The Portrait of a Singer

T had been a white morning for Kenyon.

A quick lightness and elation marked his step as he vibrated to and fro before his easel. His head was high, his gray eyes bright, and his shrill whistle rang joyously through the studio, flooded from the lofty skylight with pale April radiance. His brush dashed at the canvas impetuously, confidently; a hundred little inspirations of the happy moment guiding it to the desired effect. It seemed he could do nothing amiss.

The slim white-armed girl on the model-throne—an exquisite harmony of singing tones—appeared to glow with some reflection of the painter's fire. She had posed in perfection, with but a five-minutes' rest, for two hours. Two hours which seemed like twenty minutes to Kenyon, tramping absorbedly back and forth over the fragments of his cherished meerschaum, an old friend unheedingly sacrificed in a moment's frenzy of delight. Now and then he warbled contentedly, in a thin falsetto, an air which resembled nothing in particular; and then fell to whistling again, with short intervals of contemplative silence, always succeeded by a simultaneous outburst of paint and vocal jubilance.

It was a morning of a thousand. And there yet remained another good hour of the sitting, with much to be done. When, therefore, on a sudden the little electric bell at the door thrilled out sharply, Kenyon only stopped short in the midst of the "Habanera," scowled viciously, and went on with his work. The dead silence which fell upon the room had not the desired effect of routing the unwelcome visitor. After the lapse of a long minute the bell rang again; and this appeal, evoking from within nothing except an imprecation sufficiently deep, but inaudible, was succeeded by a smart knock on the panel of the door.

Kenyon crossed the room to assure himself that the bolt protected him from forcible invasion; and, satisfied that it did, he was about to turn away, when a woman's visiting-card was pushed over the lintel. He waited another minute and then, assuming that the owner had departed, went and picked up the card. It read, "Baroness Folkner von Tannhausen," and, written in pencil below the name, "begs that Mr. Kenyon will give her a short interview on urgent business."

Whether from gallantry or curiosity or apparent necessity, Kenyon yielded. He shrugged his shoulders with a look of bored vexation, called to the model, "Rest, Mamie," and, when the shimmer of her green robes had disappeared in the little corridor which separated his living-rooms from the studio, he unbolted and opened the outer door.

A short woman, dressed richly in mourning, rustled past him, bending her head slightly in answer to his somewhat ironical bow. Kenyon silently set a chair for her and she seated herself, putting aside the heavy crape veil from her face.

"Mr. Kenyon," she said, "I hope you'll forgive me for intruding this way. I know you were busy, but I was so anxious to see you—and I sail to-morrow morning."

She spoke with perfect fluency, but yet with an undefinable accent, which was not German; while her mature and faded charms were of a surprising type, half Spanish, half Oriental. Her manner had a certain authority which fitted better, perhaps, than her title, but not so well as her gown. It was the self-confidence of a woman accustomed to admiration and applause—hardly that of the "great lady" to whom the title and name, by no means unknown, seemed to point.

Kenyon walked to a small table near by, laid down his palette and brushes, and returned.

"I am at your disposal, madame," he said, coldly.

"I wish—I wish to ask you to execute a commission for me—a portrait." A slight nervousness here manifested itself in her manner. Her long black eyes, which, with the straight brows and narrow forehead, were now the sole charm of her face, left Kenyon's and roved restlessly over the pale-toned walls, lined half-way up with canvases framed and unframed, in all stages of evolution. Other canvases were stacked at the back of the studio, partly concealed by a large screen of Moorish fretwork, over which had been thrown a heap of gauzy orange-colored draperies, and the black eyes rested on these.

She went on abruptly: "You painted not long ago, I believe, a portrait of Karl Savary, the singer—is it not so?"

"Yes," said Kenyon, in some surprise.

"What has become of that picture?"

"It is here."

"Here—in this place?"

"Yes, madame."

"How is that—it is not your property?"

"Yes," said Kenyon. He went on, half unwillingly, half amused, at this catechism. "You see, the picture was not quite finished at the time of Savary's death. His affairs were left in confusion. His relatives are poor people in Germany—and, in short, the portrait remains with me."

"Is it for sale?—but why do I ask that? Mr. Kenyon, what I want is a small copy of that picture. Will you make it for me?"

Kenyon hesitated a few moments, looking curiously at his visitor. Her request had suggested to him an odd train of ideas. Across these suddenly flashed into his mind the remembrance of a face like and unlike this matronly, double-chinned, coarse-fleshed countenance—a young face, with the same glancing eyes and narrow brow, but full of life, color.

"I have seen you somewhere," he said, with unconscious brusqueness.

She made a quick movement of exasperation, and the color rose dully in her dark cheeks.

"Very likely. But what difference does that make? You have not answered me."

"I beg your pardon," said Kenyon, slowly, realizing that her eyes had been fixed on his with an intense eagerness. Plainly she attached no little importance to the request. His first impulse had been to refuse, but after a moment he said, slowly: "I don't know. I am very busy just at present"

"A month—two months, then? Can I have it in two months?"

"Well—yes. In two months."

She drew a long breath. "And now, may I see the picture? I have heard much of it. I have even seen a photograph of it. It has been exhibited here, yes? But show it to me, please."

She rose to her feet and threw the long veil back over her shoulders. Her eyes were very bright, her whole face almost childishly eager. Despite her years and the stoutness which the lines of her well-cut gown did not succeed in concealing, she still possessed a certain attraction—the charm of a woman secure of herself, accustomed to please.

Kenyon withdrew his eyes from her with an effort due less to this charm than to the faint-floating ghost of a recollection which teased him with its persistent intangibility. He dragged out from behind the Moorish screen a large canvas, and with some difficulty, due to its unwieldly [sic] size, got it across the room and put it into the gilt frame destined for it when complete. The Baroness stood with her back to him. He spoke to her twice. Then suddenly she wheeled about and faced the picture. Her eyes dilated, her pale lips parted.

"Dios mio! it is he!" she murmured.

Her face seemed like a translucent mask, behind which some pale radiance flickered in gusts. All at once her eyes brimmed over. Her gloves, which she had stripped off, fell to the floor, and her hands, glittering with immense diamonds, clasped a richly-jeweled cross, which flashed from the crape folds of her corsage. After some moments she turned and looked up at Kenyon through her tears as frankly as a child.

"He was a dear friend of mine," she said, softly. "He died here, far away from—from his home. You must have seen him often; you must have known him well—to paint him like that. Tell me—tell me something of him."

"Yes, I knew him in a way," said Kenyon, absently. "I saw him nearly every day while that was going on," indicating the picture. "And yet I didn't know him well. But"—here he hesitated and his voice softened—"I was with him when he died." "Ah—h!"

She moved backward, her eyes still on his, and sank into a chair, and Kenyon, momentarily forgetting his interrupted work and the model waiting behind the screen, sat down near her.

"You know it was pneumonia," he went on. "He had taken a bad cold somehow, and he persisted in working on in spite of the doctors. It was the first big season of Wagner opera here, and the success of it depended on Savary; and, of course, he knew it. He finished the week with a great performance of 'Tannhaüser'—then went home to his hotel and gave up. Before morning he was delirious; they had to take him to the hospital. He died there three days later at daybreak."

The Baroness dried her eyes, and twisted her handkerchief in and out her begemmed fingers.

"And you were with him those two days?"

"Yes. He was delirious nearly all the time. He never knew me."

"He—suffered?"

"Poor fellow—yes."

She shivered and caught her breath.

"It was very—good of you, Mr. Kenyon"

"No. There seemed to be no one else."

"No one else? No one—out of all who loved him? Oh, my God!"

She bowed her face in her hands; then, after a little while, looked up, carefully dried her eyes again, and said, with an effort at composure:

"Pardon me for distressing you. It is very bad taste, I know. But tell me one thing more. When he was delirious—he talked a great deal, of course."

"Yes. But mostly in some German dialect with which I am not familiar. I caught only a word here and there—generally something about his home, or the lake and the linden-trees"

"Ah, yes—poor boy! He was so young and strong, to die like that. His beautiful face, his beautiful voice—gone, gone forever! But the good God knows best" She bent her head and pressed the diamond cross to her lips. Then she looked up quickly, piercingly, at Kenyon. "Did he speak any name, do you remember? any woman's name?"

"No. He called several times for his mother."

"Poor boy, he has found her now. You are quite sure—no other name?" "I heard no other," said Kenyon, with a little frown of distaste.

She turned her head and looked long and silently at the picture.

"I have seen him like that so often," she murmured. "What a chest—what arms! Golden hair, golden voice—heart of gold! He was a man!"

Suddenly she rose. "Pardon me for taking so much of your time, Mr. Kenyon. I am ashamed of my thoughtlessness. And now—my picture?"

"You shall have it in two months."

"Thank you. I will give you the address of my banker in Berlin. Please send it to him, securely packed, as soon as it is finished." She handed Kenyon a card and a slip of blue paper.

"I had brought that check with me, but if it is not right"

"It is quite right, thank you."

She gave a last long look at the picture, then dropped her veil over her face, thanked Kenyon again and finally departed.

Kenyon went back to his easel, and the model came out and resumed her pose. But somehow the light and atmosphere—or perhaps the painter's mood—had changed. He was preoccupied and absent The delicious problem of his color scheme—pale terra cotta and golden green as a setting for youthful pink flesh and auburn hair—had ceased to promise a near solution. The splendid vision of the early morning had begun to fade into the inevitable light of common day. Yet he worked on conscientiously until the half-past-twelve whistle announced the end of the sitting. Very promptly then he laid down his palette, nodded to the model, and began to clean his brushes, whistling pensively the while. By the time he had washed his hands and put on his coat and hat, the girl, too, was ready, and they went out together.

On the days when the little Irishwoman sat to Kenyon—and these were frequent, for she was a favorite model (the head and hands and the draped figure)—the two were accustomed to lunch in company at a small French restaurant on—or, rather, under—the dingy little square. This establishment consisted of a single basement room, low-ceiled, and lit perpetually by sparse, unshaded gas-jets, which flared strongly at intervals, leaving the greater part of the place in darkness. But it was clean and cheap, had a reputation among the Bohemians of the quarter for old cheese, crusty bread and fresh salads, and was accordingly frequented by many who might have afforded a more pretentious ménage.

Kenyon, habited to the place, had his special seat at a small table in a corner, where it was his pleasure, while imbibing the foaming beer or the mild red wines, to lie in wait for savage effects of light and shade, which he always thought he would utilize, but never did.

To-day he was in an unresponsive mood. He drank his bock and ate his bread and cheese, half listening to his companion's brisk chatter, putting in a word now and then, or smiling at some flash of her mischievous wit, but oftener ignoring her altogether. When he had finished his frugal meal, he fished out a short black pipe from his inner pocket, and proceeded to add his quota to the coil of blue smoke that undulated along the ceiling. After a long silence, he said, abruptly, shutting his teeth on the stem of his pipe:

"Bother the woman! I wish I knew where I've seen her!"

"Seen who? The lady in mourning, you mean? I'll tell you, if you like," said the girl, readily,

"Pooh! You don't know her, do you?"

"Never saw her till I looked through the crack of the door this morning. But I'll bet a cookie I can tell where you saw her. On the stage."

"By Jove! I believe you're right!" exclaimed Kenyon, instantly. "I wonder," he added, meditatively.

"Yes, a singer—or dancer. Retired, of course, and rich—probably married," she added, nodding her head, sagely.

"Look here, Mamie, I'll tell you a story," began Kenyon, smiling, whimsically. Then he stopped suddenly and said to himself, "No, I won't either. I'll tell it to Her," and added, aloud, "Some other day."

Wirfi that he got up unceremoniously, and after paying toll to fat Madame Lefebvre at the desk, went out, followed by the model's twinkling glance.

Perhaps it was the idea of Constance which drove Kenyon out of that tobacco and garlic-scented atmosphere, away from the red-haired girl sitting with her elbows on the table and her narrow eyes blinking in the glare of the gas. In there it seemed somehow a profanation to think of Her. He strolled on around the little square, pipe in mouth, his hat pulled down over his eyes and his hands plunged deep in the pockets of his loose overcoat. It was an unfashionable neighborhood, and he attracted no more than a passing stare from the noisy children crowding the sidewalks. He noted abstractedly that the thin branches of the few maple-trees were studded with swelling buds, and that a faint green was suffusing the dusty plots where the fat sparrows wrangled; and recollected suddenly that the morrow would be Easter Sunday. A faint brooding smile lit his dreamy eyes as a radiant figure all in palest gray, gray-eyed and bright-haired, dawned on his inward vision. The incident of the morning had by this time quite faded from his mind. He was thinking now of the woman whom his love and reverence set apart from all other women. He was thinking that he was to see Her that same afternoon.

He went back to his rooms, spent two hours over an edition of Maurice de Guérin, which he was interleaving with drawings; then dressed and, stopping in midway at a florist's, took his way up-town.

The ladies were at home, the butler told him, and after a brief delay he was shown into the "morning-room," a small apartment separated from the library by Indian hangings, and opening into a miniature conservatory. The little nook, with its tempered light and soft blending of dull pinks and greens, had the air of a hothouse, and the slender girl on the divan among the gold cushions was like a lily grown under glass."

"But you are going out!" exclaimed Kenyon, disappointedly, releasing her long gloved fingers.

"Yes—to drive and afterwards to a tea or two," said Constance, smiling. "Aunt Jem insists on my driving an hour every day—to bring back my color, she says. As though I ever had color!"

"Then I won't repine," said Kenyon, taking a chair near her and dropping his violets in her lap. "For you certainly look paler than I like. Aren't you dissipating, too much?"

"Dissipating—in Lent?"

"You know you're scarcely strong yet. If you don't look out you'll be packed off for another ocean voyage."

Constance laughed and turned the question.

The acquaintance between these two was of little more than half-a-year's duration, the latter three months of which time Constance had spent in Provence and Southern Spain. But before her sudden departure in the beginning of the season, this acquiantance [sic] had progressed so far that there was—at least on Kenyon's side—no question of allowing it to drop, and it had been continued through those three months by letter. It may have been due to the interest and charm which Kenyon was able to infuse into his share of the correspondence that the two met again not as acquaintances, but as friends at least. For he wrote with his soul in his finger-tips, alive and alert to seek out that other soul to which all his hope addressed itself. Almost from the very first meeting of all, he had acknowledged to himself—this philosophic dreamer of forty—that henceforth life held something for him beyond philosophy, or dreams, or love as he had known it, or, perhaps, art even, the master and crucible of all. She was so completely what a woman worth winning must be! Her patrician grace, her reserve, her youthful coldness, caprice even, seemed the entire fulfillment of an ideal which must always have lurked somewhere in his heart! He had never even wondered at his own swift and utter subjugation. It was part of the scheme of things, and so, too, was the promise which had begun to shine for him in her serene eyes. The definite word had not yet been spoken. The lingering on the threshold had its charm, to Kenyon even.

Meantime his position in the house was perfectly assured, if not defined exactly. Mrs. Ferriss, the aunt with whom Constance lived, approved of him, both from the worldly and the personal point of view. Indeed, she had been known privately to declare that were it not for Mr. Ferriss she would have married him herself.

"You shall drive with us this afternoon, if you like," said Constance, graciously, fastening the violets into the belt of her gown. "And you may as well go to the Caswell's tea, too. I hope you were intending to go? Just think of the dinners you've eaten in that house!"

"I know, but there won't be any more—dinners, I mean—till next season. However, I'll accept for the drive, with many thanks. And, by the way, when are you going to let me sketch you in that gown? You promised, you know. And I've been dreaming of it That gray, with the pink and lavender lights—it looks like a mist with a rainbow caught in it!"

"How poetical—if you could only paint your dream! You should have done it some time in Lent. You might have painted me in this Paris hat, and called the picture 'A Penitent!' But you must be too busy now. We haven't seen you for days. What have you been doing ever since—let me see—Thursday?"

"Oh, pegging away, as usual. I've been working hard on the 'Oread'—and it's coming, I think! Our exhibition opens in two weeks, you know, and I want that to go in. It's going to be the best thing I've done. The color of that girl in her green gown—it's great!"

"Yes, I daresay. You painters all rave over red-haired girls. But what else shall you send?"

"Oh, a landscape or two—just to show those fellows that I can paint landscape—and the portrait of Savary."

"Savary! I thought—I did not know you had that yet."

"Yes, for the present. I've been touching up some details a bit. I shall give it to some gallery eventually, I think. It's the best thing I've done so far. You think so, don't you?"

"Well, I hardly know. I didn't see it after it was finished. It promised to be—very good, I remember."

"It has attracted a good deal of attention. Principally, of course, because of Savary's sudden death, and because it's the only decent portrait of him. You remember the sensation his death made, don't you? Or was it just after you sailed? No, it was just before, I recollect now. Well, the portrait was well along then; fortunately, the figure was complete, or fairly so. People kept coming in and begging to see it. So I sent it to a little exhibition at the Paint and Clay, unfinished as it was. But that was after you went away. I thought, though, that I had shown it to you since you came back!"

"I never saw it but once; no, twice. The first time, you remember. Aunt Jem and I came to the studio"

"I remember. You spoiled the sitting. Savary wouldn't keep his head in pose for looking at you. And then you went to the piano and sang something from 'Carmen,' and Savary struck in with the Toreador's song, and then you sang some duet or other. And I sat on the model-throne and twiddled my thumbs. It was good music, though. What a voice he had!"

Constance laughed suddenly. "And I went to your Studio again one day. You weren't there, but I made your boy let me in, and I went poking around among your things." "You did! Well! He never told me!"

Kenyon regarded her with puzzled surprise. She took the violets from her belt and nervously pulled them apart.

"Yes. I always meant to tell you. It was a freak. And I saw the picture again. That was the last time."

There was a short silence.

"Speaking of Savary reminds me," began Kenyon; but paused there at the sibilant rustle of silken petticoats approaching.

"Dear Mr. Kenyon, so glad to see you! You are just in time to drive with us. No, do sit down again; there is no hurry—and don't let me interrupt you. You were talking about a pet enthusiasm of mine, weren't you, Constance, love? I mean Karl Savary. Mr. Kenyon, I had an immense admiration for that man—his voice, his beauty, his genius! His death was a great shock to me. You know he sang here on several of our Sunday evenings when he wouldn't sing at other houses for love or money. The last time was just a week before he died—think of it!"

Mrs. Ferriss, sank gently into a chair and nodded her pretty head, crowned with the gayest of French bonnets.

"He was rather a favorite with your charming sex, I think," said Kenyon, smoothly. "That is to say, behind the glitter of the footlights; or, perhaps, as the lion of a soirée—a lion with a well-kept mane and a most musical roar, certainly. For I don't suppose you knew him personally?"

"Oh, no, I don't mean that, of course. No doubt in private life he drank too much beer and ate unpleasant things, and was generally unromantic—poor fellow! I never talked with him, really, for he spoke very little English, you know—Constance got on better with him, I believe. But just to sit and look at him! And when he sang—who could be coldly rational with that voice fairly drawing the heart out of your breast"

"Don't be absurd, Aunt Jem," said Constance, rather sharply, decapitating violets. "Constance, dear, you used to think so yourself. You were very fond of Herr Savary's singing."

"Was I?" said Constance, coldly. "Mr. Kenyon, you were saying something when Aunt Jem came in. Go on, please."

"Oh," said Kenyon, after a moment, "I remember. It was a rather curious little coincidence that occurred this morning; that is, one incident did. The other happened some time ago."

He went on to describe his visitor of the morning, ending with:

"She appears now as a German baroness, but I am quite certain that I recollect her eight or ten years ago as a distinguished ornament of the burlesque stage. She was a Cuban, and a beautiful creature, too. No doubt her title and rank are genuine enough, for I indistinctly remember that she retired from the public eye at the zenith of her fame, and married an admirer who was said to be both rich and noble. Ease and prosperity haven't altogether agreed with her, though. She has lost her beauty."

"And her husband, too—you said she was in widow's weeds. Though, perhaps, that wasn't much of loss, for she must have been in love with Savary. Probably he didn't care for her—she must have been ages older than he. Still, it is quite a romance"

"Are you going to paint the picture?" asked Constance, in a low voice. She sat erect and still, her head turned away, only her proud profile showing against the pink curtain.

"I suppose so, though I am not fond of doing copies. But I haven't told you the rest of the story."

"Oh, is there more of it? Do go on then, Mr. Kenyon, I'm quite curious."

Constance did not move or speak.

"Well, perhaps, not exactly the same story, but, as I said, a curious coincidence. Some three months ago, just after Savary's death, I executed another commission of exactly the same sort—a small copy of this very picture—for a woman, too. Odd, isn't it?"

"Odd—it's fascinating! But, tell us, who was the other woman?"

"I don't know. I never saw her. A messenger-boy brought me her note—written on the sort of paper and in the sort of hieroglyphic-hand that most women, ladies, I mean, used nowadays. The note was unsigned and undated, and simply asked if I would make such a copy at once, on my own terms. I was to send a reply by the messenger, stating the earliest date when I could complete it. As it happened, I wasn't very busy just at that time, and I despatched an acceptance. A week later came another note in the same way, thanking me, enclosing—no, not a check, dear Mrs. Ferriss, but a packet of notes, and asking me to have the picture, when finished, put into an ebony frame, fitted with doors that could be locked. I sent an answer, promising to do so.

"Well, that is about all. I finished the picture. On the appointed day another messenger came and carried it away. And that was the end of it."

Mrs. Ferriss exclaimed, softly, "How mysterious! I should have tried to find out who she was. But are you sure it was a woman? Of course, though, it must have been. But why the locked doors, do you suppose? Altogether it is a real story—you ought to write it up and print it. I shall always look at your portrait now with a new interest. But it is odd that you never mentioned anything of this to us before, isn't it, Constance? And about you being with that poor young man in his illness, and when he died—he never told us of it, did he, Constance?"

"No, he never told us of it," echoed the girl. She got up, dropping the violets from her lap, and crossed the room to the fireplace, where a small bed of coals smoldered dimly under a veil of gray ashes.

"And now we must really be going," said Mrs. Ferriss, briskly, rising and drawing her velvet wrap about her shoulders.

"I'm afraid I've kept you" began Kenyon.

"Indeed you haven't. We are in plenty of time for our drive—a good long one, too, that ought to bring a little color to this girl's pale cheeks."

Kenyon held the portière aside for her, and she called over her shoulder, "Come, Constance!"

The girl, standing with her back to them, started imperceptibly. There was a little crash, and the fragments of a Sévres cup tinkled on the tiles of the fireplace, as she swept past Kenyon out of the room.