Читать книгу The Tiger Lily - Fenn George Manville - Страница 8

“Nothing like hard work. I’ve conquered,” said Dale to himself one morning, as he sat toiling away at his big picture, whose minor portions were standing out definitely round the principal figure, which had been painted in again and again, but always to be cleaned off in disgust, and was now merely sketched in charcoal.

He was waiting patiently for the model who was to attend to stand for that figure – the figure only – for Pacey’s idea had taken hold, and, though he could not dwell upon it without a nervous feeling of dread, and asking himself whether it was not dangerous ground to take, he had determined, as he thought, to prove his strength, to endeavour to idealise the Contessa’s features for his Juno. It was the very countenance he wished to produce, and if he could have caught her expression and fixed it upon canvas that day when the Conte entered, so evidently by preconcerted arrangement with Lady Grayson, the picture would have been perfect.

“It need not be like her,” he argued; “it is the expression I want.”

He knew that in very few hours he could produce that face with its scornful eyes, but he always put it off.

After a time, when the trouble there was not so fresh, it would be more easy – “and the power to paint it as I saw it then have grown faint,” he added in despair, with the consequence that between the desire to paint a masterpiece, and the temptation to which he had been exposed, the face of Lady Dellatoria was always before him, sleeping and waking; though had he made a strong effort to cast out the recollection of those passionate, yearning eyes, the letters he received from time to time would have kept the memory fresh.

“At last!” he cried that morning, as steps were heard upon the stairs. “But she has not a light foot. I remember, though: they told me that she was a fine, majestic-looking woman.”

There was a tap at the door.

“Come in.”

Jupiter himself, in the person of Daniel Jaggs, thrust in his noble head.

“All right, Emperor, come in,” said Dale, going on painting, giving touches to the background of his Olympian scene, with its group of glowing beauties, who were to be surpassed by the majesty of the principal figure still to come. “What is it? Don’t want you to-day.”

“No, sir. I knowed it was a lady day, but I’ve come with a message from one.”

“Not from Lady – ”

He ceased speaking, and his heart beat heavily. Jaggs had been to and from Portland Place with the canvas. Had she made him her messenger?

“Yes, sir; from Lady Somers Town.”

“What?” cried Dale, with a sigh of relief, though, to his agony, he felt that he longed to hear from the Contessa again.

“Lady Somers Town, sir; that’s what Mr Pacey used to call her. Miss Vere Montesquieu of the Kaiserinn.”

“Miss Vere Montesquieu!” said Dale contemptuously.

“Well, that’s what she calls herself, sir. Did you say what was her real name, sir?”

“No, I didn’t, but I thought it. Oh, by the way, Jaggs, I must have another sitting or two from you. We haven’t quite caught the expression of Jupiter’s lips.”

“No, sir, we haven’t, sir,” said the model, looking at the canvas wistfully. “I know azactly what you want, but it’s so hard to put it on.”

“It is, Jaggs.”

“You want him to be looking as he would if he was afraid of his missus, and she’d just found him out at one of his games.”

“That’s it.”

“Well, sir, I’ll try again. Perhaps I can manage it next time. I was a bit on the other night, and I did get it pretty warm when I went home. I’ll try and feel like I did then, next time I’m a settin’.”

“Yes, do,” said Dale, who kept on with his work. “Ah, that’s better. Well, you were going to say something. Is anything wrong?”

“Well, sir, I’m only a poor model, and it ain’t for me to presoom.”

“Lookers-on see most of the game, Jaggs. What is it?”

“Well, sir, I was looking at Jupiter’s corpus.”

“Eh? See something out of drawing?”

“No, sir; your nattomy’s all right, of course. Never see it wrong. You’re splendid on ’ticulation, muskle, and flesh. But that’s Sam Spraggs as sat for the body, wasn’t it?”

“Yes; I’ve fitted it to your head.”

“Well, sir, not to presoom, do you feel sure as it wouldn’t be more god-like, more Jupitery as you may say, if you let me set, painted that out, and give the head the proper body. Be more nat’ral like, wouldn’t it?”

“No. What’s the matter with that? – the composition of a more muscular man with your head is, I think, excellent.”

“But it ain’t nat’ral like, sir. You see, Sam’s too fat.”

“Oh no, Jaggs. He only looks as if Hebe and Ganymede had poured him out good potions of a prime vintage, and as if the honey of Hybla often melted in his mouth.”

“Well, sir, you knows best. Maria Budd says – ”

“Who?”

“Miss Montesquieu, sir. She’s old Budd’s – the Somers Town greengrocer’s – gal.”

“Humph! Idiot! Well, what message has she sent? Not coming again?”

“No, sir. She’s very sorry, sir; but she’s got an engagement to early dinner at Brighton to-day, and won’t only be back in time to take her place in the chorus to-night.”

“Confound the woman! I shall never get the figure done. Do you know of any one else, Jaggs?”

“No, sir; and I’m afraid that you won’t after all be satisfied with her.”

“All, well, you needn’t wait. Seen Mr Pacey lately?”

“Yes, sir. Looks very ill, he do. Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.”

“Beg pardon, sir; but my missus – ”

“There, there, I don’t want to hear a long string of your inventions, Jaggs. How much do you want?”

“Oh, thankye, sir. If you could manage to let me have five shillings on account. – Thankye, sir. You are a gentleman.”

“The Emperor” departed, winking to himself as if he had something on his mind; and Dale threw down brushes and palette, sat back with his hands clasped behind his head, gazing at the blank place in his great canvas, till by slow degrees it was filled, and in all her majestic angry beauty Juno stood there, with her attendants shrinking and looking on, while she seemed to be flashing at her lord lightnings more terrible than those he held in his hand.

The face, the wondrous figure, in all its glow of mature womanhood, were there; and then the eyes seemed to turn upon Dale a look of love and appeal to him to think upon her piteous state, vowed to love and honour such a man as that.

Armstrong shuddered and wrenched his eyes away, wondering at the power of his vivid imagination, which had conjured up before him the Contessa in all the pride of her womanly beauty; and strive how he might to think of her only in connection with his picture, as he felt that he could produce her exactly there, and make the group a triumph of his work, he knew that his thoughts were of another cast, and that, in spite of all, this woman had inspired him with a passion that enthralled his very soul.

He started up, for the maid entered with a letter, and he fancied that she seemed to read his thoughts, as he took it and threw it carelessly on the table.

He did not look at the address. There was the Conte’s florid crest, face upward, and it lay there ready to be burned as soon as he left his seat, for the matches were over the fireless grate.

Keren-Happuch had reached the door.

“’Tain’t scented up like some on ’em,” she said to herself; and then she turned to look wistfully at the artist, whose eyes were fixed upon vacancy, for he was reading the letter in imagination. He knew every word of sorrowful reproach it would contain, for the letters were little varied. She would tell him of her solitary state, beg him to reconsider his decision, and ask him whether, in spite of the world and its laws, it was not a man’s duty to take compassion upon the woman who loved him with all her heart. Yes: he could read it all.

“Must get away,” he said to himself. “Why not go back home, and seek for safety behind the armour of her innocency? My poor darling, I want to be true to you, but I am sorely tempted now. It cannot be love; only a vile, degrading passion from which I must flee, for I am – Heaven knows, how weak.”