The visitor who painted the lady in blue

‘I did not send for a doctor. Thank God, I am in the best of ‘I did not send for a doctor. Thank God, I am in the best of health.” She certainly was. Although it was possible to see that she must be in her late sixties, she was remarkably finelooking, beautiful even, for her age. Standing at the large front door of her house, she held it open with a welcoming smile, her face, slightly wrinkled from past cares and present smiles, framed by the head-covering of her robe of blackest blue.
“You are right, madam, I am a doctor. But that was not why I came. My name is Lucan. I am writing a book, and I was hoping you could help me.” “A book?” She said without surprise. “Then you had better come in.” Lucan picked up his luggage: his doctors’ bag, his knapsack, and a smaller leather roll, which accidentally unravelled and spilled a number of paintbrushes, paint pots, rolls of papyrus and writing implements.
“My book,” he said apologetically, gathering up the mess.
“I see you are also a painter,” said the lady, stooping gracefully to help him.
She led him into a simple parlour and offered him a chair. It was late December and although there was a watery sunlight it was cold. She started to work up a fire.
“I imagine you want to know about my son,” she said. “Many books have been written about him , but you are the first writer who has come to ask me. There are many things I could tell you. Perhaps you will stay a few days?” “I should be honoured, but I do not want to be a burden. You seem to live alone here.” “Yes and no. I have a great many nephews and nieces who help me, and of course my son’s friends visit often. They have promised that they will all be here with me when my time here runs out.” “I have already spoken to some of them . I came here with my friend Paul, but he is now in prison. I visit him regularly to treat him, but he seems all right for a few days, and so I have been visiting others. Peter sends his fondest regards. I have been trying to find out as much as possible from those who were there from the beginning , but nobody was as much at the beginning as you.” “That is not quite true,” she said with a laugh. “Methuselah was also there at the beginning.” “Methuselah?” She motioned him through a door. “This is the way,” she said. A corridor led into a small back room. It was dark because the shutters were closed. Pushing them open, she pointed to a grassy courtyard, in the middle of which was an ancient ox, who immediately heaved himself up, ambled over to the window, and stuck his grizzled head in through it.
“Methuselah,” she said, stroking his muzzle affectionately. “He was a present from the innkeeper when my son was born. We have kept him ever since. My son used to ride on his back. I keep the shutters closed because he always sticks his head in to find out what’s going on.
“This will be your room,” she continued. She pointed at a flat table by the window. “You can use that to write on – careful Methuselah doesn’t munch your papyrus. My husband and son made it together,” she added proudly. “The top lifts off and the legs dismantle.” Lucan sat on the bed, and the old lady sat down on the only chair in the room. He took out a scrap of papyrus.
“I heard that even kings came to see you when your son was born?” “No. There were certainly no kings. A great many came with presents, mostly local shepherds. But there were others too, who had travelled great distances, probably because of the Census. Some of them, I daresay, were very wise, wellto-do people. But no kings. I sat in the stable, with my little one in my arm, just like this.” She crooked her left arm, and pointed with her right hand to the imaginary baby.
“I knew then that this little boy was the way to the future, and so did all who came. The angels praised God that night. It is a coincidence you are here today. Tomorrow would have been his birthday.” The doctor had been making notes, but struck by the beauty and poise of the old lady, he instead started sketching her. As he did so, he went on asking her questions. What was he like as a boy? What about the miracles? He knew some of the stories – were they all true? Were there others he had not heard of? What about his friends? Absorbed in his drawing, he did not note everything down, and later found he had forgotten some of it.
Before long it was quite dark, and the old lady suggested some supper before bed. The doctor declined.
“But I have one more favour to ask,” he said. “Have you anything like a board I could paint on?” She thought for a moment. “Of course, you can have the top of the desk, which detaches.” “Oh no, I could not use such a precious thing.” “You are going to make it more beautiful with a picture, not less.” She bade him good night and left the room. Lucan sat at the desk, finishing his notes, with Methusalah the ox still peering in through the window. When he had finished, he detached the desk top and, propping up his sketches, began to paint.
He painted Mary as he could see she must have been that morning, 60 years before, with the little boy in her left hand, her right pointing at him, as if to say, as she indeed had said to him “This is the way”. He painted all night and was finishing when, next morning, Mary knocked at his door.
“Madam,” he said, “If I had been there that morning, this is what I would have given your baby. Please accept it now on his birthday.”