Free The Longest Winter by Mary Jane Staples Page A

to tilt. She glimpsed Anne in the gardens, sitting at the ornamental white table. She put the hat on and glided out. She stopped. James was there, sitting in a farther chair, a sketch block on his knees. Anne was posing for him. Sophie felt a small pang. It discomfited her because it hurt a little. They had not seen her. She took off the hat and walked up to them. It was rather unkind of James. Well, unfair, then. He was flaunting his art in a way she could not with hers. Would you like me to sketch you? was a much more acceptable question than Would you like to see some of my poems? One was flattered quite genuinely if one was asked to pose, but one was likely to make oblique comments if asked to read someone’s poetry. Oh, what is the matter with me, I’m being stupid.
    ‘Sophie?’ Anne turned. Her hair was shiningly brushed and drawn over her ears and black-ribboned at the neck. She looked incomparably fair and priceless. ‘James is sketching a little portrait of me.’
    ‘How nice,’ said Sophie. ‘Please, would anyone like to read some of my poetry?’
    James looked up. He was in a white silk shirt and grey trousers, which was casual to the point of bohemianism in the well-dressed environment of the von Korvacs. The white shirt emphasized his darkness.
    ‘I’d like to, Sophie,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, I wasn’t serious,’ said Sophie. ‘What has happened to your school?’
    ‘Half-day,’ said James, ‘and I was serious about your poetry even if you weren’t. Let me see some, won’t you? I’d like to take it away with me and read it at leisure.’
    ‘It will be very punishing on your leisure,’ said Sophie, and went behind him to look over his shoulder. He was using a soft black pencil and his sketch of Anne had reached the stage of distinctive likeness. Already it was a light but exquisite little portrait, thought Sophie, he was catching Anne’s warm, alive look with only the black lead of a pencil. Perhaps it was a light, gifted labour of love. He and Anne got on so well with each other. Impulsively, generously, Sophie said, ‘Oh, James, that is going to be so good.’
    ‘Is it? May I see?’ said Anne in pleasure.
    ‘Well,’ said James. He sounded as conservativelyreluctant as any artist preferring to keep the sitter away from the work until it was finished and he himself satisfied. But he pushed the sketch block across the table to Anne and she looked at what he had done so far.
    ‘James, that is me?’ she said.
    ‘It’s supposed to be when it’s finished.’
    ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘and I’d be happy with it as it is.’
    ‘It isn’t finished,’ he said and took the block back.
    ‘You will sketch Sophie too, won’t you?’ she said.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said James.
    Sophie felt shocked and really hurt. Even if he was in love with Anne he did not have to be as unkindly discriminating as that.
    ‘Oh, James doesn’t sketch hideous women,’ she said.
    James smiled and shook his head.
    ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, I meant I already have a sketch of you. I had one of Anne too but wasn’t happy with it. So I thought I’d get her to sit still for a while and give myself a better chance. Would you care to see the one of you?’
    ‘As you are caring to see some of my poems, yes, I would, please,’ said Sophie, the hurt melting away.
    He leafed back a few pages and showed her the sketch of herself. It made her feel warm with pleasure. Perhaps it flattered her, she wasn’t sure, but if it was what he really thought she looked like then his artist’s impression of her was veryvery acceptable. She had not seen pencil used so giftedly.
    ‘Sophie, let me see,’ said Anne. She got up and sank to the lawn with Sophie. They sat with their heads together. They leafed through sketches. They were mostly outdoor impressions of bits and pieces of Vienna. The entrance to St Stephen’s, the face, the arm and the whip of a cabbie, the corner of a house, a girl looking into a shop window, a