The Painter
Side 2, Track 2
This is another in a series of stories drawn from the 1975 Chris de Burgh album, Spanish Train And Other Stories. I have endeavoured to be faithful to the spirit of the stories and in some cases include lyrics relevant to tell the tale. As with any fiction, there will also be cases where some license is taken to create and complete a story line.
Being a Duke has its benefits, but it also comes with obligations. Some of them seemingly frivolous, but necessary to keep up appearances. One of those obligations was making sure all the Dukes and Duchesses were hanging somewhere in the manor. Not the actual Dukes and Duchesses of course, though mind you there were some rogues, pesky old maids we called tabbies, and better forgotten ladies who had lost their treasure in foreign laps, who all probably deserved to be hung somewhere at least. But those were not the ones I was obligated to preserve. That was already done.
No, these are the portraits specially commissioned to preserve the family history. An obligation going back to the late 1500s.
My portrait was already on the staircase leading up from the main entrance. Next to me was my late wife. Gone now for nearly two years. Taken by a strange malady the doctor and the coroner were never able to determine.
Now it was time for the new Duchess to hang on the other side of me.
I remember the commission so incredibly well. He arrived in a horseless carriage. This was no poor struggling painter my wife had me engage.
"Greetings your Grace" he said as he exited from the French Prunel which had become a symbol of some status for those who could afford a horseless cab. It was also the last time he addressed me as "your Grace" and it marked his insinuation into our household.
I nodded in his direction. "Greetings to you as well. Someone will be with you shortly to show you to your rooms."
He carried only one satchel but also had his easel, sketch pads, a worn and stained wooden box presumably full of his paints, and another wooden box engraved with his initials, CJK.
"Per our agreement, in addition to your fee we will provide you with one month's room and board. Unless you are specifically invited to dine with the Duchess and myself you will take your meals in your rooms or with the staff. I have designated a studio area with good natural light where you may work for the remainder of your stay."
The Duchess came out in her usual long skirt and ruffled blouse. She and the painter exchanged a kiss on the cheek.
"Welcome CJ," she exclaimed. "I can't wait to get started."
So began the month that dragged on and on with so many sketches and seemingly too little painting.
"You will join us for dinner on your first night here." She said and then turned to me to ensure it was to my liking.
He had the manners of a gentleman and was gracious that first night. He and my wife had met at an art show and over a few weeks met for tea, discussed art, and eventually he offered to paint her portrait. She had begged me to have this painter of "modest means, but rich talent" as she described him to receive the commission that was necessary for her to have her illustrated place in the family history. "Please," she had said. "Please. He is so nice and ever so talented. His work will not compete with the Masters on your walls, but this is a new century and he lives and breathes that new modern air. Please?"
I relented because she did indeed need to find her place. A decision I regret to this day.
I could hear them in his studio space. Him charming and being all too familiar by asking for Madam to please do this, and please turn this way, or Madam please hold still while I capture the moment on my sketchpad. Her laughing and asking him just how she should pose and was the light all right because she wanted to look beautiful for the family gallery. I knew the smile she was offering. It was a smile I loved when courting her and have seldom seen since.
We kept separate bedrooms except when the mood overcame us but as a light sleeper, I was always aware of her comings and goings no matter what the hour. One night I heard her come up the stairs and enter her room exceptionally late. Over breakfast I questioned the hour and with near imperceptible hesitation she brushed it off. "The light dear. We needed to experiment with different light to capture just the right moment so I can hold my own with many generations of your family."
This needed to end.
Then it did.
My Duchess was not at breakfast one morning and her painter was nowhere to be found. My first thought was that they had once again ventured out in search of new light and settings. When some hours had passed the local constabulary were called in to help. They observed that her bed had not been slept in, nor had the bed of the painter. They brought in their specially-trained bloodhounds to search the grounds. Sometime around mid-afternoon a police sergeant came back to the house with the bad news. She had been found hanging in the woods. Her clothes had been torn. There was still no sign of the painter he added, except for his smashed paint box.
Days went by and the search for the painter continued. The police had no doubt that he was the culprit because of course I and all the household staff had been sound asleep and unaware of any comings and goings. Constables were posted at the train station and the nearest ports. I dutifully ordered posters to be put up with the likeness of the painter to help apprehend him.
It has been a year now since the tragic events took place. There was an almost completed portrait of her in the painter's studio and using his many sketches as a guide I had another artist, a much more reliable chap I should add, complete the work. It is now hanging in our grand house, as I prepare to re-marry. The new Duchess will soon hang among my many ancestors. My portrait is flanked by my 2 dear wives and they will soon have company.
As for the lost painter?
I can promise you he will remain forever lost.
