Ray Cummings

“ I said nothing, but gazed again at the miserably grotesque daubs on the canvas.
“Look, señor! Is that not a soul you see in those eyes? A human soul?” He pointed a shaking finger at the smear of color before us, his eyes shining with pride. “You call them realists—these Goyas and these Zuloagas. You have seen the girls of Zuloaga, with their white faces and their lips of red. You have looked into their eves—these girls he paints—have you ever seen there the soul? ”

“ They are but words—tricks of words for the critics to play with. They paint of life —these masters, as we call them—but their paintings are dead. They cannot capture the soul, señor—the soul that always struggles free—the human soul never can they hold imprisoned upon their canvas.
“And those lips, señor—see her beautiful red lips—are they not about to speak? The breath that trembles between them—is it not a little sigh she would breathe—a sigh to tell us she cannot understand this life that stirs within her? ”

“ When he had left the room I stood again before the canvas, partly enveloped in the great folds of the heavy window portieres. On the stairs outside I could hear the dragging footsteps of the old man as he tottered back to the shop below. I examined the canvas more closely now. There was upon it every color and combination of color, like the heaped-up pigments on a huge, untidy palette. But I noticed that brown seemed to predominate—a dirty, drab, faded brown, inexpressibly ugly, and somehow very sinister. It seemed a pigment color I had never seen before. ”

“ I was about to answer when dragging footsteps sounded on the stairs; the front door of the room opened and the little old man stood upon the threshold. A look of incredulous astonishment came over his seared yellow face, supplanted in an instant by rage. His lips parted in a snarl.
“Thou, Malella—thou art here in the presence of a stranger?” He spoke in Spanish, his voice vibrating tense with the fierceness of his passion.
The girl turned slowly around on the hassock; the lute slipped from her lap to the floor. ”

“ I saw the old man hold her gaze with his glittering eyes. I realized there was about those snakelike little eyes of his an hypnotic power. The girl seemed to follow and to obey, involuntarily almost, his unspoken commands.
She laid the lute on the mantel above the fireplace, and, turning slowly back, faced the old man as he stood close beside me. ”

“ The little shop was dimly lighted—a lurid red glow at one side and a faint amber radiance from above. For a moment I stood looking around uncertainly—at the slovenly display-cases and tables, the unframed paintings on the walls, and the long shelves crowded with curios.
“Perhaps something in particular the señor would wish?” suggested the little old man ingratiatingly. ”

“ A girl stood in the partly opened side door—a young girl, hardly more than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in Moorish costume. She stood an instant hesitating, with her back partly turned to me, looking about the room. Then, leaving the door open behind her, she picked up a lute that was standing against the wall—I had net noticed before that it was there—and crossed the room toward the fireplace. ”

“ The little old man straightened his bent back with an effort, reaching a skinny hand toward the shelf above his head.
“The señor plays chess, perhaps?” His hand held a little white figure carved in ivory; he dusted it off against the faded black of his coat-sleeve. “A wonderful game, señor. This set is of the Moors—they carve superb in ivory, the Moors. ”