"It really was spectacular, Alfred," A woman in a feathered hat simpered, clutching a programme to her chest as her two female friends nodded and offered words of agreement.
"Thank you, you're too kind," he replied modestly.
In truth, it wasn't just his musical talents that had caused a stir in high society. Although Alfred had yet to realise it himself, he was in fact rather attractive, if one was to replace the word rather with something like incredibly or devastatingly. In England he was also considered to be incredibly exotic, and if most of the women who came to see him had their way, or rather one, then he would be sporting a ring on his left hand in a flash. Of course Alfred had no idea of any of this and was just happy that everyone was so friendly, even if it was quite a detached sort of friendliness.
"They really ought to feature you more often,"
"I agree," Came a voice from behind the women, who parted to welcome the gentleman into the circle.
"Oh, this is someone you simply must meet. This is one of our finest artists, Kiku Honda,"
"Please, a humble student of beauty," Despite the dramatic differences in culture Kiku had been in England long enough that he had taught himself to respond and use phrasing in a way which those he was surrounded by found appealing, otherwise he would have simply nodded. The key, it seemed, was to be modest about yourself and overly complementary to others.
"Would you like to see?" he asked, before holding out his latest sketch for the women to compare to Alfred.
"Oh that's marvellous,"
"There's really quite a likeness,"
In truth Kiku had been drawing Alfred for quite a while now. Due to his inconspicuously calm demeanour he could easily sit amongst the doting audience with a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. He used to sit in on concerts and pick out members of the audience to capture on paper as they wore expressions of pure captivation at the music produced on stage. Yet since the first time Alfred ascended the steps to sit at the piano Kiku had found himself unable to find a better muse, and so he would draw no one but Alfred when he was playing. Now he had quite a collection of images and could practically draw him from memory. Kiku assumed that there was something different about American genetics that made him stand out so strikingly from the others.
"You must let him paint you," The feathered woman said to Alfred, who shrugged cheerfully.
"Why not?"
. . .
The studio was filled with the soft, heavenly odour of sakura blossom, mingling in the air with the slightly heady smell of paint. The room itself was quite simple; the walls were white and there was very little in the way of furnishings, the only contradiction to this being the numerous sketches and canvases that skirted around the sides of the room and covered the single table in the centre. A screen door opened out into the garden, allowing birdsong and the gentle hum of bees to enter; the dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
"It is your best work, Kiku, the best thing you have ever done," said Arthur languidly, "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor."
"We shall see." He answered placidly, tilting his head in that odd way of his.
Arthur raised his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. He had known Kiku since he had first come to London and knew that he was partial to being distinctly indirect in his refusals, "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why?"
"I expect you will laugh at me," he replied, "But I really cannot exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it."
Arthur stretched himself out on the divan and laughed, "What odd chaps you painters are!"
"Yes, I knew you would; but it is true."
He looked from the picture and back again to the man before him, "Upon my word, Kiku, I didn't know you were so vain; I really can't see any resemblance between you."
"I do not think we understand one another, Arthur," answered the artist, "Of course I am not like him. I know that. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him.
Arthur shrugged, "I shouldn't be."
"I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction. It is better not to be different. The ugly and the stupid are better off in this world – your rank and wealth, Arthur; my intellect, my art, whatever it's worth; Alfred Jones' good looks – we shall all suffer terribly for what the Gods have given us."
Arthur gave him a crisp half-smile, "To find ugly meanings in such beautiful things is to be corrupt without being charming, Kiku."
The two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.
After a pause, Arthur pulled out his watch.
"I am afraid I must be going, Kiku," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago."
"What is that?"
"You know quite well."
"I do not, Arthur."
"I want to know the real reason."
"For what?"
"Why you will not exhibit Alfred's painting."
"I told you."
It was apparent from the look in his eye that Arthur was becoming mildly irritated, "No. You said that it is because there is too much of yourself in it. Not only is that not a valid reason, it is also childish."
"Arthur," said Kiku, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who reveals himself on the canvas."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, "And?"
"The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Kiku said solemnly.
He laughed, "And what is that? Oh Kiku, I'm all expectations!"
"I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you would hardly believe it."
There was a pause.
"I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." Arthur smiled.
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and in the sudden near-silence of nature Arthur felt as if he could hear Kiku Honda's heart beating, and wondered what was coming.
"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "A few weeks ago I went to Wilton's. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages.
"After the playing had ended I had been in the room for ten minutes talking dowagers and academicians, when I became conscious that someone was looking at me. I glanced around and saw Alfred Jones for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale.
"I knew that I had come face to face with someone who was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Arthur, how independent I am by nature. I grew afraid and turned to leave the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice."
"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Kiku. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
"I do not believe that, Arthur, and I do not believe you do either."
Arthur raised his eyebrows, but continued regardless, "Well, he certainly seems to be making quite the impression. An earnest young man with a beautiful nature, according to my aunt – and you know of course how cynical she can be. That sort of talk causes one to picture some freckled country oaf in ghastly dress," he grinned, "And of course that is only half right."
"Mr. Alfred Jones is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden.
The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight, "Ask Mr. Jones to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments."
The man bowed and went up the walk.
Arthur looked at the other expectantly.
Kiku sighed and turned to face him, "Alfred F. Jones is my dearest friend. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad," His face was a picture of distain.
"What nonsense you talk!" said Arthur, smiling, and taking Kiku by the arm - something which was practically taboo to the artist - he practically led him into the house. The other did not resist out of decorum, but a worrying feeling overcame him as if he was about to let something terrible happen.