"Ambition should be made of sterner stuff."
"A patron at last, Cornelius," said Humphrey Jagenal, partly
recovering from the shock of Jack Dunquerque's communication. "A
Patron. Patronage is, after all, the breath of life in Art. Let others
pander to the vitiated public taste and cater for a gaping crowd round
the walls of the Royal Academy. I would paint for a Lorenzo only, and
so work for the highest interests of Art. We will call, brother, upon
this Mr. Beck to-morrow."
"We will!" said Cornelius, with enthusiasm.
It was in the Studio. Both brothers, simultaneously fired with ardour,
started to their feet and threw back their heads with a gesture of
confidence and determination. The light of high resolve flashed from
their eyes, which were exactly alike. The half-opened lips expressed
their delight in the contemplation of immortal fame. Their chance had
arrived; their youth was come back to them.
True, that Gilead Beck at present only proposed to become a Patron to
the Artist; but while it did not enter into Humphrey's head for one
moment that he could make that visit unsupported by his brother, so
the thought lay in either's brain that a Poet wanted patronage as much
as an Artist.
They were both excited. To Humphrey it was clear that the
contemplation of his great work, in which he had basked so many years,
was to be changed for days of active labour. No longer could he
resolve to carry it into execution the "day after to-morrow," as the
Arabs say. This was difficult to realise, but as yet the thought was
like the first shock of ice-cold water, for it set his veins tingling
and braced his nerves. He felt within him once more the strength felt
by every young man at first, which is the strength of Michael Angelo.
He saw in imagination his great work, the first of many great works,
finished, a glorious canvas glowing with the realization of a
painter's dream of colour, crowded with graceful figures, warm with
the thought of genius, and rich with the fancy of an Artist-scholar--a
work for all time. And he gasped. But for his beard he might have been
a boy waiting for the morrow, when he should receive the highest prize
in the school; or an undergraduate, the favourite of his year, after
the examination, looking confidently to the Senior Wranglership.
In the morning they took no walk, but retired silently each to his own
room. In the Studio the Artist opened his portfolios, and spread out
the drawings made years ago when he was studying in Rome. They were
good drawings; there was feeling in every line; but they were copies.
There was not one scrap of original work, and his Conscience began to
whisper--only he refused at first to listen--that the skill of hand
and touch was gone. Then Conscience, which gets angry if disregarded,
took to whispering more loudly, and presently he heard. He took crayon
and paper, and began, feverishly and in haste, to copy one of his old
drawings. He worked for a quarter of an hour, and then, looking at the
thing he had once done beside the thing he was then doing, he dashed
the pencil from him, and tore up the miserable replica in disgust. His
spirit, which had flown so high, sank dull and heavy as lead; he threw
himself back in his chair and began to think, gazing hopelessly into
space.
It was the opportunity of Conscience, who presently began to sing as
loudly as any skylark, but not so cheerfully. "You are fifty," said
that voice which seldom lies, "you have wasted the last twenty years
of your life; you have become a wind-bag and a shallow humbug; you
cannot now paint or draw at all; what little power was in you has
departed. Your brother, the Poet, has been steadily working while you
have slept"--and it will be perceived that Conscience spoke from
imperfect information. "He will produce a great book, and live. You
will die. The grave will close over you, and you will be forgotten."
It was a hard saying, and the Artist groaned as he listened to it.
In the workshop, Cornelius also, startled into action, spread out upon
the table a bundle of papers which had been lying undisturbed in his
desk for a dozen years or more. They were poems he had written in his
youth, unpublished verses, thoughts in rhyme such as an imaginative
young man easily pours forth, reproducing the fashion of the time and
the thoughts of others. He began to read these over again with mingled
pleasure and pain. For the thoughts seemed strange to him. He felt
that they were good and lofty thoughts, but the conviction forced
itself upon him that the brain which had produced them was changed. No
more of such good matter was left within it. The lines of thought were
changed. The poetic faculty, a delicate plant, which droops unless it
is watered and carefully tended, was dead within him.
And the whole of the Epic to be written.
Not a line done, not a single episode on paper, though to Phillis he
claimed to have done so much.
He seized a pen, and with trembling fingers and agitated brain forced
himself to write.
In half an hour he tore the paper into shreds, and, with a groan,
threw down the pen. The result was too feeble.
Then he too began to meditate, like his brother in the Studio.
Presently his guardian angel, who very seldom got such a chance, began
to admonish him, even as the dean admonishes an erring undergraduate.
"You are fifty," said the invisible Censor. "What have you done with
yourself for twenty years and more. Your best thoughts have passed
away; the poetical eye is dim; you will write no more. Your brother,
the Artist, is busy with pencil and brain. He will produce a great
work, and live for ever. You will do nothing; you will go down into
the pit and be forgotten."
It was too much for the Poet. His lips trembled, his hand shook. He
could no more rest in his chair.
He walked backwards and forwards, the voice pursuing him.
"Wasted years; wasted energies; wasted gifts; your chance is gone. You
cannot write now."
Poets are more susceptible than artists. That is the reason why
Cornelius rushed out of the Workshop to escape this torture and sought
his brother Humphrey.
Humphrey started like a guilty person. His face was pale, his eye was
restless.
"Cornelius?"
"Do not me disturb you, my dear brother. You are happy; you are at
work; your soul is at peace."
"And you, Cornelius?"
"I am not at peace. I am restless this morning. I am nervous and
agitated."
"So am I, Cornelius. I cannot work. My pencil refuses to obey my
brain."
"My own case. My pen will not write what I wish. The link between the
brain and the nerves is for the moment severed."
"Let us go out, brother. It is now three. We will walk slowly in the
direction of the Langham Hotel."
As they put on their hats Cornelius stopped, and said reflectively--
"The nervous system is a little shaken with both of us. Can you
suggest anything, brother Humphrey?"
"The best thing for a shaken nervous system," replied Humphrey
promptly, "is a glass of champagne. I will get some champagne for you,
brother Cornelius."
He returned presently with a modest pint bottle, which they drank
together, Humphrey remarking (in italics) that in such a case it is
not a question of what a man _wants_, so much as of what he _needs_.
A pint of champagne is not much between two men, but it produced an
excellent effect upon the Twins. Before it they were downcast; they
looked around with the furtive eyes of conscious imposture; their
hands trembled. After it they raised their heads, laughed, and looked
boldly in each other's eyes, assumed a gay and confident air, and
presently marched off arm-in-arm to call upon the Patron.
Gilead Beck, unprepared to see both brethren, welcomed them with a
respect almost overwhelming. It was his first interview with Genius.
They introduced each other.
"Mr. Beck," said Cornelius, "allow me to introduce my brother,
Humphrey Jagenal. In his case the world is satisfied with the
Christian name alone, without the ceremonial prefix. He is, as you
know, the Artist."
If his brother had been Titian or Correggio he could not have said
more.
"Sir," said Mr. Beck, shaking Humphrey's hand warmly, "I am proud
indeed to make your acquaintance. I am but a rough man myself, sir,
but I respect genius."
"Then," said Humphrey, with admirable presence of mind, "allow me to
introduce my brother. Cornelius Jagenal, as you doubtless know, Mr.
Beck, is the Poet."
Mr. Beck did not know it, and said so. But he shook hands with
Cornelius none the less cordially.
"Sir, I have been knocking about the world, and have not read any
poetry since I was a boy. Then I read Alexander Pope. You know Pope,
Mr. Jagenal?"
Cornelius smiled, as if he might allow some merit to Pope, though
small in comparison with his own.
"I have never met with your poem, Mr. Cornelius Jagenal or your
pictures, Mr. Humphrey, but I hope you will now enable me to do so."
"My brother is engaged"--said Cornelius.
"My brother is engaged"--began Humphrey. "Pardon, brother."
"Sit down, gentlemen. Will you take anything? In California, up
country, we always begin with a drink. Call for what you please,
gentlemen. Sail in, as we say."
They took champagne, for the second time that day, and then their eyes
began to glisten.
Mr. Beck observed that they were both alike--small and fragile-looking
men, with bright eyes and delicate features; he made a mental note to
the effect that they would never advance their own fortunes. He also
concluded from their red noses, and from the way in which they
straightened their backs after placing themselves outside the
champagne, that they loved the goblet, and habitually handled it too
often.
"Now, gentlemen," he began, after making these observations, "may I be
allowed to talk business?"
They both bowed.
"Genius, gentlemen, is apt to be careless of the main chance. It don't
care for the almighty dollar; it lets fellows like me heap up the
stamps. What can we do but ask Genius to dig into our Pile?"
Humphrey poured out another glass of champagne for his brother, and
one for himself. Then he turned to Cornelius and nodded gravely.
"Cornelius, so far as I understand him, Mr. Beck speaks the strongest
common sense."
"We agree with you so far, Mr. Beck," said Cornelius critically,
because he was there to give moral support to his brother.
"Why should I have any delicacy in saying to a young man, or a man of
any age," he added doubtfully, for the years of the Twins seemed
uncertain, "'You, sir, are an Artist and a Genius. Take a cheque, and
carry out your ideas.'?"
"What reason indeed?" asked Cornelius. "The offer does honour to
both."
"Or to another man, 'You, sir, are a Poet. Why should the cares of the
world interfere with your thoughts? Take a cheque, and make the world
rejoice'!"
Humphrey clapped his hands.
"The world lies in travail for such a patron of poetry," he said.
"Why, then, we are agreed," said Mr. Beck. "Gentlemen, I say to you
both, collectively, let me usher into the world those works of genius
which you are bound to produce. You, sir, are painting a picture. When
can you finish me that picture?"
"In six months," said Humphrey, his brain suffused with a rosy warmth
of colour which made him see things in an impossibly favourable light.
"I buy that picture, sir, at your own price," said the patron. "I
shall exhibit it in London, and it shall then go to New York with me.
And you, Mr. Cornelius Jagenal, are engaged upon poems. When would you
wish to publish your verses?"
"My Epic, the _Upheaval of Ælfred_, will be ready for publication
about the end of November," said Cornelius.
Humphrey felt a passing pang of jealousy as he perceived that his
brother would be before the world a month in advance of himself. But
what is a month compared with immortality?
"I charge myself, sir, if you will allow me," said the American, "with
the production of that work. It shall be printed in the best style
possible, on the thickest paper made, and illustrated by the best
artist that can be found--you, perhaps, Mr. Humphrey Jagenal. It shall
be bound in Russian leather; its exterior shall be worthy of its
contents. And as for business arrangements, gentlemen, you will please
consider them at your leisure, and let me know what you think. We
shall be sure to agree, because, if you will not think it shoddy in me
to say so, I have my Pile to dig into. And I shall send you, if you
will allow me, gentlemen, a small cheque each in advance."
They murmured assent and rose to go.
"If you would favor me further, gentlemen, by dining with me--say this
day week--I should take it as a great distinction. I hope, with the
assistance of Mr. Dunquerque, to have a few prominent men of letters
to meet you. I want to have my table full of genius."
"Can we, brother Humphrey, accept Mr. Beck's invitation?"
Cornelius asked as if they were weeks deep in engagements. As it was,
nobody ever asked them anywhere, and they had no engagements at all.
Humphrey consulted a pocket-book with grave face.
"We can, Mr. Beck."
"And if you know any one else, gentlemen, any men of Literature and
Art who will come too, bring them along with you, and I shall feel it
an honour."
They knew no one connected with Literature and Art, not even a
printer's devil, but they did not say so.
At twelve o'clock, toward the close of this fatiguing day, Cornelius
asked Humphrey, with a little hesitation, if he really thought he
should have finished his great work in six months.
"Art cannot be forced, Cornelius," said the Painter airily. "If I am
not ready, I shall not hesitate to consider the pledge conditional. My
work must be perfect ere it leaves my hands."
"And mine, too," said the Poet. "I will never consent to let a poem of
mine go forth unfinished to the world. The work must be polished _ad
unguem_."
"This is a memorable day, brother. The tumblers are empty. Allow me.
And, Cornelius, I really do think that, considering the way in which
we have been treated by Phillis Fleming, and her remarks about
afternoon work, we ought to call and let her understand the reality of
our reputation."
"We will, Humphrey. But it is not enough to recover lost ground; we
must advance farther. The fortress shall be made to surrender."
"Let us drink to your success, brother, and couple with the toast the
name of Phillis--Phillis--Phillis Jagenal, brother?"
They drank that toast, smiling unutterable things.