Part 12 (1/2)
”The Egyptian cult I follow is very briefly explained. The Soul begins in protoplasm without conscious individuality. It progresses through various forms till individual consciousness is attained. Once attained, it is never lost, but it lives on, pressing towards perfection, taking upon itself various phases of existence according to the pa.s.sions which have most completely dominated it from the first. That is all. But according to this theory, you might have lived in the world long ago, and so might I: we might even have met; and for some reason or other we may have become re-incarnated now. A disciple of my creed would give you that as the reason why you sometimes imagine you have seen me before.”
As she spoke, the dazed and troubled sensation he had once previously experienced came upon him; he laid down the canvas he held and pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead bewilderedly.
”Yes; very curious and fantastic. I've heard a great deal about the doctrine of reincarnation. I don't believe in it,--I can't believe in it! But if I could: if I could imagine I had ever met you in some bygone time, and you were like what you are at this moment, I should have loved you,--I MUST have loved you! You see I cannot leave the subject of love alone; and your re-incarnation idea gives my fancy something to work upon. So, beautiful Ziska, if your soul ever took the form of a flower, I must have been its companion blossom; if it ever paced the forest as a beast of prey, I must have been its mate; if it ever was human before, then I must have been its lover! Do you like such pretty follies? I will talk them by the hour.”
Here he rose, and with a movement that was half fierce and half tender, he knelt beside her, taking her hands in his own.
”I love you, Ziska! I cannot help myself. I am drawn to you by some force stronger than my own will; but you need not be afraid of me--not yet! As I said, I can wait. I can endure the mingled torture and rapture of this sudden pa.s.sion and make no sign, till my patience tires, and then--then I will win you if I die for it!”
He sprang up before she could speak a word in answer, and seizing his canvas again, exclaimed gayly:
”Now for the hues of morning and evening combined, to paint the radiance of this wicked soul of love that so enthralls me! First, the raven-black of midnight for the hair,--the l.u.s.tre of the coldest, brightest stars for eyes,--the blush-rose of early dawn for lips and cheeks. Ah! How shall I make a real beginning of this marvel?”
”It will be difficult, I fear,” said Ziska slowly, with a faint, cold smile; ”and still more difficult, perchance, will be the end!”
CHAPTER VIII.
The table d'hote at the Gezireh Palace Hotel had already begun when Gervase entered the dining-room and sat down near Lady Fulkeward and Dr. Dean.
”You have missed the soup,” said her ladys.h.i.+p, looking up at him with a sweet smile. ”All you artists are alike,--you have no idea whatever of time. And how have you succeeded with that charming mysterious person, the Princess Ziska?”
Gervase kept his gaze steadily fixed on the table-cloth. He was extremely pale, and had the air of one who has gone through some great mental exhaustion.
”I have not succeeded as well as I expected,” he answered slowly. ”I think my hand must have lost its cunning. At any rate, whatever the reason may be, Art has been defeated by Nature.”
He crumbled up the piece of bread near his plate in small portions with a kind of involuntary violence in the action, and Dr. Dean, deliberately drawing out a pair of spectacles from their case, adjusted them, and surveyed him curiously.
”You mean to say that you cannot paint the Princess's picture?”
Gervase glanced up at him with a half-sullen, half-defiant expression.
”I don't say that,” he replied; ”I can paint something--something which you can call a picture if you like,--but there is no resemblance to the Princess Ziska in it. She is beautiful, and I can get nothing of her beauty,--I can only get the reflection of a face which is not hers.”
”How very curious!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. ”Quite psychological, is it not, Doctor? It is almost creepy!” and she managed to produce a delicate shudder of her white shoulders without cracking the blanc de perle enamel. ”It will be something fresh for you to study.”
”Possibly it will--possibly,” said the Doctor, still surveying Gervase blandly through his round gla.s.ses; ”but it isn't the first time I have heard of painters who unconsciously produce other faces than those of their sitters. I distinctly remember a case in point. A gentleman, famous for his charities and general benevolence, had his portrait painted by a great artist for presentation to the town-hall of his native place, and the artist was quite unable to avoid making him unto the likeness of a villain. It was quite a distressing affair; the painter was probably more distressed than anybody about it, and he tried by every possible means in his power to impart a truthful and n.o.ble aspect to the countenance of the man who was known and admitted to be a benefactor to his race. But it was all in vain: the portrait when finished was the portrait of a stranger and a scoundrel. The people for whom it was intended declared they would not have such a libel on their generous friend hung up in their town-hall. The painter was in despair, and there was going to be a general hubbub, when, lo and behold the 'n.o.ble' personage himself was suddenly arrested for a brutal murder committed twelve years back. He was found guilty and hanged, and the painter kept the portrait that had so remarkably betrayed the murderer's real nature, as a curiosity ever afterwards.”
”Is that a fact?” inquired a man who was seated at the other side of the table, and who had listened with great interest to the story.
”A positive fact,” said the Doctor. ”One of those many singular circ.u.mstances which occur in life, and which are beyond all explanation.”
Gervase moved restlessly; then filling for himself a gla.s.s of claret, drained it off thirstily.
”Something of the same kind has happened to me,” he said with a hard, mirthless laugh, ”for out of the most perfect beauty I have only succeeded in presenting an atrocity.”
”Dear me!” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. ”What a disappointing day you must have had! But of course, you will try again; the Princess will surely give you another sitting?”
”Oh, yes! I shall certainly try again and yet again, and ever so many times again,” said Gervase, with a kind of angry obstinacy in his tone, ”the more so as she has told me I will never succeed in painting her.”