Card # 32

FAIR OF FACE (by C. Hare)

John Franklin, with whom I was at Oxford, invited me to stay with his people at Markhampton for the Markshire Hunt Ball. He and his sister were arranging a small party for it, he said.
“I’ve never met your sister,” I remarked. “What is she like?” “She is a beauty,” said John, seriously and simply. I thought at the time that it was an odd, old-fashioned phrase, but it turned out to be strictly and literally true. Deborah Franklin was beautiful in the grand, classic manner. She didn’t look in the least like a film star or a model. But looking at her you forgot everything. It was the sheer beauty of her face that took your breath away. With looks like that, it would be asking too much to expect anything startling in the way of brains, and I found Deborah, a trifle dull. She was of course well aware of her extraordinary good looks, and was perfectly prepared to discuss them, just as a men seven feet high might talk about the advantages and inconveniences of being tall. Most of our party were old friends of the Franklins, who took Deborah for granted as a local phenomenon, but among them was a newcomer – a young man with a bread named Aubrey Melcombe, who had lately taken charge of the local museum. As soon as he set eyes on Deborah he said:

“We have never met before, but tour face, of course, is perfectly familiar.” Deborah had evidently heard that one before. “I never give sitting to photographers,” she said, “but people will snap me in the street. It’s such a nuisance.” “Photographs!” said Aubrey. “I mean your portrait – the one that was painted four hundred years ago. Has nobody ever told you that you are the living image of the Warbeck Titian?” “I’ve never heard of the Warbeck Titian,” said Deborah, “You shall judge for yourself,” – said Aubrey. “I’ll send you a ticket for the opening of the exhibition.” Then the went off to dance with Rosamund Clegg, his assistant at the museum, who was said to be his fiancée.

I did not care much for Aubrey, or for his young woman, but I had to admit that they knew their job when I came to the opening of the exhibition a few months later. They had gathered in treasures of every sort from all over the county and arranged them admirably. The jewel of the show was, of course, the great Titian. It had a wall to itself at the end of the room and I was looking at it when Deborah came in. The likeness was fantastic. Lord Warbeck had never had his paintings cleaned, so that Titian’s flesh tints were golden and carmine, in vivid contrast to Deborah’s pink and white. But the face behind the glass might have been her mirror image. By a happy chance she had chosen to wear a very plain black dress which matched up well to the portrait’s dark clothes. She stood there still and silent, staring at her centuries-old likeness. I wondered what she felt.

A pressman’s camera flashed and clicked. First one visitor and then another noticed the resemblance and presently the rest of the gallery was deserted. Everyone was crowding round the Titian to stare from the painted face to the real one and back again. The only clear space was round Deborah herself. People were moving to get a good view of her profile, without losing sight of the Titian, which fortunately was in profile also. It must have been horribly embarrassing for Deborah, but she never seemed to notice them. She went on peering into the picture, for a very long time. Then she turned round and walked quickly out of the building. As she passed me a saw that she was crying – a surprising display of emotion in one so calm. About ten minutes later Aubrey discovered that a pair of Degas statuettes was missing from a stand opposite the Titian. They were small objects and very valuable. The police were sent for and there was a considerable fuss, but nothing was found. I left as soon as I could and went to the Franklins’. Deborah was in.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-17