I
If you search from Greenwich Village to Lawrence Park, and then from
Turtle Bay to Chelsea, you will not find in all New York a painter less
spoiled by fame than Maurice Price. It was in his nature to know from
the very first that the luckier you are, the kinder you can be. I do not
regard it as a limitation that in what he does and in what he wears he
scarcely satisfies the romantic ideal about artists and their ways. There
is nothing wild in his attire, and he does not live more dangerously
than other citizens must. Still, there is something about his type of
good looks that sets him apart and gives him away. Those who see him for
the first time, in profile, whether at the Follies or at a funeral of an
Academician, sometimes think that if they knew the man, they would esteem
him more than they would love him. That is because they have not yet met
him in front view, and discovered the eager friendliness in his gray
eyes, the sensitive, listening expression of his whole face; the look
that says, “Tell me your joke in life, and I’ll tell mine.” His merry
young wife had once declared that there were only two things that saved
his head from an intolerable Greek goddishness. Maurice’s curiosity was
roused, but the girl had kept him guessing until the end of the week,
when she explained that one of the things was his right ear, the other,
his left; both of them stuck out more than the classic law allowed; just
as well, too; since, for her part, she had preferred to marry a man, not
an archangel or a Greek coin. The man smiled, and kept on painting.
A time came when Maurice Price, suddenly finding himself in a new
environment, remembered that in ten years he had not once painted a
landscape from nature. As he stood in the wide doorway of his friend’s
country studio, and gazed with delight at the springtime beauty of the
New Hampshire hills flung down at his feet, the fact that during a whole
decade his painting had been done within doors and under glass struck him
as an absurdity, even a reproach. Ah, well, those who go about calling
ten years a whole decade must expect reproach, he reasoned. They bring it
on themselves.
Besides, the situation was explicable enough. Ever since he and his
wife had said good-bye to their cottage near Fontainebleau, exchanging
the joys of study in France for the responsibilities of family life in
their own land, his work had been chiefly portraits, with an occasional
welcome mural decoration to break the monotony of rosy lips, shimmering
pearls, crisp satins; of academic robes, frock coats, tennis trousers,
and whatever else a modern portrait-painter must cope valiantly with,
on canvas. Not that Maurice was weary of his good fortune in having
portraits to do. He often said, with that frank yet pensive smile of
his, that every sitter on earth has some personal quality which, if seen
aright, can alleviate if not actually elevate our art. Hence, after
every excursion into the field of mural decoration, he returned with new
zest to his girls with pearls, his dowagers, his bankers; while after
every surfeit of our common humanity as shown up in a north light, he
seized with ardor the chance to depict on the walls of some library or
court-house those various fables of antiquity which seem to shed the most
pleasing light on the fables of our modern civilization. But never a
landscape!
Naturally, his decorations and even his portraits often had landscape
backgrounds. Fancy our Agriculture without her wheatfields, or our Mining
Industry without her tumbled hills, or a Bridal at Glen Cove without blue
skies, lovely leafage, a beauty-haunted marble vase, a teasing vista
where Pan might lurk unseen! But very properly, such backgrounds as these
were merely arrangements, or, as one might say, apt quotations from
nature; they did not pretend to report passionate personal interviews
with her. Maurice Price loved to paint such backgrounds. Whether in a
tranquil or a stormy mood, he always kept the hope of distilling beauty
for the ages. And he knew that the backgrounds had their part in that
enterprise of his.
In his golden twenties, he had been a singularly diligent lover and
student of landscape. Many an elder painter might have envied him his
portfolios stuffed with first-hand information and first-hand illusion
concerning rocks and seas, skies and fields, trees and hills, and all
the rainbow hues and lights and darks that visited them in their repose,
their shifting moods, their crises. Maurice in the late thirties often
stood in awe of that far-off Maurice of the early twenties, who seemed
to know so much even then of the painter’s magic book of all outdoors.
To-day, he wondered whether he could beat his younger self in the game
that is played on canvas with brushes, under the sky, with everything
more or less astir, and nothing at all ever quite the same as it was a
moment before, least of all in its colors and values.
After that devastating influenza of March, his seldom-needed doctor
had ordered a few weeks’ complete rest. “Complete piffle,” Price had
growled. Nevertheless, when his friend James Anthony, a painter given
to unexpected withdrawals and fresh beginnings in art, had offered him
an opportunity for an entire change of scene, he had accepted. Anthony,
always as keen as any Vibert or Abendroth in his pursuit of the secrets
of the old masters, had suddenly decided to go abroad to study certain
gums and resins that might eventually preserve our American painting from
destruction. Anthony was like that. He was successful enough and wealthy
enough to be as whimsically conscientious as he pleased about pigments
and surfaces. He could afford to keep a bee in his hat, and call it
altruism. And now, the bee having stung him afresh, that wonderful hill
studio of his was at Maurice’s disposal.
“You will be doing me a favor,” wrote Jimmy Anthony, “if you’ll take it,
even for this one summer. There are two sculptors hounding me to rent it
to them, a man and a woman. The man I can beat off, but the woman will
work her will and get the place and wreck it for me, if you don’t come to
the rescue. I can stand a painter’s rubbish, but sculptors! No, no, not
for Jimmy. And please use up whatever you find in the line of materials.
There’s nothing there of any further interest to me. You might like all
that garance rose doré, and that pomegranate cadmium I used to swear by.
And those mahogany panels that I had especially made. Do use them. Good
on both sides, and bully for landscapes.”
When Price, after a look of delight at the spring magic framed by the
doorway, had turned to examine his new quarters, he was not surprised
that Anthony had shunned sculptors as tenants. He could not imagine the
litter of clay and plaster, wet rags and greasy plastiline, defiling
that spacious immaculate hall and its dependencies, all contrived by his
friend out of a hay-barn and stable used by the roadhouse gentry of a
hundred years ago. Boxstalls made excellent dressing-rooms for models.
Harness-closets gave ample space for easels and canvases, frames and
colors. The north light was vast, but could be curtained at any point.
The great door of the former hayloft was a proscenium arch through which
one could look east, south, and west, upon various enchanted worlds.
Again and again, that southern picture called aloud to Price to be
painted. He found himself saying, “I will!” with the exultation of a man
about to be married for the first time.
His own materials had not yet arrived; his wife, a doctor-abiding person,
had seen to that; she too had picked up that annoying slogan, a complete
rest! Perhaps Anthony’s closets would give first aid. Yes, there were
plenty of brushes and colors, all in good condition; easels great and
small; and such a panoply of varnishes and mediums as Price himself had
never dreamed of needing. No wonder Anthony’s painting ran rather hectic,
at times; he had too much stuff to paint with, yes, too much by far. His
canvases were overdressed, by Jove! Pluming himself a bit on his own very
simple palette, which he naturally regarded as an evidence of a higher
culture than Anthony’s (just as the Doric lay in literature is finer
than the Corinthian ode, he told himself), Maurice picked out from a
bewildering variety the ten colors of his heart’s desire, including the
garance rose. He looked indulgently, but not self-indulgently, on the
pomegranate cadmium, as on a pretty lady he had no wish to flirt with.
Still searching, he laughed outright to find on an upper shelf the
selfsame palette that Anthony had so often bragged about, at the Club,
and (to judge from its pristine appearance) had so seldom used, in the
studio. It was a rather large palette, acquired at no small cost by
Anthony, during his period of trying out dear Shorty Lasar’s theory,
namely: that when seen on the dull brownish wood of the ordinary palette,
any color, no matter how muddy, looks bright and pure, luring the painter
to his ruin; whereas, when shown on a brilliant, untarnished surface, say
that of pearl or of ivory, the same color is revealed at once in all its
foulness. “Nothing like mother-of-pearl,” Jimmy would say, “for exposing
the true soul of a gob of paint!” And Anthony’s Club-famous palette,
which Maurice now held in his hand, had been inlaid with pearl from
stem to stern, a splendor which had added somewhat to its weight. Price
balanced it between thumb and fingers, a little patronizingly, perhaps,
as may well happen when a man takes up another’s palette, especially a
palette more famed in theory than in practice. Not that he wanted to
quarrel with the tools he was lucky enough to find; anything in reason
would do.
As for the mahogany panels, he would gratefully use one of those, at
a pinch. It had not the kind of surface he preferred, his way being
to use a rather absorbent canvas, preparing the surface to suit the
needs of the work in hand. But here again, Maurice was not hide-bound.
Surface wasn’t the only thing; it would be a poor painter who would let
a marvel-landscape like that go unpainted, merely because he hadn’t a
fine new roll of canvas to slash into. He was glad to find, in that
inexhaustible closet, half a dozen of those panels; baywood or cherry,
perhaps, though his friend always called them mahogany. Running eager
fingers over them, he found that the one he liked best for size and
solidity, for shape and texture, had already been used, on one side; but
that mattered not at all. He knew Anthony’s three-layered panels; both
sides were good.
On bringing the panel of his choice out into the full light, he was first
dazzled and then puzzled by the painting on it. Was this really Anthony’s
work? Theory-ridden as he was, Anthony had certainly painted queer stuff,
at times. But Maurice could not insult his friend’s hospitality by taking
this weird performance in earnest. Its style out-Jimmied Jimmy. Yet it
seemed brilliantly familiar; it had Anthony mannerisms.
Then memory suddenly turned her flashlight on the thing, and told him
why it seemed familiar. Three years before, on the eve of sailing for
the Front, he had visited Anthony, and the two had inspired the boys and
girls of the artist colony to organize a “Faker Show” for the benefit of
the French wounded; children, models, and even the artists themselves
had vied with each other in producing caricatured art. The most wildly
acclaimed piece had been this very panel, painted in a joyous hour by
Anthony’s studio-boy, Pietro, from Anthony’s model, Amouretta McGowan; to
save time, he had used one of his master’s discarded portrait-studies,
and he had kept the characteristic Anthony composition throughout.
It was meant for a portrait, one saw,—the portrait of a woman, a hussy,
if you like, with dusky flesh-tints after Gauguin, and with an impudent
gown patterned and colored like that in Matisse’s once celebrated “Madras
Rouge.” But the pearls with which the minx was crowned and girdled,
draped and festooned,—ah, the pearls were surely a fling at Maurice Price
himself, “the Price-of-Great-Pearls,” as the League students called
him, just as in other days they had called Kenyon Cox, “Bunion Socks,”
George de Forest Brush, “Young-Man-Afraid-of-his-Brushes,” and Augustus
Saint-Gaudens, “Gaudy Saint August”; youthful pleasantries which harmed
no one, least of all the artists themselves.
Once again Maurice laughed aloud as he recalled how earnestly he had
explained to his students his method in painting pearls, telling them
of the many slow and careful studies he had made of pearls before he
had really mastered the mystery of pearls, and much else, after the
manner of enthusiastic and self-giving teachers the world over. In
general, the youngsters had listened and profited; otherwise, they
would have been donkeys. Also, they had jeered and jested; otherwise,
Maurice thought, they would have been prigs. And that nickname, “the
Price-of-Great-Pearls,” had clung to him, in a heart-warming way. He
felt that if his students had given him no title at all, he would have
suffered some vague loneliness of spirit when among them.
Astonishing how Pietro, in one piece of brilliant painting, had succeeded
in poking fun at two Frenchmen and two Americans! Certainly, Anthony’s
well-studied devil-may-care composition showed doubly riotous after that
boy had wreaked his genius on it; and the pearls, as Maurice saw with
a twinge of gratification, were exquisitely painted, if you considered
them as giant opalescent lamps filched from some moonlit fairyland,
and not as gems discreetly adorning a woman. And then the Gauguin
coloring, the Matisse arabesques! As a final flourish, like the “I
thank you” after a four-minute speech, Pietro had signed the work “the
Price-of-Great-Pearls.” Maurice found, on looking for that signature,
that some later jester had obliterated from it all but the one word,
“Price.” Price, indeed!
Maurice’s smile faded away into mere pensiveness as he recalled both
Pietro and Amouretta. The boy, in all his vivid brightness of youth, had
died suddenly from the epidemic in which Maurice himself had suffered,
while Amouretta—
Her real name was not Amouretta. No one’s is. She was just Anna
McGowan, golden and rosy, with hair and complexion that would have been
beyond belief if she had not insisted on showing every artist (and more
especially his wife) just how far her hair fell below her knees and just
how it grew around her temples; because, as she said, it was where the
hair started and where it left off that all that nasty peroxide business
gave those others away, poor things! Also, she would press her finger
on her cheek and lips, so that their roses would vanish and return, as
if an electric button had been touched. She loved to have the wives see
that, too. There was nothing false about Amouretta. From her golden
topknot to her pink toes, she was as good a girl, all in all, as ever
hopped high-heeled from a painter’s studio to a picture-studio (two quite
different arenas), in the effort to make both ends meet, and then cross
over. “It’s the cross-over that counts,” Amouretta used to say; “there’s
where the joy in life appears.” The name Amouretta was a business
concession to the picture industry and to the small vaudeville shows in
which she worked when posing was slack.
A singularly vivid personality, that child; her adventures, like her
hair and her complexion, sometimes seemed fabulous, at first glance,
but always gained new lustre after investigation. For instance, there
was on her shoulder a tiny red mark, which she said was due to a bite
she had received at the Kilkenny Ball, from a mad and anonymous devotee
of beauty. Could any one altogether believe that? Nevertheless, young
Cavendish (whom she had never known or even seen), on coming to himself
the day after, had confessed himself publicly, in an agony of shame. He
had taken a bite of a peach in passing; he didn’t know why, Lord help
him; and from that hour he was nevermore the strayed reveller we once
had known, but settled down into blameless and uninteresting eclipse.
Then again, there came a morning when Amouretta, posing in a green
satin bodice as an understudy for an overworked “bud,” whose portrait
Maurice Price was painting, had yielded to that self-revealing mood to
which all models are at times given; she confided to our painter that
she was engaged to be married to a middle-aged admirer, a man of great
wealth, whose name she would not tell until the engagement was publicly
announced. Could not Mr. Price guess? She meant to give up both stage and
model-stand, of course; why, she had given up cigarettes already for
that man, because he had said that the men of his family didn’t like them
for ladies. “And he was so dear, when he said it.”
Amouretta’s brilliant blush came and went so often during her story, and
finally stayed so long, that it played the very deuce with Maurice’s
entire morning; you know how difficult it is to paint emerald satin when
the wearer is blushing; the green and the red come to blows. And Maurice,
who had two daughters of his own, howbeit small, was really worried,
until one afternoon at the Century, Mr. William Saltonstall, long of
limb, lineage, and purse,—a man of undoubted probity, and a collector,
too!—had touched him on the shoulder, and poured out the whole story of
his love for Amouretta. The wedding was to be at Saint Barnaby’s, in
June. There could be no doubt as to Mr. Saltonstall’s self-surrender;
love at first sight it was, that day in the studio when Maurice had
introduced a patron of beauty to beauty herself. Naturally the painter
was delighted with this idyl—its delicate fragrance, its perfect
flowering; all unconsciously, he himself had sown the seed, his wife and
Amouretta smiling wisely thereafter at his blindness. He had always
liked William Saltonstall, and none the less because that gentleman was
not one whom every one called Bill.
After the engagement, Amouretta continued to work, because, valiant
little soul, she meant to earn her own trousseau. No man not a relative
should be able to say he had done that for her; and I’m thinking it
would be a long day before either her father or her brother, in their
good-natured shiftlessness, could provide the outfit she had in mind! But
there was no June wedding at Saint Barnaby’s, after all; for Amouretta
caught a fatal chill one raw night at the Revelries, while posing as
Innocence, insufficiently clad in white paint and a scrap of georgette,
in one of those pure-white sculpture groups which occasionally reappear
in refined vaudeville.
And there was nothing more that could ever happen now to Pietro and
Amouretta, thought Maurice. For one as for the other, their story of
bright youth was ended. For Pietro, no daring assault upon the Roman
Prize; for Amouretta, no adventure of any color at all, not even that
climax of white satin train and flower-girls at Saint Barnaby’s. Maurice
sighed as he took up a large flat brush and charged it with gray paint
to obliterate the caricature. A few vigorous strokes would suffice. But
he could not bring himself to do what he intended. He started back as if
he had hurt himself. Or had young hands pushed him back? Surely there
was something in that quaint, brilliant, impudent creature smiling on
him—some hint or vestige of that which was once Amouretta—Amouretta who
threw a kiss to the world, and was gone. And what was he, successful
Maurice Price, that he should go about with brutal paint to hush up
forever young Pietro’s jest? No, no, he could not do that. It was not
fair, not sportsmanlike. Live and let live!
He examined all the other panels, but their shapes and sizes were not
right. “Oh, well, I don’t give a damn,” lied Maurice to himself. He lit
a cigarette, but the landscape came between him and his smoke. He picked
up a frayed copy of “La Reine Margot,” but the landscape shut out Saint
Bartholomew. He sat a moment in Anthony’s Venetian chair, and covered
his eyes with his hands, but between his eyes and his hands he saw only
the miracle landscape. So he rose resolutely, took up the panel of his
choice, the Amouretta panel, and began to paint on its untouched side. A
beautifully primed surface lent itself at once to the artist’s will.