“You are hard at work again, I see.” I pointed to his palette and brushes. “Be cautious! Do not overdo it! You must be under my orders for a while.”
I was conscious of claiming this power a little timidly, such was the quiet dignity of the young man.
“I will try to be wiser now, since I have a friend who is willing to admonish me.”
“Now,” continued he, as if to turn attention from himself, “look at my picture! I want a slashing criticism. You cannot find faults that I do not see myself.”
I stepped back to look at it. A work of power! Crude, indeed; but with force enough to justify any crudity.
Its deep tragedy struck me silent.
“Do not spare me,” said Dreeme. “Silence is severer than blame. Say, at least, that it is pretty well for a novice, — pretty well considering my years and my practice.”
“What has happened to you?” said I, staring at his pale, worn face. “What right have you, in the happy days of youth, to the knowledge that has taught you to paint tragedy thus? What unknown agony have you undergone? Mr. Dreeme, your picture is a revelation. I pity you from my heart.”
“You do not believe,” said he, evasively, “that imagination can supply the want of experience?”
“Imagination must have experience to transfuse into new facts. You, of course, have not had an unjust father, like your Lear, nor a disloyal sister, like your Goneril; nor have you felt a withering curse, as your Cordelia does. But tyranny and treachery must have touched you. They have initiated you into their modes of action and expression. Do not find inquisitiveness implied in my criticism. I pity you too much for the ability and impulse to paint thus, to be curious how it came.”
“Believe, then,” said Dreeme, “and it may help you to make allowances for me, that I know in my own life what tragedy means. That experience commands me to do violence to my love of beauty and happy scenes, and paint agony, as I have done there. And now, pray let us be technical. That white drapery, — how does it fall? Are the lines stiff? Is there too much starch in the linen, or too little?”
“Technicality another time. I am uncivil even in delaying so long. Two gentlemen are waiting for me below.”
“Your friend, Mr. Churm?” he asked, looking away.
“No. Mr. Densdeth and Mr. Raleigh.”
“Densdeth!” said he, with a slight shudder “You see I have the susceptible nerves of an artist. I tremble at the mere sound of such an ill-omened name. Should you not naturally avoid a person called Densdeth?” And as if the sound fascinated him, he repeated, “Densdeth! Densdeth!”
“Name and man are repulsive; but attractive also. Attractive by repulsion.”
“Take my advice, and obey the repulsion. Poisons are not made bitter that we may school ourselves to like them. If this person, with a boding name, repels you, do not taste him, as one tastes opium. Curiosity may make you a slave.”
“Odd, that you, a stranger, should have the usual prejudice against Densdeth!”
“Consider that I am as one raised from the dead, and so perhaps clairvoyant. I use my power to warn you, as you have saved me.”
“Thank you,” said I; “I will see you this evening, and tell you how far I am ruined by a morning with this bête noir. If he spoils me, you must repair the harm.”
I walked to the door. He released me with a cautious glance into the hall. I ran down stairs and apologized for my delay to my guests.
“It is a privilege to wait, my dear fellow,” said Densdeth, “in such a treasure-house. We have been looking at these droll old tapestries of Purgatory and a hotter place. Raleigh insists that the seducing devil, wooing those revellers to hell, is my precise image.”
“No doubt of it,” says Raleigh. “You must be Mephistophiles himself. Those fifteenth-century fellows have got your portrait to the life. It seems you were at the same business then, as now.”
Densdeth laughed. Raleigh and I laughed in answer. Both had caught that mocking tone of his.
“Not only are you the devil of the tapestry,” said Raleigh, “but I see myself among your victims.”
“You flatter me,” said Densdeth, again with his sinister laugh.
“Yes, and Byng too, and certain ladies we know of. I really begin to be lazily superstitious. Don’t make it too hot for me, Densdeth, when you get me below. I’ve only been a negative sinner in this world, — no man’s enemy but my own.”
Raleigh’s jest was half earnest. That and the demonish quality in Densdeth quickened my glance at the old altar-cloth, which hung on the wall, among Stillfleet’s prints and pictures.
Under these impressions, I did indeed identify Densdeth with the cloven-hoofed tempter in this characteristic bit of mediæval art. Raleigh was surely there, in the guise of a languid Bacchanal, crowned with drooping vine-leaves. I myself was also there, — a youth, only half consenting, dragged along by an irresistible attraction. And continuing my observations, I recognized other friends, faintly imaged in the throng on the tapestry. An angel, looking sadly at the evil one’s triumph and my fall, was Cecil Dreeme’s very self. And up among the judges sat Churm, majestic as a prophet of Michael Angelo.
“Come,” said Densdeth, — he was by chance standing in the exact attitude of the Tempter in the tapestry, — “come; we shall have but just time for Byng’s introduction and our game of billiards.”
“Lead on, your majesty!” said Raleigh. “We needs must follow, — to billiards or the bottomless pit.”
We walked to the club. It was the crack club then. Years ago it went to pieces. Its gentlemen have joined better. Its legs and loafers have sunk to bar-rooms.
The loungers there were languid when we entered.
No scandal had yet come up from Wall Street; none down from Murray Hill.
The morning was still virgin of any story of disaster to character, financial or social.
The day had not done its duty, — a mere dies non, and promising only to be dies perdita.
To be sure it was still a young day. It might still ruin somebody, pocket or reputation. Somebody, man or woman, might go to protest, and shame every indorser, before three o’clock.
But everybody at the club had made it seven bells; eight bells would presently strike, and no sign of the day’s ration of scandal. They could not mumble all the afternoon over the stale crusts of yesterday; they could not put bubble into yesterday’s heel-taps. Everybody was bored. Life was a burden at the windows, by the fire, at the billiard-tables, of that rotten institution.
Densdeth’s arrival made a stir.
“See these gobemouches” whispered Raleigh to me.” They think Densdeth, the busy man, would never come here at this hour in the morning, unless some ill had happened, — unless there were some new man to jeer, or woman to flout. Now see how he will treat them.”
The languid loungers lost their air of nonchalance. There was a general move toward our party. The click of balls upon the tables was still. The players came forward, cue in hand. These unknightly knights of the Long Table stood about us, with the blunted lances of a blunted chivalry, waiting to chuckle over the fate of some comrade in the dust, of some damsel soiled with scorn. Remember, that these were only the baser sort of the members. Heroes may sometimes lounge. Real heroes may play billiards, like the Phelan, and be heroes still.
Densdeth’s manner with his auditory was a study.
“Pigs,” he seemed to say, “I suppose I must feed you. Gobble up this and this, ye rabble rout! Take your fare and my mental kicking with it.”
Soon