Part 18 (2/2)
The painting--or rather wash-drawing in black-and-white--hung over the grand-piano in the light of the west windows. It was globular in form, and represented, Simeon explained, the ”War of Light and Darkness.”
One-half of the globe was darkly shaded, curiously fretted by the lighter half. Above sat a snow-white eagle. Beneath, with prodigious wings outspread, and eyes gleaming like points of fire, hovered a mysterious bat.
”Look closer,” commanded Simeon.
Narrower scrutiny brought out, even in the darker half of the globe, a mult.i.tude of intertwined forms, outlined with pen and ink. Those of the lighter hemisphere were beautiful as angels, with faint stars in their hair. All were singing. The others, the denizens of the dark, were twisted and contorted in agony, and each was drawn with such certainty of prearrangement that the line which formed the arm of one outlined the head of another. There were hundreds of them, and the whole work was as intricate in design as the engraving on a bank-note, and so packed with symbolism--according to Simeon's exegesis--that one might study it for days. ”Observe,” said he, ”the innumerable faces formed by the line which divides the two worlds. Take these gla.s.ses.”
Kate, by means of the powerful instrument which he thrust upon her, was able to detect hundreds of other faces invisible to the unaided eye. ”It is wonderful. Who did it?”
”A Swedish servant-girl,” answered Simeon, loudly, addressing every one in the room. ”She couldn't write her name; but when the spirit of Raphael controlled her she could do this with her eyes shut. There's nothing like that picture in the world. It cannot be duplicated by any artist in the flesh.”
”That's no dream,” murmured Britt.
Pratt hurried them on, past many other equally wonderful paintings, to his library, and as his guests filed in he faced them. ”The things I am about to show you have no equal anywhere. They have taken years to collect, and have cost me more than a hundred thousand dollars. I can show you but a few.”
The library was a splendid room, rich with the light of the western sun, whose arrangement instantly struck Kate Rice as unusual, for the book-shelves were precisely like those of a butler's pantry. They began at about four feet from the floor and reached entirely to the ceiling, and were filled with splendid, neglected books, while beneath a broad shelf, at their base, were rows of little bra.s.s k.n.o.bs, each of which indicated a shallow drawer. Each drawer had a lock and a small plate which bore a letter and a number, not unlike the cabinet of a numismatist.
”There are but two keys in existence,” explained Simeon, with s.h.i.+ning face. ”The one I now hold and the one in my safety vaults. No one is permitted in this room without my secretary or myself.” He moved down the room between the cabinet and the big table. ”Here is a message from Columbus.” He unlocked and drew out one of the drawers and laid it upon the table. It was exquisitely made, and contained two ordinary hinged school-slates, with the inner sides visible, but protected by a heavy plate of gla.s.s. ”This message came to me through Angelica c.o.x--under test conditions,” Pratt further explained, as Kate bent above it.
”What do you mean by test conditions?” asked Britt.
”I mean, sir, that I bought and took these slates to the medium, and held them in my hands while that message was written.” There was irritation in his voice. He replaced the drawer. ”But here is a painting from Murillo, the great artist. He painted the face of one of the ancients.” He laid before his silent auditors another drawer which contained a sheet of card-board on which was a fairly good pastel of an Arab in a burnouse. It had the weak and false drawing which would result in the attempt of an amateur to copy an engraving in color.
”This came in broad daylight while I held the clean card-board on my head,” explained Simeon.
Britt looked at Kate. ”The painter might have stood on his head,” he blasphemously whispered.
And so down through that splendid room the host moved, exhibiting letters from Napoleon, flowers from Marie Antoinette, verses from Mary Queen of Scots, together with paternal advice from many others equally eminent in history.
”You keep good company,” ventured Kate. ”Have you anything from Shakespeare?”
”Certainly; and from Edwin Forrest and Lincoln and Grant.”
”Anything from Admiral Kidd?” asked Britt.
”Or from Mary Jane Holmes?” added Kate.
Simeon looked at the jokers in silence, not quite sure whether they intended to trap him or not. ”No, I save only the words of the most eminent persons in history, outside my own family--I have wonderful testimony from them.”
”Ah, show us those, please,” cried Kate.
He hesitated, pondering Britt's face, and at last said, ”I will show you some materializations,” and led the way to some cases filled with pressed flowers. ”These are from India and Tibet,” he explained.
Kate was getting bored, but Britt seemed fascinated by both Pratt and the exhibit. ”To think of one human being possessing a collection like that--painfully ama.s.sing it. It's too beautiful!”
”But the girl--ask him to let us see the girl,” she urged.
”Don't hurry; he can't be turned aside from his groove.”
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