I had always thought Jack Gisburn rather a cheap genius--though a good
fellow enough--so it was no great surprise to me to hear that, in the
height of his glory, he had dropped his painting, married a rich widow,
and established himself in a villa on the Riviera. (Though I rather
thought it would have been Rome or Florence.)
“The height of his glory”--that was what the women called it. I can hear
Mrs. Gideon Thwing--his last Chicago sitter--deploring his unaccountable
abdication. “Of course it’s going to send the value of my picture ‘way
up; but I don’t think of that, Mr. Rickham--the loss to Arrt is all I
think of.” The word, on Mrs. Thwing’s lips, multiplied its RS as though
they were reflected in an endless vista of mirrors. And it was not only
the Mrs. Thwings who mourned. Had not the exquisite Hermia Croft, at the
last Grafton Gallery show, stopped me before Gisburn’s “Moon-dancers” to
say, with tears in her eyes: “We shall not look upon its like again”?
Well!--even through the prism of Hermia’s tears I felt able to face the
fact with equanimity. Poor Jack Gisburn! The women had made him--it was
fitting that they should mourn him. Among his own sex fewer regrets
were heard, and in his own trade hardly a murmur. Professional jealousy?
Perhaps. If it were, the honour of the craft was vindicated by little
Claude Nutley, who, in all good faith, brought out in the Burlington a
very handsome “obituary” on Jack--one of those showy articles stocked
with random technicalities that I have heard (I won’t say by whom)
compared to Gisburn’s painting. And so--his resolve being apparently
irrevocable--the discussion gradually died out, and, as Mrs. Thwing had
predicted, the price of “Gisburns” went up.
It was not till three years later that, in the course of a few weeks’
idling on the Riviera, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why Gisburn
had given up his painting. On reflection, it really was a tempting
problem. To accuse his wife would have been too easy--his fair sitters
had been denied the solace of saying that Mrs. Gisburn had “dragged him
down.” For Mrs. Gisburn--as such--had not existed till nearly a year
after Jack’s resolve had been taken. It might be that he had married
her--since he liked his ease--because he didn’t want to go on painting;
but it would have been hard to prove that he had given up his painting
because he had married her.
Of course, if she had not dragged him down, she had equally, as Miss
Croft contended, failed to “lift him up”--she had not led him back to
the easel. To put the brush into his hand again--what a vocation for
a wife! But Mrs. Gisburn appeared to have disdained it--and I felt it
might be interesting to find out why.
The desultory life of the Riviera lends itself to such purely academic
speculations; and having, on my way to Monte Carlo, caught a glimpse
of Jack’s balustraded terraces between the pines, I had myself borne
thither the next day.
I found the couple at tea beneath their palm-trees; and Mrs. Gisburn’s
welcome was so genial that, in the ensuing weeks, I claimed it
frequently. It was not that my hostess was “interesting”: on that point
I could have given Miss Croft the fullest reassurance. It was just
because she was NOT interesting--if I may be pardoned the bull--that I
found her so. For Jack, all his life, had been surrounded by interesting
women: they had fostered his art, it had been reared in the hot-house
of their adulation. And it was therefore instructive to note what effect
the “deadening atmosphere of mediocrity” (I quote Miss Croft) was having
on him.
I have mentioned that Mrs. Gisburn was rich; and it was immediately
perceptible that her husband was extracting from this circumstance a
delicate but substantial satisfaction. It is, as a rule, the people who
scorn money who get most out of it; and Jack’s elegant disdain of
his wife’s big balance enabled him, with an appearance of perfect
good-breeding, to transmute it into objects of art and luxury. To the
latter, I must add, he remained relatively indifferent; but he was
buying Renaissance bronzes and eighteenth-century pictures with a
discrimination that bespoke the amplest resources.
“Money’s only excuse is to put beauty into circulation,” was one of
the axioms he laid down across the Sèvres and silver of an exquisitely
appointed luncheon-table, when, on a later day, I had again run over
from Monte Carlo; and Mrs. Gisburn, beaming on him, added for my
enlightenment: “Jack is so morbidly sensitive to every form of beauty.”
Poor Jack! It had always been his fate to have women say such things of
him: the fact should be set down in extenuation. What struck me now
was that, for the first time, he resented the tone. I had seen him, so
often, basking under similar tributes--was it the conjugal note that
robbed them of their savour? No--for, oddly enough, it became apparent
that he was fond of Mrs. Gisburn--fond enough not to see her absurdity.
It was his own absurdity he seemed to be wincing under--his own attitude
as an object for garlands and incense.
“My dear, since I’ve chucked painting people don’t say that stuff about
me--they say it about Victor Grindle,” was his only protest, as he rose
from the table and strolled out onto the sunlit terrace.
I glanced after him, struck by his last word. Victor Grindle was, in
fact, becoming the man of the moment--as Jack himself, one might put it,
had been the man of the hour. The younger artist was said to have formed
himself at my friend’s feet, and I wondered if a tinge of jealousy
underlay the latter’s mysterious abdication. But no--for it was not
till after that event that the rose Dubarry drawing-rooms had begun to
display their “Grindles.”
I turned to Mrs. Gisburn, who had lingered to give a lump of sugar to
her spaniel in the dining-room.
“Why HAS he chucked painting?” I asked abruptly.
She raised her eyebrows with a hint of good-humoured surprise.
“Oh, he doesn’t HAVE to now, you know; and I want him to enjoy himself,”
she said quite simply.
I looked about the spacious white-panelled room, with its FAMILLE-VERTE
vases repeating the tones of the pale damask curtains, and its
eighteenth-century pastels in delicate faded frames.
“Has he chucked his pictures too? I haven’t seen a single one in the
house.”
A slight shade of constraint crossed Mrs. Gisburn’s open countenance.
“It’s his ridiculous modesty, you know. He says they’re not fit to have
about; he’s sent them all away except one--my portrait--and that I have
to keep upstairs.”
His ridiculous modesty--Jack’s modesty about his pictures? My curiosity
was growing like the bean-stalk. I said persuasively to my hostess: “I
must really see your portrait, you know.”
She glanced out almost timorously at the terrace where her husband,
lounging in a hooded chair, had lit a cigar and drawn the Russian
deerhound’s head between his knees.
“Well, come while he’s not looking,” she said, with a laugh that tried
to hide her nervousness; and I followed her between the marble Emperors
of the hall, and up the wide stairs with terra-cotta nymphs poised among
flowers at each landing.
In the dimmest corner of her boudoir, amid a profusion of delicate and
distinguished objects, hung one of the familiar oval canvases, in the
inevitable garlanded frame. The mere outline of the frame called up all
Gisburn’s past!
Mrs. Gisburn drew back the window-curtains, moved aside a JARDINIÈRE
full of pink azaleas, pushed an arm-chair away, and said: “If you stand
here you can just manage to see it. I had it over the mantel-piece, but
he wouldn’t let it stay.”
Yes--I could just manage to see it--the first portrait of Jack’s I
had ever had to strain my eyes over! Usually they had the place
of honour--say the central panel in a pale yellow or rose Dubarry
drawing-room, or a monumental easel placed so that it took the light
through curtains of old Venetian point. The more modest place became the
picture better; yet, as my eyes grew accustomed to the half-light, all
the characteristic qualities came out--all the hesitations disguised
as audacities, the tricks of prestidigitation by which, with such
consummate skill, he managed to divert attention from the real business
of the picture to some pretty irrelevance of detail. Mrs. Gisburn,
presenting a neutral surface to work on--forming, as it were, so
inevitably the background of her own picture--had lent herself in an
unusual degree to the display of this false virtuosity. The picture
was one of Jack’s “strongest,” as his admirers would have put it--it
represented, on his part, a swelling of muscles, a congesting of
veins, a balancing, straddling and straining, that reminded one of the
circus-clown’s ironic efforts to lift a feather. It met, in short, at
every point the demand of lovely woman to be painted “strongly” because
she was tired of being painted “sweetly”--and yet not to lose an atom of
the sweetness.
“It’s the last he painted, you know,” Mrs. Gisburn said with pardonable
pride. “The last but one,” she corrected herself--“but the other doesn’t
count, because he destroyed it.”
“Destroyed it?” I was about to follow up this clue when I heard a
footstep and saw Jack himself on the threshold.
As he stood there, his hands in the pockets of his velveteen coat, the
thin brown waves of hair pushed back from his white forehead, his
lean sunburnt cheeks furrowed by a smile that lifted the tips of a
self-confident moustache, I felt to what a degree he had the same
quality as his pictures--the quality of looking cleverer than he was.
His wife glanced at him deprecatingly, but his eyes travelled past her
to the portrait.
“Mr. Rickham wanted to see it,” she began, as if excusing herself. He
shrugged his shoulders, still smiling.
“Oh, Rickham found me out long ago,” he said lightly; then, passing his
arm through mine: “Come and see the rest of the house.”
He showed it to me with a kind of naive suburban pride: the bath-rooms,
the speaking-tubes, the dress-closets, the trouser-presses--all the
complex simplifications of the millionaire’s domestic economy. And
whenever my wonder paid the expected tribute he said, throwing out
his chest a little: “Yes, I really don’t see how people manage to live
without that.”
Well--it was just the end one might have foreseen for him. Only he was,
through it all and in spite of it all--as he had been through, and in
spite of, his pictures--so handsome, so charming, so disarming, that one
longed to cry out: “Be dissatisfied with your leisure!” as once one had
longed to say: “Be dissatisfied with your work!”
But, with the cry on my lips, my diagnosis suffered an unexpected check.
“This is my own lair,” he said, leading me into a dark plain room at
the end of the florid vista. It was square and brown and leathery: no
“effects”; no bric-a-brac, none of the air of posing for reproduction in
a picture weekly--above all, no least sign of ever having been used as a
studio.
The fact brought home to me the absolute finality of Jack’s break with
his old life.
“Don’t you ever dabble with paint any more?” I asked, still looking
about for a trace of such activity.
“Never,” he said briefly.
“Or water-colour--or etching?”
His confident eyes grew dim, and his cheeks paled a little under their
handsome sunburn.
“Never think of it, my dear fellow--any more than if I’d never touched a
brush.”
And his tone told me in a flash that he never thought of anything else.
I moved away, instinctively embarrassed by my unexpected discovery; and
as I turned, my eye fell on a small picture above the mantel-piece--the
only object breaking the plain oak panelling of the room.
“Oh, by Jove!” I said.
It was a sketch of a donkey--an old tired donkey, standing in the rain
under a wall.
“By Jove--a Stroud!” I cried.
He was silent; but I felt him close behind me, breathing a little
quickly.
“What a wonder! Made with a dozen lines--but on everlasting foundations.
You lucky chap, where did you get it?”
He answered slowly: “Mrs. Stroud gave it to me.”
“Ah--I didn’t know you even knew the Strouds. He was such an inflexible
hermit.”
“I didn’t--till after.... She sent for me to paint him when he was
dead.”
“When he was dead? You?”
I must have let a little too much amazement escape through my surprise,
for he answered with a deprecating laugh: “Yes--she’s an awful
simpleton, you know, Mrs. Stroud. Her only idea was to have him done by
a fashionable painter--ah, poor Stroud! She thought it the surest way
of proclaiming his greatness--of forcing it on a purblind public. And at
the moment I was THE fashionable painter.”
“Ah, poor Stroud--as you say. Was THAT his history?”
“That was his history. She believed in him, gloried in him--or thought
she did. But she couldn’t bear not to have all the drawing-rooms with
her. She couldn’t bear the fact that, on varnishing days, one could
always get near enough to see his pictures. Poor woman! She’s just a
fragment groping for other fragments. Stroud is the only whole I ever
knew.”
“You ever knew? But you just said--”
Gisburn had a curious smile in his eyes.
“Oh, I knew him, and he knew me--only it happened after he was dead.”