AN ARTIST MAKES AN EXHIBITION
OF HIMSELF
No man has ever understood a woman, for the simple reason that woman
is unintelligible even to her own kind. If she were not, and if she
were susceptible to explanation by her own sisters, be sure that her
own sisters would lose no time in telling the first man she met all
about her.
Lady Moya Felton possessed that rare combination of talents, beauty
and acumen. She dressed well, she spoke well, and she looked well. She
was a product of Newnham, an institution which, more often than not,
gives the world a being which is something less than a woman and
something more than a babu. This being is crammed with erudition and
for many years fights life with a textbook. Sometimes she continues to
the end, very self-assured, very confident of the facts she has culled
from the printed page and very determined that she will never
surrender her mechanical facts or her machine-made values. Sometimes,
she succumbs to the humanising influences which daily contact with the
verities of life bring to her and develops into a useful and charming
member of society.
Moya had absorbed just as much of life as she thought was necessary to
her comfort. She stopped short of the supreme lesson which finds
expression in cheerful sacrifice but she was an eminently pleasing
person and never discussed biological justice or gave forth as her own
the shoddy philosophies she had acquired in hall. Therefore, she was
bearable. Moreover, by realising--here her instinct served her--that
Newnham had turned her out fit for nothing better than a church-going
school ma’am, she conveyed an impression of her education rather than
declaimed the fact.
Practical as she was, she had a guilty secret, not only a very dear
one, to be hugged tight to her heart, but one which evoked the unusual
emotion of profound disapproval in the more ordered compartments of
her mind. Moya was a dreamer, a cold-blooded romanticist who had
wonderful adventures with wonderful people whenever she walked or rode
abroad. In the privacy of her big limousine, she would be absorbed in
events of her own creation, wholly monopolised by men and women who
bore no likeness to and had no relation with any person in her
somewhat extensive list of acquaintances. She would often find herself
in situations so absurdly impossible that even the penny novelette
reader would have rejected them with the scorn which their crudity
deserved. She did not dream of living people, the mere mental
suggestion--for the roving mind has a trick of taking charge at
times--that any of her visionary heroes had his prototype in flesh and
blood ensured the ejection of the offending dream-man and the
substitution of another, more wildly improbable but at the same time
more unlikely to challenge relationship with anybody in the material
world.
She could dream and yet accept the cold practicality of a Ralph Sapson
and calmly consider a marriage so hopelessly prosaic.
That was inexplicable.
For an engaged lover Ralph had been singularly remiss. He had called
once since his unemotional declaration of love. To do him justice he
had skipped the tender demonstrations which usually accompany even the
most formal engagements and had got down to the question of settlement
in the shortest space of time. This was as Moya could wish, for she
also was embarrassed at the thought that a human being might possibly
approach--suffering in comparison--the extravagance, wordless and
intangible as it was, of her shadowy friends.
It is a remarkable circumstance that romance in concrete form did not
come to Moya, until the very week she engaged herself to marry Sir
Ralph Sapson. It came in a curious way. She had driven to Leicester
Square to see an exhibition of pictures. It was one of those
collections which dawn upon London, bringing in its wake a name which
has never been heard before, save in a very select circle and is never
heard again outside of that circle; an orbit which swings beyond the
ken of ordinary mortals.
She went into the gallery and found it a veritable desert. Save for a
young man and a small, pinched and preoccupied girl, wearing a large
pendant in which was inserted the photograph of her uninteresting
fiancé, the place was empty. The girl with the pendant carried her
excuse in her hand, in the shape of a bunch of catalogues. There was
less excuse for the young man for he was healthy in appearance and it
was not raining.
Moya began a conscientious inspection of the pictures, chiefly
remarkable for their colouring and for the atmosphere which the artist
had managed to secure. Indeed, the pictures were all atmosphere. The
girl made a slow progress along the wall, comparing each framed
atrocity with her catalogue and striving to sense, dimly, something of
the artist’s honourable intentions.
She looked around once to discover what effect the pictures had upon
her fellow sightseer. He was standing before a long panel
representing, if the catalogue had been rightly compiled, “A Blue Wind
on a Green Hill.” His face bore an expression of the deepest gloom,
his hat was tilted to the back of his head and his hands were thrust
deeply into his trousers pockets. The longer he looked at the “Blue
Wind on the Green Hill” the more morose and unhappy did he appear.
This then was the attitude which the new colourist school demanded,
one of fierce but approving antagonism if the paradox be permitted.
She moved up till she was almost by his side, never thinking that in
the presence of the girl with the programmes and the photographic
miniature, he would dare address her. Yet he did.
“What do you think of that one?” he asked without turning his head.
She was taken aback and was prepared to be chilly and non-committal.
She looked at his face and the nearer view was a pleasing one. He was
very fair, very good-looking and had the bluest eyes she had ever seen
in a man. He was also unshaven and his collar was not clean, but he
was well dressed enough and his tone was wholly Oxford--and Balliol at
that.
“I think it is rather weird,” she said.
“So do I,” he nodded vigorously. “I think it is--‘weird’ is the word.
As a work of art how does it strike you?”
She hesitated. She had a full range of studio jargon which she had
acquired in the course of her after-education and could speak glibly
on atmosphere, tone and light. She knew that it was possible to refer
to a still-life study of a bunch of bananas as being “full of
movement” without being guilty of an absurdity. In fact, she knew
enough about art to have occupied a position on any average newspaper
as a critic.
“As a work of art,” she said, “it is original and a little eccentric.”
“Frankly?” he demanded fiercely.
All the time he spoke he was glaring at the picture and had not turned
his head toward her.
“Frankly,” she replied, “I think these are monstrosities.”
He nodded again.
“I agree with you,” he said, “and I know better than anybody else how
monstrous they are--I painted ’em!”
Moya gasped.
“I am awfully sorry,” she began.
“I am sorry, too--that I painted them,” he replied. “I am not sorry
that I exhibited them, because all my friends told me that they were
wonderful and naturally I get some satisfaction from proving that my
friends are mentally deficient.”
He turned round and looked at her and was in turn surprised.
“Hello,” he said, staring at her with his blue eyes wide open, “I
thought you were much older.”
She laughed.
“The fact is I didn’t look at you,” he confessed; “how can anybody
look at anything with these beastly things staring one in the
face--Hi! Emma!”
Fortunately the programme girl was looking his way and realised that
he was speaking to her.
“Your name is Emma, I suppose.”
“No, sir,” said the girl impressively, “my name is Evangeline.”
He turned to the girl.
“Here is an Evangeline whom I thought was an Emma; and here are my
Emmas that I thought were Evangelines,” he said despairingly. “What
made you come to this exhibition?”
“I saw a criticism of the pictures in yesterday’s papers.”
“In the _Megaphone_,” he said accusingly.
“Yes--it was a very flattering criticism, I thought,” said the girl.
He nodded.
“I wrote it myself,” he said without shame.
He turned to the programme girl.
“Tell your master to shut up the gallery, have the pictures packed
away and sent home.”
“But,” said Moya in alarm, “I hope my stupid views won’t influence
you.”
“It isn’t your stupid view,” he said, “it is my original stupid view.
You see, I can’t paint really. I know not the slightest thing about
art, I have never had an artistic education or served under any
master. I am a genius. These works are works of a genius. The frames
cost a lot of money and the amount of paint I have used is prodigious.
There is everything there,” he waved his hand to the covered walls,
“except the know-how.”
She murmured a conventional expression of sympathy, but he did not
invite sympathy, he invited condemnation and seemed to find a comfort
in his own misfortune and was obviously all the happier, that he had
reached a decision on his own merits.
They walked out of the gallery together and Moya wondered at herself.
That she had in so brief a space of time entered into the aspirations
and disappointments of a perfect stranger so that she felt something
of his chagrin was truly amazing.
“I know you,” he said, breaking off in the midst of a sardonic
dissertation on art, “you are Lady Moya Melton or Pelton.”
“Felton,” she suggested, amused.
“Oh, yes, Felton,” he nodded. “I saw your portrait in the academy, a
very bad portrait too.”
“People thought it was rather good,” she demurred.
“Idealised, but Lord, what do I know about art? This char-a-banc de
luxe is yours, I presume,” he pointed to the big limousine.
“It does happen to be mine,” she said; “my father gave it to me on my
twenty-first birthday.”
He inspected it critically.
“I wonder if I know as much about motor-cars as I know about
painting,” he said. “I used to think I knew something about both, but
here, at any rate, is something real, it is a very nice car.”
He opened the door for her and she offered her hand.
“I am so sorry about the pictures,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” he replied cheerfully.
She thought for a moment.
“Can I drop you anywhere?”
He fingered his unshaven chin.
“If you know of a nice deep pond where a man may drown himself without
interference I should be obliged,” he said gravely, then, seeing the
look of alarm in her eyes he laughed. “You probably don’t know my
name,” he said.
As a matter of fact she did not and had been trying throughout the
interview to take a surreptitious look at the catalogue. She knew it
was something like Brixel.
“Fonso Blaxton--” he said shortly. “Fonso stands for Alphonso, a
perfectly rotten name, isn’t it? It would be quite all right for an
artist. If there’s any need to send flowers, my address is Oxford
Chambers.”
He shook hands abruptly, handed her into the car and closed the door.
He waited only the briefest spell and had lifted his hat and vanished
before the car had started.
Moya drove back with so much to occupy her thoughts that she forgot to
dream. So preoccupied was she, that she passed Sir Ralph Sapson and
his chic companion turning into the park before she was aware that he
was bowing to her or had time to note anything more about the lady
than that she was very beautifully gowned and that her sunshade was
tilted at such an angle that it was impossible to see her face.
“Who is your friend?”
Sir Ralph turned with a smirk.
“That, Princess,” he said, “is Lady Moya Felton.”
“Oh, your fiancée,” said the girl, “isn’t it a bore being in London
incognito; I should so much like to have met her.”
“Perhaps some day,” said Ralph.
“I should dearly love to,” murmured the girl; “but please go on, you
interest me so much. I am beginning to realise why you English are so
successful. You seem to know every detail of your business.”
“Oh, dear no,” protested Sir Ralph good-humoredly. “I am rather a
dunce if the truth be told, but one must know something of the
details.”
“Something!” said the girl, raising her eye-brows. “I think you are
very modest. Why, you seem to know the workings of your railway system
from beginning to end.”
Sir Ralph stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
“One has to go into things,” he said vaguely, “and of course one takes
a lot of credit for things which one is not entitled to take credit
for. But the gold train was my idea altogether.”
“I never thought there was so much romance in business,” said the
Princess, then suddenly, “do you mind telling the driver to turn
about, I am tired of the park now.”
He leaned forward and instructed the chauffeur and the big car circled
round.
“I am glad you suggested that,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
“Did you notice a man in a grey felt hat talking to a lady in a
victoria?”
She shook her head.
“He’s a weird bird,” said Sir Ralph; “he is a policeman, Michael
Pretherston, Lord Pretherston’s brother. I don’t want to meet him,
apart from the fact that he might recognize you, even through that
veil of yours which would deny him so much happiness,” he added
gallantly.
“Tell me some more about the gold train,” she said.
Nothing loath Sir Ralph explained. He told the story of the Seahampton
Docks and the big liners which would be coming in and the new services
he had inaugurated to meet the increased traffic.
“We shall carry practically the whole of the gold which comes from the
Rand mines,” he said impressively. “Naturally we have to be very
careful although there is not much danger in England. The gold train
is really two big safes on wheels. To outward appearance, they are
just like ordinary closed railway trucks. In reality they are steel
boxes, burglar proof and fire proof. Of course, nothing can go wrong
and even if we had a smash the cars would be uninjured. But I have the
best men on the system to run the train.”
“How very fascinating,” she said intensely interested. “I suppose you
have a most elaborate time-table?”
“I have worked out every detail myself,” he said.
He took a note-book from his pocket.
“I will show you, Princess,” he said impressively.
He turned the gilt-edged leaves until he came to two pages covered
with his fine writing.
“You will get some idea of the work involved in the running of a
special train,” he said; “here are the times. There is the driver’s
name, the fireman’s name, the assistant fireman’s name, the names of
the two guards.”
She looked at the book.
“I cannot read your writing very well,” she laughed; “you must not
forget that my family was very old fashioned and my dear father never
allowed us to learn the Roman alphabet until we were quite grown up.
But I can see what a very difficult business it is.”
She handed the book back to him with a little sigh.
“I am afraid I am very stupid,” she said; “figures always bother me
and I can see that you revel in them. I hate writing, but by the way
your book is filled, it seems that you revel in it! I cannot
understand people who like to write. It is always an agony for me to
compose an ordinary letter. My thoughts come so much faster than my
poor hand can move.”
She took a pad and pencil from the silver mounted stationery case in
front of her.
“I will show you something,” she said.
She wrote rapidly, resting the pad on her knee and he watched her in
astonishment as she proceeded to fill the sheet.
“There,” she said triumphantly, “that is what I can do best.”
“It looks like shorthand,” he said.
“It is something like Russian shorthand,” said the girl, “and I am
such a lazy person that I always use it whenever I want to write a
note. My secretary, who is the only person in the world who
understands it, transcribes it. I do it because I hate writing.”
“So you are clever, after all, Princess.”
She reached out her little hand and patted his arm.
“You don’t know how clever I am,” she said and they both laughed
together.