The Old Man and the Mountain

The old man had lived on his own in the white-walled cottage on the side of the valley for as long as anyone could remember.

He was an artist, and in his younger days he had toured round the local countryside, painting pictures of local people as they were going about their business or enjoying themselves in the local taverns, playing cards or dancing to a gipsy violin. It was believed by some that he was quite famous and that his paintings fetched good prices when bought by rich people in the city, but nobody had ever seen much evidence of his wealth.

Latterly, most of his work was done on the verandah of his cottage, where he could be seen at his easel painting the scene that lay before him. It was said that he had painted the same panorama more than a hundred times, and that every painting was different.

Prominent in all these paintings was the mountain that rose above the far side of the valley. It was the only mountain of any size for miles around, although it was by no means difficult to climb. There were well-trodden paths that led all the way to the top and people said that there was a marvelous view from the summit.

As he painted, the old man was often greeted by tourists who were on their way to the mountain, equipped with walking poles and rucksacks.

People sometimes stopped and watched him at work, occasionally asking him what could be seen from the top of the mountain.

“I don’t know”, said the old man. “I’ve never been there”.

“Never been to the top?” would be the reply. “But surely you want to see what’s on the other side?”

“Perhaps I will”, he would say. “One fine day I’ll climb the mountain and see for myself”.

But he never did.

The locals were quite correct to think that the old man was widely respected in the artistic world, and he would sometimes be visited by other artists who wanted to learn from him and see for themselves where his inspiration lay.

From time to time an artist would follow the tourists to the mountain-top and then come back and tell the old man what they had seen.

“It’s a splendid view”, they would say. “You really should go and see it. It would give you a whole new focus for your work”.

“Who knows?” the old man would say. “One fine day I might just do that.”

But after his guests had left the old man would get his easel out and paint his mountain one more time.

The view he had from his cottage was perfect for him. As the seasons changed and the day flitted from dawn to dusk there were so many variations in the colours and shades that the scene presented to him, that he saw no need to be anywhere else.

And yet, at the back of his mind, there was always the lingering thought that he might – just once – give way to curiosity and climb the mountain to look at what lay on the other side. However, he also believed that this would not happen until he was ready to stop painting. Would the magic of his view of the mountain be lost for ever if that view changed? If he conquered the mountain, would the mountain have conquered him? If that happened, he knew that he could never paint again.

But maybe, just maybe, one fine day …

The day came when he was no longer to be seen on his verandah, painting at his easel. He was found lying on his bed, perfectly still and at peace. A note was found next to him. It read “Please scatter my ashes on the mountain. The day of my visit is long overdue.”

So that is what they did. Had the fine day eventually arrived? Not exactly. The day when his ashes were scattered was the only thoroughly wet one all that summer.

 © John Welford