As Conrad Lagrange and Mr. Rutlidge entered the studio, Aaron King turned from the easel, where he had drawn2 the velvet3 curtain to hide the finished portrait. Mrs. Taine was standing4 at the other side of the room, wrap in hand, calmly waiting, ready to go. The artist greeted Mr. Rutlidge cordially, while the woman triumphantly5 announced the completion of her portrait.
"Ah! permit me to congratulate you, old man," said Rutlidge, addressing the artist familiarly. "It is too much, I suppose, to expect a look at it this afternoon?"
"Thanks,"--returned the artist,--"you are all coming to-morrow, at three, you know. I would rather not show it to-day. It is a little late for the best light; and I would like for _you_ to see it under the most favorable conditions possible."
The critic was visibly flattered by the painter's manner and by his well-chosen emphasis upon the personal pronoun. "Quite right"--he said approvingly--"quite right, old boy." He turned to the novelist--"These painter chaps, you know, Lagrange, like to have a few hours for a last touch or two before _I_ come around." He laughed pompously6 at his own words--the others joining.
When Mrs. Taine and her companions were gone, the artist said hurriedly to his friend, "Come on, let's get it over." He led the way back to the studio.
"I thought the light was too bad," said the older man, quizzingly, as they entered the big room.
"It's good enough for _your_ needs," retorted the painter savagely7. "You could see all you want by candle-light." He jerked the curtain angrily aside, and--without a glance at the canvas--walked away to stand at the window looking out upon the rose garden--waiting for the flood of the novelist's scorn to overwhelm him. At last, when no sound broke the quiet of the room, he turned--to find himself alone.
Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slipped quietly out of the building.
The artist found his friend, a few minutes later, meditatively8 smoking his pipe on the front porch, with Czar lying at his feet.
"Well," said the painter, curiously,--anxious, as he had said, to have it over,--"why the deuce don't you _say_ something?"
The novelist answered slowly, "My vocabulary is too limited, for one reason, and"--he looked thoughtfully down at Czar--"I prefer to wait until you have finished the portrait."
"It _is_ finished," returned the artist desperately10. "I swear I'll never touch a brush to the damned thing again."
The man with the pipe spoke11 to the dog at his feet; "Listen to him, Czar--listen to the poor devil of a painter-man."
The dog arose, and, placing his head upon his master's knee, looked up into the lined and rugged12 face, as the novelist continued, "If he was only a wee bit puffed13 up and cocky over the thing, now, we could exert ourselves, so we could, couldn't we?" Czar slowly waved a feathery tail in dignified14 approval. His master continued, "But when a fellow can do a crime like that, and still retain enough virtue15 in his heart to hear his work shrieking16 to heaven its curses upon him for calling it into existence, it's best for outsiders to keep quite still. Your poor old master knows whereof he speaks, doesn't he, dog? That he does!"
"And is that all you have to say on the subject?" demanded the artist, as though for some reason he was disappointed at his friend's reticence17.
"I _might_ add a word of advice," said the other.
"Well, what is it?"
"That you pray your gods--if you have any--to be merciful, and bestow18 upon you either less genius or more intelligence to appreciate it."
* * * * *
At three o'clock, the following afternoon, the little party from Fairlands Heights came to view, the portrait Or,--as Conrad Lagrange said, while the automobile19 was approaching the house, "Well, here they come--'The Age', accompanied by 'Materialism20', 'Sensual', and 'Ragtime'--to look upon the prostitution of Art, and call it good." Escorted by the artist, and the novelist, they went at once to the studio.
The appreciation21 of the picture was instantaneous--so instantaneous, in fact, that Louise Taine's lips were shaped to deliver an expressive22 "oh" of admiration23, even _before_ the portrait was revealed. As though the painter, in drawing back the easel curtain, gave an appointed signal, that "oh" was set off with the suddenness of a sky-rocket's rush, and was accompanied in its flight by a great volume of sizzling, sputtering24, glittering, adjectival sparks that--filling the air to no purpose whatever--winked out as they were born; the climax25 of the pyrotechnical display being reached in the explosive pop of another "oh" which released a brilliant shower of variegated26 sighs and moans and ecstatic looks and inarticulate exclamations--ending, of course, in total darkness.
Mrs. Taine hastened to turn the artist's embarrassed attention to an appreciation that had the appearance, at least, of a more enduring value. Drawing, with affectionate solicitude27, close to her husband, she asked,--in a voice that was tremulous with loving care and anxiety to please,--"Do you like it, dear?"
"It is magnificent, splendid, perfect!" This effort to give his praise of the artist's work the appearance of substantial reality cost the wretched product of lust28 and luxury a fit of coughing that racked his burnt-out body almost to its last feeble hold upon the world of flesh and, with a force that shamed the strength of his words, drove home the truth that neither his praise nor his scorn could long endure. When he could again speak, he said, in his husky, rasping whisper,--while grasping the painter's hand in effusive29 cordiality,--"My dear fellow, I congratulate you. It is exquisite30. It will create a sensation, sir, when it is exhibited. Your fame is assured. I must thank you for the honor you have done me in thus immortalizing the beauty and character of Mrs. Taine." And then, to his wife,--"Dearest, I am glad for you, and proud. It is as worthy31 of you as paint and canvas could be." He turned to Conrad Lagrange who was an interested observer of the scene--"Am I not right, Lagrange?"
"Quite right, Mr. Taine,--quite right. As you say, the portrait is most worthy the beauty and character of the charming subject."
Another paroxysm of coughing mercifully prevented the poor creature's reply.
With one accord, the little group turned, now, to James Rutlidge--the dreaded32 authority and arbiter33 of artistic34 destinies. That distinguished35 expert, while the others were speaking, had been listening intently; ostensibly, the while, he examined the picture with a show of trained skill that, it seemed, could not fail to detect unerringly those more subtle values and defects that are popularly supposed to be hidden from the common eye. Silently, in breathless awe36, they watched the process by which professional criticism finds its verdict. That is, they _thought_ they were watching the process. In reality, the method is more subtle than they knew.
While the great critic moved back and forth37 in front of the easel; drew away from or bent38 over to closely scrutinize39 the canvas; shifted the easel a hair breadth several times; sat down; stood erect40; hummed and muttered to himself abstractedly; cleared his throat with an impressive "Ahem"; squinted41 through nearly closed eyes, with his head thrown back, or turned in every side angle his fat neck would permit: peered through his half-closed fist; peeped through funnels42 of paper; sighted over and under his open hand or a paper held to shut out portions of the painting;--the others _thought_ they saw him expertly weighing the evidence for and against the merit of the work. In _reality_ it was his _ears_ and not his _eyes_ that helped the critic to his final decision--a decision which was delivered, at last, with a convincing air of ponderous43 finality. Indeed it was a judgment44 from which there could be no appeal, for it expressed exactly the views of those for whose benefit it was rendered. Then, in a manner subtly insinuating45 himself into the fellowship of the famous, he, too, turned to Conrad Lagrange with a scholarly; "Do you not agree, sir?"
The novelist answered with slow impressiveness; "The picture, undoubtedly46, fully9 merits the appreciation and praise you have given it. I have already congratulated Mr. King--who was kind enough to show me his work before you arrived."
After this, Yee Kee appeared upon the scene, and tea was served in the studio--a fitting ceremony to the launching of another genius.
"By the way, Mr. Lagrange," said Mrs. Taine, quite casually,--when, under the influence of the mildly stimulating47 beverage48, the talk had assumed a more frivolous49 vein,--"Who is your talented neighbor that so charms Mr. King with the music of a violin?"
The novelist, as he turned toward the speaker, shot a quick glance at the Artist. Nor did those keen, baffling eyes fail to note that, at the question, James Rutlidge had paused in the middle of a sentence. "That is one of the mysteries of our romantic surroundings madam," said Conrad Lagrange, easily.
"And a very charming mystery it seems to be," returned the woman. "It has been quite affecting to watch its influence upon Mr. King."
The artist laughed. "I admit that I found the music, in combination with the beauty I have so feebly tried to out upon canvas, very stimulating."
A flash of angry color swept into the perfect cheeks of Mrs. Taine, as she retorted with meaning; "You are as flattering in your speech as you are with your brush. I assure you I do not consider myself in your unknown musician's class."
The small eyes of James Rutlidge were fixed50 inquiringly upon the speakers, while his heavy face betrayed--to the watchful51 novelist--an interest he could not hide. "Is this music of such exceptional merit?" he asked with an attempt at indifference52.
Louise Taine--sensing that the performances of the unnamed violinist had been acceptable to Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King--the two representatives of the world to which she aspired--could not let the opportunity slip. She fairly deluged53 them with the spray of her admiring ejaculations in praise of the musician--employing, hit or miss, every musical term that popped into her vacuous54 head.
"Indeed,"--said the critic,--"I seem to have missed a treat." Then, directly to the artist,--"And you say the violinist is wholly unknown to you?"
"Wholly," returned the painter, shortly.
Conrad Lagrange saw a faint smile of understanding and disbelief flit for an instant over the heavy face of James Rutlidge.
When the automobile, at last, was departing with the artist's guests; the two friends stood for a moment watching it up the road to the west, toward town. As the big car moved away, they saw Mrs. Taine lean forward to speak to the chauffeur55 while James Rutlidge, who was in the front seat, turned and shook his head as though in protest. The woman appeared to insist. The machine slowed down, as though the chauffeur, in doubt, awaited the outcome of the discussion. Then, just in front of that neighboring house, Rutlidge seemed to yield abruptly56, and the automobile turned suddenly in toward the curb57 and stopped. Mrs. Taine alighted, and disappeared in the depths of the orange grove58.
Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange looked at each other, for a moment, in questioning silence. The artist laughed. "Our poor little mystery," he said.
But the novelist--as they went toward the house--cursed Mrs. Taine, James Rutlidge, and all their kin1 and kind, with a vehement59 earnestness that startled his companion--familiar as the latter was with his friend's peculiar60 talent in the art of vigorous expression.
After dinner, that evening, the painter and the novelist sat on the porch--as their custom was--to watch the day go out of the sky and the night come over valley and hill and mountain until, above the highest peaks, the stars of God looked down upon the twinkling lights of the towns of men. At that hour, too, it was the custom, now, for the violinist hidden in the orange grove, to make the music they both so loved.
In the music, that night, there was a feeling that, to them, was new--a vague, uncertain, halting undertone that was born, they felt, of fear. It stirred them to question and to wonder. Without apparent cause or reason, they each oddly connected the troubled tone in the music with the stopping of the automobile from Fairlands Heights, that afternoon, at the gate of the little house next door--the artist, because of Mrs. Taine's insistent61 inquiry62 about the, to him, unknown musician;--Conrad Lagrange, because of the manner of the girl in the garden when James Rutlidge appeared and because of the critic's interest when they had spoken of the violinist in the studio. But neither expressed his thought to the other.
Presently, the music ceased, and they sat for an hour, perhaps, in silence--as close friends may do--exchanging only now and then a word.
Suddenly, they were startled by a cry. In the still darkness of the night, from the mysterious depths of the orange grove, the sound came with such a shock that the two men, for the moment, held their places, motionless--questioning each other sharply--"What was that?" "Did you hear?"--as though they doubted, almost, their own ears.
The cry came again; this time, undoubtedly, from that neighboring house to the west. It was unmistakably the cry of a woman--a woman in fear and pain.
They leaped to their feet.
Again the cry came from the black depths of the orange grove--shuddering, horrible--in an agony of fear.
The two men sprang from the porch, and, through the darkness that in the orange grove was like a black wall, ran toward the spot from which the sound came--the dog at their heels.
Breathless, they broke into the little yard in front of the tiny box-like house. Lights shone in the windows. All seemed peaceful and still. Czar betrayed no uneasiness. Going to the front door, they knocked.
There was no answer save the sound of some one moving inside.
Again, the artist knocked vigorously.
The door opened, and a woman stood on the threshold.
Standing a little to one side, the men saw her features clearly, in the light from the room. It was the woman with the disfigured face.
Conrad Lagrange was first to command himself. "I beg your pardon, madam. We live in the house next door. We thought we heard a cry of distress63. May we offer our assistance in any way? Is there anything we can do?"
"Thank you, sir, you are very kind,"--returned the woman, in a low voice,--"but it is nothing. There is nothing you can do."
And the voice of Sibyl Andres, who stood farther back in the room, where the artist from his position could not see her, added, "It was good of you to come, Mr. Lagrange; but it is really nothing. We are so sorry you were disturbed."
"Not at all," returned the men, as the woman of the disfigured face drew back from the door. "Good night."
"Good night," came from within the house, and the door was shut.
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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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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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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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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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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42
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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43
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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44
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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45
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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46
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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48
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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50
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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51
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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53
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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54
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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55
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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56
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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57
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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62
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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