Barney abandoned his tandem to the tender care of his man, and went
up to London by train. He sat gloomily in a corner of a first-class
smoking-compartment, and cursed the world. Nevertheless he was able to
consume a great number of cigarettes between the sea and Charing Cross,
and, as he smoked, he made stern, heroic resolutions regarding his
career. He would now take it seriously in hand. He would business-manage
himself. He saw in the clear light of a great disappointment that he had
hitherto paid too much attention to the production of masterpieces,
and too little to the advertising of them. It was evidently hopeless to
expect the appreciation of a stupid and uncritical public to come to his
work, and the great critic whom he had confidently looked for had
not yet put in an appearance. If, then, the critic would not come to
Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the critic. He would purchase the most
expensive art-critic there was in the market; then the tardy public
would learn that a genius had lived among them unrecognized.
As his comprehensive plans took final shape the train ran into the
glass-roofed tunnel at Charing Cross. Barney sprang into a hansom, and
drove directly to the works. “Beastly hole!” he said to himself, as he
gazed round at the ruin the fire had wrought. The ground was covered
with cluttering heaps of burnt and twisted iron, and piles of new
building material were scattered everywhere. The apparent confusion and
ugliness of it all offended his artistic sense, and he thanked his
stars it was not necessary for him to spend his days there. He accosted
Sartwell, who had been discussing some question with the architect, and
shook the manager’s hand with energy and cordiality.
“Mr. Sartwell,” he cried, “I came the moment I heard of the fire.”
“Ah,” said the manager, dryly. “Have you been in America?”
“No,” laughed Barney, “not quite so far away as that; but, don’t you
know, I never read the papers, and so heard of the conflagration purely
by accident. Now, I am here entirely at your disposal, and am ready
to do anything and everything you want done. I would rather not carry
bricks, if there is anything else I can do; but I am ready to help in
any way I can. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Sartwell, that, in placing
myself at the disposal of the firm, I do so at considerable sacrifice;
for art is long and time is fleeting, and I have work to do in my studio
that you, perhaps, might not think worth doing; but I hope posterity
will not agree with you, don’t you know. Still, I am here. Command me.”
“Indeed, you do me wrong,” said Sartwell, with a grim smile. “I consider
you of much greater value in the studio than here. I have no doubt
posterity and I will quite agree in our estimate of your labour. Artists
are few and labourers many. It would be a real disaster if our present
crisis were to interfere with your artistic work. Therefore, although
I am flattered by your generous offer of help, I could not think of
availing myself of it. No; the studio is your place, Mr. Hope.”
“It’s uncommonly kind of you, Mr. Sartwell, to say so many nice things
about my efforts, and I assure you I appreciate them, for I don’t have
too many encouragements--I don’t, I assure you. This is such a beastly
materialistic world, don’t you know. Has my father got home yet?”
“Yes; he returned last night.”
“Ah, I didn’t know that. Terribly upset, I suppose?”
“A trifle worried.”
“Naturally he would be. Well, there’s nothing I can do for you then?”
“Nothing, unless you undertake the decoration of the new factory, and
thus send it down to posterity with the Vatican frescoes. Still, that
question won’t arise for a month or two yet.”
“Quite so. I’ll think about it. Well, if you need me, you know my
address. A wire will bring me at any time.”
“It’s generous of you to stand ready to leap into the chasm in this way,
but take my advice and stick to the studio. Nevertheless, I’ll remember,
and let you know if a crisis arises with which I am unable to deal
single-handed.”
“Do,” cried Barney, again shaking hands with good-natured effusion.
“Well, good-by!”
He picked his way to the gates, and stepped into his waiting hansom, a
well-merited feeling of having answered the stern call of duty cheering
his heart as he drove away.
It was a long drive to Haldiman’s studio, and Barney, telling the cabman
he might have to wait an hour or two, dashed up the steps and rang the
bell. Being admitted, he asked if Haldiman was at home; then sprang up
the stairs, struck one startling knock on the studio door with the head
of his stick, and entered.
Haldiman stood at his easel, a black pipe in his mouth, an old jacket on
his back, and a general air about him of not having brushed his hair
for a week. A half-finished drawing in black and white decorated a great
sheet of cardboard placed on the easel.
“Hello, Barney!” he cried. “I thought that was your delicate way of
announcing yourself. You look as trim and well-groomed as a shop-walker.
Haven’t given up painting and taken to that line, have you?”
“No, old man, I haven’t!” shouted Barney, slamming the door behind him
and coming into the room like a cyclone. “And I’m not trim, for I have
just had a railway journey, and went from Charing Cross to the works,
and from the works here. I’ve had no time to go to the club and make
myself pretty; I was in too much of a hurry to see you. So don’t be
sarcastic, Haldiman.”
“Everything is comparative, Barney, and to me you look like a radiant
being from another and a better world, where a man has unlimited credit
with his tailor. Sit down, won’t you?”
“That’s what I came for. I say, Haldiman, where do you keep your
exhilarating fluid and the syphons? I’m tired out. Be hospitable. You
see I’ve a load on my mind these days. The works were partly destroyed
by fire, and we’re rebuilding and all that sort of thing, don’t you
know, which rather takes it out of a fellow, looking after workmen and
seeing that no mistakes are made.”
“Oh, I saw about that in the papers, and was wondering if it was your
shop,” said Haldiman, placing a small table beside his friend, and
putting a bottle, a syphon, and a glass upon it. “Help yourself, my boy.
You don’t mind my going on with my work?”
“But I do!” cried Barney. “Sit down yourself, Haldiman. I want to talk
to you seriously.”
“I am behindhand with this picture now, Barney. I can work and listen.
Fire away.”
“Look here, Haldiman, how much do you get for a smear like that?”
Haldiman stood back and looked critically at the picture, then said with
a drawl:
“Well, I’m in hopes of looting four guineas out of the pirate who edits
the magazine this is for. It’s a full page, you know.”
“Great heavens! Imagine a man doing a picture for such a sum as that! I
wouldn’t draw a line under a hundred pounds.”
“I’ve often thought of putting my price up to that entrancing figure,”
replied Haldiman, reflectively, “but refrained for fear of bankrupting
the magazines. One must have some consideration for the sixpenny
press.” Barney thrust his hand deep into his trousers pocket, drew out
a fist-full of coins, selected four sovereigns and four shillings,
and placed them on the table, saying: “There, Haldiman, there’s your
guineas. I buy that picture. Now sit down and talk to me. I want your
whole attention.”
Haldiman stood for a moment looking alternately at the money and at the
man. At last he spoke, slowly and quietly:
“Some day, Barney, you’ll do a thing like that, and get smashed in
consequence. I’m unfortunately unable to throw you out of the window
myself; but there is a cabman loitering about in front, and I will call
him in to assist me if you don’t at once put that money in your pocket.
Don’t make me violate the sacred rules of hospitality.”
“You have violated them, Hal, already, by getting angry. I see you’re
angry, so don’t deny it. Besides, the cabman wouldn’t come; I own him,
and if he did I could put you both out.”
“You can’t hire me, like a cabman, you know, Barney.”
“Of course not, of course not. I’m not trying to, dear boy. Do sit down
and be sensible. I’ve come to you as one friend to another, for I’m at
a crisis in my career. I need help, so be good to me. I take a serious
view of life now, and----”
“Since when?”
“Since this morning, if you like. The ‘when’ doesn’t matter. I’ve
come to the conclusion that I’m wasting my existence. You’ll scoff, of
course, but I know I have genius--not talent, mind, but genius. There’s
no use of making any bones about it, or pretending false modesty: if a
man is a genius, he knows it. Very well, then, why not say so?”
“I see no reason against it.”
“Quite so. Now, Haldiman, how much money do you make in a year?”
“You mean, how little?”
“Put it any way you like. Name the figure.”
“What’s that got to do with your genius?”
“Never you mind. What’s the amount?”
“Now, Barney, if you’re cooking up some new kind of financial insult, I
give you fair warning I won’t stand it.”
Barney had gulped down his stimulant, and now paced up and down the
room, clearing a track for himself by kicking things out of the way.
Haldiman sat in a deep armchair, his legs stretched out, and his hands
in his pockets, watching his friend’s energetic march to and fro.
“The artistic profession,” cried the pedestrian, “has been held up to
the scorn of the world since painting began. Read any novel, and you
will see that, if the heroine is to make a doocedly bad marriage, she
invariably falls in love with an artist--invariably.”
“Well, she generally marries us.”
“Yes, and lives in misery ever after.”
“Oh, we’re generous, and share it with her.”
“You see what I mean. The artist is held up to contempt, and all
respectable people in the book are aghast at the girl’s choice. Now, why
is this?”
“Ask me a harder one. It is because fiction is notoriously untrue to
life. The wives of the Royal Academy live in a splendour and luxury
undreamed of by the ordinary lady of title.”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s because the artists don’t business-manage
themselves. They have no commercial sense. Therefore they are poor. Now,
if a man invents a soap, what does he do?”
“Washes himself.”
“He advertises it. He becomes rich. Why, then, if a man writes a great
book, should he not advertise himself and his book in every way that is
open to him?”
“I believe he does, Barney. Where have you been living this while back
to be so ignorant of the approved modern methods in art and literature?”
“Isn’t a great picture of more value to the world than a much-advertised
soap?”
“Well, if you ask me, I should say, no. I’d back the soap as a civilizer
against the Louvre any day.”
Barney stopped in his walk, raised his arms above his head, and let them
drop heavily to his sides.
“I haven’t a friend in the world!” he cried, in tragic tones. “Not
one--not one!”
“Barney, this conversation is bewildering. What are you driving at,
anyhow? Art, soap, literature, advertising, friendship, marriage--what’s
wrong? Who is the woman?”
“Don’t talk to me about women! I hate them!”
“I thought you were most successful in that line. I believe I have your
own authority for the statement.”
“Success! One is successful up to a point; then there is a
disappointment that shows what a sham success has been. I’ll never speak
to a woman again.”
“I’ve been there myself--several times. Still we always return--if not
to our first love, to our fourth, or fifth. As for friends, I don’t know
any man who has more.”
“Not true friends, Haldiman. I haven’t one, I tell you. I did think you
were a friend, and you do nothing but sneer at me. You think I don’t see
it; I do, all the same. I’m the most sensitive of men, although nobody
appears to appreciate it.”
“I don’t sneer at you, Barney. What put that in your head? I think you
sometimes fail to appreciate other people’s sensitiveness. You are a
trifle prone to flaunt Bank of England notes in the faces of those not
so well provided as you are with them. Then the sensitive soul rises in
rebellion.”
“That’s my unfortunate manner, Haldiman. I don’t really mean to do so.
If I had a game leg, or a club foot, and came thumping in here with it,
you wouldn’t make fun of my defect, would you? Of course not. Well, why
should you resent a defect of manner when you know my intentions are
good?”
“I don’t resent anything about you, Barney--at least only
spasmodically.”
“You know I’d go to the end of the world to serve a friend--I would,
honest! Yet I’ve no luck. Here is a poor devil of a musician I am trying
to befriend. I can see he dislikes me intensely. I got a publisher to
bring out some of his music--paid all the expenses--yet it was like
pulling teeth to get that organist to allow me to help him, and he’s a
genius if ever there was one. I got a select and appreciative audience
together to hear him play. He didn’t come, although he promised to do
so, and the people thought I was trying to make fools of them. It must
be all my accursed manner. Now you always know the right thing to say: I
don’t. My genius doesn’t run that way. I’m an artist.”
Haldiman threw back his head and laughed. Barney stared at him,
displeasure on his brow.
“What the deuce are you laughing at now?”
“Forgive me, Barney; I’m laughing at the thumping of your club foot,
although you did not believe me capable of it.”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing--nothing. Barney, I love you! You are the one and only Barnard
Hope; all others are base imitations. Now listen to me. I haven’t the
faintest idea what it is you want. This conversation has been simply
encyclopaedic in the amount of ground covered; but I’ll do for you what
you would do for me, short of abduction or assassination. I’d prefer not
to land myself in prison, if you don’t mind, but I’ll even run the risk
of that. What do you want? Out with it!”
“But the moment I begin, you’ll say your insulted. You terrorize me,
Haldiman,--’pon my soul, you do!”
“Go on. For ten minutes insults are barred. _Will_ you go on?”
“Very well. I asked you how much you made in a year, and you jeered at
me.”
“I never keep accounts, and never pay a debt until the brokers come in,
so I really haven’t the slightest idea. You can guess at the amount just
as well as I can.. Guess and proceed.”
“All right. I want to pay you double your yearly income for your help in
this matter.”
“That isn’t friendship, that’s commercialism again. I beg pardon, I
forgot. Don’t look daggers, Barney; I accept. Can I have the money in
advance?”
“Of course you can,” cried Barney, gleefully, making a dive for his
inside pocket; then, as the other went into a fit of laughter, the
joyful look faded into an expression of intense indignation, and Barney,
with a curse, strode to the door. Haldiman sprang to his feet and
grasped the offended man by the shoulders.
“None of that!” he cried. “Come back, you villain! You are not going to
offer me a fortune and then sneak off in that fashion. Sit down, Barney;
sit down and go on with the pretty talk!”
“Oh, it’s no use!” said the other, in tones of deep dejection. “I said I
hadn’t a friend in the world, and I haven’t.”
“Bosh! You’re harder to humour than a baby. If a man may not smile in
his own room, where may he? I’m intensely interested, and want to know
what crime I’m expected to commit. Never mind the money, but state your
case.”
“The money is part of the case. I pay or I don’t play.”
“Certainly. That’s understood. I accept. Fire away!”
“Well, you know all the editors of the illustrated weeklies and
magazines.”
“For my sins I do--alas!”
“Then, to come right to the point as between man and man, I want to
buy a first-class critic, and the editor of a first-class illustrated
periodical.”
“You mean you want to buy a going magazine?”
“I don’t mean anything of the kind. I mean just what I say.”
“Then I don’t quite understand you. Explain.”
“What I want is this: I want a first-class art-critic to write an
article in a first-class periodical saying Barnard Hope is the greatest
artist the world has ever seen.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“No, that’s not all. I want the article superbly illustrated--in colour
if possible--with, reproductions of my chief paintings.”
“Ah! I wouldn’t do that, Barney, if I were you. The pictures would be
rather a give-away of the great critic’s eulogy.”
“Yes, I knew you would say that. The obviousness of such a remark would
commend itself to you. But you see I’m perfectly frank with you. Now,
could you manage this for me? Remember, I don’t care how much money I
spend.”
Haldiman removed the black pipe from his mouth, knocked the ashes out of
it, and thoughtfully re-filled it.
“Well, for brazen cheek, Barney,” he said at last, “that proposal----”
“Yes, I know, I know, I know. But these things happen every day--or, not
to exaggerate, let us say every second day. It is simply doing for me
what Ruskin did for Turner. Turner painted away all his life; nobody
recognized him, and he died in Chelsea. Now I’m living in Chelsea, and
I want recognition during my life. Of course my Ruskin will come along
after I’m dead; but, like the fellow who was to be executed, I won’t
be there to enjoy it. Things rarely happen at the right moment in this
world, and my brazen proposal is merely to take events by the coat
collar and hurry them up a bit. You see what I mean? Besides, I’m
infinitely greater than Turner, don’t you know.”
Haldiman smoked and meditated for some moments; then he said:
“I’m not sure but the trick may be done, although I doubt if brutal
barefaced bribery will do it. How would a magazine like ‘Our National
Art’ suit you?”
“Nothing could be better.”
“And would a French art-critic like Viellieme be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly. What he says is taken for gospel all the world over.”
“Well, I happen to know that the editor of ‘Our National Art’ has been
trying for a year to get Viellieme to write about English art; but
the Frenchman won’t come over to London, even for a day, at any price.
Viellieme is great as a writer, but greater still as a money-spender.
I’ll run over to Paris and sound him. You couldn’t bribe the editor of
‘Our National Art,’ but he will print anything Viellieme will write for
him. Now I know the Frenchman doesn’t care what he writes for England,
although he is rather particular about what appears in Paris. He thinks
there is no art in England.”
“He’s right, too, as far as his knowledge goes; but he’s never seen
anything of mine.”
“Just so. Then, if Viellieme agrees, you would be willing to send some
of your immortal works over to Paris for his inspection.”
“All of them, my boy, all of them.”
“Then we’ll look on that as settled. I’ll do my best.”
“God bless you, my dear fellow! God bless you!” cried Barney with deep
emotion, crushingly wringing the hand of the wincing man, whom he now
declared to be his one friend on earth. He clattered noisily down the
stair like a stalwart trooper, sprang into the waiting hansom, and
departed.