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ELA SBAC - RLT

Last updated almost 3 years ago
2 questions
Note from the author:
Passage with 2 MC questions
Read the text and answer the questions.

The Portrait
by Amy Baskin

For Rodger Ermysted, the grandeur of the Whetherford School's surroundings and its formidable alumni paled in comparison to the imperious glare of its headmaster. John Chancellor's image had loomed steadily over him for the past thirty-five years, always scolding him as if to say, "You are unworthy." Ermysted passed through iron gates, remembering with a shudder the day that his mother had enrolled him at Whetherford. Eager for him to secure a prominent career in international banking, she had made great sacrifices to ensure him a place there and was understandably displeased when he abandoned Whetherford for Ludley Vocational Arts School. The fear and nausea that Rodger Ermysted endured since accepting the commission only served to make him more steadfast in his resolve to shame the man who had cast him by the wayside when he was young and impressionable. He would paint Chancellor's retirement portrait and, with deft brushstrokes, let the man's true ominous character come through and anoint the halls of Whetherford.

Chancellor's secretary ushered Ermysted into the headmaster's library where the mere scent of the antiquated volumes lining the walls quickened Ermysted's pulse, conjured the irrational fears of a lapdog awaiting discipline. The secretary gestured towards the Chesterfield tufted leather sofa by the fireplace and offered him tea. Ermysted proceeded to set up his easel, unscrewing the caps from paint tubes, and began to mix a limited palette drained of all warmth and energy, for he was to paint a timeless, immutable stone statue, devoid of feeling.

Ermysted glanced at the top of the fireplace, where he spied the dreaded Whetherford crest, replete with soaring hawk and pompous Latinate motto, Semper Sursum: "Always Aim High." Ermysted's stomach roiled nauseously as if it were trying to churn butter from rancid cream. All those years ago, Ermysted's head teacher had selected him to paint a mural of the crest on the northern wall of the dining hall, and Ermysted's fledgling spirits had risen like helium into the ether, only to come crashing down when Chancellor ordered it be painted over. "You are out of your depth here," Chancellor had declared to all those with ears and then muttered to the teacher that the attempt was a "tragic waste of pigment and linseed oil." With this callous remark, Ermysted knew in his bones there was no place for a boy like himself at Whetherford. Now, with works on display in the National Gallery, he had proven his former headmaster wrong, and he wanted Chancellor to admit this.

A side door to the study slowly creaked open, and the Old Boy himself shuffled in. The poor geezer must be edging on eighty if he's a day, thought Ermysted, noting that the man's eyes were encapsulated in bottle thick spectacles which made him appear more owlish than Ermysted had remembered and much less severe. Perhaps in the long march through time, he had lost some of his height. "I do apologize for the delay," the old man said between steps and breaths. "Your work has been highly recommended to me by several colleagues. Are you one of ours?" the headmaster inquired. Ermysted replied nebulously that no, sir, he did not have the honor of graduating from this fine institution. Wearing his placid smile like a suit of armor, he realized for the first time that Chancellor hadn't the vaguest idea who he was. Then the elder disarmed him with a smile. "Please do call me John. Life is too short to bother with all the formalities." He had long thought this man stern and imposing, but time had rendered him as tender as a grandfather.

Ermysted captured Chancellor's likeness at a three-quarter angle when there came a knock on the library door. A hesitant lad entered, his body hunched over in the form of a question mark and a ruddy, swollen face betraying the fact that he had been crying. Chancellor ushered him into a private chamber, apologizing to Ermysted. "This may take a moment." Ermysted assured him that he understood, and wondered what juvenile prank this boy had performed to wind up in the headmaster's quarters. Ermysted strained to catch the boy's muffled response but managed to only pick out the words "rooftop" and "damage." The headmaster spoke much more clearly. "The way we behave has an impact upon others, Benny. This is both an honor and a burden, you know." The boy assured the headmaster that he understood. "You're a good young man. Now, learn from this, go forth, and hold your head high." At this, the lad scurried out, spine straightened, with a hopeful look on his face more reminiscent of a manager receiving a promotion than a humiliated adolescent lining up for detention. The headmaster returned to pose for Ermysted. "More tea?" he offered.

Throughout the sitting, this man, whom Ermysted had long proclaimed guilty of shattering his early childhood, took the artist's hand and, with earnest warmth, thanked Ermysted for his time, causing Ermysted to wonder if perhaps there was an expiration date on blaming Chancellor for wounding his fragile sensibilities. Back in his studio, he studied his preliminary painting critically and found that the foreboding, lifeless palette he had selected felt both unkind as well as disingenuous. He set about replacing the pallid greys with cadmium red, yellow ochre, and raw sienna, and with each brushstroke, Ermysted realized that Chancellor's harsh assessment in bygone times had afforded him the temerity to switch schools and doggedly pursue a life of his own choosing.
Ermysted returned to deliver the finished portrait, the results of which pleased Chancellor to no end. Then Chancellor shared with Ermysted how he had pored over five yearbooks before coming upon Ermysted's photograph during his second year. "It had been eating away at me for days," Chancellor confessed. "My eyesight is failing, but I still never forget a face. Whatever made you leave our hallowed halls?" Ermysted cited his passion to train as an artist, for he hadn't the heart to tell Chancellor the truth, and, in all honesty, no longer harbored the need.
Read the text and answer the questions.
Throughout the sitting, this man, whom Ermysted had long proclaimed guilty of shattering his early childhood, took the artist's hand and, with earnest warmth, thanked Ermysted for his time, causing Ermysted to wonder if perhaps there was an expiration date on blaming Chancellor for wounding his fragile sensibilities. Back in his studio, he studied his preliminary painting critically and found that the foreboding, lifeless palette he had selected felt both unkind as well as disingenuous. He set about replacing the pallid greys with cadmium red, yellow ochre, and raw sienna, and with each brushstroke, Ermysted realized that Chancellor's harsh assessment in bygone times had afforded him the temerity to switch schools and doggedly pursue a life of his own choosing.
Ermysted returned to deliver the finished portrait, the results of which pleased Chancellor to no end. Then Chancellor shared with Ermysted how he had pored over five yearbooks before coming upon Ermysted's photograph during his second year.
1

Choose the sentence that best supports the conclusion that Chancellor may have done Ermysted a favor by ordering his mural be painted over.

Read the text and answer the questions.
Chancellor's secretary ushered Ermysted into the headmaster's library where the mere scent of the antiquated volumes lining the walls quickened Ermysted's pulse, conjured the irrational fears of a lapdog awaiting discipline. The secretary gestured towards the Chesterfield tufted leather sofa by the fireplace and offered him tea. Ermysted proceeded to set up his easel, unscrewing the caps from paint tubes, and began to mix a limited palette drained of all warmth and energy, for he was to paint a timeless, immutable stone statue, devoid of feeling.
1

Choose the adjective that best describes the tone of this passage.