Free The Callender Papers by Cynthia Voigt Page A

in the bare room was the painting. I was not sure if I was supposed to notice it, or if I was not allowed to look. I tried to ignore it.
    â€œGo ahead,” Mr. Thiel said, apparently noticing my curiosity. So I walked up to the fireplace to study it closely. As I suspected, it was his own work, signed in the lower corner: D. Thiel, 1887. I don’t know how to describe it. It was a strong painting, beautiful but also harsh. It was clear in color and line, but not an exact pictorial representation.
    Mr. Thiel apparently knew my glade by the falls. He had painted it in the light of a setting sun, and I recognized it as much by its mood as its physical appearance. He understood the serenity of it, as I understood it. But in the shadows of the trees, in the dark water, something frightening hid itself. It was as if the growing darkness groped to take over the peaceful beauty of the scene. I stood a long time before that painting.
    â€œYou know the place?” he asked finally.
    â€œYes,” I said. “Do you ever paint people?”
    â€œSeldom,” he said. “I cant paint them as I understand them. Once or twice I’ve tried, without much success. There are contradictions, ambiguities. . . .”
    I stood, looking at him, looking back to the picture. For the first time in all the years I’d known him, he sounded unsure of exactly what he thought.
    â€œYou don’t have to say anything,” he said.
    â€œI like it,” I said, knowing what a meaningless remark it was.
    â€œThat doesn’t matter, does it?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œPerhaps not,” I said. “It’s very—strong.”
    â€œYes. However, sit down now. Maybe another time you’d like to look around the studio. Maybe another time I’d like to allow you.”
    That was not exactly a warm invitation. I sat in a chair, poured myself a cup of tea, sweetened it and waited. He picked out a cigar and leaned back. “So you like Mr. Enoch Callender,” he said at last.
    â€œYes.” I couldn’t think of any reason to deny the truth.
    â€œAnd you want to find excuses for him,” he said. I did not answer that, although it was equally true. “I’ll tell you what I know, which you can believe or not, as you choose.”
    There was no reason for me to respond; he left me with nothing to say.
    â€œThe Jenkinses, Mrs. Bywall’s family, have always lived in Marlborough. They had three sons and five daughters. Mrs. Bywall is the oldest daughter, the third child. They were not poor, but they had no money to spare. Jenkins did not own his own land, but farmed that of other people as a tenant. The entire family worked hard to keep things going. Two of the sons married and moved away, one younger daughter went into service in Northampton, and Mrs. Bywall went to work for the Enoch Callenders. This was when she had just married their young farmhand, Charlie Bywall.” He bit off the end of a cigar, then lit it. He stared at his own picture as he spoke.
    â€œNow the Callenders were the great family hearabouts. They were rich. They lived well. They weren’t natives to the area so the villagers saw them—still see them—as outsiders, untrustworthy, unknown. But their coming made the village more prosperous so everyone was eager to please them. The Jenkinses didn’t want their daughter working for the Callenders, but they had no choice. Mrs. Bywall could earn more money there than in any other way, little as it was. She worked as a housemaid, which meant she did everything: taking care of the children, cleaning, laundering, serving at table, kitchen chores. They overworked her, of course, and took advantage of her need for the work.
    â€œMrs. Bywall had a genuine need. Her young brother was ill, probably with consumption, and there were medicines that needed to be bought and the doctor to be paid.”
    â€œDr. Carter,” I said.
    â€œYes. A fool