“I’m sorry ladies and gentleman,”
the uniformed guard said, addressing several late evening visitors,
“the portrait gallery is closed for the night, please return
tomorrow, we open at 10:00 A.M.”
The visitors retreated down the flight of
garnet steps of the large, imposing, marble gallery, disappointed,
but content to return in the morning.
The guard closed the ornately carved wooden
doors and bolted them. In the silence of the gallery, his footsteps
echoed along the marbled halls, as he walked among the silent
portraits he knew and loved so well.
Pushing his blue peaked cap back on his
head, hands folded behind his back, in the quietness of the evening,
after the visitors had departed, he was alone with his cherished
friends. Windows, set high upon the walls, near the ceiling of
the display halls, permitted the last glorious rays of the setting
sun to guild the marble statues set among gray garnet benches
and several small bubbling fountains. Outside the sprawling building,
in its many courtyards and gardens that the surroundings of the
structure, birds sang their evening song, content to flit from
tree to tree, singing carols to their Creator.
The guard listened to the birds, and his
own footfalls, as he moved from portrait to portrait, set in their
gilded frames and hung upon the walls. Each canvas bore an inscription
on a golden plate mounted to the bottom frame. With love and tender
care, the guard dusted each golden plate in turn, glancing at
the face in the painting. Such familiar faces, he knew and loved
them all.
There was George Ballard, and his troubled
daughter, LuCinda. Such a pretty girl, the guard observed, yet
a troubled face revealed an intense inner struggle.
Next to her portrait was that of Humbolt,
a derelict, an alcoholic. His portrait was stained and dirty,
yet the guard discerned beauty the natural eye could not behold.
His name plate was tarnished, and the painting was hanging askew.
With the utmost tenderness, the guard straightened it, and buffed
the golden plate with the sleeve of his jacket, then moved further
along the line or silent paintings.
Blanch Fonteneau, he read with joy. Such
a lovely lady, filled with compassion, he chuckled at her appearance.
Seated on a davenport, feet spread apart, she was intently devouring
a bowl of chocolate ripple ice cream, her red bandanna lying beside
her. Blanch occupied a special place in his heart.
He moved on.
Two gazed silently down from their portraits,
Billy Ballard and Gustov Friedlander. Such ardent love for the
Lord shown from their faces. Immature, perhaps, but they were
fast becoming giants under the master artist’s patient hand.
By the time the guard finished his rounds,
examining each portrait in turn, spending a few minutes gazing
into their faces, wiping dust from some, buffing or polishing
their name plates, the sun had set and darkness enveloped the
portrait gallery.
The guard left by a rear door, closing it
carefully and noiselessly, least he disturb any of the slumbering
portraits, and sat down on a bench beneath a cherry tree. Cool
evening breezes blew through the trees, the stars twinkled upon
him with joy, and his heart experienced, once again, profound
love for the portrait gallery.
Tomorrow morning, yes, he assured himself,
the gallery would once again by open for inspection, but the portraits
would not be as he had left them this evening. Under the master’s
gentle touch, each canvas would be transformed into something
more beautiful, more glorious then the previous day. Yes, he knew,
some paintings could not be salvaged. He yearned over them with
the utmost care, while others would grow and enlarge until they
filled an entire wall of the museum, shedding light about them,
filling the hall with radiance far surpassing the sun.
What change would tomorrow bring, he wondered?
Which paintings would grow and which would wither? Like everyone
else, he would wait the application of the master’s paint
brush for these paintings, he knew, weren't finished yet.
