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The Portrait

Claire Boswell

Madame LaFée sighed and tapped her fingers in time with the ticking of the clock on the mantel. As her eyes roamed across the parlor she wrinkled her nose at the spots of dirt on the Oriental rug. One of the children’s dolls sat upright on the sofa opposite her. She thought that the thing had an ugly, inhuman face. It had a plastered smile and glass eyes that would stay intact and shine even if the porcelain head had been shattered to bits. She glanced up at the clock. It was well past noon. Monsieur LaFée was late yet again.

It was nearly time for the children’s afternoon dose of medicine and a nap. Madame LaFée thought perhaps she might take a strong dose herself. She rang for the maid.

Giselle arrived at the door within moments, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Giselle, when you serve the children their medicine, fix up a cup of it for me, as well. I’m not feeling my best this afternoon.”

“Of course, Madame.” The girl bowed her head and turned to leave.

Madame LaFée turned her gaze to the dust settling on the rug in the afternoon light. She felt certain she knew where her husband was, and with whom. Her features gave a visceral twitch and she turned her attention once again to the doll eyeing her from across the room with its irritating smirk. She couldn’t remember when or from whom the children had acquired such an unattractive doll. She decided she hated that doll; hated its brassy golden pigtails and its ratty sailor suit and those ridiculous pink circles on its cheeks.

Giselle returned with a tiny cup full of laudanum on a small silver tray, and Madame LaFée considered asking the girl to dispose of the doll while the children were asleep. This and all other desires faded from her, however, once the viscous liquid had slid down her throat and coated her insides. Giselle left quietly, closing the door behind her. Madame settled her arm over the gilded back of her chair and laid her head down, using her arm as a pillow. She closed her eyes and did not bother to open them when she heard a knock at the door.

“Please, Giselle, I do not wish to be disturbed,” she said.

The door creaked open anyway.

“Pardon me, please, Madame.” It was the voice of a man. Madame LaFée labored to lift her heavy eyelids. A handsome young man with a dark beard stood in the doorway. He had with him a large metal box, a stretch of canvas on a wooden frame, and a painter’s easel.

“Who are you? Who let you in?” she said, startled.

“Please, Madame, do pardon me. Your maid showed me to the parlor. I did not mean to disturb you. My name is édouard Vuillard. Monsieur LaFée hired me weeks ago to paint your portrait, Madame. He arranged a sitting for this afternoon.” He stepped forward and smiled.

“A sitting for a portrait? I don’t recall Alain arranging anything of the sort.”

“I do apologize, Madame. There must have been a miscommunication,” Vuillard said, scratching his beard and staring at the floor. “You see, I have already received the payment for this portrait. I feel much obliged to paint the portrait as soon as possible, Madame.” She watched him closely, her head turned to the side.

“All right,” she said after an uncomfortable moment of deliberation, “set up your things and paint my portrait if you must.” She turned her face away from him dismissively. Monsieur Vuillard hesitated a moment.

“Shall I paint you here in the parlor, Madame?”

“Yes, Monsieur, you shall,” she answered.

“But Madame,” said Vuillard, “certainly this is not what Monsieur LaFée had in mind—”

“I’m not concerned with what Monsieur LaFée had in mind. You shall paint me as I am. A portrait for my husband—that’s laughable. I am through keeping up appearances for him!” Madame LaFée felt her self-control slipping away as her voice rose to a shout. “If you must paint me, Monsieur Vuillard, you shall paint me as I am at this moment. You shall paint the portrait of an exhausted and profoundly unhappy woman. You shall paint the portrait of a fool wasting away in a stuffy parlor while her husband carries on across town with some man!”

She could scarcely believe she’d said it. The helpless painter looked on with his mouth agape before scrambling to gather his supplies. As he kneeled on the floor and unfolded the legs of his easel, Madame LaFée turned her face away and closed her eyes, resting her chin in her hand.

Based on Édouard Vuillard’s The Golden Chair, 1906
Virginia Museum of Fine Arts

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