As you are aware, my picture that year was hung in an excellent
position, was favourably received by those for whose criticism I had any
sort of respect, attracted its fair share of attention from the general
public, and, as a result, brought me as near contentment as a man can
well hope or expect to be in this world. Before it had been twenty-four
hours "on the line," I had received several tempting offers for it; but
as I had set my heart on obtaining a certain sum, and was determined not
to accept less, you may suppose I did not give them much attention. If I
received what I wanted, I promised myself a treat I had been looking
forward to all my life. In that case I would take a long holiday, and,
instead of spending the next winter in England, would start for Egypt in
the autumn, taking in Italy _en route_, make my way up the Nile, and be
home again, all being well, in the spring, or, at latest, during the
early days of summer.
Ever since I first became an exhibitor at Burlington House, I have made
it a rule to studiously avoid visiting the gallery after varnishing day.
My reasons would interest no one, but they were sufficiently strong to
induce me to adhere to them. This year, however, I was led into doing so
in a quite unintentional fashion, and as that exception vitally concerns
this narrative, I must narrate in detail the circumstances that led up
to it.
On a certain Friday early in June, I was sitting in my studio, after
lunch, wondering what I should do with myself during the afternoon, when
a knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, after I had invited
whoever stood outside to enter, my old friend, George Merridew, his
wife, son, and three daughters, trooped into the room. They were plainly
up from the country, and, as usual, were doing the sights at express
speed. George Merridew, as you know, stands six feet in his stockings,
and is broad in proportion. His face is red, his eyes blue, and he
carries with him wherever he goes the air of a prosperous country
squire, which he certainly is. Like many other big men, he is
unconscious of his strength, and when he shakes hands with you, you have
reason to remember the fact for five minutes afterward. His wife is
small, and, as some folks declare, looks younger than her eldest
daughter, who is a tennis champion, a golfer, and boasts a supreme
contempt for Royal Academicians and, for that matter, for artists
generally. The son is at Oxford, a nice enough young fellow with limpid
blue eyes, who, to his father's disgust, takes no sort of interest in
fox-hunting, racing, football, or any other sport, and has openly
asserted his intention of entering the Church in the near future. There
are two other girls, Gwendoline and Ethel--the latter, by the way,
promises to be a second edition of her mother--who, at present, are in
the advanced schoolroom stage, dine with their parents, except on state
occasions, and play duets together on the piano with a conscientious
regard for time and fingering that gives their father no small amount of
pleasure, but with other people rather detracts from the beauty of the
performance.
"Thank goodness we have got you at last!" cried Merridew, as he rushed
forward and gripped my hand with a cordiality that made me suffer in
silent agony for minutes afterward. "But, my dear fellow, what on earth
induces you to live in a place that's so difficult to find? We have been
all round the neighbourhood, here, there, and everywhere, making
inquiries, and shouldn't have found you now had it not been for an
intelligent butcher-boy, who put us on the right scent and enabled us to
run you to earth at last."
"Such is fame, you see," I answered with a smile. "One should be humble
when one reflects that the knowledge of one's address is confined to a
butcher-boy.--How do you do, Mrs. Merridew? I am sorry you should have
had so much difficulty in discovering my poor abode."
I shook hands with the rest of the family, and when I had done so,
waited to be informed as to the reason of their visit.
"Now, look here," said the squire, as he spoke producing an enormous
gold repeater from his pocket, which by sheer force of habit he held in
his hand, though he never once looked at it, during the time he was
speaking. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. In the first place
you're to take us to the Academy to see your picture, which every one is
talking about, and at the same time to act as showman and tell us who's
who. After that you'll dine with us at the Langham, and go to the
theatre afterward. No, no, it's not a bit of use you're pretending
you've got another engagement. We don't come up to town very often, but
when we do we enjoy ourselves, and--why, man alive! just consider--I
haven't seen you since last autumn, and if you think I am going to let
you escape now, you're very much mistaken. Such a thing is not to be
thought of--is it, mother?"
Thus appealed to, Mrs. Merridew was kind enough to say that she hoped I
would comply with her husband's wishes. The daughters murmured
something, which I have no doubt was intended to be a complimentary
expression of their feelings, while the son commenced a remark, failed
to make himself intelligible, and then lapsed into silence again.
Thus hemmed in, it remained for me to invent a valid excuse, or to fall
in with their plans. I effected a compromise, informed them that I
should be much pleased to accompany them to the Academy, but that it was
quite impossible I should dine with them afterward, or even visit the
theatre in their company, having, as was quite true, already accepted an
invitation for that evening. Five minutes later the matter was settled,
and we were making our way toward Piccadilly and Burlington House.
In the light of all that has happened since, I can only regard my
behaviour on that occasion with a contemptuous sort of pity. The
minutest details connected with that afternoon's amusement are as
clearly photographed upon my brain as if they had occurred but
yesterday. If I close my eyes for a moment, I can see, just as I saw it
then, the hawkers selling catalogues in the busy street outside, the
great courtyard with the lines of waiting carriages, the fashionable
crowd ascending and descending the stairs, and inside the rooms that
surging mass of well-dressed humanity so characteristic of London and
the season. When we had fought our way to the vestibule, I was for doing
the round of the rooms in the orthodox fashion. This, however, it
appeared, was by no means to George Merridew's taste. He received my
suggestion with appropriate scorn.
"Come, come, old fellow," he replied, "we're first going to see your
picture. It was that which brought us here; and, as soon as I have told
you what I think of it, the rest of the daubs may go hang as far as I am
concerned."
Now, it is an indisputable fact that, whatever Nature may, or may not,
have done for me, she has at least endowed me with an extremely
sensitive disposition. My feelings, therefore, may be imagined when I
tell you that my old friend spoke in a voice that was quite audible
above the polite murmur of the crowd, and which must have penetrated to
the farthest end of the room. Not content with that, he saluted me with
a sounding smack on the back, bidding me, at the same time, consign my
modesty to the winds, for everybody knew--by everybody, I presume he
meant his neighbours in the country--that I was the rising man of the
day, and would inevitably be elected President before I died. To avert
this flood of idiotic compliment, and feeling myself growing hot from
head to foot, I took him by the arm and conducted him hastily through
the room toward that portion of the building where my picture was
displayed.
Whether the work was good, bad, or indifferent, the public at least paid
me the compliment of bestowing their attention upon it, and their
behaviour on this occasion was no exception to the rule. I hope I shall
not be considered more conceited than my fellows; at the risk of it,
however, I must confess to a feeling of pride as I glanced, first at the
crowd wedged in before the rail, and then at the party by my side.
George Merridew's face alone was worth the trouble and time I had spent
upon the canvas. His eyes were opened to their fullest extent: his lips
were also parted, but no sound came from them. Even the face of my
formidable friend, the tennis champion, betrayed a measure of interest
that, in the light of her previous behaviour, was more than flattering.
For some moments we stood together on the outskirts of the throng. Then
those who were directly in front moved away, and my friends immediately
stepped into the gap and took their places. As there was no reason why I
should follow their example, I remained outside, watching the faces and
noting the different effects the picture produced upon them.
I had not been alone more than a few seconds, however, before I became
sensible of a curious sensation. It was accompanied by a lowering of the
pulse that was quite perceptible, followed by an extraordinary feeling
of nausea. I battled against it in vain. The room and its occupants
began to swim before me. I tottered, and at length, being unable any
longer to support myself, sat down on the seat behind me. When I looked
up again I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses. Approaching
me from the crowd, leaning upon his stick, just as I remembered him on
the previous occasion, and dressed in the same extraordinary fashion,
was the old man whose personality had given me such a shock at the foot
of Cleopatra's Needle. His face was as thin and as wrinkled as I had
seen it then, and I also noticed that he wore the same indescribable
look of cruelty and cunning that I remembered so well. One thing was
quite plain, however profoundly I may have been affected by my proximity
to this singular being: I was not the only one who came within the
sphere of his influence. Indeed, it was strange to notice the manner in
which the polite crowd drew away from him, and the different expressions
upon their faces as they stepped aside in order to give him room to
pass. Had he been a snake, they could scarcely have shown a more
unanimous desire to withdraw from his neighbourhood. On this occasion
he was evidently not alone. I gathered this from the fact that, as soon
as he had emerged from the crowd, he paused as if to wait for a
companion. A moment later a woman come to his side--a woman who carried
herself like a daughter of the gods; the most beautiful creature, I can
safely assert, that I have ever seen either in this or any other
country. If her companion's height was below the average, hers was at
least several inches above it. But it was neither her stature, the
exquisite symmetry of her figure, the beauty of her face, the luxuriance
of her hair, nor the elegance of her attire that fascinated me. It was
the expression I saw in her dark, lustrous eyes.
It is essential to my profession that I should be continually studying
the human face, attempting to obtain from it some clew as to the
character of the owner, and learning to read in it the workings of the
mind within. And what I read in this woman's face was a sorrow that
nothing could assuage, a hopelessness that was not limited to this
earth, but was fast passing into the Eternal.
Having once freed herself from the crowd, who, you may be sure, turned
and stared after her as if she were some rare and beautiful animal, she
took her place at her companion's side, and they passed along the room
together, finally disappearing through the archway at the farther end. A
moment later the eldest of my friend's daughters joined me. I had never
credited her with the possession of so much emotion as she displayed at
that moment.
"Mr. Forrester," she said, "I want you to tell me if you have ever seen
anything so awful as that old man's face?"
"I think I can safely say that I never have," I answered; and then, in
an attempt to conceal the emotion I was still feeling, added, "I wonder
who he can be?"
"I can not imagine," she continued, "but I'm certain of this, that I
never want to see him again."
At that moment we were joined by the remainder of the family.
"By Jove! Forrester," said the squire, but without his usual heartiness,
"I don't know what is coming to this place. Did you see that little chap
in the fur coat and skullcap who came out of the crowd just now with
that fine-looking woman behind him? You may scarcely credit it, but his
face gave me quite a turn. I haven't got over it yet."
"The girl with him was very beautiful," murmured his wife gently; "but
there was something about her face that struck me as being very sad. I
should like to know what relationship she bears to him."
"His granddaughter, I should imagine," said Miss Merridew, who was still
watching the entrance to the next room as if she expected them to
return.
"Nonsense!" cried the squire impatiently. "His great-granddaughter, you
mean. I'll stake my reputation that the old fellow is as old as
Methuselah. What say you, Forrester?"
I can not now remember what answer I returned. I only know that we
presently found ourselves on the pavement of Piccadilly, saying
good-bye, and expressing our thanks in an aimless sort of fashion for
the pleasure we had derived from each other's society.
Having seen them safely on their way toward Regent Street, I strolled
along Piccadilly in the direction of my studio, thinking as I went of
that terrible old man whose personality had twice given me such a shock,
and also of the beautiful woman, his companion. The effect they had
produced upon me must have been something out of the common, for I soon
discovered that I could think of nothing else. It was in vain I looked
in at my club and attempted to engage in conversation with friends, or
that, when I reached home, I threw myself into an easy-chair and
endeavoured to interest myself in a book. Out of the centre of every
page peered that wicked old face, with its pallid, wrinkled skin, and
lack-lustre eyes. For upward of an hour I wrestled with the feeling, but
without success. The man's image was not conducive to peace of mind, and
I knew very well that unless I found some distraction I should be
dreaming of him at night. Accordingly I rose from my chair and crossed
the room to a table on which stood a large Satsuma bowl, in which it was
my custom to place the invitations I received. That evening fortune
favoured me. I had the choice of four houses. Two I rejected without a
second thought; between the others I scarcely knew how to decide. Though
I was not aware of it, my evil destiny, for the second time that day,
was standing at my elbow, egging me on to ruin. It appeared I had the
choice of a dance in the Cromwell Road, another in Belgrave Square;
private theatricals in Queen's Gate, and a musical "at home" in Eaton
Square. I did not feel equal to dances or private theatricals, and,
thinking music would soothe my troubled mind, I decided for Eaton Square,
and in so doing brought about the misery and downfall of my life.
Nine o'clock that evening, accordingly, found me ascending the staircase
of Medenham House, greeting my hostess in the anteroom, and passing
thence into the great drawing-room beyond. There is not a more
conspicuous power within the range of her hobby than her ladyship, and
at her house one hears all that is newest and most likely to be famous
in the musical world. Many now celebrated _artistes_ owe much of what
they have since achieved to the helping hand she held out to them when
they were struggling up the rugged hill of fame.
On entering the room I looked about me in the hope of finding some one I
knew, but for some moments was unsuccessful. Then I espied, seated in a
corner, almost hidden by a magnificent palm, a man with whom I possessed
some slight acquaintance. I strolled toward him, and after a few
moments' conversation took my place at his side. He had himself achieved
considerable success as an amateur violinist, and was a distant relative
of our hostess.
"I suppose, like the rest of us, you have come to hear Lady Medenham's
latest prodigy?" he said, after the usual polite nothings had been said.
"I am ashamed to confess I have heard nothing at all about him," I
answered.
"_Her_, my dear sir," he replied, with a little laugh. "Our hostess says
she is marvellous."
"A pianist?"
"Indeed, no! A violinist, and with, I believe, the additional advantage
of being a very beautiful woman. Lady Medenham met her in Munich, and
she has raved about her ever since. Needless to say, she invited her to
visit her as soon as she reached London."
What the connection could have been it is impossible to say, but by some
occult reasoning I instantly associated this new wonder with the
magnificent creature I had seen at Burlington House that afternoon.
"You have already made her acquaintance, I presume?"
I said in a tone of mild curiosity.
"No such luck," he answered. "I have not been permitted that pleasure.
From all accounts, however, she is really very wonderful. All the people
I have met who have heard her declare they have never known anything
like her playing. And the funniest part of it is, she is accompanied
everywhere by a man who is as physically repulsive as she is beautiful."
"A little old man with an extraordinary complexion, deep-set, horrible
eyes, who wears a fur coat and a peculiar cap in the height of the
season, and looks at least a hundred years old?"
"From all accounts you describe him exactly. Where did you meet him?"
"I saw them both at the Academy this afternoon," I answered. "She is, as
you say, very beautiful; but she scarcely struck me as being English."
"She is not. She is Hungarian, I believe, but she has travelled a great
deal and speaks English perfectly."
"And her companion--what nation has the honour of claiming him as her
son?"
"Ah, that I can not tell you! He is a mystery, for no one seems to know
anything about him. Nor is it at all certain what relationship he bears
to the woman. But see, here is Lord Medenham. The performance is
evidently about to commence."
As he spoke there was a general turning of heads in the direction of the
anteroom, and almost simultaneously my hostess entered the room,
accompanied by the exquisite creature I had seen emerging from the crowd
before my picture that afternoon. If she had looked beautiful then, she
was doubly so now. Dressed to perfection, as on the previous occasion,
she towered head and shoulders above Lady Medenham, who is generally
considered tall for her sex, and carried herself with a more imperial
grace than is boasted by any empress I have ever seen.
A few paces behind her followed the man who had been her companion that
afternoon. On this occasion also he disdained the orthodox style of
dress, wore a black velvet coat, closely buttoned beneath his chin, and
upon his head a skullcap of the same material. As on the previous
occasions, he walked with a stick, leaning upon it heavily like an old
man of ninety. Reaching that portion of the room in which the piano was
situated, he dropped into a chair, without waiting for his hostess to
seat herself, and, laying his head back, closed his eyes as if the
exertion of walking had been too much for him. A servant, who had
followed close behind, wrapped a heavy rug about his knees and then
withdrew. Meanwhile his beautiful companion stood for a moment looking
down at him, and then, with a little gesture the significance of which I
could not then interpret, accepted her hostess's invitation and seated
herself beside her.
The first item on the programme was a nocturne rendered by the composer,
a famous pianist who at the time was delighting all London. He seated
himself at the piano and began to play. I am afraid, however, I spared
but small attention for his performance. My interest was centred on that
huddled-up figure under the fur rug and the beautiful creature at his
side. Then a change came, and once more I experienced the same sensation
of revulsion that had overwhelmed me twice before. Again I felt sick and
giddy; once more a clammy sweat broke out upon my forehead, and at last,
unable any longer to control myself, I rose from my seat.
"What on earth is the matter?" inquired my friend, who had been watching
me. "Are you ill?"
"I believe I'm going to faint," I replied. "I must get into the air. But
there is no necessity for you to come. I shall be all right alone."
So saying I signed him back to his seat, and, slipping quietly from the
corner, made my way through the anteroom into the marble corridor
beyond. Once there I leant against the balustrading of the staircase and
endeavoured to pull myself together. A groom of the chambers, who was
passing at the time, seeing there was something amiss, approached and
inquired if he could be of service.
"I am feeling a little faint," I replied. "The heat of the drawing-room
was too much for me. If you can get me a little brandy I think I shall
be quite well in a few moments."
The man departed and presently came back with the spirit I had asked
for. With the return of my self-possession I endeavoured to arrive at an
understanding of what had occasioned the attack. I was not subject to
fainting-fits, but was in every respect as strong as the majority of my
fellow-creatures.
"It's all nonsense," I said to myself, "to ascribe it to that old
fellow's presence. How could such a thing affect me? At any rate, I'll
try the experiment once more."
So saying, I returned to the drawing-room.
I was only just in time, for, as I entered, the lady who had hitherto
been seated by her hostess's side rose from her chair and moved toward
the piano. As no one else stirred, it was plain that she was going to
dispense with the services of an accompanist. Taking her violin from a
table she drew her bow gently across the strings, and, when she had
tuned it, stood looking straight before her down the room. How beautiful
she was at that moment I can not hope to make you understand. Then she
began to play. What the work was I did not then know, but I have since
discovered that it was her own. It opened with a movement in the
minor--low and infinitely sad. There was a note of unappeasable yearning
in it, a cry that might well have been wrung from a heart that was
breaking beneath the weight of a deadly sin; a weird, unearthly
supplication for mercy from a soul that was beyond redemption or the
reach of hope. None but a great musician could have imagined such a
theme, and then only under the influence of a supreme despair. While it
lasted her audience sat spell-bound. There was scarcely one among them
who was not a lover of music, and many were world-famous for their
talent. This, however, was such playing as none of us had ever heard
before, or, indeed, had even dreamed of. Then by imperceptible
gradations the music reached its height and died slowly down, growing
fainter and fainter until it expired in a long-drawn sob. Absolute
silence greeted its termination. Not a hand was raised; not a word was
uttered. If proof were wanting of the effect she had produced, it was to
be found in this. The violinist bowed, a trifle disdainfully, I thought,
and, having placed her instrument on the table once more, returned to
Lady Medenham's side. Then a young German singer and his accompanist
crossed the room and took their places at the piano. The famous pianist,
who had first played, followed the singer, and when he had resumed his
seat the violinist rose and once more took up her instrument.
This time there was no pause. With an abruptness that was startling, she
burst into a wild barbaric dance. The notes danced and leaped upon each
other in joyous confusion, creating an enthusiasm that was as
instantaneous as it was remarkable. It was a tarantella of the wildest
description--nay, I should rather say a dance of Satyrs. The player's
eyes flashed above the instrument, her lithe, exquisite figure rocked
and swayed beneath the spell of the emotion she was conjuring up.
Faster and faster her bow swept across the strings, and as before,
though now for a very different reason, her audience sat fascinated
before her. The first work had been the outcome of despair, this was the
music of unqualified happiness, of the peculiar joy of living--nay, of
the very essence and existence of life itself. Then it ceased as
suddenly as it had begun, and once more she bowed, put down her violin,
and approached her hostess. The programme was at an end, and the
enthusiastic audience clustered round to congratulate her. For my own
part I was curiously ill at ease. In a vague sort of fashion I had
appropriated her music to myself, and now I resented the praise the
fashionable mob was showering upon her. Accordingly I drew back a little
and made up my mind to get through the crowd and slip quietly away. By
the time I was able to emerge from my corner, however, there was a
movement at the end of the room, and it became evident that the player
and her companion were also about to take their departure. Accompanied
by Lord and Lady Medenham they approached the spot where I was standing,
endeavouring to reach the door. Had it been possible I would have taken
shelter behind my palm again in order that my presence might not have
been observed. But it was too late. Lady Medenham had caught my eye, and
now stopped to speak.
"Mr. Forrester," she said, "we have been permitted a great treat
to-night, have we not? You must let me introduce you to the Fraeulein
Valerie de Vocxqal."
I bowed, and, despite the fact that, regarded in the light of her
genius, such a thing was little better than an insult, followed the
example of my betters and murmured a complimentary allusion to her
playing and the pleasure she had given us. She thanked me, all the time
watching me with grave, attentive eyes, into which there had suddenly
flashed a light that was destined to puzzle me for a long time, and the
reason of which I could not understand. Then came the crucial moment
when Lady Medenham turned to me again, and said:
"Mr. Forrester, Monsieur Pharos has expressed a desire to be introduced
to you. I told him yesterday I thought you would be here to-night. May I
have the pleasure of making you acquainted with each other?"
Those cold, dead eyes fixed themselves steadily on mine, and, under
their influence, I felt as if my brain were freezing.
"I am indeed honoured, sir," he said, "and I trust I may be permitted to
express a hope of enlarging our acquaintance. I understand you are the
painter of that very wonderful picture I saw at the Academy this
afternoon? Allow me to offer you my congratulations upon it. It
interested me more deeply than I can say, and on some future date I
shall be grateful if you will let me talk to you upon the subject. The
knowledge it displayed of the country and the period is remarkable in
these days. May I ask how it was acquired?"
"My father was a famous Egyptologist," I replied. "All that I know I
learned from him. Are you also familiar with the country?"
"There are few things and fewer countries with which I am not familiar,"
he replied, somewhat conceitedly, but still watching me and speaking
with the same peculiar gravity. "Some day I shall hope to offer you
conclusive evidence on that point. In the meantime the hour grows late.
I thank you and bid you farewell."
Then, with a bow, he passed on, and a moment later I, too, had quitted
the house and was making my way homeward, trying to collect my
impressions of the evening as I went.