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+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #67229 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67229)
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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of An Art Shop in Greenwich Village, by
-Ray Cummings
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: An Art Shop in Greenwich Village
-
-Author: Ray Cummings
-
-Release Date: January 23, 2022 [eBook #67229]
-
-Language: English
-
-Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ART SHOP IN GREENWICH VILLAGE ***
-
-
-
-AN ART SHOP IN GREENWICH VILLAGE
-
-By Ray Cummings
-
-
-The little shop was dimly lighted—a lurid red glow at one side and a
-faint amber radiance from above. For a moment I stood looking around
-uncertainly—at the slovenly display-cases and tables, the unframed
-paintings on the walls, and the long shelves crowded with curios.
-
-“Perhaps something in particular the _señor_ would wish?” suggested
-the little old man ingratiatingly.
-
-I glanced back into the black shadow that shrouded the farther end
-of the room, and then turned to meet the snakelike little eyes that
-were roving over my figure appraisingly.
-
-I shook my head. “No,” I said; “nothing in particular.”
-
-The little old man straightened his bent back with an effort,
-reaching a skinny hand toward the shelf above his head.
-
-“The _señor_ plays chess, perhaps?” His hand held a little white
-figure carved in ivory; he dusted it off against the faded black of
-his coat-sleeve. “A wonderful game, _señor_. This set is of the
-Moors—they carve superb in ivory, the Moors. Perhaps in the London
-Museum of Victoria and Albert the _señor_ has seen the work before?”
-
-“No,” I said, and moved away down the length of the table. “I lived
-in Spain a year. Your place interests me.”
-
-He laid aside the ivory figure and followed me down the room with
-feeble steps; I noticed then that one of his feet dragged as he
-walked. It was peculiarly unpleasant—indeed the whole personality of
-this decrepit little old man seemed unpleasant and repulsive. I
-stopped in the red glow of an iron lantern that hung from a bracket
-upon the wall.
-
-“I lived in Spain a year,” I repeated. “That is why, when I saw your
-sign, I stopped in to look around.”
-
-He stood beside me, looking up into my face, his head shaking with
-the palsy of old age, his eyes gleaming into mine.
-
-“In _España_ you have lived, eh?” The thin, cracked treble of his
-voice came from lips that parted in a toothless smile. “That is
-good—very good, _señor_.”
-
-“In Granada,” I added briefly.
-
-He put a shaking hand upon my arm; involuntarily I drew back from
-his touch.
-
-“The _señor_ has lived in Granada! My birthplace, _señor_—yet for
-fifteen years have I been here in your New York. Fifteen years,
-selling here the treasures of _España_. You have lived in
-Granada—ah, then, _señor_, the Alhambra you have seen?”
-
-“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
-
-He picked up a little vase from the table before us. The fire of
-patriotism that for an instant had lighted his face was gone;
-cupidity marked it instead.
-
-“The _señor_ perhaps is interested in ceramics?” His voice was
-almost a whine. “The great Alhambra vase—greatest example of the
-ceramic art of the Moors in all the world—here is its miniature,
-_señor_. See—gazelles in cream and golden luster upon a blue field.
-
-“And there—over there you see a Moorish plate, painted with a luster
-of blue and copper. And there—the golden pottery of Malaga—you have
-heard of that, _señor_? _Madre miu_, what beautiful pottery they
-made—those Musselmen of Malaga!” He pointed at the lower shelf. “See
-it gleam, _señor_ like purest gold. But to you, _señor_, you who
-have been to _España_—because we understand these things, you and
-I—will I sacrifice my treasure.”
-
-“No,” I said. “The price does not matter.”
-
-On the wall, above the red glow of the lantern, hung an unframed
-canvas. In the amber light that shone on it from above I could see
-its great splashes of color—the glittering, gaudy parade of a
-bull-ring.
-
-“That painting there,” I asked—“what is that?”
-
-Again he put his hand upon my arm, and I felt myself shiver in the
-close, warm air of the room.
-
-“The _señor_ perhaps is rich?” His voice came hardly above a
-whisper; he strained upward toward my face as though to exchange
-some darkly mysterious secret. _Un Americano rico_,” he said, “and
-the money perhaps does not matter?”
-
-“Perhaps,” I said, and shook off his hold upon my arm.
-
-“If that be so, _señor_, there are many among my treasures I could
-show.”
-
-“I have no money with me to-night,” I said.
-
-He raised his hand deprecatingly. “Naturally, _señor_. We understand
-each other. To have money in the pocket—it makes no importance if
-one understands.”
-
-I glanced up again at the vivid, colorful bull-ring pictured upon
-the wall. His eyes followed mine.
-
-“Francisco Goya,” he said. “Greatest in _España_ to follow the great
-Velasquez.”
-
-“You mean that is an original Goya?” I exclaimed.
-
-His voice fell again to whining. “Ah, _señor_, no more can I tell
-you than they told to me. You, perhaps, who are of the art a
-judge—you can say if indeed it is of Goya.”
-
-He waited, but I did not answer.
-
-“A person very droll, _señor_—the great Goya. A fighter in the
-bull-ring once, before he took the brush. And with the women—_Madre
-mia_, how they loved him—those women in the court of the fourth
-Charles! He painted well, _señor_. And his pictures of the
-bull-ring—like that, _señor_”—his hands went up as though in
-benediction—“there are none better.”
-
-I stood for a moment looking up at the painting.
-
-“If the _señor_ wishes,” he added softly, “it troubles me not to
-take it down.”
-
-I shook my head, “A realist, this Goya,” I said.
-
-“He had no heart, _señor_. What he saw he painted without pity. He
-was, as you would say, a satirist.”
-
-I had no idea that the painting before me was genuine—nor indeed did
-I much care. But this little, withered old man, and his musty,
-cobweb-laden shop, had about them something vaguely sinister that
-fascinated me—a subtle sense of mystery I could not escape.
-
-“I have studied art,” I said. “You interest me.”
-
-Again I met his glittering eyes, and it struck me then, I think for
-the first time, that there was in them a light that was not the
-light of reason.
-
-For an instant I could see him hesitate, and then as though he had
-reached a sudden decision, he motioned me to a chair and seated
-himself, facing me in the red glow of the lantern overhead.
-
-“The _señor_ is very young,” he began softly; again he hesitated,
-glancing swiftly over his shoulder as if to reassure himself that
-there was no one else in the room. “Very young, _señor_, but
-also—shall we say —very rich?”
-
-His eyes were fastened upon mine; the red beam from the lantern
-lighted his hollow cheeks with a weird, unearthly light. I took off
-my hat and laid it on the table at my side.
-
-“That need not concern us,” I said.
-
-“_Muy bien, señor_. We understand each other _segurimente_. Of the
-character I am judge—for I am an old _señor_, and many people have I
-known.”
-
-He pulled a watch from his pocket. “The hour is late. No one comes
-to buy.” He rose to his feet and locked the door that led to the
-street.
-
-“That is better, _señor_.” He came back toward me with his
-tottering, dragging step, and switched off the amber light in the
-ceiling. “The _señor_ will remove his storm-coat?”
-
-I laid my overcoat on the table and sat again in the little wicker
-chair. The shadows of the room were close around us now. In the
-heavy red of the light I could see only a corner of the table and
-the shaking figure of the little old man as he sat facing me. Behind
-him the solid blackness had crept up like a wall.
-
-“_Bien, señor_. That is well. Now we talk.”
-
-I felt my pulse quicken a little; but I held my gaze firm to his.
-
-“Only to you, _señor_, would I say what now you shall hear.” His
-glance shifted upward into the darkness, then back again to mine.
-
-“Francisco Goya, Velasquez, Sorolla y Bastida—all these great men of
-_España_ are known to the _señor_. Is it not so?”
-
-I nodded.
-
-“But one there is—we shall call him Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál—of him
-the _señor_ has never heard?”
-
-“No,” I said; “I have never heard of him.”
-
-He leaned forward in his chair again; his locked fingers in his lap
-writhed upon each other like little twisting snakes.
-
-“A wonderful painter, _señor_, for he knew the secret to put life
-upon his canvas.” His voice fell to a sibilant whisper.
-
-“Vasquez y Carbajál,” I replied. “No, I never heard of him.”
-
-“Only one picture, _señor_, to make him famous. Very old he is, this
-Vasquez. One picture to make him famous. Five years it has taken
-him. Five years of working—working—” His voice trailed off into
-silence.
-
-“Yes?” I prompted.
-
-His head had sunk to his breast; he raised it with a start at my
-word. The fire came back to his eyes; he sat up rigid in his chair.
-
-“A picture of the kind none other could paint, _señor_. The secret
-to put life upon canvas. Is that not droll?” His querulous, half
-maniacal laughter echoed across the shadowed room. “From the mortal
-living, _señor_, we take the life, and upon the canvas we make it
-immortal.”
-
-I pushed my chair backward violently, half starting to my feet.
-
-“Stay, _señor_.” He raised his hand, pointing a finger at me. “You who
-are of the art a judge—you would see this painting, no? This picture
-by the great Vasquez that soon will be seen by all the world?”
-
-He laughed again—an eery laugh that chilled my blood.
-
-“One moment, _señor_—one little moment, and your eyes shall see that
-which they have never seen before.” He rose to his feet unsteadily.
-“Life upon canvas, _señor_. And beauty—vivid and real to make your
-pulses beat strong.”
-
-I stood beside him under the lantern.
-
-“We shall look upon it together, you and I.” He raised a hand
-apologetically. “That is, of course—if the _señor_ desires.” The
-mystery his words implied appealed to me—I was in my twenties
-then—and to the spirit of adventure that has always been strong in
-me. It was chicanery, I knew, but interesting, and I would see it
-through.
-
-“Very well,” I said. “I will look at your painting.”
-
-In silence I followed him into the shadows of the back of the room.
-
-“Careful, _señor_—a chair is here.”
-
-He suddenly drew aside a curtain in the darkness, and we stepped
-into a dim hallway, with a narrow flight of stairs leading to the
-floor above.
-
-“I shall go in front, _señor_. You will follow. The way is not long,
-and there is light.”
-
-The stairs were narrow and uncarpeted; they creaked a little under
-our tread. On the landing a window stood partly open, its shade
-flapping in the wind. The snow on the ledge outside had drifted in
-over the sill.
-
-We stopped on the landing, and the old man closed the window softly.
-
-“We speak not so loud now, _señor_, so—” He broke off abruptly. “It
-is better we speak not so loud now,” he finished.
-
-At the top of the stairs we turned back and passed through a doorway
-into a room that evidently was immediately over the one we had just
-left.
-
-It was a room perhaps thirty feet in length and half as broad. My
-first impression as I stepped over the threshold was that I had
-stepped across the world—in one brief instant transported from the
-bare, ramshackle, tumbledown Bohemianism of Greenwich Village, into
-the semibarbaric, Levantine splendor of some Musselman ruler. The
-room was carpeted with Oriental rugs; its walls were hung with
-tapestries; its windows shrouded with portieres. Moorish
-weapons—only symbols now of the Mohammedan reign over
-Spain—decorated the walls. Two couches were piled high with vividly
-colored pillows.
-
-The rugs and all the hangings were somber in tone. The whole room
-bore an air of splendid, lavish luxury; and yet there was about it
-something oppressive—a brooding silence, perhaps, or the heavy scent
-of incense.
-
-“My room of work, _señor_,” said the little old man softly, closing
-the door behind us.
-
-I noticed then that there was one other door to the room, in the
-side wall near the front where there were two very large windows
-almost like a side skylight; and that this other door stood slightly
-ajar.
-
-There was a huge fireplace with a blazing log-fire. I think that
-without its cheery crackle the oppressive feeling of mystery that
-hung over the room would have been almost unbearable.
-
-“We shall have more light, _señor_.” The room was lighted only by a
-wavering yellow glow from the fire. He touched a switch, and from
-above came a flood of rose-colored light that bathed us in its
-sensuous warmth.
-
-Over by the windows a large canvas, its face covered with a cloth,
-stood upon an easel; in front of the easel, nearer the side of the
-room, by the fireplace, I saw there was a model stand—a small board
-platform resting on the floor.
-
-“You have a luxurious workshop,” I said casually.
-
-The little old man looked over the room with an appraising,
-approving eye.
-
-“One must have one’s ease, _señor_, when one creates.” He turned
-another switch, and a long row of hooded electric bulbs across the
-top of the windows cast their brilliant light directly downward upon
-the shrouded canvas.
-
-“Come here,” he said. The whine had left his voice. He spoke the
-words as though now unconsciously he had slipped into the role of
-master, displaying to his pupil a great work of art.
-
-He grasped me by the coat-sleeve, pulling me forward until I stood
-with my back against the portieres, and faced the shrouded canvas.
-Then abruptly he jerked down the cloth, and in the brilliant white
-glare from overhead the painting stood revealed.
-
-I stared at the canvas. What I expected to see I do not know. What I
-saw left me gasping—first with amazement, then pity, then with an
-almost irrepressible desire to laugh. For upon the canvas was only a
-huge smear of many colored pigments—utterly formless, without
-meaning. I stared an instant, then turned and met the eyes of the
-little old man beside me. They gleamed into mine with triumph and
-pride, and in them I saw again—and this time plainly—the look of
-madness.
-
-I held back the smile that struggled to my lips. “This—this
-painting—is it you who—”
-
-“Is that not life, _señor_?” His thin, treble voice carried an
-exultant, masterful note. “Can you not see it there? Human
-life—painted in with pigments to make it immortal.”
-
-“Was it you who painted that—that picture?” A great pity rose in my
-heart for this poor, deluded madman.
-
-“I? Oh, _señor_, you do me great honor. It was painted, I have said,
-by Vasquez—Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál. A wonderful man, this Vasquez.
-They are children beside him, these others. Is it not so?”
-
-I said nothing, but gazed again at the miserably grotesque daubs on
-the canvas.
-
-“Look, _señor_! Is that not a soul you see in those eyes? A human
-soul?” He pointed a shaking finger at the smear of color before us,
-his eyes shining with pride. “You call them realists—these Goyas and
-these Zuloagas. You have seen the girls of Zuloaga, with their white
-faces and their lips of red. You have looked into their eves—these
-girls he paints—have you ever seen there the soul?
-
-“‘Naturalism,’ they say; ‘a richness of tone!’ or ‘with a subtlety
-he paints.’ Or perhaps it is a ‘fuller impasto.’ Bah! They are but
-words—tricks of words for the critics to play with. They paint of
-life —these masters, as we call them—but their paintings are dead.
-They cannot capture the soul, _señor_—the soul that always struggles
-free—the human soul never can they hold imprisoned upon their
-canvas.
-
-“And those lips, _señor_—see her beautiful red lips—are they not
-about to speak? The breath that trembles between them—is it not a
-little sigh she would breathe—a sigh to tell us she cannot
-understand this life that stirs within her?
-
-“She would have music, _señor_—music to whisper those little woman
-secrets no man shall hear. See the lute she holds—her fingers have
-but brushed its strings, and she has laid it down.
-
-“And that hand—there upon her breast. Closer, _señor_—bend closer.
-Can you not see veins upon that hand? Blue veins they are, but in
-them there is red blood flowing—red blood to feed the flesh of her
-body—blood to give her life and hold imprisoned there the soul. Can
-you not see it, _señor_? Human blood—the blood of life in a
-portrait.”
-
-His voice rose sharp and shrill with triumph, and he ended again
-with his horrible senile laughter.
-
-The jangling of a bell rang through the house. The little old man
-met my glance and hesitated. Then as the ring was repeated—I could
-hear it now; it was in the shop down-stairs—he muttered a Spanish
-oath softly to himself.
-
-“Some one wants to see me,” he said. “A customer, perhaps—who knows.
-The _señor_ will excuse me one little moment?”
-
-“Yes,” I said; “I will wait for you here.”
-
-“When the business calls, _señor_, it is not good for the pleasure
-to interfere.” He looked around the room uncertainly, and then
-started for the door through which we had entered.
-
-“I leave the _señor_ not alone”—he glanced significantly at the
-canvas—“and only for one little moment.”
-
-When he had left the room I stood again before the canvas, partly
-enveloped in the great folds of the heavy window portieres. On the
-stairs outside I could hear the dragging footsteps of the old man as
-he tottered back to the shop below. I examined the canvas more
-closely now. There was upon it every color and combination of color,
-like the heaped-up pigments on a huge, untidy palette. But I noticed
-that brown seemed to predominate—a dirty, drab, faded brown,
-inexpressibly ugly, and somehow very sinister. It seemed a pigment
-color I had never seen before. I could see, too, that the paints
-were laid on very thick—it was done in oils—as though it had been
-worked over and over again, for months or even years.
-
-A light footfall sounded near at hand, a rustling of silk, the click
-of a latch. A girl stood in the partly opened side door—a young
-girl, hardly more than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in Moorish
-costume. She stood an instant hesitating, with her back partly
-turned to me, looking about the room. Then, leaving the door open
-behind her, she picked up a lute that was standing against the
-wall—I had net noticed before that it was there—and crossed the room
-toward the fireplace.
-
-The girl crossed the room slowly; her back was still partly turned
-as she passed me. It took her but a moment to reach the fireplace,
-yet in that moment I had a vague but unmistakable feeling of being
-in the presence of an overpowering physical exhaustion. Her
-shoulders seemed to droop; she trailed the lute in her loose fingers
-over the heavy nap of the carpet; there was about her white figure
-as she walked a slackness of muscle, a limpness, a seeming absence
-of energy that was almost uncanny.
-
-She reached the fireplace and sank on a hassock, holding the lute
-across her knees, her eyes staring away into the distance behind me.
-It was as though without conscious thought she had dropped into a
-model’s pose.
-
-I must have stepped forward into plainer view, or made some slight
-noise, for the girl’s gaze abruptly shifted downward and met mine
-full.
-
-“Oh, _señor_, I—” She showed no fear. She did not start to her feet,
-but sat quiet, as though in sudden bewilderment—yet with a mind too
-utterly exhausted to think clearly. “Oh, _señor_, I did not know. I
-thought only the _maestro_ would be here, I came to pose for him. It
-is the hour.”
-
-I tried to speak quietly. “He will be here in a moment,” I said. “I
-have been looking at your—your portrait.”
-
-The girl did not smile, as I think I hoped she would, but stared at
-me apathetically. I held her glance a moment; then it wandered
-vaguely to the easel as though her thoughts were still groping with
-the import of my words.
-
-In the shop down-stairs I could hear footsteps on the board
-flooring. After a moment I stepped forward out of the window recess,
-and, drawing up a chair, sat down beside the girl.
-
-She dropped her gaze to mine without emotion. I could see her face
-had once been beautiful. From this close view-point I could see,
-too, that her lips were pale with an almost bluish paleness. Her
-cheeks were very white—a whiteness that was not a pallor, but
-seemingly more an absence of red. And then I got the vague, absurd
-impression that I could see into her skin—as though it contained
-nothing to render it opaque.
-
-“Do you pose for the _maestro_ every night?” I asked. My tone held
-that gentle solicitude with which one might address a child who was
-very ill.
-
-“_Sí, señor_; every night at this hour.”
-
-Her manner was utterly impersonal; her eyes still held that
-listless, apathetic stare. I gazed into them steadily: and then, far
-down in their depths, I seemed to see lurking a shadowy look of
-appeal.
-
-“I have been examining your portrait,” I said. “It is a very—curious
-picture, is it not?”
-
-A faint little glow of color came into the girl’s cheeks. She seemed
-somehow stronger now; but it was a gain of strength rather more
-mental than physical. I sensed dimly that, talking with me, her mind
-was clearing. She hesitated, regarding me appraisingly.
-
-“A very, very curious portrait indeed it is, _señor_.” Again she
-paused; and then, as though she had come to a sudden decision, she
-added slowly: “A very curious portrait, _señor_. To me it has no
-meaning. Once I said that to the _maestro_, and he was very angry.
-He told me I was mad, because I could not see the art—the wonderful
-art in his work. He beat me then.” She shuddered at the memory. “But
-that was very long ago, _señor_, and never have I said it since. And
-every night I pose.”
-
-“You are ill, _señorita_?” I said gently.
-
-“The portrait needs so much of me,” she answered. And then some
-thought or memory that her words did not reveal made her shudder
-again. “I am ill, _señor_, as you say. Very ill. And that, too,
-makes the _maestro_ very angry. I am not so beautiful now for the
-portrait. And soon I shall die—and then I can pose no longer.”
-
-I leaned toward her. “You can trust me, _señorita_,” I said. “You
-are ill-treated here—he treats you badly?”
-
-She looked searchingly into my eyes; then she swiftly drew back her
-loose sleeve. The white flesh of her upper arm was scarred with many
-scars.
-
-“The portrait, _señor_—it is life he paints there. And one cannot
-paint life without using life to paint with. That he says,
-_señor_—and he takes what there is in me to give.”
-
-She spoke softly, tremulously, half in terror at her temerity at
-talking thus of the dreaded _maestro_, half with an air of wan
-appeal.
-
-And with her words, in a sudden flood of horror, the meaning of all
-that I had seen came clear to my mind. I realized now how this
-miserable madman, painting formless daubs upon his canvas, was using
-the life-blood of his victim. With revulsion in my heart, I
-understood at last the meaning of those ugly brown smears that
-mingled and predominated among the pigments on the canvas—the dried
-and faded stains of human blood. And here, sitting close beside me,
-was the victim of this insane necromancy—the shell of what had once
-been womanhood—this body of a girl being drained of its life drop by
-drop.
-
-The girl’s voice brought me back to myself with a start.
-
-“He takes the blood that I have to give, _señor_—and each day the
-painting grows more beautiful. He says I am mad that I cannot see
-its beauty—that the brown I see is not brown, but red—vivid,
-beautiful red—the red of life itself.
-
-“But you, _señor_”—she put her hand upon mine; its touch hardly held
-the warmth of the living—“you, a stranger who, why I know not, comes
-here to this room—you see, too, the way it looks to me, do you not,
-_señor_? Ah, then, indeed I am not mad—and it is he who sees upon
-the canvas what is not there.”
-
-I was about to answer when dragging footsteps sounded on the stairs;
-the front door of the room opened and the little old man stood upon
-the threshold. A look of incredulous astonishment came over his
-seared yellow face, supplanted in an instant by rage. His lips
-parted in a snarl.
-
-“Thou, Malella—thou art here in the presence of a stranger?” He
-spoke in Spanish, his voice vibrating tense with the fierceness of
-his passion.
-
-The girl turned slowly around on the hassock; the lute slipped from
-her lap to the floor.
-
-The little old man was coming forward, and the malevolent gleam in
-his eyes made me leap to my feet.
-
-“Go thou to thy room, Malella—to thy room—at once.”
-
-The girl rose slowly and stood drooping beside me, as a flower
-droops for long lack of the water that gives it life.
-
-“_Sí, maestro_,” she answered. “I go.”
-
-I saw the old man hold her gaze with his glittering eyes. I realized
-there was about those snakelike little eyes of his an hypnotic
-power. The girl seemed to follow and to obey, involuntarily almost,
-his unspoken commands.
-
-She laid the lute on the mantel above the fireplace, and, turning
-slowly back, faced the old man as he stood close beside me.
-
-“Say good night to the gentleman,” he commanded, speaking this time
-in English. He spoke less harshly than before, as though by using my
-own language he unconsciously recognized the restraint my presence
-put upon him.
-
-Then he added to me, and again the miserable, groveling whine came
-back to his voice:
-
-“A foolish child, _señor_. You will excuse, of course.”
-
-“Good night, _señor_,” said the girl.
-
-I found myself very near to her, staring straight down into the
-clear, empty depths of her blue eyes. And there again I saw that
-look of appeal—like the patient look of a dog in pain—whispering to
-me, asking for my aid. As if to answer it, all the pent-up torrent
-of emotion within me burst forth. I swept the girl behind me with my
-arm and fronted the old man.
-
-“I am going now,” I said; and with surprise I heard my voice come
-quiet and repressed. “I thank you, sir, for showing me your
-painting. The _señorita_ here is ill. I am going to take her with
-me—to-night—to a hospital.”
-
-The old man seemed unable at first to grasp my meaning. He stood
-quavering before me, his lower jaw hanging slack, his eyes widening
-with surprise, a look of confusion on his face.
-
-“She is going with me now,” I repeated firmly. I turned around to
-her.
-
-“Get some long wrap, Malella, that will cover you. Hasten—I will
-wait for you here.”
-
-The girl stood irresolute. Confusion and fear were written on her
-face; her glance swung from one to the other of us, undecided.
-
-“At once. Malella, do you hear?” I added sharply. “Get your wrap—I
-will wait for you.”
-
-I pushed her away from me, and she stumbled forward toward the door
-through which she had entered the room.
-
-Her movement seemed to awaken the little old man into sudden action.
-He flung himself on me with a snarl, his shaking, shriveled fingers
-clutching at my throat. I shook him off, but he came back instantly,
-throwing himself at me fearlessly, with a shrill, maniacal,
-blood-curdling cry.
-
-Reason left me; for an instant the room swam red before my eyes. I
-tore his fingers again from my throat, and seizing him around the
-waist, hurled his frail body violently to the floor. His head struck
-a corner of the model stand; his body quivered a moment and then lay
-still.
-
-The girl, with livid, terror-stricken face, was shrinking against
-the side wall of the room, with one hand pressed tightly over her
-mouth. I hurried to her.
-
-“Never mind the wrap, Malella—we will go without it.”
-
-She looked at me numbly.
-
-“Come,” I added, and, putting my arm about her shoulders, dragged
-her unresisting from the room.
-
-It took us but a moment to descend the rickety stairs to the
-darkened shop. I stopped in the shop and snatched up my overcoat and
-hat. When we got to the street I found it had stopped snowing;
-across the square I could see the glistening white of Washington
-Arch.
-
-A jolly crowd of young people came hurrying by, and seeing us
-standing there in the doorway—a girl in Moorish costume, and me with
-my overcoat on my arm—laughed and waved in friendly greeting. An
-alert taxi-driver—thinking doubtless we were going to some
-masquerade—drove his car to the curb and stopped.
-
-“You are safe now, Malella,” I said, after a moment, when we were in
-the taxi and had started toward the hospital uptown.
-
-Her slim little body swayed toward me; her arms stole up around my
-neck like the arms of a tired, frightened child who seeks
-protection.
-
-“You need not be frightened,” I said. “You are never going back.”
-And then I added aloud, but softly, very softly to myself: “For when
-they make you well again at the hospital you are going to be with
-me—always.”
-
-For I was in my twenties then, as I have said, and the decisions of
-youth are very quickly reached.
-
-
-[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 29, 1920 issue of
-All-Story Weekly magazine.]
-
-*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ART SHOP IN GREENWICH VILLAGE ***
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-  <meta charset="UTF-8" />
-  <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of An Art Shop in Greenwich Village, by Ray Cummings</title>
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-<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of An Art Shop in Greenwich Village, by Ray Cummings</p>
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
-at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
-are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
-country where you are located before using this eBook.
-</div>
-
-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: An Art Shop in Greenwich Village</p>
-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Ray Cummings</p>
-<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 23, 2022 [eBook #67229]</p>
-<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>
-  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark</p>
-<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ART SHOP IN GREENWICH VILLAGE ***</div>
-
-<div class='ce mb01'>
-<h1 style='margin-bottom:0em;'>An Art Shop in Greenwich Village</h1>
-    <div>
-        By Ray Cummings
-    </div>
-</div>
-<div id='001' class='mt01 mb01 w001'>
-  <img src='images/illus-001.jpg' alt='' style='width:100%' />
-</div>
-
-<p>The little shop was dimly lighted—a lurid red glow at one side and a 
-faint amber radiance from above. For a moment I stood looking around 
-uncertainly—at the slovenly display-cases and tables, the unframed 
-paintings on the walls, and the long shelves crowded with curios.</p> 
-
-<p>“Perhaps something in particular the <i>señor</i> would wish?” 
-suggested the little old man ingratiatingly.</p> 
-
-<p>I glanced back into the black shadow that shrouded the farther end of 
-the room, and then turned to meet the snakelike little eyes that were 
-roving over my figure appraisingly.</p> 
-
-<p>I shook my head. “No,” I said; “nothing in particular.”</p> 
-
-<p>The little old man straightened his bent back with an effort, reaching 
-a skinny hand toward the shelf above his head.</p> 
-
-<p>“The <i>señor</i> plays chess, perhaps?” His hand held a little white 
-figure carved in ivory; he dusted it off against the faded black of his 
-coat-sleeve. “A wonderful game, <i>señor</i>. This set is of the Moors—they
-carve superb in ivory, the Moors. Perhaps in the London Museum of 
-Victoria and Albert the <i>señor</i> has seen the work before?”</p> 
-
-<p>“No,” I said, and moved away down the length of the table. “I lived in 
-Spain a year. Your place interests me.”</p> 
-
-<p>He laid aside the ivory figure and followed me down the room with 
-feeble steps; I noticed then that one of his feet dragged as he walked. It 
-was peculiarly unpleasant—indeed the whole personality of this decrepit 
-little old man seemed unpleasant and repulsive. I stopped in the red glow 
-of an iron lantern that hung from a bracket upon the wall.</p> 
-
-<p>“I lived in Spain a year,” I repeated. “That is why, when I saw your 
-sign, I stopped in to look around.”</p> 
-
-<p>He stood beside me, looking up into my face, his head shaking with the 
-palsy of old age, his eyes gleaming into mine.</p> 
-
-<p>“In <i>España</i> you have lived, eh?” The thin, cracked treble of his 
-voice came from lips that parted in a toothless smile. “That is good—very 
-good, <i>señor</i>.”</p>
-
-<p>“In Granada,” I added briefly.</p>
-
-<p>He put a shaking hand upon my arm; involuntarily I drew back from his 
-touch.</p> 
-
-<p>“The <i>señor</i> has lived in Granada! My birthplace, <i>señor</i>—yet 
-for fifteen years have I been here in your New York. Fifteen years, 
-selling here the treasures of <i>España</i>. You have lived in Granada—ah, 
-then, <i>señor</i>, the Alhambra you have seen?”</p>
-
-<p>“Yes,” I said, “of course.”</p> 
-
-<p>He picked up a little vase from the table before us. The fire of 
-patriotism that for an instant had lighted his face was gone; cupidity 
-marked it instead.</p> 
-
-<p>“The <i>señor</i> perhaps is interested in ceramics?” His voice was 
-almost a whine. “The great Alhambra vase—greatest example of the ceramic 
-art of the Moors in all the world—here is its miniature, <i>señor</i>.
-See—gazelles in cream and golden luster upon a blue field.</p> 
-
-<p>“And there—over there you see a Moorish plate, painted with a luster of 
-blue and copper. And there—the golden pottery of Malaga—you have heard of 
-that, <i>señor</i>? <i>Madre miu</i>, what beautiful pottery they 
-made—those Musselmen of Malaga!” He pointed at the lower shelf. “See it 
-gleam, <i>señor</i> like purest gold. But to you, <i>señor</i>, you who 
-have been to <i>España</i>—because we understand these things, you and 
-I—will I sacrifice my treasure.”</p> 
-
-<p>“No,” I said. “The price does not matter.”</p> 
-
-<p>On the wall, above the red glow of the lantern, hung an unframed 
-canvas. In the amber light that shone on it from above I could see its 
-great splashes of color—the glittering, gaudy parade of a bull-ring.</p> 
-
-<p>“That painting there,” I asked—“what is that?”</p> 
-
-<p>Again he put his hand upon my arm, and I felt myself shiver in the 
-close, warm air of the room.</p> 
-
-<p>“The <i>señor</i> perhaps is rich?” His voice came hardly above a 
-whisper; he strained upward toward my face as though to exchange some 
-darkly mysterious secret. <i>Un Americano rico</i>,” he said, “and the 
-money perhaps does not matter?”</p> 
-
-<p>“Perhaps,” I said, and shook off his hold upon my arm.</p> 
-
-<p>“If that be so, <i>señor</i>, there are many among my treasures I could 
-show.”</p> 
-
-<p>“I have no money with me to-night,” I said.</p> 
-
-<p>He raised his hand deprecatingly. “Naturally, <i>señor</i>. 
-We understand each other. To have money in the pocket—it makes no 
-importance if one understands.”</p> 
-
-<p>I glanced up again at the vivid, colorful bull-ring pictured upon the 
-wall. His eyes followed mine.</p> 
-
-<p>“Francisco Goya,” he said. “Greatest in <i>España</i> to follow the 
-great Velasquez.”</p> 
-
-<p>“You mean that is an original Goya?” I exclaimed.</p> 
-
-<p>His voice fell again to whining. “Ah, <i>señor</i>, no more can I tell 
-you than they told to me. You, perhaps, who are of the art a judge—you can 
-say if indeed it is of Goya.”</p> 
-
-<p>He waited, but I did not answer.</p> 
-
-<p>“A person very droll, <i>señor</i>—the great Goya. A fighter in the 
-bull-ring once, before he took the brush. And with the women—<i>Madre 
-mia</i>, how they loved him—those women in the court of the fourth 
-Charles! He painted well, <i>señor</i>. And his pictures of the 
-bull-ring—like that, <i>señor</i>”—his hands went up as though in 
-benediction—“there are none better.”</p> 
-
-<p>I stood for a moment looking up at the painting.</p> 
-
-<p>“If the <i>señor</i> wishes,” he added softly, “it troubles me not to 
-take it down.”</p> 
-
-<p>I shook my head, “A realist, this Goya,” I said.</p> 
-
-<p>“He had no heart, <i>señor</i>. What he saw he painted without pity. He 
-was, as you would say, a satirist.”</p> 
-
-<p>I had no idea that the painting before me was genuine—nor indeed did I 
-much care. But this little, withered old man, and his musty, cobweb-laden 
-shop, had about them something vaguely sinister that fascinated me—a 
-subtle sense of mystery I could not escape.</p> 
-
-<p>“I have studied art,” I said. “You interest me.”</p> 
-
-<p>Again I met his glittering eyes, and it struck me then, I think for the 
-first time, that there was in them a light that was not the light of 
-reason.</p> 
-
-<p>For an instant I could see him hesitate, and then as though he had 
-reached a sudden decision, he motioned me to a chair and seated himself, 
-facing me in the red glow of the lantern overhead.</p> 
-
-<p>“The <i>señor</i> is very young,” he began softly; again he hesitated, 
-glancing swiftly over his shoulder as if to reassure himself that there 
-was no one else in the room. “Very young, <i>señor</i>, but also—shall we 
-say —very rich?”</p> 
-
-<p>His eyes were fastened upon mine; the red beam from the lantern lighted 
-his hollow cheeks with a weird, unearthly light. I took off my hat and 
-laid it on the table at my side.</p> 
-
-<p>“That need not concern us,” I said.</p> 
-
-<p>“<i>Muy bien, señor</i>. We understand each other <i>segurimente</i>. Of 
-the character I am judge—for I am an old <i>señor</i>, and many people 
-have I known.”</p> 
-
-<p>He pulled a watch from his pocket. “The hour is late. No one comes to 
-buy.” He rose to his feet and locked the door that led to the street.</p> 
-
-<p>“That is better, <i>señor</i>.” He came back toward me with his 
-tottering, dragging step, and switched off the amber light in the ceiling. 
-“The <i>señor</i> will remove his storm-coat?”</p> 
-
-<p>I laid my overcoat on the table and sat again in the little wicker 
-chair. The shadows of the room were close around us now. In the heavy red 
-of the light I could see only a corner of the table and the shaking figure 
-of the little old man as he sat facing me. Behind him the solid blackness 
-had crept up like a wall.</p> 
-
-<p>“<i>Bien, señor</i>. That is well. Now we talk.”</p> 
-
-<p>I felt my pulse quicken a little; but I held my gaze firm to his.</p> 
-
-<p>“Only to you, <i>señor</i>, would I say what now you shall hear.” His 
-glance shifted upward into the darkness, then back again to mine.</p> 
-
-<p>“Francisco Goya, Velasquez, Sorolla y Bastida—all these great men of 
-<i>España</i> are known to the <i>señor</i>. Is it not so?”</p> 
-
-<p>I nodded.</p> 
-
-<p>“But one there is—we shall call him Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál—of him the 
-<i>señor</i> has never heard?”</p> 
-
-<p>“No,” I said; “I have never heard of him.”</p> 
-
-<p>He leaned forward in his chair again; his locked fingers in his lap 
-writhed upon each other like little twisting snakes.</p> 
-
-<p>“A wonderful painter, <i>señor</i>, for he knew the secret to put life 
-upon his canvas.” His voice fell to a sibilant whisper.</p> 
-
-<p>“Vasquez y Carbajál,” I replied. “No, I never heard of him.”</p> 
-
-<p>“Only one picture, <i>señor</i>, to make him famous. Very old he is, 
-this Vasquez. One picture to make him famous. Five years it has taken him. 
-Five years of working—working—” His voice trailed off into silence.</p> 
-
-<p>“Yes?” I prompted.</p> 
-
-<p>His head had sunk to his breast; he raised it with a start at my word. 
-The fire came back to his eyes; he sat up rigid in his chair.</p> 
-
-<p>“A picture of the kind none other could paint, <i>señor</i>. The secret 
-to put life upon canvas. Is that not droll?” His querulous, half maniacal 
-laughter echoed across the shadowed room. “From the mortal living, 
-<i>señor</i>, we take the life, and upon the canvas we make it 
-immortal.”</p> 
-
-<p>I pushed my chair backward violently, half starting to my feet.</p> 
-
-<p>“Stay, <i>señor</i>.” He raised his hand, pointing a finger at me. “You 
-who are of the art a judge—you would see this painting, no? This picture 
-by the great Vasquez that soon will be seen by all the world?”</p> 
-
-<p>He laughed again—an eery laugh that chilled my blood.</p> 
-
-<p>“One moment, <i>señor</i>—one little moment, and your eyes shall see 
-that which they have never seen before.” He rose to his feet unsteadily. 
-“Life upon canvas, <i>señor</i>. And beauty—vivid and real to make your 
-pulses beat strong.”</p> 
-
-<p>I stood beside him under the lantern.</p> 
-
-<p>“We shall look upon it together, you and I.” He raised a hand 
-apologetically. “That is, of course—if the <i>señor</i> desires.” The 
-mystery his words implied appealed to me—I was in my twenties then—and to 
-the spirit of adventure that has always been strong in me. It was 
-chicanery, I knew, but interesting, and I would see it through.</p> 
-
-<p>“Very well,” I said. “I will look at your painting.”</p> 
-
-<p>In silence I followed him into the shadows of the back of the room.</p> 
-
-<p>“Careful, <i>señor</i>—a chair is here.”</p> 
-
-<p>He suddenly drew aside a curtain in the darkness, and we stepped into a 
-dim hallway, with a narrow flight of stairs leading to the floor 
-above.</p> 
-
-<p>“I shall go in front, <i>señor</i>. You will follow. The way is not 
-long, and there is light.”</p> 
-
-<p>The stairs were narrow and uncarpeted; they creaked a little under our 
-tread. On the landing a window stood partly open, its shade flapping in 
-the wind. The snow on the ledge outside had drifted in over the sill.</p> 
-
-<p>We stopped on the landing, and the old man closed the window softly.</p> 
-
-<p>“We speak not so loud now, <i>señor</i>, so—” He broke off abruptly. 
-“It is better we speak not so loud now,” he finished.</p> 
-
-<p>At the top of the stairs we turned back and passed through a doorway 
-into a room that evidently was immediately over the one we had just 
-left.</p> 
-
-<p>It was a room perhaps thirty feet in length and half as broad. My first 
-impression as I stepped over the threshold was that I had stepped across 
-the world—in one brief instant transported from the bare, ramshackle, 
-tumbledown Bohemianism of Greenwich Village, into the semibarbaric, 
-Levantine splendor of some Musselman ruler. The room was carpeted with 
-Oriental rugs; its walls were hung with tapestries; its windows shrouded 
-with portieres. Moorish weapons—only symbols now of the Mohammedan reign 
-over Spain—decorated the walls. Two couches were piled high with vividly 
-colored pillows.</p> 
-
-<p>The rugs and all the hangings were somber in tone. The whole room bore 
-an air of splendid, lavish luxury; and yet there was about it something 
-oppressive—a brooding silence, perhaps, or the heavy scent of incense.</p> 
-
-<p>“My room of work, <i>señor</i>,” said the little old man softly, 
-closing the door behind us.</p> 
-
-<p>I noticed then that there was one other door to the room, in the side 
-wall near the front where there were two very large windows almost like a 
-side skylight; and that this other door stood slightly ajar.</p> 
-
-<p>There was a huge fireplace with a blazing log-fire. I think that 
-without its cheery crackle the oppressive feeling of mystery that hung 
-over the room would have been almost unbearable.</p> 
-
-<p>“We shall have more light, <i>señor</i>.” The room was lighted only by a 
-wavering yellow glow from the fire. He touched a switch, and from above 
-came a flood of rose-colored light that bathed us in its sensuous 
-warmth.</p> 
-
-<p>Over by the windows a large canvas, its face covered with a cloth, 
-stood upon an easel; in front of the easel, nearer the side of the room, 
-by the fireplace, I saw there was a model stand—a small board platform 
-resting on the floor.</p> 
-
-<p>“You have a luxurious workshop,” I said casually.</p> 
-
-<p>The little old man looked over the room with an appraising, approving 
-eye.</p> 
-
-<p>“One must have one’s ease, <i>señor</i>, when one creates.” He 
-turned another switch, and a long row of hooded electric bulbs across the 
-top of the windows cast their brilliant light directly downward upon the 
-shrouded canvas.</p> 
-
-<p>“Come here,” he said. The whine had left his voice. He spoke the 
-words as though now unconsciously he had slipped into the role of master, 
-displaying to his pupil a great work of art.</p> 
-
-<p>He grasped me by the coat-sleeve, pulling me forward until I stood with 
-my back against the portieres, and faced the shrouded canvas. Then 
-abruptly he jerked down the cloth, and in the brilliant white glare from 
-overhead the painting stood revealed.</p> 
-
-<p>I stared at the canvas. What I expected to see I do not know. What I 
-saw left me gasping—first with amazement, then pity, then with 
-an almost irrepressible desire to laugh. For upon the canvas was only a 
-huge smear of many colored pigments—utterly formless, without meaning. I 
-stared an instant, then turned and met the eyes of the little old man 
-beside me. They gleamed into mine with triumph and pride, and in them I 
-saw again—and this time plainly—the look of madness.</p> 
-
-<p>I held back the smile that struggled to my lips. “This—this painting—is 
-it you who—”</p> 
-
-<p>“Is that not life, <i>señor</i>?” His thin, treble voice carried an 
-exultant, masterful note. “Can you not see it there? Human life—painted in 
-with pigments to make it immortal.”</p> 
-
-<p>“Was it you who painted that—that picture?” A great pity rose in 
-my heart for this poor, deluded madman.</p> 
-
-<p>“I? Oh, <i>señor</i>, you do me great honor. It was painted, I have 
-said, by Vasquez—Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál. A wonderful man, this Vasquez. 
-They are children beside him, these others. Is it not so?”</p> 
-
-<p>I said nothing, but gazed again at the miserably grotesque daubs on the 
-canvas.</p> 
-
-<p>“Look, <i>señor</i>! Is that not a soul you see in those eyes? A human 
-soul?” He pointed a shaking finger at the smear of color before us, his 
-eyes shining with pride. “You call them realists—these Goyas and these 
-Zuloagas. You have seen the girls of Zuloaga, with their white faces and 
-their lips of red. You have looked into their eves—these girls he 
-paints—have you ever seen there the soul?</p>
-
-<p>“‘Naturalism,’ they say; ‘a richness of tone!’ or ‘with a subtlety he 
-paints.’ Or perhaps it is a ‘fuller impasto.’ Bah! They are but 
-words—tricks of words for the critics to play with. They paint of life 
-—these masters, as we call them—but their paintings are dead. They cannot 
-capture the soul, <i>señor</i>—the soul that always struggles free—the 
-human soul never can they hold imprisoned upon their canvas.</p> 
-
-<p>“And those lips, <i>señor</i>—see her beautiful red lips—are they 
-not about to speak? The breath that trembles between them—is it not a 
-little sigh she would breathe—a sigh to tell us she cannot understand this 
-life that stirs within her?</p> 
-
-<p>“She would have music, <i>señor</i>—music to whisper those little woman 
-secrets no man shall hear. See the lute she holds—her fingers have but 
-brushed its strings, and she has laid it down.</p> 
-
-<p>“And that hand—there upon her breast. Closer, <i>señor</i>—bend closer. 
-Can you not see veins upon that hand? Blue veins they are, but in them 
-there is red blood flowing—red blood to feed the flesh of her body—blood 
-to give her life and hold imprisoned there the soul. Can you not see it, 
-<i>señor</i>? Human blood—the blood of life in a portrait.”</p> 
-
-<p>His voice rose sharp and shrill with triumph, and he ended again with 
-his horrible senile laughter.</p> 
-
-<p>The jangling of a bell rang through the house. The little old man met 
-my glance and hesitated. Then as the ring was repeated—I could hear it 
-now; it was in the shop down-stairs—he muttered a Spanish oath softly to 
-himself.</p> 
-
-<p>“Some one wants to see me,” he said. “A customer, perhaps—who knows. 
-The <i>señor</i> will excuse me one little moment?”</p> 
-
-<p>“Yes,” I said; “I will wait for you here.”</p> 
-
-<p>“When the business calls, <i>señor</i>, it is not 
-good for the pleasure to interfere.” He looked around the room 
-uncertainly, and then started for the door through which we had 
-entered.</p> 
-
-<p>“I leave the <i>señor</i> not alone”—he glanced significantly at the 
-canvas—“and only for one little moment.”</p> 
-
-<p>When he had left the room I stood again before the canvas, partly 
-enveloped in the great folds of the heavy window portieres. On the stairs 
-outside I could hear the dragging footsteps of the old man as he tottered 
-back to the shop below. I examined the canvas more closely now. There was 
-upon it every color and combination of color, like the heaped-up pigments 
-on a huge, untidy palette. But I noticed that brown seemed to 
-predominate—a dirty, drab, faded brown, inexpressibly ugly, and somehow 
-very sinister. It seemed a pigment color I had never seen before. I could 
-see, too, that the paints were laid on very thick—it was done in oils—as 
-though it had been worked over and over again, for months or even 
-years.</p> 
-
-<p>A light footfall sounded near at hand, a rustling of silk, the click of 
-a latch. A girl stood in the partly opened side door—a young girl, hardly 
-more than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in Moorish costume. She stood an 
-instant hesitating, with her back partly turned to me, looking about the 
-room. Then, leaving the door open behind her, she picked up a lute that 
-was standing against the wall—I had net noticed before that it was 
-there—and crossed the room toward the fireplace.</p> 
-
-<p>The girl crossed the room slowly; her back was still partly turned as 
-she passed me. It took her but a moment to reach the fireplace, yet in 
-that moment I had a vague but unmistakable feeling of being in the 
-presence of an overpowering physical exhaustion. Her shoulders seemed to 
-droop; she trailed the lute in her loose fingers over the heavy nap of the 
-carpet; there was about her white figure as she walked a slackness of 
-muscle, a limpness, a seeming absence of energy that was almost 
-uncanny.</p> 
-
-<p>She reached the fireplace and sank on a hassock, holding the lute 
-across her knees, her eyes staring away into the distance behind me. It 
-was as though without conscious thought she had dropped into a model’s 
-pose.</p> 
-
-<p>I must have stepped forward into plainer view, or made some slight 
-noise, for the girl’s gaze abruptly shifted downward and met mine 
-full.</p> 
-
-<p>“Oh, <i>señor</i>, I—” She showed no fear. She did not start to her 
-feet, but sat quiet, as though in sudden bewilderment—yet with a mind too 
-utterly exhausted to think clearly. “Oh, <i>señor</i>, I did not know. I 
-thought only the <i>maestro</i> would be here, I came to pose for him. It 
-is the hour.”</p> 
-
-<p>I tried to speak quietly. “He will be here in a moment,” I said. “I 
-have been looking at your—your portrait.”</p> 
-
-<p>The girl did not smile, as I think I hoped she would, but stared at me 
-apathetically. I held her glance a moment; then it wandered vaguely to the 
-easel as though her thoughts were still groping with the import of my 
-words.</p> 
-
-<p>In the shop down-stairs I could hear footsteps on the board flooring. 
-After a moment I stepped forward out of the window recess, and, drawing up 
-a chair, sat down beside the girl.</p> 
-
-<p>She dropped her gaze to mine without emotion. I could see her face had 
-once been beautiful. From this close view-point I could see, too, that her 
-lips were pale with an almost bluish paleness. Her cheeks were very 
-white—a whiteness that was not a pallor, but seemingly more an absence 
-of red. And then I got the vague, absurd impression that I could see into 
-her skin—as though it contained nothing to render it opaque.</p> 
-
-<p>“Do you pose for the <i>maestro</i> every night?” I asked. My tone held 
-that gentle solicitude with which one might address a child who was very 
-ill.</p> 
-
-<p>“<i>Sí, señor</i>; every night at this hour.”</p>
-
-<p>Her manner was utterly impersonal; her eyes still held that listless, 
-apathetic stare. I gazed into them steadily: and then, far down in their 
-depths, I seemed to see lurking a shadowy look of appeal.</p> 
-
-<p>“I have been examining your portrait,” I said. “It is a very—curious 
-picture, is it not?”</p> 
-
-<p>A faint little glow of color came into the girl’s cheeks. She seemed 
-somehow stronger now; but it was a gain of strength rather more mental 
-than physical. I sensed dimly that, talking with me, her mind was 
-clearing. She hesitated, regarding me appraisingly.</p> 
-
-<p>“A very, very curious portrait indeed it is, <i>señor</i>.” Again she 
-paused; and then, as though she had come to a sudden decision, she added 
-slowly: “A very curious portrait, <i>señor</i>. To me it has no meaning. 
-Once I said that to the <i>maestro</i>, and he was very angry. He told me 
-I was mad, because I could not see the art—the wonderful art in his work. 
-He beat me then.” She shuddered at the memory. “But that was very long 
-ago, <i>señor</i>, and never have I said it since. And every night I 
-pose.”</p> 
-
-<p>“You are ill, <i>señorita</i>?” I said gently.</p> 
-
-<p>“The portrait needs so much of me,” she answered. And then some thought 
-or memory that her words did not reveal made her shudder again. “I am ill, 
-<i>señor</i>, as you say. Very ill. And that, too, makes the 
-<i>maestro</i> very angry. I am not so beautiful now for the portrait. And 
-soon I shall die—and then I can pose no longer.”</p> 
-
-<p>I leaned toward her. “You can trust me, <i>señorita</i>,” I said. “You 
-are ill-treated here—he treats you badly?”</p> 
-
-<p>She looked searchingly into my eyes; then she swiftly drew back her 
-loose sleeve. The white flesh of her upper arm was scarred with many 
-scars.</p> 
-
-<p>“The portrait, <i>señor</i>—it is life he paints there. And one cannot 
-paint life without using life to paint with. That he says, 
-<i>señor</i>—and he takes what there is in me to give.”</p> 
-
-<p>She spoke softly, tremulously, half in terror at her temerity at 
-talking thus of the dreaded <i>maestro</i>, half with an air of wan 
-appeal.</p> 
-
-<p>And with her words, in a sudden flood of horror, the meaning of all 
-that I had seen came clear to my mind. I realized 
-now how this miserable madman, painting formless daubs upon his canvas, 
-was using the life-blood of his victim. With revulsion in my heart, I
-understood at last the meaning of those ugly brown smears that mingled and 
-predominated among the pigments on the canvas—the dried and faded stains 
-of human blood. And here, sitting close beside me, was the victim of this 
-insane necromancy—the shell of what had once been womanhood—this body of a 
-girl being drained of its life drop by drop.</p> 
-
-<p>The girl’s voice brought me back to myself with a start.</p> 
-
-<p>“He takes the blood that I have to give, <i>señor</i>—and each day the 
-painting grows more beautiful. He says I am mad that I cannot see its 
-beauty—that the brown I see is not brown, but red—vivid, beautiful 
-red—the red of life itself.</p> 
-
-<p>“But you, <i>señor</i>”—she put her hand upon mine; its touch hardly 
-held the warmth of the living—“you, a stranger who, why I know not, comes 
-here to this room—you see, too, the way it looks to me, do you not, 
-<i>señor</i>? Ah, then, indeed I am not mad—and it is he who sees upon the 
-canvas what is not there.”</p> 
-
-<p>I was about to answer when dragging footsteps sounded on the stairs; 
-the front door of the room opened and the little old man stood upon the 
-threshold. A look of incredulous astonishment came over his seared yellow 
-face, supplanted in an instant by rage. His lips parted in a snarl.</p> 
-
-<p>“Thou, Malella—thou art here in the presence of a stranger?” He spoke 
-in Spanish, his voice vibrating tense with the fierceness of his 
-passion.</p> 
-
-<p>The girl turned slowly around on the hassock; the lute slipped from her 
-lap to the floor.</p> 
-
-<p>The little old man was coming forward, and the malevolent gleam in his 
-eyes made me leap to my feet.</p> 
-
-<p>“Go thou to thy room, Malella—to thy room—at once.”</p> 
-
-<p>The girl rose slowly and stood drooping beside me, as a flower droops 
-for long lack of the water that gives it life.</p> 
-
-<p>“<i>Sí, maestro</i>,” she answered. “I go.”</p> 
-
-<p>I saw the old man hold her gaze with his glittering eyes. I realized 
-there was about those snakelike little eyes of his an hypnotic power. The 
-girl seemed to follow and to obey, involuntarily almost, his unspoken 
-commands.</p> 
-
-<p>She laid the lute on the mantel above the fireplace, and, turning 
-slowly back, faced the old man as he stood close beside me.</p> 
-
-<p>“Say good night to the gentleman,” he commanded, speaking this time in 
-English. He spoke less harshly than before, as though by using my own 
-language he unconsciously recognized the restraint my presence put upon 
-him.</p>
-
-<p>Then he added to me, and again the miserable, groveling whine came back 
-to his voice:</p> 
-
-<p>“A foolish child, <i>señor</i>. You will excuse, of course.”</p> 
-
-<p>“Good night, <i>señor</i>,” said the girl.</p> 
-
-<p>I found myself very near to her, staring straight down into the clear, 
-empty depths of her blue eyes. And there again I saw that look of 
-appeal—like the patient look of a dog in pain—whispering to me, asking for 
-my aid. As if to answer it, all the pent-up torrent of emotion within me 
-burst forth. I swept the girl behind me with my arm and fronted the old 
-man.</p> 
-
-<p>“I am going now,” I said; and with surprise I heard my voice come quiet 
-and repressed. “I thank you, sir, for showing me your painting. The 
-<i>señorita</i> here is ill. I am going to take her with me—to-night—to a 
-hospital.”</p> 
-
-<p>The old man seemed unable at first to grasp my meaning. He stood 
-quavering before me, his lower jaw hanging slack, his eyes widening with 
-surprise, a look of confusion on his face.</p> 
-
-<p>“She is going with me now,” I repeated firmly. I turned around to 
-her.</p> 
-
-<p>“Get some long wrap, Malella, that will cover you. Hasten—I will wait 
-for you here.”</p> 
-
-<p>The girl stood irresolute. Confusion and fear were written on her face; 
-her glance swung from one to the other of us, undecided.</p> 
-
-<p>“At once. Malella, do you hear?” I added sharply. “Get your wrap—I will 
-wait for you.”</p> 
-
-<p>I pushed her away from me, and she stumbled forward toward the door 
-through which she had entered the room.</p> 
-
-<p>Her movement seemed to awaken the little old man into sudden action. He 
-flung himself on me with a snarl, his shaking, shriveled fingers clutching 
-at my throat. I shook him off, but he came back instantly, throwing 
-himself at me fearlessly, with a shrill, maniacal, blood-curdling cry.</p> 
-
-<p>Reason left me; for an instant the room swam red before my eyes. I tore 
-his fingers again from my throat, and seizing him around the waist, hurled 
-his frail body violently to the floor. His head struck a corner of the 
-model stand; his body quivered a moment and then lay still.</p> 
-
-<p>The girl, with livid, terror-stricken face, was shrinking against the 
-side wall of the room, with one hand pressed tightly over her mouth. I 
-hurried to her.</p> 
-
-<p>“Never mind the wrap, Malella—we will go without it.”</p> 
-
-<p>She looked at me numbly.</p> 
-
-<p>“Come,” I added, and, putting my arm about her shoulders, dragged her 
-unresisting from the room.</p> 
-
-<p>It took us but a moment to descend the rickety stairs to the darkened 
-shop. I stopped in the shop and snatched up my overcoat and hat. When we 
-got to the street I found it had stopped snowing; across the square I 
-could see the glistening white of Washington Arch.</p> 
-
-<p>A jolly crowd of young people came hurrying by, and seeing us standing 
-there in the doorway—a girl in Moorish costume, and me with my overcoat on 
-my arm—laughed and waved in friendly greeting. An alert 
-taxi-driver—thinking doubtless we were going to some masquerade—drove his 
-car to the curb and stopped.</p> 
-
-<p>“You are safe now, Malella,” I said, after a moment, when we were in 
-the taxi and had started toward the hospital uptown.</p> 
-
-<p>Her slim little body swayed toward me; her arms stole up around my neck 
-like the arms of a tired, frightened child who seeks protection.</p> 
-
-<p>“You need not be frightened,” I said. “You are never going back.” And 
-then I added aloud, but softly, very softly to myself: “For when they make 
-you well again at the hospital you are going to be with me—always.”</p> 
-
-<p>For I was in my twenties then, as I have said, and the decisions of 
-youth are very quickly reached.</p>
-
-<div class="tn">
-  <p style='text-indent:0'>Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in
-  the May 29, 1920 issue of <i>All-Story Weekly</i> magazine.</p>
-</div>
-
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