“Yes,” Pinkie said. “It set my mind to work, I shall not tell you precisely how-but you must see the result, as I think it may have possibilities.”
He took us over to a large easel in one corner of the room, on which rested a canvas of about two feet by three, covered with a light, stained piece of cloth. Pinkie lit a nearby gas lamp, turned its flame up, and then stepped to the easel.
“Mind you, it’s nothing like finished,” he said, “but-well…”
He took the cloth away.
On the easel was one of the most eerie of all his pictures that I’d ever seen. It showed a scraggly oval track, surrounded by a similarly rough horse fence. On the muddy ground in front of the track was a large, nasty-looking snake; above it, in the distance, some barren hills and a sky so gloomy that it could’ve been either day or night; and on the track itself, a lone rider-Death, the Reaper himself-riding bareback in the wrong direction, holding his scythe high.
Now, most of Pinkie’s pictures were mysterious, but this thing was downright grim-scary, even. The Doctor and Miss Howard, however, were clearly impressed, for their eyes positively glowed with fascination as they studied it.
“Albert,” the Doctor said slowly, “it’s brilliant. Harrowing, but brilliant.”
Pinkie shuffled self-consciously in his oatmeal at that, and did so again when Miss Howard added, “Extraordinary. Really… entrancing in its way…”
“I’ve decided to call it simply ‘The Race Track,’ ” Pinkie said.
I looked from the Doctor and Miss Howard to Pinkie and finally back to the picture. “I don’t get it,” I said.
Pinkie smiled at me and stroked his beard. “Now, that’s what I like to hear. What don’t you get, young Stevie?”
“What’s with the snake?” I said, pointing at it.
“What does it mean to you?” he answered.
“Gotta be one fast snake, to keep up with that horse.” Pinkie seemed to find that very satisfying. “And speaking of the horse, Pinkie, he’s going the wrong direction-you oughtta know that.”
“Yes,” Pinkie answered, looking at the picture.
“And how about the sky?” I asked. “Is it supposed to be day or nighttime?”
“Do you know,” Pinkie answered, squinting those strangely colored eyes. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Hunh,” I said, giving the picture the once-over again. “Well, sorry, Pinkie, but it gives me the jitters. I’ll take that one up there.” I pointed to a nice, richly colored job that showed a pretty young girl with strawberry-blond hair: shadowy, yes, but comforting, not gloomy.
“Ah,” Pinkie said. “My ‘Little Maid of Acadie.’ Yes, I rather like her, too-and she’s almost finished. You’ve a good eye, young Stevie.” He covered the unsettling picture on the easel back up. “Now, then, Laszlo, have you come just to check on my health, or for some other reason? I suspect the latter, as you are a man who always has reasons.”
The Doctor looked away a little self-consciously. “Unkind, Albert,” he said with a smile. “But true. I told you, Sara, that Albert could have been a psychologist if he’d wished.” Pinkie shut the gas lamp off, and we started back for the front room. “The fact of the matter is, Albert, that we’ve come for a reference.”
“A reference?”
“We need a portraitist,” the Doctor said, as Miss Howard got back onto her flea-bitten throne. “One capable of doing a portrait not from life but from a detailed description.”
Pinkie looked intrigued. “An unusual request, Laszlo.”
“It’s my request, actually, Mr. Ryder,” Miss Howard said-and very wisely, too, for while Pinkie might’ve smelled something in the wind if the suggestion had come from a man, he’d take it as gospel coming from a woman-especially a handsome young woman. “It is-or rather was-a distant member of my family. She died rather suddenly. At sea. We’ve found that we have no painting, not even a photograph, to remember her by. My cousin and I-she lives in Spain, as did our dead relation-were discussing how much we wished we had some kind of an image for a keepsake, and the Doctor said it might be possible to do one from memories and descriptions.” She took a very fetching little sip of her beer. “Do you think it might? I have only the greatest admiration for your work, and would count your opinion as definitive.”
Well, sir, Pinkie walked right into it: he grabbed hold of the lapels of his worn wool jacket, got most of the usual stoop out of his stance, and started to walk the floor as if his shoes were the best patent leather, instead of filled with straw and oatmeal. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “An interesting idea, Miss Howard. Your relative was a woman, you say?”
“Yes,” Miss Howard answered.
“There are many excellent portraitists in New York. Ordinarily, Chase would be the first choice-do you know him, Kreizler?”
“William Merritt Chase?” the Doctor asked. “We’ve only met briefly, but I know his work. And you’re right, Albert, he’s a superb choice-”
“Actually,” Pinkie cut in, “I don’t think so. If your subject is a woman… and if you’re working from memories alone… I think you ought to have a woman do the job.”
That brought a smile what was in no way an act to Miss Howard’s face. “What an excellent idea, Mr. Ryder!” She glanced up pointedly at the Doctor. “And how refreshing…” The Doctor simply rolled his eyes and turned away. “Do you happen to know one?”
“I’m often taunted by my colleagues for seeing the work of as many artists as I can,” Pinkie answered, “whatever their background. Or sex. I believe there is merit in almost any serious picture, no matter who the painter may be. Yes, I believe I know the very person for you. Her name is Cecilia Beaux.” Miss Howard’s head cocked a bit, as if in recognition. “Do you know of her, Miss Howard?” Pinkie said, ready to be impressed.
“I seem to know the name,” Miss Howard answered, wrestling with it. “Does she teach, by any chance?”
“Yes, indeed. At the Pennsylvania Academy. She has a bright future there.”
Miss Howard frowned. “No. That’s not it…”
“But she also conducts a private class,” Pinkie went on. “Twice a week, in New York. That is what made me think of her.”
“Where is the class held?” the Doctor asked.
“At the home of Mrs. Cady Stanton.”
“Of course!” Miss Howard said, brightening. “Mrs. Cady Stanton and I are old friends. I’ve heard her speak of Miss Beaux-and in very admiring terms.”
“As well she should,” Pinkie judged. “There is a quality in this woman’s work-well, Laszlo, I can’t do better than to say that she sees through to the very essence of the personality. She has been well appreciated in Europe, and will be here, in time. Remarkable portraits, really-particularly those of women and children. Yes, the more I think of it, Cecilia Beaux is the person for you.”
“And I can reach her through Mrs. Cady Stanton,” Miss Howard said, looking at the Doctor. “First thing in the morning.”
“Well, then”-the Doctor lifted his beer again-“our problem is solved. I knew we were right to come to you, Albert-you are a living compendium.” Pinkie flushed and smiled, then grew more serious as the Doctor said, “Now, Albert-about ‘The Race Track’-is it sold?”
The two men fell to discussing the fate of the picture and drinking more beer. Pinkie hadn’t yet sold his unsettling work, but he insisted to the Doctor that he wouldn’t even consider doing so for a long time, as it was far from finished. (It wouldn’t be finished, by the way, until 1913.) It was the same story he told about all his canvases, and the Doctor displayed the same frustration what most collectors did on trying to bring Pinkie into the cold world of practicalities. Finally Dr. Kreizler dropped the subject and they all fell to talking of art in general, leaving me to wander into the studio again and have a little more of the delicious stew. As I ate, I looked up at the “Little Maid of Acadie” for a while longer, realizing for the first time that, in the vague sort of way what was our host’s style, it was the image of Kat.