Part 12 (1/2)
”What is he then?”
”A gentleman of many talents.”
”Are you in love with him?”
The question was sharp and while Astara considered what she should reply Vulcan said: ”There is no need to answer. I know that you have never been in love!”
”H .. how do you ... know that ?”
'By looking at you. By being aware of what you are thinking and feeling. Your innocence protects you far more effectively than any armour could do.”
Astara was so surprised that she dropped her pose to look at him.
”How can you ... know such things?”
”Perhaps my initiation into many mysteries has made me more perceptive than most people.”
”Into how many have you been initiated?”
”We were talking about you!”
”I thought rather we were talking about your travels and the things you have seen and done.”
”I have no wish to talk about myself, and now as I suspect your sheaf is feeling heavy you can get down for a moment. I want you to look at my picture.”
”Very well.”
She put down the sheaf as he suggested and walked from the dais to the easel.
She saw at once that he had done a great deal to the picture since yesterday.
Now Persephone stood out almost like a pillar of light; in fact the light seemed almost to be centred in her and come from her.
She was painted in a strange way that Astara had never seen before, but she knew it was meant to evoke emotion rather than to portray an image.
”Do you like it?” he asked.
”Do I really look like that ?”
”Better in many ways. I find it hard to show how unsure you are within yourself.”
Astara looked at him with startled eyes. ”Unsure?” she questioned.
He looked at her and her eyes were held by his as he said: ”I feel as if you are being pushed to the edge of a precipice. You are afraid, and yet at the same time you feel that what you have to do is inevitable.”
”And what .... do I have to ... do ?”
”I have no crystal ball by which I can read the future, ” Vulcan answered, ”but if you wish me to guess, I imagine you will do what you are expected to do.”
”Why should I do that?”
”Because you are a woman, because I doubt if there is any alternative.”
”And if there ... was?”
”Then - I think you might take it. There is something in you as yet undeveloped which would make you less compliant than most people might think.”
”That is what I ... want to be!” she said pa.s.sionately, ”but you are right ... I am afraid!”
He was still as if he was undecided about something, then he walked to the wall where a number of canva.s.ses stood.
He turned one round and she saw it depicted vividly, almost violently, the dance of the Dervishes.
The painting was done in a way that made one feel rather than see what was happening: the unrestrained movements of their hypnotised bodies, the howling of their voices, the bared teeth, the extended nostrils, the dilated eyes.
It was horrible, and yet as he had said mesmeric.
”Is it what you expected?” Vulcan asked.
”From ... you? Yes!” Astara replied.
He turned round another canvas.
Here was something quite different: the peace and quiet and strange symbolism of a Zen Buddhist garden, the raked white gravel in rhythmic lines, the stones which depicted the river of life and the reincarnation of man.
There was a serenity and again a strange light which made Astara think she saw what was not actually there, but rather in her mind.
”You have studied Zen Buddhism?” she asked.
”So you knew that is what it is?” he parried.
She nodded.
She thought he looked at her curiously before he turned round yet another picture.
This depicted a sacrifice in the Temple of Kali: the blood of the slaughtered animals, the stench, and the l.u.s.tful partic.i.p.ation of the wors.h.i.+ppers were almost too vivid, too unpleasant to look at for more than a moment.
As if he understood what he had made her feel Vulcan put the canvas back and said: ”That is enough for now. As you see there are half-a-dozen more which I will show to you another time, so my picture of Mecca will not be missed.”
”I want to see them all !” &tam. insisted, but Vulcan shook his head.
”The light is going and I must finish your picture.” ”And after that ?” she asked.
”I shall take it to the ”engravers. The others have already been done.”
He spoke in an absent-minded way and she knew he was already engrossed with his painting.