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THE INNER VISION
(By Edwin Pugh.)
**A man is not necessarily seeing a thing
because he is looking at it,' said the ex
Loot. 'Yes,' he added, quickly, with a
siuile, 'I am well aware that that has been
said before. Most trne things have.'
''I agree with you, anyhow,' said
Chatters. '''When one of us looks at a
heathen idol we see only a more or less ugly
imago wrought of wood or stone or metal
But when a heathen looks at it he sees
God.'.
?'And there is that other lesser gotl of
the Greeks,' interjected the new-comer.
'1 mean the God of Love. Love is blind,
they say, and yet a lover can see the most
exquisite beauty, and all manner of other
fine points in a girl whom other fellows re
gard as utterly commonplace.'
aOr worse,' said Chafers.
'How worse?'
'The commonplace is, not ao bad. It's
what most of us have to put up with', at
any rate, most of our lives,' said Chaffers.
'Do yon remember that ease of Jim. Kella
'way ? It has some bearing on what we are
talking about. It's an old story, though.'
'Yon don't mean the axtist-enap, do
you?' asked the new-comer. 'I mean
the big portait painter, Kellaway.'
?fyes, I do mean him,' said Chaffers.
'If you like—it's an how to tiffin ? '
They used to gay that Kellaway to? for*
tune's favorite. Bnt fcrtrours favorite is
often fortune's fool. Lcfc n\e tell yon. f
vent to school with Jim. He was rather
a pot, you know. At least, hia. father, Sir
He.ctry, the famous surgeon, wss.
There was nothing too pood for Jim— -to
hare or to do. Sport, athletics, pehobcr
pbip— -IK) matter ?what it was- -he eoixld. aP
ways heat the best of terfco'trittera. A.»r).
he eottld draw. Be di'tfcr'fc ?-zbw to pet ran fib
brass on his tLrawmjr, but the way fee coo 16
cfirieatnrc the Head, or net turn out of jnr.t
an ordinary man chasing ssi ordinary hat,
seemed almost past beJieritfgr e^en whe»
;von raw him doi:og \L With Ihk wany
talent?, money behind- him, prospeote rich
and rare, and tbe hi^he^rt. woeial circles
eajjcr to admit him lo thd:e exctusivencsa,
his futnrn seemed assured. Oh! and did I
mention that he had good, looks, too?
We wore, rather disappointed 'when h«
Mi; Echool to .irrin tha Nsrry. Heetned hard
ly worthy oR him, sotueho-K1. Btill, wo v^rr-
mriie srn.ro that he'ri soob be^jmr. Iiord H'iprh
Admiral and all the blessed catanu?iaii be
sidefi. Earldoms and things like that, I
mean. .
And tbes, &&?£? a ,vea!* or two, he dreck
ftfl the Karr. There -were mracrs; th.frti he
bad had no end of a bcat-up with hia strv'
no* about it, and that a«i a xasutt he had
be«n sent on a s-'orfc of worM-towe. A.ni3 not
a bad result either! ;
He waa twenty 'wirem hm first picture wa?i
hung on thr line. T forgot w&etbe? ft*T
bought if. in for the ? Chantffiy B-?^iKi«i.
Anyway, all was plain K?i!b£ fiyr him after
thai. He went on fawn sferength to sferco&fch, .
as the saying is. He was still Jim to us,
though. Alw ays a knife and fork -when, you
eared to calL And if you didn'tcare to
call, then it was up to yon to provide the
bnifo and i'ork. No ham-frills on Jim I .
Well, he was getting well into the thirties.
And suddenly everybody was wondering
why he hadn't got married I diia'twondeJ
much. I'd kuown- him from a kid, you
see, and I'd noticed that women .werear't a
bit in his line. He liked them well enough.
Ho was, I need havdly say, immensely popu
lar with them. And yefc-— there it was — he
stayed 'single, and every year grew more
and more bachelor-like.. The mammas gave
him up as hopeless. So, for the matter of
that, did I— and everybody else.
T. asked him once, outright, wtiy he 'was
ofi girls. And he said something rather
sloppy and quite unlike him, to the effect
that h*e was seeking his ideal- He also told
me not to be an ass.
We were on a walking tour together in
Italy. (There wasn't much walking about
it, except what I did, i;or he was mostly sit
ting around scumbling 'bits.') And at
List it came to pass that we rested in Rome.
We stayed at rather an uppish pension
near the old Ludovisi Gardens. The old
house was packed. Rather a mixed utimi :
Italians, French, Batch, American, and
several English, all presided over by an old
witch of a woman wno called herself, and
was called,- Marehesa.
We had hardly sat down to ranch when I
xeeognised one of the ladies.
You remember Gloria Stokes, of course!
Yon don't? What a privilege!
Gloria, let xne tell you, ^vas at one time a
cra.ze, a rage, a furore. Any vrord you like
that means spell-binder. No, I don't mean
the kind oi! spell-binder yon raean. I mean
the kind of woman who abruptly spriugs
from nowhere in particular, and is instant
ly, universally acclaimed as the Greatest
Beauty, the most divine enchantress in the
?whole 'world since— who was it?— Cleopatra
or Salome. She flashed up iu the upper
ether like a star of the largest magnitude.
She cut a broad swathe across Europe,
eclipsing all rivals. She was received by
kings and queens, ail the highest anc
mightiest oi! every country she passed
through. Her mysterious romantic past,
her present surpassing splendor, her jewels,
her pets, her fancies and foible?, and, above
all, her affairs of the heart, made her the
most notorious woman ever applauded and
slandered siQee that sort of thing began to
be in the dim and distant ases. She was
photographed and paragraphed: she lent
her name to all that was most choice^ and
chaste. Her name, Gloria, was a talisman
that worked miracles, selling eveu books by
thousands and face-fakes bv the milliou.
For fifteen years she reigned supreme;
it is the only way of putting it. And theny
beeause she' had 'offended a Grand Duke in
some way, or taken liberties with the tur
ban ol* a Kizam of Somewhere, she vanish
ed. Hex face disappeared from the choco
late boxes and bottles of hair reviver. Her
name was seen no more, attached to patent
medicine puffs. Indeed, after a marvel
lously short time, her name was never seen
or heard at all. Out of the mists from
? hich she had sprung she fell into a deeper
obscurity—and was forgotten.
But hero she. was 'again, ,at the Mar
ebesa's table, in this very ordinary pension.
I had seen her, I had even spoken to her,
some years before her vogno was ended, and
I was little more than a boy. Like the
rest of the wotW, T, tog had forgotten her.
And uow the sight of her stirred, we
strangely. She was dressed very quietly
and soberly in a long dark gown that sug
gested the veil of the Church, her manner:
was gentle and sober also,, and she hardly
spoke at all. And that wonderful face,
that dazzling beauty! .'.For indeed she had
been beautiful— beautiful as a house on
fire—a mad-house on fire! Aid she was
still beautiful. .Ko least trace of make-up
in her complexion, no hint of any falseness
anywhere. She looked hardly 'any older
than when I had last seen her, Nevertheless,
there was a great change in her. She seem'
ed to breath purity, she seemed almost
bobyand yet at the same time as if she had
undergone great suffering and sorrow, as if
she had passed through spiritual fires of
agony. ' . ' ?
'Who was that woman you were staring
at?' asked Jim, as we strolled put \q tho
?Yia-Lonjbardift.
'?I thought I had mother bcttrnt sorae
?where,' I answered, vaguely. *(A Miss
Kokes— some name like that.'
'Kot!' he cried. 'Her name is no
more Nokes than mine is!'
. I stared. 'I don't sec that it matters,
anvhow,' I observed.. ?
7-A. woman /with a face .like' that!
Nokes!' he, spluttered; then bumt.hia lip
on his cigarette and flung it away. ?
'?'What the world without end,- is the
matter with you?' said I. '. . ,
For he was hot and flushed and peevish
looking, with unaccustomed ; liues wrinkling
about his mouth and forehead.
' ( I have never aeen sunh a pretty type
— -—'?' He stammered, paused, and eyed
me sheepishly..
: - 'Hadn't yon better yalfc-it off?' cair]
I, and tarned and left him.
It was somewhere near the Corse that, 1
es«t one of o.Tir fdioT;~boarder&, an 'English.*
man najned.Car.ne, .We walked, together,
and nteritabry he. asked. me if -.-T-fcad noticed
fyloria Stoke?.. 1 nodded;, . .?;VYmj .. reiacm
ber her career., rb yon?' ???.. , ? i.. ?? . / -
''Very well,'' said T. -':?' '?'
'That's all fisht, then,' said Ke. ? .'I
.?waa only gmng to warn yon. I ee« now
that that was rcnneecsiiary. Better drop
tho subject— what?'
'I agree. Bat otm trDtatron. ! Is she
ratill at her old gannv?' ' : .
'She )3. Bmalier g».ttte new. of course,
if nothing bigger comes along.'
We had a very pleasant chafc aaadi s-troIL-
TteturniB.g. ire ytvt ?witkin siphfc . e-F the
peniiioti, w.kcn CUenn gw-pperl, my acrm con
rokiTclT, Bui. T bar! already ''seen them;
Jim and the Siren, walking: together, head
to head, talking. She; turned slight
ly, the EHWshmft simek iJajit-m^ly acro--ij her
face. Aiacl it was {hft i'ftcc of/st sin-WOXJl
hag. .-.
'The salw.jy ' wHtc mfes df-th© kjp^r,'^
HiirrntttfCfl Carn^^ adrti-nf; qrdcklj, *' '^Your
friend Vti-ow^ her, too?' , . ?
f'Na' .- ?????? : ' ? ?? ?:-''-'::- '??' '??;';?? ;
. -fHe «BgM..fflhft told/' ' '? ?. , '
11 Well, he. bm'b exactly .a- »ttftk-Jinp. babe, ?*'??'
'''Ten. day-, ago,' girid Carue, ''a Toiddlc*
ALBAJfY DOMHTATEB BY MS. OIiAKBN OE. Help
ALBAJfY DOMHTATEB BY MS. OIiAKBN OE.
iged man, a baaiker, shot Mmself dead, over
\t Monte. That is why Gloria's here.'
'So I haveat sought in vaiu. after all,'
said Jim, late that nipjbi. ''I havo, you.
see, found ray ideal at last.'
He had been raving on like that for an
tiour or more about his adorata, Florence.
(She had changed her name iirom Gloria
to Florence.) I was properly fed up with
it, X eat and stared at him miserably.
What was I to do 1 II; I told him the truth
about her he would not believe me. If I
insisted on it he might liit me; fhe?e would
eHrtainly be an end to our friendship. He
had that dreanry look on his silly, solemn
face which does to gall a poor
average sinne? like wt. I went to Ik?-1 —
and thought abont him all night.
That was, the latest literary slanjr
goes, the beginning of the end. She had
got him as nicely mixed up with her as a
sheep in a barbed wire entanglement. Of
course, everybody saw it, and was either
shocked or amused, according to iiieir
humor. But naturally, nobody interfered.
It wasn't. anybody's business but hers and
his, and they were both dangerons sort of
folk to meddle with.
''She's going id mta-^y me,' he announc
ed at the end of three days. 'That oite so
innocent, so sweet ? '
'Ob, come off it!'. I cried. 'Yon holy
idot! She isn't worth--—. You are
going to be damned s-m%y for this, Jim!'
He seemed not to hear. ' ' To-morrow, '
he said, 'I am going to start painting her
portrait.'
He hb'ed a whacking great studio in the
Via del Babuino, and the sittings began.
On the evening of the first day he caroo
to me and. told me that he was— yes, on tho
whole— satisfied.
Next evening he seemed less satisfied.
'But sueh a theme!' he exclaimed.
As Carae and I were sipping and smoking
at an osteria on the following day he re
marked, abruptly: ''There's something
goinsr wrong with that picture ! '
'He doesn/t usually talk about1 his
work,' said I, when he had gone. 'But
there's always au air of. I've-gob-it about
him. A sureness, a swiftness.'
'This is going to be interesting,' said
Carne.
Later that night, or it may have been
the night alter, Jim came to nte, haggard
and distraught, despairing.
'Bill,' he confided, 'there's something
going very wronpr with that picture.'
'Pnt yonr. Coot through it and start
afresh,' said I.
'But, no! 'he whispered. 'It is £0od.
It is as good as I've done.'
'Then what the infernal regions— — '
'Come round and. see it for yourself
to-u.orr.ow afternoon,' said he. 'She'll
bo there.. But she won't mind. It'll Hveu
her up.'
Seemed to me then that there was some
thing queer in the application of that last
phrase to a being divine, human only by
jrrace,
' I went round as promised, and there she
was, in a regal chair, on a broad esfcrutlo
stewn with -magnificent tapestries; and
there, -on tho easel, was the portrait. It
was an excellent porfcait. But any fool of
a hack can paint a likeness. This was
something more than that. Though as yet
not quite finished, it 'was already infused
?with Jim's peculiar geuius ? for revealing
tho soul be'hind the faee. I felt cold flesh
creep 'up my spine as I recalled Came's
words: 'The silvery white sores oi:'«the
leper!'
She herself, scenied qnite delighted mth
it. 'Is it not truly superb~as a work oi
art?' said she, . m ,.-.:
I Jooked at. Jim. There was a D«sty
eianinry look' abonfc his lips. (tWe\W? he
'I'll defer j\idgment till it's. finished,'
paid 1
'And wind yoii,' he 3aid, with TRthet
nnaccoun'table fierceness, 'it is fjofug to
be finished.?' ...
'Why, of . course, master,' Bhe. said,
laughing.' . ' . ? ,-.?'-,. ,
Next daj I ' saw nothing of bin. I
thought it'bcst'foi him to wait till he 'waafc-
ed nie- And — by the everlastiBg jokei^
he did want me a few .hours laLar. Hft
found mo at the osteria, this tuhe alone. It
was ft' blazing afternoon. His face was
puddled 'with sweat
'Conic along— come along!' be cried,
huskily. 'It's, done— it's finished. Come
and see it. Some!'
Hp .looked at me as if. he -were oix the
verge of weeping. He looked an old mau,
and yet so childishly young.
'You see1?' he sobbed, aa we stood be-
fore the picture. . - 'Is it not devilish ? Is
it riot .fine? iiVly/ masterpiece— eh, Bill?
You. do see. it 1' .'
? Yes, I saw— both the portrait and his
meaning. ?'. . ,. , ' ?
He' has noyer' '.before.- or ? since none any'
thing1'- to 'compare i with. . It1 is world
iamou si his La Gloria. ?'.....
'Thopo polished agate nyes. of his5 and
purs that, take in' only, the superficialities
of our feilowcreatures had helped him to
a triumph of psychology. ?There was the
very flesh and blood of her, the very breath
and aura, Hhc lived on .that oV-ad rs.^. Bat
above and beyond all measuTiR.-of .orftfta
manship there vraa aonietluDg that »o more
?cyca of polished asfak cvpi1 sc.^wbieh only
the kiMT'-tisdon of,.th« artist- wet ;*!£& Arift
Jim had fjeea ifc. Be. had ceen the devil
behind tbe ojigel He bad seen, bchiiic! the
:fajsa goodheay', ' ikt. ? ?ceal. r.^ilncssi the «ra
,'eHv,.ihc last., the eapirfit-yi the' whole ab^K
?ra'al, fx»ulletiai)es3.of the vtoman he had wor
shipped in blittdueas.
' There,- ?foi; oxzc iramortalifie-l, efce rat;
fcbroiced afi in Hell 'itself, upoii the dead
bones and g.eey BkaUs ol' tbe Mietims of her
tranSccndctnt wickedness.
T. will not tell you what h« said, whaf; h-e
. did,. in- that raomnnt of smhlirnc levtslation.
'And,' paid thr. ex-Loot, '?what became
of -her?' . ?
-%'Ho paid here- off- -vGod kact^i hrm mith
ho paid, her!-— anyiray, eke was well pleas
ed.' '? ; ?: ' '
'And. her1
'Ho.. has dons ?witat &my saaso maa
?docs.'
/ ?' I dou *fc qmle f eihvr. ' -:
'.'He has pcof, o-rer it. It Tyas an episodfti
:A. tragedy , if you like- A HeaTGa-cettt
chance of art ideaj model, if yarn, liko. But
'all tra^fidies— -if you prefer fcra»edyr— whcf»
you have ?rot over t.h-sm,:look in the retro*
speefe fw 'nrofh liiro faxces. . ... , Who T) for
l-iSM'?'— : 'John o' l'/ondon.'
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