Читать книгу The Silver Chalice - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 16

The girl’s solicitude over her grandfather’s health had prevailed. It was two hours before Basil was summoned to the bedroom of the head of the household. Joseph was sitting up in a huge bed, looking small and thin on its snowy expanse, but refreshed and receptive. On a table beside him there was a half-empty wine cup of silver and a platter with the remains of a light meal. His granddaughter sat close at hand. She gave Basil one glance and seemed surprised to find him so young. Then she studiously lowered her eyes.

“You are a boy,” said the old man in a voice that seemed too deep and full to issue from a frame so frail. He did not appear to be disturbed, however, for he did not labor the point. “You left my friend Luke in good health, I trust?”

“He was fatigued with the journey from Antioch to Aleppo,” answered Basil. “But after one night’s rest he started back alone to join one Paul of Tarsus. They are coming to Jerusalem together.”

Joseph of Arimathea nodded his head gravely. “I wrote to Paul and advised against coming at this time, but I did not expect he would heed my warning. He scents danger and rushes always to meet it.” His eyes, which shone benignly in a forest of wrinkles, turned back to his youthful visitor. “I see you have brought your wax with you. Set to work at once. I am well rested today. When your subject is as old as I am, you must take advantage of every moment.”

Basil heard this suggestion with a feeling of panic. He invariably had difficulty in the first stages and he feared that nervousness would steal from his fingers all power to catch and imprison a likeness in the warm wax. If he failed, this shrewd old man in the enormous bed might decide he would not do for the task. What would happen to him then? He was a free man now, of course. He kept the document attesting his release from bondage in the belt under his tunic, and he could not be returned to slavery. But failure might rob him of his one great chance, and he would find himself condemned to a lifetime of ill-paid labor at a workman’s bench.

He took a seat with open reluctance at the foot of the bed and set his fingers to work. At first his worst fears were justified. He could do nothing with the wax, and the face that emerged from the probing of his nervous hands bore small resemblance to Joseph of Arimathea. “I am going to fail!” he thought in a panic. “I shall be sent away in disgrace. Luke will be blamed and Adam ben Asher will be so pleased that he will laugh at me.”

A second effort was more successful. The noble brow began to show, and under it the weary eyes came into a semblance of life. A deep sense of relief took possession of the boy and communicated itself to the tips of his sensitive fingers. He began to work then in real earnest and with a full share of the concentration of the artist.

He became so absorbed that he paid little attention to the talk carried on between Joseph and the girl. They were discussing Paul and a certain errand of much urgency that was bringing him to Jerusalem. There was mention also of others whose names meant nothing to the youth, James and Philip and Jude. It was clear that Joseph had reservations in his mind as to the attitude these men would take when the unwanted but intrepid Paul arrived. All this seemed of small importance to Basil; of minute concern, in fact, when compared with his feverish desire to transfer the stamp of the merchant’s noble head to the damp material in his hands.

He became aware that a silence had fallen on the room and saw then that the girl had deserted her seat beside the couch, vanishing from the range of his vision. It was not until he heard her voice behind him that he realized she was still in the room.

“It is perfect!” she cried. “Oh, Grandfather, it is exactly like you.”

Basil turned his head and saw that she had stationed herself at his shoulder so she could watch while he worked. Her eyes had widened with pleasure over what he was accomplishing. She was not beautiful, but when her face became lighted up thus she came close, he decided, to real beauty. Her lips were slightly parted with excitement and there was a hint of color in her cheeks. She smiled at him and repeated, “I think it is perfect.”

“It is a beginning,” said Basil. He studied his work with a critical eye and discovered that, although it had many good points, there was still a serious weakness. He turned on his stool to explain to her, “Getting a likeness, that human touch which can be recognized at first glance, depends nearly always on some one detail. It may be the width between the eyes. It may be as small a matter as the angle of the eyelid. Until you stumble on what it is, the face remains lifeless. Now I have one advantage here: I know what it is I need. The key to the likeness is the nose. Your grandfather has a most remarkable nose. It dominates his face. Oh, if I can only get it right! If I do, you will see this lump of wax come quickly to life before your eyes. But so far I have not succeeded.” His fingers had gone back to work as he talked, changing the wax this way and that with the slightest possible pressure of the fingers. Suddenly he stopped. “I think—— Yes, I have it! Here it is, that splendid nose. I did no more than make a slight change in the elevation, the merest fraction of space, and now it is right. At last it is a likeness!”

“Yes, yes!” cried the girl.

But Basil shook his head. “It is not enough yet,” he said, speaking as freely as though no one else were in the room. “True, I have the likeness now. But I am getting him as he is today. There must be as well a hint of the power of his earlier years. It will be empty without that. And again the secret is in his nose—that fine, fighting proud nose. I shall have to work still harder. But,” confidently, “it will come. When one has attained this stage, it can be taken as certain that the final goal will be reached.”

“I am sure of it,” said the girl.

“Perhaps you young people will suspend your discussion long enough to let me see it,” said Joseph. “It is my face you are discussing with such frankness. It is my nose that seems to cause so much concern.”

He reached out a hand. His fingers, which had almost the transparency of ivory, trembled slightly. He accepted the wax from Basil and frowned a little in his shortsighted study of it. There was at the same time, however, an almost immediate display of approval.

“Yes, Deborra,” he said, “the young man has a likeness of me here. I think it is going to be good, very good indeed.”

Basil warmed to this welcome praise from his employer. All doubt left him. He was going to succeed. He was so certain of it that he accepted the head back and set to work again with a feeling of full confidence.

Deborra returned to her chair beside the couch. Her praise had increased Basil’s interest in her, and he was now fully conscious of the grace of her movements and the fine line of her profile. As noses had been so much under discussion, he gave hers a close scrutiny. It was short and straight and with the merest indentation at the end, which made it the very pleasantest kind of nose, pretty and slightly pert. He decided that he liked it.

“How can you be so calm about this, Grandfather?” she asked. “I think it is quite wonderful!”

The eyes of the two young people met across the room, hers still wide with the pleasure she was taking in the success of his efforts. She smiled at Basil so warmly that he began to wonder if it was entirely her interest in the work that prompted her. Was she willing to let him see that he himself was included in the approbation she felt?