Gervase kept his gaze steadily fixed on the table-cloth. He was extremely pale, and had the air of one who has gone through some great mental exhaustion.
“I have not succeeded as well as I expected,” he answered slowly. “I think my hand must have lost its cunning. At any rate, whatever the reason may be, Art has been defeated by Nature.”
He crumbled up the piece of bread near his plate in small portions with a kind of involuntary violence in the action, and Dr. Dean, deliberately drawing out a pair of spectacles from their case, adjusted them, and surveyed him curiously.
“You mean to say that you cannot paint the Princess’s picture?”
Gervase glanced up at him with a half-sullen, half-defiant expression.
“I don’t say that,” he replied; “I can paint something — something which you can call a picture if you like, — but there is no resemblance to the Princess Ziska in it. She is beautiful, and I can get nothing of her beauty, — I can only get the reflection of a face which is not hers.”
“How very curious!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. “Quite psychological, is it not, Doctor? It is almost creepy!” and she managed to produce a delicate shudder of her white shoulders without cracking the blanc de perle enamel. “It will be something fresh for you to study.”
“Possibly it will — possibly,” said the Doctor, still surveying Gervase blandly through his round glasses; “but it isn’t the first time I have heard of painters who unconsciously produce other faces than those of their sitters. I distinctly remember a case in point. A gentleman, famous for his charities and general benevolence, had his portrait painted by a great artist for presentation to the town-hall of his native place, and the artist was quite unable to avoid making him unto the likeness of a villain. It was quite a distressing affair; the painter was probably more distressed than anybody about it, and he tried by every possible means in his power to impart a truthful and noble aspect to the countenance of the man who was known and admitted to be a benefactor to his race. But it was all in vain: the portrait when finished was the portrait of a stranger and a scoundrel. The people for whom it was intended declared they would not have such a libel on their generous friend hung up in their town-hall. The painter was in despair, and there was going to be a general hubbub, when, lo and behold the ‘noble’ personage himself was suddenly arrested for a brutal murder committed twelve years back. He was found guilty and hanged, and the painter kept the portrait that had so remarkably betrayed the murderer’s real nature, as a curiosity ever afterwards.”
“Is that a fact?” inquired a man who was seated at the other side of the table, and who had listened with great interest to the story.
“A positive fact,” said the Doctor. “One of those many singular circumstances which occur in life, and which are beyond all explanation.”
Gervase moved restlessly; then filling for himself a glass of claret, drained it off thirstily.
“Something of the same kind has happened to me,” he said with a hard, mirthless laugh, “for out of the most perfect beauty I have only succeeded in presenting an atrocity.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. “What a disappointing day you must have had! But of course, you will try again; the Princess will surely give you another sitting?”
“Oh, yes! I shall certainly try again and yet again, and ever so many times again,” said Gervase, with a kind of angry obstinacy in his tone, “the more so as she has told me I will never succeed in painting her.”
“She told you that, did she?” put in Dr. Dean, with an air of lively interest.
“Yes.”
Just then the handing round of fresh dishes and the clatter of knives and forks effectually put a stop to the conversation for the time, and Gervase presently glancing about him saw that Denzil Murray and his sister were dining apart at a smaller table with young Lord Fulkeward and Ross Courtney. Helen was looking her fairest and best that evening — her sweet face, framed in its angel aureole of bright hair had a singular look of pureness and truth expressed upon it rare to find in any woman beyond her early teens. Unconsciously to himself, Gervase sighed as he caught a view of her delicate profile, and Lady Fulkeward’s sharp ears heard the sound of that sigh.
“Isn’t that a charming little party over there?” she asked. “Young people, you know! They always like to be together! That very sweet girl, Miss Murray, was so much distressed about her brother to-day, — something was the matter with him — a touch of fever, I believe, — that she begged me to let Fulke dine with them in order to distract Mr. Denzil’s mind. Fulke is a dear boy, you know — very consoling in his ways, though he says so little. Then Mr. Courtney volunteered to join them, and there they are. The Chetwynd Lyles are gone to a big dinner at the Continental this evening.”
“The Chetwynd Lyles — let me see. Who are they?” mused Gervase aloud,
“Do I know them?”
“No, — that is, you have not been formally introduced,” said Dr. Dean. “Sir Chetwynd Lyle is the editor and proprietor of the London Daily Dial, Lady Chetwynd Lyle is his wife, and the two elderly-youthful ladies who appeared as ‘Boulogne fishwives’ last night at the ball are his daughters.”
“Cruel man!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward with a girlish giggle. “The idea of calling those sweet girls, Muriel and Dolly, ‘elderly-youthful!’”
“What are they, my dear madam, what are they?” demanded the imperturbable little savant. “‘Elderly-youthful’ is a very convenient expression, and applies perfectly to people who refuse to be old and cannot possibly be young.”
“Nonsense! I will not listen to you!” and her ladyship opened her jewelled fan and spread it before her eyes to completely screen the objectionable Doctor from view. “Don’t you know your theories are quite out of date? Nobody is old, — we all utterly refuse to be old! Why,” and she shut her fan with a sudden jerk, “I shall have you calling ME old next.”
“Never, madam!” said Dr. Dean gallantly laying his hand upon his heart. “You are quite an exception to the rule. You have passed through the furnace of marriage and come out unscathed. Time has done its worst with you, and now retreats, baffled and powerless; it can touch you no more!”
Whether this was meant as a compliment or the reverse it would have been difficult to say, but Lady Fulkeward graciously accepted it as the choicest flattery, and bowed, smiling and gratified. Dinner was now drawing to its end, and people were giving their orders for coffee to be served to them on the terrace and in the gardens, Gervase among the rest. The Doctor turned to him.
“I should like to see your picture of the Princess,” he said,— “that is if you have no objection.”
“Not the least in the world,” replied Gervase,— “only it isn’t the
Princess, it is somebody else.”
A faint shudder passed over him. The Doctor noticed it.
“Talking of curious things,” went on that irrepressible savant, “I started hunting for a particular scarabeus to-day. I couldn’t find it, of course, — it generally takes years to find even a trifle that one especially wants. But I came across a queer old man in one of the curiosity-shops who told me that over at Karnak they had just discovered a large fresco in one of the tombs describing the exploits of the very man whose track I’m on — Araxes …”
Gervase started, — he knew not why.
“What has Araxes to do with you?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing! But the Princess Ziska spoke of him as a great warrior in the days of Amenhotep, — and she seems to be a great Egyptologist, and to know many things of which we are ignorant. Then you know last night she adopted the costume of a dancer of that period, named Ziska-Charmazel. Well, now it appears that in one part of this fresco the scene depicted is this very Ziska-Charmazel dancing before Araxes.”
Gervase listened with strained attention, — his heart beat thickly, as though the Doctor were telling him of some horrible circumstance in which he had an active part; whereas he had truly no interest at
all in the matter, except in so far as events of history are more or less interesting to everyone.
“Well?” he said after a pause.
“Well,” echoed Dr. Dean. “There is really nothing more to say beyond that I want to find out everything I can concerning this Araxes, if only for the reason that the charming Princess chose to impersonate his lady-love last night. One must amuse one’s self in one’s own fashion, even in Egypt, and this amuses ME.”
Gervase rose, feeling in his pocket for his cigarette-case.
“Come,” he said briefly, “I will show you my picture.”
He straightened his tall, fine figure and walked slowly across the room to the table where Denzil Murray sat with his sister and friends.
“Denzil,” he said,— “I have made a strange portrait of the Princess Ziska, and I’m going to show it to Dr. Dean. I should like you to see it too. Will you come?”
Denzil looked at him with a dark reproach in his eyes.
“If you like,” he answered shortly.
“I do like!” and Gervase laid his hand on the young fellow’s shoulder with a kind pressure. “You will find it a piece of curious disenchantment, as well as a proof of my want of skill. You are all welcome to come and look at it except …” here he hesitated,— “except Miss Murray. I think — yes, I think it might possibly frighten Miss Murray.”
Helen raised her eyes to his, but said nothing.
“Oh, by Jove!” murmured Lord Fulkeward, feeling his moustache as usual. “Then don’t you come, Miss Murray. We’ll tell you all about it afterwards.”
“I have no curiosity on the subject,” she said a trifle coldly. “Denzil, you will find me in the drawing-room. I have a letter to write home.”
With a slight salute she left them, Gervase watching the disappearance of her graceful figure with a tinge of melancholy regret in his eyes.
“It is evident Mademoiselle Helen does not like the Princess Ziska,” he observed.
“Oh, well, as to that,” said Fulkeward hastily, “you know you can’t expect women to lose their heads about her as men do. Beside, there’s something rather strange in the Princess’s manner and appearance, and perhaps Miss Murray doesn’t take to her any more than I do.”
“Oh, then you are not one of her lovers?” queried Dr. Dean smiling.
“No; are you?”
“I? Good heavens, my dear young sir, I was never in love with a woman in my life! That is, not what YOU would call in love. At the age of sixteen I wrote verses to a mature young damsel of forty, — a woman with a remarkably fine figure and plenty of it; she rejected my advances with scorn, and I have never loved since!”
They all laughed, — even Denzil Murray’s sullen features cleared for the moment into the brightness of a smile.
“Where did you paint the Princess’s picture?” inquired Ross Courtney suddenly.
“In her own house,” replied Gervase. “But we were not alone, for the fascinating fair one had some twenty or more armed servants within call.” There was a movement of surprise among his listeners, and he went on: “Yes; Madame is very well protected, I assure you, — as much so as if she were the first favorite in a harem. Come now, and see my sketch.”
He led the way to a private sitting-room which he had secured for himself in the hotel at almost fabulous terms. It was a small apartment, but it had the advantage of a long French window which opened out into the garden. Here, on an easel, was a canvas with its back turned towards the spectator.
“Sit down,” said Gervase abruptly addressing his guests, “and be prepared for a curiosity unlike anything you have ever seen before!” He paused a moment, looking steadily at Dr. Dean. “Perhaps, Doctor, as you are interested in psychic phenomena, you may be able to explain how I got such a face on my canvas, for I cannot explain it to myself.”
He slowly turned the canvas round, and, scarcely heeding the exclamation of amazement that broke simultaneously from all the men present, stared at it himself, fascinated by a singular magnetism more potent than either horror or fear.
CHAPTER IX.
What a strange and awful face it was! — what a thing of distorted passion and pain! What an agony was expressed in every line of the features! — agony in which the traces of a divine beauty lingered only to render the whole countenance more repellent and terrific! A kind of sentient solemnity, mingled with wrath and terror, glared from the painted eyes, — the lips, slightly parted in a cruel upward curve, seemed about to utter a shriek of menace, — the hair, drooping in black, thick clusters low on the brow, looked wet as with the dews of the rigor mortis, — and to add to the mysterious horror of the whole conception, the distinct outline of a death’s-head was seen plainly through the rose-brown flesh-tints. There was no real resemblance in this horrible picture to the radiant and glowing loveliness of the Princess Ziska, yet, at the same time, there was sufficient dim likeness to make an imaginative person think it might be possible for her to assume that appearance in death. Several minutes passed in utter silence, — then Lord Fulkeward suddenly rose.
“I’m going!” he said. “It’s a beastly thing; it makes me sick!”
“Grand merci!” said Gervase with a forced smile.
“I really can’t help it,” declared the young man, turning his back to the picture. “If I am rude, you must excuse it. I’m not very strong — my mother will tell you I get put out very easily, — and I shall dream of this horrid face all night if I don’t give it a wide berth.”
And, without any further remark he stepped out through the open window into the garden, and walked off. Gervase made no comment on his departure; he turned his eyes towards Dr. Dean who, with spectacles on nose, was staring hard at the picture with every sign of the deepest interest.
“Well, Doctor,” he said, “you see it is not at all like the Princess.”
“Oh, yes it is!” returned the Doctor placidly. “If you could imagine the Princess’s face in torture, it would be like her. It is the kind of expression she might wear if she suddenly met with a violent end.”
“But why should I paint her so?” demanded Gervase. “She was perfectly tranquil; and her attitude was most picturesquely composed. I sketched her as I thought I saw her, — how did this tortured head come on my canvas?”
The Doctor scratched his chin thoughtfully. It was certainly a problem.
He stared hard at Gervase, as though searching for the clue to the
mystery in the handsome artist’s own face. Then he turned to Denzil
Murray, who had not stirred or spoken.
“What do you think of it, eh, Denzil?” he asked.
The young man started as from a dream.
“I don’t know what to think of it.”
“And you?” said the Doctor, addressing Ross Courtney.
“I? Oh, I am of the same opinion as Fulkeward, — I think it is a horrible thing. And the curious part of the matter is that it is like the Princess Ziska, and yet totally unlike. Upon my word, you know, it is a very unpleasant picture.”
Dr. Dean got up and paced the room two or three times, his brows knitted in a heavy frown. Suddenly he stopped in front of Gervase.
“Tell me,” he said, “have you any recollection of ever having met the
Princess Ziska before?”
Gervase looked puzzled, then answered slowly:
“No, I have no actual recollection of the kind. At the same time, I admit to you that there is something about her which has always struck me as being familiar. The tone of her voice and the peculiar cadence of her laughter particularly affect me in this way. Last night when I was dancing with her, I wondered whether I had ever come across her as a model in one of the studios in Paris or Rome.”
The Doctor listened to him attentively, watching him narrowly the while. But he shook his head incredulously at the idea of the Princess ever having posed as a model.
“No, no, that won’t do!” he said. “I do not believe she was ever in the model business. Think again
. You are now a man in the prime of life, Monsieur Gervase, but look back to your early youth, — the period when young men do wild, reckless, and often wicked things, — did you ever in that thoughtless time break a woman’s heart?”
Gervase flushed, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Pardieu! I may have done! Who can tell? But if I did, what would that have to do with this?” and he tapped the picture impatiently.
The Doctor sat down and smacked his lips with a peculiar air of enjoyment.
“It would have a great deal to do with it,” he answered, “that is, psychologically speaking. I have known of such cases. We will argue the point out systematically thus: — Suppose that you, in your boyhood, had wronged some woman, and suppose that woman had died. You might imagine you had got rid of that woman. But if her love was very strong and her sense of outrage very bitter, I must tell you that you have not got rid of her by any means, moreover, you never will get rid of her. And why? Because her Soul, like all Souls, is imperishable. Now, putting it as a mere supposition, and for the sake of the argument, that you feel a certain admiration for the Princess Ziska, an admiration which might possibly deepen into something more than platonic, … “ — here Denzil Murray looked up, his eyes glowing with an angry pain as he fixed them on Gervase,— “why then the Soul of the other woman you once wronged might come between you and the face of the new attraction and cause you to unconsciously paint the tortured look of the injured and unforgiving Spirit on the countenance of the lovely fascinator whose charms are just beginning to ensnare you. I repeat, I have known of such cases.” And, unheeding the amazed and incredulous looks of his listeners, the little Doctor folded both his short arms across his chest, and hugged himself in the exquisite delight of his own strange theories.” The fact is,” he continued,” you cannot get rid of ghosts! They are all about us — everywhere! Sometimes they take forms, sometimes they are content to remain invisible. But they never fail to make their presence felt. Often during the performance of some great piece of music they drift between the air and the melody, making the sounds wilder and more haunting, and freezing the blood of the listener with a vague agony and chill. Sometimes they come between us and our friends, mysteriously forbidding any further exchange of civilities or sympathies, and occasionally they meet us alone and walk and talk with us invisibly. Generally they mean well, but sometimes they mean ill. And the only explanation I can offer you, Monsieur Gervase, as to the present picture problem is that a ghost must have come between you and your canvas!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 419