“It’s all very well for you to smile, Barnabas,” she said energetically, “but if my model hadn’t failed me, do you suppose for one moment that I should allow you to be sitting there wasting my morning, and incidentally wasting your own?”
“No waste, dear Aunt Olive,” said Barnabas imperturbably2. He had calmly given her the title one day, and it had been adopted by the five other artists of the courtyard. It had pleased Miss Mason immensely, though she occasionally pretended to look upon it as an impertinence. “No waste, dear Aunt Olive. The enormous benefit I invariably derive3 from your conversation is of incalculably greater advantage to me than the time I should otherwise spend in dabbing4 paint on canvas. The canvas is always destroyed at the end of two hours, unless the subject happens to be a commission. Your conversation abides5 for ever engraven on my memory.”
“Barnabas, you’re a fool,” retorted Miss Mason. “Besides, if you were not here I should paint a still life.”
“Oranges against a green or blue earthenware6 jar—I know,” said Barnabas sorrowfully. “Dear aunt, cui bono? You have dozens of oranges already on canvas, to say nothing of the blue and green jars. You could paint them in your sleep. Why make another representation of them?”
“Don’t mock at my work,” said Miss Mason severely7. “You have a lifetime before you, and can afford to waste mornings. I cannot. Remember my age.”
“I’ll try to do so, since you wish it,” returned Barnabas. “It is, however, the one thing I invariably forget.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Mason. “However, if you won’t go, where is my knitting? I can’t sit entirely8 idle.”
She took a bundle of white woolwork from a side table. Two steel knitting-needles were stuck into it. She sat down in the big oak chair by the fire, and in a moment the needles were clicking busily. She looked more like one of the three Fates than ever. And somewhere away in a back street a scrap9 of humanity must have heard the clicking needles, and a thread of white wool must have stretched out invisibly to draw it towards the [Pg 120]hands that held them. Though at the moment Miss Mason knitted serenely10 unconscious of the fact.
Barnabas watched her in silence.
“For the poor?” he asked politely, after a couple of minutes.
“Babies,” said Miss Mason shortly. “They get little enough welcome, poor mites11; but knowing that a white jacket with a bit of blue ribbon run through it is waiting for them, helps the mothers to look forward to their advent12 with a certain degree of pleasure. It’s curious, the effect of little things.”
“I should hardly have thought——” began Barnabas.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” interrupted Miss Mason. “You’ve never had a baby. Neither have I, for the matter of that.”
“Barnabas, you’re disgraceful!” she exclaimed. “I never know what I say when I begin to talk to you.”
“Therein lies the charm of your conversation,” he assured her. “It is always so unpremeditated.”
“Huh!” said Miss Mason, and she returned to her knitting.
She looked exactly the same as she had looked six months previously14, except that there was a new and curious radiance about her eyes. They looked [Pg 121]as if they were absorbing happiness, and giving it forth15 again in actual light. Also her black dress had given place to a grey one.
The style being unprocurable at any modern shop, she had engaged a sewing-woman to make it for her. The woman was firmly persuaded that Miss Mason was quite mad, but finding her an extremely generous customer, she was perfectly16 ready to seam grey cashmere into any pattern Miss Mason might require. She had once gone so far as to announce that the costume was picturesque17. Something in her manner as she made the statement had annoyed Miss Mason.
“Picturesque! Nothing of the kind!” Miss Mason had retorted. “It is serviceable and comfortable, and suited to a woman of my age. Some women of sixty make fools of themselves in a couple of yards of silk nineteen inches wide. I make a fool of myself in twelve yards of cashmere forty inches wide. That’s all the difference. But I prefer my own folly18.” And the sewing-woman had retired19 crestfallen20.
“I saw Paul yesterday,” remarked Barnabas after a moment.
“I like him,” said Miss Mason succinctly21.
“So do I,” returned Barnabas. “He is so refreshingly22 clean. He always looks as if he had just completed a toilette in which baths, aromatic23 soap, and hair-brushes had played an important part.”
“Yet he manages to escape looking shiny,” said Miss Mason.
“We all take baths,” went on Barnabas thoughtfully; “at least, I hope so. But with the majority of people one has to take the fact of their scrupulous24 cleanliness more on faith than by sight. With Paul it is so extraordinarily25 apparent.”
“What is he doing at the moment?” asked Miss Mason.
“Painting the portrait of a certain Duchessa di Corleone. I happened to see the lady leaving the studio. She is remarkably26 beautiful. Paul has the devil’s own luck. I have to spend my time painting middle-aged27 women with hair groomed28 by their maids till they look like barbers’ blocks, or pink-cheeked girls with a perpetual smile.”
“Don’t paint them if you dislike doing it,” said Miss Mason.
“Dear Aunt Olive, I must.”
“No such thing. You have an excellent private income.”
“I grant you that. It is, however, not the point. I am a portrait painter. It is my métier. To be a portrait painter one must paint portraits. The two things are inseparable.”
“Paint models, then,” said Miss Mason. “Choose your subject.”
“It is not the same thing,” replied Barnabas gravely. “A model who is paid for sitting does not rank with a creature who pays one to immortalize their material features on canvas. To say I have a model coming to sit for me this morning is nothing. To say the Lady Mayoress of So-and-So comes to my study at eleven o’clock this morning is quite another matter. At first your fellow-artists say, ‘Pure swank on his part.’ But when eleven o’clock arrives, and with it the Lady Mayoress in a gold coach with four horses and velvet-breeched lackeys30 with cocked hats—why, then the whole thing assumes totally different proportions. I am regarded in a new light. I become a person of importance among my fellow-men. I gaze upon a double chin, boot-button eyes, and a smile that won’t come off, enduring mental torture thereby31, in order that later I may strut32 from my studio with an air of swagger, and hear myself spoken of as ‘John Kirby, the portrait painter.’ And once more I ask you, how can one attain35 to the distinction of portrait painter if one does not paint portraits?”
“Barnabas, you’re ridiculous,” said Miss Mason. “You talk of nothing seriously, not even your art which you love. But if you could be serious for ten minutes, I’d like to ask you about a scheme I have in my mind.”
There was a little hesitancy in the last words. Barnabas looked up quickly.
“I’m attending,” he said gravely.
“You know,” said Miss Mason quietly, “that for a woman who spends as little as I do I am very rich.”
Barnabas nodded. “I thought you must have a good bit of money,” he said, glancing round the studio.
Miss Mason followed the direction of his glance.
“That was rather—what you would call a splurge—on my part,” said Miss Mason. “Fact is, I have about fifteen thousand a year. If I spend two in the year it will be all I shall do.”
“Yes,” said Barnabas gravely.
“Of course,” went on Miss Mason, growing gruffer as she became more in earnest, “I’ve told you how much I care for art. Suppose I inherited the love of it from my father. See now, it’s little use loving it if one doesn’t get the chance to work when one’s young—I mean as far as one’s own creation is concerned. Get a lot of pleasure dabbing paint on canvas, making pictures of oranges, and drawing charcoal36 heads. But the time’s past for me to do anything serious in that line. Glad you’re honest enough not to contradict me. Been thinking, though, that there must be others who would like the chance. Care so much myself, would like to help them.” She stopped.
“A ripping idea,” said Barnabas warmly.
“Thought,” went on Miss Mason, “that if five thousand pounds a year went for that purpose it’d be something—give twenty would-be artists the chance, anyhow. Each would-be artist to have an income of two hundred and fifty pounds for five [Pg 125]years while they are studying—longer if you thought well. Then another to take their place. Want them to be people who’d really care. Love the work. Want you to help me. Don’t rush the matter. If you can find the right people let me know. You’re a young man. Would like to appoint you as my executor in the scheme. You could carry on the work. Would like, though, to see it started.” Miss Mason looked anxiously at Barnabas. The little speech had cost her a great effort. It was the outcome of the thought of many weeks.
Barnabas met her look. “There’s nothing I should like better than to help you in the scheme,” he said warmly. “It’s fine. By Jingo! Twenty men to have their chance every five years. Think of it!”
“Am ready to include women too,” said Miss Mason, “as long as”—she continued, getting gruffer than ever—“they aren’t giving up other duties to it. Might find some women glad to have a chance too. Would have liked it myself. You go about among people. Can let me know later. Don’t rush it.”
“It’s fine,” said Barnabas again. “Aunt Olive, you’re a brick!”
The boyish compliment brought the colour to Miss Mason’s cheeks.
“Glad you like the idea,” she said.
A sudden gust37 of wind tore round the studio, and a torrential shower, half of sleet38, half of hail, beat down upon the skylight.
“Abominable weather!” said Miss Mason, clicking her knitting-needles furiously. She did not even now guess how near to her the scrap of humanity had been drawn39 by the thread of white wool.
His further reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“See who it is, will you?” said Miss Mason. “Sally is busy. If it is a beggar send him or her away. I don’t encourage them.”
Barnabas grinned broadly, knowing the untruth of the statement. He heaved himself off the chair and went towards the door.
There was a moment’s parley41. Then he returned, followed by a small and weird42 figure. Its sex was indistinguishable. A man’s coat frayed43 and torn reached to the top of a pair of patched boots many sizes too large for the feet they covered, a man’s slouched hat hid nearly the whole of the face.
“It says it is a model,” announced Barnabas. “Its language is a mixture of French and broken English.”
Miss Mason let her knitting fall.
“A model!” she exclaimed, looking at the odd creature.
“Ah!” The sigh was one of intense satisfaction. The hands, hidden by the frayed coat-sleeves, were held out towards the leaping flames.
“You’re cold?” asked Miss Mason quickly.
The figure nodded its head.
“Who sent you to me?” she demanded.
“Personne. But I know Keetie Jenkins ’as been model for you. She tell me you ask ’er when you bring ze baby ze white jacket. Mrs. Jenkins ’as taken Keetie away, so I tink I do instead of Keetie.”
“Huh,” grunted45 Miss Mason. “Haven’t seen you yet. So the Jenkinses have gone, have they? That accounts for Kitty failing me this morning. They might have taken the trouble to let me know.”
The small figure by the fire raised its head quickly. Miss Mason and Barnabas had a glimpse of a pointed46 chin and a scarlet47 mouth.
“Mrs. Jenkins she is too un’appy. You see Georgie ’e is dead.”
“Georgie! Never heard of him. Who was he?” demanded Miss Mason.
“’Er little boy.” The reply came seriously. “’E die of doing too many lessons. Mrs. Jenkins say Keetie not die zat way. She ’as gone to ze country, where ze ’spectors not so ’ticular, she say.”
“A unique death,” remarked Barnabas gravely. “I don’t fancy many little boys die of that complaint. Have you ever posed before?”
“Mais, oui.” The head was nodded vigorously. “Sall I pose for you?”
“Don’t know what you’re like yet,” said Miss Mason.
“There is a proverb, O infant,” supplemented Barnabas, “which instructs one never to buy a pig in a poke34. Acting48 on that principle, it is impossible for us to decide on a model attired50 as you are. Therefore——” he broke off.
“Oh, my tings,” she nodded gravely. “I take zem off.”
The figure tossed the slouched hat on to a chair. It was followed by the coat and the boots, which later were kicked off, disclosing bare feet small and well-arched.
There stood before them a slip of a girl-child, in a faded green frock, black hair cut square on the forehead and at the nape of the neck, after the fashion of some mediæval page, the face white, with pointed chin and geranium-coloured mouth, eyes grey with pupils large and very black. She might have been about nine years old.
She raised her hands to the back of her neck, unfastening mysterious strings51. Before Miss Mason was aware of her intention, she slid suddenly out of her clothes and stood on the hearthrug before them, naked as the day on which she was born.
“Barnabas, turn your back and leave the studio [Pg 129]at once. I never paint a nude54 model. It is against all my principles to do so. Put on your clothes again at once, child. Barnabas, stop laughing. I know you’re perfectly brazen55 on the subject. Remember, in spite of my age, I’m an unmarried woman.”
Barnabas picked up a piece of scarlet silk drapery from the model stand and flung it round the child, who was looking from him to Miss Mason in astonishment56. When she was enveloped57 in its folds he spoke33.
“Miss Mason, my child, is not used to seeing little girls in their birthday attire49. It surprised her. She has a penchant58 for petticoats and frocks, to say nothing of stockings. She might, however, be persuaded to paint you draped as you now are. You look, by the way, uncommonly59 like a scarlet poppy.”
The child looked gravely at Barnabas.
“She not paint se altogezzer?” she demanded.
“Precisely. She does not paint what the immortal29 Trilby termed ‘the altogether,’ which phrase you have just made your own.”
The child nodded her head.
“Mais, oui. Some peoples zey do not. I hear Monsieur Thiery say one time it toute à fait extraordinaire zat some peoples ’shamed to look at ze greatest ’andiwork of God. I did not know, me, zat ze peoples who live in ze vrais ateliers zey tink it shame.”
“We all have our little prejudices,” said Barnabas [Pg 130]lightly. “Naked little girls is apparently60 one of Miss Mason’s.”
He smiled whimsically at that lady.
“Shall we paint this infant?” he asked her. “Can the woolly jackets be put on one side, and may I fetch my palette?”
“If you like,” said Miss Mason shortly. “It’s nice of you not to laugh at my prejudices, Barnabas.”
“There are moments when I rather like them,” he assured her. And he vanished from the studio.
When he returned it was to find Miss Mason kneeling by a low chair on which the child was seated. The red silk was off the shoulders, and Miss Mason was sponging an ugly bruise61 on the child’s back. She turned her head as Barnabas entered.
“Look at this,” she said in a low, indignant voice.
“Who did it?” asked Barnabas.
“Some brute62 she calls Mrs. Higgins.” Miss Mason’s voice augured63 ill for that lady, had she been at hand.
“Mrs. ’iggins drunk,” said the child patiently. “She often drunk. Ver’ drunk last night.”
Miss Mason put some ointment64 on the bruise, and covered it with a piece of soft linen65. Then she wrapped the red silk again round the child. She sat down in the big chair and drew the child to her.
“Now, little one,” she said, speaking in French, “tell us all about it.”
“Tell us everything,” said Miss Mason.
It came then, an odd little story, scrappily told. Her name was Pippa. She had lived in Paris with Madame Barbin. Madame Barbin washed clothes till they were white—oh, but very white. Pippa had posed for artists. She loved Madame Barbin, but she had died—a year, perhaps two years, ago. Madame Fournier had taken care of her then. She did not like Madame Fournier, who was cross. Then Madame Fournier had brought her in a ship to England. Perhaps that was a year ago. Anyhow, it was cold weather. They had lived in different houses, and finally at Mrs. Higgins’ house, and Pippa had posed for different artists in London. Some time in the summer, Madame Fournier had gone away, leaving Pippa with Mrs. Higgins. She had not come back. Mrs. Higgins was angry—very angry, according to Pippa. She beat her occasionally, but not always very badly. Bruises67 were likely to be seen on one who poses for “the altogether.” Lately, however, Mrs. Higgins had been too angry to remember that fact. Hence the bruises of the previous evening. In reply to further questioning it was found that Pippa knew no one she had ever called father or mother. There were only Madame Barbin, Madame Fournier, Mrs. Higgins, and the names of quite a good many well-known artists [Pg 132]for whom she had posed. She also stated that she washed herself every morning, though Mrs. Higgins said it was “un’ealthy.” And she washed and dried her underclothes when Mrs. Higgins was away at the public-houses, where she spent most of her time.
“Yes,” Miss Mason nodded. “The child is clean, at all events.”
And then suddenly at the end of the recital68, Pippa swayed a little sideways, and if Barnabas had not sprung forward she would have fallen on the hearthrug. As it was, she lay in his arms, her face dead white against the scarlet folds of silk. In a word, Pippa had fainted.
Barnabas laid her flat on the hearthrug and opened the door and windows. Miss Mason fetched brandy and a large cut-glass bottle of smelling-salts, which she held to the child’s nose, making a curious clucking sound with her tongue, and lamenting69 that there were no feathers handy to burn. But presently, in spite of the lack of feathers, Pippa opened her eyes.
Then Barnabas put a question.
“When did you last have food?” he asked, watching her.
Pippa put up a small hand to her forehead and pushed back the dark hair.
“Yesterday,” she said feebly. “Bread and treacle”—she rolled the r’s in a funny way—“at dinner-time.”
“And nothing since then!” cried Miss Mason in horror. “Oh! that Mrs. Higgins!”
But Barnabas was already in the kitchen issuing commands to Sally.
“Bread, Sally, quick. Cut it in small pieces and put them in a saucepan with lots of milk. Is there a good fire? Yes. Ever made bread and milk in your life before?” And Sally flew round.
Ten minutes later Barnabas and Miss Mason were feeding a small famished70 girl, who was looking at them as if they were gods from another world, and at the bread and milk as if it were the nectar and ambrosia71 they had brought with them.
And when the blue basin was empty Barnabas lifted Pippa in his arms, and guided by Miss Mason, carried her into the inner room, and laid her like a little broken poppy in Miss Mason’s bed. Together they tucked her in, and saw the white eyelids72 close slowly over the great grey eyes.
Then they went out into the studio. And Barnabas threw the man’s coat and hat, and the old boots into a corner. The other garments he put on the model stand.
“I shall come back by and by,” he said, “and see how the small creature is getting on.”
He looked in twice during the day to find that she was still asleep. It was after sunset when he came the third time, and it was to find her sitting near the fire eating a delicious brown egg and slices of bread and butter, while Miss Mason was telling [Pg 134]her that most entrancing of fairy tales—“The Sleeping Beauty.”
Barnabas sat down and waited. Every now and then he looked at the child with a puzzled expression in his eyes. Suddenly he threw back his head. He very nearly whistled. Something that had eluded73 him had been discovered.
The egg and the story were finished. There came a silence.
The child’s eyes wandered round the studio. They lighted on the faded green dress lying on the model stand. A queer little look of sadness that should be foreign to a child’s face crept back into her eyes.
She slid down from her chair, and stood solemnly before Miss Mason.
“I tank you bof ver’ much,” she said, with a quaint74 air of courtesy. “But now I put on zem tings and go back to Mrs. ’iggins.”
She smiled a brave little smile, sadder than any tears or protests.
Barnabas felt a sudden odd grip at his throat. Miss Mason spoke suddenly and firmly.
“No,” she said, “you are not going back to Mrs. Higgins.”
The child looked at her with wondering eyes.
“You mean——?” she said.
“That you are going to stay here with me,” said Miss Mason decisively. “Barnabas, you must help me to arrange it.”
The child’s face quivered.
“Oh!” she cried, with a laugh that held a sob75, “I tink I like dat Princess. She sleep and sleep, and she wake up when ze Prince kiss her, and ze world all ver’ ’appy. And I so ’appy just all ze same, wisout no Prince kiss me.”
And then Barnabas did a queer thing. He put his arm round the child and kissed her lips.
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1
shovelful
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| n．一铁铲 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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extraordinarily
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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middle-aged
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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52
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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53
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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54
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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57
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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59
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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61
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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63
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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66
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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70
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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71
ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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72
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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73
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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74
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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75
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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