This painting was done by the French Painter Camille Pissarro in 1895, titled “Young Woman Bathing Her Feet In the Brook.” It is exhibited in the Impressionalistic section of the Art Institute. I picked this painting to “allow a story to unfold in my mind” as I stare at it (my writing class assignment). Then I took out my laptop, and began typing in front of it, giggling as I typed. Why? You’ll see why.
Here is my story so far. Probably rated R. (I should re-read Nabokov’s Lolita)
***
There she is. That slut, tempting me. Her small toes, wet. How I envy those small shoes where her toes touch. Oh how she tempts me. Now that enviable handkerchief in those soft white hands is brushing against her white legs. Let me be that fish in the stream, to swim where those exquisite toes touch. Or the pebbles in the stream, where that white vision rests. She at the brook, a vision of a forest fairy.
Her long, white neck, that of a swan. She leans forward now. Her collar now widening, now gently opened, now revealing that hollow in her neck. If only I could put my finger in that hollow. She is brushing that white handkerchief against those soft, white legs. Such exquisite motion! How unfairly nature has endowed her! Now her curls are falling over her shoulder. Those brown curls. She is lifting her dress above her knee. Those exquisite knees! So pure, so white. I wish I were part of the stream, then I would linger at her feet, passing through, touching, brushing, caressing.
Is she looking my way? No she is not. Oh I beg, please look my way. But look at that wonderful expression of concentration on her healthy cheeks, concentrating on those exquisite toes. Now she is pulling her hair back to tie it up. But a strand struggles off! It falls before her face, the tip of it teasing her bare, white shoulders. Let me be the one who will pull it back behind her ears! Her white petticoat, so white, clinging to her. Her cheeks, flushed. No it cannot be shyness. That slut. That minx. That vixen. How could she not know her power. Her hands are now moving up from the toes to her knee. Now the dress is above her knees. She brushes it aside. Let me be an ant, then I’ll crawl onto her dress.
I know what I can do. I can reveal myself, push away the bush in front of me, and step out from the shadows. She would look up, she would pull down her dress in her false modesty. She would utter her joke of a scream. She would try to run away, barefooted, but not really running away. I will then easily grab her by the back of her neck, and make her lean in my arms. I will snatch away her white handkerchief, and take her exquisite toes in my finger. She would gasp. But that slut, she must want it.
But I shall not make a sound. I want to stay where I am, where she is, and look at the vision of this vixen.
But no, that damnable twig on the ground! Curse it! Why does it make a sound.
The exquisite vision of whiteness disappeared behind that forsaken red cloth. Noooo, that beautiful sight. She is standing up, in her siren’s voice, “Who is that?”
But I shall not reveal myself. I am staying as quiet as the shadows in the forest. I am a shadow under the sun. I am not moving. I am staying exactly where I am. I will be a mouse. I will be part of the leaves. I will be the quietest one here. I will be the twig on the ground. No she will not see me. She will not know.
Now she is sitting down again. But I must not look further. The wind will betray me. The forest will betray me. I must be a shadow.
And she shall not know. At least not yet. In time, she will know.
Oh yes, she will know. But how much she does not know now.
Tonight, she will go back home, and find out from her Dear Papa that he had a visitor this afternoon. That senile old man.
Her Dear Papa will tell her that Mrs. Clark had requested her company for tea the next day at three at the Forest Manor. “The owner of the grandest house in town? The lady who owns five carriages?” She would exclaim in excitement, her pupils dilated, her vixen mind working. Papa would say, “Yes, dear.”
She will be flattered. Yes she will be, that conceited little vixen. She will beg her Dear Papa to let her go. Her old man will say yes.
She will come the next day, in her feathers and lace, and the kindly Mr. Campbell (dear oldbutler!) will open the door for her, and ask her to wait in the drawing room. She will open the drawing room door, but instead of Mrs. Clark finds someone else there. She will feign shocked. She will say, “Mr. Elliot, what a surprise to see you here.” Her exquisite toes will begin to take retreating steps from the room. But then the room door will not open. Dear reliable Mr. Campbell! Dear reliable Mrs. Clark!
Wait….but who is there now? Who is that that my vixen is running to? Who is that cursed fellow who is touching the blessed hollow of my vixen’s neck. It is that Blacksmith from the shop! She and her bare feet are running to him. No! My white handkerchief!
