THE MODEL
The studio soon became a most fascinating spot to many others
besides Elizabeth. Mr. Kemp was very ingenious and had a knack of
turning commonplace things into artistic ones which were the wonder
and admiration of all his friends. A pair of croquet mallets was
transformed into high candlesticks, a row of cracked plates made
decorations for the shelf above the door, a wash bench covered by a rug
and set off with a row of pillows looked well on one side the room,
pussywillows and strange weeds in old stone jars were most effective
against a background of plain building paper, and so it went. All this
appealed so strongly to the little girls that they were in danger of
neglecting their studies in order to rush out to the studio, and at
last a rule was made that they could go only once a day and then when
their lessons for the next day were learned.
One Saturday, however, Elizabeth overstepped the bounds. She really
didn’t mean to, in the first place, but circumstances so overcame her
scruples that she forgot.
After having made sketches of the three girls separately and
collectively, Mr. Kemp decided that he must have Elizabeth to sit for
the figure in a picture he was painting. She did not particularly enjoy
being a model, for it was very wearisome work to an active little
body who found it very difficult to keep perfectly still for even two
minutes; when it came to twenty or more on a stretch it was next to
impossible. Yet for the sake of an excuse to go to the studio she was
willing to undergo the martyrdom.
On this special Saturday she hurried off very soon after breakfast with
the intention of studying her lessons in the afternoon. She had begged
her mother to allow her to break the rule just this once, “Because,”
she said, “Mr. Kemp says the light is much better in the morning, and
besides he is in a hurry to get this particular picture done, for he
may have a chance to sell it.”
“Very well,” replied her mother, “for this once you may set aside the
rule, but come back at noon, Elizabeth.”
The child did not wait for the last words but was off like a shot. It
was a cool, cloudy morning, robins and bluebirds carolling from the
tree-tops, and in the fields green grass pushing through the moist
earth. “Pretty soon there will be violets,” said Elizabeth to herself.
She stopped to gather some yellow daffodils from the flower border and
bore them with her, singing as she went along, “Daffy-down-dilly came
up in the cold.” When she reached the door of the studio she paused
to lift the knocker and to pound it hard against the piece of metal
beneath it. The knocker was one of Mr. Kemp’s latest contrivances and
was made of a large curtain ring fastened to an old piece of heavy tin.
It took some pounding to bring forth much sound, but no one failed to
use this means of letting the artist know of the arrival of a visitor.
At the summons Mr. Kemp came to the door with a dish towel and a tea
cup in his hand. “Why, how nice and early you are,” he said. “I am just
washing up my breakfast things.”
Elizabeth laughed. It seemed funny to hear a man say that, although
she knew Mr. Kemp prepared his own breakfast and supper.
“Eggs, coffee and toast,” Mr. Kemp went on. “Good enough for a king. By
the way, Elfie, we tried the new chimney last night and it works like
a breeze. We can have a fire in the fireplace today if you are cold.”
Having completed the rest, Mr. Kemp and the boys were ambitious to try
their powers further and had built a stone chimney on the outside of
the small building, thereby adding much to its appearance, both inside
and out.
“Did you cook your breakfast over a fire on the hearth?” asked
Elizabeth.
“No, I was too lazy to make it, so I used the oil stove. One can really
toast quite well over it. I’ll be ready as soon as I put this cup
away.” He went back into the pantry while Elizabeth busied herself in
placing the daffodils in a ginger jar.
“Fine,” exclaimed Mr. Kemp when he came back. “It brings sunlight right
into the room, doesn’t it?”
“I always think of daffys as cups of sunshine,” returned Elizabeth.
“I might have known you would; it sounds just like you,” responded the
artist as he busied himself with setting his palette. “I think I must
paint a picture of you and the daffys in a strong sunlight. It could be
made something stunning.”
Elizabeth sighed. She really hoped that when this picture was done Mr.
Kemp would think he had had enough of a little girl with Titian hair,
but it was evident that he would keep on indefinitely and, like many
another, he didn’t seem in the least to realize that it might be a
hardship, so intent was he upon making the studies. Most of the girls,
the older as well as the younger, thought it an immense compliment to
be asked to sit to the painter, but Elizabeth had come to learn that it
was not always so. Some combination of light and shade, some special
effect, was what was considered, rather than a question of beauty. Why,
had she not seen Mr. Kemp painting very ugly old women and uglier old
men?
The morning passed slowly, although it must be said that Mr. Kemp was
good company and did his best to entertain his little sitter. About
eleven o’clock the threatening clouds dissolved into rain, which came
down harder and harder.
“It’s coming down with a vengeance, isn’t it?” said Mr. Kemp, stepping
back from his easel and looking at his work contemplatively. Then
he put down his palette and went to the window to look out. “I say,
Elfie,” he said, “let’s have dinner here. I’m not going to risk my
sweet self out in this rain. I’ll build up a good fire and we will cook
some potatoes in the ashes. Let me see what is in the larder. Come on.”
Elizabeth jumped down, only too glad of the diversion. “It is too
early, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Oh dear, no, not to roast potatoes. It takes ages to cook them. I’ll
make the fire first thing.” He was not long in finding dry shavings and
wood and soon had a fire burning cheerily on the hearth. “Now come,
let’s forage,” he said. “Eggs; we’ve plenty of those. I will make an
omelette; I learned how to do that in Paris. Here is some chipped beef
and a can of sardines. Which do you like best?”
“Oh, sardines,”--Elizabeth declared for these.
“I might make a sardine omelette; that wouldn’t be bad, and we can open
a can of soup to have first. Do you like orange marmalade? I know there
is a lot of that; bread and butter. Milk? There should be milk. Oh yes,
here it is. I don’t believe there is much else, except crackers and
cheese. Will that be enough?”
“It will be loads,” Elizabeth assured him in a pleased voice. This
was a great variety and the novelty of it all was so delightful. The
potatoes were put in the hot embers as soon as there were any for
them and then there was a merry time over setting the table. Dishes
of various sizes, shapes and patterns were gathered together, paper
napkins were laid, the jar of daffodils set in the middle of the rather
rickety table and they stood off to admire the effect.
“I call that a very stylish set-out,” declared Mr. Kemp. “Take this
fork, Elfie, and prod those potatoes while I get to work with the other
things. Where in the world did I put that can-opener? See if you can
find it, Elfie, while I do something else.”
Elizabeth hunted around and at last found the can-opener had been used
to prop open one of the windows. “What a negligible little child you
are, Mr. Titian,” she said, bringing it to him. They met on common
ground when it came to frolics like this.
“So I am, Elfie. I remember now, that I couldn’t find a stick for that
foolish window. I am going to put some catches on after awhile, but
Rome wasn’t built in a day. What about those potatoes?”
“They are pretty hard yet.”
“They are? Mean things; and I am getting hungrier every minute. We
might forego the potatoes and eat them later. What do you say? I don’t
believe we can wait for the slow things. Bully! Here is a can of peas,
just the things to go with the omelette. Have you any idea what you do
with them, Elfie? Do they have to be cooked or anything?”
“I have seen ’Lectra pour cold water over them,” replied Elizabeth
doubtfully. “She puts them in a colander and does that, I know; I don’t
remember whether she cooks them or not.”
Mr. Kemp carefully pierced a pea with a fork. “They appear quite soft,”
he announced. “I think if we just warm them up it will do. Dear me, I
haven’t a colander. I will just wash them in a pan and scoop them up
with a spoon; I reckon that will do.”
“I could do that,” Elizabeth offered.
“So you can. I think they will get hot while I am making the omelette.
But perhaps we’d better eat the soup first because it will not do to
let the omelette stand, besides there will not be room enough on the
stove for more than two things.”
They decided to do this and when the soup was hot they carried it in,
one eating from a soup plate and the other from a bowl, and making very
merry over it.
“I smell something burning,” cried Elizabeth, as she was taking her
last spoonful of soup.
“The peas!” cried Mr. Kemp. “I didn’t put any water on them and
probably they are stuck fast.” He rushed out to the little cubby which
he called the kitchenette and, sure enough, the peas had stuck fast.
“I don’t suppose they are any good,” said Mr. Kemp, looking at them
ruefully. “They are burnt black at the bottom.”
“Perhaps they won’t be so bad on top, if you take them off carefully.”
Mr. Kemp followed her suggestion, but after gingerly removing the top
layer and tasting it, he declared that the taste went all the way
through. “So we’ll have to give them up as a bad job,” he declared.
“Well, at least we shall have the omelette. I will make it big enough
to make up for the peas, only I had set my heart on those peas. I
thought how lovely it would be to make a rim of them around the
omelette, quite Frenchy, and the yellow and green would have matched
the daffodils so nicely.”
“Oh, never mind, we shall do very well. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
While Mr. Kemp was preparing the omelette, Elizabeth thought she might
try the potatoes again, and this time she found that they were really
done. She rushed to the kitchenette to announce her discovery. “They
are done!” she exclaimed.
“What? Who?” cried Mr. Kemp. “Why do you come upon me in that sudden
way, Elfie? I nearly dropped the pan--and then there would be trouble
in the camp.”
“The potatoes,” answered Elizabeth. “I tried them, and I am quite sure
they are done, so now we shall not mind about the peas.”
“I had forgotten the blessed things entirely. Fetch them along, Elfie,
but don’t burn yourself. I have a ticklish job here in getting this
precious omelette dished. My heart is in my mouth. Don’t watch me,
there’s a good child. If I should drop it I should be ready to weep.”
Elizabeth laughed and went off to take up the potatoes with a long
fork. They were rather black on the outside but when opened showed
themselves white and mealy within. Then they fell to enjoying their
feast to the fullest. Elizabeth thought she had never tasted a better
dinner and praised her friend’s skill as a cook. When it was disposed
of and the dishes washed, they suddenly discovered that it was quite
late and that they had been hours over the preparation, the eating and
the clearing up. To be sure there had been much joking and laughing,
some dilly-dallying, and all that.
“Dear me,” cried Elizabeth, “I had no idea how late it was. I must go.”
“Oh, but it is raining so hard. You’d better wait a few minutes,” Mr.
Kemp dissuaded her.
It was raining very hard, and Elizabeth waited. Mr. Kemp began telling
her a fascinating tale and, what with his interest in the telling
and hers in the listening, the moments passed unheeded until it was
finished. Then Elizabeth sprang to her feet. “It is dark,” she cried.
“Oh, Mr. Titian, I should have gone long ago.”
“I will see you home, never fear,” he said. “We’ve had a great day,
Elfie, haven’t we?”
“Oh yes, we have,” she could truthfully say, but her conscience smote
her when she remembered that she was only to spend the morning. She
wondered what excuse she could give. It had rained, to be sure, but not
steadily, and she could easily have taken the walk, rain or no rain;
but she did not voice her thoughts to Mr. Kemp, but cheerfully trotted
along with him under an umbrella, and he left her at her own door with
a merry word of farewell.
Elizabeth paused for a moment in the hall after she entered the house.
She heard voices upstairs. There was a light in the sitting-room, but
no one was there. She took off her things, hung them up, and gathered
up her school books, taking them to the sitting-room, by the table of
which she sat down.
Presently she heard a voice from the doorway saying: “Elizabeth, where
have you been all day?”
She did not look up, but answered: “At the studio, mother.”
“All day? Where did you have your dinner?”
“We had it there, such a lovely, tasteful dinner. Mr. Kemp and I got it
ourselves.” Elizabeth tried to be very animated and to speak as if it
were a matter of course. Her mother made no comment, and she went on.
“You see it was raining so hard----”
“Not all day.”
“Well, it was whenever I looked out, and Mr. Kemp invited me. He wanted
to try the new chimney and roast potatoes. It was such a big, populous
fire at first and the sparks flew out so we had to wait till it stopped
popping and there were some red embers to put the potatoes in. They
were a long, long time roasting, though.”
“And after dinner?”
“We washed the dishes and then I was coming, but it was raining so
awfully hard just then so we sat down by the fire and Mr. Kemp told me
a lovely narration. I was so interested in it that I didn’t know how
late it was getting, and when he had finished I came straight home. He
came with me. You weren’t worried, were you, mother?”
“I was not so much worried as I was grieved to know that you wilfully
disobeyed me. I excused you from the usual rule of getting your lessons
in the morning and you promised to study this afternoon, yet you have
just come in and it is suppertime.”
Elizabeth was silent. She knew she had done wrong, but it was so hard
to leave off when one was having such an unusually good time. “I didn’t
mean to stay so late,” she made the excuse lamely.
“I think, my dear,” said her mother, “that in order to prevent your
forgetting another time, I must forbid your going at all to the
studio until I give you permission.” Then her mother walked away, and
Elizabeth drew a long sigh as she turned back to her books.