"Eyes of the Beholder" — An Original Short Story

in #fiction6 years ago (edited)


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The museum, ordinarily bustling with people, felt quite abandoned. There were only a handful of people, all of whom had recently arrived, except for an elderly man seated in a corner of the main hall. He had been there since the museum had opened earlier this morning. In fact, he had practically been there since the museum had first opened, some thirty years ago.

Back then the paintings and statues had been displayed in two small rooms; now there were three additional rooms including the main hall. Paintings had been removed, and others took their place in the course of time. Still, he continued coming year after year (though not unaccompanied, as he was this afternoon). Each time he sat in the same place, on a worn mahogany bench which they kept throughout the renovations as a sort of tribute to him. He was seated on that same bench in the corner of the main hall next to the staircase, when a lady and her husband were bold enough to interrupt his reverie.

The handsome young couple had debated whether or not it was appropriate to approach him. It wasn't that they found him threatening or vulgar in any sense. On the contrary, he seemed a dignified gentleman - bespectacled, dressed to the hilt, and with features as sharp of those of the statues around him. Rather, it was that he seemed altogether consumed in thought and they considered it improper to invade his privacy. Then, gathering her courage, the woman inched towards him, her mind racing for the proper words. When she spoke, they came out all wrong.

“Terribly sorry to disturb you,” she stammered, wringing her handkerchief, relentlessly, “but my husband and I are new in town … and this is our first time here…"

She faltered, not knowing whether to continue, or if the old man was even listening. She continued, "We were wondering, if it’s not too much of an inconvenience, if you knew of someone who could possibly accompany us around the museum, and perhaps help us out with some of the paintings…"

''You see, we’re completely lost,” she added with a nervous smile “and quite frankly, we were told at the door that you knew quite a bit about the art…”

He did not answer, only turned his head towards them, a strained smile agitating his otherwise inscrutable countenance. Not knowing what to make of this grimace, the woman stood speechless. The elderly man turned his head away once more, as if to return to whatever thoughts he was consumed with before this unwelcome interruption. He appeared entirely oblivious as to whatever the woman had said, and even to her presence, altogether.

Her husband, who had accompanied her against his better judgment, leaned over and whispered at this point: "He seems positively dangerous, this fellow; I don’t trust him one bit. What’s more, I told you it was unwise to speak to him in the first place. Now, I believe it would be prudent to step away from this senile fool and extract ourselves from this unpleasant situation, at once…”

The young lady, whose eyes had never left the elderly gentleman (and who had not really been paying the slightest attention to her husband) instinctively recoiled when the old man reached up for the handrail of the staircase next to where he sat. Pulling away from her husband, she extended her arm to assist him in getting up. But, he made no attempt to take her hand. Instead, he tightly wrapped his outstretched fingers around the banister and pulled himself up with some difficulty. He smiled once again, this time more broadly, expansively. It seemed he had agreed to accompany the couple around the museum, after all.

At first, he moved painfully slowly, taking short, deliberate steps towards where the couple stood. Before each painting, he spoke in a low, even voice of the composition, color arrangement, subject matter, treatment or style. Yet, he spoke with surprising passion of the work, and caressed each picture frame lovingly, before moving onto the next one. As he did this, his face came to life and a look of infinite gratitude would pass over him, and appear to linger there. As he began to move about the museum, his gait picked up, remarkably. Now, he moved urgently, erratically, as if driven by some unseen force. His voice, too, changed. It become more forceful, resonant, and permeated the entire space. The couple were in complete awe as they followed (and only, partly, on account of the art).

He was the true subject of their wonderment, and the effect the art had on him. As he spoke, his voice trembled with an intense excitement and his face appeared so transformed that he looked younger. He pointed out aspects of the painting no one else could have possibly seen, perhaps not the artists themselves. In fact, the manner and authority with which he spoke –giving himself over to each piece so completely- might have lead anyone to think these works were his own.

Leaping from one hall to another, it soon became difficult for the couple to keep up. He did not hesitate before a painting, at a loss for words, or pause to collect his thoughts before darting onto the next work. With great ardor and conviction he always addressed the work on display, never the couple. Rarely, and momentarily, he lingered to stroke a statue in a moving display of affection and respect, before continuing on his way - gliding about the museum as though he lived there (which he practically did). Only when he reached the main entrance did he come to a sudden stop, as though rudely awakened from the most engaging of dreams.

It was on the sidewalk, and in the natural light, that the couple realized just how pathetically shrunken, and cripplingly old their tour guide, actually, was. He was clearly terrifically exhausted by the effort and out of breath. Yet, as the couple spilled out of the museum and onto the busy street they, too, were breathless, although wholly enchanted. For a while, no one spoke.

Eventually the young woman took a loud, deep breath, and dispelled the silence. "Thank you so very much, Sir, for what has been a marvelously memorable day. Please, don't hesitate to ask if there is anything at all we can possibly do to repay you…"

She smiled, politely, as she offered this and moved in closer, in anticipation of his reply. It came sooner than she expected.

He turned to face her as he spoke, "There is one favor I should like to ask of you," he said in a grave, measured voice. “You see, my dog has been taken ill," he began cautiously. "Might you be so kind as to assist an old, blind man in crossing the street?”

And, before she had much time to react, he groped for her outstretched hand, held it firmly, and advanced slowly towards the road taking short, deliberate steps.

©Yahia Lababidi


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(Images: Pixabay 1, 2, 3,

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Wow! You are such an interesting and wise writer. This reads sort of like a parable or fable (minus animals of course). I appreciate your work, brother!

Happy to hear from you, @caleblailmusik, and glad you enjoyed this :D Even though I don't write much fiction, I've always admired fables and parables for their ability to communicate, indirectly and symbolically. Glad to learn this worked for you :)

So happy you are flexing your longer-form writing muscles :) And yet, staying true to your aphorismic roots (is that a word? It should be LOL). Your writing is as lively and engaging as always, and you leave the reader thinking, and wondering, and in wonder. What more can you ask? RESTEEMED

Trying to mix it up, dear Carl, to keep it lively for myself and readers, alike 🤓 Aphoristic is a word & it’s good to hear you found my story engaging on more than one level. I hope to share more like it — playful parables, that “leave reader thinking, wondering and in wonder” is a delicious goal— in the not-too-distant future. ❤️

Very engaging story man. I had to run and do something and I couldn't wait to come back and read the rest. The question you have me thinking now is when did he become that way and has he seen them before?

Very gratifying reader response, man, thank you! I believe in the power of art to give us life & vision —maybe he saw the art before and remembers it (that’s why he touches it) or, perhaps, it’s supernatural ;)

You are a great writer man! A true Master of the craft. Grateful to have found you on steemit.

Bless your heart, brother <3 I'm grateful for your warm encouragement and hope my words will continue to have meaning for you. Best of luck on your own Steemit journey _/|\_

Beautiful, Yahia. Sometimes we do not see what is so obvious and sometimes we can very well what is hidden:) Very nice, write, wonderfully constructed:)

Very true, dear Pryde. Thanks, for reading and your kind words. To quote The Little Prince (over and over, again)

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; What is essential is invisible to the eye.

Sweet dreams, my friend--waking ones, too :)

f you say that something such as beauty or art is in the eye of the beholder, you mean that it is a matter of personal opinion.

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definitely your stories always leave a great learning!

I love reading you I'm your fans

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