SHORT STORIES

Otago Witness, Issue 3671, 22 July 1924, Page 73

SHORT STORIES

THE MASTERPIECE. By Mahouekite V. Crooke.s. (Copyright.—For the Witness.) “Well,” said Hilaire impatiently, “go ahead ! What’s wrong with them V” His friend sent another glance round the array of pictures adorning the studio. Then seating himself leisurely in a comfortable arm-chair, he grunted and proceeded to emit blue rings of smoke. “Well,” burst out Hilaire, “have I improved, man?” “I’m no saying you havn’t,” retorted the great critic cautiously. “But shall I ever bo a real artist?” “I’m no saying you can’t paint a bit, laddie, better than most, maybe, but” and lie paused, searching the young man’s face with his keen brown eyes, ‘ you liavD.’t found yourself yet, man. Your pictures all just miss being great. You havn’t struck a subject that stirs you sufficiently yet. When you do ” “When I do,” repeated Hilaire breathlessly. “There’s no saying,” resumed Macdonnagh placidly. Hilaire snorted indignantly. “I wish you’d give some definite criticism,” h>. grumbled, “if you’d only tell me what's wrong!” The celebrated critic removed his pipe to gaze tolerantly a moment at his young friend. “It’s not wliat’s there that’s wrong. Its what’s lacking that makes you fall short of producing a masterpiece?” “But,” persisted Hilaire, “shan’t I ever produce a masterpiece?” “You may, laddie, and then again you may not. Now about that game of tenuis ” * * * * *" “Look here, Sister, how much longer have I got to stay twiddling my thumbs in this blessed place. I’ve already lost a fortnight’s hard-earned holiday, through this beastly accident. Look here, I'm sure the old foot's a!) right.” But the nurse only shook her head. “I’m afraid you must resign yourself to waiting here another few days,” then as he frowned impatiently. “You ought to be very grateful that after a bad accident like that you’re not like Master David over there, a cripple for life.” Hilaire glanced down the verandah to where a slight pale youth lay gazing dreamily out into the lovely blue distances of the pleasant landscape. The short crisp auburn hair curved from a brow singularly open and thoughtful, and the face wore an expression of quiet courage that went straight to Hilaire’s warm heart. “Hard luck!” he said. “He looks a nice kid.” “He is,” said the Sister, “and he's finding things very lonely just now, because his family arc all out of town.” “That so? I say, nurse, if my couch was shifted over that way I might have a bit of a yarn with him, mightn’t I?” Hilaire was not long in getting into conversation with the cripple. David was painfully shy and reserved at first, but the other’s cheery good humour and engaging friendliness soon broke down the barriers, and in a little while they were chatting like old friends. They soon found many interests in common, and the friendship

grew and throve amazingly, and when at the end of a week, Ililaire hobbled to the bedside to say goodbye before leaving the hospital, it was with distinct concern that he viewed the coming separation. David too seemed quiet and constrained, but after a little while he turned suddenly to his now friend, and said, flushing at his own daring: “You have been such a good pal to me. And now there’s something I’m going to ask you to do for me.” “Yes?“ said Hilaire gently. “You are a great artist,” went on David. “I read about your exhibition in the papers. I —you—” blushing like a girl, “would you mind having a look at some of my paintings?” “Of course I will,” said Hilaire ii, astonishment. “But I didn't know you painted. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’ve been wanting to for some time,’ replied David, reassured by the other's manner. “But somehow I couldn’t quiti pluck up courage, and then its hard t< talk about, it means so much to me " and he paused, plucking nervously at tht coverlet.

“Suppose you tell me all about it,” said Hilaire gently. “I think I shall ho able to understand.”

David gave him a grateful look, and went on, “Sometime ago before my aeci dent, I used to paint a little, and the drawing master used to say my paintings wore good, but I never bothered about it much before the accident.” David stopped a moment; it was the first mention between them of the accident that had shadowed the glad young life. Ililaire waited in silence and David continued.

“In those days I used to spend an awful lot of time outside. Every chance I got I’d go scrambling up hills and mountains, or wandering up crocks, or roaming round by the seashore. 1 used to go alone or with just one pal. Oli, those rambles! What distances I used to tramp! How tired I used to be when I got home! The horizon always called to me, there was always a fresh turn in the road or bend in the creek that lured me on. When I was a child I used to vow that

when I grew up, I would be a great explorer"—David stopped suddenly, and the light died out of the eager young face. “Then I had my accident, and they told me that after two years’ treatment I should, be able to hobble about on crutches. I have been here eighteen months. There was another silence while David’s eyes dwelt dreamily upon the far horizon till the face resumed its usual expression of quiet courage, and ho continued, “When they first told me, I was very angry. Angry with everything. Angry with the birds for singing and the sun for shining. And most of all I hated that soft dreaming distance over there, and that lovely winding white road, because I knew my crippled feet would never let me go exploring them again. “The ingenuous eyes smiled wistfully. ‘l’m afraid I was a very unpleasant person at that stage of iny career.” “Davie,” lie said, huskily, “I think you're a brave laddie. I’d have been cursing to this day. But what made you change your mind?” The gray eyes sought the horizon once again. “Oh, many things! And then one day I remembered about my painting.” “Yes?” “When I was stronger I asked nurse for my sketching things, and I tried making little .sketches of the view from here. And it seemed to me that my drawings were much better- —I seemed to see more.” The pale cheeks flushed suddenly, and the eyes brightened. “And then all at once one day the idea came to me that just because of my accident, I might perhaps come to paint well. That just because 1 could never enjoy things in the old way, I might love them even more and show some of their beauty to other people. And I thought of all the many scenes I had known and loved, and they seemed somehow to have grown more wonderful and beautiful. The mist wreathing and swirling away up tlie valley in the early morning, and the clumps of trees now showing and now hidden. And the wonderful blue haze on the hills in the late summer afternoons, and the last wonderful curve of the road as it winds into view of grander and remoter landscapes, and the glimmer of distant sea —David" stopped suddenly, flushing self-consciously. “I'm afraid I’m tiring you.” Hilaire shook his head. “And you think you could paint these things to show something of their mystery and glamour?” “If only I could do that, the accident would have been worth while.” “You mean it may perhaps be the cause of you producing a masterpiece,’ mused Hilaire. “I don't know,” said David. “You see, I don’t know enough about things to be able to judge the value of my own drawings. I may be just imagining ail this.” Hilaire nodded. “And so you want me to criticise them for you?” “Yes, but I don’t want you to take up a lot of time over it. If you’d just glance at them and tell mo if they show any promise.” David produced a small roll from under the pillow, and Hilaire slipped it under his arm. Tlie nurse approached, and seeing i ■ ■ 1 ..i; - . . ido Hila-:a a gesture of dismissal. He rose. -Goodbye," lie said, taking the frail hand in his sunbrowned palm, “I’ll come early tomorrow and tell you what I think. All right, nurse.” ***** Late that night Ililaire sat in his studio with David’s sketches spread out on the table in front of him, trying for the twentieth time to find in them the promise of coming power. But the task was hopeless. They were undoubtedly charming, the work of a cultured amateur and a keen nature lover—but beyond that, nothing. Not one showed any promise of over overstepping that faint intangible line that separates talent from genius. The more Hilaire thought of it the more he hated the idea of the morrow's task. The eager, hopeful face of I >avid rose vividly before him, bright with the hopes and 'roams that hail comforted and sustained so many hours of weariness and pain. And his words would take the light from that face. It seemed an impossible task. t was like robbing a captive bird of its song. And as his heart was touched to jo depth by this spectacle of another’s courage and another’s cross, the artist in him stirred and wakened at the thought of the great brotherhood of human suffering. Unconsciously lie found himself Imagining David’s earnest figure as the entre of a lovely picture. He thought mw he would place the couch near the window, how he would arrange the rich mid sombre draperies, how he would pose he figure so that the light fell on the brave wistful face turned yearningly to gaze through the window to the misty blue horizon, and the long white winding road. And he knew that ho could put into that picture all the pathos and the nuict inspiration of that darkened life. For ft moment lie stood lost in the thought of the work before him, then with a sigh he collected David's little sketches and carefully rolled them up. « * * * » It was an unusually grave Hilaire that crossed the verandah next morning, and took bis accustomed scat by the bedside. He laid down the little parcel. “Your work shows talent,” lie said, “undoubted talent—but ”

A slight tremor passed over the patient face, but the gray eyes met his unflinchingly. “But you don’t think I shall ever do anything really good?” “Davie, lad!” groaned Ililaire. David was silent a long minute. “Then it has all been a dream. Well, thank you for not letting me deceive myself any longer.” Ililaire bent forward suddenly and laid his hand on the thin ai’m. “Listen, Davie,” he said earnestly. “God willing, you shall make your masterpiece after ali, though not in the way you thought. Listen Davie! Once there was an artist fellow, a happy go lucky sort of chap he was who had never worried much about anything. The critics said his technique was excellent, but that he lacked inspiration, and that he would never produce a masterpiece until he found it. Davie, you’ve given me the inspiration I wanted. Let me make a picture of you, Davie, and I'll paint a work that even Macdonnagh will praise. Let me paint you, David, and it will be your masterpiece as well as mine, and so the world shall have your message after all.” * * * * * It was a somewhat excited and troubled David that awaited the coming of Ililaire to make arrangements about the posing for the projected picture. But Hilaire seemed to notice nothing, and threw himself into the discussion with his old boyish enthusiasm. “And when we’ve finished that,” he went on, “I’ve another plan. When you leave here, I’m going to arrange to take you with me by motor so that you can point out to me some of the places you told me about. Do come, Davie, you’re rare company, you know.” “I can’t.” The voice was a little tremulous. “Why?” challenged Hilaire. Then David did a very strange thing. Instead of answering, he opened a book and thrust it into Hilaire’s hands. On the title page he read, “To my dear sister, Rosamund ’David’ Blair.” “I ought to have told you before,” stammered Rosamund. “ ‘David’ was a nickname I got at school. I never meant to deceive you, but when nurse told me for a joke that you’d mistaken me for a boy— I’m so shy, you know, and I thought how much more comfortably I could talk to you if you thought of me as a boy pal. You see,” she added ingenuously, “I did so want to ask you about my painting,— and, oh, I don’t know but when I’d once started it we were so nice and eomrady that I kept putting off telling you. And, oh, dear, I’m so sorry to disappoint you ” “You haven’t,” said Hilaire, with conviction. Then suddenly he bent forward and imprisoned the small hands, “Rosamund, need it make any difference? Can’t we go on being friends? And, dear, couldn’t you come with me that trip—and for always?” She sent one fluttering glance into his face, then tremblingly tried to withdraw her hands. “You mustn’t! You can find a far better wife than I! You’re going to be a great and famous artist, and I'm only a poor little cripple.” “If I become a great and famous artist, it will be because of all you have taught me and all chat you are going to teach me. Rosamund, have pity on the artist in me. Stay by me and help me to see the moaning of the distances.” And then some time after this, she suddenly remembci-ed to say, “You didn't seem a bit surprised when I told you! Why was it?” His smile was very tender as he bent over the sweet, happy face. “You accidently dropped that book the other day, 'tnd it fell open before me so that I couldn’t help seeing the title page. Why, bless your dear innocent heart I’ve known for the last week.” » » * * * When Macdonnagh was eventually taken to see the completed masterpiece, he forsook his habitual caution so far as to remark, “I’m no saying its a bad picture. Although,” he added hastily to qualify this high praise, “any man ought to feel Inspired by a subject like that.” “For once,” retorted Hilaire sweetly, *T’m in entire agreement with you.”