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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +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. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b424774 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67229 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67229) diff --git a/old/67229-0.txt b/old/67229-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ed2b64c..0000000 --- a/old/67229-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1043 +0,0 @@ -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 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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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> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ART SHOP IN GREENWICH VILLAGE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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