AT THE WORLD'S END
Barely half an hour after Miss Mason's sudden decision Barnabas set out
for a small and rather unwholesome street somewhere in the direction of
the World's End. It was given by Pippa as the locality in which Mrs.
Higgins had her residence.
It was not entirely on Miss Mason's account that Barnabas was anxious
to make further enquiries regarding the child. As he walked along the
King's Road, with its pavement slippery and muddy from the feet of many
passers-by, his mind travelled back to memories which Pippa's face had
awakened in him.
They were memories some fourteen or fifteen years old, of the time
when he was a young art student. A scene he had almost forgotten
came clearly back to him. He saw a big class-room full of easels and
men working and smoking. He saw himself, very young, very full of
enthusiasm, yet at the moment very full of despair. He saw himself
looking with disgust at his own somewhat feeble attempt to reproduce on
canvas the figure of the nude model who was standing on the platform
before him. He saw the master coming near, and heard his words. They
were few but sarcastic. He had felt that the whole room was listening
to them. First an insane desire to sink into the floor had overwhelmed
him, then a feeling that he had better take his canvas and brushes
and fling them into the river. It had been mere presumption on his
part to dream of art as a career. He had seen the other figures in the
room through a kind of hazy blur. The voice of the master as he went
from easel to easel had come to him as through cotton-wool. He did
not notice that almost equally sarcastic remarks were being levelled
at the other canvases, and were being received by their owners with
indifference or with good-humoured laughter. He had heard the door
close presently as the master left the room. Then he heard a voice at
his elbow--a curiously musical voice:
"It's a pity Saltby looks upon sarcasm in the light of instruction in
art. He can paint quite decently himself, but he has no more notion of
teaching than a tom cat."
Barnabas remembered that he had turned to look at the speaker, and had
seen a dark foreign-looking man standing beside him. The man had looked
at him sharply.
"That fellow has worried you," he said. "They're just calling rest.
Come along out and have a smoke."
Barnabas remembered following him into the corridor. He remembered
the curious feeling of restful strength the man had given him as they
walked up and down together.
"I'm going to give you a bit of advice," he had said suddenly.
"Remember this, that the opinion of one man, even if he happens
to be your master, counts for nothing. The moment you touch any
art--painting, sculpture, music, or literature--you're laying yourself
open to criticism, and you'll find any amount of it adverse. Don't let
it discourage you. If you've got the inner conviction that you can do
something, forge ahead and do it. Don't be damped by adverse criticism.
If you can learn from it, learn; but don't let it kill the germ of
belief in yourself."
"But can't one be mistaken in the belief that one can do something?"
Barnabas remembered asking.
"If you are mistaken you'll find it out for yourself," the man had
replied earnestly. "My dear boy, the men who can't, and never will,
do anything are those who are so cocksure of themselves that they are
impervious to sarcasm and every adverse criticism under the sun. It
simply doesn't hurt them. It does hurt us. It touches us on the raw.
But we've got to go on. You felt like chucking the whole thing just
now. I'll be bound it wasn't exactly that your self-vanity was wounded,
but because you felt that it had been utterly presumptuous of you ever
to have attempted to lift your eyes to the Immortal Goddess. My dear
boy, she loves men to look at her and worship her, from however far
off. It's those who say they are paying her homage, but who all the
time are looking at and worshipping themselves, for whom she has no
use. Go on worshipping her. Keep big ideas before you and one day you
may get near the foot of her throne. It's not given to many to touch
her knees. But to worship at the foot of the throne is something. Why,
even to look at her from afar is worth years of struggle. Saltby keeps
one eye on her I grant, but he keeps the other on himself, and it makes
him the damned conceited and sarcastic ass he is...."
Barnabas seemed to hear the voice distinctly, to feel the magnetism of
the man who had spoken the words so many years ago.
He remembered later in the evening hearing two students speaking of the
man.
"Kostolitz is a weird chap," one had said; "mad as a hatter."
"Spends half his time like a tramp," said the other, "going around the
country and writing poetry, and the other half in sculpting. Every now
and then he takes it into his head to come in here and draw a bit. He
says it freshens him up to see beginners on their way to fame."
Barnabas remembered that Kostolitz had come to him at the end of the
morning and had suggested their walking back to Chelsea together. It
had been the beginning of their friendship.
The man's face came persistently before him this evening as he pursued
his way towards the World's End.
Other little speeches of his returned to his mind. "I love colour," he
seemed to hear him saying, "but I can't work in paints. They aren't
my medium. I want to get to the solid. Give me a lump of clay and I'm
happy. It's nonsense to say there's only colour in actual coloured
things. There is colour in everything--words, music, thoughts--the
world's steeped in colour if you can only see it. Why, man, it may
seem odd to you, but people even give me the sense of colour. Perhaps
it's the old Eastern idea of auras, I don't know. Anyhow, that idea
is too mixed up with spiritualism and closed rooms to appeal to me.
Give me the open air, the sunshine, flowers, and singing birds. I can
believe in fairies, gnomes, the People of the Wind, and the People of
the Trees, anything that is of the Spirit of Nature. There they sit
together--Nature and Art--the two great goddesses, bless them; and
men try to separate Art from Nature. They can't, man, I tell you they
can't."
Barnabas could almost see the man's eyes--passionate grey eyes--fixed
on him as he remembered the words. And it was the memory of those
eyes that Pippa's eyes had awakened in him, and with their memory had
brought the other scenes before him. The memory had awakened as he had
watched her listening entranced to the story of "The Sleeping Beauty."
He had seen the eyes of his friend Kostolitz looking at him from the
small pale face, and suddenly he had seen the whole wonderful likeness
the child bore to the man. Kostolitz was dead, had been dead now many
years. Had he left behind him this scrap of humanity, holding perhaps a
spirit as poetical and intense as his own, to battle with the world? If
it were so, for the sake of that friendship, it must be protected. And
something told Barnabas that he was not mistaken in his belief.
He turned now into the small dark street. He found the house whose
number Pippa had given him, and knocked on the door. It was opened by a
large, slatternly woman with a watery eye.
"That you, Pippa?" she exclaimed. "'Ere, you come in, and I'll give you
somethink staying hout like this."
Then she saw Barnabas. Visions of N.S.P.C.C. inspectors rose suddenly
before her mind. Mrs. Higgins quailed inwardly.
"Well?" she asked, and her voice was truculent because her spirit was
quaking, "and wot can I do for you, sir?"
"Am I," asked Barnabas suavely, "addressing Mrs. Higgins?"
"That's my nime," replied the lady, arms akimbo.
"I believe," continued Barnabas, still suavely, "that you have had
charge of a child--a little girl named Pippa."
"I 'ave," said Mrs. Higgins defiantly, "and a more hungrateful,
huntruthful, little baggage I hain't never set heyes on. Hif you 'ave
hanythink to say about 'er, per'aps you'll kindly step hinside."
Barnabas stepped into the small passage. It was ill-smelling, redolent
of dirt and boiled cabbage. Mrs. Higgins herself breathed gin. She was,
however, at the moment tolerably sober.
"I understand," said Barnabas, "that she came here with a Madame
Fournier."
Mrs. Higgins blazed. "She did. A French 'uzzy wot took and disappeared
last June, leaving me with 'er child. Friend's child she called it.
I know them gimes. Just about as much a friend's child as Madame 'ad
a right to 'er title or 'er ring wot she wore so conspikus, I'll be
bound. Leaving me with the child on me 'ands, wot I kep' from charity,
and never so much has a penny piece to pay for 'er keep but wot she
gets from them hartists as she goes to."
"Then the child," asked Barnabas, "is no relation of yours?"
"Relation of mine!" cried Mrs. Higgins indignantly and virtuously.
"Do yer think hif she belonged to me as I'd allow 'er to be standing
naked fer men to look at. I'm a respectable woman, I am, I thanks the
Halmighty." Mrs. Higgins ended with a loud sniff.
Barnabas suddenly felt a sensation of almost physical nausea. He seemed
to hear Kostolitz's voice begging him to leave the place, to get away
from the filth of the atmosphere, and above all never to let the child
return to it.
"Then," said Barnabas decisively, "you will no doubt be glad to be
relieved from the burden of maintaining her. She will not return here,
and she will be provided for."
Mrs. Higgins gasped at the suddenness of the statement. She felt
something like dismay. She saw Pippa's earnings, which had added
largely to her weekly income, disappearing in the distance.
"And 'ow about the hexpense I've been put to!" she exclaimed. "Yer
don't feed a growing child for six months fer nothink, and me as kind
to 'er as hif I'd been 'er own mother." Mrs. Higgins began to sob here,
moved to tears by the memory of her own tenderness.
Barnabas' mouth set grimly.
"I think, Mrs. Higgins," he remarked, "that the less you say about your
treatment of the child the better. As far as her keep is concerned her
own earnings have no doubt paid you more than adequately for the food
you have given her. As however you will lose them in the future----"
He pulled two sovereigns from his pocket.
"Take these," he said briefly, "and good evening."
He turned from the house leaving Mrs. Higgins gaping and astonished.
It is a mercy when the Mrs. Higginses of the world can be thus easily
disposed of.
Barnabas walked away down the street, marvelling at the fact that man
had originally been created by God in His own image.
* * * * *
He went straight back to studio number seven, where he found Miss Mason
anxiously awaiting him. He sat down and gave her a brief account of his
search and its results, omitting, however, a description of the dirt
and smells.
"And so," he ended, smiling, "you mean to keep this waif?"
"I couldn't let her go," said Miss Mason. "Did you see her eyes?"
Barnabas had. But the look in them had hurt him too much for him to
care to think about it. So he merely said lightly:
"Where is she now?"
"Asleep on half a dozen cushions and among blankets on the floor of
my room. She has had a bath and been wrapped again in that red silk.
She'll have to live in it till I can get her some more clothes. I've
burnt the others, and put the hat, coat, and boots in the dust hole. In
spite of her poor little attempts at cleanliness, one never knows."
"One does not," said Barnabas grimly, thinking of the house she had
come from. "May I smoke?" he asked.
"Certainly," said Miss Mason. She liked the scent of tobacco in her
studio. She felt it to be part and parcel of Bohemia.
There was a long silence.
Miss Mason was thinking of the child lying asleep in the next room. She
had an odd feeling that the Fates had sent Pippa directly to her that
she might in a way atone to herself for her own lonely childhood by
making this morsel of humanity happy. She had already begun to weave
the dreams that are woven by fairy godmothers.
And Barnabas' thoughts had again travelled back to his friend
Kostolitz, and the thoughts made his eyes grave and a little sad.
"I am going over to Paris to-morrow," he said suddenly, breaking the
silence.
"Yes?" queried Miss Mason.
"You know that oil-portrait that hangs by my mantelpiece?" he asked.
"Doesn't a likeness strike you?"
Miss Mason looked up. She felt suddenly a little anxious.
"Of course," she said slowly. "I never thought of it before. It's the
image of Pippa."
Barnabas nodded.
"I saw it when I came back into the studio and found her at tea."
There was a pause.
"Who is the portrait?" asked Miss Mason.
"A man I knew long ago," said Barnabas. "His name was Philippe
Kostolitz. He was a strange man--an Hungarian. He was a true vagabond,
yet certainly of good birth. I knew nothing of his people, if he had
any. He was half gipsy and wholly artist. The statue of the little faun
in my garden is his work. He gave it to me. We were great friends."
"Ah," said Miss Mason softly. "And where is he now?"
Barnabas made a swift sign of the cross. He had been baptized a
Catholic, and in spite of his present rather Pagan views regarding life
he had retained this beautiful custom. There was an innate instinct of
reverence in Barnabas.
"In Paradise I hope. He was killed nine years ago in a railway
accident. It was a horribly prosaic ending for a man whose whole nature
was the essence of poetry."
Miss Mason was silent. After a moment she spoke.
"Then you think that Pippa----" she broke off. She was looking straight
at Barnabas.
"I don't know," he said bluntly. "The likeness is extraordinary. In
Paris I might find out something from the artists for whom she posed. I
know one or two of them personally."
"Thank you," said Miss Mason. "The journey, of course, will be my
affair."
"That," said Barnabas, "is pure nonsense. If Pippa--you see, Kostolitz
was my friend."
"But I wish it," said Miss Mason. And something in her voice made
Barnabas give way.
Ten minutes or so later he left the studio.
Before Miss Mason put out her light that night she went across to the
heap of cushions and blankets and looked at Pippa. She touched her
cheek gently with one wrinkled hand. It was long before Miss Mason
slept. She lay awake listening to the regular sound of the child's
breathing.
* * * * *
The morning, with the variability of English weather, broke still and
sunny, a touch of frost in the air.
Barnabas looked in at Miss Mason's studio before he left for Paris.
He found that lady sitting in her chair knitting. Pippa was curled up
on the hearthrug, the red silk tightly swathing her slim body. A pair
of shoes and stockings of Sally's, many sizes too big for her, covered
her feet. She was watching Miss Mason with the eyes of an adoring puppy.
She scrambled to her feet as she saw Barnabas.
"Ah!" she cried, a note of great pleasure in her voice. "It is ze so
sunny Monsieur. I wis you good morning."
Barnabas came over and stood on the hearthrug.
"I'm just off," he said.
"I knew you'd look in," said Miss Mason. "I waited for you before going
out to buy garments."
"Going away?" asked Pippa, looking at him with troubled eyes. She had
had experience of people who went away and did not return.
"Only for a few days, and mainly on business which concerns you, little
one," he replied.
Pippa gave a relieved sigh.
"Come back ver' quick," she said. And then suddenly: "What is your
name?"
He laughed. "You must call me Barnabas," he said.
She nodded her head. "Monsieur Barnabas," she said slowly. Then she
turned to Miss Mason "What sall I call you?" she asked.
A sudden little tender thought sprang into Miss Mason's mind. She put
it aside.
"You can call me," she said rather gruffly, "Aunt Olive."
Again the child nodded her head. "Aunt Oleeve and Monsieur Barnabas,
c'est bon." She looked an odd little elfin figure as she stood there
watching them.
"I must be off," said Barnabas. "I've no time to lose."
Pippa came to the door with him.
"Bon voyage," she cried, waving her hand. And then suddenly she saw the
marble faun in the next garden.
"Ah!" she cried. "Quel beau petit garçon!" She darted down one path and
up another.
The last thing Barnabas saw, as he looked back before leaving the
courtyard, was a poppy-coloured figure standing in the wintry sunshine
beside a white marble faun. The child had her arms familiarly round the
faun's neck.
He painted that picture later when the days were warmer. It was a
picture that was to travel far away from England, and it was to keep
alive in the heart of a woman the memory of a secret--a secret of three
weeks of glorious happiness and a strange regret--a secret known only
to herself and to three other living people.