Читать книгу Jericho's Daughters - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 12

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He remained sitting where he was, swinging that narrow pointed foot and looking at her. She felt his gaze go over her features, over her figure with strange intimate candor. And she found that she did not resent his intimate gaze. It seemed to caress her; she yielded to it almost dreamily.

“Mary Agnes,” he said in a low voice. “Mary Agnes, I want something.”

“What is it?” she asked, alarm faintly stirring.

“I’ve wanted it a long time, darling—ever since I first knew you.” In his voice was an odd, entreating earnestness.

Now it is coming, she said to herself. He wants something ... and by his voice I know what it is.

Instinctively she tried to sit more erectly, to marshal her thoughts.

How shall I deal with him? Be insulted, or angry, or just laugh? Or shall I ... wait and see what happens, putting off decision until the time?

He spoke again. “I want to paint you.”

To paint her! Not the crude masculine intention she had expected, after all. She leaned back in her chair with a sensation of relief and of surprise at herself, at her own confused emotions. It seemed suddenly so simple, her necessity for decision allayed.

She gave a little laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“Because ... I couldn’t imagine why you’d want to paint me.” It was not why she laughed, but it was all she could think of to say.

“Why?” he said. “I’ve always wanted to paint you. You have superb bodily architecture—and you have a soul. I feel it. I feel I could do something wonderful with you. Will you pose for me?”

Her mind was still foggy, but she was no longer alarmed. It seemed a small thing he asked of her.

“If you really want me to—I don’t see why I should object,” she said after a moment. “When would you wish to do it?”

“Here—now!” He was eager. “I have in mind already the mood I want to create—soft light—mystery, almost indefinable mystery—subdued, shadowy, elusive—holding like a perfect jewel in a rich case the white purity of the female figure——”

“Nude?” The word almost jumped from her.

He stared.

“Nude, of course. How else? The nude is the great classical expression of art.” He gazed at her closely. “You’re not prudish, are you? Some of the greatest women of history have taken pride in being painted in the nude. All generations of artists have done their supreme work in it. You needn’t fear it. The nude, to an artist, is an abstraction—the beauty of line, the modeling, the tones of color alone matter. At the same time it’s the supreme compliment that art gives to the most beautiful thing in the world—the feminine form. Artist and model combine, the one with his brush, the other with her loveliness, in the great act of creating!”

He had not moved, or so much as gestured. After her momentary apprehension she felt inclined to him strongly out of the reaction of relief. And she felt that she owed him something for some reason which she did not very well define to herself. After all, other women, countless women, as he said, had not blushed at posing for artists in the nude. It was an experience, one might almost say a feminine function; and it was something, certainly, that not every woman could say she had done.

She noticed again the picture on the wall opposite. If that was the way he painted ... after all, what harm could come of it? Nobody, in a thousand centuries, would ever recognize the original in Erskine’s picture ...

“Why not?” she heard herself saying to him.

She pushed herself up from the chair and stood rather unsteadily, conquering an impulse to giggle as the room seemed slowly to revolve around her.

“My models use that room to dress,” he said in the same calm voice. “You’ll find a robe and slippers in there. I’ll be mixing my paints. Please go and get ready. The sitting won’t take long.”

Walking carefully, she moved toward the door he indicated. It seemed very silly, the thing she was doing, but for a reason she could not explain the whole idea was attractive. Even exciting. She desired to be painted. To be painted as she was, a woman in pure naked femininity, unfettered and unconcealed. To be viewed as an artist views beauty. To be unashamed in giving the beauty of her body to the canvas.