The Eyes On The Canvas

A Story by Peter

Robert and aspiring artist paints a portrait of a beautiful model, this portrait promises fame and fortune, but instead this canvas turns into something that will haunt his days and nights.

Chapter 2

Portrait and a Diary

It was a big thing for me, I had finally bought something that I could call my own and make into something I always wanted. At the young age of 26, I stood in front of the old stately home my first venture into the world of investment; it was three stories and full of character. The realtor who showed it to me said that it was something that a good eye, time, plenty of craftsmanship and a lot of hard work could transform it into the beautiful home it once had been. It was a very exciting thing for me to open the front door; the keys were the kind that had a round loop a long shaft and the funky little end on it. My grandmother’s house had those kinds of keys, but that was back in Italy in the early 1970’s, The house was a faded unpainted shell, the roof was in need of repair, but not yet leaking, some windows were cracked, the whole house had been untouched or repaired in years, The realtor who had lived here her whole life, knew some of the old homes history, she told me that the original family who owned it lived there for three generations, then an artist bought it, but he was a recluse barely left the building, the whole time he lived there, the house was left to his niece, she kept he place and rented it out, and she too did very little to maintain it. The home had been divided into a two family house, the first and second floor were kept for a summer rental, since that home was only a few blocks from the ocean, the third floor the woman who had inherited it, would use it when she came to this vacation area in the summer.

While in the process of buying it, I was never able to get into this part of the house. Because the lady would not give access due to it being filled with her belongings and would rather not have people walking about in her private apartment, until she could have all her things moved out and brought to her home in Holland. But she passed away a month before the closing and it remained locked. So I accepted that the rooms would be sold in an as is condition, since the family who inherited it lived in Holland and were not willing or able to come here. I did get the place at a reduced price because of the slow economic situation and was happy to take on the new circumstance. My lawyer warned me that I might find the rooms filled with clutter and that I might find more damage and added expense than I was bargaining for, but the realtor told me if I tried to renegotiate the new owners might back out of the deal. So I bit the bullet and bought it.

The two first floors were in need of remodeling, wear and tear from the many vacationing renters had taken the tool on this once beautiful home, but the wood work was all there covered in many coats of paint, and being a carpenter by trade, I was not afraid to take on the challenge of restoring this 15 room home. To accomplish this task I would have to do the work nights and on weekends and would have to move into the place because paying rent on my current residence, and the mortgage would put on a big strain on my finances. The problem was where to live, so far the ten rooms I had walked trough were all in disrepair, the plaster on the walls was in bad shape, the paint was peeling on most of the walls, and the floors were just as grimy as the floor in the cellar. I had avoided thinking about this part so that I would not talk myself out of it, beautiful as the place would be after I finished it; right now it was very dirty. This was the unpleasant part, but would brave it because I knew in the end it would all have been worth it. Before I left there was something I almost forgot to do, in the back of the house there was a quaint porch and a second door that was unlocked, inside were steps leading up. I had almost for gotten about the third floor apartment.

For this door had no key, so I ran down to my truck and took out the tool box, with a few tries I was able to get the door to open with minimal damage to the wood work. The room was dark with long drapes over the windows, there were dark outlines of furniture but I could not see very well, the light switch clicked but no lights came on, so I walked towards the sliver of light coming through the dark heavy curtains and pulled the dusty fabric aside, there through the large windows came the gloomy light of the overcast fall day. I turned and looked around at the beautiful room; the furniture and portraits on the wall were all masked from dust with sheets covering them. I walked through the other rest of the apartment and all were in the same state, but the last room I came into was the biggest of all five, I drew back the curtains, this was not what I had been expecting, it was a sort of parlor with every inch of the walls draped with sheets covering a multitude of portraits. My curiosity took the hold of my hand and I drew back the sheets from the furniture, it was exquisite, hand crafted with the finest touches. There was a big arm chair that was set five foot away from the wall facing a portrait that was larger than all the others, it was an odd thing to see this very comfortable chair that would have served a better purpose facing the window, outside was a beautiful view looking over all the other houses with the Atlantic ocean set as a back drop. Curiosity is a keen part of my makeup, so I uncovered this portrait that the chair was directed to and as I threw of the sheet I saw the only thing that could top a view of the Atlantic Ocean.

It was a painting of a woman standing in a field with a bright blue sky and a variety of fluffy clouds sprinkled in the distance. She had a face so vividly painted, hair as golden as the rays of the sun, a chin and mouth that were an excellent frame for the perfectly formed lips, and a face that you could never forget. But the most astonishing feature of this face were the eyes, so large, so beautiful so unmistakably pure, but with a look of such utter sadness that I could not take my own eyes away from them. Her dress was an odd thing to describe, it was made of flowers, not a fabric with flowering print, but actual flowers, I had never seen anything like this, gorgeous flowers that were tightly dressing her beautiful form, all types colors and shapes, some that I knew some that I never saw, Without thinking I dropped in that chair and just stared.

I don’t know how long I sat there hypnotized, but I awoke from my trance when I heard a loud knock or what sounded like someone slamming a door. I ran to the top of the landing and saw that it was not someone knocking but a door at the top of an interior staircase which let to that attic, the wind coming up from the opened front door was opening and shutting this door. I walked up and peeked in there was a room here, it must have been years since anyone had entered it. The door handle was locked but the frame was rotted out by dampness or termites, the room was filled with many supplies that a painter might own, frames and blank canvases, it was small and oddly enough very bright, the only windows were four skylights. From outside this room was practically invisible, it was like a little perch in the middle of the house, the only way to see this room was from within. The furniture was made up of two stools and a writing desk, I looked around at this dust filled forgotten place. There were some sheets keeping dust off the few easels, so I uncovered them and on the canvases of a few half finished portraits I could see that same beautiful face with sad eyes. The desk had a pad and a few pencils for sketching, the dust had covered up the page but after whipping it off I could make out the familiar face on the portrait downstairs. I opened the drawers and saw nothing but pencils and some more pads. But one of the drawers was locked, I was about to walk away when something made me go back and after a bit of work I was able to get the locked drawer opened, in it sat a very old looking book, it was beautifully bound and nothing written on either the back or front cover. I turned and opened to the first page and only saw a name written.

“Claire”

As I turned the pages I realized that I was holding a very old diary, it belonged to the Artist who must have lived here, the first entry was from almost 80 years earlier and the last was from fifty years back.

No name of the person who wrote it only initials. I was never one to read much; having little time for anything but work. Yet something of a curious nature was now playing upon my thoughts, first the discovery of this room that had been left untouched for so many years, even the calendar that hung on the wall was still set to may 1949. There was something about the place that seemed to draw me in; it must have done the same for the woman who inherited it. She had kept this place exactly as the previous occupant had left it. I took the book down to the room full of portraits sat on the comfortable chair and looked up at the portrait; I was certain she was the same Clair that was in the Diary, I blew the dust off the cover and started to read.

R. D.

May 2, 1919

I don’t know how much I will be able to write, I don’t know or care if anyone will read this after I am gone but my troubled heart compels me to write it down my, up until now my memories have been a mixture of dreams and reality, it is only a year since the day that my life would inevitably change, but today I know for sure that it was not a dream, I knew it the minute when I pulled up in front of the Bed and Breakfast in this small summer town named Cape May, New Jersey. I started off from that quaint little city in northern Italy where I had spent the past few years becoming a very promising artist; the voyage had taken me from there to here and been long and felt never ending, I started with a train to Naples, then boarded a ship across the ocean, again on a train from Boston to Greenwich Connecticut, by automobile I reached New York City, from there in a horse and carriage to Atlantic city and on horseback up to the front door of her birthplace, Cape May was exactly the way she had recreated it from memory in her sketchbook book, the book I was carrying in my Valise, same pictures that I had looked at many times over in the past few months, my feet were dragging, I felt no strength left in me, without the drive to be the man who I had strived for and reached was gone, she had taken that part of me away with her, she had stolen all that I had worked for, every time I look back I cannot believe how my world has changed, the days of being happy, the days when the world was bright, happy in my youth, with all my vital energy at my disposal, and with so much promise of a bright future! And now all that was gone forever! She did it in the blink of an eye she took all I lived for from me and threw it off a bridge into a chasm of deep waters so deep that I could never dive in after to retrieve my shattered world. I now realize that this was just and a fitting end to my arrogant self centered life. The loss and the felling of guilt had been killing me slowly, I would have gladly ended it all in a minute yet I could not, but life can be a weak flame burning on a candle, it fights and clings even as the cold wind comes swooping down on it, I was determined to see her face once more before my strength gave out and the bright burning flame of life I used to have before I meet Claire that had driven me like a hungry wolf was now burning so low that it was sure to be extinguished. I saw the name on the front door and I knew I had arrived at her home.

The door was opened by a tall gray headed Servant, after handing him my card he led me into a large library, and left me there while he delivered my card to his employer. I was exhausted and felt like my knees were ready to buckle from underneath me, so I feel into a large comfortable chair. My eyes I rested my chin on my hands and looked down into the fire place in front of me, the chill of the rain was running through my bones, I felt myself shivering and leaned closer to the fire that was slowly burning, but I felt I would faint and leaned myself back into the chair and threw my head back to get some of my strength back. And then my breath stopped, as I looked up I saw her eyes, big as the ocean I had just crossed to see her. And that same sad look I first saw on her face that long year ago, the same sad expression I had painted with so much enthusiasm, and the same sad face that had won me the acclaim of so many art critics and had built up my ego so high and so far out of reach for a short while, which was soon so easily brought down! The same face that haunted my every waking hour and every dream. Dreams that were dark, dreams that were filled with her beauty, sad dreams that I dreaded, but these dreams were the only thing keeping me alive, dreams that were the only place where I could see her again, dreams where I could run after her, and where I almost caught up to her only to wake up in my lonely life. Dreams that soon ended a were replaced with a new one that repeated every time I closed my eyes, a dream where she stopped running and I reach out for her hand that she held out to mine, but before I can take hold he reaches out and snatches her away from me again!

As I sat in that chair looking up in disbelief at the portrait I had painted with my own hands, the same portrait that both assured my fame and would make me a very rich man, but all it did was cost me my whole chance at a happiness that I would never find in ten lifetimes. My strength gave way and all went dark.