XXVI
"OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES"
A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord's large anddirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those weird andnondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre inthe plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals, representing thePress, leavened the throng, but the entire gathering--"advanced" andunenlightened alike--seemed to be drawn to a common focus: a largecanvas placed advantageously in the southeast corner of the studio,where it enjoyed all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.
Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching stool, andhandling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder with much grace, wasOlaf van Noord. He had hair of so light a yellow as sometimes to appearwhite, worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut squarelyall around behind, lending him a medieval appearance. He wore a slightmustache carefully pointed; and his scanty vandyke beard could notentirely conceal the weakness of his chin. His complexion had the colorand general appearance of drawing-paper, and in his large blue eyes wasan eerie hint of sightlessness. He was attired in a light tweed suitcut in an American pattern, and out from his low collar flowed a blackFrench knot.
Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland, advancingacross the floor with the measured gait of a tragic actor. He greetedthem aloofly, and a little negro boy proffered tiny cups of Chinatea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as her gaze swept thepicture-covered walls; but she seemed to approve of the tea.
The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing littleyellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly smilingly refused, but DeniseRyland took one of the cigarettes, sniffed at it superciliously--andthen replaced it in the box.
"It has a most... egregiously horrible... odor," she commented.
"They are a special brand," explained Olaf van Noord, distractedly,"which I have imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a smallpercentage of opium."
"Opium!" exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring at the speaker and then atHelen Cumberly, as though the latter were responsible in some way forthe vices of the painter.
"Yes," he said, reclosing the box, and pacing somberly to the door togreet a new arrival.
"Did you ever in all your life," said Denise Ryland, glancing about her,"see such an exhibition... of nightmares?"
Certainly, the criticism was not without justification; thedauby-looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible water-colors, and riotouscharcoal sketches which formed the mural decoration of the studio weredistinctly "advanced." But, since the center of interest seemed to bethe large canvas on the easel, the two moved to the edges of the groupof spectators and began to examine this masterpiece. A very puzzlednewspaperman joined them, bending and whispering to Helen Cumberly:
"Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am writingit up as a practical joke! We are giving him half a column--Lord knowswhat for!--but I can't see how to handle it except as funny stuff."
"But, for heaven's sake... what does he... CALL it?" muttered DeniseRyland, holding a pair of gold rimmed pince-nez before her eyes, andshifting them to and fro in an endeavor to focus the canvas.
"'Our Lady of the Poppies,'" replied the journalist. "Do you think it'sintended to mean anything in particular?"
The question was no light one; it embodied a problem not readily solved.The scene depicted, and depicted with a skill, with a technical masteryof the bizarre that had in it something horrible--was a long narrowroom--or, properly, cavern. The walls apparently were hewn from blackrock, and at regular intervals, placed some three feet from thesegleaming walls, uprose slender golden pillars supporting a kind offretwork arch which entirely masked the ceiling. The point of sightadopted by the painter was peculiar. One apparently looked down intothis apartment from some spot elevated fourteen feet or more above thefloor level. The floor, which was black and polished, was strewn withtiger skins; and little, inlaid tables and garishly colored cushionswere spread about in confusion, whilst cushioned divans occupied thevisible corners of the place. The lighting was very "advanced": a lamp,having a kaleidoscopic shade, swung from the center of the roof low intothe room and furnished all the illumination.
Three doors were visible; one, directly in line at the further end ofthe place, apparently of carved ebony inlaid with ivory; another, on theright, of lemon wood or something allied to it, and inlaid with a designin some emerald hued material; with a third, corresponding door, on theleft, just barely visible to the spectator.
Two figures appeared. One was that of a Chinaman in a green robescarcely distinguishable from the cushions surrounding him, who crouchedupon the divan to the left of the central door, smoking a long bamboopipe. His face was the leering face of a yellow satyr. But, dominatingthe composition, and so conceived in form, in color, and in lighting, asto claim the attention centrally, so that the other extravagant detailsbecame but a setting for it, was another figure.
Upon a slender ivory pedestal crouched a golden dragon, and before thepedestal was placed a huge Chinese vase of the indeterminate pinkseen in the heart of a rose, and so skilfully colored as to suggestan internal luminousness. The vase was loaded with a mass of exoticpoppies, a riotous splash of color; whilst beside this vase, andslightly in front of the pedestal, stood the figure presumably intendedto represent the Lady of the Poppies who gave title to the picture.
The figure was that of an Eastern girl, slight and supple, andpossessing a devilish and forbidding grace. Her short hair formed ablack smudge upon the canvas, and cast a dense shadow upon her face.The composition was infinitely daring; for out of this shadow shone thegreat black eyes, their diablerie most cunningly insinuated; whilst witha brilliant exclusion of detail--by means of two strokes of the brushsteeped in brightest vermilion, and one seemingly haphazard splash ofdead white--an evil and abandoned smile was made to greet the spectator.
To the waist, the figure was a study in satin nudity, whence, from ajeweled girdle, light draperies swept downward, covering the feet andswinging, a shimmering curve out into the foreground of the canvas, thecurve being cut off in its apogee by the gold frame.
Above her head, this girl of demoniacal beauty held a bunch of poppiesseemingly torn from the vase: this, with her left hand; with her rightshe pointed, tauntingly, at her beholder.
In comparison with the effected futurism of the other pictures in thestudio, "Our Lady of the Poppies," beyond question was a great painting.From a point where the entire composition might be taken in by the eye,the uncanny scene glowed with highly colored detail; but, exclude thescheme of the composition, and focus the eye upon any one item--thegolden dragon--the seated Chinaman--the ebony door--the silk-shadedlamp; it had no detail whatever: one beheld a meaningless mass ofcolors. Individually, no one section of the canvas had life, hadmeaning; but, as a whole, it glowed, it lived--it was genius. Above all,it was uncanny.
This, Denise Ryland fully realized, but critics had grown so used totreating the work of Olaf van Noord as a joke, that "Our Lady of thePoppies" in all probability would never be judged seriously.
"What does it mean, Mr. van Noord?" asked Helen Cumberly, leaving thegroup of worshipers standing hushed in rapture before the canvas andapproaching the painter. "Is there some occult significance in thetitle?"
"It is a priestess," replied the artist, in his dreamy fashion....
"A priestess?"
"A priestess of the temple."...
Helen Cumberly glanced again at the astonishing picture.
"Do you mean," she began, "that there is a living original?"
Olaf van Noord bowed absently, and left her side to greet one who atthat moment entered the studio. Something magnetic in the personalityof the newcomer drew all eyes from the canvas to the figure on thethreshold. The artist was removing garish tiger skin furs from theshoulders of the girl--for the new arrival was a girl, a Eurasian girl.
She wore a tiger skin motor-coat, and a little, close-fitting,turban-like cap of the same. The
coat removed, she stood revealed in aclinging gown of silk; and her feet were shod in little amber coloredslippers with green buckles. The bodice of her dress opened in asurprising V, displaying the satin texture of her neck and shoulders,and enhancing the barbaric character of her appearance. Her jet blackhair was confined by no band or comb, but protruded Bishareen-likearound the shapely head. Without doubt, this was the Lady of thePoppies--the original of the picture.
"Dear friends," said Olaf van Noord, taking the girl's hand, and walkinginto the studio, "permit me to present my model!"
Following, came a slightly built man who carried himself with astoop; an olive faced man, who squinted frightfully, and who dressedimmaculately.
"What a most... EXTRAORDINARY-looking creature!" whispered Denise Rylandto Helen. "She has undoubted attractions of... a hellish sort... if Imay use... the term."
"She is the strangest looking girl I have ever seen in my life," repliedHelen, who found herself unable to turn her eyes away from Olaf vanNoord's model. "Surely she is not a professional model!"
The chatty reporter (his name was Crockett) confided to Helen Cumberly:
"She is not exactly a professional model, I think, Miss Cumberly, butshe is one of the van Noord set, and is often to be seen in the moreexclusive restaurants, and sometimes in the Cafe Royal."
"She is possibly a member of the theatrical profession?"
"I think not. She is the only really strange figure (if we exclude Olaf)in this group of poseurs. She is half Burmese, I believe, and a nativeof Moulmein."
"Most EXTRAORDINARY creature!" muttered Denise Ryland, focussing uponthe Eurasian her gold rimmed glasses--"MOST extraordinary." She glancedaround at the company in general. "I really begin to feel... more andmore as though I were... in a private lunatic... asylum. That picture...beyond doubt is the work ... of a madman... a perfect... madman!"
"I, also, begin to be conscious of an uncomfortable sensation," saidHelen, glancing about her almost apprehensively. "Am I dreaming, or didSOME ONE ELSE enter the studio, immediately behind that girl?"
"A squinting man... yes!"
"But a THIRD person?"
"No, my dear... look for yourself. As you say... you are ... dreaming.It's not to be wondered... at!"
Helen laughed, but very uneasily. Evidently it had been an illusion, butan unpleasant illusion; for she should have been prepared to swear thatnot two, but THREE people had entered! Moreover, although she wasunable to detect the presence of any third stranger in the studio, thepersuasion that this third person actually was present remained withher, unaccountably, and uncannily.
The lady of the tiger skins was surrounded by an admiring group ofunusuals, and Helen, who had turned again to the big canvas, suddenlybecame aware that the little cross-eyed man was bowing and beamingradiantly before her.
"May I be allowed," said Olaf van Noord who stood beside him, "topresent my friend Mr. Gianapolis, my dear Miss Cumberly?"...
Helen Cumberly found herself compelled to acknowledge the introduction,although she formed an immediate, instinctive distaste for Mr.Gianapolis. But he made such obvious attempts to please, and was soreally entertaining a talker, that she unbent towards him a little. Hisadmiration, too, was unconcealed; and no pretty woman, however great hercommon sense, is entirely admiration-proof.
"Do you not think 'Our Lady of the Poppies' remarkable?" saidGianapolis, pleasantly.
"I think," replied Denise Ryland,--to whom, also, the Greek had beenpresented by Olaf van Noord, "that it indicates... a disordered...imagination on the part of... its creator."
"It is a technical masterpiece," replied the Greek, smiling, "but hardlya work of imagination; for you have seen the original of the principalfigure, and"--he turned to Helen Cumberly--"one need not go very farEast for such an interior as that depicted."
"What!" Helen knitted her brows, prettily--"you do not suggest that suchan apartment actually exists either East or West?"
Gianapolis beamed radiantly.
"You would, perhaps, like to see such an apartment?" he suggested.
"I should, certainly," replied Helen Cumberly. "Not even in a stagesetting have I seen anything like it."
"You have never been to the East?"
"Never, unfortunately. I have desired to go for years, and hope to gosome day."
"In Smyrna you may see such rooms; possibly in Port Said--certainlyin Cairo. In Constantinople--yes! But perhaps in Paris; and--whoknows?--Sir Richard Burton explored Mecca, but who has explored London?"
Helen Cumberly watched him curiously.
"You excite my curiosity," she said. "Don't you think"--turning toDenise Ryland--"he is most tantalizing?"
Denise Ryland distended her nostrils scornfully.
"He is telling... fairy tales," she declared. "He thinks... we are...silly!"
"On the contrary," declared Gianapolis; "I flatter myself that I am toogood a judge of character to make that mistake."
Helen Cumberly absorbed his entire attention; in everything he sought toclaim her interest; and when, ere taking their departure, the girland her friend walked around the studio to view the other pictures,Gianapolis was the attendant cavalier, and so well as one might judge,in his case, his glance rarely strayed from the piquant beauty of Helen.
When they departed, it was Gianapolis, and not Olaf van Noord, whoescorted them to the door and downstairs to the street. The red lipsof the Eurasian smiled upon her circle of adulators, but her eyes--herunfathomable eyes--followed every movement of the Greek.