"Almost done, Ms. Siddal!" I exclaim as my fingers throbbed from the excessive pressure of the pencil. The year was 1885 in England, and John Ruskan wanted another masterpiece to continue his patronage for me. With Elizabeth Siddal's face engraved onto the canvas, I began to conclude the day's worth of work. "And.....done!" I smiled when I concluded the last touches on the sketch. I flipped the canvas to her vision, and I saw her fair-toned cheeks blush. Her raw umber eyes extinguished such modesty as she stood up and clutched her cloak. "It is beautiful, Mr. Millais. Shall we meet tomorrow?" She asked in a warm, tone. "Yes, of course." I proceeded her to the door and we saluted goodbye. Her wavy, silky ginger hair had swayed in the breeze and she had headed home with twirls and humming of joy. Steadily I shut the door and I sat on my stool to ponder. With a sigh, I reached for the canvas and threw it at the door.
The headache had overwhelmed me as I began pacing back and forth with the vivid cracking of the burnt oak floor. With the crunching of the fire, my heart burned wild. "Think, John, think!" I muttered to myself as my pacing continued, "Just think of how disappointed Mr. Ruskan will be, come to think of it, Dante and Maniac as well! You will ruin the entire brotherhood!" I seized an angle paintbrush stained with muddy colors of oil and i tapped the polished end on my lip through series of critical thinking. My pacing had gradually increased as the demon of stress hovered over me. "I need air," I finally made out as I snatched my cloak and darted through the door.
The wind had no mercy that day. My face went numb as the spirit of ice touched my nose. Clouds of melancholy had hung in disturbance to the playing children. Slowly, all had grown quiet. Even the clicking of my cane seemed to mute out of the picture.
As I turned abruptly towards the end of the block, something had began to tug on my cloak. "If you please, give me a pound," an angelic voice of a child had rung. My eyes darted across the stone sidewalk, and there the little boy was, with ragged clothing and evidence of lack of sleep under his eyes. My knees had steadily began to kneel. "If you please, give me a pound," he repeated. "Oh. Yes, of course," I uttered. I had reached into the pockets of my cloak, and I pulled out five pounds. "How about we play this my way," I began with a voice of confidence, "I will give you a pound for every question you answer." Once the child had nodded after a couple of minutes of hesitation, I had stood. "First question, where are your parents?" The child twinkling eyes had dimmed. His head had fallen as well as his spirit. The moment his eyes began to water I felt a part of me break away. The child had drifted away into his island of tears, and I couldn't reach him.
I swept him off of his feet as I attempted to calm him down. "There there, that is not important," I said foolishly. He felt so fragile. It felt as if I had shattered shards of his heart in my hands and I tried to mend them back together with failure. I tried to pat his back, and I began to hum the merriest song I knew, but in exchange, all I received was dirty looks from the pedestrians. I needed to care for this child, and that was all that had mattered to me.
My prayers had been answered as I found a gentleman in a charcoal tophat selling bubbles. Nothing had been more therapeutic as a child than blowing the soap bubbles and watching them drift off to the clouds. That was when freedom had a meaning and the burden of adulthood and responsibilities had not. Casually, I had put down the little boy and I zoomed over to the booth.
"How much are these?" I asked the elderly man as I pointed to the set of two pipes and a clay bowl of soap. The old man scratched his beard and lifted the bowl. He had examined it thoroughly and eventually, he had placed it back onto the table.
"Twelve Pounds, sir."
"Twelve Pounds, for bubbles?"
"Indeed."
"But, why?"
"This bowl is but porcelain."
"With all do respect, sir, but this bowl is made of clay! It is worth no more than two pounds!"
"Granted by your manners, but this is porcelain."
My blood began to boil. Was this man really taking me for a fool? I had wished to storm off angrily, but then I caught sight of the little boy again as he was fiddling with his fingers. His innocence had sent daggers through my beating heart. I picked up the clay bowl, and sighed.
"Oh, by golly, you are right! This is porcelain! How foolish of me! Here you go, sir!" I lied. The man had nodded and accepted my payment. I had grabbed the products and raced towards the boy. The boy's gloomy expression had faded as his smile mended all of my stresses. To see him happy was all I needed. I picked up one of the pipes, and he did the same. He had dipped the pipe into the soap, held it to his lips, and he let out a bubble as large as his face! The bubble had journeyed around the street and eventually, it popped. Not only did we share the solution for the bubbles, but we had shared a few laughs when his bubble popped on my nose, and we shared our gratitude for one another with the acknowledgement that we care for one another.
"You never did tell me your name, young lad," I began, "but to make it easier for you to tell me yours, I shall tell you mine. I am John Everett Millais, but you may refer to me as Mr. Millais."
"Tis nice to meet you, Mr. Millais. My name is William."
"What a lovely name."
There was a brief silence as more bubbles set sail across the azure sea sky.
"I suppose you wish to know about my parents," William had sighed. My head had pivoted to his seeing, and he began, "My mother is named Effie and my father is named Rochester. At the age of six, they had both left me, sir."
"I see," I made out, "I am so sorry, William."
"It was three years ago, Mr. Millais. I have been told to forget their names and move on. I live on the streets now, as a beggar. There is not much mercy around in England, is there, Mr. Millais?"
I pat his shoulder and I stood up. I reached out my hand to grab his and he had accepted. We began strolling down the street with the rhythmic clicking of my cane.
* * * * * *
"I feel as if chamomile tea calms the nerves, especially when I get fluttery and bird-like," I explained as I carried two cups of tea to the table I sat him in.
"What a beautiful house you own, Mr Millais," the little boy said with a sore throat.
"Are you cold? Should I offer you a blanket?"
"A blanket would be splendid," William coughed.
After finding my favorite cream, wool throw, I covered William with the warmth the blanket possessed. His nose was a brilliant crimson and his hair was the color of the sun.
"Do you have any family?" I asked.
"Aye. I have but an aunt that wishes me dead."
"That is most unfortunate."
"I am better off living on the filthy streets of England."
"What about living with me, young William?"
"You would do that for me, sir?"
As I was preparing to reply, I heard the Church Bells ring. I bit my tongue when I caught myself about to swear. I began pacing, and eventually I sat on my stool.
"What is wrong, Mr. Millais?"
I sat down and tapped the pencil on my forehead. "Think!" I thought to myself.
"Mr Millais?"
I sighed and I looked at William. His eyebrows had furrowed and his face displayed concern.
"It is nothing, my dear boy. I just need to have a painting finished by the next twenty four hours."
"Have you started?"
I shook my head "no". After a moment of dead silence, I began, "I barely have enough money for paints, come to think of it, for food either. If Mr. Ruskan likes my painting, I will have the brotherhood prospering. I just need an idea..."
The child pondered as he sipped the last drops of his tea. He explained his vision of a forest or a waterfall, but it would not do, for most of my paintings had already consisted of natural landscapes.
"Mr. Ruskan did enjoy Maniac's painting and Dante's visions."
"What were they of?"
"Maniac painted an exquisite woman next to a shepard that fails to fall in love with her. He earned forty pounds for his piece. Dante merely painted a woman braiding her hair, but unfortunately, he did not profit off of it. Now I must think of an idea. How about a piece called 'The Order of Release' of a woman who-"
"You artists never will understand the matters of consequence. I spit on you for drawing women and profiting off of it," William muttered. His words had rung in my ears painfully. Have I been insulted by the child I have kindly decided to shelter? My face had grew pale and I could not stop staring at the boy. How did he have the nerve to say that?
"It is time for you to go to bed, young William."
"But I am not tired, Mr. Millais, and I wish to aid you on your masterpiece."
"I wish you to leave me be, William. Go. Prepare yourself for bed."
"No! All of my life I have been told to complete orders and hang around like a slave! I wish no part in it, and I thought at least from you I would have a break from it! My father was a painter, and he had taught me a valuable lesson! Morals do not come from the artist but through his paintings instead, and you, Mr. Millais, have no morals!"
I stood up abruptly. "Get out," I hissed, "Now!"
"Fine! If you are going to ignore me then so be it!" William shouted and he slammed the door on his journey out. I hated that boy. I hated him so much that I only heard my own twisted thoughts. I began to regret taking him in, however, sooner or later, I faced my own troubles and to my own work.
It had struck eleven in the evening, and my trash bin had overflowed with failed sketches. My eyes were red and my head was pounding and all I heard was William's tantrum replaying over and over again. What morals did I lack? I attempted to remember joyful memories in hopes of finding a muse and several ideas had popped into my head, but none of them would have struck Ruskan's attention. I felt empty without the boy sipping his tea in my room, and I wished I had not yelled at him. After a long groan, I stood up from my stool with a sore back and neck, and trotted up the stairs to the bedroom William inhabited in with the two pipes and the bowl of solution in my hands. Carefully, I opened the door and I blew several bubbles. Moments later, the boy's eyes had opened and his cheeks blushed. He lifted his finger feebly and popped one, and another one, and soon, the both of us were filling up the room with our laughter.
"I came here to apologize, William. I took your advice and placed it close to my heart. I need you to help me paint," I explained. William had held my hands and whispered, "What is essential is invisible to the eye. You have let yourself see with your heart because you learned that the eyes are blind. You do not need my help anymore." His palms were as cold as ice, but his head was as hot as fire. I felt his neck and it had burned my palm. I saw him shiver. The only thing that showed sign of him being alive was his beating heart. He had frightened me to death. My mother was ill of a fever and she had passed when I was just a lad. It brought a dark fog and I began to pray for his well being silently as he drifted off to sleep.
Once I reached downstairs, an idea had popped into my head almost as soon as I sat down on my wooden seat. I took out a pencil and from my memory, I had sketched a brilliant piece of a little boy, almost identical to William, blowing bubbles. All night, my brush hadn't left my hands and all day, the oil paints that stained my hands would not leave me either. Eventually, at five in the morning, my eyes gave out and I had fallen asleep on the couch smiling because I was truly satisfied with my work.
* * * * * *
I had woken up to the tiny steps down the stairs and the hoarse coughing. As my eyelids drew open, I saw William analyzing my painting. With his hair unkempt and his face red, I heard him laugh. His laugh was like hundreds of little bells. I had got up and asked, "Do you like it? I looked with my heart and all I saw was you blowing bubbles." He giggled.
"Is that so?" William had began, "I thought you would have saw Elizabeth Siddal sitting for you!"
"Hey!" I chuckled as I began chasing him around playfully and his chortling filling my spirit with glee. After I caught William, we both sat down in front of my work.
"Do you truly like it?"
"Is it my opinion you are truly looking for, Mr. Millais?"
In all honesty, it was the boy's opinion that had meant the world to me. The boy had spoken of such wisdom and his perception had impacted me. Whatever William had to say was all that mattered to me, yet he had not realized it at the time.
"Of course it is. After all, you are the star of this painting."
"Well, I must say it is unique. It expresses originality that other painters have yet to achieve. Your painting has structure and will touch many, Mr. Millais. Is that what you wished to hear?"
"I am not the vain man you think of me as, William. Was that spoken from you from the heart?"
"Aye."
"Then I will gratefully accept your compliment. Have I earned morals now?"
"If you feel it, then indeed, you have."
"I see," I stated, "Well, we should be off to the gallery. Get ready, William."
"Aye."
* * * * * *
When we arrived at the gallery, I had set up my painting under the permission of Ruskan. The walls were coated in a thick bumpy gloss to preserve the oak and the floor was as red as rubies. Greek-like columns had displayed themselves in their assigned corners throughout the gallery. The area had a distinct smell of lavender and citrus. Attention had began to draw when I unveiled the painting. Crowds of all of the upper class had gathered, and before I knew it, they were laughing. Charles Dickens had emerged from the crowd, and my face went pink with embarrassment.
"What fowl piece did you come up with today, Millais?" Dickens had guffawed, "Tis but a piece of rubbish! Have you finally run out of ideas?" The dozens of people began laughing hysterically. "Did you get Rossetti to paint this time? Or perhaps you had Hunt pose for you?"
Dickens Snickered. A larger wave of mocking laughter had struck. Dante Gabriel Rossetti was known to be poor at painting at the time, especially to Charles Dickens, and William Holman Hunt had looked an awful lot like the child in the painting, just a lot older. What both men had in common was that they both were a part of the brotherhood, and Dickens never ceased to live peacefully without embarrassing us.
"This is brilliant," I heard a familiar voice silence the mocking, "This is definitely something extraordinary." I searched for the man who possessed the voice, and there Ruskan was, examining the painting without blinking.
"Yes, this is a talent you have, Mr. Millais, of painting layers of depth and emotional impact. This painting is stupendous. It reflects the innocence of the youth. How much do you want for this?" Ruskan had asked. My eyes had widened.
"Um. How about twenty five pounds?"
"That is it?"
"How much are you willing to offer?"
"At least nine hundred pounds. Your work is worth no less."
"Nine hundred pounds it is!" I said shakingly.
"Perfect," Mr. Ruskan said. The entire crowd had grew quiet and Charles stood with his jaws to the floor. When I turned around to celebrate with William, his coughing had grew worse and eventually, he had fallen. Everything grew quiet.
I had rushed and pushed everybody to the side just to sit next to him. "William!" I screamed.
"One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed," he had whispered.
"Please, do not leave me, William."
"You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh."
A burning tear had fallen down my cheek. "You have always spoke with wisdom, I promise you, you will never be forgotten. I am a changed man now," my voice had slightly cracked, "and I will never forget your laugh."
Just like that, William had left me. He had left me with the 900 pounds to spend, and he had left me wisdom that I will treasure next to my heart. Every night, I walk outside and I hear his laugh. He has taught me a lesson that can only be taught with experience. William has taught me to love.