as restless as a swallow in autumn.’
‘Yes; but did he go alone?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care, but he has the beginnings of the go-fever upon him. He wants to up-stakes and move out. There’s no mistaking the signs. Whatever he may have said before, he has the call upon him now.’
‘It might be his salvation,’ Torpenhow said.
‘Perhaps—if you care to take the responsibility of being a saviour.’
Dick returned with the big clasped sketch-book that the Nilghai knew well and did not love too much. In it Dick had drawn all manner of moving incidents, experienced by himself or related to him by the others, of all the four corners of the earth. But the wider range of the Nilghai’s body and life attracted him most. When truth failed he fell back on fiction of the wildest, and represented incidents in the Nilghai’s career that were unseemly,—his marriages with many African princesses, his shameless betrayal, for Arab wives, of an army corps to the Mahdi, his tattooment by skilled operators in Burmah, his interview (and his fears) with the yellow headsman in the blood-stained execution-ground of Canton, and finally, the passings of his spirit into the bodies of whales, elephants, and toucans. Torpenhow from time to time had added rhymed descriptions, and the whole was a curious piece of art, because Dick decided, having regard to the name of the book which being interpreted means ‘naked,’ that it would be wrong to draw the Nilghai with any clothes on, under any circumstances. Consequently the last sketch, representing that much-enduring man calling on the War Office to press his claims to the Egyptian medal, was hardly delicate. He settled himself comfortably on Torpenhow’s table and turned over the pages.
‘What a fortune you would have been to Blake, Nilghai!’ he said. ‘There’s a succulent pinkness about some of these sketches that’s more than life-like. “The Nilghai surrounded while bathing by the Mahdieh”—that was founded on fact, eh?’
‘It was very nearly my last bath, you irreverent dauber. Has Binkie come into the Saga yet?’
‘No; the Binkie-boy hasn’t done anything except eat and kill cats. Let’s see. Here you are as a stained-glass saint in a church. Deuced decorative lines about your anatomy; you ought to be grateful for being handed down to posterity in this way. Fifty years hence you’ll exist in rare and curious facsimiles at ten guineas each. What shall I try this time? The domestic life of the Nilghai?’
‘Hasn’t got any.’
‘The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. Of course. Mass-meeting of his wives in Trafalgar Square. That’s it. They came from the ends of the earth to attend Nilghai’s wedding to an English bride. This shall be an epic. It’s a sweet material to work with.’
‘It’s a scandalous waste of time,’ said Torpenhow.
‘Don’t worry; it keeps one’s hand in—specially when you begin without the pencil.’ He set to work rapidly. ‘That’s Nelson’s Column. Presently the Nilghai will appear shinning up it.’
‘Give him some clothes this time.’
‘Certainly—a veil and an orange-wreath, because he’s been married.’
‘Gad, that’s clever enough!’ said Torpenhow over his shoulder, as Dick brought out of the paper with three twirls of the brush a very fat back and labouring shoulder pressed against stone.
‘Just imagine,’ Dick continued, ‘if we could publish a few of these dear little things every time the Nilghai subsidises a man who can write, to give the public an honest opinion of my pictures.’
‘Well, you’ll admit I always tell you when I have done anything of that kind. I know I can’t hammer you as you ought to be hammered, so I give the job to another. Young Maclagan, for instance——’
‘No-o—one half-minute, old man; stick your hand out against the dark of the wall-paper—you only burble and call me names. That left shoulder’s out of drawing. I must literally throw a veil over that. Where’s my pen-knife? Well, what about Maclagan?’
‘I only gave him his riding-orders to—to lambast you on general principles for not producing work that will last.’
‘Whereupon that young fool,’—Dick threw back his head and shut one eye as he shifted the page under his hand,—’being left alone with an ink-pot and what he conceived were his own notions, went and spilt them both over me in the papers. You might have engaged a grown man for the business, Nilghai. How do you think the bridal veil looks now, Torp?’
‘How the deuce do three dabs and two scratches make the stuff stand away from the body as it does?’ said Torpenhow, to whom Dick’s methods were always new.
‘It just depends on where you put ’em. If Maclagan had know that much about his business he might have done better.’
‘Why don’t you put the damned dabs into something that will stay, then?’ insisted the Nilghai, who had really taken considerable trouble in hiring for Dick’s benefit the pen of a young gentleman who devoted most of his waking hours to an anxious consideration of the aims and ends of Art, which, he wrote, was one and indivisible.
‘Wait a minute till I see how I am going to manage my procession of wives. You seem to have married extensively, and I must rough ’em in with the pencil—Medes, Parthians, Edomites…. Now, setting aside the weakness and the wickedness and—and the fat-headedness of deliberately trying to do work that will live, as they call it, I’m content with the knowledge that I’ve done my best up to date, and I shan’t do anything like it again for some hours at least—probably years. Most probably never.’
‘What! any stuff you have in stock your best work?’ said Torpenhow.
‘Anything you’ve sold?’ said the Nilghai.
‘Oh no. It isn’t here and it isn’t sold. Better than that, it can’t be sold, and I don’t think any one knows where it is. I’m sure I don’t…. And yet more and more wives, on the north side of the square. Observe the virtuous horror of the lions!’
‘You may as well explain,’ said Torpenhow, and Dick lifted his head from the paper.
‘The sea reminded me of it,’ he said slowly. ‘I wish it hadn’t. It weighs some few thousand tons—unless you cut it out with a cold chisel.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. You can’t pose with us here,’ said the Nilghai.
‘There’s no pose in the matter at all. It’s a fact. I was loafing from Lima to Auckland in a big, old, condemned passenger-ship turned into a cargo-boat and owned by a second-had Italian firm. She was a crazy basket. We were cut down to fifteen ton of coal a day, and we thought ourselves lucky when we kicked seven knots an hour out of her. Then we used to stop and let the bearings cool down, and wonder whether the crack in the shaft was spreading.’
‘Were you a steward or a stoker in those days?’
‘I was flush for the time being, so I was a passenger, or else I should have been a steward, I think,’ said Dick, with perfect gravity, returning to the procession of angry wives. ‘I was the only other passenger from Lima, and the ship was half empty, and full of rats and cockroaches and scorpions.’
‘But what has this to do with the picture?’
‘Wait a minute. She had been in the China passenger trade and her lower decks had bunks for two thousand pigtails. Those were all taken down, and she was empty up to her nose, and the lights came through the port holes—most annoying lights to work in till you got used to them. I hadn’t anything to do for weeks. The ship’s charts were in pieces and our skipper daren’t run south for fear of catching a storm. So he did his best to knock all the Society Islands out of the water one by one, and I went into the lower deck, and did my picture on the port side as far forward in her as I could go. There was some brown paint and some green paint that they used for the boats, and some black paint for ironwork,