THE COURTYARD
Dan Oldfield was standing in front of an easel on which was a minute
canvas. The scene depicted thereon was a pastoral of Mesonnier-like
detail. At the moment Dan was engaged in painting lilac flowers on a
green and white dress. The original dress was on a lay figure before
him.
The studio in which he was working was one of seven enclosed in a
courtyard. Two of the studios had small gardens in front. Standing in
one of the gardens it was easier to imagine oneself in the depths of
the country than in the midst of London. The roll of the traffic in the
King's Road was just sufficiently remote to sound not unlike the roar
of the sea.
There were lilac bushes and laburnums in the gardens. A thrush sang in
one of the laburnum trees in the spring, and a robin in the winter. The
robin was very tame. It had established a visiting acquaintance with
all seven studios. There was a certain amount of jealousy among the
inhabitants when occasionally for a week at a time, it would show a
marked preference for one studio. On the whole its affections were most
deeply centred on studio number seven. At the moment this studio was
empty.
Dan painted in the lilac flowers carefully, using extremely small
brushes. Every now and then he stepped back from his work to judge of
the effect. Any onlooker uneducated in the mysteries of art would have
imagined the use of a magnifying glass a more desirable method to study
the effect. Dan was evidently not of that opinion. He had just finished
painting in the yellow heart of the thirteenth flower when the sound of
the wheels of some large vehicle entering the courtyard struck upon his
ears.
"What's that!" he said carelessly, and he crossed to the window.
A large pantechnicon had drawn up opposite studio number seven. Men had
already run round to open the doors at the back of the van. It was full
of furniture.
"Good Lord!" ejaculated Dan.
He put his palette and brushes down on a table, and standing on a chair
poked his head through the upper part of the window. A large roll of
blue drugget and a dark oak easel were being carried up the small
garden path. Two men were hauling a Chesterfield sofa from the van.
"Good Lord!" said Dan again.
He withdrew his head from the window, descended from the chair, and
came out of his studio into the courtyard. The sunshine, which was
brilliant, shone on his untidy red hair. He looked like a slightly
worried giant.
The Chesterfield was reposing momentarily on the stones of the
courtyard. The men were wiping their foreheads. The day was warm.
"Studio let?" demanded Dan.
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Bringing in the furniture, sir. Nice day,
but warm."
"Who's taken the studio?" demanded Dan.
"Can't remember the lady's name at the moment, sir. Elderly lady with
grey hair. Saw her when----"
"An old lady!" interrupted Dan. His voice held at least three notes of
disgust.
"Yes, sir, she----"
But Dan had vanished up the garden path of studio number six, had
banged on the door, and entered without waiting for permission.
A man in his shirtsleeves was standing before an easel. A nude model
was half sitting, half lying, on the platform.
"I say, Barnabas," he began. Then he saw the model. "Morning, Tilly.
Sorry I interrupted."
"Oh, it's all right," said the man addressed, good-humouredly. "I
thought it was your fairy footfall before I heard the knock. What's
the trouble? Have you stuck the Messonnier painting on an envelope in
mistake for a postage stamp and put it in the pillar-box? You'd better
take a rest now, Tilly, while Mr. Oldfield disburdens his mind."
The girl stretched herself in a lazy panther-like fashion, and taking a
faded purple dressing-gown from the model stand flung it round herself.
"Studio number seven's let," said Dan.
"Well, why shouldn't it be?" said Barnabas imperturbably. "It's been
vacant six months. It's a pleasant studio; large, well-ventilated,
drains in perfect condition, an ideal----"
"Oh, shut up, Barnabas," said Dan. "It's let to an old woman."
"What?"
"An old woman," repeated Dan bitterly.
For a moment Barnabas looked utterly taken aback. Then he shook his
head.
"Bad news indeed, my child. For the last five years at least we've been
a pleasant little coterie of seven undeniable geniuses all of the male
sex. Then Ashton left us. Why on earth didn't your friend Shottover
take the place? I thought you said he was going to."
"So I thought," replied Dan gloomily. "He's such a vacillating ass. I
told him he'd lose it if he didn't hurry and make up his mind. Now he
has lost it, and we've an old woman coming to plant herself among us.
It isn't that I dislike women----"
Barnabas grinned suddenly.
"What's funny?" asked Dan.
"Your unnecessary statement, my child."
"Well, it's true."
"I know. There was so remarkably little need to state the fact."
"But," went on Dan firmly, "I don't like old women."
"There are exceptions," said Barnabas solemnly. "My paternal
grandmother----"
"Bother your paternal grandmother. I tell you the studio's let to an
old woman, and they're taking in the furniture now."
Barnabas moved towards the door.
"Let's have a look at it," he said. "I wonder what her taste in studio
furniture is like."
He went out into his little garden, Dan following him. A dark oak
bookcase and an oak chest were being removed from the van.
"By Jove, the ancient lady has got taste!" said Barnabas. "Genuine old
stuff, or my name's not John Kirby."
The two stood together in the garden on the little gravel path, looking
across a bed of forget-me-nots and a small fence at the working men.
Barnabas--his real name was John Kirby, but he had first been nicknamed
the Comforter, and finally Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, by his
fellow-artists--was a tall man who would have looked even taller if it
had not been for the huge frame of the man beside him.
"I wouldn't mind that bit of furniture myself," said Barnabas, as a
beautiful corner cupboard was unearthed from the van. "Hullo! what's
this? 'The Winged Victory,' by Jingo! _and_ a pedestal. Here's art
and no mistake. Pictures, too. Here, you," he called to the two men
who were carrying them, "allow us momentarily to cast our eyes upon
those treasures. Ye gods and little fishes! a Nicholson, a Pryde, two
Sickerts, and a genuine Bartolozzi print. The ancient lady evidently
possesses not only taste but cash--hard coin of the realm, my child."
"Those old fogies always have tons of money," grunted Dan.
Three large wooden packing-cases were now carried towards the studio.
"Be careful with the unpacking of those," said the man who was
evidently the chief in command. "Old blue Worcester dinner service,
sir," he explained in an aside to the two who were looking over the
fence.
Dan groaned.
"Pure swank on her part," said Barnabas sorrowfully. "What have the
fleshpots of Egypt in common with the earthenware and bread and cheese
of Bohemia. Why didn't she take up her abode in the fashionable
quarters of Kensington."
"Turn a Park Lane house into a studio," said Dan.
"Have you any idea," asked Barnabas, addressing himself to the
man in command, "when the fortunate possessor of these rare and
valuable articles intends to take up her residence in this charming
domicile?--in other words, when does the elderly lady come in?"
"To-night, sir, about seven o'clock, I think. Our orders are to have
everything ready before six, even if we had to put on extra hands. But
it will be ready easily, bless you, even to the making of the beds
and final sweeping, which my wife's seeing to. There's not above four
or five hours' work here. There ain't none of the little whatnots and
ornaments to unpack what ladies usually carries about."
Barnabas looked at Dan.
"To-night!" he said meaningly. "And you have one of your famous parties
on! To-night the old lady will sleep--if she can--lulled by the sound
of hilarious laughter, the twanging of banjos, ribald songs, and all
the other pleasant little noises which are an invariable accompaniment
to one of your mad entertainments. Shall you be busy to-morrow?" he
asked the man.
"Yes, sir; we're moving a family into Elm Park Gardens."
Barnabas shook his head. "That's unfortunate. You'll doubtless be
required here. The old lady will be making a hasty exit. The old blue
Worcester dinner service will be repacked less carefully--there won't
be time for care--the corner cupboard and the Chesterfield sofa, to
say nothing of the Winged----"
"Ass!" said Dan. "What is the use of talking rot about it. We shall
have complaints from the owner of the studios about the noise we make.
I know what it will be."
"A new set of regulations à la German," said Barnabas. "No pianos
before seven or after ten. Lights out at eleven. We shall become a set
of model young men who will work quietly all the week and go to church
on Sundays. Hullo, here's Jasper. Let's tell him the pleasing tidings."
The door of another studio had opened, and a slight, dark man with a
somewhat ascetic and rather discontented-looking face came out in the
sunshine.
"What's going on here?" he demanded.
"We're studying the preface to a little book called 'From Wildness to
Decorum,'" answered Barnabas gravely. "The first chapter will no doubt
be named 'Hints from the Ancients to Young Men--on Deportment.'"
"Do you ever talk sense?" asked Jasper. "I suppose someone has taken
this studio."
Dan imparted the information they had lately received.
"So there's no more fun for us poor young fellows, and we'll grow like
the good artists grow," chanted Barnabas.
"I don't see why you should imagine that because this lady has
taken the studio that she should necessarily object to any of our
amusements," said Jasper seriously. "Besides, I hardly think it is
kind----"
Barnabas gave a little chuckle of laughter.
"Dear child!" he said patting Jasper gently on the shoulder. "He's
learnt the first chapter of the little book by heart while we've been
grizzling in the garden. Entirely Dan's fault, my child. He interrupted
a busy morning, thereby causing me to view the whole world, and old
ladies in particular, in a pessimistic spirit. Let us be kind. We will
invite the old dame to your party, Dan. We'll sing songs suited to the
ears of age. We'll hire a harmonium for the evening, and----"
"I wish you would occasionally be serious," interrupted Jasper half
impatiently. "Of course we should have preferred a man in the studio,
but I don't see why you and Dan need be so certain that a woman's
advent will interfere with us. Do the others know?"
"Lord, no, my child," said Barnabas. "It would take an earthquake to
induce the other three to put nose beyond door or eye to window before
one o'clock. If Michael isn't at work on an illustration of a starved
child, he'll be writing an essay on 'Humour--Some more of its more
cynical aspects.' Alan will be painting a burning cross in the centre
of a crimson rose, and would regard the smallest interruption as the
highest form of sacrilege, and Paul will be doing such genuine good
work that it would be sacrilege to interrupt him."
There was a moment's silence. Then Jasper spoke in the tone of one who
has been giving a subject close consideration.
"You know, I don't think we ought to let the fact that a woman has
taken the studio arouse feelings of animosity in us towards her. She
is bound to have a studio somewhere if she wants to paint, and why not
among us? I think we should do our best to make her welcome."
Dan swore softly beneath his breath. Jasper had moments of priggishness
that were almost beyond the patience of man to endure. Except when
these moods were on him he was not such a bad sort of fellow.
Barnabas choked down a little laughter and a big bit of annoyance at a
gulp.
"Right oh! my child. And now I must return to my studio, or Tilly will
have smoked all my cigarettes. I offered her one once, and henceforth
she has looked upon them all as her own especial property. Worst of
acting in a moment of ill-considered generosity. Dan, don't be boorish
any longer. I'll leave Jasper to read you a further homily on the whole
duty of man towards ancient ladies. So long, my children. Don't trample
down my forget-me-nots in your ardour."
He gave them a cheerful nod and vanished within the studio.
His departure left a curious blank. It gave something the impression
felt when the sun retires behind a cloud, or the sensation we
experience the first morning of work following a month's holiday.
People almost invariably felt this sensation when Barnabas left them.
The two other men still stood a few moments longer watching the
unpacking of the van. Dan, however, had ceased to find the same
interest in the proceedings. He could no longer grumble with a free
mind. In the presence of Jasper his utterances would have taken on
an air of seriousness he was far from fully intending. Besides, his
proximity in this mood annoyed him. The minute lilac flowers, too,
required his attention.
Jasper remembered that he also had left a model within his studio.
Besides, his latest resolution--among others--was not to waste mornings
unnecessarily.
The two separated. The work of removing the furniture from the van
continued.
A thrush, unheeding the presence of the men, settled in the laburnum
tree and began to sing. Perhaps it was an unconscious song of welcome
to the woman who would that evening enter the castle of her dreams.