As promised, here are a few more stories inspired by the paintings in The Pfister Hotel. The first was written by Amy Miller–we squealed in delight at its ability to be both formal sounding and naughty. The second is another by Amy, a letter from a character in the hazy painting who is barely recognizable at first. And the last is mine, also a letter, based on the dark-haired woman’s gaze vs. the glazed eyes of the red-haired woman, the position of the old man’s hands, and the dichotomy of Catholic religious items and the reasonable scale.
“The Poppy Field” story is one of imminent marriage, “Moonlight Scene” is about a hoped for return to married life, and “The Fortune Teller” tells the story of a young woman looking for good fortune in the love department.
“The Poppy Field” (Louis Aston Knight)
by Amy Miller
The sun was warm for late summer. The scent of the flowers was strong in the air, delightfully suffocating in its heaviness.
Isabelle looked over at her sister Henrietta, already dressed in her best clothes and wearing an apron to protect against soiling. “Dear sister, I am so happy to be here with you,” said Isabelle, plucking another perfect, pink bloom.
“Not as happy as I to have you with me!” replied Henrietta. “Just to think, the two of us picking my marriage bouquet. It will be as if you are holding my hand down the aisle.”
Isabelle could hear the joy in Henrietta’s voice. It was heartwarming, even in the heat–and the dizzying profusion of color abounded around them.
“You have accepted a good man. I’m sure he will bring you a happy life.:
“Thank you for your blessing, dear sister.”
“Well, it’s really his blessings you will be concerned with this evening,” said Isabelle with a conspiratorial nudge.
Henrietta gasped and blushed. “Izzy,” she cried, with playful horror.
“Well, Is it not true? T’would be a sad life to be bound to a man who could not fulfill all his duties.”
“Izzy, I’m sure he will make me happy,” Henrietta said, dropping her gaze and blushing.
“Moonlight Scene” (H.M. Kitchel)
by Amy Miller
20 September 1872
I write to you by light of fire and full moon. Camp tonight is by a small stream bed. Work fills my days, but it is in the long, lonely hours of the night that my mind turns only to thoughts of you.
I have managed to capture an excellent harvest of valuable pelts. If all goes well, this trip will buy us provisions for a comfortable winter. We may even have enough to try buying seed to plant in the spring. I know how pained you feel at the risk I take on these trips. With any luck, this one may become the last.
I hold your handkerchief close to my heart each time I sleep, trusting your love and divine providence to watch over me and hold me safe from harm. I long for the day we shall be together again in one house, as husband and wife should be.
I will post this letter to you when I next arrive at a fort. I hope it will find you well and safe in your father’s care. Tell him that soon he shall have a son-in-law worthy of the title.
Yours in love.
“Beneath the Table” (inspired by Ludwig Vollmar’s Fortune Teller)
by Dominic Inouye
Dear Herr Vollmar,
I write to you today with a quite serious request. Two days ago, I accompanied my younger sister–you’ll remember her as Lotta–to your home, despite my initial concern about two girls such as us visiting a stranger, let alone a man, in his private abode. You must know that it was not without a moral struggle betwixt us that I finally conceded to this most curious venture–if only, I told her, to unleash my feminine venom should anything unseemly occur.
She sought your sage advice, believing you to be a man of both your word and a man of God, inspired by the holy scriptures. Indeed, the icons and crucifix and prayer beads that hang on your wall seem to speak to this truth. But, sir, I studied you, since I am an observant and cautious girl, just as my mother always taught me to be. Your holy words, on the contrary, belied the archaic babble inspired by the arcana of your dusty tarot cards, hidden as they were beneath the table. I was wise to your charlatanism, but refrained from intervening, as my sister had willingly clasped her heart over her ears. She would have been as deaf to my plea for her to leave your foolery as she was deaf to your foolery. You spoke no godly words, only ones of devils and towers, hierophants and suns–and the Hanged Man–which she no doubt heard as favorable signs gleaned from the Old Testament or, better yet, the Apocalypse, that her long months of pining for a certain young man, nay fool, would soon be over.
This is why I write to you now, in her absence, to insist that you never allow her to visit you again; neither will she procure your services nor will you promote them. For you have gained in coins what she has lost in faith and decency. Yes, she has more hope now, but it is misguided, turned awry by a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I promise to not be too slow to call your bluff and reveal you as the false prophet you are. For now, she must not know I have made such demands on her behalf. I trust you will heed this warning.
* In German, Fuchs means “fox hunter.”