Max
Page 17
CHAPTER XVII
There is impetus, if not necessarily inspiration in a goading thought,and Max returned to his interrupted task with a zeal almost in excess ofhis protestations. He worked with vigor--with an exuberant daring thatseemed to suggest that the creation of his picture was rather thecreation of a mental narcotic than the expression of an idea.
He had given rein to sentiment in the moment with Blake, and now he wasapplying the curb, working incessantly--- never pausing to speak--nevercasting a glance at the corner where his companion was smoking anddreaming over the fire.
To the casual observer it might have seemed a scene of idealcomradeship; yet in the minds of the comrades there lurked anuneasiness, an uncertainty not lightly to be placed--not easily to beclothed in words. A certain warmth was stirring in Blake's heart,coupled with a certain wonder at his sudden discovery of the depth ofthe boy's regard; while in the boy's own soul a tumult of feelings ranriot.
Shame burned him that he should have confessed himself; amazement searedhim that the confession had been there to make. A bewildering annoyancefilled him--a first doubting of the ego he was cherishing with so fine acare.
It is indeed a black moment when an egoist doubts himself; it is as ifthe god within the temple became self-conscious; more, it is as if thegod rent down the veil before the shrine and showed himself a thing ofclay to his astonished worshippers.
The mind of Max was a complex study as he worked with his new-foundvehemence, expressing or crushing a thought with each bold stroke. Heprided himself upon his powers of self-analysis; and, being possessed aswell of honesty and of a measure of common sense, the mental picturethat confronted him was scarcely pleasant seeing. Doubt of himself--ofhis own omnipotence--- had assailed him; and, being young, being spoiledof the world, it found expression in bitter resentment.
Having continued his onslaught upon the canvas until midday was close athand, he suddenly astonished the unoffending Blake by flinging hischarcoal from him to the furthest end of the room, where it broke rudelyagainst the spotless wall-paper.
"God bless my soul!" Blake turned, to see an angry figure striding tothe window, his hair ruffled, his hands thrust deep into his trouserpockets.
"What in God's name is the matter with you?"
There was no answer and, being a wise man, he did not press the point.
Presently, as he expected, the boyish figure wheeled round.
"I cannot work. It is all bad! All wrong!"
He rose slowly and began to walk toward the easel, but with a cry theboy ran forward and intercepted him.
"No! No! No! It is bad, I tell you--you must not see. Look! This is whatI shall do. This!" He turned and, swift as lightning, snapped up aknife, and before Blake could find a gesture or a word, ripped hiscanvas from end to end.
"Upon my word! Well, upon my word! There's an extravagant young devil!Why, in the name of God, would you destroy your canvas like that?"
"Why? Because, my friend, I am I! I do not work again upon a thing thatI have marred!" His voice shook, trembling between excited laughter andtears.
Blake looked at him. "Bless my soul, if he isn't crying! Come here tome! You're a baby!"
But Max turned on him, so furious that the hot anger in his eyesscorched the tears that hung there.
"A baby? This much a baby, that I love my work so truly that I have setit upon an altar and made it my religion! And when I find, as to-day,that it fails me I am damned--my soul is lost!"
"And why does it fail you--to-day?"
"I do not know!"
"Is that the truth?"
"Yes, it is."
"Are you perfectly sure? Are you perfectly sure that 'tisn't I--mypresence here--?"
"You?" Max withered him with a scorn meant for himself as well. "Yourate yourself high, my friend, and you imagine my work a very trivialthing!"
"Nonsense! Plenty of artists must have solitude."
"Plenty of fools! An artist is engrossed in his art so perfectly thatwhen he stands before his canvas no world exists but the world of hisimagination. Do you suppose me to be affected because you sit somewherein the background, smoking over the fire? Oh, no! I trust I have morecapacity to concentrate!"
He shrugged his shoulders to the ears; he raised his eyebrows in thevery elaboration of indifference.
Blake, hot as he in pride or anger, caught sudden fire.
"Upon my soul, you're damned complimentary! I think, if you have noobjection, I'll be wishing you good-day!" He picked up his hat, andstrode to the door.
"LOOK! THIS IS WHAT I SHALL DO. THIS!"]
The action was so abrupt, the offence so real, that it sobered Max.With a sudden collapse of pride, he wheeled round.
"Ned! Oh, Ned!"
But the banging of the outer door was his only answer; and he drew back,his face fallen to a sudden blankness of expression, his hand going outas if for support to the tattered canvas.
Minutes passed--how many or how few he made no attempt to reckon--then atap fell on the door and his blood leaped, leaped and dropped back to asick pulsation of disappointment, as the door opened and Jacqueline'sfair head appeared.
For an instant a fierce resentment at this new intrusion fired him, thenthe absorbing need for human sympathy welled up, drowning all else.
"Mademoiselle," he cried out, "I am the most unhappy person in all theworld; I have tried to make a picture and failed, and I have quarrelledwith my best friend!"
Jacqueline nodded sagely. "That, M. Max, is my excuse for intruding. Ofthe picture, of course, I know nothing"--she shrugged expressively--"butof the quarrel I understand all--having passed M. Blake upon thestairs!"
At any other moment Max would have resented in swift and explicit termsthis probing of his private concerns; but the soreness at his heart wastoo acute to permit of pride.
"Then you are sorry for me, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, monsieur!"
"Because of my spoiled picture?" Waywardness flickered up momentarily.
"No, monsieur!"
"Then why?"
Jacqueline glanced up swiftly, then dropped her eyes.
"Because, monsieur--being but a woman--I say to myself 'life is long,and other pictures may be painted; but with love--or friendship--'"
"Mademoiselle, that is sufficient! You are charming--you aresympathetic--- but, like many others, you place too great a value uponthose words 'love' and 'friendship.' It is like this! If I quarrel withmy friend it is doubtless sad, but it only affects myself; if, on thecontrary, I paint a bad picture I am making a blot upon a beautifulworld!"
"And what of the heart, monsieur? May there not be sad stains upon theheart--even if no eyes see them?"
"Now, mademoiselle, you are talking sentiment!"
"And you, monsieur, are materialistic?" For a second a flash of mischiefshowed in the blue eyes.
Max stiffened his shoulders; made brave show to hide the detestable achein his soul.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he said. "I think, without pride, I may claim tosee life wholly, without idealization."
Quite unexpectedly Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed, steppingclose to him with an engaging air of mystery.
"Then all is well! I have a physic for all your ills!"
He looked distrustful.
"A physic?"
"This, monsieur--that you put aside the great sorrow of your picture,and the little sorrow of your friend--and step across and partake of_dejeuner_ with Lucien and me. A very special _dejeuner_, I assure you;no less than a _poulet bonne femme_, cooked with a care--"
She threw out her hands in an ecstasy of expression, a portrayal of theartless greed that had more than once brought a smile to the boy's lips.But this time no amusement was called up; disgust rose strong withinhim and, accompanying it, a certainty that were Jacqueline's chicken tobe laid before him, he must assuredly choke with the first morsel. Onedoes not eat when one has failed in one's art--or quarrelled with one'sbest friend!
"Mademoiselle," h
e said, unsteadily, "you are kind--and I am not withoutappreciation. But to-day I have no appetite--food does not call to me.Doubtless, there are days when M. Cartel cannot eat." He strove to forcea laugh.
Jacqueline looked humorously grave.
"When Lucien cannot work, monsieur, he eats the more! It is only on thedays when work flows from him that I am compelled to drag him to thetable--those days or, perhaps, the days--" She stopped discreetly.
"What days, mademoiselle?"
For the gratification of a curiosity he condemned, Max put the question.
"Oh, monsieur, when some little affair arises upon which he and Idispute--when some cloud, as it were, darkens the sun." She continued tolook down demurely; then quickly she looked up again. "But I waste yourtime! And, besides, I have not finished what I would say."
"Oh, mademoiselle, I beg--"
"It is not of the _poulet_ that I would speak, monsieur! I understandthat artists are not all alike; and that, whereas bad work gives Lucienan appetite, it gives you a disgust! Still, you are a philosopher, andwill allow others to eat, even if you will not eat yourself."
Max looked bewildered.
"Good!" Jacqueline clapped her hands again softly. "I knew I would findsuccess! I said I would find success!"
"But, mademoiselle, I do not understand."
"No, monsieur! Neither did M. Blake, when I met him upon the stairs,and told him of my _poulet_. He also, it seems, had lost his appetite.Your picture must have been truly bad!"
She discreetly toyed with her belt during the accepted space of time inwhich a brain can conceive--a heart leap--to an overmastering joy; thenshe looked again at Max.
"It is a little idea of my own, monsieur, that you and M. Edouard shouldmake the acquaintance of my Lucien. M. Edouard already consents; I hopethat you, monsieur--"
For answer, Max caught her hand. From that moment he loved her--herprettiness, her mischief, her humanity.
"Mademoiselle! I do not understand--and I do understand!"
"But you will come, monsieur?"
"I will eat your chicken, mademoiselle--even to the bones!"