The Persistent Nude

Mr. Augustus was a teller in a Wall Street bank and painting was his hobby. He had a black bowler hat which sat on top of his head and a melon-like paunch over which he clasped his hands when he was thinking.

Twice a year – spring and fall – his paintings went on exhibit in Miss Charity Belle's Tea Roome with those of other of her friends.

Some Sunday evenings Miss Belle would invite him to her chaste apartment above the Tea Roome and they would have an intellectual conversation over their tea and the New England boiled dinner.

Her art exhibitions had only two requirements: no nudes and no "modern art."

"Three eyes," she would say scornfully. "Did you ever see anyone with three eyes?"

"You're absolutely right," Mr. Augustus would say, reaching for another lump of sugar.

Miss Belle was tall and thin with a faint mustache. She was not the type to inspire romantic notions. Besides, Mr. Augustus had decided long before that it was less troublesome to remain a bachelor.

Nevertheless, in the spring, when the trees in Washington Square began to have their multiple births of tender buds, a vague, persistent urging always returned to bother him. When the urging became too insistent, he would make sketches of the trees and shrubs in the park and throw himself feverishly into a new landscape.

This spring Mr. Augustus wasn't sure just what his next painting was going to be. He wanted it to be startling. When the idea came to him, he considered it devilishly clever.

Miss Belle had given him a miniature Japanese garden on his last birthday.(continued on page 18) Persistent Nude (continued from page 7) It stood on a table in his room. He decided to paint the garden as an actual landscape!

He set to work immediately. First he sketched the garden – a tiny tree, a fragile pagoda, and a ring of flower bushes surrounding a placid glass pond.

Late Sunday afternoon–two days later–as he laid on the green and blue pigment to represent the part of the tree in shadow, something took hold of his preoccupied state of mind. It mixed white, pink, and other colors in a vivid combination that glowed with sensual youth and abandon, and he dreamily transferred the oils to the canvas, where they took on the characteristics of a young (and shapely) female leg.

The leg appeared to be a right leg. It lay stretched out, bent seductively at the knee with the foot placed languorously on the grass by the pond. Whom the leg belonged to was a question since it disappeared behind a shrub just at the point where the thigh began to swell into a hip. A fraction more and the result would have been catastrophic.

Only when the leg was thoroughly painted in did Mr. Augustus become aware of what he had done. His brush fell out of his hand as he stared at the leg. It didn't belong there at all. He hastily pulled the shades.

The leg stayed there, its owner hidden behind the white-blossomed bush. It seemed to be sleeping–or waiting.

Although Mr. Augustus still was not sure that he had done it, he made no effort to paint out the intruder. Instead he threw on his coat and clapped on his hat. From the door he look back once more. It was impossible to see the picture from that angle. He locked his door with fumbling hands and ran to the elevator.

He went to a diner instead of the Tea Roome. He ordered scrambled eggs and black coffee. But when the eggs came, he found he had no appetite. As for the coffee, it was too black and too strong. He put his coat on once more and went across the street to an Italian restaurant, where he ordered a glass of sherry, and drank it down. By the time he got back to the hotel, he felt a little tipsy and he smiled awkwardly to himself.

He closed the door and walked over to the canvas. Nothing had changed. The tree was there, the bush, the pond, and the leg.

Mr. Augustus thought it a good idea to go to bed at once. The wine had made him lightheaded and besides he felt chilled. He needed a good rest, he was sure.

In the morning the alarm went off. He reached, his eyes closed tightly, and turned it off. He brewed his morning coffee and dressed, keeping his eyes half shut. But as he was going out, he sneaked a peek. Something flesh-colored peeked back at him from the canvas. He threw a cloth over it and ran out.

It was all he could do to keep in his excitement until the end of the day. Once the bank closed, he hurried through the emptying streets and into the jammed subway.

Once more in his room, he slowly crossed to the canvas. The past twenty-four hours had had all the qualities of a dream, so that when he raised the cloth he was prepared for what he saw.

The leg was gone.

He was right then. It had been a combination of his imagination, the season, and the sherry. He told himself he was glad. Yet–at the bottom of his mind–he felt a disappointment. He wished he had painted in the leg. He would like to have seen it once more before he painted it out.

Something like the shattering of a tiny globe of glass imposed itself on the room. It came again. It wasn't a shattering. It was more a laugh.

Mr. Augustus made a slow surveyal of the room from the one spot as if he were on a turntable. His eyes passed over the real miniature garden and then came back. He grabbed for the table to steady himself. There in the miniature garden was a miniature leg extended from behind a miniature shrub.

He looked back at the picture to make sure. The leg was gone. He looked back at the garden. The leg was there.

As he watched, it slowly withdrew itself behind the curtain of the bush and someone stood up, her head peering over the greenery. She had long, silken blonde hair and features so small and delicate he could not make them out. She stepped into view.

She was little, but she was not a child. She was about as high as his thumb, and she had no clothes on at all.

Mr. Augustus gulped. "Who–who are you?" he asked. "How did you get in here?"

Again there was the tinkling sound as the little creature laughed. She was not embarrassed. She made no attempt to hide her nakedness. In fact, she paraded it rather saucily. He saw she was phrasing words, but she was so small only the merest of sounds came out, like a pen scratching on parchment.

Gingerly, he reached over and picked her up. She twined herself about his fingers and looked up at him, laughing again. Mr. Augustus dropped her on the bed as if he had been touched by a charge of electricity. For a minute she lay still, her breath gone. He could hear the soft hiss as her chest contracted and expanded.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry." He leaned over to touch her reassuringly but he quickly drew back his hand when he realized there was no place he could touch her where it was not improper. The girl looked up as she began to breathe normally and once more she laughed.

There had never been a circumstance like this in Mr. Augustus' life. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat looking down at the tiny girl. She in turn rolled over on her stomach, cocked her chin in one hand, and lay looking up at him.

Mr. Augustus found it disconcerting to be examined by a pixie or a what-have-you – and a nude, female one at that! By all rights, he knew, there were no such things and however this thing had managed to take herself from the painting and put herself into fact didn't matter–an explanation would be unbelievable. He only wished she were one of two things: large enough to talk to, or gone.

Mr. Augustus felt his mind reeling. Suddenly he grabbed her by the waist and thrust her into the top drawer of his bureau among his cuff links and handkerchiefs. He pushed the drawer shut and turned his back on it, breathing unevenly.

To tell someone about the girl or even to show her to them was to run the risk of being judged a lunatic or causing a general hysteria. There was no way of getting rid of her short of murder and that was out of the question. He found it hard enough to swat a fly.

Murder! Mr. Augustus whirled and pulled open the drawer. He expected to see the girl's limp body lying on the newspaper on the bottom of the drawer, suffocated.

She was leaning on the cuff link box, smiling, and when he looked down, she winked at him. Then she did a tiny bump and grind. Mr. Augustus closed the drawer.

He was pensive. It was obvious the fairy, the sprite, the whatever, was real. He had willed her into being. It was up to him, therefore, to see that something was done about her. The Metropolitan Museum might be interested in her or perhaps the research department of one of the city colleges. He would have to run the risk of consequences. If he had something rare, it was his duty to share it.

He opened the drawer and tied a handkerchief around the little creation (continued on page 38) Persistent Nude (continued from page 18) ture in a bulky, trailing sarong. She resisted him and tried to pull the garment off as soon as he had finished. She was still wrestling with it when he brought her a peanut butter jar lid with a mixture of sugar and water and placed it in front of her.

He slowly closed the drawer, leaving a small opening for air. His own supper was a peanut butter sandwich, and a cup of tea, drunk reflectively. Immediately afterward he fell into bed and slept as if he were drugged until the alarm awakened him in the morning.

He peeked at once into the drawer. The tiny girl was asleep. She also was undressed again. Part of the sugar and water appeared to be gone. He wished he could stay and try to talk to her, perhaps piece out some of what she was saying, but he felt it would be unwise not to go to work as usual. Still, it might be disastrous if anyone should discover her. He checked to make sure and satisfied himself she could not get out of the drawer. Then he dressed, locked his door carefully, put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on it, and went to work.

During the day he decided that perhaps he should wait a bit before he told anyone about her – she might go away.

And when he closed the door behind him that evening and opened the dresser drawer, she was gone. He felt a strange disappointment.

Someone chuckled. The nude girl stepped out from behind a framed photograph of Miss Belle, on his dresser top. Thumb-size the day before, she was now as big as his entire hand. This discovery caused Mr. Augustus to shake his head twice back and forth quickly. When he focused his eyes again, she was still there–and nearly eight inches higher.

"Surprise!" she exclaimed in a squeaky voice.

Mr. Augustus gasped and turned Miss Belle's picture to the wall.

"You didn't even think I was real at first, did you?" she giggled. "But you thought about me and created me and –here I am!" The little pixie took up the handkerchief Mr. Augustus had carefully wrapped around her the night before and began to do a naughty rhumba across the dresser top.

"Stop that!" Mr. Augustus exclaimed. "Stop it this instant and put some clothes on."

"Is that all you ever think of," she complained, "clothes? Poof for your clothes!" She threw the handkerchief in his face.

Mr. Augustus choked, fighting the handkerchief, which had knocked his glasses askew.

"Be reasonable, Daddy," she pleaded. "I'm a nymph from a sylvan grove, and nymphs don't wear clothes." Her voice was like a scratchy children's record. "And if you'll keep on believing in me and just let me stick around, you won't be sorry." She threw her arms up over her head. " 'Cause I'm going to grow–and grow–and grow!"

It was evening and at the hotel desk the night clerk was engrossed in a science-fiction magazine. He jumped when he looked up and saw Mr. Augustus peering down at him from over the switchboard.

"What are you reading, young man?" Mr. Augustus asked.

The clerk cleared his throat. "It's a story about a scientist," he said, "who goes to the other side of the moon. And he finds a bunch of little people living there – people no bigger'n your hand. Crazy, huh?"

Mr. Augustus laughed awkwardly. "No bigger than my hand? Imagine! As small as a hand. How absurd!" He continued the uneasy laugh as he disappeared up the stairs.

The "Do Not Disturb" sign was still on the door.

The little creature jumped off the bed, when he entered. She was now just tall enough to tug at his belt.

"Did you bring it?" she asked, excitedly.

"Here." He pulled a brown package from his coat and lifted a bottle from it. "I can assure you, I felt quite daring buying it."

"I can live on air," the lovely pixie said, laughing, "but every now and then, I appreciate a little nip!"

She looked disturbingly like a small child – a distractingly proportioned, voluptuous child, to be sure, but a child, nevertheless. Mr. Augustus was no longer frightened, however. He was now anticipating her full growth with some pleasure. As he poured out the sherry, he tried to estimate how long it would take her.

"The maid came by again today," she said, leaning against Mr. Augustus as she emptied her drink. "I heard her in the hall. Said something about people who live in pigsties, but I just kept quiet and she didn't come in."

Mr. Augustus looked about the room, at the painting exactly as he had abandoned it a few short days before, at the unmade bed, the dust on the table-top. "It does need tidying a bit," he said. "You're big enough now, while I'm at the office, you..."

"No, no, no!" she stamped her foot. "I'm no housemaid! Here," she held out her empty glass, "give me another drink."

A terrible thought came to him suddenly. "You will stop growing, won't you?"

"Oh yes," she laughed, and winked at him. "When I'm just the right size!"

Mr. Augustus knew he was going to blush, so he turned away, to the closet. He brought out his bathrobe and handed it to her. "Please put this on," he said. "You'll catch cold standing about like that."

"All right," she said. "Just so you'll stop nagging. But I'm not used to clothes, I told you. You've got the craziest ideas about nymphs." She hiccuped.

"That's enough now," Mr. Augustus cautioned. "I don't want you getting tipsy on me."

"Oh, don't be an old killjoy," she said, filling another glass.

Mr. Augustus settled reflectively in his easy chair. This was no child, he mused. She might be little more than three feet tall, but she thought like a woman and she was built like a woman. No one had ever accused him of being a roué before, but he had to admit this lovely creature was bringing out latent possibilities in him.

But he wondered, since she had been created out of his own imagination, would he actually be able to ... And there was the problem of where to keep her. The maid couldn't be kept out forever. He thought he might install her in an apartment nearby and tell people she was his young niece from Minnesota. No one would suspect him of a lie like that.

His thoughts were interrupted by a giggle from the other side of the room. The girl's long hair hung over one eye, the bathrobe had and the sherry bottle was empty.

"Wish I was big enough right now," she said. And as he looked at her, she passed out.

The following evening he was late getting home. He had been walking dreamily about the neighborhood, considering places where a nymph might be properly kept, wondering about the problem of clothes, and generally contemplating some of the more pleasant aspects of the situation.

When he opened the door, he received a rather severe shock. His charming nymph was a full-size woman, completely and unmistakably developed.

"Daddy!" she cried. "I thought you'd never get here. Look! Look! I'm all grown up."

Look he did and grown she was. Her voice was sultry and mature. "Mama's been so lonesome all day," she pouted.

"Yes," he said, trying to gather his wits as he made sure the door was (continued on page 44) Persistent Nude (continued from page 38) closed. "I didn't expect–that is, you've grown so quickly–"

"Yes, yes–isn't it wonderful!"

"Yes, yes–uh, couldn't you–couldn't you put the pathrobe on again.It's getting hot in here –uh, cold in here–" He realized, quite suddenly, that he was not nearly as prepared for this event as he had expected to be. Change the subject, he thought. Must change the subject. "I've been looking for a place for you to stay –"

"But I think this place is adorable." She plumped herself down on his bed. "Got a cigaret?"

"But nymphs don't smoke, do they?" he asked.

"Who knows?" she said. "Anyway, I'd like to try. Anything's worth trying once, don't you think?"

"I think," he said. trying to get some determination into his voice, "we will have to get you some clothes and then we will have to find a place for you to stay."

"But I want to stay with you," she insisted, "and who needs clothes?"

"I'm sure that's all very well in your sylvan grove, but in our society things are different, and we . . ."

"Oh. let's not talk any more." She moved towards him from the bed. "I've waited days for this moment . . ." Her arms went about his neck.

Mr. Augustus had also been contemplating this moment for days, but he still was unprepared for it.

"Kiss me," she said. "It will be just the way you imagined it when you created me."

"Wait," he gasped, trying to pull free. "Wait a minute–"

She kissed him hotly.

"Stop it," he panted, struggling. "Stop it, you–witch!"

The girl stiffened.She backed away, her hands on her hips. "Now look, Daddy," she said, "my being here was your idea. You'd better start loosening up and enjoying it, or you'll be sorry."

"Not my idea at all," Mr. Augustus said, now thoroughly flustered. "A slip of the brush."

"Why you boldfaced liar." The girl grabbed his painting and waved it at him. "You philanderer."

"Be careful of that," Mr. Augustus said.

She threw the painting to the floor and jumped on it.

"Oh," said Mr. Augustus. "Oh. Oh."

"Now that we're rid of that thing ..." She advanced on him again.

"You must go," Mr. Augustus said. "You must." She kept advancing. "I'll call someone," he said. She stopped. "I'll have you put out. You're only my imagination anyway."

"So that's the way it is." She stamped her foot. "Well go ahead and call then. You'll regret it–see if you don't!"

His hand touched the doorknob behind him. He flung the door open and ran. Before it slammed shut again. he heard her shout, "You'll regret it!"

The clerk was reading a comic book. He started when he looked up into Mr. Augustus' flushed, panicky face.

"There's a naked woman in my room and she won't get out," he gasped.

"What–"

"Yes, yes. She's blonde, and she's naked, and she's been there for days. Oh, please come and put her out."

The clerk let himself be tugged to Mr. Augustus' room two flights up.

Mr. Augustus threw open the door."Look," he cried dramatically, not looking himself.

"Well, I'll be damned!" the clerk said softly. He began to laugh, a nice soft chuckle that graduated into a vulgar howl, which resounded through the hall as he walked back into the hallway and into the elevator.

"Oh," he called back, "so that's it. That's why you wouldn't let the maid in. Oh, you dog, you. What will the management say?" And he disappeared.

"No, wait. You mustn't–" Mr. Augustus slowly turned his eyes to his room. It was empty. Then he saw the south wall.

There, above his bed, where it had previously been bare and white, was a lifesize mural of a voluptuous nude. And some trick had been worked with the paints that gave a mischievous pixie look to the eyes.