It was Fritz. With him was Alexander James. Both were half ossified
with the chill of the mid-April afternoon, for they had been painting
on the shore down towards Straitsmouth.
General astonishment. The two expeditions had originated quite
independently. It was whimsically like those momentous chance
encounters in picturesque spots which abound in the novels of
Alexander's uncle Henry; but the novelist, be it noted, doesn't always
save these coincidences from a slightly fishy sound which was totally
wanting in this.
They thawed themselves out and exhibited their sketches. Fritz had, as
usual, gone after it and got it--a spirited bit: druidical heaps of
pink granite boulders against dashing surf: dazzling white of
foam-crest on deep blue.
There was a jolly supper in the brown-walled dining room (it had been
the kitchen of an eighteenth century farm house) which the last rays
of the spring sun flooded with red golden light; the two painters
comparing notes on the exhibitions of the Scandinavians and the Ten
Americans.
They departed for a home-talent play at a local hall in a frame of
mind which boded no good for the performance.... About eleven o'clock
they breezed in with the announcement that there was a Northwest wind
(the New England wind which sweeps the sky cloudless blue), a full
moon and a dashing sea; and that to go to bed was a crime. Away, then,
for Land's End, along shore paths at the edge of grassy cliffs, by
bushy lanes, over meadows, moors, popple beaches and brooks, across
the moon-blanched land beside the moon-burnished sea. Straitsmouth
Light burned a yellow spark. The twin lights on Thatcher's Island
shone weird blue in their tall towers. Low on the rim of sky and sea
hung gigantic masses of cloud whitened by the bluish pallor of the
moon. In the marsh bottoms frogs cheeped their shrill sweet song of
spring: the northwester bellowed through the willow twigs ... mournful
pour of surf ... splendor of spring moon ... the lonely moor ... the
steadfast light-house flames ... the white walls and gray roofs of the
sleeping town....
At one in the morning, tip-toeing into the dining room, we devoured a
plate of bread and butter left for late comers. Both of them were too
genuine artists to comment on what we had seen.
* * * * *
It is a lovely afternoon of June, 1914, at the pier of the Allan Line
steamships in Charlestown. The ship is the old _Nubian_, safe and
slow, saloon upholstered in plush of maple sugar brown, brass oil
lamps swinging in gimbles as befitted a smart packet of the late 80's.
Boston to Glasgow. Scotland swarmed the wharf.
Mixed in was an artists' colony. For that was the great day. Fritz and
Alexander were sailing for a year's study abroad: London, Paris,
Munich. The gang which came to see them off were _dramatis personae_
of Act II of _La Boheme_: four painters, an interior decorator, an
illustrator assorted scribblers, and a Scottish chieftain (lord of an
ancient clan, hero of a hundred skin-of-your-teeth escapes, veteran of
Polish revolutionary escapades, uncrowned king of an African tribe: as
_raconteur_ he had his rival, Robert Louis Stevenson, lashed to the
bed). This day he strode resplendent in plaid knee socks, plaid kilt,
a murderous Hieland dirk swung at his hip, short jacket the breast of
which blazed with medals, and long black locks caught up under a cap.
As he crossed the wharf planking at a stride like deer-stalking over
his native crags, the rest of us half expected the assembled Scots to
prostrate themselves and knock foreheads on flooring in fealty. He did
excite some attention. Sisson said--well, no matter what Sisson
said.[1]
[1] After all, why not? Some one was explaining that the chief (who
was a genuinely fine fellow) had come to America to raise funds for
his clan. Sisson said: "He'll he lucky if he gets back to Scotland
with his kilt."
It was a great occasion. Fritz, his black eyes snapping with
excitement, came up the gang plank from deck to wharf to be pounced on
by a jolly crew. He was outwardly cool, but his engines were racing.
After him came Alexander James. Pounce number two. Showers of rice
clattered on a bridal pair close by, but their festival was tame
compared to this. To meet Henry James and John Sargent in London: to
study in Paris and Munich: to see the great galleries. They were
embarking on greater seas than the Atlantic. This was the great day,
the great hour, and with a troop of friends rejoicing in their good
fortune to sweeten it.... Away to the land of heart's desire....
Romance.... Bohemia.... Europe.
"O Youth, and the days that were!"
From the caplog at the pier head as the _Nubian_ swung into midstream
of the Charles, the band of pariahs bawled ribald farewells and wrung
out handkerchiefs in mock tears. Alexander James, the Clive Newcome
of the adventure, leaned on the teakwood rail, waving his straw hat;
and Fritz, the "J.J." of the story, sat on the lowest ratline of the
shrouds, feet on rail, pretending to weep into his hat and then
emptying the brine into the brine.
The ship's side, black hull and white upperworks, took a burnishing
from the late afternoon sun. Under the gaiety there was a queer
feeling. There, divided from us by a hundred yards of harbor water,
were the two friends with whom we had just shaken hands, and the strip
between was widening, would widen to an ocean. They stood out amid the
throng of passengers as distinct as though they had been the only
souls aboard. They waved: we waved. As the vessel straightened away in
her course they imitated our several gestures to signify personal
farewells: it was thought and done impromptu. And long after their
figures grew indistinct as the ship lessened down the harbor lane
between elbowing wharves and the piled masses of city towers and
spires, there were gleams of two white straw hats which we knew....
All the same, it was a trifle too much like a dress rehearsal for
death.
* * * * *
Then, in less than six weeks, a world in tumult. Continental ateliers
were emptying their students on the battlefield. Fritz, who was in
England, prudently kept out of the rush homeward and made the most of
his few weeks.
He was in Downing Street in front of that dingy Georgian facade the
night the British Cabinet sat waiting for Germany's reply to their
ultimatum.
"It gave one an odd feeling," said he, "to realize that behind those
drawn shades sat men who were settling the question of life or death
for hundreds of thousands of their fellow creatures. The crowd
cheered. I did not."
Of Henry James he saw comparatively little, for the novelist was in
poor health, but he was immensely stimulated by the little he did see,
for beginning with _Roderick Hudson_ he had been quick to discover how
much this master of style had to teach a painter of what he had
himself learned from painters.
There was a memorable session with Mr. Sargent in his London studio.
Mr. Sargent happened just then to be doing a portrait of Lord Curzon,
and Fritz related with wicked glee (imitating Mr. Sargent as he backed
away from his easel) how the painter had remarked:
"I have not made up my mind how to finish it. If I can't get enough
interest out of the face, I'll put a scarlet coat on him."
* * * * *
It was late in October before he sailed for home, as one of a handful
of passengers on a freighter. The voyage was one of continuous foul
weather which, to the mystification of the others, was vastly to the
delight of Fritz. He lived on deck, begrudging time to sleep. He
fraternized with the crew. One day of thin drizzle and greasy swells,
getting into old togs, he helped the deck-hands greatly to their
satisfaction and somewhat to the scandal of the other passengers,
shovel coal down a hatch.
"They didn't think I'd stick it through," said he.
After that he was one of them.