Dawn was brightening in the sky though the sun was not yet risen when
Charles Lathom awoke next morning in the tent by the river-side. Close
by him in the narrow limits of their shelter his brother Reggie was
lying on his back still fast asleep with mouth a little parted, a
plume of tumbled hair falling over his forehead, and a bare brown arm
and shoulder outside the sheet in which he was loosely wrapped. Late
last night, after they had got back from their moonlit drift down the
river, Reggie, who, to do him justice, had done all the paddling so
as to leave Charles free to serenade, saw the propriety of one dip in
the pool below the weir before bed, and had come back into the boat
dripping and refreshed and glistening, and without further formality
of drying, had curled himself up and gone to sleep with a mocking
reference to the lady of the punt. The picture of him taking a header
into the pool, now on the point of completion, leaned against the
tent-side, and a couple of bags gaping open and vomiting clothes and
brushes, and a box of provisions, the lid of which did duty for a
table, completed the furniture of the tent. Charles got up quietly,
so as not to disturb the sleeper, and went out into the clean dewy
morning. The thickets behind their encampment were a-chirrup with the
earliest bird-music of the day, and high up in the zenith a few wisps
of cloud that had caught the sun not yet risen on the earth itself,
had turned rosy with the dawn. The spouting of the weir made a bass for
the staccato treble of the birds, but otherwise the stillness of night
was not yet broken. Little ripples lapped at the side of the Canadian
canoe drawn half out of the water onto a bank blue with forget-me-not,
and a tangle of briar-rose with cataract of pink folded petals hung
motionless over the water. Then with a sudden shout of awakened colour
the first long level rays of the sun sped across the meadows, and with
the sigh of the wind of dawn the world awoke.
The morning light was what Charles needed for his picture, but
not less did he need his brother, for the painting of the braced
shoulder-muscles of his arms as they pointed above his head for the
imminent plunge. Sun and dappled shade from the trees that bounded the
meadow just beside the weir fell onto his naked body, making here a
splash of brilliant light, here a green stain of sunlight filtering
through the translucent leaves, while his face and the side of his
body seen almost in profile were brilliantly illuminated by the glint
from the shining pool below him. But underneath these surface lights
there had to be indicated the building and interlacement of the firm
muscles and supple sinews of his body. He had all but finished them,
he had all but recorded what he saw, but it was necessary that Reggie
should stand for him just a little while more. Meantime, since it was
still so early, and his brother still so profoundly dormant, there was
a little more work to be done to the ecstatic dance of sunlight on the
pool. Just at the edge the shadow of the wall of the weir lay over it,
and it was deep brown with a skin of reflected blue from the sky, but
a few yards out the sun kindled a galaxy of golden stars, flowers of
twinkling and dazzling light.
He got his picture out of the tent, set it on its easel, and put a
kettle of water on the spirit-lamp. It was still far too early to have
breakfast, but a cup of tea brought presently to Reggie's bedside might
tend to make him unresentful of being awakened when Charles found he
could get on no further without him. So when this was ready, Charles
rattled the sugar in its tin loud enough to wake not one only but seven
sleepers, and Reggie sat up with a justifiable start.
"What the deuce----" he began.
"Sorry," said Charles. "I'm afraid I made rather a row. But I've made
some tea, too. Have a cup?"
"Of course. Is it late?"
"Well, no, not very. I've been up some little time painting. But I
can't get on any more without you!"
Reggie gave a great yawn.
"I suppose that means you want me to turn out, and stand with my arms
up on that header-board. It's lucky I have the patience of an angel."
"Archangel," said Charles, fulsomely. "You've been a real brick about
it."
"And will you get breakfast ready if I come now?"
"Yes, and I'll make both beds."
Reggie accordingly got up and glanced at the picture as he passed it on
his way to the header-board.
"I suppose I am like a dappled frog, if you insist on it," he said,
"but a devilish finely-made young fellow."
"Absolute Adonis," said Charles humbly. "Oh, Reggie, stand exactly like
that as long as you possibly can. That's exactly right."
The work went on in silence after this, for the modelling of muscle and
flesh below this checker of light and shade and reflection was utterly
absorbing to the artist. He had tried all ways of solving this subtle
and complicated problem: once he had put in the curves and shadows of
the tense muscles first, and painted the diaper of sun and shade on
the top of it, but that made the skin thick and muddy in texture. Once
he had mapped the sunlight and surface shadows first and overlaid them
with the indicated muscles, but this seemed to turn the model inside
out. Then only yesterday he had seen that the whole thing must be
painted in together, laid on in broad brushfuls of thin paint, so that
the luminousness and solidity should both be preserved, and this method
was proving excitingly satisfactory. Often during this last week he had
almost despaired of accomplishing that which he had set himself to do,
but stronger than his despair was his absolute determination to record
what he saw, not only what he knew to be there. It was impossible
for his brother to hold this tiring pose for more than a couple of
minutes, and often it was difficult to get its resumption accurately.
But this morning Reggie seemed to fall or rather stretch himself into
the correct position without effort, and Charles on his side knew that
to-day he had the clear-seeing eye and the clever co-ordinating hand.
For an hour of pose and rest Reggie stood there, and then Charles
stepped a few yards away from his canvas, and stood a moment biting the
end of his brush, and frowning as he looked from model to picture and
back again. Then the frown cleared.
"Thanks most awfully, Reggie," he said. "It's done: good or bad, it's
done."
Reggie gave a great shout, and disappeared altogether in the pool.
* * * * *
Charles made breakfast ready according to agreement, and the two sat
for a while afterwards in the stupefaction of out-door content.
"This week has gone on wings," said Reggie, "and it's an awful
melancholy thing to think that this is my last day here. But it's been
a beauty of a week, I'm no end grateful to you for bringing me."
Reggie had the caressing moods of a very young thing. As he spoke
he left his seat and established himself on the ground leaning back
against his brother's knees and anchoring himself with a hand passed
round his leg.
"I should have had to stew in Sidney Street for my week of holiday," he
went on, "if it hadn't been for you. It was ripping of you to let me
come."
"It's I who score," said Charles. "You've earned your keep all right. I
should have had to hire a model otherwise, or have done without one."
"Oh, well, then, we both score."
Reggie threw away the end of his cigarette and abstracted Charles' case
from his pocket.
"I must go up to town this afternoon," he said, "for Thistleton's
Gallery opens again to-morrow morning. And there I shall sit, all July,
at the receipt of custom and sell catalogues and make the turn-stile
click and acknowledge receipts ... oh, a dog's life. Jove, what a lot
of money some of those fellows have! There was an American who came in
last week and went around the gallery with a great fat white man called
Craddock who often comes and shows people round. I rather think he is
Thistleton, and owns the place. I say, Charles----"
Reggie broke off suddenly.
"Why, I believe it was he who was in the punt last night," he said,
"and was standing on the lawn with that girl you sang at----"
"Didn't notice him particularly," said Charles.
"No, you were noticing somebody else particularly. But I feel sure it
was he. As I say, he was taking an American round last week, who bought
a couple of little Dutch pictures. He stopped at my desk on the way out
and borrowed my pen and wrote a cheque for £5000 right straight off,
without coughing. I remember he said he was going to post-date it. But
he didn't tip me."
"I don't quite know what this is all about," remarked Charles.
"Nor do I. I hoped it was just agreeable conversation. Don't you find
it so? But I bet you what you like that the fat white man in the punt
was Craddock."
Reggie lay further back against his brother's legs.
"I see a great tragedy ahead," he said, "with inquests and executions.
Craddock is about to marry the girl of the punt, and Charles will cut
his throat, and----"
"Whose throat?" asked Charles.
"His own or Craddock's; perhaps Craddock's first and his own
afterwards. Then there will be a sensational trial, and I can't bother
to make up any more. Are you going to paint all the morning, Charles?"
"No, none of it. It's enough for to-day to have finished you. I shall
stop down here a day or two more and do another sketch after you have
gone. I'm at your disposal this morning."
"Then let us do nothing for a long time, and then bathe for a long
time, and then do both all over again. Lord, I wish I was an artist
like you, instead of a doorkeeper, to stop about all day in delicious
places, and do exactly what you like best in the world, which is to
paint."
"It would make it completer if anybody wanted best in the world to buy
what I had painted," remarked Charles.
"But you sold two water colours the other day for three pounds each,"
remarked the consolatory Reggie. "That's as much as I earn in a month."
"It might happen oftener," said Charles. "By the way, I heard from
Mother last night."
"A nice woman," said Reggie.
"Quite. She sent me another sovereign in case funds had run low. When
you get back you will find she has been living on tea and toast because
she didn't feel hungry."
Reggie gave a huge sigh.
"I wish a man might marry his mother," he observed. "I should certainly
marry her and we would ask you and the punt-girl to stay with us."
"Very kind," said Charles.
* * * * *
These two young men who were enjoying so open-aired a week of June
by the Thames-side were the only children of the widow whom they
kindly agreed to regard as a "nice woman." They had been brought up
in easy and well-to-do circumstances, and educated at public schools,
until the suicide of their father a little more than a year ago had
disclosed a state of affairs that was as appalling as it was totally
unexpected. He was a jobber on the stock-exchange and partner in a
firm of high repute, but he had been privately indulging in a course
of the wildest gambling, and he could not face the exposure which he
knew could no longer be avoided. The sale of the pleasant country
home at Walton Heath, and the disposal of all that could be converted
into cash had been barely sufficient to make an honourable settlement
of his unimagined debts. Neither his wife nor either of the boys had
ever dreamed of the possibility of such a situation: never had it
appeared that he had had the slightest anxiety with regard to money.
His self-control had been perfect until, as with the breaking of some
dam, it had given way altogether in ruin and destruction. Till that
very moment he had been the gayest and youngest of that eager little
family party, all of whom brought an extraordinary lightness and zest
to the conduct of their unclouded lives. Charles had already left
school for a three years when the stroke fell, and was studying in a
famous _atelier_ in Paris, while Reggie, still at Marlborough, was
devoting as much time as he could reasonably be expected to spare from
athletic exercises to the acquiring of foreign tongues with a view
to the diplomatic service. They had both been instantly sent for by
their mother, who met his death with a fortitude that never wavered.
It was not long that they had to wait for the explanation of the
utterly unlooked-for catastrophe, for a very short examination of his
private papers showed the extent of his defaulting and the imminence of
the crash. Willingly, had it been possible, would she have kept from
her sons the knowledge that he had killed himself, bearing alone the
unshared secret, but an explanation of accident was impossible. Equally
impossible was it to conceal the miserable cause of it.
It was on the evening of Charles' return from Paris, as they sat in
the still house that till to-day had always rung with jollity, while
heathery sweetness and the resinous odour of pines came in at the open
windows, that she told them everything, quite shortly, and when that
was done and they were still half stunned with the sudden horror that
had blackened life, she rallied her own courage by awakening theirs.
"You know it all, my darlings," she said, "and now whenever you think
of it, and for a long time it will always be in your thoughts, you must
think of it all as some dreadful mistake that dear Dad made, something
he never meant at all. He got his troubles muddled up in his head till
he didn't know what he was doing. He felt he couldn't bear it, just
as sometimes he used to call out when we were playing some silly game
like Animal Grab 'I can't bear it: I can't bear it.' Oh, Charles, my
darling, don't cry so awfully. We've got to go straight ahead again,
with all our courage undismayed, and show that we can face anything
that God chooses to send us."
She waited a little, comforting now one and now the other.
"It was all a mistake," she went on, "and we must never allow ourselves
to think that it was the dear Dad we knew who did it. He wasn't
himself: trouble had made him forget himself and all of us just for a
moment. We will think about that moment as little as we can, and then
only as a mistake, but we will think constantly and lovingly of the
dear Dad we have known all these years, who was so loving and tender
to all three of us, and whom we knew as so gay and light-hearted. We
will have him constantly in our thoughts like that, this and all the
loving-kindness of the years in which we laughed and loved together.
And if we can't help, as we shan't be able to do, thinking with a sort
of wondering despair of that blunder, that mistake, we must remember
that, somehow or other, though we can't explain how, it is and was even
then in the hands of God."
It had been no vague piety or bloodless resignation that had inspired
her then, nor in the year that followed, and it had required a very
full measure of the essential spirit of youth, which never sits down
with folded hands, but despises resignation as it despises any other
sort of inaction, to bring them all to the point where they stood
to-day. Whether the boys helped their mother most, or she them, is
one of those problems of psychological proportions into which it is
unnecessary to enquire, since each had been throughout the year,
essential to the others. For if there had been no jolly boys coming
home at evening to Mrs. Lathom in their lodgings in the meagre
gentility of Sidney Street, she could no more have got through her
industrious day with hope never quenched in her heart than could they
if there had been no mother waiting to welcome them. She without
waiting a day after they moved to London invested a few pounds of
their exiguous capital in buying a typewriting machine, and before
long, by dint of unremitting work was earning a wage sufficient, with
Reggie's office salary, to keep the three of them in independence and
adequate comfort, as well as to pay for a slip of a dilapidated studio
in a neighbouring street, where Charles toiled with all the fire of
his young heart and swiftly-growing skill of hand at his interrupted
studies.
It was for him, of all the three, that life was most difficult since
he was an expense only to the others and it required all the young
man's courage to persevere in work which at present brought in almost
nothing. But his mother's courage reinforced his: while it was possible
for him to continue working, it would be a cowardly surrender to give
up tending the ripening fruit of his years in Paris, and let the tree
wither, and turn his brushes, so to speak, into pens, and his palette
into an office stool. Besides, he had within him, lying secret and shy
but vitally alive, the unalterable conviction of the true artist that
his work was ordained to be art, and that where his heart was there
would sufficient treasure be found also. But it was hard for him, even
with the endorsing sincerity of his mother's encouragement, to continue
being the drone of the hive so far as actual earning was concerned,
and it had demanded the utmost he had of faith in himself and love for
his art to continue working with that ecstasy of toil that art demands
at all that which his education needed, and not to grudge days and
weeks spent in work as profitless from the earning point of view as he
believed it to be profitable in his own artistic equipment. Drawing had
always been his weak point, and hour after interminable hour from casts
or from the skeleton, properties saved from the lavish Paris days,
he would patiently copy the framework of bones and patiently clothe
them in their appropriate muscles and sinews. As must always happen,
long weeks of work went by without progress as noticed by himself,
until once and once again he found himself standing on firm ground
instead of floundering through bogs and quick-sands which endlessly
engulfed his charcoal and his hours, and knew that certain haltings and
uncertainties of line troubled him no longer. But he made no pause
for self-congratulation but continued with that mingling of fire and
unremitting patience which is characteristic of the true and inspired
learner. Colour and the whole complex conception of values, which go
to make up the single picture, instead of a collection, however well
rendered, of different objects was naturally his: he had by instinct
that embracing vision that takes in the subject as a whole.
The heat of the morning disposed to quiescence, and the two boys with
the spice of meadow-sweet and loosestrife round them, and the coolness
of the running water, drowsily booming, to temper the growing swelter
of the day, talked lazily and desultorily, concerned with these things,
for a long time after breakfast was over. But they were vividly
concerned with them no more: to each the opening pageant of life was
more engrossing than the tragedy of the past, being young they looked
forward, where the middle-aged would have dwelt with the present, and
the old have mumbled and starved with the past. But to them it was
but dawn, and the promise of day was the insistent thing, and there
was no temptation to dwell in ruins, and conjure back the night. But
before long the itch for activity, in spite of their resolve of a
lazy morning, possessed each, and Reggie fervidly washed up the used
crockery of breakfast, while Charles went up the few yards of path that
lay between the tent and the side of the weir, to behold again the
picture he had left standing on its easel. In his heart he knew it was
finished, but in the eagerness of his youth he almost looked forward
to some further brushful of inspiration. He would not touch what he
knew was good: he hoped only to find something that could be touched
with advantage.
He turned a sharp corner, where willows screened the weir; his picture
was planted within a dozen yards of him. But between him and his
picture was planted a big white-faced man who was regarding it so
intently that he did not hear the swish of the parted willows. It was
not till Charles was at his elbow that Craddock turned and saw him.
And he put into his manner the deference which he reserved for
duchesses and talent.
"I have come to your private view," he said, "without being asked, and
it was very impertinent of me. But really this is my second visit. I
had my first private view yesterday, when I looked at your picture from
a punt in which I happened to be. I had just a couple of glimpses at
your work before this. You have been very fortunate in your inspiration
since then. The Muse paid you a good visit this morning."
Charles said nothing, but his eyes questioned this intruder, giving
him a tentative welcome. But before the pause was at all prolonged
the tentative welcome had been changed into a wondering and tremulous
expectancy. Were there fairies still by the Thames-side? Was this fat
white man to prove a fairy?
"You have painted an admirable picture," continued the possible fairy,
"and the handling of the most difficult part of all--of course you know
I mean the lights and shadows on that delightful figure--is masterly.
Of course there are faults, plenty of them, but you can see, and you
can draw, and you can paint."
Craddock saw Charles' lip quiver, and heard that it cost him an effort
to command his voice.
"Not really?" he stammered.
"Unless I am much mistaken, and it has been the business of my life to
seek out those who can see and draw and paint. Now I don't know your
name, and assuredly I have never seen your work before, and since it is
my business also to know the names and the works of all young men who
can paint, I imagine that you have your artistic début, so to speak,
still in front of you. But I shall be exceedingly grateful to you if
you will sell me your picture, straight away, here and now. And if you
won't let me have it for fifty pounds, I shall have to offer you sixty."
Charles looked vaguely round, first at Craddock then at his picture,
then at the spouting weir, almost expecting to see them melt, as is the
manner of dreams, into some other farrago as fantastical as this, or
dissolve altogether into a waking reality.
"Do you really mean you will give me fifty pounds for it," he asked.
"No: I will give you sixty. But don't touch it again. Take my word for
it that it is finished. Or did you know that already?"
"Oh, yes," said the boy. "I finished it an hour ago. But I came back to
make sure."
"Well, then, when you leave your encampment here, will you please
send it to me at this address? That is to say, if I am to have the
privilege of purchasing it."
This repetition gave reality to the interview: people in dreams were
not so persistent, and Charles gave a little joyous laugh, as Craddock
took a card out of his pocket and gave it to him.
"Or were you thinking of exhibiting it?" he asked.
"I was meaning to have a try with it at the autumn Exhibition of the
'Artists and Etchers,'" said Charles.
"I have no objection to that, provided you will let me have a little
talk with you first, and put certain proposals before you."
He looked at the picture again, and saw more surely than ever its
admirable quality. It had unity: it was a picture of a boy just
about to plunge into a sunlit pool, not a boy, and a pool, and some
sunlight, a mere pictorial map, or painted enumeration of objects.
It was all tingling with freshness and vitality and the rapture of
early achievement: no artist, however skilled, if he had outgrown his
youthful enthusiasm could have done it like that, though he would
easily have produced a work more technically faultless. Eagerness,
though wonderfully controlled, burned in it; the joy of life shouted
from it. And when he looked from it to the tall shy boy whose grey eyes
had seen that, whose long fingers had handled the brushes that recorded
it, he felt sure he would not go far wrong in his own interests in
making a proposal to him that would seem to him fantastical in its
encouraging generosity. Indeed he felt that there was no element
of chance in the matter, for there could be no doubt about this
young man's temperament, which lies at the bottom of all artistic
achievement, and in this case was so clearly to be read in those eager
eyes and sensitive mouth. Naturally he had a tremendous lot to learn,
but a temperament so full of ardent life and romantic perception as
that which had inspired this idyll of youth and sunshine and outpouring
waters would never rest from the realization of its dreams and visions.
He looked at his watch and found he had still half an hour before he
need to go to the station.
"Can you give me a few minutes of your time now?" he said.
"Of course. I will just tell my brother that I can't come with him at
once. We were going on the river."
"Do. Tell him to come back for you in half-an-hour. That is he, I
suppose, on the header-board."
Charles went quickly down the little path to the tent.
"O, Reggie," he said. "The fat white man has come and bought my
picture. Absolutely bought it. It's real: I'm just beginning to believe
it."
Reggie stared for a moment. Then, for he had a poor opinion of his
brother's business capacities, "How much?" he demanded.
"Sixty pounds. Not shillings, pounds. And he wants to talk to me now,
so come back for me in half-an-hour. He says I can paint, and somehow I
think he knows."
"Bless his fat face," said Reggie. "We'll let him have it at his own
price. Anything for the model? I think the model deserves something."
"He shall get it," said Charles.
Reggie caught hold of his brother by the shoulders, and danced him
round in three wild capering circles.
* * * * *
Arthur Craddock had sat himself down on the steps that led to the
header-board waiting for Charles' return. He had turned the picture
round, so that he saw it in a less perplexing light, and found that
he had no need to reconsider his previous conclusions about it. It
was brimful of lusty talent, and there seemed to him to be a hint of
something more transcendent than talent. There was a really original
note in it: it had a style of its own, not a style of others, and
though he felt sure that the artist must have studied at Bonnart's in
Paris, there was something about the drawing of it which had never
been taught in that admirable atelier. And the artist was so young:
there was no telling at what he might not arrive. Craddock had a true
reverence for genius, and he suspected genius here. He also had a
very keen appreciation of advantageous financial transactions, which
he expected might be gratified before long. For both these reasons he
awaited Charles' return with impatience. He was prepared to make his
proposal to him at once, if necessary, but he felt he would prefer to
see more of his work first.
Charles did not tax his patience long: he came running back.
"Let us begin at the beginning, like the catechism," said Craddock.
"What is your name?"
"Charles Lathom."
"And mine is Arthur Craddock. So here we are."
Craddock was capable of considerable charm of manner and a disarming
frankness, and already Charles felt disposed both to like and trust him.
"Your work, such as I have seen of it," Craddock went on, "interests me
immensely. Also it makes me feel a hundred years old, which is not in
itself pleasant, but I bear no grudge, for the means"--and he pointed
at the picture, "excuse the effect. Now, my dear Lathom, be kind and
answer me a few questions. You studied with Bonnart, did you not?"
"Yes, for two years."
"Only that? You used your time well. But who taught you drawing?"
Charles looked at him with a charmingly youthful modesty and candour.
"Nobody," he said. "I couldn't draw at all when I left Bonnart's. Of
course I don't mean that I can draw now. But I worked very hard by
myself for the last year. I felt I had to learn drawing for myself: at
least Bonnart couldn't teach me."
"And have you copied much?"
"I copy in the National Gallery. I try to copy the English masters."
"There is no better practice, and you will do well to keep it up,
provided you do plenty of original work too. But of course you can't
help doing that. I should like to see some of your copies, unless you
have sold them."
Charles laughed.
"Not I, worse luck," he said. "Indeed, I have only done bits of
pictures. You see----"
He was warming to his confession: the artist within him bubbled
irrepressibly in the presence of this man who seemed to understand him
so well, and to invite his confidence.
"You see, I didn't care so much about copying entire pictures," he
said. "It wasn't Reynolds' grouping--is that fearfully conceited?--that
I wanted to learn and to understand, but his drawing, ears, noses,
hands--I find I can manage the composition of my picture in a way
that seems to me more or less right, and can see the values, but the
drawing: that was what I wanted to get. And it has improved. It was
perfectly rotten a year ago."
A further idea lit its lamp in Craddock's quick brain.
"You shall show me some of your studies," he said. "And should you care
to copy a Reynolds, I feel sure I can get you a good commission, if
your copies are anything like as good as your original work. Do tell me
anything more about yourself, that you feel disposed to."
Charles brushed his hair back off his forehead. Craddock's manner was
so supremely successful with him that he did not know that it was
manner at all. He felt he could tell him anything: he trusted him
completely.
"I studied with Bonnart for two years," he said, "and then there came
a crash. My father died, and we were left extremely poor; in fact, we
were left penniless. Perhaps you remember. My mother earns money, so
does Reggie, my brother. But for this last year, you see, it is I whom
they have been supporting. They wanted me to go on working, and not
mind about that. So I worked on: I have been very industrious I think,
but till now, till this minute, I haven't earned more than a pound or
two. That's why----"
Charles had to pause a moment. The reality and significance of what was
happening almost overwhelmed him. Sixty pounds meant a tremendous lot
to him, but the meaning of it, that of which it was the symbol meant so
infinitely more.
"That's why I could hardly believe at first that you wanted to buy my
picture," he said. "It seemed too big a thing to happen. It's not only
the fact of sixty pounds, it's your belief that my picture is worth it,
that I can paint. But if nobody ever wanted to buy or saw any merit in
what I did, I don't believe I could help going on working."
He was sitting on the ground just below the steps which Craddock
occupied, and he felt a kind hand on his shoulder, as if to calm and
fortify his voice which he knew was rather unsteady.
"So I guessed," said Craddock, "but it is just as pleasant to find
that somebody does believe in you, and I assure you that I am only
the first of many who will. Now about our arrangements--I will give
you ten pounds at once to show you I am in earnest about buying your
picture----"
"O, good Lord, no," interrupted Charles.
"I should prefer it, and I will send you the balance from town. Now
will you come up there to-morrow and show me what you call your bits
of things? Show me them the day after to-morrow, and shall we say ten
in the morning? You must give me the address of your studio and I will
come there. Bring up your picture with you, but get some boy from the
village to look after your tent and belongings for a night or two, if
you prefer this to rooms. Very likely you will want to occupy it again.
The Reynolds of which I spoke is in a house near."
Craddock got up and pulled out a Russia-leather pocketbook.
"Here is my earnest money," he said. "Your studio address? Thanks."
Charles' heart was so full that it seemed to choke his brain and his
power of utterance. The first ineffable moment of recognition, dear
even to the most self-reliant of artists, had come to him, and until
then he had not known how nearly he had despaired of its advent. He
held out his hand, and smiled and shook his head.
"It's no use my trying to thank you," he said, "for there are no words
that are any use. But I expect you know."
As has been said, Arthur Craddock had a profound reverence for talent
quite apart from his keen pleasure in advantageous bargains, and his
answer, dictated by that was quite sincere.
"The thanks must pass from me to you," he said. "People like myself who
are unable to create, find their rewards in being able to appreciate
the work of those like yourself. Pray do not think of me as a patron: I
am a customer, but I hope I may prove to you that I am a good one. Ten
o'clock, then, the day after to-morrow."
Craddock had the invaluable mental gift of attending with a
thoroughness hermetically sealed from all other distractions to the
business on hand. Nor did he let his mind dribble its force into other
channels, when he wanted the whole of it to gush from one nozzle,
and in this interview with Charles Lathom he had summoned his whole
energy, though the expression of it was very quiet, to winning the
boy's confidence, and making himself appear as a discerning and
generous appreciator. It would have seemed to him a very poor policy
to obtain this picture, as he could no doubt have done, for a quarter
of the price he had offered for it, while on the other hand, it was
unnecessary to offer twice that price (which he would willingly have
done) since he could make the impression that was needful for his
future scheme, at the lower figure. Economy was an excellent thing,
but there was no mistake more gross than to economize at the wrong
time. He was satisfied as to this, and now he dismissed the subject of
Charles and his picture quite completely, and turned his whole thoughts
elsewhere.
There were several directions in which it might profitably have turned;
he turned it to one in which any possible profit was remote. That
morning, before he made this visit to Charles, Craddock had proposed
to Joyce, who had refused him. He had not taken, and did not now
take her refusal as final, and told her so, but it had considerably
surprised him. He knew well how restricted a life she led at home, how
subjected she was to her father's peevish caprices and complaints, how
cut off she was from the general diversions of life, and this, added
to her father's assurance that he "pleased her" was sufficient to make
him frankly astonished at her rejection of him, and her refusal to
walk through the door which he held open for her, and which provided
so easy an escape from all these disabilities. He had put before her,
though not pompously, these advantages, he had mentioned that her
father endorsed his application, he had not omitted to lay stress on
his devotion to her, and had ascertained that there was no rival in
the field of her maidenly preference. It is true that he was not in
love with her, but, acute man though he was in all that concerned the
head, it never entered into his mind, even now, as he drove to the
station, and thought intently about the subject, that this omission
could have had anything to do with his ill-success. It is quite
doubtful whether, even if he had been desperately in love with her,
Joyce would conceivably have given any different answer, but, as it
was, the omission was so fatal to her instinct, that there could not
be a moment's struggle or debate for her. She was not even sorry for
him, for clearly there was nothing real to be sorry for. Otherwise, she
would have sincerely regretted her inability to accept him, for, in
spite of a certain physical distaste which she felt for him, she liked
him, and admired his quickness and cleverness. Had her father told her
that Craddock was going to live with him, she would have hailed him
with a genuine welcome. But quite apart from her feeling towards him,
there was the insuperable barrier of his want of feeling towards her.
Of that barrier, of the possibility of her knowing it, he, with all his
cleverness, had no idea. But to Joyce the whole matter was abundantly
evident; she knew he did not even love her, and his love for her was
the only thing that could have made her acceptance of him ever so
faintly possible. Without that all other reasons for marrying him were
fly-blown; no debate, no balancings were conceivable. The scale dinted
the beam with its unchecked kick.
He thought over this ill-success, guessed without getting within miles
of the truth at the primary reason for it, as he drove through the
white sunshine from his interview with the astounded and grateful
Charles, and almost immediately became aware that in the last hour,
his feelings for Joyce had undergone a curious intensification.
Inspired, as he had been all his life by desires that were entirely
material, he had been used, by the aid of his clever brain, to compass
and possess them. Often, of course, he had not been able for the mere
wanting, to obtain the coveted object, and hitherto, it had almost
invariably happened that this temporary check stirred him up to such
further efforts as were necessary. A wish denied him hitherto, had
connoted a wish intensified, and since there is a great deal of truth
latent in the commonplace that to want a thing enough always earns
the appropriate reward of desire, he had not often fainted or failed
before reaching his goal. Even now, though up till now his desire for
Joyce had been scarcely more than a wish, it seemed to him different
from all other wishes; it was becoming a desire as simple and primal as
hunger for food or sleep.... Some internal need dictated it. This was
disturbing, and since he had other immediate work on hand, he turned
his attention to a typewritten manuscript, of which he had read part,
last night; he proposed to finish it in the train.
Craddock, as has been said, had a mind profoundly critical and
appreciative: he had also quite distinct and segregate, an astonishing
_flair_ for perceiving what the public would appreciate. Often he
bought pictures which from an artistic point of view he thought
frankly contemptible because he saw signs so subtle that they were
instinctively perceived rather than reasoned--that the public was going
to see something in either an old outworn mode, or in some new and
abominable trickery. He then transferred his purchases to Thistleton's
Gallery, and gladly parted with them on advantageous terms. But
this _flair_ of his was by no means confined to mere pictorial
representations, and he was always glad to read a novel or a play in
manuscript, with a view to purchasing it himself, and disposing of
his acquired rights to publisher or playwright. Living as he publicly
did in the centre of things, an assiduous diner out and frequenter of
fashionable stair-cases, he yet had a quiet and secret life of his
own as distinct from the other as are the lives of inhabitants in
adjoining houses, whose circle of friends are as diverse as bishops
from ballet-dancers. He preferred to deal in the work of men who were
young or unknown, and at present had not been able to get producers
for their possible masterpieces. He was thus often able by liberal
offers to secure an option of purchase (at a specified figure) over
the output of their next few years. Often to the sick-heartedness of
their deferred hopes, such prospects seemed dictated by a princely
liberality, and they were gladly accepted. Scores of such plays he read
and found wanting, but every now and then he came across something
which with judicious handling and backed by the undoubted influence
he had with the public through the press, he felt sure he could waft
into desirable havens. Only this morning by the weir-side he had found
a gem of very pure ray, which he believed to be easily obtainable,
and now as he read this manuscript in the train, he fancied that his
jewel-box need not be locked up again yet. The public he thought to be
tired of problem-dramas: they liked their thinking to be peptonized for
them, and presented in a soft digestible form. Just at present, too,
they had no use for high romance on the one hand, or, on the other,
subtle situations and delicate unravellings. They wanted to be shown
the sort of thing, that, with a little laughter and no tears, might
suitably happen to perfectly commonplace, undistinguished (though not
indistinguishable) persons, and in this comedy of suburban villadom,
with curates and stockbrokers and churchwardens behaving naturally
and about as humorously as they might be expected to behave without
straining themselves, he felt sure that he held in his hand a potential
success on a large scale.
The author was young and desperately poor: he had already had a play
on the boards at the first night of which Arthur Craddock had been
present, which had scored as complete a failure as could possibly have
been desired to produce suitable humility in a young man. But Craddock,
who always thought for himself instead of accepting the opinions of
others, had seen what good writing there was in it, how curiously deft
was the handling of the material, and knew that the failure was largely
due to the choice of subject, though ten years ago it would probably
have been welcomed as vigorously as it was now condemned. It was an
excellent play of ten years ago, or perhaps ten years to come, with
its lurid story too difficult for the indolent theatre-goer of this
particular year to grasp, and its climax of inextricable misery. He had
therefore immediately written to Frank Armstrong, the author, and at
an ensuing interview told him what, in his opinion, were the lines on
which to build a popular success. Then, guessing, or, rather knowing,
that Armstrong must have attempted drama many times before he had
produced so mature a piece of work as the unfortunate "Lane Without a
Turning," he said:
"I daresay you have something in your desk at home, rather like what I
have been sketching to you, which you have very likely failed to get
produced before now. Send it to me, and let me read it."
It was this play "Easter-Eggs" which Craddock finished as the train
slowed down into Paddington Station. It could not be described as so
fine a play as that which had achieved so complete a failure, but it
had all that the other lacked in popular and effective sentiment.
Even to a man of Craddock's experience in the want of discernment in
theatrical managers, it was quite astounding that it had ever been
refused, but he could guess why this had been its fate. For there
was no "star-part" in it; there was no character, overwhelmingly
conspicuous, who could dominate the whole play and turn it into a
"one-man" show. The success of it must depend on level competent
acting, without limelight and slow music. It was a domestic drama
without villain or hero or dominating personality, and when he again
read over the list of acting managers to whom Frank Armstrong had
submitted it, he saw how absurd it was to suppose that Tranby or Akroyd
or Miss Loughton could ever have considered its production. But he saw
also how a company of perfectly-unknown artists could admirably present
it, with a great saving of salaries. It needed moderate talent evenly
distributed, and one part mishandled would wreck it as surely as would
some ranting actor-manager who tried to force a dominant personality
into the play, and only succeeded in upsetting the whole careful
balance of it. Even as Craddock drove back to his sumptuous and airless
flat in Berkeley Square he jotted down a half-dozen names of those who
filled minor parts in star-plays quite excellently. He wanted them
without the stars.
And then quite suddenly, his mind, usually so obedient, bolted, and
proceeded at top-speed in quite another direction. Without intention,
he found himself wondering what Joyce was doing, whether she would have
told her father about his proposal, or confided in that astutest of
grandmothers, whether she was in the punt with panting dogs, or still
troubled with the undoubted indisposition of Buz, who had not been at
all well, so she had told him, this last day or two. Her life seemed
to him a deplorable waste of heavenly maidenhood, partly owing to a
selfish father, partly, now at least, because she had not consented to
waste it no longer. Youth lasted so short a time and its possessors
so often squandered it on things that profited not, ailing dogs, for
instance, and swans' nests among the reeds.
Then he caught sight of his own large face in the mirror of his motor,
and felt terribly old. He, too, had squandered his youth in the
amassing of knowledge, in all that could have been acquired when the
leap of the blood thrilled less imperatively, in the passion devoted to
passionless things, in the mere acquisition of wealth, in the formation
of his unerring taste and acumen. But he knew that his blood had tuned
itself to a brisker and more virile pulse, since Joyce had shaken
her head and smiled, and been a little troubled. Or was it over the
indisposition of Buz that she was troubled?
Then, arriving at his flat, he became his own man again, and cordially
telephoned to Frank Armstrong to have lunch with him.