When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret to say that Swank was not himself. He had spent the night with Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced him precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep. In the meantime Whinney was dodging about with his camera, squinting in the finder, without finding anything—one never does—peering at the brightening sky, holding his thumb at arm's length, [Footnote: In Southern Peru the same gesture used to signify contempt and derision.] in a word going through all the artistic motions which should have been Swank's. The latter finally aroused himself and laboriously got onto all fours, looking like a dromedary about to lie down, from which position he contemplated the sunrise for several minutes and then began to fumble in his painting box.
"Ver' funny—ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."
"Let me get them for you," I suggested.
He waived me aside. "Gimme air."
Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to use an entire film, and submit the picture which came out best. Swank was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly from the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others—the "Tubistes" so called. Every few moments he would lurch forward and press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his masterpiece, most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.
Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa snored; Swank worked and I, from a near-by knoll, watched the miracle of a tropical dawn.
It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in composition, the curve of purple and lavender beach unbroken, the crest of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The waters of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of the sky from which the trailing garments of night were gradually withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.
Swank only allowed himself the use of the three primary colors—consequently his rendering of the opalescent beauty of this particular dawn was somewhat beyond me.
Where I saw the glowing promise of color rather than color itself, Swank saw red. Where I felt the hushed presence of dawn "like a pilgrim clad," Swank vibrated to the harmonies of pure pigment, the full brass of a tonal orchestra.
Of a sudden his color hypnotism transported him.