the fortunes of oliver horn-第64部分
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inone she had really taught him herself； He began by blocking in with a bit of charcoal the salient points of the composition。 Fred stood on his left hand holding a cigar…box filled with tubes of color； ready to unscrew their tops and pass them to Oliver as he needed them。
As the dark background of greenish black； under the vigorous strokes of his brush； began to relieve the flesh tones； and the coloring of the lips and the japonica in the hair took their places in the color… scheme； a murmur of applause ran through the room。 No such piece of night…work had ever been painted since the club had come together； and certainly not before。
〃A Fortuny； by thunder！〃 burst out Waller。 He had been the first man to recognize Oliver's talent in the old days and had always felt proud of his foresight。
For two hours Oliver stood before his canvas； the Countess resting now and then； floating over to the piano； as Simmons had done； running her fingers over its keys； or breaking out into Polish； Hungarian； or French songs at the pleasure of the room。 During these rests Oliver turned the picture to the wall。 He did not wish her to see it until it was finished。 He was trying some brush tricks that Madge loved； some that she had learned in Couture's atelier； and whose full effect could only be recognized in the finished work。
When the last touches of Oliver's brush had been laid on the canvas； and the modest signature； O。 H。； as was the custom； had been affixed to its lower left… hand corner； he made a low salaam to the model and whirled the easel in front of her。
The cry of delight that escaped her lips was not only an expression of her pleasure； but it convinced every man in the club that the Countess's technical knowledge of what constituted a work of art equalled her many other accomplishments。 She sat looking at it with thoughtful； grave face； and her whole manner changed。 She was no longer the woman who had so charmed the room。 She was the connoisseur； the expert； the jury of last resort。 Oliver watched her with absorbing interest as he sat wiping his forehead with his handkerchief。
〃Monsieur Horn；〃 she said； slowly； as if weighing each word； 〃if you come to my country they will cover you all over with medals。 I had no idea anyone in this new land could paint as you do。 You are a master。 Permit me； Monsieur； to make you my obeisance〃 and she dipped back on one foot and swept the floor with her skirts。
Oliver laughed； returned the bow with a mock flourish； and began rolling down his shirt…cuffs； a thrill quivering through himthat thrill only felt by a painter when he is conscious that some work of his brush has reached the high…water mark of his abilities。 For only the artist in him had been at work。 What stirred him was not the personality of the Countessnot her charm nor beauty but the harmony of the colors playing about her figure： the reflected lights in the blue…black of her hair； the soft tones of the velvet lost in the shadows of the floor； and melting into the walls behind her； the high lights on the bare shoulder and arms divided by the severe band of black； the subdued grays in the fall of lace uniting the flesh tones and the bodice； and； more than all； the ringing note of red sung by the japonica tucked in her hair and which found its only echo in the red of her lipsred as a slashed pomegranate with the white seed…teeth showing through。 The other side of her beautiful selfthe side that lay hidden under her soft lashes and velvet touch； the side that could blaze and scorch and burn to cindersthat side Oliver had never once seen nor thought of。
This may have been because； while his fingers worked on； his thoughts were somewhere else； and that he saw another face as he mixed his colors； and not that of the siren before him。 Or it may have been that； as he looked into the eyes of the Countess； he saw too deeply into the whirlpool of passion and pain which made up the undercurrent in this beautiful woman's strange life。
Not so the others。 Many of whom were the most serious…minded of men where women were concerned。 Crugwho； to quote Waller； had drifted into a state of mind bordering on lunacywas so completely taken off his feet that he again led her ladyship by her finger…tips to the piano； and； with his hand on his heart； and his eyes upraised； begged her to sing for him some of the songs of her native land and in the tongue of her own people； the Countess complying so graciously and singing with such consummate taste and skill； throwing her soul into every line； that the men soon broke out in rounds of applause； crowding about her with the eagerness of bees around a hiveall except Waller and Oliver； who sat apart； quietly watching her out of the corners of their eyes。
The portrait was forgotten now； so were the sketches and tiles； and the work of the evening。 So was everything else but the woman who dominated the room。 She kept her seat on the piano…stool； the centre of the group； as a queen of the ballet sits on a painted throne； flashing her eyes from one to the other； wheeling about to dash off an air from some unknown operaunknown to those who listened laying her lighted cigarette on the music…rack as she played； and whirling back again to tell some anecdote of the composer who wrote it； or some incident connected with its production in Vienna or Warsaw or St。 Petersburgthe club echoing her every whim。
It is not to be wondered at； therefore； that the staid and sober…minded Stone Mugs； under these conditions； completely lost their heads； and that when Oliver picked up an empty beer…mug； the symbol of the club used in all ceremonies； and began filling it with the names of the members which he had written on slips of paper； preparatory to the drawing of the lottery for the picture which he had just finishedevery meeting…night a lottery was drawn； the lucky winner possessing the picture of the eveningCrug and Munson should have simultaneously sprung to their feet； and； waving their hands over their heads； have proposed； in one and the same breath； that 〃Our distinguished visitor〃 should have the privilege of adding her own name to those in Oliver's mugthe picture to be her own individual property should her patronymic be the first to be drawn from its open mouth。
Waller started to his feet to object； and the words of protest were half out of his mouth when Oliver stopped him。 A woman was always a woman to Oliver； no matter what her past or present station in life might be。 It was her sex that kept him loyal when any discourtesy was involved。
〃Keep still； old man；〃 he whispered。 〃They've gone crazy； but we can't help it。 Get on your feet and vote。〃
When the sound of the 〃ayes〃 adopting Crug and Munson's motion had died away； Oliver inscribed her initials upon a small piece of paper； dropped it in the mug； held it high above the lady's head； and asked her to reach up her dainty fingers and pick out the name of the lucky possessor of 〃The Woman in Black；〃 as the picture had now been christened。 The white arm went up； the jewelled fingers felt about nervously among the little ballots； and then the Countess held up a twisted bit of paper。
A burst of applause filled the room。 The scrap of paper bore the initials of the Countess！ 〃The Woman in Black〃 was her property。
But the most extraordinary part by far of the evening's performance was still to come。
When the hour of midnight had arrivedthe hour of dispersal； a rule rarely brokenthe Countess called to Bianchi and directed him to go out into the hall and bring in her long black stockings and stout shoes； which she had taken off outside Fred's door； and which she had left hanging on a nail。
I can see her nowfor I； too； was leaning over the same table； Oliver beside me； watching this most extraordinary woman of another world； a woman who had been the idol of almost every capital in Europe； and whom I knew （although Oliver did not） had been quietly conducted out of some of them between dark and daylightI can see her now； I say； sitting on the piano…stool； facing the group； the long； black silk stockings that Bianchi had brought her in her hands。 I remember just the way in which； after loosening her dainty； red…heeled slippers； she swept aside her skirts； unfastened her garters； and； with the same unconsciousness and ease with which she would have slipped a pair of rubbers over a pair of shoes； drew the long black stockings over her flesh…colored ones； refastening the garters again； talking all the time； first to one and then the other； pausing only to accentuate some sentence with a wave of her shoe or stocking or cigarette； as the action suited the words。
That the group about her was composed solely of men made not the slightest difference。 She was only trying to save those precious； flesh…colored silk stockings that concealed her white skin from the slush and snow of the streets。 As to turning her back to her hosts during this little change of toiletthat was the last thing that entered her head。 She would as soon have stepped into a closet to put on her gloves。
And then again； why should she be ashamed of her ankles and her well…turned instep and dainty toes； as compact in their silk covering as peas in a pod！ She might ha
