like

this. I hope you can help me.”

“Please sit down,” Mr. Harpring said, keeping his eyes unblinkingly fixed on her, while

he gestured toward seats. The two young women sat close together. Disconcerted by his fixed

gaze, Veronica’s eyes repeatedly wandered away from him and back. He sat on a chair facing

them and leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on his knees. “What is it I can do for such a

beautiful young lady?” he asked her. She felt her cheeks grow warm, and she lowered her eyes to

her navy blue striped skirt. So much for not acting missish, she thought. He could have at least

included both of them in the compliment; he seemed impertinent to do otherwise. Edith was

comely herself, with a sweet heart-shaped face, creamy skin, and thick dark braids wrapped

around her head; she wore spectacles, but behind them were intelligent violet eyes. She was also

taller and more slender than Veronica, who felt simultaneously flattered and appalled.

“Please, I did not come here for extravagant praise. Miss Morrow here has urged me to

come to you for drawing and painting lessons,” Veronica said. “I have been drawing all my life,

but no professional has trained me, and I don’t know where to begin with painting.”

“Well, then, I am glad you have come to me,” he said with an attentive smile. She felt

terribly self-conscious under his gaze, and she wished he would pay some heed to Edith, who

pursed up her lips and crossed her ankles.

“I noticed your work has created quite a stir,” Veronica said, hoping he could not

perceive her awkwardness and bashfulness, “and I saw your new exhibition, but I did not until

recently know that you teach aspiring artists.”

“Yes, three days a week I teach a total of twenty students who are at varying levels of

skill,” he said, sitting up. He had a proud little smile.

“On what days does the class meet?” Veronica asked, imagining that all twenty students

met regularly at the same time.

“Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. It is not necessary to attend every class; I allow

each student to progress at her own pace.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Veronica said.

“If you attend the class tomorrow afternoon, I shall see how you do and ascertain what

direction your instruction needs.”

At the first class Veronica attended, Mr. Harpring introduced her to the other students,

whose reception toward her, she thought, seemed somewhat cold. She generally was overly

sensitive, however, and she could not expect strangers to always ooze charm as though they were

calling at her parents’ house at Washington Square, or as though they were attending a ball. This

was neither a parlor nor a ballroom, but a studio for students, all of whom were female. Since

universities did not allow females to attend classes, women often took private classes taught by

professional artists.

On this first afternoon with the other students, the only time Mr. Harpring criticized

Veronica’s sketching was when he leaned over her drawing board and showed her the proper

way to hold her drawing pencil. Her formal education took place entirely in a seminary for

young ladies, at which her well-meaning drawing teacher had never trained her to hold a pencil

other than how she held it for writing. This bit of instruction proved to her that she was starting

from scratch.

After Veronica attended the class for two weeks, Mr. Harpring began to criticize her

work more. He had broken her in by this point, and she had already noticed that he judged the

work of the other students more sharply, since they had come to his classes much longer than

she. A few days after she noticed this shift, she became somewhat nervous as the instructor

circled the room to look at each student’s drawing one at a time, and as he came closer to her.

When he finally stood over her shoulder, she could scarcely grip the charcoal.

“You have to ask yourself from where the light source comes,” he said. “The way you’ve

shaded and highlighted it, it seems to come from three different directions.” As he spoke, he

raised a finger in front of the left end of the drawing, then the center, and then the right end.

“Oh, I see,” she said, feeling foolish. She wondered what terrible impression she made on

the other students.

“In reality, a lamp hangs just above the sitter,” he said, nodding at the young lady who sat

stiffly in the armchair centered in the studio. He continued, “The light should therefore come

from above and mostly toward the center.” He leaned a bit closer to her, so his head was next to

hers, invading her space and giving her a fluttery nervous sensation. He said, “May I paint your

portrait?” She leaned slightly away from him. Remembering his comment about her supposed

beauty when they first met, she trembled and dropped her stick of charcoal. It hit the floor with a

subtle clank and broke in two.

“You want to paint a portrait of me?” she whispered, not knowing what else to say. She

wondered if he painted the portrait of every new student, and she felt flattered, though scared at

the same time. She also imagined him moving his head away from her.

“Yes,” he answered. “Let’s discuss this after class.”

”Yes,” she said, and he stood up straight and walked to the student on her right. Once he

was no longer too close to her, she relaxed and took a breath of relief. As she bent over to pick

up her charcoal stick, Veronica glanced to her left at the young lady next to her and wondered if

she had overheard. The woman returned the look over her spectacles, with a pert little smile, and

Veronica felt worse, for the smile certainly meant she had heard.

What if, Veronica wondered, the entire class discovered that Mr. Harpring was painting

her portrait? She had detected a certain rivalry for his affections among the students. Handsome

as he was, her only interest in him was that of a student for an instructor’s vast knowledge, and

she was determined that no amount of flattery or portrait painting would change her opinion.

She could already sense he had far more ego than he needed. Despite his looks, she found

him strangely repellent, especially when he spoke condescendingly to any female. Nonetheless,

she did not want to make a bad impression on her instructor by refusing to sit for a portrait. She

wanted his approval as a teacher, and she wanted to thus become a more professional artist

herself. Whatever his shortcomings in personality, he was a great painter, and for that reason

alone, she could not refuse to let him paint her portrait.

At the end of the afternoon’s session, Veronica took her time putting away her paper and

charcoal, as she waited for the other students to drift out of the studio. Either she imagined it, or

some of the students looked back at her suspiciously before they exited. Until now, she had not

considered the fact that she would be alone with Mr. Harpring. A fluttering panic rose in her

chest. She did not think it entirely proper, for even though artists were generally unconventional,

or so she heard about artists who lived in Europe, she had a very proper upbringing and could not

entirely dismiss deportment. She remembered the studio across the hall, and she took comfort in

the thought that it usually contained a class in session at this time.

After the remainder of the class had departed, Mr. Harpring gave her what he considered

a charming smile and closed the studio door. Veronica gulped and looked at the floor. “And now,

as for this portrait,” he said. “I would like to paint it at my studio, and I normally make many

preliminary sketches before I embark on the actual painting. I could do the sketches here, after

the next class meeting, and that would spare you a trip to my studio.” His tone and smiles

seemed soaked in condescension.

“That is considerate of you,” Veronica said, briefly raising her eyes.

“It is not far from here, of course. However, you will find yourself making many trips

there when I begin to paint the portrait.”

“If it is not far away, and not in a questionable neighborhood, then I do not mind.”

“Oh, the neighborhood is certainly respectable.”

“Wonderful. Well, this is exciting, now that I begin to think about it: I’ve never had my

portrait painted.”

“It would be no expense for you, of course,” he said. “Indeed, I might sell the portrait

afterward.” She was surprised he said might, as though he did not think it would sell, or as if he

wanted to keep it. Perhaps he would decide to give her the picture, but she suspected otherwise.

“Very good, Mr. Harpring. Is that all? My mother does not expect me to be gone this

long.” She felt that mentioning her mother would remind him, if he had any silly notions, that

she was a respectable young lady and her parents could protect her. Such suspicions, she thought,

were probably absurd, but she thought it best to be safe.

“Ah. That is all, yes, Miss Amaranth.”

Although she had sat for him after the past two classes, Veronica’s hands shook the first

day she showed up on Mr. Harpring’s doorstep, and she took a deep but shaky breath. The house

was a tall, slender brownstone with thick drapes at all the windows. She thought it bad enough

when Mr. Harpring and she occupied the class studio alone together and he said things that she

interpreted as flirtation and flattery, while his eyes were on her most of the time as he sketched

her. But for her to visit his private residence, all by herself, was that much more frightening. She

still did not like him, despite all his oozing flattery and attempt at charm. She did not find him in

the least charming, thanks to his overbearing ego and something else repellent about him that she

could not define.

A manservant opened the door and immediately knew who she was. “Please come this

way,” he said with a slight bow. She followed him into the hallway, and he led her into Mr.

Harpring’s studio, where he announced Veronica’s name to her instructor.

As the manservant left, Veronica could not but gaze around in wonder at the enormous

room, in which paintings and unpainted canvases took up any space they could. Rugs lay

scattered on the hardwood floor, along the edges of which leaned rows of canvases, some plain

white, some painted at least partially. Many of these were enormous, such as an eight-foot-long

painting of a black horse, but others were a more conventional size. A marble fireplace stood to

her right, and yet another painting hung over it, a stunning self-portrait of Mr. Harpring. The

mantel displayed a mess of things, a clock, tubes of paint, rags, and little boxes. Sofas, chairs,

and small tables stood centered in the room, as though it were a sitting room. The opposite wall

housed full-length windows, and pulled-back brocade drapes let in the afternoon sun. An

overstuffed fainting couch sat by a window. Wicker boxes, no doubt full of paint and brushes,

sprinkled the room, as did several easels. Throughout the studio stood small tables holding

colorful palettes and cups from which peeked paintbrushes and drawing pencils.

Vast framed canvases covered much of the walls, so Veronica could barely see dark

paneling behind the paintings, which all reminded her of those she had seen at Mr. Harpring’s

public exhibit. This was hardly surprising, since the pictures were all his work. Most were

portraits of highly respected New York citizens. One exception was a full-length picture of Mr.

Charles Dickens; another exception was of the British actress Ellen Terry.

In a far corner, Veronica espied piles of various oriental rugs, and fringed silk draperies

hid the corner of the wall. Before the draperies stood a wooden pedestal and a pair of velvet-

upholstered chairs; these, she surmised, were meant for sitters.

“What a delightful studio,” Veronica said, wondering if she might someday have a

similar studio.

“Thank-you,” Mr. Harpring said, walking toward the draped corner.

“Is it customary for a successful artist to have his studio inside his home?”

“It is not unusual, Miss Amaranth, and it is very convenient for me,” he said. “Keeping

my studio at home saves me the bother of carrying supplies across town. Let me rearrange this

corner a bit, and I’ll be right with you.”

He picked up one of the velvet chairs off the platform and set it next to a sofa in the

center of the room. Then he scanned the room for a moment, saying, “I want it to be just right, to

set the mood. I am thinking something avant-garde would be fitting.” He walked toward the

fireplace and grasped what appeared to be a marble pedestal.

“I would certainly be happy with that,” Veronica said truthfully enough. At this stage in

her life, she wanted to somehow be eccentric and respectable at the same time. She was not

entirely sure how she could do this.

Mr. Harpring picked up the pedestal, carried it to the dais, and placed it next to the

remaining velvet chair. Veronica concluded the pedestal could not possibly be solid marble. He

then stepped down from the platform and stood in the center of the room with his hands on his

hips. He looked at the dais and then looked around the room, turning around slowly. His eyes

stopped at Veronica, who cast her eyes to the floor.

“I shall have to paint you wearing something decidedly more avant-garde, more

bohemian than the conventional concoction you have on right now,” he said. Veronica felt her

cheeks grow warm, but she did not think Mr. Harpring noticed, for he had turned away from her

for more inanimate objects. She glanced down at her bouffant white cotton skirt and the white

bodice that buttoned up the front and included bishop sleeves.

“I do have an Artistic gown,” Veronica said quietly.

“Have you? Now, that‘s the spirit!”

“I have not worn it yet, though I’ve been wanting to for some time. I don’t think my

parents would approve. It is so unconventional, and they are, well— ”

“Yes, no doubt,” he said dryly. She did not appreciate his interruption, but at the same

time, she knew her parents were not the most loving or understanding.

Finally, he approached the fireplace again and took down from it a large Japanese fan. He

then walked to one of the many small cluttered tables and picked up a blue porcelain vase. He

took the two objects and set them on the pedestal, and then he stepped back to look at his work

with a satisfied smile and crossed arms.

“Please feel free to seat yourself on the chair,” he said, gesturing to the armchair on the

platform. When Veronica ascended the platform, she felt like a princess on a dais. Smiling

faintly, she sat stiffly on the blue velvet chair and placed her hands on the arms, as she watched

Mr. Harpring gather up painting supplies: brushes, paint, a rag, a water dish, and a colorful,

messy palette. It was rather exciting, Veronica thought, to see a professional artist at work and to

immerse herself in the studio atmosphere. Someday, she thought, she would have her own cozy

and cluttered studio. Mr. Harpring placed all the painting supplies on a small table several feet in

front of the dais. He pulled up the largest easel Veronica had ever seen and placed it next to the

small table. He walked to a far corner of the studio and flipped through an assortment of blank

canvases, till he came to one that was six feet tall and only a few feet wide. He grasped it at both

of the narrow sides and slowly carried it across the room toward the easel.

“Oh, my, are you sure you don’t need help carrying that?” Veronica asked.

“Ah, not at all, my dear. I have muscles.” Veronica’s smile disintegrated. She mentally

told herself it was trivial of her to find offence at his calling her “my dear” and bragging about

his strong physique. Such trivial things added up, supporting the dislike she had developed for

him and that she tried to brush aside at every class meeting. He placed the massive canvas on the

easel and began to sketch on it. “Fortunately, I have already painted the entire canvas white. The

next step, that I am doing now, is to draw the basic picture, as sort of an outline.” She imagined

drawing an outline of a seated figure, and she hoped the class would work with paint and canvas

soon. Finally, when he put down his pencil, he said, “About these conventional parents of yours.

What do they think of your becoming an artist?”

“Truly, I do not know what my father thinks,” Veronica said. “But my mother is

appalled.” Moving her eyes without moving her head, she watched as he picked up a paintbrush,

dipped it in water, and formed the tip into a point.

“Upper class types,” he said with a smirk. “I’m not at all surprised.”

“She doesn’t respect artists—she thinks artists want to change the world. Which of

course is true, and goodness knows the world needs changing, but she doesn’t think so, and I

don’t feel I can say such things to my parents. Our house is full of artwork, so I rather think my

mother, like so many people, does not understand that art requires artists to create it.” Mr.

Harpring barked out a laugh, thus proving he was listening while he seemed so concentrated on

his work. She hoped she was not babbling, but she would rather babble than contend with

awkward silence. He looked intently at her while he painted, and she had to remain calm

somehow.

“I always begin painting the background before I paint the foreground,” he explained

while he worked. “It gives it the right three-dimensional illusion.” He paused before he asked,

“Doesn’t your father talk to you?”

“Oh, he talks continually. But he doesn’t say anything. I don’t think he ever thinks of me

really, as though I don’t matter to him and he doesn’t know I exist.”

“How appalling! A beautiful girl like you—a father should be proud—he shouldn’t

ignore you. He must be an idiot.” Beautiful, indeed, Veronica thought, while her cheeks warmed

again. She felt that he was condescending, not flattering, whether or not he realized it. Her own

physical appearance, including her unfashionable red hair, struck her as trivial compared to her

artwork, the center of her existence. As her instructor, he should know better.

“I do have three older brothers,” she finally said. “My father seems to believe that boys

are more important.”

“And well he should think that,” Mr. Harpring said, to Veronica’s utmost disgust. Anger

rose from her heart, up her throat and into her face, which she knew was flushed.

“My mother is the controlling one, at least where I am concerned,” she said, speaking too

quickly but attempting to hide her indignation. “She wants to marry me off to a wealthy man, not

to see me become an artist. I cannot show disrespect to my parents, of course, but neither shall I

let them ruin my life.”

“Yes, yes, you should not let respectability get in the way of art,” he said while he

painted. At least they agreed on one thing, Veronica thought, but she sensed he was ridiculing

her.

At this first sitting, Mr. Harpring did the preliminary work and let her go till the next

session. When she showed up at his door on that occasion, Veronica felt like talking as little as

possible, for she did not wish to hear anything disagreeable if she could avoid it. Nonetheless,

she anticipated that dead silence would make her exceedingly nervous. She did not have to worry

about that, for Mr. Harpring began a conversation as soon as he settled down in front of the

easel.

“You perhaps do not realize,” he said, “that I honestly admire your work. I have never

thought a woman capable of becoming a great painter, and I certainly do not expect it of my

other students. After all, why else would women not be accepted into colleges?” Veronica’s grip

on the chair arms tightened.

“Obviously for the very reason that the men who run those colleges are prejudiced fools,”

Veronica said. She clenched her teeth.

“Ah, really, my dear,” he said, with a condescending little smile that disgusted Veronica.

“Whatever the reason, I do believe that you are not like them—you have a real talent. I believe I

might even mold you into something great.”

“Please, sir, keep your molds to yourself,” Veronica said, as she pictured green fuzz on a

slice of cheddar cheese.

“What is this? Do you mean you have no wish to be a great painter after all, when I offer

you the opportunity?”

“Mr. Harpring, I do not think I flatter myself in believing that I can become a great

painter without your offering me the opportunity. I can do it with my own determination and

practice, and I have every intention of doing so.” She could scarcely believe she spoke so frankly

with this man, of all people, but her disgust with his odious words inspired her to speak up.

However, when she shifted her eyes in his direction, she saw his intent gaze on his own work,

with his brush on the canvas, and she sensed that he hadn’t listened. Perhaps he didn’t think

anything she said was worth listening to, despite his claiming to respect her talent.

Next time she arrived at his house, she wore the Artistic dress she had mentioned. It was

pale green, printed with a subtle pattern of white branches. Although it was not the bloomer

costume, it nonetheless was more comfortable than respectable, for this dress had no crinoline or

ruffles or bows. It looked somewhat medieval, with many puffs in the sleeves and a square

neckline. She also wore her auburn hair loose and flowing, completing the Pre-Raphaelite style.

When Mr. Harpring first saw her, his mouth dropped open but for once he was speechless. When

he finally spoke, it was to say, “Magnificent! I couldn’t have picked a better dress.”

After many sittings, Veronica had become increasingly more appalled with her painting

instructor, since he proved extremely egotistical, overbearing and misogynistic. She concluded

that such traits formed the previously undefined quality that repelled her from their first meeting.

She felt awkward about the situation, for in spite of his continually repelling her, he occasionally

seemed flirtatious, as though he seriously thought he could attract her. In gloomier moods, she

suspected he might propose marriage or even kiss her, but usually she dismissed the notion that

he might truly find her attractive, for he had yet to prove that he respected her.

She evaded the topic whenever he complimented her on her appearance or otherwise

seemed flirtatious. She hoped that if she acted as though she had no idea he was flirting, he

would instantly know she was not remotely interested in him, and he would put an end to his

futile pursuit. She suspected that if he married her, he would submerge her personality in favor of

his, much as he attempted to do with her art.

On a bright afternoon in the month of May, when Veronica wished she faced the window

so she could observe the sunlight, Mr. Harpring stepped back from the painting and stared at it

for several minutes. He dipped the paintbrush in lavender and touched up some little spots, and

then he stepped back again.

“At last!” Mr. Harpring said, smiling and splashing his paintbrush in a can of water, “It is

complete!”

“Are you certain?” Veronica asked, widening her eyes and gripping the chair arms. “May

I step down and look?”

“Yes, yes, my dear, get over here and take a look at yourself!” She stood up, stepped off

the dais, and walked swiftly over to see the canvas.

Veronica gazed at the painting and thought she never looked better than in this life-size

portrait. Her auburn hair flowed in waves to her waist, and she wore the pale green dress that she

had worn during most of her sittings. She stood next to the pedestal, with her hand placed on it

and holding a white rose, while her head turned slightly away from the pedestal. She wore a far

away, dreamy look in her wide, green eyes, perhaps, she dared think, the look of a visionary. It

certainly suited her introspective and dreamy nature; the artist had in effect brought her to life on

canvas. The painting and the painter duly impressed her.

As she continued to gaze at the painting, it unsettled her. She realized that this capture of

her personality meant Mr. Harpring knew her better than she had thought he did, and certainly

better than she knew him, as though he had stripped away her mask and seen part of her soul.

She was a good person and had little of which to feel ashamed, but she didn’t think she knew or

liked her instructor enough for him to discover her soul. It seemed wrong for this arrogant and

worldly man to know her in this way, without her permission, as though he had broken into her

house and read her diary.

In class, Veronica felt fluttery-nervous while Mr. Harpring stood over her shoulder, too

close to her, and she reluctantly continued to paint. She felt uncomfortable with anyone watching

her at work even during the best of times, and Mr. Harpring was the last person whom she liked

watching her at work.

“Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Here, you can give it more life this way.” With a

paintbrush in his hand, he reached toward her canvas and added bits of purple and green and

orange where they weren’t in real life, and he proceeded to change the shape of the subject’s

flowing golden locks in her painting. He made several changes that, by the time he backed away

from her canvas, had given the painting his style more than hers. Veronica stared, as though he

had slapped her, and her heart beat wildly. She had her own distinctive style that came through in

every painting and sketch. Looking in dismay at what she had minutes ago thought of as her

painting, she felt that he undermined her work and did not respect her style, and her heart sank.

Her former enthusiasm about taking his class did not mean she wished to mimic his style.

She recalled how his portrait of her seemed to bare her soul. And yet, she wondered, if he

genuinely understood her, how could he not respect her aesthetic style? For that matter, how

could someone who considered women inferior understand her soul? It made absolutely no

sense.

Perhaps, she thought, it was time she stopped attending his classes. When she first started

coming to his classes six months ago, she had desperately needed instruction. She had progressed

a great deal since then and now knew the basics and additionally knew she had great talent. She

was torn between gratitude and disgust, and now it looked as though Mr. Harpring had outlived

his worth as an instructor.

“There,” he said. “That’s much better.” He then leaned slightly toward her and said

quietly, “I wish to speak with you alone after class.” It was not a request, Veronica noticed, but a

demand. She continued to look at the painting, not at him, and picked up her brush.

“Very well, sir,” she said coolly with a small nod. She hoped her façade was dignified,

while she felt as though a butterfly were trapped inside her chest. She had no idea why he wanted

to speak with her alone, now that her portrait was finished. She still dreaded tête-à-têtes with him

despite their many sessions.

While the other students filed out of the room, Veronica put her things away at a leisurely

pace. She placed her canvas against the wall, in the same spot it had rested when she arrived for

class that day, and she returned to her seat and packed her paints and brushes and palette into her

bag. She wished to appear calm to him and to thus indicate that she was not and never would be

impressed with his personality, no matter how great an artist he was. She seated herself in a

ladder-back chair facing the windows, where she watched squirrels running up and down and

chattering at each other in a clump of trees. She did not look at her instructor when he sat down

next to her.

“I have something very important to ask you,” he said. She finally turned to him and

noticed his confident smile.

“And what would that be, sir?” she asked with a faint smile, only for the sake of courtesy.

“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he asked. Her eyes widened and

her cheeks burned. How, she wondered, could he think she would be interested in marrying him?

She turned back to the trees and squirrels.

“I don’t. I don’t know what to say,” she said. “That is, I shall have to give it some

thought. This comes as a complete surprise.”

“Didn’t you suspect my feelings?” he asked. She glanced at him and saw that he sat back

with his arms crossed. She grasped her hands together and turned away.

“Yes, but I thought I was perhaps mistaken. I’ve tried to convince myself… that your

feelings were otherwise, and I misinterpreted your behavior toward me, or at most that you were

flirting, that was all.”

“You thought I was trifling with you?” When she dared to glance at him, she could see

that he frowned at her, as though he had given her a detailed lesson on perspective and she had

completely misunderstood.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But it seemed silly of me to think… to think you’d

feel that way about me. I’ve never expected anyone to feel like that about me, really.” He smiled

faintly, as though she were an amusing child. Realizing she had spoken too quickly and shrilly,

she turned away and admired a painting to her left.

“You mean, to fall in love with you?” he said, making her even more uncomfortable. She

disliked this discussion and wanted it to end as quickly as possible. She glanced at the closed

door. She spoke to him with her eyes cast to the hardwood floor.

“To be quite honest, I don’t need to think about it. Please take me seriously when I say

the answer is no. To your, ah, question. That is, no, I shan’t marry you. I must depart. Good-

bye.” She rose and ran out of the room.

Veronica walked all the way home and paid no attention to people she passed, although

she could see their inquisitive looks through her tears. She surmised that Mr. Harpring’s wish to

paint her portrait had been a lure to get her alone with him for long periods of time. That

certainly explained his preliminary drawings: she had wondered that he didn’t settle for one, but

must have sketched at least twenty. Now she wondered: where had all those sketches

disappeared? For all she knew, he could have hung them in his bedroom. That seemed

demeaning, and her cheeks warmed at the thought. She stepped out onto the street and heard

horses whinny and a coachman yell, but she only glanced in their direction for a second.

Veronica recalled that she had, since she was fourteen years old, dreamed of going away

to Europe and pursuing an artistic career in Paris. This dream seemed more realistic now that she

had had professional lessons in drawing and painting and in her heart more truly knew that

painting was her calling. A pair of women in sunbonnets stared at her, but she faced forward and

did not falter in her rapid steps.

Away from New York, she would never see Mr. Harpring again, for such encounters

would embarrass her, though probably not him. He was obviously shameless, and his indignation

when she did not leap at his proposal only proved that he assumed she lived for nothing but to

have a man, particularly him, take her under his wing. She would leave before he further affected

her life or her art. He did not fit into her scheme of things, and nor did any other man, so far as

she foresaw.

By leaving, she wished to also escape Harpring’s formidable influence on her work. As

an artist, she now knew the techniques of painting, what she had really wanted to learn from him,

and that was the positive side to his teachings. At the same time, she had her own unique style,

and to continue living under his imposing shadow would stifle her work’s originality. She had

for some time observed how he tried to make her work mimic his. If she lived on a different

continent, he would not visit her or be present to see her true work and to criticize it for not

mimicking his. She could take some lessons from at least one instructor in Paris, perhaps a

woman, to acquire an alternate perspective and to eliminate any possibility of Harpring’s work

influencing hers too much.

Veronica paced alone in the front parlor at Mr. Harpring’s home, where she had come to tell

him, without the prying eyes of his other students, that she no longer wished to take lessons with

him and she would leave for Paris soon. He had said he would meet her here, but he was certainly

taking his time about it. Perhaps his tardiness was his idea of punishment for rejecting his hand in

marriage.

Veronica stayed, willing to wait and speak to him first, in order to tie the ends to their

relations. Overcome with boredom, she looked around the room. She spotted the door leading

into the hallway, and she stepped out. Across the corridor was the door into her instructor’s

studio, where she was fairly certain he kept his portrait of her. She had not set foot in it since

he finished the painting, at which she had not cared to look again, since it reminded her of his

unwanted attentions. She had always assumed that he kept the door locked when he did not

occupy the studio, but when she grasped the floral handle, it turned completely, and she

pushed the door open.

In the studio’s near right corner, Veronica saw disarray reminiscent of what she imagined

her own future studio resembling. Fringed rugs draped over two small tables, and on the tables

leaned many unframed paintings up in rows against the wall. Next to one table stood a large

plaster statue, a copy of Michelangelo’s David. She walked to the tables and idly pulled a front

painting away from the row it started. Behind it appeared a painting of three children in lacy

white frocks and with a spaniel sitting among them. She noticed large paintings on the floor and

leaning against the wall, and she continued to look at the pictures, most of which were portraits

of people, though she found a couple of dog and cat paintings. A few of the paintings were

female nudes, which made her blink, and some were theatrical portraits, with figures in

medieval-looking garb. Almost all the paintings were finished and ready for framing.

She espied a large canvas draped over with burgundy velvet. It seemed odd to cover the

painting with a cloth, as though the painter did not want anyone to see it. Perhaps the picture did

not please Mr. Harpring, or maybe he felt uneasy about it merely because it was not finished. He

might have given up in the middle of the project, something she periodically did herself.

But it seemed to her out of character for Mr. Harpring to ever feel unsure of himself: he

brimmed with confidence and too much arrogance by far. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have assumed

that the first woman to whom he proposed marriage would swoon at his feet. Or, she wondered,

was she the first woman to whom he had proposed? He had been alive long enough to have met

many women and to have been disappointed in love previously. He had never mentioned

another, but she told herself that, since she did not remotely love him, it didn’t matter what she

knew or didn’t know about his past.

She petulantly decided she didn’t care if he wanted nobody to see the mysterious canvas,

and she pulled away the velvet. It took her a few seconds to recognize the painting, and when she

did, she could scarcely believe it possible.

This was Harpring’s portrait of her, but at the same time it was not the same painting.

Someone had altered it, and she knew he must have altered it himself, after she rejected him. The

painting was no longer of a young and innocent nineteen-year-old woman. He had painted lines

around the eyes, across the brow, and around the mouth, which now curved downward instead of

slightly upward. The green eyes were no longer gentle and dreamy and looking far away: now

they were cold, hard, a paler green, and they stared fixedly at the viewer, as though angry at her

for daring to look at this painting. The eyebrows above this stranger’s eyes were thicker and

messy. He had even made her nose wider and given it a crook in the center. The cheeks were

subtly narrower, as though the woman in the painting wasted away. The auburn hair still flowed

loose in a style reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites, but grey streaked it, and she could see knots

and strands of hair that flew outward as though affected by static electricity. The simple gown

that had been the palest of greens was now a sober black.

Staring at this painting in shock, Veronica breathed faster and trembled with anger. She

wanted to think she was mistaken—that this was not how he saw her now, but it was definitely

the same painting, for she recognized most of the brushstrokes in the draped background and in

the skin that he had not touched up with lines. Also, the hair and dress were essentially the same.

She could not believe anyone, even this arrogant fool, could see her in such a way. She

had always thought of herself as harmless: she never meant to hurt anybody, and she felt horribly

guilty and apologized if she thought she hurt someone. To think she could have married this

treacherous monster! He apparently thought she was treacherous, for not following his orders,

for not catering to his desires, for not giving herself up to him and negating her own personality

till death did they part. She was gladder than ever that she had not been weak and foolish enough

to say yes, that guilt over hurting his feelings or pressure from her parents had not brought her to

that. While the mocking painting infuriated her, she also felt deeply hurt, and tears started in her

eyes.

She heard a floorboard creak behind her, and she quickly turned around. There Mr.

Harpring stood, with his arms crossed, glaring at her. She glared back.

“Would you care to explain this?” she asked.

“I think it is self-explanatory,” he replied in a deep, cold voice.

“You are a horrible, malicious man,” she said. “I came with the intention of informing

you that not only shall I no longer attend your classes, but I shall also leave New York for

Europe. As for this abomination, it only makes me that much more thankful I shall never see you

again.” She walked up to him and swung her hand, giving him a resounding slap across the face.

He stared at her in utter astonishment but did not speak.

She turned around and strode out of the room. As soon as she stepped outdoors into the

sunlight, she emitted a deep sigh and felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her

chest. Paris beckoned.