Читать книгу Beau Ideal - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 9

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“Should any gentleman here survive, I wonder if he would be so extremely obliging as to write to my Mother,” said the French ex-officer later. “She is an old lady—quite alone—and she foolishly cherishes a fondness for a most unworthy son.... Darling Mother!...”

The Englishman and the American memorized an address in Paris, and each declared that he would not only write to Madame de Lannec, but would visit her, give her her son’s last message, and assure her of his gentle happy death from honourable wounds received in the service of France, and describe his grand military funeral.

Neither of these two men would admit that he also was already in his grave.

“Been in lots of tighter places than this,” said the Englishman.

“I’ve been nearer death too,” observed the American. “Been dead really.... In this same Zaguig....”

“Ah—an unpleasant place, Zaguig,” said the Frenchman, “I know it well,” and added, “I, too, have occasionally been in danger.... But I finish here....”

“Never say die,” urged the American. “Personally, I refuse to die.... I’ve got a job to do, and I intend to live until it’s done....”

“Same here,” agreed the Englishman. “I must be getting home to tea shortly.... My wife....” He coughed.

“Ah, mes amis, you wish to live.... I, on the contrary, wish to die,” whispered the Frenchman, and shortly after became delirious and raved—of “Véronique,” of a terrible painter and his devilish picture, of a Colonel of Chasseurs d’Afrique, of a Moor of the Zarhoun whom the speaker had apparently killed with his bare hands, and of his mother.... But chiefly of “Véronique”—until he sank into a state of coma.

In the morning, the spot of light fell on his face and he awoke and, from time to time, spoke rationally, though he did not appear to realize where he was.

He desired the services of a priest, that he might “make his soul.” On either side of him, the Englishman and the American did what they could to soothe his passing, and Jacob the Jew produced his last scrap of biscuit for the nourishment of the sick man.... He offered to chew it for him if he were unable to masticate....

“It’s a privilege to die in your society, mes amis,” said the Frenchman suddenly, in a stronger voice. “To die with men of one’s own sort.... Officers once, doubtless, and gentlemen still.... I am going to add to the burden of debt I owe you.... But I am going to give you something in return.... My dying assurance that you are going to live.... I most clearly see you walking in the sunshine, free and happy.... Walking towards a woman—a truly beautiful woman.... She loves you both—but one far more than the other.... You fight on her account ... your weapons are generosity, unselfishness, sacrifice, self-abnegation, the love of a man for his friend....”

Silence.

“Poor chap,” murmured the Englishman, staring across at the almost indistinguishable form of the American. “Wandering again.... He seemed better....”

No reply came from the darkness where the other crouched beside the dying man.

“And this is the further request I have to make of you.... Will one of you go to the little cemetery and stand by her grave and say:

“‘As he died he spoke of you.... He spoke only words of kindness and love.... He did not breathe one word of reproach.... Only kindness, love and gratitude.’

“She will be able to understand—now....

“And will you take violets—a few violets, from me.... Always they were her flower.... A few of the beautiful big violets that welcome one home from Africa.... Once I kissed an old grandmother who was selling them on the quai at Marseilles, and gave her a gold piece.... They were not violets she sold to me.... They were France ... they were Home ... they were Véronique.... Their odour was the distilled soul of the sweetness of all that is in those three wonderful words.... France, Home and Beauty....

“Oh, God ... I can smell violets....

“Véronique, did ever you see violets again without thinking of me? Did I ever see them again without trembling from head to foot, without wondering how my frozen brain could function ... how my burning heart could beat....

“Forgive me, gentlemen.... But you never saw her.... She was God’s triumph.... Yes, often I called her, ‘You Evidence of God’—for such beauty and wonder and untellable glory of womanhood was final proof to me of the existence of a great good God of Beauty.

“And Beauty is Truth—and Goodness.”

Silence.

Jacob the Jew crawled painfully toward the spot of light.

“You can give him my water-ration,” he croaked.

“Stout fella!” said the Englishman, in his mother-tongue.

The American started, as a slight jingle of iron indicated.

“Say that again, will you?” he said in English.

“I said, ‘Stout fella’,” replied the Englishman.

“Merciful God!” whispered the American; and the dying Frenchman raised himself on his right elbow, and endeavoured to point with his left hand.

“Véronique!” he cried. “I did my best.... I did save you from Dummarcq—the great César Dummarcq—the world-famous painter, the idol of Paris, the huge vile pig, the half-mad cruel devil.... No—he is there!... Do not move!... Do not stir hand or foot ... a hair’s-breadth—or he will shoot.... He will shoot you, not me, the fiend!”

He sank back upon the ground.

“Dearest Mother!... I nearly broke your heart when I told you I would marry her.... And you nearly broke mine when you said that I should not.... An artists’ model.... True.... César Dummarcq’s model.... But a model of beauty and grace.... Lovely in all her ways and thoughts and movements.... César Dummarcq’s model.... But a model for all women to copy.... Every fascination and charm of mind as well—witty and clever and of the sweetest disposition.... With her, one laughed.... One laughed the whole day through....

“Oh, but she was dear—dear and sweet and a living charm.... Was it her fault that she had no heart? No fairy, mermaid, elf, sprite, no magic princess from the golden castle on the crystal hill, ever has a heart!... So I gave her mine—to break....

“Oh, that terrible picture!... Véronique, how was I to know that he had painted us, all save the last few touches?... The jealous devil!... He did not even love you.... You were merely his model, his chattel, his property.... No one must take you from him—not even to marry you....

“Behind that sinister black curtain.... A pistol in his hand.... My arms about you as I implored you to be my wife.... Your terrible shriek as you saw him appear ... smiling ... smiling ...”

Silence.

The Frenchman’s voice changed completely. It was as though an entirely different personality possessed his body.

“No—don’t move, my young cub!... Move hand or foot, and our fair and frail young friend will have her beauty marred!... Oh, a great picture!... ’FEAR!’ by César Dummarcq ... the greatest portrayer of human emotions, of all time.... Yes ... ’FEAR!’... Do you fear, little cockerel?... Do you fear you have brought death to your mistress?... I am Death!... Death the great Artist!... Oh, ho! his macabre compositions!... His lovely colours of corruption and decay!... The great César Dummarcq’s greatest picture—’FEAR!’... Now keep still.... See, I lay the pistol on this table beside the easel.... Ah! would you!... You’d rise from that rug, would you!... Down, dog!... Would you murder this woman whom you love so much?... That’s better....

“No, my dear Véronique, do not faint.... Just a minute.... Your glazing eyes staring from the white mask of your face.... ’FEAR!’ Aha!... Wonderful models!... One has to go to some trouble to find them, of course.... That’s right, popinjay—excellent!... Moisten your lips with your tongue again.... See, little pimp, I think I will shoot her, after all—as I have finished her face.... Yes—you a little later.... Another marvellous picture!... She lies on the divan—same attitude—blood on her breast, a thin stream trickling down her white arm, a stain on the white bear-skin—lovely colours!... And you?... One arm and your head and shoulders across her body.... The rest of you on the rug—much the same position as now.... A bullet-hole beneath your ear.... I am not too near, here, I think.... No.... What shall we call the second picture?... ’REVENGE!’... No, a little banal.... What about ’FINIS!’... No.... No name at all, I think—a ‘problem’ picture....

“Oh?... You think I’ll make a fine picture on the guillotine, do you?... That’s where you’re wrong, puppy.... This is going to be a crime passionel.... Glorious advertisement for the great César Dummarcq.... Anyhow, the present picture is going marvellously....

“’FEAR!’... Never was FEAR so portrayed before.... Hi! Down, dog! There ... That bullet stirred her hair.... Stirred your heart too by the look of you, you little hound....”

Silence.

“Ce bon Monsieur César Dummarcq would seem to have been a gentleman with a sense of humour,” murmured Jacob. “I would we had him here.”

“To jest with us?” inquired the Englishman.

“No, for us to jest with him, I think,” replied Jacob.

Silence.

“Water!” gasped the Frenchman.

“Mine,” said Jacob.

“We’ll all contribute,” said the American.

The Englishman took the jug to the ray of light and carefully measured water into an iron mug.

“A good spoonful each, left,” he said, stepping gingerly between two corpses.

The Frenchman drank avidly. Upon this little stream of life-giving water his conscious mind seemed to be borne to the surface.

“Thank you!... Thank you, gentlemen!” he said. “I do hope I have not drunk more than my share.... I was not noticing.... One of you will see to that for me, will you not?... Get them on the quai at Marseilles, and put them on her grave in the little cemetery....”

“Why certainly, of course,” said the American. “Where is it?”

“... And tell her that my last thoughts were of her.... She will understand now.... She understood nothing when she died.... She was like that when I saved her from the Beni Zarkesh.... God is very good and He had taken away her understanding....”

Silence.

“... That roof.... In the starlight.... He was twice as big and strong as I, that Moor.... But I killed him with my bare hands, as I had killed the watchman dozing at the foot of the stair.... Oh, that lovely silent struggle, with my hands at his throat....

“And she thought I was de Chaumont, her Colonel of Chasseurs d’Afrique.... His name was Charles.... She called me ‘Charles’ as I carried her to the horses.... She called me ‘Charles’ through the brief remainder of her life.... She died calling me ‘Charles.’... A little hard for me to bear.... Yes, I suffered a little.... I had thought bitterly of Charles de Chaumont and I had written him a rather terrible letter when, on the strength of his rank and seniority, he declined my challenge to a duel.... But I am grateful to him for his kindness to her, and for making her so happy all those years.... He must have loved her truly.... Who could help it?... And how she loved him!... She must have been happy as the day is long, for she had changed but little.... A girl when I lost her.... A woman when I found her.... Even more beautiful, if that were possible.... The mad are often very lovely.... An unearthly beauty.... Very terrible.... But I firmly believe her last days were happy.... She had forgotten that hareem.... And I was her adored Charles de Chaumont!... Yes.... Unconscious fingers can play a fearful threnody upon our heart-strings.... Can break them one by one.... Véronique ... Véronique ...”

Silence.

“Is he dead?” asked Jacob, later.

“Yes,” said the Englishman, and coughed slightly.

“Well, do you know,” said Jacob, “I think I shall join him. I have always been deeply interested in the Hereafter, and I confess to being a little weary of the Here.... Yes, I think it’s time to go.”

“Are you talking about committing suicide?” asked the American.

“Not at all,” replied Jacob. “I am talking about being murdered and taking it upon me to shorten the process. I have no strong views on the subject of man murdering his fellow-man on the scaffold, or against the wall at dawn. But this slow murder is quite indefensible, and I feel justified in expediting my end.”

“You’ll look a most awful ass if they remember us and a release-party comes, after all,” said the Englishman.

“I shall look very nasty, anyhow, by the time a release-party comes,” was the reply. “So will you, my friends. And you will have suffered a few hours or a few days longer than I.... Either the Company has moved on, and there are a few more miles of the Zaguig-Great Oasis Road, marked, or else there was a sudden raid and the Company is obliterated.... Anyhow—I’ve had enough.”

“Don’t give up, Jacob. Don’t be a coward,” said the Englishman.

“No, I will not give up—my right to dispose of myself; the only right left to me,” was the answer. “No, I will not be a coward who dare not step uninvited into the next world.... What do you do, my friend if you sit on a tin-tack? You promptly remove yourself. I am going to remove myself. I have already sat too long upon this particular—ah—tin-tack.”

“Rot,” said the Englishman.

“You’re beat,” said the American.

“You can’t commit suicide,” said the Englishman.

“It isn’t—‘decent,’ I suppose,” smiled Jacob.

“That’s it,” said the Englishman. “It’s a rotten thing to do. One doesn’t commit suicide! It’s not done. It isn’t—er—decent.”

“A matter of opinion,” said the Jew. “Is it better and wiser to suffer indescribable agonies of the mind, and ghastly tortures of the body, for days, hours, or seconds? It seems to me to be more logical to let it be a matter of seconds.”

“Well, logic isn’t everything,” said the Englishman. “Most of our best impulses and ideas are illogical.... Damn logic.... Love is illogical.”

“Surely,” said the American.

“Yes. Life is illogical and death is illogical, and God is illogical,” said Jacob. “And it is also perfectly illogical to lie here and die of thirst, starvation, heat, suffocation and insects for another twenty-four hours when you can do it in twenty-four seconds.... Good-bye, my friends! May we meet again and discuss our discoveries concerning God, Jehovah, Allah, Christ, Mahomet, Buddha and the other manifestations of man’s incurable anthropomorphism.... Adieu! Or au revoir—whichever it may prove to be.”

“Hi! Here! Hold on!” cried the Englishman.

“You! Jacob!” called the American.

“Well?” chuckled the Jew.

“Look here,” said the Englishman, “be decent, Jacob. You objected to Ramon dying at all.”

“Ah—he was the first,” replied Jacob, “and there was some hope then.... There are only we three now, and one more corpse will not further discommode you. I beg you to believe me that I would not have done this were all the others still alive—not even though I knew there would be no release....

“To have done that would not have been—‘decent,’” he added with a chuckle.

“Look here, Jacob, will you do me a favour?” asked the Englishman.

“I shall be most delighted,” was the reply. “It will be my last opportunity. And it will have to be soon,” he added, his weak voice growing perceptibly weaker.

“Well, I want you to promise to wait another day,” said the Englishman. “Only another twenty-four hours. Just till the spot of light falls on the Frenchman’s body again....”

“Come on, Jacob,” urged the American. “Stick it till then. Please yourself after that. But I believe we’ll be saved to-morrow.”

“Too late,” was the whispered reply. “I have opened a vein.... When you want it, you’ll find the piece of steel in my right hand ... razor-edge one side, saw-edge the other ... Pluck up your courage and come along with me, both of you....”

Silence.

A deep sigh.

The Englishman and the American found it was indeed too late.