The Portrait of Lady Penelope

Adriana walked away from the painting to look again at the model. It wasn’t a perfect portrait yet, but it was something she had made herself, and that was extraordinary.

Since Adriana had finished university, she had discovered that, as much as she loved books and writing, her true passion was painting: she loved the feeling of the brush, gently perched in her hand, and the smell that filled the room when she squeezed the varnishes onto the wooden palette in the morning. She had decided to leave aside the English classics and focus on blank canvasses and oil paints for the rest of her life.

She chose her models very carefully, though, given her nonexistent reputation in the art world, there were few volunteers. The woman that was sitting for her was a neighbor, one of the ladies that lived down the street, where the big houses were. They often loitered at their home, expecting her mother to feed them tea and biscuits until nightfall. Lady Penelope Fairfax had offered to pay her a small sum on the condition that she could portray her in a manner that showed how elegant the lady was. Adriana seized upon the offer with enthusiasm. She knew the woman had done it out of compassion, but the thrilling chance to succeed kept her going: someone was paying her to paint. Penelope's grey hair and imposing smile had haunted Adriana from the moment they had met, and the lady knew the power she had over her.

“Darling, you can continue. You don’t have to stare at it that long,” she said.

Adriana realized that she had been standing in front of the unfinished portrait for several minutes now, and she resumed her activity at once.

“Sorry. I was just checking how everything is going.” Adriana said. She had the feeling that, if she didn’t do it well, Penelope would turn into a monster and eat her. A thought that no doubt stemmed from her deep fear of failure.

“The first time I had my portrait painted, it was my husband who commissioned it,” she said. Penelope never talked about her past, not even to Adriana's parents, with whom she had been friends for over a quarter of a century.

“That is lovely” answered Adriana absently, holding up her brush.

“Not really,” Penelope said, smiling. “He was a little too heavy-handed for my liking.”

Adriana withdrew the brush from the canvas, astonished. She gazed into the old woman’s eyes and saw no trace of emotion in them. No regret, no hate: it was empty of any expression. She remembered one of the times she had seen her. She was ten and had no clue why everyone in the room was so sad. There were candles lit in every corner of the sitting room and rows of people approached Penelope and hugged her. She was dressed all in black and had a grave face on. Yet no tears ran down her cheeks that day. Now, Adriana knew that she had witnessed the funeral of her second husband, Alan because her parents hadn’t been able to find a babysitter for her. She thought about the strange things one learned from life when one got older. Adriana had been briefed by her parents about Penelope when she moved back into their home, trying to start her painting career. There wasn’t much to say about the model that was going to sit for her: married and widowed two times, she still stood proud and enjoyed every minute of the life she was granted.

“Don't worry, love.” she continued as if being captured on the canvas had given Penelope the strength to finally show herself to Adriana. “Then I married again. He died fifteen years ago, and I don’t miss him at all!” she said, bursting into laughs.

So it was the first husband that hit her, Adriana thought. The second one was the forgetful short man that gave her sweets when she was a little girl. She found herself in an uncomfortable situation. She didn’t want to be cruel, but she felt as if Penelope had been relieved by the death of her husband, and was now a happy, free woman. She was free of all attachments.

“Keep painting, Adriana,” she said next. “I need to eat something soon or I will be the one perishing.”

Adriana opened her mouth to complain about the harshness of her words, but in front of her was a woman who had suffered throughout her life, and she assumed she could say whatever she wanted. Her brief talk about life and death, the monologue that had made Penelope appear more human, had made all the difference when it came to the portrait. Now, Adriana understood her smile, and her eyes full of experiences and knowledge. She understood why she always wore colourful clothes, and why she looked happier now than when she had first met her. And all of that was poured into the painting. An entire person on a small canvas.

After she finished the portrait a couple of days afterwards, Penelope was delighted. She saw herself in it and decided to display it on the wall near her house entrance. She was always around to tell her friends and visitors that Adriana had made it.

It was because of Penelope that many more people approached Adriana and asked her for her magic hands to paint them. With time, she moved to Lincolnshire and settled in the countryside, where she devoted herself to painting wild animals and flowers.

One October morning, she heard about the passing of Lady Penelope Fairfax. She hadn’t really been a lady, but she looked like a queen, is she had always called her by that name. Penelope found it amusing. She had donated the portrait to Adriana, and it arrived with a note since it: “Ashes to ashes, paintings to painters.” Adriana smiled to herself.

Penelope's portrait would be the one that made Adriana succeed in the Royal Academy of Portrait Painters, and she exhibited it in numerous galleries. For years to come, whenever she watched people gather around the small canvas, she kept wondering: is my art that professional, or was Penelope so stunning that she brings all the attention to her naturally?