TIKI-PU was a small grub of a thing; but he had a true love of Art deep
down in his soul. There it hung mewing and complaining, struggling to
work its way out through the raw exterior that bound it.
Tiki-pu's master professed to be an artist: he had apprentices and
students, who came daily to work under him, and a large studio littered
about with the performances of himself and his pupils. On the walls hung
also a few real works by the older men, all long since dead.
This studio Tiki-pu swept; for those who worked in it he ground colours,
washed brushes, and ran errands, bringing them their dog chops and
bird's nest soup from the nearest eating-house whenever they were too
busy to go out to it themselves. He himself had to feed mainly on the
breadcrumbs which the students screwed into pellets for their drawings
and then threw about upon the floor. It was on the floor, also, that he
had to sleep at night.
Tiki-pu looked after the blinds, and mended the paper window-panes,
which were often broken when the apprentices threw their brushes and
mahl-sticks at him. Also he strained rice-paper over the
linen-stretchers, ready for the painters to work on; and for a treat,
now and then, a lazy one would allow him to mix a colour for him. Then
it was that Tiki-pu's soul came down into his finger-tips, and his heart
beat so that he gasped for joy. Oh, the yellows and the greens, and the
lakes and the cobalts, and the purples which sprang from the blending of
them! Sometimes it was all he could do to keep himself from crying out.
Tiki-pu, while he squatted and ground at the colour-powders, would
listen to his master lecturing to the students. He knew by heart the
names of all the painters and their schools, and the name of the great
leader of them all who had lived and passed from their midst more than
three hundred years ago; he knew that too, a name like the sound of the
wind, Wio-wani: the big picture at the end of the studio was by him.
That picture! To Tiki-pu it seemed worth all the rest of the world put
together. He knew, too, the story which was told of it, making it as
holy to his eyes as the tombs of his own ancestors. The apprentices
joked over it, calling it "Wio-wani's back-door," "Wio-wani's
night-cap," and many other nicknames; but Tiki-pu was quite sure, since
the picture was so beautiful, that the story must be true.
Wio-wani, at the end of a long life, had painted it; a garden full of
trees and sunlight, with high-standing flowers and green paths, and in
their midst a palace. "The place where I would like to rest," said
Wio-wani, when it was finished.
So beautiful was it then, that the Emperor himself had come to see it;
and gazing enviously at those peaceful walks, and the palace nestling
among the trees, had sighed and owned that he too would be glad of such
a resting-place. Then Wio-wani stepped into the picture, and walked away
along a path till he came, looking quite small and far-off, to a low
door in the palace wall. Opening it, he turned and beckoned to the
Emperor; but the Emperor did not follow; so Wio-wani went in by himself,
and shut the door between himself and the world for ever.
That happened three hundred years ago; but for Tiki-pu the story was as
fresh and true as if it had happened yesterday. When he was left to
himself in the studio, all alone and locked up for the night, Tiki-pu
used to go and stare at the picture till it was too dark to see, and at
the little palace with the door in its wall by which Wio-wani had
disappeared out of life. Then his soul would go down into his
finger-tips, and he would knock softly and fearfully at the beautifully
painted door, saying, "Wio-wani, are you there?"
Little by little in the long-thinking nights, and the slow early
mornings when light began to creep back through the papered windows of
the studio, Tiki-pu's soul became too much for him. He who could strain
paper, and grind colours, and wash brushes, had everything within reach
for becoming an artist, if it was the will of Fate that he should be
one.
He began timidly at first, but in a little while he grew bold. With the
first wash of light he was up from his couch on the hard floor and was
daubing his soul out on scraps, and odds-and-ends, and stolen pieces of
rice-paper.
Before long the short spell of daylight which lay between dawn and the
arrival of the apprentices to their work did not suffice him. It took
him so long to hide all traces of his doings, to wash out the brushes,
and rinse clean the paint-pots he had used, and on the top of that to
get the studio swept and dusted, that there was hardly time left him in
which to indulge the itching of his fingers.
Driven by necessity, he became a pilferer of candle-ends, picking them
from their sockets in the lanterns which the students carried on dark
nights. Now and then one of these would remember that, when last used,
his lantern had had a candle in it, and would accuse Tiki-pu of having
stolen it. "It is true," he would confess; "I was hungry--I have eaten
it." The lie was so probable, he was believed easily, and was well
beaten accordingly. Down in the ragged linings of his coat Tiki-pu could
hear the candle-ends rattling as the buffeting and chastisement fell
upon him, and often he trembled lest his hoard should be discovered. But
the truth of the matter never leaked out; and at night, as soon as he
guessed that all the world outside was in bed, Tiki-pu would mount one
of his candles on a wooden stand and paint by the light of it, blinding
himself over his task, till the dawn came and gave him a better and
cheaper light to work by.
Tiki-pu quite hugged himself over the results; he believed he was doing
very well. "If only Wio-wani were here to teach me," thought he, "I
would be in the way to becoming a great painter!"
The resolution came to him one night that Wio-wani _should_ teach him.
So he took a large piece of rice-paper and strained it, and sitting down
opposite "Wio-wani's back-door," began painting. He had never set
himself so big a task as this; by the dim stumbling light of his candle
he strained his eyes nearly blind over the difficulties of it; and at
last was almost driven to despair. How the trees stood row behind row,
with air and sunlight between, and how the path went in and out, winding
its way up to the little door in the palace-wall were mysteries he could
not fathom. He peered and peered and dropped tears into his paint-pots;
but the secret of the mystery of such painting was far beyond him.
The door in the palace-wall opened; out came a little old man and began
walking down the pathway towards him.
The soul of Tiki-pu gave a sharp leap in his grubby little body. "That
must be Wio-wani himself and no other!" cried his soul.
Tiki-pu pulled off his cap and threw himself down on the floor with
reverent grovellings. When he dared to look up again Wio-wani stood over
him big and fine; just within the edge of his canvas he stood and
reached out a hand.
"Come along with me, Tiki-pu!" said the great one. "If you want to know
how to paint I will teach you."
"Oh, Wio-wani, were you there all the while?" cried Tiki-pu
ecstatically, leaping up and clutching with his smeary little puds the
hand which the old man extended to him.
"I was there," said Wio-wani, "looking at you out of my little window.
Come along in!"
Tiki-pu took a heave and swung himself into the picture, and fairly
capered when he found his feet among the flowers of Wio-wani's beautiful
garden. Wio-wani had turned, and was ambling gently back to the door of
his palace, beckoning to the small one to follow him; and there stood
Tiki-pu, opening his mouth like a fish to all the wonders that
surrounded him. "Celestiality, may I speak?" he said suddenly.
"Speak," replied Wio-wani; "what is it?"
"The Emperor, was he not the very flower of fools not to follow when you
told him?"
"I cannot say," answered Wio-wani, "but he certainly was no artist."
Then he opened the door, that door which he had so beautifully painted,
and led Tiki-pu in. And outside the little candle-end sat and guttered
by itself, till the wick fell overboard, and the flame kicked itself
out, leaving the studio in darkness and solitude to wait for the
growings of another dawn.
It was full day before Tiki-pu reappeared; he came running down the
green path in great haste, jumped out of the frame on to the studio
floor, and began tidying up his own messes of the night, and the
apprentices' of the previous day. Only just in time did he have things
ready by the hour when his master and the others returned to their work.
All that day they kept scratching their left ears, and could not think
why; but Tiki-pu knew, for he was saying over to himself all the things
that Wio-wani, the great painter, had been saying about them and their
precious productions. And as he ground their colours for them and washed
their brushes, and filled his famished little body with the breadcrumbs
they threw away, little they guessed from what an immeasurable distance
he looked down upon them all, and had Wio-wani's word for it tickling
his right ear all the day long.
Now before long Tiki-pu's master noticed a change in him; and though he
bullied him, and thrashed him, and did all that a careful master should
do, he could not get the change out of him. So in a short while he grew
suspicious. "What is the boy up to?" he wondered. "I have my eye on him
all day: it must be at night that he gets into mischief."
It did not take Tiki-pu's master a night's watching to find that
something surreptitious was certainly going on. When it was dark he took
up his post outside the studio, to see whether by any chance Tiki-pu had
some way of getting out; and before long he saw a faint light showing
through the window. So he came and thrust his finger softly through one
of the panes, and put his eye to the hole.
There inside was a candle burning on a stand, and Tiki-pu squatting with
paint-pots and brush in front of Wio-wani's last masterpiece.
"What fine piece of burglary is this?" thought he; "what serpent have I
been harbouring in my bosom? Is this beast of a grub of a boy thinking
to make himself a painter and cut me out of my reputation and
prosperity?" For even at that distance he could perceive plainly that
the work of this boy went head and shoulders beyond his, or that of any
painter then living.
Presently Wio-wani opened his door and came down the path, as was his
habit now each night, to call Tiki-pu to his lesson. He advanced to the
front of his picture and beckoned for Tiki-pu to come in with him; and
Tiki-pu's master grew clammy at the knees as he beheld Tiki-pu catch
hold of Wio-wani's hand and jump into the picture, and skip up the
green path by Wio-wani's side, and in through the little door that
Wio-wani had painted so beautifully in the end wall of his palace!
For a time Tiki-pu's master stood glued to the spot with grief and
horror. "Oh, you deadly little underling! Oh, you poisonous little
caretaker, you parasite, you vampire, you fly in amber!" cried he, "is
that where you get your training? Is it there that you dare to go
trespassing; into a picture that I purchased for my own pleasure and
profit, and not at all for yours? Very soon we will see whom it really
belongs to!"
He ripped out the paper of the largest window-pane and pushed his way
through into the studio. Then in great haste he took up paint-pot and
brush, and sacrilegiously set himself to work upon Wio-wani's last
masterpiece. In the place of the doorway by which Tiki-pu had entered he
painted a solid brick wall; twice over he painted it, making it two
bricks thick; brick by brick he painted it, and mortared every brick to
its place. And when he had quite finished he laughed, and called
"Good-night, Tiki-pu!" and went home to be quite happy.
The next day all the apprentices were wondering what had become of
Tiki-pu; but as the master himself said nothing, and as another boy came
to act as colour-grinder and brush-washer to the establishment, they
very soon forgot all about him.
In the studio the master used to sit at work with his students all about
him, and a mind full of ease and contentment. Now and then he would
throw a glance across to the bricked-up doorway of Wio-wani's palace,
and laugh to himself, thinking how well he had served out Tiki-pu for
his treachery and presumption.
One day--it was five years after the disappearance of Tiki-pu--he was
giving his apprentices a lecture on the glories and the beauties and the
wonders of Wio-wani's painting--how nothing for colour could excel, or
for mystery could equal it. To add point to his eloquence, he stood
waving his hands before Wio-wani's last masterpiece, and all his
students and apprentices sat round him and looked.
Suddenly he stopped at mid-word, and broke off in the full flight of his
eloquence, as he saw something like a hand come and take down the top
brick from the face of paint which he had laid over the little door in
the palace-wall which Wio-wani had so beautifully painted. In another
moment there was no doubt about it; brick by brick the wall was being
pulled down, in spite of its double thickness.
The lecturer was altogether too dumbfounded and terrified to utter a
word. He and all his apprentices stood round and stared while the
demolition of the wall proceeded. Before long he recognised Wio-wani
with his flowing white beard; it was his handiwork, this pulling down of
the wall! He still had a brick in his hand when he stepped through the
opening that he had made, and close after him stepped Tiki-pu!
[Illustration]
Tiki-pu was grown tall and strong--he was even handsome; but for all
that his old master recognised him, and saw with an envious foreboding
that under his arms he carried many rolls and stretchers and portfolios,
and other belongings of his craft. Clearly Tiki-pu was coming back
into the world, and was going to be a great painter.
Down the garden path came Wio-wani, and Tiki-pu walked after him;
Tiki-pu was so tall that his head stood well over Wio-wani's
shoulders--old man and young man together made a handsome pair.
How big Wio-wani grew as he walked down the avenues of his garden and
into the foreground of his picture! and how big the brick in his hand!
and ah, how angry he seemed!
Wio-wani came right down to the edge of the picture-frame and held up
the brick. "What did you do that for?" he asked.
"I ... didn't!" Tiki-pu's old master was beginning to reply; and the lie
was still rolling on his tongue when the weight of the brick-bat, hurled
by the stout arm of Wio-wani, felled him. After that he never spoke
again. That brick-bat, which he himself had reared, became his own
tombstone.
Just inside the picture-frame stood Tiki-pu, kissing the wonderful hands
of Wio-wani, which had taught him all their skill. "Good-bye, Tiki-pu!"
said Wio-wani, embracing him tenderly. "Now I am sending my second self
into the world. When you are tired and want rest come back to me: old
Wio-wani will take you in."
Tiki-pu was sobbing and the tears were running down his cheeks as he
stepped out of Wio-wani's wonderfully painted garden and stood once more
upon earth. Turning, he saw the old man walking away along the path
towards the little door under the palace-wall. At the door Wio-wani
turned back and waved his hand for the last time. Tiki-pu still stood
watching him. Then the door opened and shut, and Wio-wani was gone.
Softly as a flower the picture seemed to have folded its leaves over
him.
Tiki-pu leaned a wet face against the picture and kissed the door in the
palace-wall which Wio-wani had painted so beautifully. "O Wio-wani, dear
master," he cried, "are you there?"
He waited, and called again, but no voice answered him.