CHAPTER XVIII
THE MASTERPIECE
The third day after the _Mambare_ sailed found me southbound forSydney, with Paris as my ultimate objective. The thought that astriking--possibly a great--picture might be painted about the face Ihad already done came to me the first time I threw back the veiling rugand encountered poor Allen's terror-haunted eyes staring back into myown. In deciding to finish the work in Paris I missed whatever chance Imight have had of doing something really worth while. That I did finallycomplete a picture that was striking, arresting--something to set thetongues of the art world wagging for many a day--was due to the effort Ihad already made--The Face.
With small chance of being able to do anything for Hartley Allen--atthat time believed to be permanently insane,--there was no reason for myremaining longer in Townsville. As nothing that the good Chief of Policehad learned--or ever did learn, so far as I know--was calculated toconnect me with his failure to run Ranga to earth, he, naturally made noobjection to my leaving. The whole affair was a complete mystery to him.The disappearance of Rona was rated only as a minor mystery. The amusingpart of it was that it never occurred to the dear man to connect thetwo. The last thing that I fixed my glass upon as my southbound boatsteamed out of the harbour was a confused mass of wreckage, blurringdarkly against the mangroves a few miles north of the town. It was allthat the late storm had left of the grounded labour schooner, _CoraAndrews_.
Missing the P. & O. boat by twenty-four hours at Melbourne--too late toovertake it by train to Adelaide,--I found the next sailing was a_Messageries Maritime_ steamer. Rather than wait a week for the nextOrient liner, I booked for the French boat. This was all against mybetter judgment, especially in the light of the fact that I had workahead. The one most effective influence I had known in keeping my use ofabsinthe at a point where it was not entirely beyond my control was thescathing if unspoken contempt of men of my own race for another of thatrace addicted to the insidious Latin habit. The nearest thing to a cleanbreak-away I had ever made up to this time came after a stony-facedCockney steward on a transatlantic Cunarder, who had put mywhisky-drunken cabin-mate to bed one night as a matter of course,slammed the door with a snort when he surprised me pouring absinthe intocracked ice the following afternoon. In France, in French colonies, onFrench steamers--wherever the tri-colour flapped, in short--thatrestraining contempt was non-existent. There one found palliation,indulgence, even encouragement. That was the reason I had always becomeso abject a slave of the "Green Lady" during my sojourns in Paris, inAlgiers, in Saigon, in Noumea. With no one to remind me of my shame, Iforgot it, sinking ever lower and lower the while. This time, it hadbeen my plan so to occupy myself with work on my picture in Paris that Ishould be able to keep my absinthe appetite just about where I hadmanaged to hold it during the last six months in Kai and Australia. Itis quite possible I might have kept to this program had I caught the P.& O. from Melbourne, or had the sense to wait for another British boat.As it was, five weeks of _dolce far niente_ were too much for me. By thetime we reached Suez, I was seeing so green that the desert banks of theCanal looked like verdant lawns to me, and at Marseilles they took mestraight from the ship to the hospital, pretty well all in mentally andphysically. As my case presented some interesting complications ofmalaria and tropical anaemia, the doctors took a good deal of interestin it. Under the circumstances, I was dead lucky to get out of theirhands at the end of a month.
Thoroughly disgusted with the world in general and myself in particularon the day I was discharged from the hospital, it was a toss-up for afew hours as to whether I should jump out for the Islands by the firstboat, or push on to Paris. That I finally plumped for the latter was duemore to the fact that there was no east-bound sailing for a couple ofdays, than to any faith that remained in my ability to get on with thepicture. Considering all this, it seems to me that the effort I finallydid pull myself together for was fairly creditable in its results.
It was The Face itself--after I had unpacked and set up the canvas in astudio that a former friend kindly placed at my disposal--that wasresponsible for finally jolting me into action. Even at the end of tenweeks, Hartley Allen's tortured features seemed as real to me as on thenight I had finished transferring them from my burning brain to thecanvas. It struck me then--as it seemed to strike the public later--asthe nearest thing to flesh and blood ever flicked off the tip of anartist's brush; and I felt that I had only to daub in some kind of an_ensemble_ around it to have a work that would at least give Parisianart circles something to talk about for a while.
It seemed to me that the most effective thing to do would be to makeAllen, lashed to the schooner's wheel, the central and dominating figureon the canvas, and to have the other figures the creatures of hisimagination--the phantoms conjured up by his reeling brain. These wouldinclude Bell, Rona, Ranga and a background of plague-stricken niggers.It was not to be--as we had planned the "Black-birder"--an attempt toportray some incident of the voyage. The "phantoms" were to be done ingreys and blues, filmy and indistinct, to differentiate them from thesolider flesh of the maniac tied to the wheel. It was not an uneffectiveconception, had I been up to carrying it out--which I wasn't.
By a remarkable coincidence, as I have already mentioned, The Face wasin exactly the right place to fit into the _ensemble_ I had planned.This was a good omen and I derived no little encouragement from it.Fearful of the effect that terror-stricken gaze might have upon mymodels, I stuck an opaque square of paper over the distorted features,with the intention of leaving it there until the rest of the picture wasfinished. This was a wise precaution, as the sequel proved.
The model whom I chanced to secure to pose for Allen's figure was anespecially fortunate choice. He had recently finished spending six oreight hours a day lashed to a hollow canvas cross in connection with amural decoration at some cathedral--Sacre Coeur, I believe it was,--sohe stood up rather well under the strain being triced to the propertysteering-gear I had contrived to borrow from the _Folies-Bergere_, wherethe "marine" _revue_ in which it had figured was just over. Consideringthe fact that I had never done anything but seascapes and was notablyweak in anatomy, my work on this figure was far from being as bad asmight have been expected. It was not seriously out of drawing, and, evenwith The Face covered up, one was conscious of an unmistakablesuggestion of agony in the tensely-strained limbs and back-drawn torso.From the artistic side, I would undoubtedly have done better to havetrimmed down my canvas and limited the picture to this single figure.This, however, never occurred to me until a long time afterwards. At themoment, my mind was quite incapable of running away from the track onwhich I had started it.
Although I knew that one of the things that must have been inHartley Allen's mind was Bell's face, as he had described it tome--pain-twisted, with the lower lip bitten clean through, and a bar oflight from the cracked binnacle slashing across it,--I could not bringmyself to attempt to dramatize the sufferings of my friend. (Indeed,even at that time I had a guilty feeling that I was not doing the decentthing in using that of Allen in a picture to be exhibited to thepublic.) All that I did in Bell's case, therefore, was a back view of ahuddled figure, sitting on the rail of the cockpit, with a half-emptywhisky bottle rolling on the deck behind. It was not destined to drawmuch attention or comment one way or the other, for which I was dulythankful.
Ranga, as a consequence of being unable to find a model that would dohim justice, I finally omitted. Rona came near to elimination for asimilar reason, but in her case fortune, in the end, was more kind. Itmay be remembered that there was a so-called Hindu dancer leading theOriental ballets at the _Comique_ about this time. She was really anEurasian half-caste--the daughter of a British "Tommy" and a Mahrattagirl, born in Poona. With little of Rona's beauty of face andwinsomeness of manner, she was still possessed of the same flamingtemperament and a figure that might have been poured from the samemould. It was the lithe, sinewy, serpentine shape of her that caught myeye
when I chanced to drop in at the _Comique_ for a matinee of_Marouf_, and (as she was still a few strokes short of the crest of thewave of popularity on which she rode for the next season or two), I hadlittle difficulty in persuading her to give me a few sittings. Sheinsisted she was doing it for art's sake, but it was really vanity thatbrought her into line. Also, as transpired shortly, she had a very sharpweather eye for the main chance. In any event, the picture proved bothher immediate making and her ultimate undoing. The advertising she gotout of the fact that her living, breathing likeness had been paintedinto the most talked-about picture at the spring _Salon_ of the _SocieteNationale des Beaux-Arts_ doubled and trebled her salary several timesin the course of the next year. But it was also a reproduction of thatsame picture in a Vienna art journal that was directly responsible forluring to Paris the young Serbian ex-prince who chopped the girl topieces with a curved Arabian scimitar--a part of her dancing toggery--asshe was dressing to go on at a gala night of _Aida_.
It had been my original intention to paint Rona issuing from thecompanionway, just as Allen had seen her rush out on the morning Belldied. This, however, was far from meeting with the approval of Keeora(that was what she called herself at the time; it was only in herhey-day that she was known as Kismeta), who insisted upon breaking infull length or not at all. I was so sodden with absinthe by this time,so sick of the whole job, so anxious to get quit of it for good, that Iraised no objections. The flighty thing proposed a sort of near-aerialposture on the deck-house that was something like a cross between thewing-footed Mercury and one of Puck's getaways in Midsummer Night'sDream. Rather than lose the girl outright, I let her have her own way.Steadied by two or three convenient guy-wires and puffing contentedly atone of my hemp-doped cigarettes, she held her painful pose with afortitude truly Oriental. I can see yet the queer little heart-shapedpucker that dented the muscle-knotted calf of her leg when she swung upto the tips of her toes.
I fancy it must have been a certain appeal the audacious minx made to myphysical senses that prodded on my flagging energies. Everything thatwas left in me I devoted to making her absurd conception effective onits own account. To make it so as an integral part of the picture was,of course, out of the question. It is still a matter of a good deal ofwonder to me that I succeeded as well as I did. The pirouetting figureon the _Cora's_ deck-house might just as well have symbolized _PeterPan_, or _The Spirit of Spring_, as _Rona Rampant_; but the factremained that it was exceedingly pleasing to the eye. In this connectionI thought an American tourist--from somewhere south of the Mason-DixonLine by his accent--expressed himself rather well. I overheard theremark on my first and only visit to the _Salon_. "If that little fillydoan leave off kickin' up so neah them buck niggahs," he drawled,"things ah suah fixin' fo' a lynchin' pa'ty. By cracky, if she doan lookgood enuf to eat!"
It was "them big buck niggahs" that were responsible for bringing mylabours to a sudden end. I had managed to round up a half-dozen hulkingSenegambians from the docks at Havre to pose for my plague-strickenSolomon Islanders, and for the first two or three days things went verywell. I was striving for a sort of Dore-esque effect, by painting atangled bunch of blacks writhing in the half-light of the shadowed waistof the schooner. The lazy brutes found lolling round on the studio floora deal more congenial work than humping cotton bales, and I was gettingon very encouragingly considering my wretched condition, when one of theprying rascals, taking advantage of a moment when my back was turned,turned down a corner of the patch that hid the face of the man lashed tothe wheel. What damage was wrought was inflicted on such flimsyfurniture as chanced to be in a direct line of flight from the "models'throne" to the door. Fortunately, the canvas was well to one side. TheSenegalese, it seems, have a raw, red terror of the "Evil Eye."
That little episode brought to an end my work with models. I simplyblocked in my plague-stricken blacks in a rough sort of way and let itgo at that. The effect was hardly as crude as one would think. Theremark of the Southern gentleman I have quoted proved that a man notunfamiliar with niggers could at least distinguish of what the tangle inthe waist was intended to be made up.
I have definite recollection of only one further occasion on which Itried to work. The interval in which I had anything approximatingcommand of my normal faculties had dwindled to a half-hour or so in theafternoon, and I quickly found that I was utterly unable to concentratemy mind sufficiently for connected effort even then. On the occasion Ihave mentioned, I knocked off dead after discovering that I was tryingto decorate Keeora's brow with the wreath of maiden's hair fern that hadcrowned the aviating "Green Lady" in her flight of the night before. Ichucked in my hand complete after that, and had the whole monkey-showpacked off to the Selection Committee. As might have been expected, thepicture nearly caused a riot in that temperamental bunch of "pickers,"but, in the end, The Face won the day with them, just as it did with thepublic.
Of the furore created by "_Hell's Hatches_" in the _Salon_ it willhardly be necessary for me to write. Most of the excitement it stirredup was traceable to the haunting horror of the face of the wretch tiedto the wheel; the rest was due to its name, which only suggested itselfto me at the last moment. Perhaps the fact that everyone was baffledfrom the outset in trying to discover the _motif_ of the bizarre thingalso contributed to the impulse of the whirlpool of morbid curiositywith which it was engulfed. And who could blame them for failing todiscover any connection between a tied-up maniac, a hunched-up drunkard,a kicking-up dancer and a bunch of tangled-up niggers? The avalanche ofsurmises would have been highly diverting had not my sense of humouralready fallen a victim to the apathy that was rapidly settling upon mymind and body.
My outstanding recollection of the whole affair is of a highly effectiveby-play staged by that keen little publicist, Keeora, who had become abit piqued over the slowness of the Press to broadcast the identity ofthe lady dancing on the deck-house. Utterly indifferent, I had avoidedthe _Grand Palais_ not only on the opening day of the _Salon_, but alsoduring the week that followed, when it was reported that the _AvenueAlexander III_ was at times blocked with the throngs striving to getwithin sight of the most intriguing picture shown in years. My telephonewas disconnected; telegrams and letters by the stacks lay unopened; apile of newspapers were unread. Growing more sullen and sodden day byday, I had eyes for nothing but the green bottle at my elbow and theconstantly replenished glass of cracked ice by its side. All the rest ofthe world was one soft, verdant tunnel--nothing else. I had beendrinking steadily for days, afraid to face the reaction that mustinevitably follow the first break in the continuity of the flow of thelife-saving trickle of green.
In a way, I suppose, it is Keeora I have to thank for the fact that,when I finally left my room in the _Continental_, it was to be headedfor the _Grand Palais_ instead of to _La Morgue_. I am quite convincedthat nothing short of the violent eruption of hysteria that soulful ladybrought off outside my door would have induced me to open it, andprobably no one else in Paris could have been equal to just that kind ofan outburst. In passionate French-Cockney, Keeora told how, afterfailing for days to reach me by 'phone and telegraph, she had at lastcome in person to bear me to the _Salon_ to share with her our commontriumph. That didn't move me greatly, but when she swore that she wasgoing to stay until she "jolly well croaked, G'bly'me," unless I let herin, something inside of my head snapped and I gave way. (I always waslike that with hysterical women.) When I opened the door I discoveredthat she was dressed in some Mogul princess sort of a rigout, andaccompanied by an Italian _Marchesa_ and two or three lesser satellites.Between them and my valet they got me dressed and down to a waitingcarriage.
To get away from the mob at the main entrance, they took me around tothe _Avenue d'Antin_ side of the _Grand Palais_, where Keeora pointedout with glee that the _Salon_ of the _Societe des Artistes Francais_,which had opened a week or two previous to that of the _Beaux-Arts_outfit, was almost deserted. "_Et tout, mon cher Monseer W'itney, porraison de--de la grand success de 'Aykootillys don fur.
'_"
"And what might they be?" I asked dully, rather fancying some new sortof epidemic had broken out.
"Madame means to say '_Ecoutilles d'Enfer_,'" began the _Marchesa_politely; "eet--eet ees--"
"Eat your bloomin' 'at!" cut in the lady impatiently, indignant thatanyone could be so stupid as to have her Parisian interpreted to him."Don't you twig me, old cock? That's wot them French Jo'nnys calls'Ell's 'Atches."
The picture was extremely well hung, both for position and light; thoughwhether this had come about as a consequence of a reshuffle after it hadturned out to be the main drawing card, I did not learn. There was aroped-off area in front of it, and through this a number of perspiringattendants were feeding the crowd, working hard with tongue and hand tokeep the chattering line in motion. Keeora called my attention to awoman who had fainted and was being carried out on a stretcher. "Bowls'em over just like that right along," she giggled. "Six of 'em squealedand keeled back just w'ile I was 'angin' on 'ere yustidy. But it ain't_me_ wot gets 'em," she hastened to explain; "it's that crazy bloke atthe w'eel, wiv 'is bloomin' eyes borin' right through your chest an'raspin' up an' down your spine. Don't see wot you wanted to put _'im_ infor any'ow."
At a word from Keeora's sedulous satellites, the attendants opened up aline through the mob and cleared a space in front of the picture. Then,assuring herself with a critically comprehensive glance that the settingwas all correct, she rushed in, threw her arms around my neck, kissed mesmackingly on both cheeks, French-fashion, and began declaiming in herbest Parisio-Whitechapel how I had earned her undying gratitude andaffection (_mon amours eternel_) in making her the central figure in thegreatest work of art of modern times. It was all extremely welldone--from Keeora's standpoint, that is. She had a solid phalanx ofreporters massed in the background, as a consequence of which, after thenext morning, there was no chance for anyone to remain longer inignorance of the fact that the nymph hot-footing around the coamings of"Hell's Hatches" was Keeora of the _Comique_. The following Saturday themanagement came round voluntarily to her hotel with a new contract worthseveral thousand francs a week to their rising _danseuse orientale_.
For myself, groggy in head and knees as I was, the experience was rathertrying. Breaking away from her stranglehold at the first opportunity, Itold Keeora to keep her "eternel amours" for those who wanted them, andbolted. There was some pretence at pursuit, but, with the real magnetdrawing in the other direction, I finally managed to elbow clear.Hailing a cab in the _Champs-Elysees_, I returned to my hotel.
But the interruption, as I have said, was a fortunate one. It checked mydownward slide dangerously near the point where a crash was due. I wasfar from being out of the woods yet, but the interval of comparativelucidity had given me enough courage to try to pull up. Unloading allthe firearms I had about my suite and giving them to my man, I told himto go away for the night and not to return until noon of the followingday. Then, as restrainedly as I could, I drank during the first three orfour hours of the evening, before allowing myself to go to sleep. Thecrisis--the dread reaction I had feared to face--I knew would come onawakening in the morning. It arrived on schedule--two hours of teeteringon the edge of hell and cursing myself for putting the guns beyond myreach. Even with the _absintheteur's notorious_ dread of cold steel, Ifingered Hartley Allen's Portuguese throwing-knife a long time beforemustering up the courage to drop it out of the street window. That gaveme a new idea, and I held lengthy debate with myself about following theknife to the pavement. If I had been on the fourth floor instead of thesecond, I might have tried it. As it was, fifteen feet to a glassmarquee didn't look good enough. But at last I won through--just. It wasa sorry looking figure that shivered back at me from the mirror after Ihad got up my nerve to ring for a pot of black coffee at seven; but Iwas off the toboggan, at any rate, with my face set unflinchingly towardthe one place in the world where I felt there was at least a fightingchance for me to pull up again. I had arrived at the end of the day ofwhich I had dreamed so long--"My Day," I had called it. Paris had comefawning to my feet--and brought me Dead Sea Fruit. I was going back towork out my own salvation in the Islands.
I had a rather trying time of it, getting packed up and away on suchshort notice; but I simply did what I could and let the rest go. PuttingParis behind me was the thing. It took all that was in me to do it, butI caught the Brindisi Express from the P.L.M. station that night.
My last act before leaving the hotel was to sign a paper brought thereby a well-known art dealer, with whom I had talked by 'phone earlier inthe day. It authorized him to sell to the highest bidder a painting inoil known by the name of "Hell's Hatches," delivery to be madeimmediately after the closing of the spring _Salon_ of the _SocieteNationale des Beaux-Arts_. It also provided that he should receive aliberal commission for his services. It must have been something like amonth later that he collected ten per cent. on three hundred thousand_francs_ less about five hundred paid some second-rate artist forexecuting a slight alteration in one of the figures. It was a pettySultan from Morocco (high card with Keeora at the moment) to whom thepicture was knocked down after a spirited run of bidding with an Irishdistiller and a Chicago soap-maker. The buyer's only condition was thatthe man lashed to the wheel should be changed to a _burnoused_ Arab.That would tend to give the picture an atmosphere more in keeping withhis desert palace, he said; also, he wanted the _efrangi's_ face coveredup. The eyes made him jumpy.
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