Visionaries Part 23

His accent was that of a cultivated gentleman. Pinton, somewhat a.s.sured, dropped back in his seat, and, John pa.s.sing by just then, more beer was ordered.

"Hear me before you condemn me," said the odd young man. "My name is Blastion and I am a burglar by profession. When I saw you the other night, at work on the premises next door to me, I was struck by your refined face. I said to myself: 'At last the profession is being recruited by gentlemen, men of culture, men of refinement. At last a profitable, withal risky, pursuit is being dignified, nay, graced, by the proper sort of person.' And I saluted you in a happy, haphazard fas.h.i.+on, and then you flew the coop. Pardon my relapse into the vernacular."

Pinton felt that it was time to speak.

"Pardon me, if I interrupt you, Mr. Blastion; but I fear we are not meeting on equal ground. You take me for a--for a man of your profession. Indeed, sir, you are mistaken. When you discovered me last Sat.u.r.day night I was in the pantry of Mrs. Hallam, my boarding-house keeper, searching for pie. I am not a burglar--pardon my harsh expression; I am, instead, an organist by profession."

The pallor of the burglar's countenance testified to the gravity of his feeling. He stared and blushed, looked apprehensively at the various groups of domino players in the back room, then, pulling himself together, he beckoned to melancholy John, and said:--

"Johann, two more beers, please. Yes?"

Pinton became interested. There was something appealing in the signal the man flashed from his eyes when he realized that he had unbosomed himself to a perfect stranger, and not to a member of his beloved guild.

The organist put his hand on the man's arm and said--faint memories of flatulent discourses from the Reverend Bulgerly coming to his aid: "Be not alarmed, my friend. I will not betray you. I am a musician, but I respect art ever, even when it reveals itself in manifold guises."

Pinton felt that he was a man of address, a fellow of some wit; his confidential and rather patronizing pose moved his companion, who slyly grimaced.

"So you are an organist and not a member of the n.o.ble Knights of the Centrebit and Jimmy?" he asked rather sarcastically.

"Yes," admitted Pinton, "I am an organist, and an organist who would fain become a pianist." The other started.

"I am a pianist myself, and yet I cannot say that I would like to play the organ."

"You are a pianist?" said Pinton, in a puzzled voice.

"Well, why not? I studied in Paris, and I suppose my piano technic stood me in good stead in my newer profession. Just look at my hands if you doubt my word."

Aghast, the organist examined the shapely hands before him. Without peradventure of a doubt they were those of a pianist, an expert pianist, and one who had studied a.s.siduously. He was stupefied. A burglar and a pianist! What next?

Mr. Blastion continued his edifying remarks: "Yes, I studied very hard.

I was born in the Southwest, and went to Paris quite young. I had good fingers and was deft at sleight-of-hand tricks. I could steal a handkerchief from a rabbi--which is saying volumes--and I played all the Chopin etudes before I was fifteen. At twenty-one I knew twenty-five concertos from memory, and my great piece was the _Don Juan Fantasy_.

Oh, I was a wonder! When Liszt paid his last visit to Paris I played before him at the warerooms of the Pleyels.

"Monsieur Theodore Ritter was anxious for his old master to hear such a pupil. I a.s.sure you there must be some congenital twist of evil in me, for I couldn't for the life of me forbear picking the old fellow's pockets and lifting his watch. Now don't look scandalized, Mr. ---- eh?

Oh! thank you very much, Mr. Pinton. If you are born that way, all the punishments and preachments--excuse the alliteration--will not stand in your way as a warning. I have done time--I mean I have served several terms of imprisonment, but luckily not for a long period. I suffered most by my incarceration in not having a piano. Not even a dumb keyboard was allowed, and I practised the Jackson finger exercises in the air and thus kept my fingers limber. On Sat.u.r.days the warden allowed me, as a special favour, to practise on the cabinet organ--an odious instrument--so as to enable me to play on Sundays in chapel. Of course no practice was needed for the wretched music we poor devils howled once a week, but I gained one afternoon in seven for study by my ruse.

"Oh, the joy of feeling the ivory--or bone--under my expectant fingers!

I played all the Chopin, Henselt, and Liszt etudes on the miserable keyboard of the organ. Yes, of course, without wind. It was, I a.s.sure you, a truly spiritual consolation. You can readily imagine if a man has been in the habit of practising all day, even if he does 'burgle' at night, that to be suddenly deprived of all instrumental resources is a bitter blow."

Pinton stuttered out an affirmative response. Then both arose after paying their checks, and the organist shook the burglar's hand at the corner, after first exacting a promise that Blastion should play for him some morning.

"With pleasure, my boy. You're a gentleman and an artist, and I trust you absolutely." And he walked away, whistling with rare skill the D flat valse of Chopin.

"You can trust me, I swear!" Pinton called after him, and then went unsteadily homeward, full of generous resolves and pianistic ambitions.

As he intermittently undressed he discovered, to his rage and amazement, that both his purse and watch had disappeared. The one was well filled; the other, gold. Blastion's technic had proved unimpeachable.

XVI

AN IRON FAN

Effinghame waited for Dr. Arn in the study, a small chamber crowded with the contents of the universe--so it seemed to the visitor. There was a table unusual in size, indeed, big enough to dissect a body thereon. It was littered with books and medical publications and was not very attractive. The walls were covered with original drawings of famous j.a.panese masters, and over the fireplace hung a huge fan, dull gray in colouring, with long sandalwood spokes. Not a noteworthy example of j.a.panese art, thought Effinghame, as he glanced without marked curiosity at its neutral tinting, though he could not help wondering why the cunning artificers of the East had failed to adorn the wedge-shaped surfaces of this fan with their accustomed bold and exquisite arabesques.

He impatiently paced the floor. His friend had told him to come at nine o'clock in the evening. It was nearly ten. Then he began to finger things. He fumbled the papers in the desk. He examined the two j.a.panese swords--light as ivory, keen as razors. He stared at each of the prints, at Hokusai, Toyokimi, Kuniyos.h.i.+, Kiyonaga, Kiosai, Hiros.h.i.+ghe, Utamaro, Oukoyo-Ye,--the doctor's taste was Oriental. And again he fell to scrutinizing the fan. It was large, ugly, clumsy. What possessed Arn to place such a sprawling affair over his mantel? Tempted to touch it, he discovered that it was as silky as a young bat's wing. At last, his curiosity excited, he lifted it with some straining to the floor. What puzzled him was its weight. He felt its thin ribs, its soft, paper-like material, and his fingers chilled as they closed on the two outermost spokes. They were of metal, whether steel or iron he could not determine. A queer fan this, far too heavy to stir the air, and--

Effinghame held the fan up to the light. He had perceived a shadowy figure in a corner. It resolved itself into a man's head--bearded, scowling, crowned with thorns or sunbeams. It was probably a Krishna.

But how came such a face on a j.a.panese fan? The type was Oriental, though not Mongolian, rather Semitic. It vaguely recalled to Effinghame a head and face he had seen in a famous painting. But where and by whom?

It wore a vile expression, the eyes mean and revengeful; there was a cruel mouth and a long, hooked, crafty nose. The forehead was lofty, even intellectual, and bore its thorns--yes, he was sure they were thorns--like a conqueror. Just then Dr. Arn entered and laughed when he saw the other struggling with the fan.

"My _Samurai_ fan!" he exclaimed, in his accustomed frank tones; "how did you discover it so soon?"

"You've kept me here an hour. I had to do something," answered the other, sulkily.

"There, there, I apologize. Sit down, old man. I had a very sick patient to-night, and I feel worn out. I'll ring for champagne." They talked about trifling personal matters, when suddenly Effinghame asked:--

"Why _Samurai_? I had supposed this once belonged to some prehistoric giant who could waft it as do ladies their bamboo fans, when they brush the dust from old hearts--as the Spanish poet sang."

"That fan is interesting enough," was the doctor's reply. "When a _Samurai_, one of the warrior caste j.a.panese, was invited to the house of a doubtful friend, he carried this fan as a weapon of defence.

Compelled to leave his two swords behind a screen, he could close this fighting machine and parry the attack of his hospitable enemy until he reached his swords. Just try it and see what a formidable weapon it would prove." He took up the fan, shut it, and swung it over his head.

"Look out for the bottles!" cried Effinghame.

"Never fear, old chap. And did you notice the head?"

"That's what most puzzled me."

"No wonder. I too was puzzled--until I found the solution. And it took me some years--yes, all the time you were in Paris learning how to paint and live." He paused, and his face became gloomy.

"Well--well?"

"There is no well. It's a d.a.m.ned bad fan, that iron one, and I don't mind saying so to you."

"Superst.i.tious--you! Where is your Haeckel, your Wundt, your Weismann?

Do you still believe in the infallibility of the germ-plasm? Has the fan brought you ill-luck? The fact is, Arn, ever since your return from China you've been a strange bird!" It was Effinghame's turn to laugh.

"Don't say another word." The doctor was vivacious in a moment and poured out wine. They both lighted cigars. Slowly puffing, Arn took up the fan and spread it open.

"See here! That head, as you must have noticed, is not j.a.panese. It's Jewish. Do you recall the head of Judas painted by Da Vinci in his Last Supper? Now isn't this old scoundrel's the exact duplicate--well, if not exact, there is a very strong resemblance." Effinghame looked and nodded.

"And what the devil is it doing on a fan of the _Samurai_? It's not caprice. No j.a.panese artist ever painted in that style or ever expressed that type. I thought the thing out and came to the conclusion--"

"Yes--yes! What conclusion?" eagerly interrupted his listener.

"To the conclusion that I could never unravel such a knotty question alone." Effinghame was disappointed.

"So I had recourse to an ally--to the fan itself," blandly added Arn, as he poured out more wine.