Bartholomew
The sun shone brilliantly over the bustling city square, where people from all walks of life went about their daily tasks. Children ran after pigeons, street vendors yelled out their wares, and the tinkling sound of a distant guitar played by a busker wafted in the air.
Amidst the cacophony, an old artist named Cedric sat beneath a striped umbrella, a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. While the city had many painters, Cedric was unique. It was whispered among the locals that he didn’t just paint faces but souls.
One day, a well-dressed man named Lord Bartholomew stepped up to Cedric’s booth. His jeweled walking stick clicked on the cobblestones with every step, and his nose was held high, revealing a smirk of self-importance.
“Ah! The soul painter! I’ve heard much about you,” Lord Bartholomew said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Paint me and let us see if your talents match the tales.”
Cedric, with his serene eyes, looked at Lord Bartholomew for a long, quiet moment. “Very well,” he finally said. “Sit down.”
As Lord Bartholomew posed, children gathered around, their curious eyes bouncing between the man and the emerging painting. Cedric worked silently, his brush strokes deft and assured.
Once done, Cedric placed the canvas on the easel, and the crowd gasped in shock. Instead of Lord Bartholomew’s handsome face, the portrait displayed a dark, twisted figure with greedy eyes and a sneering mouth, surrounded by shadows of arrogance and pride.
“That’s not me!” Lord Bartholomew shouted, his face turning beet red. The crowd whispered among themselves, some snickering, others looking at him with pity.
“It’s your soul I painted, Lord Bartholomew,” Cedric replied calmly. “I paint what I see within, not without.”
Lord Bartholomew, humiliated, stormed off the square. But the image of the grotesque portrait haunted him. Everywhere he went, he saw reflections of that twisted soul, in the reactions of people around him, in the words he spoke, and in his actions.
That night, lying in his lavish bed, he thought about the painting. Could he really be as the artist portrayed? Was this the impression he left on people?
A soft voice in his head whispered, “True beauty comes from within.”
Feeling unsettled, Lord Bartholomew decided that he needed to change, not for the world or for another painting, but for himself. The next morning, he began his journey to find his lost humility and kindness, hoping to erase the dark shadows that the artist saw.
But what would Cedric see when he returned? Would the painting ever change?
The answer lay ahead.
Days turned into weeks, and Lord Bartholomew embarked on his journey of self-discovery. He spent his time among the common people, listening to their stories and helping where he could.
Gone was the haughty lord; in his place stood a man eager to learn and understand.
In the heart of the city, a woman named Elara who ran an orphanage was surprised when Lord Bartholomew knocked on her door one day, offering to help. He read stories to the children, mended broken toys, and even helped cook meals. The children grew fond of him, their laughter echoing in the once silent halls.
Elsewhere, Lord Bartholomew worked beside farmers, learning the value of hard work, and spent evenings with the elderly, absorbing their wisdom. Every act of kindness chipped away at the darkness that had once consumed his soul.
One day, as he helped a street performer pick up his dropped coins, a familiar old voice spoke, “You seem different, Lord Bartholomew.”
Looking up, he saw Cedric, the soul painter, gazing at him intently.
“I hope I am,” Lord Bartholomew replied, a hint of hope in his voice. “Would you paint me again, Cedric?”
The artist nodded. “Come to the square tomorrow.”
The following day, the city square buzzed with excitement. Word had spread that the enigmatic artist would paint Lord Bartholomew’s soul once more. An even larger crowd gathered, waiting in anticipation.
Lord Bartholomew sat down, feeling a mixture of hope and anxiety. As Cedric’s brush danced on the canvas, the atmosphere was thick with curiosity. Would the painting show a changed soul, or would it be just as dark and twisted?
After what felt like hours, Cedric stepped back and unveiled the new portrait. The crowd gasped, but this time in awe.
The portrait was luminous. Lord Bartholomew’s figure radiated warmth, his eyes gleaming with compassion, kindness, and humility. The dark shadows were gone, replaced by soft hues of love and understanding.
Tears filled Lord Bartholomew’s eyes as he looked at the portrait. “Thank you, Cedric,” he whispered. “Not just for the painting, but for opening my eyes.”
Cedric smiled, his old eyes twinkling. “I only revealed what was always there, deep within you. It was you who chose to find it.”
As the crowd dispersed, talking excitedly about the miraculous transformation, the two men shared a moment of understanding.
The mystery of the soul painter had been unveiled, and the city square bore witness to the powerful message that true beauty, indeed, comes from within.
