There are streets in Chelsea practically abandoned to studios. Long low
buildings of one story, with many doors in front, and great broadsides
of windows at the back, multipaned windows letting in from the north the
light that artists love, lined these thoroughfares which Barney in his
jocular off-hand manner called “aurora borealis” streets, because, as he
always explained, they were so full of “northern lights.” Such studios
were all very well for the ordinary everyday artist who exhibited at the
Royal Academy and places of that sort; but a painter with a soul (and,
incidentally, a reliable bank account) desired something better than one
of these barns, so Barney had taken a house and fitted it up to meet
his requirements. Craigenputtoch House, as Barney called it in tardy
recognition of the genius of Thomas Carlyle, was a building of three
stories, standing back from the street in grounds of its own. The rooms
on the upper floor were allowed to remain as they were, and gave Barney
bedrooms for himself and his friends; his hospitality being unique and
unlimited. All the partitions on the first floor had been torn away, so
that this portion of the house was formed into one vast apartment, with
the exception of a space for a noble landing, up to which, in dignified
manner befitting a temple of art, arose a broad flight of stone steps
that replaced the ordinary wooden stairway which had contented the
former occupants of the house. To afford the support necessary for the
upper floor, now that the partitions were taken away, huge square beams
of timber had been put in, and these gave the ceiling of the roomy
studio that barn roof appearance so necessary to the production of works
of the higher art.
Barney’s mother objected to the bare coldness of the uncovered stone
stairs. Being inside the house, she said, and not the steps that led to
the front door, they should have a carpet on them. Barney admitted that
under ordinary circumstances this was so, and willingly offered to make
a certain concession should the occasion arise. If Royalty visited him,
he would put down the customary red carpet which the feet of Royalty
were in the habit of treading. In fact, he admitted to his mother that a
roll of red carpet had already been purchased, and was at that moment in
the closet under the stairs, to be ready at a moment’s notice. But for
every-day wear the steps should remain uncovered, because the stone
stairways of the Pitti Palace were always bare, and as Barney intended
ultimately to make Craigenputtoch House quite as celebrated in the world
of art as the Florentine gallery, he would follow its precedent so far
as stairs were concerned. There is nothing like beginning right.
On the ground floor were dining-room and kitchen, below that a
well-filled cellar. The hall was toned a rich Pompeiian red, and was lit
by two windows of brilliant stained glass which had been put in when
the building was transformed from a residence into a studio. “Oh, yes,”
Barney would say, when he was complimented on these windows. “They
are all very well in their way, but not original, don’t you know, not
original. No, they are simply nicely executed copies of a portion of
a window in Cologne Cathedral done in 1508. I placed them there
temporarily, because I have been so busy that I have not had time to
design anything better myself, which I shall do later on, don’t you
know.”
But of all the ornamental appendages to this studio, perhaps the most
striking was Barney’s “man,” attired in a livery of blue, crimson, and
silver, which was exceedingly effective. Although Barney had not
had time to design a stained-glass window which would excel those of
Cologne, he had been compelled to sketch out this livery, for it was
not a thing that one could copy from abroad, and the Hope family had
not been established long enough to have a recognized livery of its
own. Nothing gives character and dignity to a place so much as a “man”
sumptuously fitted out in a style that is palpably regardless of
cost, and if it may be plainly seen that the “man” performs no needful
function whatever, then is the effect heightened, for few human beings
attain the apex of utter inutility. The great hotels of this country
recognize the distinction reflected upon them by the possession of a
creature of splendour at their doors, who grandly wafts the incoming
guests with a hand-wave towards the hall. But these persons of
embellishment often demean themselves by opening the doors of cabs
and performing other useful acts, thus detracting from their proper
function, which was, Barney insisted, to content themselves with being
merely beautiful.
When a visitor once complained that the man at the top of the stair had
refused to direct him into the studio, Barney laid his right hand in
friendly brotherliness on the visitor’s shoulder, and said:
“He knew, dear boy, that I would discharge him instantly if he so far
forgot himself as to answer a question.”
“Then what is he there for?” asked the visitor, with some indignation.
“I don’t see the use of him.”
“Quite so, quite so,” answered Barney, soothingly. “If you did, I would
have to get rid of him and engage another, and, I can assure you, that
perfectly useless persons six feet two in height are not to be picked up
on every street corner. No, dear boy, they are not, I give you my word.
People are so unthinking that they _will_ ask foolish questions. I
intend to discourage this habit as much as possible. You want to know
what he is there for? Now if I had placed a marble statue at the top of
the stair, you would not have been offended if it did not answer your
query, don’t you know, and you would not have asked what it was there
for, don’t you know. There are so many useful things in this world that
something untainted with utilitarianism ought to be welcomed by every
thinking man, and if this deplorably proficuous country is ever to be
redeemed, we artists must lead the way, don’t you see.”
The grand individual at the head of the stair had his uses,
nevertheless; for when Haldiman and another, accepting Barney’s
effusively cordial invitations to attend one of his “At Homes,”
entered-the hall below, and saw this magnificent person standing like
a resplendent statue before and above them, Haldiman gasped, “Great
Heavens!” and groped his way out on the pavement again, followed by the
no less astounded other, who was an artist also struggling along in the
black and white line. The two exchanged glances when at a safe distance
from the studio, pausing as they did so. Their amazement was almost too
great for words, yet Haldiman remarked solemnly:
“I might have expected something of that sort. Imagine us dropping in
there in these clothes! Lucky escape! I know a place on the King’s
Road where there are fluids to drink. Let us go there and see if we can
recover from this blow. O Barney, Barney, what deeds are done in thy
name!”
So the living statue silently warned off Barney’s two Bohemian friends,
who are all right in Paris, don’t you know, but not at all desirable
when a man settles down to serious work and expects nobility at his
receptions.
The calm dignity of Barney’s “man” was offset in a measure by the
energetic activity of the boy in buttons who threw open the door with a
flourish. “Buttons” might be likened to a torpedo boat, darting hither
and thither under the shadow of a stately ironclad. While the left hand
of the small boy opened the door, the right swept up to his cap in
a semi-military salute that welcomed the coming and sped the parting
guest.
It would be difficult to imagine a room more suitable for an artistic
function like Barney’s “At Homes” than Barney’s studio. The apartment
was large, and it contained many nooks and crannies that the Tottenham
Court Road furnisher had taken excellent advantage of. There were
neat little corners for two; there were secluded alcoves fitted with
luxurious seats; there were most alluring divans everywhere, and on the
floor were the softest of Oriental rugs. Eastern lamps shed a subdued
radiance over retired spots that otherwise would have been dark,
and wherever a curtain could hang, a curtain was hung. Barney’s most
important works, framed in gold and silver or the natural wood, were
draped effectively, and to prevent the non-artistic mind from making
a fool of itself by guessing at the subject, the name of each picture
stood out in black letters on the lower part of the frame. There were
“Battersea Bridge at Midnight,” “Chelsea in a Fog,” “Cheyne Row at Three
A. M.,” and other notable works, while one startling picture of the
Thames in crimson and yellow showed Barney’s power to accomplish a
feat, which, if we may trust a well-known saying, has been tried by many
eminent men, but has been rendered unsuccessful by the incombustible
nature of that celebrated river.
Barney’s “afternoon” was at its height, when the bell was rung by a
young man who had not received a card; but “Buttons” did not know that,
and he swung open the door with a florid flourish as if the visitor
had been a duke. The incomer was as much taken aback by the triumph
of nature and art at the head of the stair as Haldiman had been, but
although he paused for a moment in wonder, he did not retreat. He had
a vague notion for an instant that it might be Barney himself, but
reflection routed that idea. He was entering a world unfamiliar to him,
but his common sense whispered that the inhabitants of this world did
not dress in such a fashion.
“Is Mr. Barnard Hope at home?” he asked.
“Yessir,” answered the boy, with a bow and a wave of his hand. “This is
his day. What name, sir?”
“Marsten.”
“Mr. Marsten,” shouted the boy up the stair.
The decorated sphinx at the top was uninfluenced by the announcement,
but a less resplendent menial appeared, who held back the heavy curtains
as Marsten mounted the stair, and, when he entered, his name was flung
ahead of him upon the murmur of conversation within. The sight that met
Marsten’s eye as he entered the studio was rather disconcerting to
a diffident man, but he was relieved to notice, after a moment’s
breathless pause beyond the threshold, that nobody paid the slightest
attention to him.
The large room seemed bewilderingly full of people, and a row of men
were standing with their backs against the wall, as if they were part of
the mural decoration. Many of them held tea-cups in their hands, and
all of them looked more or less bored. The divans and chairs had been
arranged in rows, as if for the viewing of some spectacle, and every
seat was taken, most of the occupants being ladies. Two men-servants
were handing around tea and cake, while Barney himself flitted hither
and thither like a gigantic butterfly in a rose garden, scattering
geniality and good-humour wherever he went. The steady hum of
conversation was brightened constantly by silvery laughter. It was
evident that the gathering, with the possible exception of that part of
it standing pensively around the walls, was enjoying itself.
As the throng slowly resolved into units before the gaze of young
Marsten, his heart suddenly stopped, and then went on again at increased
speed, as he recognized Edna Sartwell sitting on one of the front
chairs, smiling at some humorous remark which Barney, leaning over her,
was making. A moment before, Marsten had been conquering his impulse to
retreat, by telling himself that all these idle persons were nothing to
him; but now, when he had recognized one person who was everything to
him, he had to quell his rising panic with a new formula. Although out
of his depth and ill at ease, he knew that he would not quit the field
in a fright before the task he had set himself was even begun. At
the back of his nature there was a certain bull-dog obstinacy, the
limitations of which had never yet been tested, although this unexpected
meeting with a number of his fellow-creatures in an evidently higher
social station than his own put a severe strain upon his moral courage.
In vain he told himself that he was as good as any of them; for in his
heart he did not believe that he was, so the assurance was of little
value to him. Finally, he took his courage in his hand, and spoke to the
servant who had held aside the curtains for him.
“Would you tell Mr. Hope that I wish to speak with him for a moment?”
Barney approached the new-comer with smiling face and extended hand.
“Oh, how-de-do, how-de-do? I am so glad you found time to come to my
little affair. You are just in time--just in time, don’t you know.”
Barney’s artistic eye rapidly took in the appearance of his guest, and
all at once he realized that his clothes had not quite the air of Bond
Street about them, in spite of the fact that they were flagrantly the
best suit his visitor had. The smile faded from the artist’s face.
“Oh, pardon me!” he added. “I thought I recognized you, but I don’t
think I’ve had the pleasure of----”
“No. We are not acquainted, Mr. Hope. I am one of the workmen in your
father’s factory.”
“Really. You have some message for me, perhaps?”
“I came of my own motion. I wished very particularly to speak with you
on business.”
“Oh, but really, my good fellow, don’t you know! This is my ‘At Home’
day. I never talk business on these days, never. If you want to buy any
of my pictures, or anything, don’t you know, you must come another day.”
“I did not come about pictures, but about something vastly different and
more serious.”
“My good fellow--you’ll excuse my interrupting you, won’t you? There is
no serious business except art, and to-day I don’t even talk art.”
“Human lives,” said Marsten, hotly, “are more serious than art.”
“Please don’t raise your voice. You are certainly wrong about things,
but I haven’t time to correct you to-day, don’t you know. All one needs
to say about your last remark is that human lives are ephemeral, while
art is everlasting Therefore is art the more important of the two. But
we’ll let that pass. Can’t you come and talk another day? I’m sure I
shall be delighted to see you at any time.”
“Couldn’t you give me five minutes out on the landing?”
“It is impossible. I cannot leave my guests. You see, we have the
dancing Earl on in a few moments. His Grace is just now arranging his
skirts. I really must go, don’t you know.”
“Then I will stay until the Earl has done his dancing, if that is what
he is here for.”
“Do, my dear fellow, do. A most excellent idea. I am sure you will like
it, for though I have not seen the dance myself, I understand it is
quite unique. Have a cup of tea. I would have sent you a card, if I had
thought that any of my father’s workmen were interested in the latest
movements of art; but never mind the lack of invitation. If you care to
stay without it, I shall be delighted. It is really very good of you to
drop in, in this unexpected way; it is the kind of thing I like, so
Bohemian, don’t you know. You’ll excuse me now, I’m sure,” and Barney
tripped away to see that all arrangements for the appearance of the Earl
were complete.
The model-stand had been pushed to one end of the room fronting the
audience; heavy curtains had been drawn across the big north window,
leaving the place in semi-darkness; there was the hissing and sputtering
of a lime-light in the gallery, causing inquisitive people to turn their
heads and see what it was.
Marsten stood against the wall beside another man, who said to him in a
weary tone:
“Who is this man, Barnard Hope?”
“He is an artist,” answered Marsten, astonished that one guest should
question a stranger regarding their mutual host.
“Evidently,” replied the other “But who are his people, or has he any?
“His father is one of the richest manufacturers in London.”
“Egad, I was sure of it. I knew there was a shop somewhere in the
background, the fellow is so beastly civil.”
Conversation was here interrupted by a figure leaping on the
model-stand, while at the same instant a blinding white light was thrown
from the gallery upon it. There was a ripple of applause and the Earl,
a beardless youth of perhaps twenty, bowed. He looked like a girl in
his clinging fluted skirts. He was a scion of an ancient noble family,
founded by an affectionate dancer of the opposite sex in the reign of
the second Charles, and it was quite in the regular order of things that
there should be a recrudescence of terpsichorean ability in the latest
member of the house.
The white light changed to red and the skirt dance began. As it went
on it was received with tumultuous applause, for a London audience is
always easy to please, especially when there is no charge for admission
at the doors. Still it must be admitted that the sprightly little Earl
deserved the warmth of his reception, for his exhibition was a model of
grace and agility, while his manipulation of the voluminous skirts left
little to be desired. The variegated colours thrown on the fluttering
whirling drapery gave a weird unearthly effect to the rapid movements
of his Grace, and the grand finale, where a crimson light was flung
upon the flimsy silk waving high above the dancer’s head, gave the agile
young nobleman the appearance of one of the early martyrs wrapped in
flames.
The curtains were drawn back, the entranced assemblage rose to its feet,
and, gathering about the host, congratulated him upon the success of
his afternoon. Barney received these felicitations with exuberant
gratification, and the young Earl, finally emerging from behind the
scenes, clothed and in his right mind, but a trifle breathless, accepted
modestly his well-earned share of the compliments, for, let cynics say
what they will, true merit is always sure of appreciation in the great
city.
Edna Sartwell lingered for a moment on the outskirts of the throng that
pressed around Barney and the little Earl, then leisurely made her way
towards the door, waiting for her step-mother, who lingered to thank her
host. The men who had stood along the wall were already in the street,
and the other visitors had nearly all departed.
Marsten stood alone where he was when the entertainment was going on,
gazing with beating heart at the girl he loved. She came slowly towards
him, her head averted, watching her step-mother standing in the fast
thinning group about Barney. There was a certain unconsciousness about
her movements, as if the young man had hypnotized her, and was drawing
her to him by mere force of will. At last her skirts touched him and his
nerves tingled to his finger ends. Almost involuntarily, he murmured:
“Miss Sartwell.”
The girl turned her head quickly, and for a moment met his gaze without
recognizing him.
“My name is Marsten,” he said huskily, seeing she did not know him. “I
met you the other evening at your fathers office, when he and I were
talking of the strike.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied; “at first I did not remember you. I--I did not
expect to----” She paused and seemed confused, looking away from him.
“To find me here,” said the young man, completing the sentence for
her, and gathering courage as the delightful fact that he was actually
talking to her impressed its almost unbelievable reality upon him. “I
did not know there was anything like this going on. I came to consult
with Mr. Hope on the same subject----” He flushed as the memory of
one subject arose in his mind, and he felt his newly acquired courage
beginning to ebb again. He pulled himself together and ended lamely,
“--about the strike, you know.”
“Oh,” said Edna, instantly interested. “Is there anything new about the
strike?”
“Yes; there was a meeting last night, and it was unanimously resolved to
quit work.”
The colour left the girl’s cheeks.
“And are the men out? Is that why you are here to-day?”
“No; they do not go out until Saturday. I did what I could to prevent
it, but without success. I applied to your father for this afternoon
off, and he gave it to me without asking any questions. It seemed to me
that in the few intervening days before the men go out, something might
be done, when the enthusiasm of the meeting had died down. That’s why I
came, but I’m afraid there is not much to look for here.”
“Does father know?”
“About the strike? Oh, yes.”
The girl’s winsome face clouded with apprehension. “I am so sorry,” she
said, at last. “I am sure it is not father’s fault, for he is kind to
every one. Even if he is sometimes severe”--she cast a shy upward glance
at the young man that made his heart beat faster--“he is always just.”
“Yes, I know that is true. He will beat the men, and that is the reason
I want moderate counsels to prevail. The workingman is always the under
dog. Most of his mouthing friends are fools, and he himself is the
greatest fool of all.”
“Don’t you think you are a little hard on the workingman? Were you here
in time to see the dancing Earl?”
She looked at him with a frank smile, and Marsten smiled in company with
her--it brightened his face wonderfully, and established an evanescent
bond of comradeship between them.
“I had forgotten the Earl,” he said.
“I must go now. I see my step-mother looking for me. I hope you will be
successful in averting trouble at the works.”
She extended her hand to him and he took it tenderly, fearing he might
grasp it too closely and betray himself.
Mrs. Sartwell and her step-daughter were the last to go.
Barney threw himself on a divan and lit a cigarette.
“Well, my young friend, here we are alone at last. Help yourself to the
cigarettes and allow me to offer you something stronger than the tea
with which we regale the ladies. We have several shots in the locker,
so just name your particular favourite in the way of stimulant while I
order a B and S for myself. You might not believe it, but one of these
afternoons takes it out of a fellow more than a day’s work at the
factory. Not that I ever indulged in factory work myself, but I think
you said it was in your line.”
“Yes,” said Marsten, after declining the offerings of his host. “It is
about the factory I wish to speak with you. The men resolved last night
to go out on strike.”
“Foolish beggars.”
“I quite agree with you. Their action is worse than foolish--that is why
I came to see if you would intervene in any way so that a better state
of feeling might be brought about.”
“Well, now--let’s see, I believe I have forgotten your name, or did you
tell me? Ah, Marsten--thanks--so many things on my mind, don’t you know.
You see, Mr. Marsten, it’s really no business of mine, although I must
admit that your offer of the position of arbitrator flatters me. This
makes twice I have been asked within a few days, so I think I must
really be a born diplomat, don’t you know. But you see, there’s nothing
I enjoy so much as minding my own business, and this strike is no affair
of mine.”
“I think it is. All the luxury you have here is surely earned by the men
I am now speaking for.”
“My dear fellow, you are not in the least flattering now; you are not, I
assure you. You are saying in other words that my pictures do not sell.”
“I had no intention of hinting anything of the kind. I have no doubt you
can sell anything you paint.”
“Ah, you are commending the artistic discernment of the British Public
which--at present--is an honour the B. P. does not deserve. It will come
round ultimately--the great B. P. always does--but not yet, my boy, not
yet. Give it time, and it will pour cash in your lap. I regret that
the moment--how shall I put it?--well, up to date, has not arrived. The
workmen whom you honour by associating with, at present supply--as with
perhaps unnecessary bluntness you state it--the financial deficiency.
But the public will pay for it all in the end--every penny of it, my
boy. You see these pictures around the walls? Very well; I hold them at
two thousand pounds each. I find little difficulty in so holding them,
for no section of the great British Public has, up to the present time,
evinced any dogged desire to wrench them from me in exchange for so much
gold. What is the consequence? I shall increase the price five hundred
pounds every year, and the longer they hold off, the bigger sum they
will have to pay, and serve them jolly well right, say I. Ten pictures
twenty thousand pounds--this year. Next year twenty-five thousand
pounds, and so on. With property on my hands increasing at that rate, I
should be an idiot to urge people to buy. Ground rents in Belgravia are
not in it with my pictures as investments. So you see, Mars-ten, when my
day comes, the factory will be a mere triviality as an income producer
compared with my brush, don’t you know.”
“But in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I am getting along very nicely, thank you. The strike
will not affect me in the least. The men may have to diminish the amount
of shag or whatever awful mixture they smoke, but I shall not consume
one cigarette the less. I have done nothing to bring on this struggle.
If the men want to fight, then, by jingo! let them, say I.”
“The fight is not yet actually on and won’t be until Saturday. Now is
the time for a cool-headed man to interfere and bring about an amicable
understanding. Won’t you at least make the attempt, Mr. Hope?”
“My dear Marsten, the way of the self-appointed arbitrator is hard. I
was reading in this morning’s paper about your charming meeting, last
night, and I noticed that one man who interfered was kicked off the
platform and thrown out into a side street. That is the workingman’s
idea of how an intellectual discussion should be terminated. I love
the workingman myself, but I sometimes wish he would not argue with his
hob-nailed boot. By the way, did you see this interesting episode? You
were there, I suppose?”
“Yes. Braunt, who was kicked out, is one of the best workmen in the
factory, but very hot-tempered. He lost control of himself last night,
under strong provocation, and when he was outside tried to batter in the
door. The police interfered, and he knocked down three of them. This was
disastrous, for he was fined five pounds this morning, and I have been
trying to raise the money so that he need not go to prison; but we are
in the minority--he exasperated our fellow-workmen--and I am not getting
on well with the subscription list.”
Barney sprang to his feet.
“Knocked down three, did he? Goodman. That’s something like. It’s a most
deplorable trait in my character that I somehow enjoy an assault on the
police, and yet I recognize the general usefulness of the force. Five
pounds did you say? Then there will be the costs; I don’t understand
much about these things, but I believe there are usually costs, on the
principle of adding insult to injury, I suppose. Will a ten-pound note
see him through? Good. Here it is. Three-pound-odd a policeman is not
expensive when you think how much some of the luxuries here below cost,
don’t you know. No thanks, Marsten, I beg of you; it’s a pleasure, I
assure you.”
As Marsten took the money a servant came in and said in a low voice:
“Simpson wants to know if he may go, sir.”
“Bless me, yes. I thought he had gone long ago. Simpson is my ornamental
six-footer at the head of the stair; perhaps you noticed him as you came
in. Poor fellow, he’s not allowed to do anything but stand there
and look pretty, so I suppose it gets wearisome. Imagine such
boy-stood-on-the-burning-deck devotion at this end of the nineteenth
century! I had forgotten him, absorbed in your interesting conversation.
Well, Marsten, I’m sorry I can’t arbitrate, but drop in again, and let
me know how things go on. Good afternoon!”