_Wherein a Palace of Art disappears in the Night_
Bartholomew Doome’s great studio was in a haze with the smoking of much
tobacco; and it were almost as though the lolling figures had smoked in
church.
The tapestried walls showed sombrely rich, their glowing colour only
half revealed by the ghostly light of the huge white candles that
flamed on high, held aloft by great gilt candlesticks the heavily
wrought feet of which stood reflected on the dark-stained floor. And
the handsome sheaves of crystal lustres that hung from the ceiling
glittered and sparkled aloft like hundreds of precious gems.
The beautiful image of the Mary and the spangled ikons of the Russian
Church, which stood on the suavely carved mantel, flanked by the pastel
of a ballet-girl by Degas, and a frail nude beauty by Manet, gleamed
mysterious--religious.
Before the mantel, on huge iron dogs, was set a scarlet coffin.
On the scarlet coffin sat Bartholomew Doome.
About the room, seated at tables, young fellows were bawling a drinking
chorus.
Before Doome stood the weak-kneed figure of the bailiff, gorgeous in an
ill-fitting livery that was a world too capacious for his meagre body.
As the drunken fellow held the tankard of beer aloft he made a supreme
effort to take a last high note--his voice cracked--he spilled the
liquor on his upraised face, spluttered, coughed, tripped over his own
feet, and fell--amidst a shout of laughter and loud cries of “Encore”
from the assembled throng.
Rippley and Fluffy Reubens carried the fallen man to a sofa and laid
him upon it.
There was a lull in the riot; and in the lull there arose from his
chair, unsteadily, the figure of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, rather
the worse for drink. Holding a glass in his hand, he straddled over to
Doome, where he sat on the scarlet coffin, and he uttered a silly laugh
as he brought his vague legs to an unsteady halt.
“Hullo, Ffolliott!” cried Doome. “What is it?”
Ffolliott blew through dry red lips:
“Civilization,” said he, with a racking hiccup--“civilization (hiccup)
has its drawbacks.”
“Yes, Ffolliott.” Doome laughed. “Civilization has its drawbacks--there
is the hand mirror.”
Ffolliott came nearer, and, disregarding the insinuation, added with
drunken confidence:
“D’you know, Doome--you don’t mind my saying so--but I believe you’re
engaged.”
“Nonsense, Ffolliott!”
Doome got up from his grim bench and slapped the weak-limbed exquisite
a sounding thump on the narrow shoulders with heavy jocular hand’s
buffet, so that he spilled the liquor down the front of him.
Ffolliott, when he had wiped himself dry with dandified handkerchief,
said:
“Oh--it’s no use your pretending to be so colossally gay, you know.
I always notice that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself
(hiccup) about a woman (hiccup) he becomes austere--morally austere.”
“Hiccup!” said Rippley; and there was loud applause at the tables.
Doome laughed:
“You were always a comic ass, Ffolliott,” said he--“but when did you
degenerate into a philosopher?”
“Oh, yes--get me off the rails, of course! But I always notice
that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself about a woman
(hiccup)--fool enough, I mean, to become engaged--he becomes mollar’ly
(hic)--mollarly austere.”
“Oh, damn!” said Doome.
Ffolliott raised drunken eyelids:
“But saying damn can go with great moral austerity.” He paused and
uttered a giggle. “That’s an epigram, I think,” he said.
“What on earth are you jabbering about, Ffolliott?”
Ffolliott stuck to his theme with drunken persistence.
“A fellow who is engaged doesn’t seem to laugh at the same places in
the _comedy of life_ that he laughs at before he is engaged.”
“Get on, Ffolliott--get on. You talk like Euclid trying to invent a
comic song.”
Ffolliott blinked:
“I’ve always noticed,” said he--“that a fellow does not become really
austere until he is engaged....” He sighed heavily. “I know such a good
chap, who’s become engaged. He used to read the _Pink Un_; but now he
reads _The Descent of Man_.”
“Shush!” said Doome impatiently.
Ffolliott giggled:
“D’you know,” said he--“I started to tell him such a comic story
to-day--by George, I’ll tell it to _you_,” he tittered. “You know how
ridiculous a woman with a pronounced nose looks in a bathing-dress!
Well. But--perhaps I’d better not tell you--I’m _sure_ you’re
engaged----”
Doome slapped the narrow shoulders again with jovial hand, and sent
more liquor flying down Ffolliott’s trousers:
“By Hermes, you are a clever fellow, Ffolliott,” said he.
“Oh, no--not always,” bleated the affected voice of Ffolliott--“I’m
rather deliriously clever at times--in a flukey sort of way. I don’t
mean to be. It’s hereditary. My mother’s uncle was a rural dean, you
know, and----”
“But why do you wear an eyeglass?”
Ffolliott simpered:
“Foljambe of Baliol was the most pronounced man at the ’varsity; he is
the most pronounced man at the bar--and Foljambe wears an eyeglass.”
“_Does_ he?”
“Rather,” bleated Ffolliott. “And though, between you and me (hiccup),
Foljambe’s a conceited ass, he is rather a remarkable ass; and I don’t
know whether you have noticed it (hiccup), but in these days it takes
rather a clever fellow to be a _remarkable_ ass.”
Doome smote Ffolliott a rollicking buffet, that sent more liquor down
his trousers:
“By the Greek gods,” cried Doome, “we are having a roaring evening, eh?
Hang me, we are only bachelors once--so we’ll make gay whilst the moon
shines. Damn it, you shall sing.”
“Oh, yes; I’ll sing. I can’t--but I will----”
Fluffy Reubens came up and pushed Ffolliott aside roughly:
“Hist!” said he--“Doome, the bailiff’s asleep....” He turned round and
called in a loud whisper: “Rippley!”
“’Ullo!”
“Have you got the furniture vans all ready?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“In my studio,” said Rippley. “I hope to Jupiter the horses haven’t
knocked the stuffing out of my stattoos. I tipped the men to stay all
night.”
“Splendid! Get ’em round, Rip, quick--by the back way, and into the
court here--the door of the dressing-room opens into the court, and was
made for taking big pictures through. There’s not a moment to lose.”
Rippley hurried out of the room.
“Quick, boys--one of you lock the hall door after Rippley!” cried
Fluffy Reubens hoarsely; “we’ve got to pack out the whole parcel of
toys in a couple of hours.”
He flung off his coat, and began to roll up a great Persian carpet.
In the early morning, the sleeping bailiff was roused by a rude hand
upon his shoulders.
“Get up!” said a rough voice.
He sat up, untidy, frowsy, weak-eyed, snuffling and grumbling in the
ridiculous gorgeousness of the ill-fitting livery.
He rubbed his eyes:
“God!” said he hoarsely.
His jaw dropped; and he stared miserably round the room.
Before him stood the vulgar overdressed figure of Mr. Isaac Tankerton
Wollup, with his choleric eyes fixed upon him, bullock-like, bloodshot:
“You blighter!” said Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup.
The miserable man rubbed his drowsy eyes--he rubbed them again. His
mouth was too dry to utter speech.
He was sitting on the top of a scarlet coffin, that stood on two
chairs; and, with the solitary exception of these things, the room was
wholly empty of furnishment.
He burst into tears.
“You bleating idiot!” The vulgar dealer’s eyes snapped contempt. “The
house is empty as a money-lender’s unwritten promise. They loaded the
vans in the night; and you slept through it all!... Get your legs out
o’ the light!”
He struck the lean shins with his cane.
The poor abject fellow cried out, and, rising, like a whipped cur he
slunk across the room, buried his face in his arm, and sobbed against
the wall.
The bloodshot eyes of the company-promoter, as he stooped down putting
his thick hands on his great fat thighs, peered at the white paint on
the side of the scarlet coffin; there had been no haste, every letter
was balanced and well-drawn, and the whole phrase told decoratively on
the scarlet lacquer: _Art in England is dead_, it said. _Try France._
The little fat man laughed harshly. He shook his head:
“I don’t know how the Beelzebub I shall break this musical comedy to
Samuel.... Overreached in my own business and by a Christian!”
He walked gloomily out of the place.
* * * * *
After the irate dealer had departed, his miserable bailiff ceased his
sobbing against the wall, took off the gorgeous coat, and staunched his
tears on the sleeve of his tattered shirt. He was a broken figure of
dejection--blear-eyed, weak-kneed, ragged, snuffling.
He changed into his old clothes, went and seated himself on the scarlet
coffin, and crouched there, a woe-begone wonderer in despair.
He burst into tears.
He put his grimy hand into the side-pocket of his greasy coat for a
handkerchief--it struck against a sheet of paper.
He blew his nose on a rag, soiled to mud-colour, unfolded the paper,
and read it:
_“If you should be dismissed from employment, communicate with Sir
Pompey Malahide’s butler, who will see to it that you do not suffer.
Don’t forget to call him my lord. Ecod, you sang like a damned
canary.”_