Art, in London, has many unexpected hiding-places. In the great
palace-like houses of her successful followers she makes, it is true, at
times an imposing show; but other votaries, less successful or more
indifferent to outward glitter, find curious homes in which to plant
their easels or model their clay. There is a broad thoroughfare along
which the busy prosaic feverish rush of traffic ceaselessly presses;
where all the surroundings are sordid and unpicturesque and unlovely;
and, in the heart of this, a rusty entrance, with no feature to mark
that it forms a division between two worlds, leads you into a strange,
long court, where is an avenue of trees--twelve old pollarded trees,
breaking into glad greenness of leaf, and gay with the twittering of
birds. The sudden change from the noisy racket without to the peace of
this quiet spot, the charm of contrast between the dark houses and the
black stems and the lovely lightness of green, the oddity of an old
figure-head which ends the line of trees, prepare you, in some measure,
for that other world of which they form a threshold--a world in which
there is hard work and heart-burning and disappointment, but also the
joy of beauty and the eager interest of creation. The studios stretch
like a long arm away to the right, on one side the painters with their
gracious colours and draperies, and the "bits" they have collected
around them; on the other the cold pure marble and the busy workmen
carrying out the master's thought; or, alone and self-contained, the
bronze worker, modelling the clay or moulding the wax for his nobly
severe art.
Charles Everitt, who had set up his tent here among the painters,
thought it, after five years' trial, the most delightful spot in the
world.
To be sure he had a right to take a pleasant view of life.
He worked from choice, not from necessity, by which fact he lost a good
deal of the charm of success, but also avoided possible temptations to
pass his time in producing pot-boilers. He was able, without difficulty
or hesitation, to enrich his mind and his sketch-book by travel. He had
too large an ambition--perhaps it would be fairer to say, too true a
love of his art--to stick at its drudgery, or content himself with
half-hearted _dilettante_ study, and so far his independence had done
him no harm; but it exposed him to some excusable bitterness from those
of his fellows who saw prizes fall to him which meant bread to them.
Perhaps in consequence of this barrier he had formed few--very few--
intimate friendships, and at thirty had learned a reserve and caution
which at twenty had seemed foreign to his character. It may be said,
indeed, that there were times when they still appeared foreign; for he
had been known to commit odd freaks which looked as if the original
nature were not quite flattened out of shape. So far as near relations
were concerned, he had none; but he was a man of good family, and art is
fashionable, so that he was in great demand for dinner-parties.
Moreover, on Saturday afternoons it was understood that he received
visitors, and, though he was careful not to make his hospitalities too
expansive, people came, wandering about the great studio, asking the
same questions, and making the same unintelligent remarks, until his
patience threatened to fail. Sometimes he got in another painter to
help him--a young fellow who, unlike Everitt, was only kept at work by
the sheer necessity of living, but who had genius and the very lightest
of hearts, and, being the most troublesome, was also the dearest to
Everitt of all his comrades. He repaid some of this trouble by being
always ready to take visitors off his hands, though Everitt more than
suspected that in his mischievous moods he was quite reckless in the
assertions with which he amazed them. All sorts of extraordinary
remarks floated towards him in half-caught words.
"Yes. Nice picturesque interior, isn't it? There were three children
ill of scarlet fever in the room when Everitt painted it. He was only
admitted on condition that he sat on the edge of the bed, and gave them
their medicine at the proper hour. Long ago? Oh dear, no--not long.
Everitt never sticks at anything which--"
Somebody began to speak to Everitt, and he lost the remainder.
Presently Jack Hibbert drifted again into hearing--
"That? Oh yes, there's a very remarkable story connected with that
picture. A great deal in the girl's face, as you say. Well, Everitt
happened to have painted it from a model; he doesn't always, you know.
No, you're quite right; we do our best things entirely out of our own
heads; it secures originality. Just so. However, sometimes Everitt has
to fall back on a model, and we heard afterwards that this one was in
disguise; there's was a hint that she was a duke's daughter--"
"Oh, Mr Hibbert, how delightfully romantic! Do you mean to say you did
not guess?"
"Well, there was a something, there certainly was a something--you can
see it in the face, can't you?--something so--so--"
"_So_ distinguished. Exactly!"
"Hibbert?" growled at his elbow.
"Ah, here's Everitt himself; I'll make you over to him," said the
unabashed young man, with a laugh. "I give you warning, though, that he
hates romance. If you listen to him he'll deny that there's a word of
truth in any of my stories."
Later on Everitt fell upon him.
"You unprincipled young dog, what do you mean by uttering such a farrago
of nonsense? You'll be bringing all the scandal-mongers of London down
on my head. A duke's daughter disguised as a model! I should like to
know where your impudence will lead you!"
"Oh, it was the duke's daughter which made it all right. Mr Smith will
want to buy that picture, you'll see. Hallo!"
Everitt's brow relaxed; he burst into a laugh, as the parrot, which Jack
had been teasing, made a successful dive at his finger and seized it.
Just at this moment the studio bell rang.
"Another! I'm off!" cried Jack, jumping up from his chair. Everitt
himself looked anything but pleased; he flung his cigarette down with an
exclamation of annoyance, and went to the door, while Jack made his
escape by another exit behind an elaborate Japanese screen. It was past
the time for visitors, and the foremost of the two new-comers made haste
to apologise. She was a pretty woman, and a favourite cousin of
Everitt's, so that there was some excuse for her intrusion.
"Yes, I know exactly what you said when you heard the bell," she said
smiling. "Was Mr Hibbert with you as usual, and did he run away? I am
sorry for that, because I like Mr Hibbert."
"Did you come here to tell me so? And now that you are here, won't you
sit down?" questioned Everitt in his turn, putting forward a couple of
chairs, and clearing away a few motley bits of drapery.
"No," said Mrs Marchmont; "I had two much better reasons. One was that
I might bring Miss Aitcheson here. She has come up to London with an
ingenuous mind which takes the most reverential attitude in the world
towards art. I am trotting out all my lions for her benefit, and you
are the biggest. Please show her something, and roar nicely."
"I had better," he said, "since there is nothing else I can do. Don't
you know that this is the empty time at all the studios?"
"Oh, never mind. Your unconsidered trifles will be gratefully
appreciated. Look, Bell; don't you like that face?"
"That's my duke's daughter," said Everitt with a laugh. And he told
them the story of Jack's romance.
Miss Aitcheson did not say much. Everitt privately thought her rather
uninteresting. She was tall and fair and slender, with light brown
hair, a small head, and a very quiet manner, whether due to shyness or
reserve or dulness he could not tell; nor, indeed, did he give himself
the trouble to investigate very closely. He directed his attention to
his cousin, Mrs Marchmont; and she was a sufficiently lively little
person to have no objection to its monopoly. Meanwhile Miss Aitcheson
wandered about, looking as she liked--at faded hangings, and ancient
Indian rugs of fabulously fine needlework, and pictures in frames and
out of them, and the parrot in his cage, and odd bits of a painter's
property. In this fashion she enjoyed the studio a hundred times more
than if she had been called upon at every moment to remark on its
contents; and certainly the painter and Mrs Marchmont were doing very
well without her. But presently their conversation touched on some
subject which evidently interested her: for she drew nearer to hear it
discussed, although still examining a Roman sketch which she held in her
hands.
"Don't look so miserable, Charlie, but promise that you'll do it for
her. In fact, I _have_ promised. Why, of course you know all the
models in London."
"I don't. I hate London models."
"Well," said Mrs Marchmont with swift inconsequence, "I don't suppose
you expect a young girl to prowl about those places where they live?"