The Poor Poet

The walls of an ancient Scottish castle arranged with paintings of people, animals, and abstract figures began to come to life as darkness fell and froze as daylight returned. My aunt used to tell me this fairy tale all the time. Yes, it was a long time ago, and I have since gone to the museum several times at night to write down my thoughts. I even pursued it as a career. You could think I'm a loser. But I'm telling you, it's all true. Do not give me this look. I noticed you staring at me with your enlarged, weary eyes.

The art historian's assistant read aloud the lines he saw in the painting through the magnifying glass. 

“Oft denke ich alt den Tod, den herben, Und wie am End′ ich′s ausmach′: Ganz sanft im Schlafe möcht′ ich sterben - Und tot sein, wenn ich aufwach′!” 

What a surprise! You speak the German language. Can you grasp what I am saying, or are you one of the many people who have looked at me a thousand times and still don't know what I mean?

"How did I miss that? I looked at this painting 100 times.” The art historian's assistant sat in silence for a few moments, changing his legs' positions while he looked at the artwork over and over.

He put his magnifying glass aside and took some deep breaths: “Okay, I have to call my colleague.”

"Mike!" He called loudly. The assistant waits several seconds for a response. "Mike! 

Nobody is reacting. Nobody is hearing you. Oh, don't sniff. I do not like folks sniffling around. What's that bizarre object in your hand? Who is responding? I do not see anyone else here. 

“Carl Spitzweg's painting - The Poor Poet - needs your double-checking. No, you need to be here. I'm working on it, and I need you to check it. Mike, you have to see this by yourself.”

The art assistant placed his phone away and soon heard the elevator's sound. He rotated his body to face the squeaky sneakers approaching him.

Please don't wave in front of my nose. It is making me dizzy. Oh, you're a stubborn man. Who is this massive guy? He looks familiar, but I can't remember who he is.

"Mike, this is great. It began half an hour ago. It seemed a bit confusing at first, but the lines in the right corner are now clearer, and the hue is golden instead of black. In the past, the director had told me he had seen that, but until now, I thought he was fooling me around." 

Mike took over the lens and stared up close, practically touching the painting with his nose in the spot the assistant had mentioned earlier. Mike held his breath for a second, looked up at the assistant, and then focused back on the painting.

Another person with magnificent large eyes; what's up with you people? Wow, where did he get those white teeth; oh boy, I am blinded. What is this? A lump of meat embedded in two slices of bread, and what is this red running over your fingers? Blood? Did you kill someone? Oh, do not dare to come close and touch me.

“Mike! Damned! Be careful. Here is a wipe.” The art assistant looked annoyed. He noticed a change in the painting room. A candle seemed to be burning.

“Oh, Jesus! Mike, hand me the UV-Fluoreszenz spotlight. I placed it on the table next to the color.” 

The art assistant looked through the magnifying glass and simultaneously reached with one hand out to the spotlight. "Go faster, Mike. "We don't have all night." 

He looked at Mike up, grabbed the UV-Fluoreszenz spotlight, and smirked cynically at Mike's shoes. He did not say anything, only grinned. It didn't take long before he lifted his body and looked up at Mike with his head slightly stretched.

Both men gazed at each other. "We need to call the director. Mike, you are managing the call. I grab the painting."

Oh no, not again. I like the feeling of flying like a bird, but I hate this up-and-down bouncing from the run. Hold on, this face, this stunning, perplexing smile. Stop! Stop running! I want to see her face again. My life, my love, I recall. Oh, I missed her. Mona Lisa. My dearest love! 

Right now, I have no idea where I am. I feel out of place in this room; the window is so small that I can't see outside. It's so messy and cluttered in here that I can hardly breathe. I'm completely perplexed. What's on my head? Oh, dear. A nightcap. Since when did I have that? What an ugly beast; no wonder Mona won't look at me anymore. I do not feel any movement. Did we make a stop?

The art historian's assistant paused and took another glance at the artwork.

"He moved his hand. First, there were almost imperceptible micro-movements, and now he has moved his hand. Cannot wait to hear what the director has to say. We're making history, Mike. We're making history.”

Mike repeatedly pressed the elevator buttons, but it wouldn't open; it wasn't even making a sound.

"Not again. Mike, this elevator is driving me mad. Come, let us get the steps. Won't be a problem, Right? We must hurry. The time is running."

Does the up-and-down bouncing ever stop? I really can't concentrate on my manuscript. Wait, why is a manuscript in my hands? There is also a feather and an ink. And everything is covered in dirt, and what is this above me – an opened black umbrella. All things here, it just doesn't make sense. If I close my eyes for a few moments, maybe I will see this all more clearly.

When the director came, the assistant, breathless from sprinting up the stairs with his colleague Mike, presented him with the unexpected discoveries he had made one hour earlier. The director reached out and took the magnifying lens from the assistant art historian. A light smile appeared on the director's face as he looked at this painting, particularly at the manuscript the painted man held in his hands. The trio discussed the artwork and the painting depicting Mathias Ettenhueber, who became a royal poet but did not get any financial support because of his title. He died as a broken man.

Mathias Ettenhueber: I'd forgotten, but now I remember. I was a poet, a talented poet, I recall. Oh, it has been an eternity since I have seen the sunrise. In my dream, I will write a poem for my dear about the wonderful warm light.

Warm rays of sunlight first hit the lower right corner of the painting, making the sections appear golden before reaching the candle and extinguishing its flame. The three men stood in the huge exhibition hall, their faces fixated on the picture, silently witnessing the change in the painting.