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22.04.2023 10:27

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Fair of face by cyril hare john franklin, who was my contemporary at oxford, invited me to stay with his people at markhampton for the markshire hunt ball. he and his sister were getting up a small party for it, he said. "i've never met your sister," i remarked. "what is she like? " "she is a beauty," said john, seriously and simply. i thought at the time that it was an odd, old-fashioned phrase, but it turned out to be strictly and literally true. deborah franklin was beautiful in the grand, classic manner. she didn't look in the least like a film star or a model. she had never been a deb, which was just as well, for she would have made the other debs look more than ordinarily silly. i suppose her vital statistics were in order, but looking at her you forgot about them. it was the sheer beauty of her face that took your breath away. with looks like that, it would be asking too much to expect anything startling in the way of brains, and i found deborah, though amiable, a trifle dull. she was of course well aware of her extraordinary good looks, and was perfect¬ly prepared to discuss them, without conceit, just as a man seven feet high might talk about the advantages and incon-veniences of being tall. most of our party were old friends of the franklins, who took deborah for granted as a local phenomenon, but among them was a newcomer — a young man with a beard named aubrey melcombe, who had lately taken charge of the local museum. as soon as he set eyes on deborah he said; "we have never met before, but your face, of course, is perfectly familiar." deborah had evidently heard that one before. "i never give sittings to photographers," she said; "but people will snap me in the street. it's such a nuisance." "photographs! " said aubrey. "i mean your portrait — the one that was painted four hundred years ago. has nobody ever told you that you are the living image of the warbeck titian? " "i've never heard of the warbeck titian," said deborah, which was rather letting the side down, for warbeck hall is near markhampton and its pictures are famous, though of course only visitors go to see them. "truly," said aubrey, 't dwell among the philistines. but you shall judge for yourself. lord warbeck is lending the titian to an exhibition in aid of the cathedral fund which we are organizing in the spring. i'll send you a ticket for the opening." then he went off to dance with rosamund clegg, his assistant at the museum. she had a face which didn’t dis¬tract you for one moment from her vital statistics, and was said to be his fiancée. i did not care much for aubrey, or for his young woman, but i had to admit that they knew their job when i came to the opening of the exhibition a few months later. they had gathered in treasures of every sort from all over the county and arranged them admirably. the jewel of the show was, of course, the great titian. it had a wall to itself at the end of the room and i was looking at it when deborah came in. the likeness was fantastic. lord warbeck had never had his paintings cleaned, so that titian's flesh tints were gold¬en and carmine, in vivid contrast to deborah's pink and white. but that apart, the face behind the glass might have been her mirror image. by a happy chance she had chosen to wear a very plain black dress which matched up well to the portrait's somber garb. she stood there still and silent, staring at her centuries-old likeness. i wondered what she felt. a pressman's camera flashed and clicked. summary надо