I have received your letter about Ronnie. No doubt you think you know
best. I will not allude further to the matter.
I am feeling _much_ too upset to discuss such things just now. Mr.
Harrison has been behaving abominably, undoing all the good his absence
has done, and creating his usual atmosphere of unpleasantness.
Mr. Lathom painted a most _beautiful_ picture of Mrs. Harrison. They
both worked like galley-slaves to get it finished in time for his return
(H.’s, I mean). I say both, for sitting is most exhausting work, as you
would know if you had ever sat to anybody for a portrait, and she would
end up sometimes so cramped she could scarcely move. As for Mr. Lathom,
he seemed quite inspired over it, and painted and painted away without
food or rest, till I got quite worried about him, and had to bring him
up cups of hot Bovril and Ovaltine, for fear he should over-tax his
strength. He is an extraordinarily generous young man, because, though
he cannot be well off, he actually painted the portrait to _give_ to Mr.
Harrison, when I feel sure he could have sold it for a big price, it is
such a splendid piece of work, and he says himself it is one of the best
things he has ever done.
Well, they got it finished in time for the Bear’s return, and Mrs.
Harrison was ever so delighted with it, and thought the creature would
be pleased. It was quite pathetic to see how eagerly she looked forward
to surprising him, poor woman. Well, he was pleased, in his grudging
kind of way, though he had the impertinence to criticise the
painting—as if Mr. Lathom didn’t know more about Art with his eyes shut
than Mr. Harrison could learn in a month of Sundays. And then it was all
spoilt by the Bear’s horrible selfishness. Mr. Lathom said—very nicely
and courteously—he hoped Mr. Harrison would see no objection to its
being sent to the Academy. Of course, as it was the best thing he’d
done, you’d think anybody would see he had a right to exhibit it, and
you’d think, too, that when anybody had received a valuable present like
that, he’d be only too willing to be obliging. But the PIG just said,
“Well, Lathom, I don’t quite think we can go as far as that. My wife
would hardly like to be put on show, you know.”
I could see that Mrs. Harrison felt the discourtesy to Mr. Lathom
_dreadfully_, and she said at once she would be quite pleased to let the
portrait be shown, and then he laughed—just laughed, as if it was of no
importance to anybody, and said, “Oh, Lathom won’t insist on making an
exhibition of you, my dear.” I could see how vexed Mr. Lathom was, and
so could Mrs. Harrison, and she begged and prayed him not to be so
selfish and unkind, and Mr. Lathom spoke up and said, if Mrs. Harrison
would like her portrait shown, surely he was not going to be a Victorian
husband. Of course, that was unwise (as I could have warned him if I
could have got the chance), and we had one of the worst rows even I can
remember. Mr. Lathom couldn’t stand it and went out of the room in
disgust, and Mrs. Harrison cried, and her husband said the most
insulting and unjustifiable things, ending up with: “Of course, if you
want to make a public exhibition of yourself you can. Do exactly as you
like”—as though anybody _could_, when they had been spoken to like that
about it. So that was the end of trying to do something to please one’s
husband! It was a most miserable ending to the day we had all looked
forward to with so much hope and pleasure.
For once Mrs. Harrison has taken a firm line with him and refuses to
speak to him. It is a very uncomfortable situation for me, and I am
feeling very unwell. All my insomnia has come back, and so has the
uncontrollable longing for shrimps. It is very tiresome and
disappointing.
Mr. Lathom has been perfectly sweet about it all. He went in to see Mr.
Harrison when the uproar had calmed down a little, and finding it
impossible to move him, gave way gracefully. I was determined to do my
best to make it up to him, so I went up and said how sorry I was, and
added that I _insisted_ that he should do exactly as he liked with my
own portrait. He could show it anywhere he chose, I said, even if he
liked to call it _Portrait of a Middle-aged Spinster_. He laughed, and
said he wouldn’t think of calling it anything of the sort, and he
certainly wouldn’t show it if I would rather he didn’t, and I said I was
determined he _should_ show it, whatever it turned out like. So he said,
very well, that was a bargain, then. So we have begun the sittings. I am
rather nervous about the result, because as you know, I always
photograph very badly. But then a photograph cannot show the animation
of the face as a portrait can, and people have so often told me that my
animation is what gives character and interest to my looks. I hope it
will be a good likeness—perhaps you will say that if it is it won’t be
an attractive picture, but Mr. Lathom seems very keen on it, so perhaps
it will turn out better than you, with your sisterly prejudice, might
expect.
I am very tired with keeping the pose—I sat for two hours this morning
and again in the afternoon—so I hope I may get some rest to-night.
The scarf will be finished to-morrow, if I can get the right shade of
silk for the fringe.
Your affectionate sister,
AGGIE