Vashti Part 35

"Mrs. Gerome, you have lost twenty pounds of flesh within the last two months, and your extreme pallor alarms me."

"All things look pallid in these rooms, for the light is bluish, reflected from carpet, furniture, and curtains."

"I have noticed that you invariably wear blue, to the exclusion of all other colors."

"Yes. Throughout the Levant it is considered a mortuary color; and, moreover, I like its symbolism. The _Mater dolorosa_ often wears blue vestments; also the priests during Lent; and even the images of Christ are veiled in blue, as holy week approaches. Azure, in its absolute significance, represents truth, and is the symbol of the soul after death; so, as I walk the earth,--a fleshy 'death in life,'--I clothe myself symbolically. In pagan cosmogonies the Creator is always colored blue. Jupiter Ammon, Vischnou, Cneph, Krischna,--all are azure. And because it is a solemn, consecrated color, mystic and mournful, I wear it."

"My dear madam, this is a morbid whimsicality that trenches closely upon monomania, and would be more tolerable in a lackadaisical school-girl, than in a mature, intelligent, and gifted woman. Some of your fantasies would be positively respectable in a Bedlamite, and you seem an anomalous compound of eccentricities peculiar to extreme youth and to advanced age."

"I believe, sir, that you are entirely correct in your a.n.a.lysis. I stand before you, young in years, but forsaken by that 'blue-eyed Hope' who frolics hand in hand with youth; and yet utterly devoid of that philosophy and wisdom which justly belong to the old age of my heart."

Her tone was indescribably weary, and, as she laid aside her brush and folded her hands together on the cross-beam of the easel, the transient light died out of her countenance, and the worn, tired look, came back and settled on every feature.

... "The soft, sad eyes, Set like twilight planets in the rainy skies,-- With the brow all patience, and the lips all pain,"

wove a strange spell over the visitor, whose gaze was riveted on the only woman who had ever aroused even temporary interest in his heart.

She was always beautiful, but to-day there was a helpless, hopeless abandonment in her listless demeanor, that appealed successfully to the manly tenderness and chivalry of his nature; and into his strong, true, n.o.ble soul, came a longing to cheer, and guide, and redeem this strange, desolate woman, whose personal loveliness would have made her regnant over the gay circles of fashionable life, yet whose existence was more lonely than that of an eaglet in some mountain eyrie.

Rising, he leaned against the easel and looked down into the colorless face that possessed such a wondrous charm for him.

"Mrs. Gerome, for natures diseased like yours, the only remedy, the only cure, is earnest, vigorous labor; and the regimen you really require is mournfully at variance with your present habits and modes of thought."

"I do labor incessantly; more indefatigably than any plowman, or mason, or carpenter. Your prescription has been thoroughly tested, and found worthless, as an antidote to my malady,--hopelessness."

"Unfortunately the labor has all been mental; heart and soul have stood aloof, while the brain almost wore itself out. This canvas is destroying you; your creations are too rapid, too exhausting."

"Dr. Grey, you grievously misapprehend the whole matter, for my work reminds me of what Canova once said of West's pictures, 'He groups; he does not compose.'"

Dr. Grey put his hand on her wrist, and counted the rapid, feeble, irregular pulse.

She made an effort to throw off his fingers, but they clung tenaciously to the polished arm.

"How many hours do you sleep, during the twenty-four?"

"Sometimes three, occasionally one, frequently none."

"How much longer do you suppose your const.i.tution will endure such merciless taxation?"

"I know very little about these things, and care still less, but as Horne Tooke said, when a foreigner inquired how much treason an Englishman might venture to write without being hanged, 'I cannot inform you just yet, but I am trying.'"

"Has life become such an intolerable burden that you are impatient to shake it off?"

"Even so, Dr. Grey. When Elsie dies the last link will have snapped, and I trust I shall not long survive her. If I prayed at all, it would be for speedy death."

"If you prayed at all, existence would not prove so wearisome; for resignation would cure half your woes."

"Confine your prescriptions to the body,--that is tangible, and may be handled and scrutinized; but venture no nostrums for a heart and soul of which you know nothing. Once I was almost a Moslem in the frequency and fervor of my prayers; but now, the only pet.i.tion I could force myself to offer would be that prayer of Epictetus, '_Lead me, Zeus and Destiny, whithersoever I am appointed to go; I will follow without wavering; even though I turn coward and shrink, I shall have to follow, all the same._'"

Dr. Grey sighed heavily, and answered,--

"It is painful to hear from feminine lips a fatalism so grim as to make all prayer a mockery; and it would seem that the loss of those dear to you, would have insensibly and unavoidably drawn your heart heavenward, in search of its transplanted idols."

He knew from the sudden spasm that seized her calm features, and shuddered through her tall figure, that he had touched, perhaps too rudely, some chord in her nature which--

"Made the coiled memory numb and cold, That slept in her heart like a dreaming snake, Drowsily lift itself, fold by fold, And gnaw, and gnaw hungrily, half-awake."

"Ah, indeed, my heart was drawn after them,--but not heavenward! No, no, no! My idols were not transplanted,--they were shattered!--shattered!"

She leaned forward, looking up into his face; and, raising her hand impressively, she continued in a voice so mournful, so hopelessly bitter, that Dr. Grey shivered as he listened.

"Oh, sir, you who stand gazing down in sorrowful reproach upon what you regard as my unpardonable impiety, little dream of the fiery ordeal that consumed my childlike, beautiful faith, as flames crisp and blacken chaff. I am alone, and must ever be, while in the flesh; and I h.o.a.rd my pain, sparing the world my moans and tears, my wry faces and desperate struggles. I tell you, Dr. Grey,--

'None know the choice I made; I make it still.

None know the choice I made, and broke my heart, Breaking mine idol; I have braced my will Once, chosen for once my part.

I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold, Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.

My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old, Grows old in which I grieve.'"

He did not comprehend her, but felt that her past must have been melancholy indeed, of which the bare memory was so torturing.

"At least, Mrs. Gerome, let us thank G.o.d, that beyond the grave there remains an eternal reunion with your idol, and--"

"G.o.d forbid! You talk at random, and your suggestion would drive me mad, if I believed it. Let me be quiet."

She walked away, and seemed intently watching the sea, of whose protean face she never wearied; and, puzzled and tantalized, Dr. Grey turned to examine the unfinished picture.

It represented an almost colossal woman, kneeling under an apple-tree, with her folded hands lifted towards a setting sun that glared from purple hills, across waving fields of green and golden grain. The azure mantle that enveloped the rounded form, floated on the wind and seemed to melt in air, so dim were its graceful outlines; and on one shoulder perched a dove with head under its wing, nestling to sleep,--while a rabbit nibbled the gra.s.s at her feet, and a squirrel curled himself comfortably on the border of her robe. In the foreground were scattered sheaves of yellow wheat, full ears of corn, bunches of blue, bloom-covered grapes, cl.u.s.ters of olives, and various delicate flowers whose brilliant hues seemed drippings from some wrung and broken rainbow.

The face was unlike flesh and blood,--was dim, elfish, wan, with large, mild eyes, as blue and misty as the _nebulae_ that Herschel found in Southern skies,--eyes that looked at nothing, but seemed to penetrate the universe and shed soft solemn light over all things.

Back from the broad, low brow, floated a cloud of silky yellow hair, that glittered in the slanting rays of sunshine as if powdered with gold dust; and over its streaming strands fluttered two mottled b.u.t.terflies, and a honey-laden bee. On distant hill-slopes cattle browsed, and at the right of the kneeling woman a young lamb nibbled a cl.u.s.ter of snowy lilies, while a dappled fawn watched the gambols of a dun kid; and on the left, in a tuft of bearded gra.s.s, a brown snake arched its neck to peer at a brood of half-fledged partridges.

"Mrs. Gerome, will you be so kind as to explain this mythologic design?"

She came back to the easel, and took up her palette.

"If it requires an explanation it is an egregious failure, and shall find a vacant corner in some rubbish garret."

"It is exceedingly beautiful, but I do not fully comprehend the symbolism."

"If it does not clearly mean the one thing for which it was intended, it means nothing, and is worthless. Look, sir, she--

'Forgets, remembers, grieves, and is not sad; The quiet lands and skies leave light upon her eyes; None knows her weak, or wise, or tired, or glad.'"

Dr. Grey bit his lip, but shook his head.

"You must read me your painted riddle more explicitly. Is it Ceres?"

"No, sir; a few sheaves do not make a harvest. I am a stupid bungler, spoiling canvas and wasting paint, or else you are as obtuse as the critics who may one day hover hungrily over it. Try the aid of one more clew, and if you fail to catch my purpose, I will dash my brush all loaded with ochre, right into those mystic, prescient eyes, and blur them forever. Listen, and guess,--