The Light That Failed. Rudyard Kipling
Читать онлайн книгу.
who think with their boots and read with their elbows! The cold-blooded insolence of the work almost saves it; but he mustn’t go on with this. Hasn’t he been praised and cockered up too much? You know these people here have no sense of proportion. They’ll call him a second Detaille and a third-hand Meissonier while his fashion lasts. It’s windy diet for a colt.’
‘I don’t think it affects Dick much. You might as well call a young wolf a lion and expect him to take the compliment in exchange for a shin-bone.
Dick’s soul is in the bank. He’s working for cash.’
‘Now he has thrown up war work, I suppose he doesn’t see that the obligations of the service are just the same, only the proprietors are changed.’
‘How should he know? He thinks he is his own master.’
‘Does he? I could undeceive him for his good, if there’s any virtue in print. He wants the whiplash.’
‘Lay it on with science, then. I’d flay him myself, but I like him too much.’
‘I’ve no scruples. He had the audacity to try to cut me out with a woman at Cairo once. I forgot that, but I remember now.’
‘Did he cut you out?’
‘You’ll see when I have dealt with him. But, after all, what’s the good? Leave him alone and he’ll come home, if he has any stuff in him, dragging or wagging his tail behind him. There’s more in a week of life than in a lively weekly. None the less I’ll slate him. I’ll slate him ponderously in the Cataclysm.’
‘Good luck to you; but I fancy nothing short of a crowbar would make Dick wince. His soul seems to have been fired before we came across him.
He’s intensely suspicious and utterly lawless.’
‘Matter of temper,’ said the Nilghai. ‘It’s the same with horses. Some you wallop and they work, some you wallop and they jib, and some you wallop and they go out for a walk with their hands in their pockets.’
‘That’s exactly what Dick has done,’ said Torpenhow. ‘Wait till he comes back. In the meantime, you can begin your slating here. I’ll show you some of his last and worst work in his studio.’
Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his mood of mind. He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of the Thames through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began by thinking of Torpenhow’s advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the study of the faces flocking past. Some had death written on their features, and Dick marvelled that they could laugh. Others, clumsy and coarse-built for the most part, were alight with love; others were merely drawn and lined with work; but there was something, Dick knew, to be made out of them all. The poor at least should suffer that he might learn, and the rich should pay for the output of his learning. Thus his credit in the world and his cash balance at the bank would be increased. So much the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would take toll of the ills of others.
The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice of the tide between the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl hard pressed by her lover shouted shamelessly, ‘Ah, get away, you beast!’ and a shift of the same wind that had opened the fog drove across Dick’s face the black smoke of a river-steamer at her berth below the wall. He was blinded for the moment, then spun round and found himself face to face with – Maisie.
There was no mistaking. The years had turned the child to a woman, but they had not altered the dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the firmly modelled mouth and chin; and, that all should be as it was of old, she wore a closely fitting gray dress.
Since the human soul is finite and not in the least under its own command, Dick, advancing, said ‘Halloo!’ after the manner of schoolboys, and Maisie answered, ‘Oh, Dick, is that you?’ Then, against his will, and before the brain newly released from considerations of the cash balance had time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of Dick’s body throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut down again, and Maisie’s face was pearl-white through it. No word was spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and the two paced the Embankment together, keeping the step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to the mud-flats. Then Dick, a little hoarsely – ‘What has happened to Amomma?’
‘He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy. Isn’t it funny?’
‘Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?’
‘Ye – es. No. This. Where have you come from?’
‘Over there,’ He pointed eastward through the fog. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, I’m in the north, – the black north, across all the Park. I am very busy.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I paint a great deal. That’s all I have to do.’
‘Why, what’s happened? You had three hundred a year.’
‘I have that still. I am painting; that’s all.’
‘Are you alone, then?’
‘There’s a girl living with me. Don’t walk so fast, Dick; you’re out of step.’
‘Then you noticed it too?’
‘Of course I did. You’re always out of step.’
‘So I am. I’m sorry. You went on with the painting?’
‘Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton’s inSt. John’s Wood, the big studio, then I pepper-potted, – I mean I went to the National, – and now I’m working under Kami.’
‘But Kami is in Paris surely?’
‘No; he has his teaching studio in Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with him in the summer, and I live in London in the winter. I’m a householder.’
‘Do you sell much?’
‘Now and again, but not often. There is my ‘bus. I must take it or lose half an hour. Good-bye, Dick.’
‘Good-bye, Maisie. Won’t you tell me where you live? I must see you again; and perhaps I could help you. I – I paint a little myself.’
‘I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there is no working light. I walk from the Marble Arch down and back again; that is my little excursion. But of course I shall see you again.’ She stepped into the omnibus and was swallowed up by the fog.
‘Well – I – am – damned!’ exclaimed Dick, and returned to the chambers.
Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting on the steps to the studio door, repeating the phrase with an awful gravity.
‘You’ll be more damned when I’m done with you,’ said the Nilghai, upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow’s shoulder and waving a sheaf of half-dry manuscript. ‘Dick, it is of common report that you are suffering from swelled head.’
‘Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.’
‘Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print. Torpenhow refuses from false delicacy. I’ve been overhauling the pot-boilers in your studio. They are simply disgraceful.’
‘Oho! that’s it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you’re wrong. You can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I’m going to bed.’
‘H’m! h’m! h’m! The first part only deals with your pictures. Here’s the peroration: “For work done without conviction, for power wasted on trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the deliberate purpose of winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven public – ” ‘That’s “His Last Shot,” second edition. Go on.’
‘ – “public, there remains but one end, – the oblivion that is preceded by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar