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THE LIGHT
1 THAT FAILED
'Ey 'Rudyard K^ipling
CHAPTER IV.
The wolf cub at even lay hid In the corn
When the smoke of the cooking hung
gray;
He knew where the doe made a couch for
her fawn.
And he looked to his strength for his
prey.
But the moon swept the smoke wreaths
away.
And he turned from his meal in the vil
lager's close.
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
—ln Seonee.
A WELL, and how does success
Vri/ taste?” said Torpenhow
some three mouths later.
He had just returned to
chambers after a holiday in the coun
try.
“Good,” said E>ick as he sat licking
his lips before the easel in the studio.
”1 want more—heaps more. The lean
years have passed, and 1 approve of
these fat ones.”
“Be careful, old man. That way lies
bad work.”
Torpenhow was sprawling in a long
chair, with a small fox terrier asleep
on his chest, while Dick was preparing
a canvas. A dais, a background and
a lay figure were the only fixed objects
in the place. They rose from a wreck
of oddments that began with felt cov
ered water bottles, belts and regimen
tal badges and ended with a small bale
of secondhand uniforms and a stand of
mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet
on the dais showed that a military mod
el had just gone away. The watery
autumn sunlight was failing, and shad
ows sat in the corners of the studio.
“Yes,” said Dick deliberately, “I like
the power; I like the fun; I like the
fuss, and, above all, I like the money.
I almost like the people who make the
fuss and pay the money—almost But
they’re a queer gang—an amazingly
queer gang!”
"They have been good enough to you,
at any rate. That tin pot exhibition of
your sketches must have paid. Did
you see that the papers called It the
‘Wild Work Show ?’ ”
“Never mind. I sold every shred of
canvas I wanted to. apd on my word, I
believe it was because they believed I
was a self taught flagstone artist. I
should have got better prices If I had
worked my things on wool or scratched
them on camel bone Instead of using
mere black and white and color. Verily,
they are a queer guug. these people.
Limited Isn’t the word to describe
’em. I met a fellow the other day who
told me that it was Impossible that
shadows on white sand should he blue
—ultramarine—as they are. I found out
later that that man had been ns far as
Brighton beach, but he knew all about
art, confound him. He gave me a lec
ture on it, and recommended me to go
to school to learn technique. I wonder
What old Kami would have said to
that”
“When wqre you under Kami, man
of extraordinary beginnings?”
“I studied with him for two years in
Paris. He taught by personal magnet
ism. All he ever said was, ‘Continuez,
mes enfants,' and you had to make the
best you could of that. He had a divine
touch, and he knew something about
color. Kami used to dream color. I
swear he could never have seen the
genuine article, but he evolved It, and
It was good.”
“Recollect some of those views in the
Sudan?” said Torpenhow, with a pro
voking drawl.
Dick squirmed in his place. “Don’t.
It makes me want to get out there
again. What color that was! Opal and
umber and amber and claret and brick
red and sulphur—cockatoo crest sul
phur—against brown, with a nigger
black rock sticking up in the middle of
it all and a decorative frieze of camels
festooning in front of a pure pale tur
quoise sky.” He began to walk up and
down. “And yet, you know, if you try
to give these people the thing as God
gave it keyed down to their comprehen
sion and according to the powers he
has given you”—
“Modest man! Go on.”
“Half a dozen epicene young pagans
who haven’t even been to Algiers will
tell you, first, that your notion is bor
rowed and, secondly, that it isn’t art.”
“This .comes of my leaving town for
a month. Dickie, you've been prome
nading among the toyshops and hear
ing people talk.”
“I couldn't help it,” said Dick peni
tently. “Y'ou weren’t here, and it was
Jonely these long evenings. A man can't
work forever.”
“A man might have gone to a pub.
and got decently drunk.”
“I wish I had. but I foregathered
with some men of sorts. They said
they were artists, and I knew some of
them could draw, byt they wouldn't
draw. They gave me tea—tea at 5 in
the afternoon!—and talked about art
and the state of their souls, as if their
souls mattered. I’ve heard more about
art and seen less of her in the last six
months than in the whole of my life.
Do you remember Cassavetti, who
worked for some continental syndicate
out with the desert column? lie was a
regular Christmas tree of contraptions
when he took the field in full fig, with
his water bottle, lanyard, revolver,
writing case, housewife, gig lamps and
the Lord knows what all. He used to
fiddle about with ’em and show us how
they worked, hut he never seemed to
do much exeeDt fudge his reports from
the Nilglmi. See?” '
“Dear old N’ilghai! no’s In town, fat
ter than ever. He ought to he up here
this evening. I see the comparison per
fectly. You should have kept clear of
all that man millinery. Serves you
right, and I hope it will unsettle your
mind.”
“It won’t. It has taught me what art
—holy, sacred art—means.”
“Y’ou’vo learned something ’tvhile I’ve
been away. What is art?”
“Give ’em what you know, and when
you’ve done it once do it again.” Dick
dragged forward a canvas laid face to
the wall. Here's a sample of real art.
It's going to he a facsimile reproduc
tion for a weekly. I called it ‘His Last
Shot.’ It’s worked up from the little
water color I made outside El Maghrib.
Well, I lured my model, a beautiful
rifleinaiij up here with drink. I droned
him, and f restored him, and I tre
drored him, and 1 made him a flushed,
disheveled, bedeviled scalawag, with
his helmet at the back of his head and
the living fear of death in his eye and
the blood oozing out of a cut over his
ankle bone. He wasn’t pretty, but he
was all soldier and very nmcli man.”
“Once more, modest child!”
Dick laughed. “Well, it’s only to you
I'm talking. I did him just as well as
I knew how. making allowance for the
sllckcess of oils. Then the art manager
of that abandoned paper said that his
subscribers wouldn’t like it. It was
brutal and coaise and violent—-man be
ing naturally gentle when he's lighting
for his life. They wanted something
more restful, with a little more color
I could have said a good deal, hut you
might as well talk to a sheep as an art
manager. I took my ‘Last Shot’ back.
Behold the result! 1 put him iuto a
lovely red coat without a speck ou it.
That’s art. I polished his hoots. Ob
serve the high light on the toe. That's
art. I cleaned his rifle—rifles are al
ways clean on service—because that is
urt. I pipeclayed his helmet. Pipeclay
Is always used on active service and is
indispensable to art. I shaved his chin,
I washed his hands and gave him an
air of fatted peace. Result, military
tailor’s pattern plate. Price, thank
heaven, twice as much as for the first,
which was moderately decent.”
“And do you suppose you’re going to
give that thing out as your work?”
“Why not? I did it. Alone I did It in
the interests of sacred, home bred art
and Dickenson's Weekly.”
Torpenhow smoked in silence for
awhile. Then came the verdict, deliv
ered from rolling clouds: “If you were
only a mass of blathering vanity, Dick,
I wouldn’t mind. I’d let you go to the
deuce ou your own mahlstick. But
when I consider what you are to me,
and when I find that to vanity you add
the twopenny halfpenny pique of a
twelve-year-old girl, then I bestir my
self In your behalf. Thus!”
The canvas ripped as Torpenhow’s
booted foot shot through it, and the
terrier jumped down, thinking rats
were about.
“If you have any bad language to
use. use it. You have not. I continue.
You are an idiot, because no man born
of woman Is strong enough to take lit>
erties with his public, even though they
be, which they ain’t, all you say they
are.”
“But they don’t know any better.
What can yon expect from creatures
born and bred in this light?” Dick
pointed to the yellow fog. “If they
want furniture polish, let them have
furniture polish so long as they pay
for it. They are only men and women.
You talk as though they were gods.”
“That sounds very fine, but It has
nothing to do with the case. They are
the people you have to work for,
whether you like it or not. They are
your masters. Don't he deceived, Dick
ie. Y'ou aren’t strong enough to trifle
with them, or with yourself, which is
more important. Moreover —come back,
, Binkie —that red daub isn't going any
where. Unless you take precious good
care you will fall under the damnation
of the checkbook, and that’s worse than
death. Y'ou will get drunk —you’re half
drunk already—on easily acquired mon
ey. For that money and your own In
fernal vanity you are willing to delib
erately turn out had work. Y'ou’ll do
quite enough bad work without know
ing it. And, Dickie, as I love you and
as I know you love me. I am not going
to let you cut off your nose to spite
your face for all the gold in England.
That’s settled. Now swear.”
“Don't know.” said Dick. “I’ve been
trying to make myself angry, but 1
can't; you're so abominably reasona
ble. There will he a row on Dicken
son’s Weekly. I fancy.”
“Why the Dickenson do you want to
work on a weekly paper? It's slow
bleeding of power.”
“It brings in the very desirable dol
lars,” said Dick, his hands in his pock
ets.
Torpenhow watched him with large
contempt. "Why, I thought it was a
man,” said he. “It's a child.”
“No, it isn't.” said Dick, wheeling
quickly. “You've no notion what the
certainty of cash means to a man who
has always wanted it badly. Nothing
will pay me for some of my life's
joys; and that Chinese pigboat. for in
stance, when we eat bread and jam for
every meal because Ho Wang wouldn't
allow us anything better, and it all
tasted of pig—Chinese pig. I’ve work
"1 bestir myself in your behalf. Thus!"
ed for this, T’ve sweated and I’ve starv
ed for this, line on line and month aft
er month, and now I’ve got it I am
going to make the most of it while it
lasts. Let them pay. They’ve no
knowledge.”
“Wliat does your majesty please to
want? You can’t smoke more than
you do, you won’t drink, you’re a gross
feeder and you dress in the dark, by
the look of you. You wouldn’t keep a
horse the other day when I suggested,
because, you said, it might fall lame,
and whenever you cross the street you
take a hansom. Even you are not fool
ish enough to suppose that theaters
and all the live things you can buy
thereabout mean life. What earthly
need have you for money?”
“It’s there, bless its golden heart,”
said Dick. “It’s there all the time.
Providence has sent me nuts while I
have teeth to crack ’em with. I haven’t
yet found the nut I wish to crack, but
I’m keeping my teeth filled. Perhaps
some day you and I will go for a walk
round the wide earth.”
“With no work to do, nobody to wor
ry us and nobody to compete with, you
would be unfit to speak to in a week.
Besides, I shouldn’t go. I don’t care
to profit by the price of a man’s soul—
for that’s what it would mean. Dick,
it’s no use arguing, l'ou're a fool.”
“Don’t see It. When I was on that
Chinese pigboat, our captain got enor
mous credit for saving about 25,000
very seasick little pigs, when our old
tramp of a steamer fell foul of a tim
ber junk. Now, taking those pigs as a
parallel”—
“Oh, confound your parallels! When
ever I try to improve your soul you
always drag in some irrelevant anec
dote from your very shady past. Pigs
aren’t the British public. Credit on
the high seas isn’t credit here, and self
respect is self respect all the world
over. Go out for a walk and try to
catch some self respect. And, I say, if
the Nilghai comes up this evening can
I show him your diggings?”
“Surely. You'll be asking whether
you must knock at my door next.” And
Dick departed to take counsel with
himself In the rapidly gathering Lon
don fog.
Half an hour after he had left, the
Nilghai labored up the staircase. He
was the chiefest as he was the hugest
of the war correspondents, and his ex
periences dated from the birth of the
needle gun. Saving only his ally,
Keneu the Great War Eagle, there was
no man mightier in the craft than he,
and he always opened his conversation
with the news that there would be
trouble in the Balkans In the spring.
Torjtenhow laughed as he entered.
“Never mind the trouble in the Bal
kans. Those little states are always
screeching, l'ou’ve heard about Dick’s
luck?”
“Y'es. He has been called up to no
toriety, hasn’t he? 1 hope you keep
him properly humble. He wants sup
pressing from time to time.”
“He does. He’s beginning to take
liberties with what he thinks is his
reputation.”
“Already? By Jove, he has cheek!
I don’t know T about his reputation, but
he'll come a cropper if he tries that
sort of thing.”
“So I told him. I don’t think he be
lieves it.”
“They never do when they first start
off. What’s that wreck on the ground
there?”
“Specimen of his latest impertinence.”
Torpenhow thrust the torn edges of
the canvas together and showed the
well groomed picture to the Nilghai,
who lookisl at it for a moment and
then whistled.
“It's a ehromo,” said he—“a ehromo
litholeomargarine fake! What pos
sessed him to do it? And yet how thor
oughly he has caught the note that
catches a public who think with tlieir
boots and read with their elbows! The
cold blooded insolence of the work al
most saves it. But he mustn’t go on
with this. Hasn’t he been praised and
cockered up too much? You know
these people here have no sense of pro
portion. They’ll catch him a second
Detaille and a third hand Meissonier
while his fashion lasts. It's windy'diet
for a colt.”
“I don't think it affects Dick much.
Y'ou might as well cal! a young wolf a
lion and expect him to take i . compli
ment in oxchar ■ for a s a i>one.
Dick’s soul is in the Lai:!:. He's work
ing for cash.”
“Now lie has i. ... -•’ •
suppose he doesn’t see that the obliga
tions of the service are just the same;
only the proprietors are changed.”
“How should he know? He thinks
he is his own master.”
“Does he? I could undeceive him for
his good if there’s any virtue in print.
He wants the whiplash.”
“Lay it on with science, then. I’d
flay him myself, hut I like him too
much.”
“I’ve no scruples. He had the audac
ity to try to cut me out with a woman
at Cairo once. I forgot that, hut I re
member now.”
“Did he cut you out?”
“You’ll see when I have dealt with
him; hut, after all, what's the good?
Leave him alone, and he’ll come home,
if he has any stuff in him. dragging or
wagging his tail behind him. There’s
more in a week of life than in a lively
weekly. None the less, I'll slate him.
I'll slate him ponderously in the Cata
clysm.”
“Good luck to you! But I fancy
nothing short of a crowbar would make
Dick wince. His sou: seems to have
been fired before we came across him.
He's intensely suspicious and utterly
lawless.”
“Matter of temper,” said the Nilghai.
“It’s the same with horses. Some you
wollop and they work; some you wol
lop anu they jibe, and some you wollop
and they go out for a walk with their
hands in their pockets.”
“That’s exactly what Dick has done,”
said Torpenhow. “Wait till he comes
back. In the meantime you can begin
your slating here. I’ll show you some
of his last and worst work in his stu
dio.”
Dick had instinctively sought run
ning water for a comfort to his mood
of mind. He was leaning over the em
bankment wall, watching the rush of
the Thames through the arches of
Westminster bridge. He began by
thinking of Torpenhow’s advice, but,
as of custom, lost himself in the study
of the faces flocking by. Some had
death written on their features, and
Dick marveled that they could laugh.
Others, clumsy and coarse built for the
most part, were alight with love; oth
ers were merely drawn and lined with
work, but there was something, Dick
knew, to be made out of them all.
The poor at least should suffer that
he might learn, and the rich should
pay for the output of his learning.
Thus his credit- in the world and his
cash balance at the bank would he In
creased. So much the better for him.
He had suffered. Now he would take
toll of the ills of others.
The fog was driven apart for a mo
ment and the sun shone, a blood red
wafer, on the water. Dick watched
the spot till he heard the voice of the
tide between the piers die down like
the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl
hard pressed by her lover shouted
shamelessly, “Ah, get away, you
beast!” and a shift of the same wind
that had opened the fog drove across
Dick’s face the black smoke of a river
steamer at her berth below the wall.
He was blinded for the moment, then
spun round found himself face to
face with—Maisie.
There was no mistaking. The years
had turned the child to a woman, but
they had not altered the dark gray
eyes, the thin, scarlet lips or the firmly
modeled mouth and chin, and, that all
should be as it was of old, she wore a
closely fitting gray dress.
Since the human soul is infinite and
not in the least under its own com
mand, Dick, advancing, said, “Hello!”
after the manner of schoolboys, and
Maisie answered, “Oh, Dick, is that
you?” Then, against his will, and be
fore the brain, newly released from
considerations of the cash balance, had
time to dictate to the nerves, every
pnlse in Dick’s body throbbed furious
ly and his palate dried in his mouth.
fThe fog shut down again, and Maislp’s
face was pearl white through it. No
word was spoken, but Dick fell into
step at her side, and the two paced the
embankment together, keeping step as
perfectly as in their afternoon excur
sions to the mud flats. Then Dick, a
little hoarsely:
“What has happened to Amomma?”
“He died. Dick. Not cartridges; over
eating. He was always greedy. Isn’t
it funny?”
“Y'es. No. Do you mean Amomma?”
“\’e-es. No. This. Where have you
come from?”
“Over there.” Dick pointed east
ward through the fog. “And you?”
“Oh, I'm in the north—the black
north, across all the park. I am very
busy.”
“What do you do?”
“I paint. That’s all I have to do.”
“Why, what's happened? Y'ou had
three hundred a year.”
“I have that still. I am painting;
that's all.”
“Are you alone, then?”
“There’s a girl living with me. Don't
walk so fast, Dick. You're out of step.”
"Then you noticed it too?”
“Of course. You're always out of
step.”
“So I am. I’m sorry. You went on
with the painting?”
“Of course. I said I should. I was
at the Slade, then at Morton’s in St.
John’s Wood, the big studio, then I
pepper potted—l mean I went to the
National—and now I’m working under
Kami.”
“But Kami is in Paris surely.”
“No; he has his teaching studio at
Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with him in
the summer, and I live in London in
the winter. I’m a householder.”
“Do you sell much?”
“Now and again, but not often.
There is my bus. I must take it or
lose half au hour. Goodby, Dick.”
“Goodby, Maisie. Won’t you tell me
where you live? I must see you again,
and perhaps I could help you. I paint
v. little myself.”
“I may be in the park tomorrow if
there is no working light. I walk from
the Marble arch down and back again.
That is my little excursion. But, of
I skaU_see vou_ again.” She
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stepped into the omnibus and was
swallowed up by the fog.
“Well—l—am and and!” said Dick, and
returned to his chambers.
Torpenhow and the Nilghai found
him sitting on the steps of the studio
door, repeating the phrase With awful
gravity.
“You'll be worse off when I’ve done
with you,” said the Nilghai, upheav
ing his bulk from behind Torpenhow’s
shoulder and "waving a sheaf of half
dry manuscript. "Dick, it is of com
mon report that you are suffering from
swelled head.”
“Hello, Nilghai! Back again? How
are the Balkans and all the little Bal
kans? One side of your face is out of
drawing, as usual.”
“Never mind that. I am commis
sioned to smite you in print. Torpen
how refuses from false delicacy. I’ve
been overhauling the potboilers in your
studio. They are simply disgraceful.”
“Oho! That’s it, is it? If you think
you can slate me, you’re wrong. You
can only describe, and you need as
much room to turn in on paper as a P.
and O. cargo boat. But continue, and
be swift. I’m going to bed.”
“H'm, h’m, h’m! The first part only
deals with your pictures. Here’s the
peroration: ‘For work done without
conviction, for power wasted on trivi
alities, for labor expended with levity
Face to face with — Maleic.
for tlie deliberate purpose of winning
the easy applause of a fashion driven
public”—
“That's ‘His Last Shot,’ second edi
tion. Go on.”
—“ ‘public, there remains but one
end—the oblivion that is preceded by
toleration and eenotaphed with con
tempt. From that fate Mr. Ileldar has
yet to prove himself out of danger.’ ”
“Wow, wow. wow, wow!” said Dick
profanely. “It’s a clumsy ending and
vile journalese, but it's quite true. And
yet”—he sprang to his feet and snatch
ed at the manuscript—“you scarred, de
boshed, battered old .gladiator! You’re
sent out when a war begins to minister
to the blind, brutal British public’s
bestial thirst for blood. They have no
arenas now. but they must have special
correspondents. You're a fat gladiator
who comes up through a trapdoor and
talks of what he’s seen. You stand on
precisely the same level as an energetic
bishop, an affable actress, a devastat
ing cyclone or—mine own sweet self.
And you presume to lecture me abou*
my work! Nilghai, if it were worth
while I'd caricature you in four pa
pers.”
The Nilghai winced. He had not
thought of this.
“As it is. I shall take this stuff and
tear it small—so!” The manuscript
fluttered in slips down the dark well of
the staircase. “Go home, Nilghai,” said
Dick. "Go home to your lonely little
bed. and leave me in peace. I am
about to turn in till tomorrow.”
“Why, it isn’t 7 yet!” said Torpen
how, with amazement.
“It shall be 2 in the morning, if I
choose,” said Dick, backing to the stu
dio door. “I go to grapple with a seri
ous crisis, and I shan’t want any din
ner.”
The door shut and was locked.
“What can you do with a man like
that?" said the Nilghai.
“Leave him alone. He’s as mad as
a hatter.”
At 11 there was kicking on the stu
dio door. "Is the Nilghai with you
still?” said a voice from within. "Then
tell him he might have condensed the
whole of his lumbering nonsense into
an epigram, ‘Only the free are bond,
and only the bond are free.’ Tell him
he's an idiot, Torp, and tell him I'm
another.”
“All right. Come out and have sup
per. You’re smoking on an empty
stomach.”
There was no answer. *
[to be continued.!
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