Mark Twain's Medieval Romance by Otto Penzler Read Free Book Online Page A

to me after the show is over. No one but you need know that I have bought it.”
    The small round eyes of Mr. John Royden were watching me shrewdly, I thought, and the head was again cocked over to one side. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, and in this position, with the pullover making a flash of red down his front, he reminded me of a robin on a twig listening for a suspicious noise.
    “There’s really nothing wrong about it at all,” I said. “Just call it—if you like—a harmless little conspiracy being perpetrated by a … well … by a rather romantic old man.”
    “I know, Mr. Lampson. I know …” He still seemed to be hesitating, so I said quickly, “I’ll be glad to pay you double your usual fee.”
    That did it. The man actually licked his lips. “Well, Mr. Lampson, I must say this sort of thing’s not really in my line, you know. But all the same, it’d be a very heartless man who refused such a—shall I say such a romantic assignment?”
    “I should like a full-length portrait, Mr. Royden, please. A large canvas—let me see—about twice the size of that Manet on the wall there.”
    “About sixty by thirty-six?”
    “Yes. And I should like her to be standing. That, to my mind, is her most graceful attitude.”
    “I quite understand, Mr. Lampson. And it’ll be a pleasure to paint such a lovely lady.”
    I expect it will, I told myself. The way you go about it, my boy, I’m quite sure it will. But I said, “Allright, Mr. Royden, then I’ll leave it all to you. And don’t forget, please—this is a little secret between ourselves.”
    When he had gone I forced myself to sit still and take twenty-five deep breaths. Nothing else would have restrained me from jumping up and shouting for joy like an idiot. I have never in my life felt so exhilarated. My plan was working! The most difficult part was already accomplished. There would be a wait now, a long wait. The way this man painted, it would take him several months to finish the picture. Well, I would just have to be patient, that’s all.
    I now decided on the spur of the moment that it would be best if I were to go abroad in the interim; and the very next morning, after sending a message to Janet (with whom, you will remember, I was due to dine that night) telling her I had been called away, I left for Italy.
    There, as always, I had a delightful time, marred only by a constant nervous excitement caused by the thought of returning to the scene of action.
    I eventually arrived back, four months later, in July, on the day after the opening of the Royal Academy, and I found to my relief that everything had gone according to plan during my absence. The picture of Janet de Pelagia had been painted and hung in the Exhibition, and it was already the subject of much favourable comment both by the critics and the public. I myself refrained from going to see it but Royden told me on the telephone that there had been several inquiries by persons who wished to buy it, all of whom had been informed that it was not for sale. When the show was over, Royden delivered the picture to my house and received his money.
    I immediately had it carried up to my work-room, and with mounting excitement I began to examine it closely. The man had painted her standing up in a black evening dress and there was a red-plush sofa in the background. Her left hand was resting on the back of a heavy chair, also of red-plush, and there was a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
    My God, I thought, what a hideous thing! The portrait itself wasn’t so bad. He had caught the woman’s expression—the forward drop of the head, the wide blue eyes, the large, ugly-beautiful mouth with the trace of a smile in one corner. He had flattered her, of course. There wasn’t a wrinkle on her face or the slightest suggestion of fat under her chin. I bent forward to examine the painting of the dress. Yes—here the paint was thicker, much thicker. At this point, unable to