Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by not writing and—probably kissing other girls?
‘Maisie, you’ll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,’ said the wearied voice of her companion. ‘I can’t sleep a wink with you at the window.’
Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie’s head fell forward on the window-sill, and the tangle of black hair covered her arms.
‘Maisie, wake up. You’ll catch a chill.’
‘Yes, dear; yes, dear.’ She staggered to her bed like a wearied child, and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, ‘I think—I think…. But he ought to have written.’
Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie was not in sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of the work. She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded flue eyes that saw neither pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of one Binat. ‘You have all done not so badly,’ he would say. ‘But you shall remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and the power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I taught,’—here the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get their tubes together,—’the very so many that I have taught, the best was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have done all that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, he had not the conviction. So to-day I hear no more of Binat,—the best of my pupils,—and that is long ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad to hear no more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with conviction.’
He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to make plans for the cool of the afternoon.
Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to grimace before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter to Dick, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami’s studio, is a mystery that only special correspondents can unravel.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said he. ‘It seems an absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I don’t know her by any other name: Is there any young lady here that is called Maisie?’
‘I am Maisie,’ was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat.
‘I ought to introduce myself,’ he said, as the horse capered in the blinding white dust. ‘My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best friend, and—and—the fact is that he has gone blind.’
‘Blind!’ said Maisie, stupidly. ‘He can’t be blind.’
‘He has been stone-blind for nearly two months.’
Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. ‘No! No! Not blind! I won’t have him blind!’
‘Would you care to see for yourself?’ said Torpenhow.
‘Now,—at once?’
‘Oh, no! The Paris train doesn’t go through this place till to-night. There will be ample time.’
‘Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?’
‘Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort of thing. He’s sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can’t read because he’s blind.’
There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining of a headache.
‘Dick’s blind!’ said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she steadied herself against a chair-back. ‘My Dick’s blind!’
‘What?’ The girl was on the sofa no longer.
‘A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn’t written to me for six weeks.’
‘Are you going to him?’
‘I must think.’
‘Think! I should go back to London and see him and I should kiss his eyes and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you don’t go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! Go to him at once. Go!’
Torpenhow’s neck was blistering, but he preserved a smile of infinite patience as Maisie’s appeared bareheaded in the sunshine.
‘I am coming,’ said she, her eyes on the ground.
‘You will be at Vitry Station, then, at seven this evening.’ This was an order delivered by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie said nothing, but she felt grateful that there was no chance of disputing with this big man who took everything for granted and managed a squealing horse with one hand. She returned to the red-haired girl, who was weeping bitterly, and between tears, kisses,—very few of those,—menthol, packing, and an interview with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore away. Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty was to go to Dick,—Dick who owned the wondrous friend and sat in the dark playing with her unopened letters.
‘But what will you do,’ she said to her companion.
‘I? Oh, I shall stay here and—finish your Melancolia,’ she said, smiling pitifully. ‘Write to me afterwards.’
That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur-Marne of a mad Englishman, doubtless suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk all the officers of the garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse from the lines, and had then and there eloped, after the English custom, with one of those more mad English girls who drew pictures down there under the care of that good Monsieur Kami.
‘They are very droll,’ said Suzanne to the conscript in the moonlight by the studio wall. ‘She walked always with those big eyes that saw nothing, and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she were my sister, and gives me—see—ten francs!’
The conscript levied a contribution on both gifts; for he prided himself on being a good soldier.
Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie during the journey to Calais; but he was careful to attend to all her wants, to get her a compartment entirely to herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed of the ease with which the matter had been accomplished.
‘The safest thing would be to let her think things out. By Dick’s showing,—when he was off his head,—she must have ordered him about very thoroughly. Wonder how she likes being under orders.’
Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compartment often with her eyes shut, that she might realise the sensation of blindness. It was an order that she should return to London swiftly, and she found herself at last almost beginning to enjoy the situation. This was better than looking after luggage and a red-haired friend who never took any interest in her surroundings. But there appeared to be a feeling in the air that she, Maisie,—of all people,—was in disgrace. Therefore she justified her conduct to herself with great success, till Torpenhow came up to her on the