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WOMAN AND ARTIST
BY MAX O'RELL
AUTHOR OF
"JOHN BULL AND CO." "JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND"
"JONATHAN AND HIS CONTINENT" ETC.
[Illustration]
LONDON
FREDERICK WARNE & CO.
AND NEW YORK
[_All Rights Reserved_]
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
TO MY WIFE
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. FRENCH AND ENGLISH HOMES 9
II. THE HOUSE IN ELM AVENUE 13
III. THE PORTRAIT 19
IV. DORA 38
V. THE DRAMATIC AUTHOR AND THE PATRON OF ARTS 60
VI. THE INVENTOR 83
VII. THE NEW HOUSE 94
VIII. THE HOUSE-WARMING 104
IX. THE CONFESSION 109
X. BELGRAVIA 125
XI. GENERAL SABAROFF 145
XII. THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THE OTHER 164
XIII. A CRUEL ORDEAL 177
XIV. EVA 209
XV. THE SEPARATION 217
XVI. PHILIP RETURNS TO THE FOLD 235
XVII. DORA'S STUDIO 246
XVIII. LORIMER'S PLOT 270
WOMAN AND ARTIST
I
FRENCH AND ENGLISH HOMES
The English, whose knowledge of France consists in a fair acquaintance
of that part of Paris lying between the Madeleine and the Faubourg
Montmartre, affirm that family life is unknown on our side of the
Channel, putting forward as proof the fact that the French language
cannot boast of possessing the word _home_, that appeals so strongly to
the British heart. Their conclusion is sublime: Since the French have no
such word, they say, it is very evident that they have not the thing. As
to the word itself, I am inclined to think they may be right; we have
not, or rather we have no longer, a perfect equivalent for the English
expression, as our pretty word _foyer_ is only used in pretentious or
poetical language. In ordinary conversation the Frenchman does not refer
to his _foyer_. _Il rentre a la maison, chez lui._ M. Perrichon, alone,
returns to his _foyer_. Our old French possessed an equivalent for the
English word _home_. It was a substantive that is still with us, but we
have it to-day in the form of a preposition--I mean the word _chez_,
which is no other than the word case. The Frenchman of olden times said:
"_Je rentre en chez moi._"
But enough of philology.
I own that an apartment on the fifth floor, _au dessus de l'entresol_,
would not suggest to the heart what the _home_ does to every English
mind. But the piquancy and humour of this malevolent criticism, founded,
like all international prejudices, on the most crass ignorance and the
narrowest patriotism, consists in the fact, that in all parts of London,
at the present time, enormous barracks of eight and ten storeys, called
flats, are being raised, where the English, tired of the tyranny of
domestics, seek refuge, at the terrible risk of likening to Chicago, not
only that part of the city devoted to business, but all the pretty,
peaceful neighbourhoods, that made London, in summer, the most charming
city in the world. They offend the eye, even in St. John's Wood and
Hampstead, etc.
True, we have quite near Paris, Ville-d'Avray, Fontenay-sous-Bois,
Enghien, Meudon, Bellevue, and I do not know how many more delightful
places; but they are suburbs, and not _rus in urbe_, like Chelsea, St.
John's Wood, Hampstead, and many others practically in the heart of
London.
France, completely absorbed by Paris in all that is written about her in
foreign countries, is as unknown of the English people as the forbidden
land of Thibet. Provincial France (where all enjoy the possession of
homes, English fashion, _plus_ gaiety), the laborious and thrifty
population of our villages (who are the fortune and salvation of
France), our family life (narrow, exclusive, nay almost mean, I own it,
but made up of love and devotion)--all these are a sealed letter to our
neighbours over the Channel, of which a goodly number still hallow the
venerable joke, that the French live on frogs and snails. For that
matter, there are also in France a great many people perfectly convinced
that an Englishman, tired of his wife, may with impunity go and sell her
at Smithfield Market. We are quits. As we travel far less than the
English, it is not surprising that we should know them still less than
they know us. We cannot throw stones at them. In the utter ignorance of
what exists and takes place in foreign countries, there are few nations
to which France cannot give points.
II
THE HOUSE IN ELM AVENUE
Of all the rustic neighbourhoods bordering on London city, there is none
prettier, fresher, and more verdant than St. John's Wood. It is the
refuge of workers in search of light, air, and tranquillity. Painters,
sculptors, writers, journalists, actors, and musicians--in fact, the
majority of the highest intellectual Bohemia--inhabit these semi-rural
acres, lying between Regent's Park and Hampstead Heath. Among the leafy
haunts of St. John's Wood, numberless masterpieces have been produced by
writers and artists whose fame has rung through the world. It is there,
in short, that chiefly congregates the artistic intelligence of London.
If you doubt my testimony on this point, apply direct for further
particulars to the inhabitants of this favoured district.
No. 50 Elm Avenue, St. John's Wood, did not attract the gaze of the
passer-by. Walled around and almost hidden by large trees, the house,
which could be seen through the iron gates, was a modest, unpretentious,
two-storeyed structure. On the ground floor it was traversed by a long
vestibule. Those who had been privileged to enter it knew that there was
a long drawing-room and boudoir on one side, and on the other a spacious
dining-room, and a library with a French window and steps leading down
to a beautiful garden, surrounded by spreading elms and chestnut trees.
On the outside, glossy ivy with gnarled stems mantled the lower part of
the house, and in autumn bold virginia creepers hung wreaths of scarlet
around the chamber windows. At the side of the house, with the door
opening on the adjacent street, stood a building with high north window,
which indicated that the house was the abode of an artist. In this
spacious, well-lit studio, worked Philip Grantham, A.R.A.
The house was furnished with great taste; everything spoke of that
comfort which the English value before luxury. A thousand and one little
details told of an artistic woman's hand reigning supreme in the little
domain, and one left the house feeling, "these people are happy and
evidently well-off; there may be artists who vegetate, but Philip
Grantham is not one of them." The garden was admirably kept, the lawn
smooth and soft as a Turkey carpet to the foot; and when the sun
filtered through the trees to the grass, you could imagine yourself in
the depths of the country, instead of near the centre of a great city.
The studio was a favourite room of the Granthams. Loving care had been
expended upon it, and the result was a worker's paradise that invited to
lofty labours and cosy conversation. Dora Grantham was her husband's
comrade in art, and all the leisure that was hers, after seeing well to
her household, was spent at Philip's side. The studio was more than
comfortable--it was even luxurious, with its beautiful Renaissance
mantelpiece of carved oak, its rich oriental rugs and curtains and
hanging eastern lamps. All these gave an atmosphere of restful, dreamy
ease to the place; and the fresh flowers that in all seasons filled the
rare porcelain vases struck a note of gaiety among the sombreness of the
old oak furniture. A thousand curios from all the ends of the earth had
been accumulated in this beloved apartment, and here, too, stood Dora's
Pleyel piano and Philip's bookcase of precious volumes on art, all
richly bound. A huge screen, gay with eastern embroideries, hid the door
that opened into the road; and in this veritable nest, nothing reminded
of a hustling and bustling world outside. In summer, through the open
door that led into the garden, one got a delicious vista of green
foliage and turf.
In the centre of the studio stood two easels of almost equal size, and
when I have told you that at these two easels, placed side by side,
quite near each other, worked Philip and Dora, you will rightly
understand that this studio had not been so fitted up to serve as a mere
workshop, but that all its details had been suggested by the love of two
kindred artistic spirits, who adored each other and passed most of their
time there in loving rivalry and mutual encouragement.
Dora had such respect for the studio that she never entered it except
when dressed in some colour that harmonised with the carpets and
hangings and the rest of the furniture. To speak truly, this was not a
difficult matter. Tall, dark, superb in figure and in face, her lips
perhaps a trifle haughty in repose, but instantly softened by the
lightness of her frank, gay smiles, which disclosed her little even
white teeth; with dark hazel eyes through which you seemed to look into
her soul as through two open doors; with a smooth, fresh, and clear
complexion--almost all colours became her. Philip admired his wife in
every separate colour of the rainbow, but he had his preferences as a
painter. He loved best for her certain crimsons and deep tones of orange
and of Gobelin blue; and, as one must never run counter to the fads of
an artist, it was generally in one of these tints that Dora dressed,
when she wanted Philip to surpass himself at his painting.
At the time when this story begins, which is but one of yesterday,
Philip was thirty-six and Dora twenty-seven. They had been six years
married, and possessed a lovely little girl of five, so full of dainty
grace and childish fascination, that when Philip was showing a new
picture to a friend, and watching out of the corner of his eye to see if
his work was being admired, as often as not the friend would say, "Ah,
yes! that is a fine creation, a beautiful picture; but there,"
indicating the lovely child, "is your _chef-d'oeuvre_--nothing can
match her." And as in Philip's nature the parent outweighed the painter,
he would proudly smile and reply, "You are right."
Philip and Dora had begun their married life in the most modest
fashion, but fortune had smiled on them. Each year the painter had
become better known and valued, and his pictures more sought after.
To-day he was not only well known, but almost celebrated. Every
succeeding year had deepened the sincere and strong love of these two
lovers and friends, who led a calm, sweet existence, and trod, side by
side, a flowered path, under a cloudless sky, with hope, glad labour,
honour, and security as companions on the road.
I think I have said enough to convince the reader, that if there existed
a happy little corner of the world, it was No. 50 Elm Avenue, St. John's
Wood.
III
THE PORTRAIT
On the 10th of May 1897, that is to say on the sixth anniversary of
Philip's marriage with Dora, he had promised to present her with a
portrait of herself. The picture was all but finished. Only a painter
would have noticed that it wanted a few more touches to complete it.
Hobbs, a faithful servant, who had been Dora's nurse in her old home,
and had followed her to St. John's Wood when she had married, was
dusting the studio and gazing with admiring eyes at the portrait of
Dora, which seemed to smile at her from her master's easel.
"Only a few flowers to put in," said the good woman, "and the picture
will be finished. I have watched it for weeks. How wonderful it is! Just
her beautiful face and kind smile. And to think that there are people
who pay hundreds of pounds to have their portrait painted! How lucky a
lady is to be the wife of a painter--she can get hers for nothing!"
She was interrupted in her reflections by a ring and a double knock at
the studio door. Hobbs ran to answer the postman, and returned
immediately, bearing in her hand a box from which some magnificent
pansies were escaping. She had great difficulty in extracting the
flowers from the badly crushed box.
"Pansies," said she, "for the portrait, no doubt--models for copying. If
I were the wife of a painter, that is the only kind of model I would
allow my husband to paint from--nature. Fancy women coming to a studio
and undressing before a man!--the hussies! I am glad there are no such
creatures wanted here."
It is necessary to be an artist, or at any rate of an artistic nature,
to understand that it is possible to regard a perfectly nude model with
as much _sang-froid_ and respect as one would a statue; but the English
middle class have not the artistic nature; and, in the eyes of a good
ordinary woman, a female model is a lost creature, and the artist who
studies and draws her an abandoned man. England produces something very
humorous: this is the prudish model, who comes to an artist's studio,
refuses at first, hesitates long, and finally offers to pose in tights.
Better still. A French painter in New York was doing the portrait of a
beautiful American woman in evening dress. When the head and shoulders
were finished, the pretty American declared that she was too busy to
pose any longer, and suggested that the picture might be completed from
a model of her own height and figure, who could wear her gown. The
painter agreed, but had the greatest difficulty in finding a model who
would consent to exhibit her charms, as the society lady of the United
States had done freely and imperturbably.
Hobbs did not let her indignation get the better of her, and, consoling
herself with the thought that "the creatures" were not wanted here,
finished dusting the studio, and then, gathering up the pansies, took
them to her mistress.
It was ten o'clock. Philip had not yet come to the studio. He usually
began working at nine o'clock, and went on steadily until one, so as to
profit fully by the best of the light that London puts at the
disposition of an artist. Hobbs was astonished that her master was not
yet at work, especially as she knew he had promised Dora to finish her
portrait by the 10th of May. She herself had told her so. She began
making conjectures, when a loud ringing at the studio door aroused her
from her reverie.
She returned in a few moments, followed by a young man about
twenty-five, tall and distinguished-looking, with a pleasant face, whom
she had often seen in the house.
"This way, please, sir," said she, showing him into the studio; "master
hasn't come down yet, but I am sure he won't be long. I will go and tell
him you are here."
Hobbs knew that M. de Lussac was a friend, and not one of those
inconvenient people who bore artists by going to their studios and
talking inanities to them about their work. Besides, she had a list of
the people whom Philip received at any time. And she went immediately to
inform her master of M. de Lussac's arrival.
Georges de Lussac was an attache at the French Embassy in London. The
manly beauty of his face and figure, his good spirits, elegant manners
and easy wit, added to the lustre of his name, made him one of the
favourites of London society. No ball, dinner, or house-party was quite
complete without him, the most sought-after man in the most aristocratic
circles. He was a favourite with artists, whose works he well knew how
to appreciate, and welcomed in literary society owing to his brilliant
conversational powers. These also gained for him the admiration of
society women, who were fascinated by his soft, insinuating voice. There
are legions of women who admire first in a man--a well-cut coat, an
intelligent and handsome face, with a slightly cynical smile which seems
so little in earnest that they say to themselves, "He is not serious;
with him one can have a good time without fear of being compromised; and
then, he is a diplomatist, and as discreet as a tomb." By reason of this
reputation for discreetness, the diplomatist is beyond competition in
the race for women's favour, without even excepting the brilliant
cavalry officer who appeals chiefly to women in love with glitter and
who are ready to catch Cupid as he flies. I have not mentioned the
tenor, who only makes his chief conquests amongst romantic and flighty
women. In high society in France, England, and probably everywhere, the
distribution of prizes is somewhat in this order: First prize, the
diplomatist; second prize, the officer of hussars; third prize, the
tenor. _Accesserunt_, the remainder who have not much to share between
them. In the remainder may be classed husbands.
De Lussac drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket, took a cigarette,
and seating himself on a divan began to smoke.
"I know of nothing pleasanter," said he, "than a chat and smoke in the
morning with a painter in his sanctum. If I had to live all my time in
one apartment, I would choose first a studio, secondly, a library; in
all other rooms, one eats, drinks, sleeps, or bores oneself."
He gazed complacently around the studio and his eyes fell on Dora's
portrait. He rose, chose a good angle, and inspected the picture
carefully.
"Beautiful likeness!" said he, "full of poetry--modelling perfect. It is
simply quivering with life--and what lovely flesh colour! There is not a
man in England that can paint flesh like Grantham--no, not one that
comes up to his ankle. Yet, with the most brilliant future before him,
with the foremost place among the painters of the day close at hand, and
certain to be a Royal Academician before he is forty--here is a man to
whom artistic fame does not suffice."
Without noticing it he had approached the door leading to the garden. He
opened it. The lilacs and hawthorns were in bloom, and whiffs of
delicious scents were wafted into the studio.
"Who would imagine," thought he, "that in this peaceful retreat, where
the rustling of the trees is the only sound to be heard, a man was to be
found who had invented a projectile likely to revolutionise modern
warfare!"
Philip entered hurriedly.
"Ah, my dear de Lussac--no news yet?"
"No! the Commission is to-day sitting in Paris at the War Office. There
is every hope of a favourable decision, I believe."
"Not so loud," said Philip, "not so loud; Dora might hear you. She knows
nothing about it. Ah, my dear fellow, I have worked day and night to
perfect that shell. The mechanism is so simple and yet so precise, that,
by winding up the little spring, the shell will burst without
necessarily striking any object on the ground or in the air, at any
portion of its course, exactly so many seconds as is wished after it has
been fired. The usefulness of the shell in the open field or against
fortified positions is obvious."
"That is so! in every case the experiment has proved entirely
successful; and we wonder how it is the invention was not immediately
bought by the English Government."
"Do you think the Commission will soon arrive at a decision?"
"To-day, probably," replied de Lussac, "very likely in a few hours. We
are expecting every minute a telegram from Paris."
"If they should buy it!" said Philip dreamily.
"Well, then, you will be a wealthy man!"
"Shall I?" exclaimed Philip, his eyes shining with joy--"shall I be
rich? My dear de Lussac, I am quite satisfied with my lot. I earn more
than I want. But my wife, my Dora--I want to be rich for her sake. She
was brought up surrounded with every luxury. Six years ago, she left the
house of a wealthy and generous father to share the life of a struggling
artist. She never once complained, but has been happy and has made me
the happiest of men. She has sat constantly by my easel, inspiring my
brush by her sweet presence, and encouraging me by her constant and
discriminating praise. To better appreciate my work, she has set to work
herself, and has had two pictures hung at the Royal Academy, which have
been splendidly noticed. How she has helped me! Sometimes she would come
and put her arms on my shoulders and say, 'Go on, Philip, you are on the
road to fame.' What a wife! Yes," said he, with earnestness and warmth,
"I want wealth, but God is my witness that it is for her that I aspire
to riches."
"Still in love, I see, _cher ami, hein_? It is possible then to be in
love with one's wife after six years, six long years, of marriage."
"Still in love! Why, I am only now beginning to love her as she
deserves. Oh, that wealth may enable me to make her still happier!"
"Amen," said de Lussac, and he turned again to the picture.
"I think this portrait is delightful," said he; "you can never have done
a better piece of work than this!"
"Yes! I am fairly satisfied with it," said Philip; "it is like her, is
it not? My wife with a bunch of pansies in her hand."
"I don't see the pansies," remarked de Lussac.
"No! I shall put them in presently. I shall finish the picture this
afternoon."
"I see," said de Lussac, "that Madame Grantham will have the bunch of
pansies in her hand, and that she will look lovingly at them."
"Yes, it is her favourite flower," replied Philip, "and mine too. There
was a bed of pansies growing just under her window in that beautiful
country house where I met her for the first time and where I courted
her. She tended them herself, and called them 'her family.' Before
entering the house, I would always pluck one and place it in my
buttonhole. When it was faded, I gave it to her. It is utter nonsense,
I know; but, after all, happiness is made up of little foolish trifles
of that sort."
"The Anglo-Saxons!" said de Lussac--"a practical and yet sentimental
race."
Philip went to a bureau and, opening a drawer, took out a little packet
carefully tied up.
"Here they are," said he, "her family."
And he replaced the packet with great care.
"This is charming, quite romantic," cried de Lussac, "perfectly idyllic!
You know, you are a curious mixture, _mon cher ami_. Fancy your
inventive genius turning to an instrument of war that will make widows
of wives who perhaps once had such a 'family.'"
"Oh, if I thought that!" exclaimed Philip.
"You would beg the Commission to kindly return you your shell,"
suggested de Lussac, with a wink.
"Hardly," said Philip, smiling; "I am too near the goal to do that."
"I think I had better be off now," said de Lussac, looking at his watch.
"I am preventing you from working."
"Not at all, my dear fellow. I have, it is true, to finish this portrait
to-day; but I have plenty of time. I will go and put on my
working-jacket. Dora will be down in a minute ... only, dear boy, do
not mention the shell, will you? Not a word about it!"
De Lussac, left alone, could not control his curiosity. The drawer in
which the pansies had been placed was only half shut. He took the packet
in his hand and gave way to hearty laughter at the expense of Philip and
Dora.
"Well! I'll be hanged," said he, "if ever a woman makes me save some
withered old flowers tied in pink ribbon, like a box of chocolates."
If he had only looked round at the garden door, while indulging in these
reflections, he would have seen Dora come into the studio.
Dora was radiant, in a pretty simple morning gown, which accentuated her
severe and classical beauty. Her large hazel eyes, encircled with long
lashes, had an expression of exquisite sweetness; but they were also
capable of making any man, who would dare look into them with any other
sentiment than that of profound respect, sink into the ground. Her
haughty mouth, with its short upper lip, almost Austrian, betrayed a
proud, susceptible, and ardent nature. She had the consciousness of her
beauty and intellectual worth. The smallest underhand act filled her
with repugnance. On seeing de Lussac with the packet of flowers in his
hand and the drawer still open, she hardly knew whether to laugh or
treat him with contempt. The corner of her mouth turned slightly up and,
with a little mocking smile which completely disconcerted the young
diplomatist, she said--
"Well, Monsieur de Lussac, and how are you?"
"How are you, _chere madame_," answered he in an embarrassed manner.
"Very well, thank you. I thought I heard Philip."
"He is in there, changing his coat." And, remarking that Dora had
brought in a handful of pansies, he added--
"More pansies?"
"Why more? Ah! that is true, you have some also, I see."
De Lussac reddened to the tips of his ears.
"Yes! A minute ago Philip was telling me the history of your 'little
family,' and when he went out I could not resist the temptation of
taking another peep at the little packet that he had left in my hand,
and which contains the prologue of your love affairs."
Seeing himself caught in the act he did not hesitate to tell this little
fib, so as to reinstate himself in Dora's good graces. She was taken in
by it.
"Give the packet to me; you are a very wicked man--these are not for the
profane; and Philip is still more wicked than you are to show them to
you."
She put the packet back again. She was vexed, almost humiliated. Why had
Philip mentioned the story of the pansies to Monsieur de Lussac? It
could interest no one, except the two lovers, who had thus repeated
their vows. Why had Philip shown him the packet? In her eyes, it was an
almost ungentlemanly act. She passed a hand across her forehead, as if
to brush away the ideas that came to her mind, and smiled
good-humouredly once more.
"I believe you are jealous," said she gaily.
"Not a bit--I am disgusted. Two people supposed to be sensible, billing
and cooing over a package of old flowers, after being married, let me
see--how long?"
"Six years to-day."
"And after six years of marriage you are still in the region of romance?
Will you allow a bachelor, an intimate friend of your husband's, to
congratulate you with all his heart? I declare I almost envy your
happiness."
"Well, get married yourself!" exclaimed Dora; "it is very easy."
"Not for the world," said he, in a bantering tone. "I am too fond of
woman in the plural to ever love one in the singular. Besides, I could
never marry a woman unless I could respect her."
"Naturally."
"Well!" exclaimed de Lussac, laughing heartily, "I don't believe I could
respect a woman who would be willing to marry me."
"Oh! come, you are like most Frenchmen," said Dora, "not so bad as you
would make people believe. You will succumb to the temptation all in
good time. You will marry, you will love your wife, and, what is more,
you will make the most docile of husbands. It is the most recalcitrant
of you that generally become the model husbands in the end."
"Heaven forbid! I will succumb to every temptation you like to name
except that one; if I ever find myself married I shall have been
chloroformed before the ceremony. For fear of giving way to this
temptation I will stick to all the others, in case they should forsake
me--you see, I am a vagabond pure and simple."
"Women love vagabonds--many do at any rate. You will find a hundred for
one that will have you."
"A hundred perhaps--one never," said de Lussac.
"And when you are old, who will occupy the other side of the chimney
corner? A chimney has two corners."
"I know it," said de Lussac; "but there is also the middle, where I
shall be very happy and comfortable--that is better still. No, no, long
live Liberty!"
"Pure selfishness--and besides, conjugal life is the most comfortable."
"Undeceive yourself, madame; one lives as well at the club. One dines
better at a restaurant, where for a small tip one may grumble and blow
up the waiter to one's heart's content."
"You can do as much in your own house, and blow up your wife without its
costing you a farthing."
The light-hearted gaiety of the young man amused Dora. A woman, although
she does not countenance that love of independence in her husband,
admires it in other men. I feel inclined to believe that women have a
mingled feeling of admiration and respect for the man who has not been
caught in the matrimonial toils.
Dora was playing with the pansies that she had scattered on the table.
"You see these flowers," she said suddenly to de Lussac, "well, there is
an impenetrable mystery connected with them."
"You don't say so," said he, noticing the comically majestic air she had
assumed.
"Yes! a real live mystery. On our wedding-day there arrived a bunch
similar to this one. Who sent it? That is the mystery. On every
anniversary of our marriage, we get another. Are the flowers for Philip
or for me? More mystery. Philip says they are from some old admirer of
mine; from some old sweetheart of his, I say. Still they come, and are
always welcome."
"I am not versed in the language of flowers," said de Lussac, "but I
fancy I remember a little verse, beginning something after this
fashion--
Pansies for thought--
Love lies bleeding.
I cannot recollect the words exactly, but perhaps there is a bleeding
heart somewhere. Oh, this is terrible of me," exclaimed de Lussac, again
looking at his watch; "it is eleven o'clock, and I am still here
chattering. I ought to be at the Embassy; I must really go. Will you be
kind enough to tell your husband that I will send him a wire as soon as
I know something definite?--no, no, I will come myself."
"About what?" said Dora.
"Oh! about something--which concerns me."
He shook hands with Dora and went out hurriedly.
Dora, left alone, began to arrange the flowers. The pansy was a flower
which fascinated her, and suggested to her mind all kinds of fantastic
faces. She seemed to see sad and solemn ones, some smiling and gay,
others saucy; they represented to her a perfect gallery of weird faces.
She chose some of the best, made them into a little bouquet for Philip
to paint in her picture. Taking away one or two that did not harmonise
with her dress, she placed the bunch on her husband's easel.
"Oh, what pretty flowers!" shouted Eva, who had just come into the
studio, followed by Hobbs. She was dressed to go out for her daily
morning walk.
"Mama, aren't you coming out for a walk with us?"
"No, my sweet," replied Dora; "I cannot this morning. You know that
daddy is going to finish my picture this morning, so I must stay with
him; he will want me."
"You are always with daddy," said Eva, pouting. "You never come for a
walk with me."
"How can you say such things? You know I go out very often with you--but
I can't to-day. To-morrow, yes! to-morrow. Come, be a good little girl."
"A good little girl," said Eva, sighing, "that's what you always say to
me."
"When I was a little girl," said Dora, trying to look serious, "I, too,
had to be good, you know."
"Oh, mama! aren't you glad you're not a little girl any longer?" said
Eva.
"Oh, what shall we do with her, Hobbs, if she is so naughty?" said Dora,
taking the child up in her arms and covering her with kisses.
And yet, she knew that the reproaches were well-merited.
"Is it true that mama was a little girl first?"
"Of course, dear, certainly."
"Quite a little girl, and then as tall as that--and that--and that?"
"Yes!--and then like this," said Dora, touching the top of her head.
"Well, then, you had a mama, too, that's grandma, isn't it? Was she
pretty, like you?"
"Much prettier."
"Did she scold you?"
"Certainly, when I was naughty."
"Isn't it funny though?--Where is daddy?"
"He is coming in a minute, dearie. Come, it is time you went for a walk,
Hobbs," said Dora to the good woman, who was laughing at the child's
questions; "do not stay out very long; it is chilly, and Miss Eva might
catch cold."
"Very well, ma'am," replied Hobbs.
Dora, ascertaining that the child was warmly enough clad, gave her
bonnet strings an extra touch, then looked at her and kissed her again
and again.
Eva and her nurse went out at the studio door. The latter, finding a
letter in the box, came back with it and gave it to Dora, returning
again to the child.
Dora, remembering Eva's reproaches, felt the tears come into her eyes.
With many women the mother kills the wife, but Dora was so much absorbed
in her husband that she often reproached herself with not taking enough
notice of the child. She was wife first, mother next. Yet, God knew how
she adored her child.
IV
DORA
It was past noon, and Philip had not yet set to work.
For some time past Dora had noticed that Philip had no longer the same
lively interest in his painting, but she had been very careful not to
speak to him about it. Dora was the ideal artist's wife, not only
because she understood her husband's art, but also because she was
keenly alive to the conditions under which works of art are produced. If
she had been the wife of Bernard de Palissy, she herself would have
broken up the furniture of her home to keep alive the furnace fire.
Blessed with a calm, even temperament herself, she knew that the
artistic nature is sensitive, susceptible, irritable even, and that a
veritable diplomacy has to be exercised daily and hourly, if one would
so live with an artist as to cheer him in his moments of discouragement,
to stimulate him, to give him constantly the discreet and intelligent
praise he needs, when it seems to him that his imagination and his
powers are forsaking him, and that he is no longer doing his best work.
An artist is a piece of machinery that must be wound up every day. There
is scarce an artist worthy of the name who does not think he is used up
each time that he terminates a new work, and there is not a painter who,
when he shows a new picture for the first time, does not watch the
scrutinising gaze of the critic, much as a mother watches with anxious
eye the expression of the doctor who is going to pronounce himself upon
the subject of her sick child. An artist is a child, who must be
constantly petted and applauded.
Dora knew all that, and, on this subject, she had nothing to reproach
herself with; on the contrary, it was to her that her husband owed his
growing celebrity--she had made him what he was. She did not take any
credit for this, she had never reminded him of it, never a hint on the
subject had passed her lips. A woman like Dora leaves a husband to
recognise these things for himself, but never speaks of them.
Dora had not the courage to ask Philip why he painted with less ardour,
but she longed to say to him, "You promised me that you would finish
the portrait to-day; you tell me that it is only a matter of two or
three hours' work; but I am sure that it will take seven or eight hours
to finish it ... why don't you set about it?" And her imagination fell
to inventing all sorts of explanations, each more fantastic and
improbable than the other.
The last words of Monsieur de Lussac came back to her memory, "_Pansies
for thought--Love lies bleeding._" What connection would there be
between a pansy and a crushed love? No one had ever loved her well
enough to break his heart about her, except Philip, and he had married
her. But he? Had there been a romance in his life, before she had known
him? He had never spoken of anything of the kind. "After all," she said
to herself, "the best of men have some experience of that kind in their
early life, which they do not talk about. Ah, well! what matters it?
Philip has filled my life with happiness."
Her glance wandered again to the picture. "Not yet finished," she
murmured. "Has he forgotten his promise? For some time past he has been
quite strange; he seems preoccupied, distraught, anxious even--at times
his mind seems to be far away." And a thousand ideas flitted through
her mind, only to be dismissed as all equally absurd.
Suddenly she uttered a little cry of surprise, to find the vigorous arms
of her husband clasped around her waist.
"What is my little wife thinking of so deeply that she does not notice
the sound of her husband's footsteps?" said Philip.
"Of you," said Dora, laughing, "and of these flowers."
"They have come again, eh?" said Philip, taking up his palette and
brushes.
"Yes; who sends them?"
"That is what I should like to know. As I told you before, an old
admirer of yours, I daresay."
"Nonsense, you know better. As I said before, some old sweetheart of
yours--far more likely," replied Dora.
Then looking her husband straight in the eyes, she added--
"Confess."
"Look here," said Philip, "I have come to work; if you tease me in this
way, I shall never do anything."
He tried his brushes and began mixing his colours.
Dora took the little bunch of pansies which she had arranged, and placed
them near the portrait.
"The colours harmonise exquisitely with the yellow of the dress. How
sweet they are, these pansies! Look, do look, at this dear little yellow
one--what a saucy face! Put it in the picture. By-the-bye, there is a
letter for you."
She went to the table, where Hobbs had laid the letter, took it up and
read the envelope aloud, "Philip Grantham, Esq., A.R.A. Associate of the
Royal Academy! There are lots of people who live in hopes of adding
letters to their name, but you, my Philip, will soon drop one: instead
of A.R.A., just Royal Academician, R.A."
"Who knows?" said Philip. "Perhaps--thanks to your encouragement and
loving praise. There! open the letter for me, will you?"
"It is Sir Benjamin Pond, who announces that he is coming to see you
to-day: he wants to choose one or two pictures."
"I hope he will come late, then," said Philip. "I want to finish your
portrait before dinner. It ought to be easy enough--two or three hours
of steady work, and the thing is done."
Dora smiled a little smile of incredulity.
"Seven or eight," said she, "at least."
Philip had stuck the bunch of pansies on the easel, his palette was
ready, he was just going to begin.
"Come here," said he to Dora, "here, quite close--that's it. I can work
so much better, darling, when you are near me. Look, the brush works
already more easily, my hand is surer--there, that is good--splendid--I
shall go ahead now."
Philip was in working mood, and Dora was beaming. She could have hugged
him, and would not have been able to resist the temptation, but for the
fear of hindering his progress. After a few minutes' silence, she burst
out--
"Philip!"
"Yes, dearest," replied Philip, without withdrawing his eyes from his
work.
"Don't you think ours is a very romantic life?"
"Very romantic? How do you mean?"
"Oh, I mean that we are so happy."
"Yes, but that is hardly what people call romance. A romantic life is an
eventful life, and happy people have no events in their lives. I don't
believe that cousin Gerald Lorimer, with all his imagination, could get
a one-act play out of our lives. There is no plot to be found in them.
To make a novel or a play, there must be intrigue, troubles,
misunderstandings, moral storms. There are people who love storms. Some
people only love the sea when it is in a fury. Are you fond of storms
yourself?"
"Oh no," replied Dora; "I have no sea-legs. I love the life that I lead
with you--and my enthusiasm for your art deepens my love for you every
day."
"My darling," said Philip, drawing Dora still nearer to him, and
caressing the graceful head that was resting against his knee, "do you
know that one of these days I shall be jealous of you, you are making
such progress with your painting."
"What nonsense! I am learning, so that I may understand you better. To
appreciate you thoroughly, my ambition soars no higher than that."
Philip looked at his watch, turned towards the door that led to the
street, and made a little gesture of impatience, that did not escape
Dora.
"Philip," said she, "what are you thinking of?"
"Why, of you, dear, always you."
"No, you were not thinking about me just now. You cannot deceive me,"
said she coaxingly. "Do you know that, of late, I have observed a
little change in you--oh! just a little change."
"A change? What a little goose you are!"
"Oh, I am not so silly as all that; the fact is you seem absent-minded
lately, anxious, irritable even; and, worse than all that, this morning
you had forgotten it was the anniversary of our wedding. Now, had you
not?"
Philip started.
"Oh, but I am quite sure of what I am saying. I am certain you had
forgotten."
"What nonsense! it is all in your imagination, my dear child."
"No, it is not," said Dora, with great emphasis; "a woman's intuition is
often a safer guide than her eyes."
"Your intuition, then, for once is wrong."
"Come, come," said Dora tenderly, "tell me, have you any troubles, any
little worry?"
"No, dear, none," said Philip, frowning a little. "Let me get on with my
work, and don't ask silly questions."
"Oh, very well," said Dora, pouting.
She rose, and went away from the easel a few steps; but noticing that
Philip was looking at her, as if to ask her forgiveness for having been
a trifle abrupt, she turned her steps towards him, and, laying her head
on his shoulder, burst into tears; then looking him in the face, with
eyes that were smiling through the tears, she cried, "Oh, do tell me
what ails you."
"What a child you are, dearest! I assure you, there is nothing the
matter."
"I know better."
"You will have to believe me," said Philip, in a not very convincing
tone, but doing his best to comfort her with his look, "when I tell you,
that there is absolutely nothing wrong, although"--
"Although? Ah!" cried Dora, "you see that I was right after all. Well?"
And she eagerly waited to hear the explanation that should put an end to
all her conjectures.
"Well, then, yes," said Philip resolutely, "there is something.
Sometimes I feel I should like to do so much more for you than I have
been able."
"What an idea! There is not a woman in the world with whom I should like
to change places. How could I be happier than I am?"
"What is your definition of happiness?" said Philip, continuing to
paint.
"For a woman," replied Dora, with warmth, "happiness consists in being
loved by the man whom she loves and can be proud of; in being rich
enough to afford all the necessary comforts of life, and poor enough to
make pulling together a necessity; an existence hand in hand, side by
side. And what is yours?"
"Well, I confess, I should like to be a little richer than that," said
Philip, with a little amused smile.
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Dora sadly; "you are beginning to grow tired of
this quiet life of ours. Take care, Philip, noise frightens happiness
away. Happy the house that is hidden in the trees, as the nest in the
thick of the hedges."
"My dear child, we have to live for the world a little."
"Excuse me if I do not understand you," said Dora; "I am only a woman. I
can live for you, and for you alone. I know that love is not sufficient
even for the most devoted and affectionate of husbands. A woman can live
on love and die of it. That's the difference. Now, what is your
definition of happiness?"
"To be blessed with a dear, adorable wife; to have money enough to
enable me to surround her with every luxury. Yes, I long to be really
rich, if only to make my father repent of his treatment of me. In his
eyes a man is successful according to his proven ability to pile up
money. Ah, that letter of his, how it rankles in my mind still and
always will!"
"What letter is that?" said Dora; "you never spoke to me of it before.
Why, what a tomb of dark secrets you are!"
Philip rose, went to a drawer, took out a letter, and returned with it
in his hand.
"Here it is," he said; "listen."
"MY SON,--When I opened to you the doors of the banking house which
I have founded, and bade you join me as a clerk who would
eventually be master of it, I did not doubt that you had sufficient
good sense and filial docility to make you joyfully accept such an
opening. It appears that you have neither of these qualities. Twice
I have made the offer, twice you have declined it. From this day
please to consider yourself free to follow art or any other road to
starvation. I relinquish all right to direct your career, but I
also require you to relinquish all right to call yourself the son
of
"THOMAS GRANTHAM."
Philip folded the letter and replaced it in the drawer.
"Yes," said Dora, "it was a cruel letter, for, after all, your only
crime had been to wish to become an artist. And yet, a father knows that
out of a hundred men who take up painting as a profession, one or two
perhaps get to the top of the tree. Where is the father who would advise
his son to work at art, music, or literature for a livelihood? In the
case of a real vocation, he may bow gracefully to the inevitable, but,
as a rule, a parent does not bring up his sons with a view to making
artists of them. On the contrary, he does what he can to dissuade them
from choosing that course. In the case of your father, my dear Philip, I
think one might allow extenuating circumstances. Where is the head of
the family who would not dread for his sons these often illiberal
professions? Professions, which ninety-nine times out of a hundred bring
in little besides disappointments, disillusions, a miserable pittance,
and often despair? Try and forget this grievance, darling. In any case
you have had your revenge already. You are celebrated, and we are no
longer poor."
"Ah, but we have been, and it has sometimes brought tears of rage to my
eyes, and to-day we are a long, a very long way, from being rich."
"Ah, but think what an enviable lot yours is!" said Dora proudly.
"Yours is the most honourable of callings. You have no poor wretches
sweating for you. Your income is the fruit of your personal handiwork.
You are your own master. You help to make life beautiful. You have a
fame increasing every day. You enjoy the respect of everybody, the
admiration of the public, the appreciation of the best critics, the
company and the friendship of all the intelligence of London. A king
might well envy the life of a great artist!"
Dora was excited, and Philip looked at her with eyes that thanked her
for all she thought of him.
"You are quite right," he resumed, "and I am far from complaining of my
fate. I have also full confidence in the future. But you, my darling; it
is of you I am thinking."
"Of me?" exclaimed Dora. "But do I not share all your honours? What more
can I wish for? Why, my dear boy," she added, laughing, "before ten
years have passed you will be knighted, and I run the risk of being one
day Lady Grantham. Just fancy?" And she drew herself up most comically.
They both burst out laughing. Philip was in a confessing mood, and he
went on.
"I should like," he said, "to see you the mistress of such a house as
you were brought up in!"
"Good heavens! It is all I can do to keep this dear little one properly!
Besides, where is it now, that beautiful house where I was brought up?
After my mother's death, my father took to speculating, and he died
penniless. Everything had to be sold to pay his debts. Much better begin
as we do than finish as he did."
"I should like," continued Philip, in the same strain, "to see you drive
in a handsome carriage of your own."
"A hansom cab," replied Dora, laughing, "is much more convenient, goes
faster, costs less, and gives you much less trouble."
"I should like to see _rivieres_ of diamonds on your lovely neck,
precious stones on your fingers."
Dora looked serious, almost sad.
"I wish no better collar for my neck than your true, manly arms--my
Philip! On my fingers? Do you see this little ring?"
"A five-pound ring!" said Philip, with an air of contempt. "I am almost
ashamed to see it on your finger."
"A five-pound ring!" exclaimed Dora,--"a priceless ring! Do you
remember--ah, I do!--how for many weeks you put away ten shillings a
week so as to be able to buy it for me on my birthday? A five-pound
ring, indeed! Not for the Koh-i-nur would I exchange it," she added, as
she kissed the little ring passionately. "To me the real value of a
jewel is the love it represents in the giver, and no rich gems could be
richer in that sense than this dear little ring."
Philip felt deeply moved and almost humiliated. He tenderly kissed Dora,
and resumed painting. Dora thought she was gaining her cause, and went
on pleading--
"Ah, Philip," she said, "the rich don't know the pleasures they miss,
the sweetest pleasures of poverty. Their gifts cost them no sacrifice.
They don't possess their wealth, it is their wealth that possesses them.
They have not the satisfaction of knowing that they are loved for their
own sake. I would not give one year of my life for ten years of a
millionaire's life. Why, they don't even have the proof that they are
honest. They have no temptations. I would shudder at the idea that I
might be rich one day."
"Well," said Philip sarcastically, "I think I could bear it with
fortitude. My darling, the philosophers of all ages have taught that
money does not make happiness; but sensible men of all times have come
to the conclusion that it considerably helps to make it. I want money
for no sordid reason. Money is round, it was meant to roll, and I mean
to enjoy it."