A CRITIC ON TRUTH
One painter may make use of another man's sketches for his own
pictures. The thing is conceivable, though one cannot recall, and
there is no record of, any such case. It is, perhaps, possible.
Portrait-painters have employed other men to paint backgrounds and
even hands and drapery. Now, the two pictures hanging in Philippa's
room were most certainly painted from Roland's sketches. If there were
any room for doubt the figure of Armorel herself in the foreground
removed that doubt. Therefore, Roland must have lent his sketches to
Mr. Feilding. What else did he lend? Can one man lend another his eye,
his hand, his sense of colour, his touch, his style? There was once, I
seem to have read, a man who sold his soul to the only Functionary who
buys such things, and keeps a stock of them second-hand, on the
condition that he should be able to paint as well as the immortal
Raffaello. He obtained his wish, because the Devil always keeps his
bargain to the letter, with the result that, instead of winning the
imperishable wreath for himself that he expected, he was never known
at all, and his pictures are now sold as those of the master whose
works they so miraculously resemble. Armorel had perhaps heard this
story somewhere. Could the cleverest man in all London have made a
similar transaction, taking Roland Lee for his model? If so, the Devil
had not cheated him at all, and he got out of the bargain all he
expected, because he not only painted quite as well as his master, and
in exactly the same style, so that it was impossible to distinguish
between them, but, which the other unfortunate did not get, all the
credit was given to him, while the original model or master languished
in obscurity.
It was obvious to a trained eye, at very first sight, that the style
of the pictures was that of Roland Lee. He had a style of his own. The
first mark of genius in any art is individuality. His style was no
more to be imitated in painting than the style of Robert Browning can
be followed in poetry. Painters there are who have been imitated and
have created a school of imitators: even these can always be
distinguished from their copyists. The subtle touch of the master, the
personal presence of his hand, cannot be copied or imitated. In these
two pictures the hand of Roland was clearly, unmistakably visible. The
light thrown over them, the atmosphere with which they were
charged--everything was his. He had caught the September sunshine as
it lies over and enfolds the Scilly Islands--who should know that soft
and golden light better than Armorel?--he had caught the
transparencies of the seas, the shining yellows of the sea-weed, the
browns and purples of bramble and fern, the greyness and the blackness
of the rock: you could hear the rush of the water eddying among the
boulders; you could see the rapid movement of the sea-gulls' wings as
they swept along with the wind. Could another, even with the original
sketches lying before him, even with skill and feeling of his own,
reproduce these things in Roland's own individual style?
'No,' she cried, but not aloud; 'I know these pictures. They are not
his at all. They are Roland's.'
Every line of thought that she followed--to write these down would be
to produce another 'Ring and Book'--in her troubled meditations after
the discovery led her to the same conclusion. It was that at which she
had arrived in a single moment of time, without argument or reasoning,
and at the very first sight of the pictures. The first thought is
always right. 'They are Roland's pictures'--that was the first
thought. The second thought brings along the doubts, suggests
objections, endeavours to be judicial, deprecates haste, and calls for
the scales. 'They cannot,' said the second thought, 'be Roland's
paintings, because Mr. Feilding says they are his.' The third thought,
which is the first strengthened by evidence, declared emphatically
that they were Roland's, whatever Mr. Feilding might say, and could
be the work of none other.
Therefore, the cleverest man in all London, according to everybody,
the best and most generous and most honourable, according to Armorel's
companion, was an impostor and a Liar. Never before had she ever heard
of such a Liar.
Armorel, it is true, knew but little of the crooked paths by which
many men perform this earthly pilgrimage from the world which is to
the world which is to come. Children born on Samson--nay, even those
also of St. Mary's--have few opportunities of observing these ways.
That is why all Scillonians are perfectly honest: they do not know how
to cheat--even those who might wish to become dishonest, if they knew.
In her five years' apprenticeship the tree of knowledge had dropped
some of its baleful fruit at Armorel's feet: that cannot be avoided
even in a convent garden. Yet she had not eaten largely of the fruit,
nor with the voracity that distinguishes many young people of both
sexes when they get hold of these apples. In other words, she only
knew of craft and falsehood in general terms, as they are set forth in
the Gospels and by the Apostles, and especially in the Book of
Revelation, which expressly states the portion of liars. Yet, even
with this slight foundation to build upon, Armorel was well aware that
here was a fraud of a most monstrous character. Surely, there never
was, before this man, any man in the world who dared to present to the
world another man's paintings, and to call them his own? Men and women
have claimed books which they never wrote--witness the leading case of
the false George Eliot and the story told by Anthony Trollope; men
have pretended to be well-known writers--did I not myself once meet a
man in an hotel pretending to be one of our most genial of
story-tellers? Men have written things and pretended that they were
the work of famous hands. Literature--alas!--hath many impostors. But
in Art the record is clean. There are a few ghosts, to be sure, here
and there--sporadic spectres!--but they are obscure and mostly
unknown. Armorel had never heard or seen any of them. Surely there
never before was any man like unto this man!
And, apart from the colossal impudence of the thing, she began to
consider the profound difficulties in carrying it out. Because, you
see, no one man, unaided, could carry it through. It requires the
consent, the silence, and the active--nay, the zealous--cooperation of
another man. And how are you to get that man?
In order to get this other man--this active and zealous
fellow-conspirator--you must find means to persuade him to sacrifice
every single thing that men care for--honour, reputation, success. He
must be satisfied to pursue Art, actually and literally, for Art's own
sake. This is, I know, a rule of conduct preached by every art critic,
every æsthete, every lecturer or writer on Art. Yet observe what it
may lead to. Was there, for instance, an unknown genius who gave his
work to Giotto, with permission to call it his own? And was that
obscure genius content to sit and watch that work in the crowd, unseen
and unsuspected, while he murmured praises and thanksgiving for the
skill of hand and eye which had been given to him, but claimed by that
other young man, Messer Giotto? Did Turner have his ghost? Sublime
sacrifice of self! So to pursue Art for Art's sake as to give your
pictures to another man by which he may rise to honour--even, it may
be, to the Presidency of the Royal Academy, contented only with the
consciousness of good and sincere work, and with the possession of
mastery! It is beyond us: we cannot achieve this greatness--we cannot
rise to this devotion. Art hath no such votaries. By what persuasions,
then--by what bribes--was Roland induced to consent to his own
suicide--ignoble, secret, and shameful suicide?
He must have consented; in no other way could the thing be done. He
must have agreed to efface himself--but not out of pure devotion to
Art. Not so. The Roland of the past survived still. The burning desire
for distinction and recognition still flamed in his soul. The
bitterness and shame with which he spoke of himself proved that his
consent had been wrung from him. He was ashamed. Why? Because another
bore the honours that should be his. Because he was a bondman of the
impostor. Of this Armorel was certain. Roland Lee--the man whom for
five long years she had imagined to be marching from triumph to
triumph--conqueror of the world--had sold himself--for what
consideration she knew not--hand and eye, genius and brain, heart and
soul--had sold himself into slavery. He had consented to a monstrous
and most impudent fraud! And the man who stood before the canvas in
public, writing his name in the corner, was--the noun appellative, the
proper noun--belonging to such an act. And her own friend--her gallant
hero of Art--what else was he in this conspiracy of two? You cannot
persuade a woman--such is the poverty of the feminine imagination--to
call a thing like this by any other name than its plain, simple, and
natural one. A man may explain away, find excuses, make suggestions,
point out extenuating circumstances, show how the force of events
destroys free will, and propose a surplice and a golden crown for the
unfortunate victim of fate, instead of bare shoulders and the
nine-clawed cat. But a woman--never. If the thing done is a Lie, the
man who did it is a ----
'Armorel,' said her companion--it was in the afternoon, and she had
been dozing after her lunch--'what is the matter? You have been
sitting in the window, which has a detestable view of a dismal street,
for two long hours without talking. At lunch you sat as if in a dream.
Are you ill? Has anything happened? Has the respectable Mr. Jagenal
robbed you of your money? Has Philippa been saying amiable things
about me?'
'I have found out something which has disquieted me beyond
expression,' said Armorel, gravely.
Zoe changed colour. 'Heavens!'--she laughed curiously. 'What has come
out now? Anything about me? One never knows what may come out next. It
is very odd what a lot of things may be said about everybody.'
'My discovery has nothing to do with you, at least--no, nothing at
all.'
'That is reassuring.' It certainly was, as everybody knows who does
not wish the curtain to draw up once again on the earlier and
half-forgotten scenes of the play. 'Perhaps it might relieve you,
dear, if you were to tell me. But do not think I am curious. Besides,
I dare say I could tell you more than you could tell me. Is it about
Philippa's hopeless attachment for the man who will never marry her,
and her cruelty to the reverend gentleman who will?'
'No--no: it is nothing about Philippa. I know nothing about any
attachments.'
'Well, you will tell me when you please.' Zoe relapsed into warmth and
silence. But she watched the girl from under her heavy eyelids.
Something had happened--something serious. Armorel pursued her
meditations, but in a different line. She now remembered that the
leader in this Fraud was the man whom Zoe professed to honour above
all other living men: could she tell this disciple what she had
discovered? One might as well inform Kadysha that her prophet Mohammed
was an epileptic impostor. And, again, he was Philippa's first cousin,
and she regarded him with pride, if not--as Zoe suggested--with a
warmer feeling still. How could she bring this trouble upon Philippa?
And, again, it was Roland's secret. How could she reveal a thing which
would cover him with ridicule and discredit for the rest of his life?
She must be silent for the sake of everybody.
'Zoe,' she sprang to her feet, 'don't ask me anything more. Forget
what I said. It is not my own secret.'
'My dear child,' Zoe murmured, 'if nobody has run away with your
money, and if you have found out no mares' nests about me, I don't
mind anything. I have already quite forgotten. Why should I remember?'
'Of course,' Armorel repeated impatiently--this companion of hers
often made her impatient--'there is nothing about you. It
concerns----'
'Mr. Feilding.'
It was only an innocent maid who opened the door to announce an
afternoon caller; but Armorel started, for really it was the right
completion to her sentence, though not the completion she meant to
make.
He came in--the man of whom her mind was full--tall, handsome, calm,
and self-possessed. Authority sat, visible to all, upon his brow. His
dress, his manner, his voice, proclaimed the man who had
succeeded--who deserved to succeed. Oh! how could it be possible?
Armorel mechanically gave him her hand, wondering. Then, quite in the
old style, and as a survival of Samson Island, there passed rapidly
through her mind the whole procession of those texts which refer to
liars. For the moment she felt curious and nervously excited, as one
who should talk with a man condemned. Then she came back to London and
to the exigencies of the situation. Yet it was really quite wonderful.
For he sat down and began to talk for all the world as if he was a
perfectly truthful person: and she rang the bell for tea, and poured
it out for him, as if she knew nothing to the contrary. That he, being
what he was, should so carry himself; that she, who knew everything,
should sit down calmly and put milk and sugar in his tea, were two
facts so extraordinary that her head reeled.
Presently, however, she began to feel amused. It was like knowing
beforehand, so that the mind is free to think of other things, the
story and the plot of a comedy. She considered the acting and the
make-up. And both were admirable. The part of successful genius could
not be better played. One has known genius too modest to accept the
position, happiest while sitting in a dark corner. Here, however, was
genius stepping to the front and standing there boldly in sight of
all, as if the place was his by the double right of birth and of
conquest.
He sat down and began to talk of Art. He seldom, indeed, talked about
anything else. But Art has many branches, and he talked about them
all. To-day, however, he discoursed on drawing and painting. He was
accustomed to patient listeners, and therefore he assumed that his
discourse was received with respect, and did not observe the
preoccupied look on the face of the girl to whom he discoursed--for
Zoe made no pretence of listening, except when the conversation seemed
likely to take a personal turn. Nor did he observe how from time to
time Armorel turned her eyes upon him--eyes full of astonishment--eyes
struck with amazement.
Presently he descended for awhile from the heights of principle to the
lower level of personal topic. 'Mrs. Elstree tells me,' he said,
smiling with some condescension, 'that you paint--of course as an
amateur--as well as play. If you can draw as well as you can play you
are indeed to be envied. But that is, perhaps, too much to be
expected. Will you show me some of your work? And will you--without
being offended--suffer me to be a candid critic?'
Armorel went gravely to her own room and returned with a small
portfolio full of drawings which she placed before him, still with the
wonder in her eyes. What would he say--this man who passed off another
man's pictures for his own? She stood at the table over him, looking
down upon him, waiting to see him betray himself--the first criminal
person--the first really wicked man--she had ever encountered in the
flesh.
'You are not afraid of the truth?' he asked, turning over the
sketches. 'In Art--truth--truth is everything. Without truth there is
no Art. Truth and sincerity should be our aim in criticism as well as
in Art itself.'
Oh! what kind of conscience could this man have who was able so to
talk about Art, seeing what manner of man he was? Armorel glanced at
Zoe, half afraid that he would convict himself in her presence. But
she seemed asleep, lying back in her cushions.
His remarks were judgments. Once pronounced, there was no appeal. Yet
his judgments produced no effect upon the girl, not the least. She
listened, she heard, she acquiesced in silence.
Perhaps because he was struck with her coldness he left off examining
the sketches, and began a learned little discourse about composition
and harmony, selection and grouping. He illustrated these remarks, not
obtrusively, but quite naturally, by referring to his own pictures,
appealing to Zoe, who lazily raised her head and murmured response, as
one who knew it all beforehand. Now, as to the discourse itself,
Armorel recognised every word of it already: she had read and had been
taught these very things. It showed, she thought, what a pretender the
man must be not to understand work that had been done by one who had
studied seriously, and already knew all that he was laboriously
enforcing. But she said nothing. It was, moreover, the lesson of a
professor, not of an artist. Between the professional critic who can
neither paint nor draw and the smallest of the men who can paint and
draw there is, if you please, a gulf fixed that cannot be passed over.
'This drawing, for instance,' he concluded, taking up one from the
table, 'betrays exactly the weakness of which I have been speaking. It
has some merit. There is a desire for truth--without truth what are
we? The lights are managed with some dexterity, the colour has real
feeling. But consider this figure. From sheer ignorance of the
elementary considerations which I have been laying down, you have
placed it exactly in front. Had it been here, at the right, the effect
of the figure in bringing up the whole of the picture would have been
heightened tenfold. For my own part, I always like a figure in a
painting--a single figure for choice--a girl, because the treatment of
the hair and the dress lends itself to effect.'
'His famous girl!' echoed Zoe. 'That model whom nobody is allowed to
see!'
Now, the figure was placed in the middle for very excellent reasons,
and in full consideration of those very principles which this
expounder had been setting forth. But what yesterday would have
puzzled her, now amused her one moment and irritated her the next.
He took up a crayon. 'Shall I show you,' he asked, 'exactly what I
mean?'
'If you please. Here is a piece of paper which will do.'
He spoke in the style which Matthew Arnold so much admired--the Grand
Style--the words clear and articulate, the emphasis just, the manner
authoritative. 'I will just indicate your background,' he said,
poising the pencil professionally--he looked as if the Grand Style
really belonged to him--'in two or three strokes, and then I will
sketch in your figure in the place--here--where it properly belongs.
You will see immediately, though, of course--your eye--cannot----' He
played with the chalk as one considering where to begin--but he did
not begin. Armorel remembered a certain day when Roland gave her his
first lesson, pencil in hand. Never was that pencil idle: it moved
about of its own accord: it was drawing all the time: it seemed to be
drawing out of its own head. Mr. Feilding, on the other hand, never
touched the paper at all. His pencil was dumb and lifeless. But
Armorel waited anxiously for him to begin. Now, at any rate, she
should see if he could draw. She was disappointed. The clock on the
overmantel suddenly struck six. Mr. Feilding dropped the crayon. 'Good
heavens!' he cried. 'You make one forget everything, Miss Rosevean. We
must put off the rest of this talk for another day. But you will
persevere, dear young lady, will you not? Promise me that you will
persevere. Even if the highest peak cannot be attained--we may not all
reach that height--it is something to stand upon the lower slope, if
it is only to recognise the greatness of those who are above and the
depths below--how deep they are!--of the world which knows no art.
Persevere--persevere! I will call again and help you, if I may.' He
pressed her hand warmly, and departed.
'I really think,' said Zoe, 'that he believes you worth teaching,
Armorel. I have never known him give so much time to any one girl
before. And if you only knew how they flock about him!'
'Zoe,' said Armorel, without answering this remark, 'you have seen all
Mr. Feilding's pictures, have you not?'
'I believe, all.'
'Do they all treat the same subject?'
'Up to the present, he has exhibited nothing but sea and coast pieces,
headlands, low tide on the rocks, and so forth. Always with this
black-haired girl--something like you, but not much more than a
child.'
'Did you ever see him actually at work?'
'You mean working at an unfinished thing? No; never. He cannot endure
anyone in his studio while he is at work.'
'Did he ever draw anything for you--any pen-and-ink sketch--pencil
sketch? Have you got any of his sketches--rough things?'
'No. Alec has a secretive side to his character. It comes out in odd
ways. No one suspected that he could paint, or even draw, until, three
or four years ago, he suddenly burst upon us with a finished picture;
and then it came out that he had been secretly drawing all his life,
and studying seriously for years. Where he will break out next, I
don't know.'
'He may break out anywhere,' said Armorel, 'except upon the fiddle. I
think that he will never play the fiddle. Yes, Zoe, he really is a
very, very clever man. He is certainly the very cleverest man in all
London.'