Singing Portrait
Duckie
The horse chose his footing carefully for the road was deep cut and
the high banks added to the darkness. Joseph Newton was on his way
home from his father's store. Fog lay like a white shroud in the low
places of the old stagecoach trace. Joseph felt his horse tremble. The
bay mare was a sensitive animal and he wondered what she had heard.
In a few minutes they were directly opposite the Douglass home. From
the hill above, wafted on the early spring breeze, came a strange and
beautiful melody. Newton had heard that the Douglass family was
visiting friends in nearby Newberry. Even if they were not, what
earthly reason could there be for music coming from the house at this
hour?
Reining in the mare at the road leading to the house, Joseph decided
to investigate. Sometimes, he had seen lights burning long after
midnight in the doctor's little office building, but tonight both
office and house were in darkness. The melody he had heard on the road
was louder than ever. He mounted the porch, drawn despite himself.
Although, the tones had a certain weird quality, they were also
enticing. The scent of yellow Jessamine from the yard enveloped him as
he stared in through the parlor window. The room was drenched in
moonlight. He could see the fireplace and the chairs on each side of
it and then he noticed the portrait. It had hung over the mantle for
as long as he could remember, but it had never looked like this! The
face of the beautiful woman stared at him. It was almost incandescent
and the very canvas seemed to pulsate with life.
To his surprise he realized that the music was coming from the
painting. Newton was so petrified he couldn't move. The beautiful song
seemed to hold him captive, surround him, possess him. He was unaware
of how long he stood there listening. There was a shattering crash of
thunder, and he was jolted out of his trance.
The music from the parlor ceased and the face in the portrait
flickered like a candle flame and went out. Now the room was in total
darkness. Staccato spatters of rain took aim at the house and at him.
Wind hastened through the bushes and shook the bare branches of the
tree tops Sending down a shower of twigs. Then it was bright as day
all around him and a sharp, explosive crack as if lightning had struck
just a few feet away! Newton fled.
With fumbling fingers he untied the mare's reins from the hemlock,
leaped on her back and as the rain swept down in sheets, horse and
rider galloped away from the rambling old house. Like a pair of
frightened phantoms they sped through the night and past the church
yard, the white marble tombstones illuminated by flashes of lightning.
Newton glanced toward the cemetery. He knew that "Miss Anna" was long
dead and he also knew that it was her portrait that had always hung
over the mantle. He was frightened and bewildered.
Anna Dixon Hardy had died on April 18,1861. He recalled the big family
picnics on the church grounds after service and the old lady everyone,
called "Miss Anna." Even though he had been a child, he could see her
now, lips pressed sternly together; a steely glint in her gray eyes.
And then the memories began to blur. How could the lovely face in the
portrait be Miss Anna? All he knew was that he must see that face
again.
The following night there was a full moon and Newton was determined to
go back. Again fog from the river lay upon much of the road. He would
mount a slight rise and come out of it and then he was part of that
misty world again. Strange shapes would loom ahead of him, dark limbs
reach out like twisted arms. He began to think this was a foolish
errand and was only jarred from his reverie by the behavior of his
mare. She would shy seemingly at nothing, walk ever more slowly until
finally she came to a complete halt in front of the graveyard. Good
Lord! Why did the animal have to stop here?
He prodded her sides sharply, and surprised by this unaccustomed
treatment, the mare leaped ahead and was off running. He finally
managed to slow her to a walk and held out his lantern to watch for
the red clay ruts that would signal the driveway of the Douglass
house. He began to think they had passed it when suddenly there was
the road.
No wheel prints or hoof marks had been made that day in the damp
earth, and the rain of the night before had obliterated the prints of
his own horse. Everything was just as he had left it. No one had been
in or out of the house.
Newton tethered his horse beside the porch. There was a rush of air
past his face and he flung up his arm. Bats! Ugh, how he despised
them. As he started toward the porch a cloud obscured the moon and for
a few minutes all was blackness. Aware of the beating of his own heart
and of every night sound, he felt his way up the steps to the window
where he had stood the night before.
As if a hand had drawn aside a curtain, the cloud passed and moonlight
streamed into the room. There was no music and the face of the
portrait was scarcely visible. The moonlight was not upon it, but he
felt certain the silvery streak on the wall would soon reach the
portrait. He settled himself in a more comfortable position and
waited.
He had not been there long when he heard a faint sound far off in the
distance that he supposed to be the sound of a bird. But it was not
the song of a bird at all. It was rather the soft, beckoning notes of
a woman's voice raised in song. He gazed at the portrait. it was
washed in moonlight. The music grew louder and a light appeared to
emanate from the picture itself. He felt that he was looking far back
into the portrait, much as one would gaze down a long corridor, and
the face at the end of it grew more distinct as the music increased in
intensity. The exquisite features and large, beautiful eyes assumed a
startlingly alive appearance.
He had a sensation of being irresistibly drawn toward the picture and
he decided to enter the house. He found the front door unlocked, the
door to the parlor open, and the room flooded with light. The light
had a bluish cast to it and he saw immediately that the picture was
its source. He stood and listened as the alluring voice sang on and
on.
But he could not see the eyes and he knew he must look the woman full
in the face. He stepped into the path of light but he had no sooner
done so than he heard a wild and eerie shriek. He shuddered but
continued to look at the woman and as he did a change began to come
over the portrait. The face was aging rapidly and in a matter of
seconds there was Miss Anna. The white ruff was around her face in the
severe style worn by elderly women of the Civil War era. Her lips were
tightly compressed and the gray eyes, if anything, were hostile.
Fear shot through him like the blade of a knife. outside his mare gave
a whinny and Newton was ready to leave. He never returned and he
always wondered about the portrait. Others heard the nocturnal music
but few stayed long to investigate.
No one lived in the old house after the 1950s and it was devoid of
furnishings but the "Singing Portrait" still exists . It was
discovered in the home of Miss Anna's great granddaughter, Mrs. J. T.
Ritchie, near Greenwood, South Carolina.
"As yet, I haven't heard it sing," said Mrs. Ritchie.
"But I do remember from my youth how her eyes never seemed to leave me
when I practiced the piano there in the parlor. Even now I can recall
the feeling that they were watching me."
The painting itself is an artistic treasure for it was done by the
internationally known artist, John Scarborough. During the first half
of the nineteenth century, Scarborough painted many prominent people
as well as Miss Anna. How could he have known that one of his
portraits would be used to help the ghost of a once beautiful woman
return?
(c) Nancy Roberts