Kaleidoscope Read Free Page B

husband. You will need all your strength.”
    The girl stared at her helplessly. “But I have no strength, not without
him
.”
    â€œIf you think that, then of course you must join him—but I do not think you realize what strength you have, or what talent. But the answer has to come from yourself—inside—not from others.” She rose from her chair and placed both hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Think,” she told her. “Think and feel. I’m sorry to have upset you, but I have, frankly, feelings not very good about this group of your husband’s.”
Or your
husband either,
she thought, but did not say.
    Betsy nodded. “That’s what I didn’t
want
to hear, isn’t it.” She sighed and stood up, looking miserable. “What do you charge?” she asked, opening her purse.
    Madame Karitska had a vision of the wallet, very thin and worn, with its few dollars, its grocery lists. She said, “I would prefer—would love to have that little sketch of the child—your daughter, isn’t it? If you could spare that, it would be far more meaningful to me than any money.”
    â€œSpare it!” she said joyously. “But how wonderful, I’d only be throwing it away.”
    â€œDon’t,”
said Madame Karitska with passion. “
Don’t
destroy your work, do
more
of it. Sketch everything that pleases you, whenever you have a free moment. Hide your work if you must, but never,
never
throw it away.”
    The girl looked at her, torn by doubt. “It’s very small in size,” she said, handing it to her.
    â€œI will frame and hang it and I shall cherish it,” Madame Karitska told the girl warmly. “Come back and see it framed in a week or two if you’d like.”
    She nodded. “Yes—
yes,
” she said eagerly, “I will. And thank you.” And then, startled, she asked, “Why do you suddenly look like that?”
    Because,
thought Madame Karitska sadly,
there is
no happiness for you ahead—not yet, not yet,
and she opened the door for her. “Take care, my dear,” she told her, and then called after her. “And don’t you dare underestimate that talent again!”
    Closing the door she sighed, for this was when it became difficult, being clairvoyant. It was one thing to have told Pruden a year ago that his destiny lay with a woman with very pale blond hair; it was another to foresee cruelty, and possibly violence, for people she met only casually.
    After a few minutes of thought she picked up Betsy Oliver’s sketch, locked the door behind her and mounted the stairs to see her young artist landlord. “Kristan?” she called at his door.
    â€œOpen,” he said, and she walked in, wincing a little at the painting mounted on his easel. His clothes, as usual, were daubed with paint, even his beard had flecks of green, but although she disliked his work—as he knew by now—he had studied in Paris as well as New York, and his work had begun to sell.
    â€œ
More
snakes,” she said with a sigh, looking at the painting on his easel.
    â€œMy dear Madame Karitska,” he said, “snakes and serpents have been the most hated, most worshiped of creatures on this planet. In history they’ve been symbols of good, evil, immortality, healing, fertility. Snakes are the
signature
of my work. And,” he added with a boyish smile, “they have begun to sell, and for good prices. What can I do for you?”
    â€œIf the young woman who sketched this comes back,” she said, showing him Betsy Oliver’s sketch, “what can I suggest to her?”
    He leaned close to look at it, not touching it with his paint-stained fingers. He said flatly, “I hate her—at
once
I hate her; she draws better than I ever could.”
    Madame Karitska smiled. “Yes, but if she returns, Kristan? She has no confidence, no money. . . .”
    He