it was meant to stop and be piled up a little. And, by the way, do you
know that you have made over a thousand pounds this year, and that we
have kept very nearly half of it? You see I am of some use after all.
The financial position is good, since the Chancellor of the Exchequer
has only spent half his budget. We are rich, since we don't want all we
have."
"Yes, you are a dear, lovely little housewife," said Philip rather
coldly and without raising his eyes from the canvas.
Dora was susceptible. She felt a little wounded.
"Am I?" she said. "Perhaps you will say I am a good little _bourgeoise_.
Possibly! But I will tell you this: happy as I am now, I am not sure
that I was not happier still when we were quite poor, pulling,
struggling together, hand in hand. I have never dreaded poverty; on the
contrary, I have enjoyed it, loved it by your side. To poverty I owe the
happiest days of my life. Do you remember, for instance, how we enjoyed
the play when, once a month, obscure, unknown to everybody, we went to
the upper circle? Wasn't it lovely? And how we often yawn now, once a
week, in the stalls!"
"Yes," said Philip, "and how we made the dinner shorter, so as to be
able to afford the price of two seats in that upper circle?"
"Right, and that's why we enjoyed the play so much. We were not overfed
in those days."
"We were not," seconded Philip.
"You cannot enjoy, even appreciate anything intellectual after a dinner
of six or eight courses: you are only fit for a pantomime or a
music-hall. And that's why those pathetic forms of entertainment are so
successful now. Why, look at the people in the boxes--indifferent, half
sulky, lifting their eyebrows and staring their eyes out--like
that--awful!"
"Yes," said Philip, "all the response, all the appreciation, all the
warmth comes from the pit and gallery."
"And do you also remember when, two years after we were married, our
_general_ suddenly gave notice, and left us alone to manage
housekeeping as best we could while Hobbs was temporarily absent? And
how I cooked all the meals, and how you never enjoyed them better? Now,
say it's true."
"Perfectly true. And I peeled the potatoes."
"The less you speak of that, the better. You wasted half of them. But
what fun! The house was gay, happy, ringing with our laughter all day
long; so much so that, in a month, baby put on six pounds of flesh."
"And how I cleaned the knives!" said Philip, who was enjoying the
reminiscences.
"Which helped your appetite for breakfast."
"And the boots--now, I did not like cleaning the boots."
"Yes, you did, and they never shone so beautifully."
"Well, I flatter myself I was able to make myself useful."
"Those were and will always be the dear old days of my life."
"And how pretty you looked," said Philip, "with a white apron on, and
your sleeves tucked up, showing your lovely arms."
"Ah!" said Dora, "and do you also remember how you were once turned out
of the kitchen for kissing the cook? You were sorry when I got a new
servant."
"Upon my word, I believe I was."
"Ah!" exclaimed Dora, "you will never picnic like that again, you will
never have such lovely times. My dear Philip, the very rich people must
lead very dull lives. We look for happiness far ahead of us, when often
we have it close at hand. The poet is right: 'Paradise is cheap enough,
it's only the hells we make for ourselves that are expensive.' We are as
rich now as we should ever wish to be. And, let me tell you that, if
ever we get really rich (that will be through your fault), I shall find
my consolation in the constant recollection of all the pleasures I
enjoyed when I was poor--as the ear remains for ever under the charm of
some sweet old melody that once struck it. I could go on for ever on
this theme. Now, do you know the holiday of my life that I shall never
forget?"
"Our trip to Paris with ten pounds in our pockets," replied Philip.
"That's not fair; you guess too quickly. Well, didn't we do it after
all? We saw everything--the museums, the theatres, the gardens, and when
we arrived home"--
"We had to borrow one-and-six from the servant to pay the cab fare from
Charing Cross."
"Lovely!" cried Dora, clapping her hands with joy. "What fun we
had--real, good, wholesome fun! Now, look at our little girl. She will
hardly look at the beautiful dolls she has. She always goes back to the
old stuffed stocking, with a face painted on the ball of cotton that
does duty for a head. Now, why? Tell me why she prefers it to all the
others."
"Oh, probably because she can ill-use it to her heart's content."
"Not a bit of it; because it reminds her of the happiest, the jolliest
days of her life. The pleasures of poverty again, my dear Philip, the
sweetest, the never-to-be-forgotten ones--alas, never to be enjoyed
again, perhaps!"
"I will see that they are not," said Philip.
"Oh, Philip, tell me that you are happy now, that the ambition of your
life will be your work, your art, not money."
"Certainly, darling. But, let me tell you also, honestly, that the
greatest pleasure in connection with my days of poverty" ...
"Well?"
"Is that I am poor no longer."
"You incorrigible cynic."
Dora looked at Philip for some moments.
"Oh, Philip," she cried, "say that you are only teasing me, that you
don't mean a word of it."
"Yes, dear, I am only teasing you," said Philip indifferently. "Now,
little wife, you must be quiet and let me work, or this portrait will
never be finished to-day."
Philip looked at the clock, then at his watch. It was half-past one. A
ring was heard at the studio door. He shivered with excitement. "It is
perhaps de Lussac," he said to himself.
"I hope it is not that bothering Sir Benjamin coming to disturb me," he
said to Dora.
Gerald Lorimer, for whom there was always a cover laid at Philip's
table, entered the studio.
"Why, it's Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, rising, and going to shake hands
with his friend. "I am as hungry as a hound; I'll go and wash my hands,
and we'll have lunch at once."
"Well, and how goes the portrait?" said Lorimer.
"My dear fellow," replied Philip, "I shall have to take a studio a mile
or two off, so that my wife will not be able to come and chatter and
hinder me from working. Look at it: here have I been for the past two
hours in front of this easel, and done half an hour's painting at
most."
Philip ran upstairs to wash and change his coat, and quickly rejoined
Dora and Lorimer in the dining-room.
V
THE DRAMATIC AUTHOR AND THE PATRON OF ARTS
Gerald Lorimer, although still quite young, was already a dramatist of
some note. He was gaiety and _insouciance_ personified. A genial
philosopher, witty, sometimes a cynic, but always a kindly one,
indulgent to the shortcomings of humanity, he looked at life as a
comedy, which he witnessed from the most comfortable of orchestra
stalls. The world amused him and supplied him with types for study. He
enjoyed robust health, the joy of living was written all over his face,
and, wherever he went, he brought an atmosphere of contagious
irresistible gaiety. He was a handsome man, distinguished-looking, and
fairly well off. When asked why he did not marry, he answered, "Thanks,
I prefer to study from afar; one observes better at a distance."
He had a little house in Philip's neighbourhood, that was the envy of
all who were privileged to enter its doors. Women thought it impudence
of a man to dare to install himself thus, and so prove _urbi et orbi_
that it is not absolutely necessary to have a woman under one's roof to
enjoy the most perfect comfort. And yet, when asked why Lorimer did not
marry, all that women had to say, was, "No inclination, I suppose."
Women adore parties given by bachelors. They went in crowds, when
Lorimer asked them to an "At home" or a garden-party. They took free
advantage of the permission he gave them to wander over the house, and
examined all its corners. Every bachelor's house interests women and
arouses their curiosity. They pried into every nook and cranny, in the
hope of bringing to light a mystery, perchance some woman's
portrait--Heaven knows what, perhaps a hairpin on the carpet. Wherever
they looked, everything was ease, comfort, and liberty; and they arrived
at the conclusion, that one may be a bachelor and yet live happily, but
consoled themselves with the thought that nobody has found the way to
live a bachelor and die happily. Lorimer's house was arranged with
taste, in the oriental style. The drawing-room, dining-room, library,
and smoking-room formed a delightful suite of rooms.
"You see," said some woman, "nothing but men-servants--a French cook, a
German valet: our host must be a woman-hater."
"I do not see that that follows, dear," said another one: "men are more
discreet and less gossiping than women, and I warrant that this house
has been the scene of many an interesting little tete-a-tete."
Each one had her own opinion; none of them really knew anything about
it. Lorimer had never given anyone occasion to gossip about him; he was
English and a gentleman, therefore discreet. The French boast often of
things they have never done; the English never boast of what they do.
The latter are right. Besides, a bachelor, in giving his house a
reputation of perfect respectability, can thus invite to it not only his
friends, but their wives and daughters.
Lorimer knew all London: the club world, the aristocratic world, the
artistic world of Chelsea and St. John's Wood; and at his parties
duchesses, actresses, cabinet ministers, painters, writers, actors, and
journalists jostled one another.
A friend of men, because of his good-fellowship, frankness, and loyalty;
and of women, by reason of his wit, his discretion, and his charming
manners, Lorimer was received everywhere with open arms. He could have
dined and lunched out every day, if this had been the programme of his
existence. On the contrary, he worked hard, went out little, knew
everybody, but was the intimate acquaintance of but few, and amongst
these were numbered Philip and Dora, whom he liked exceedingly and who
interested him intensely.
They sat down in merry mood and did honour to the simple and appetising
lunch.
"What a pity you did not turn up a few moments earlier, my dear fellow!"
said Philip to Lorimer. "You would have been edified, and have heard
Dora holding forth against wealth. The contempt my wife has for money is
sublime. She is of the opinion that art, like virtue, should be its own
reward."
"I'm sorry to say it's often the only one art gets," said Lorimer.
"Well, what's your news?"
"Haven't any," said Philip. "Oh yes, though," added he, "Sir Benjamin
Pond threatens to pay us a visit to-day ... deuce take him."
"You're in luck; he spends a mint of money in pictures."
"They say he buys them by the dozen."
"Hum," said Lorimer, "by the square yard. He's an awful ass, but his
money is as good as that of the cleverest. When I said just now,
'What's your news?' I meant from the workshop."
"My wife's portrait will be finished in an hour's time; you shall see it
after lunch."
"And what will you call it?"
"Oh, simply, 'Portrait of Mrs. Grantham,' or perhaps, 'A Bunch of
Pansies.'"
"'A Bunch of Pansies,' that's charming," said Lorimer; "I should like to
have a title like that for my new play, as simple" ...
"Oh, by-the-bye, how about your play, is it getting on?"
"It's finished, my dear fellow. I have the manuscript with me. I have to
read it to the company at the Queen's Theatre to-day at four o'clock."
"Are you pleased with it?"
"My dear friend, when a man has the artistic temperament, his work never
realises his ideal--but, thank goodness, when I have finished a play, I
think of nothing but--the next one."
"You are right--but, still, with your experience--you have been writing
plays for years."
"I wrote my first play when I was seventeen," said Lorimer, drawing
himself up in a comic manner.
"When you were seventeen?" exclaimed Dora.
"Yes! a melodrama, and what a melodrama it was!--blood-curdling, weird,
terrible, human, fiendish. I portrayed crime, perfidy and lying
triumphing for a while, but overtaken in the long-run by fatal
chastisement."
"And was the piece produced?" interrupted Dora.
"It was read," answered Lorimer. "I received a very encouraging letter
from the manager of the theatre. My play, it appeared, showed a
deplorable ignorance of stagecraft, but was well written and full of
fine and well-conceived situations. However, horrors followed one
another so closely that it was to be feared that the audience would
scarcely have time to draw breath and dry their tears. Finally, the
letter terminated with a piece of good advice. This was, in the future,
not to kill all my _dramatis personae_, so that, at the fall of the
curtain, there might be someone left alive, to announce the name of the
author, and bring him forward!"
"It was most encouraging," said Dora, in fits of laughter.
"That is not all," added Lorimer; "I received, a month later, an
invitation to a dinner given by the Society of Dramatic Authors, and
found myself amongst the leading authors and actors of the day."
"You must have been proud," said Dora.
"Proud, my dear madam," said Lorimer; "if you would form an idea of what
I felt, try to imagine a little shepherd of Boeotia asked to dine with
Jupiter, to meet all the gods of Olympus."
"Now, come, tell us about your new play," said Philip.
"Oh, well, you know, I hope it will be a success, but you never know
what will please the great B.P. The dialogue is good, the characters are
interesting, the situations are strong without being vulgar, the idea is
new ... yes, I must say, I am sanguine."
"Bravo!" said Philip, "the theme is original."
"Perfectly original," said Lorimer. "I don't adapt Parisian plays for
the _Pharisian_ stage."
"It must be enchanting," cried Dora, "to see one's own creations in
flesh and blood ... alive!"
"Yes, for one month, two months, perhaps six months. The creations of
painters last for centuries."
"That is true," said Dora, looking at Philip.
"Shakespeare and Moliere are still being played with success," said
Philip.
"Yes, I grant you these two. Human nature is still and always will be
what it was in their time. There are no new passions, follies, to
portray since their time; but against those two names which you cite ...
real demi-gods ... I could give you two hundred painters and sculptors
dating from antiquity down to the present day."
Dora was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It seemed
to her that Philip no longer enthused over his art, and she tried her
utmost to rekindle the sacred fire that threatened to go out. So,
encouraging Lorimer to continue in the same strain, she said--
"Yes, you are right. It is painting that expresses all that is beautiful
in the world."
"Especially Philip's art," said Lorimer, seeming to grasp Dora's meaning
from the warmth with which she spoke. "You paint nature, my dear friend,
flowers, portraits ... you do not inflict the nude upon us, as do so
many of your brothers in art, who show themselves but poor imitators of
the French school, _servum pecus_."
"But nature is surely always beautiful, wherever she is found," said
Dora.
"The ideal, yes," said Lorimer; "but it is the realistic method of
treatment, in most pictures, that displeases me. Perhaps I am a little
puritanical; but what can you expect? I'm English!"
"But there is no ideal nature, there is only true nature," said Dora.
"Call it realism, if you wish: what is real is true, and what is true
is beautiful."
"My dear Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, "if you are going to argue out that
subject with Dora, you are lost, I warn you. You will get the worst of
it."
"Well, you will admit this much, I suppose," said Dora, "that the models
chosen are generally beautiful. English models are even more than
beautiful, they are mostly pure in form."
"Quite so, but no artist has a right to expose a woman's nude figure to
the public gaze. In sculpture it may be permissible,--the cold purity of
the marble saves everything,--but never in painting."
"Shake up the Englishman," said Dora, laughing, "and the Puritan rises
to the surface. I thought you were artistic, my dear friend. One may
forgive a Puritan, but a _pruritan_, excuse the word. Oh!... I have met
people who only saw in the _Venus de Milo_ a woman with no clothes on.
Poor Venus! I wish she could grow a pair of arms and hands to box the
ears of such Philistines. Of course, I must say, these people were not
of our society."
"Well, call me prejudiced if you will; but I hate to see woman robbed of
her modesty ... and of her clothes, for the edification of a profane
public, especially a public as inartistic as our English one. Your
remark about the _Venus de Milo_ proves that I am right. In France it is
another matter. The public understands. It knows that such and such a
picture is beautiful, and why it is beautiful. Even the workmen over
there have been visitors of picture galleries from generation to
generation, and I have heard some, at the Louvre and the Luxembourg,
making criticisms of pictures that they looked at, criticisms which
proved to me that they had more true appreciation of painting than the
fashionable crowd that goes to the Royal Academy on private view day.
No, I say, the nude in France, if you will; but in England, Heaven
preserve us from it!"
"And yet," said Dora, in a calmer tone of voice, "the novelists and
dramatists of to-day, for the most part, do exactly the same thing."
"What do you mean to say? Novelists and dramatists describe the
emotions, the passions of the soul. To uncover the heart and uncover the
body are two vastly different things. Add to that, in England on the
stage, if not in the novel, that virtue triumphs invariably."
"Yes, but at what cost? Firstly, often at the expense of insulting one's
common-sense; but that is the fault of a public that insists on being
sent home, perfectly convinced that the hero and heroine still
henceforth live happily ever after. That is not the worst of it. Before
seeing the triumph of virtue, often an impossible kind of virtue, one
must assist at the heartrending dissection of a woman's soul. All the
deformities of her heart are laid bare. I suppose you call that realism
too, I call it clinical surgery--that is to say, my dear friend, that
modern fiction exhales a strong odour of carbolic acid. Ah, I must say I
prefer a picture in which a woman is presented in all her beauty of form
and colour, to a novel or a play, in which we see woman represented as
impure, corrupted" ...
"I told you that you would be beaten, Lorimer. Own yourself vanquished."
"My dear madam," said Lorimer, "you preach to a convert. But I must
remind you that converting the British public is not my role. I serve up
to that worthy public, which has always been kind to me, the dish of its
predilection. We cannot always put on the stage Pauls and Virginias,
who, moreover, are getting rarer every day, as you will admit."
"Virginias, especially," said Philip, in parenthesis.
"Oh, that's another thing," exclaimed Dora almost indignantly; "you
work, you turn out dramatic literature, for what it brings you in; own
it at once--to make money! That is modern art, the art of making ten
thousand a year. Some are writers, some are green-grocers; you put them
all in the same category. Under these conditions, I do not see why
Philip should not accept offers to paint advertisements for
manufacturers of soaps and hair restorers."
"But, my dear friend," said Lorimer, "some of our greatest academicians
have accepted such commissions with the most satisfactory results."
"Oh, hold your tongue, you are incorrigible!" said Dora, laughing.
Philip saw that it was time to put a stop to the conversation that
threatened to get too heated, and proposed a smoke in the studio. Dora
did not go with them; she made a solemn bow to Lorimer; and all three
burst out laughing and separated the best of friends.
Philip and Lorimer lit their cigars, the latter without taking his eyes
off the portrait of Dora, which he thought a splendid likeness and
perfect in colouring and modelling.
"Ah, my dear friend, what a wife you have! What a companion for an
artist! Upon my word, if I were married to such a woman, I believe I
could write masterpieces."
Philip hardly heeded him. He paced up and down the studio, looking at
the clock, then at the door, and starting at every sound he heard in the
street.
"I should like to gain the world, to lay it at the feet of this woman,"
said he, standing before the portrait a moment. Philip felt more and
more agitated. Lorimer looked at him fixedly.
"Why, old fellow, what on earth is the matter with you?"
"My dear Lorimer," answered Philip, who could conceal his feelings no
longer, "you see me to-day in an indescribable state of excitement. In a
few moments, I may hear that I am a rich man."
"You don't say so," said Lorimer, amazed; "an old uncle about to depart
this life?"
"No," said Philip; "my work, my very own work is perhaps on the point of
making me wealthy. For months past, night and day so to speak, I have
been working" ...
"At a great picture," interrupted Lorimer.
"At an invention."
"Nonsense! take care. You will die in the workhouse."
"Not at all, old fellow," said Philip; "there are two kinds of
inventors, those who seek and those who discover. I have discovered."
"What have you discovered, dear friend?" said Lorimer, more and more
surprised.
"A shell that may revolutionise the art of warfare. A Special Commission
is now sitting at the War Office in Paris, to discuss its merits. I am
awaiting their decision. I shall get a telegram to-day, perhaps in a few
moments. I offered my shell to the English Government, but they declined
it."
"Are you speaking seriously?"
"Do I look as if I were joking? Can't you see, man, I'm in such a fever
of impatience, that I can't hold a brush, my hand is trembling so? I
have neither the courage nor the strength to finish this portrait, which
only requires about an hour's work. But not a word to Dora on the
subject; she knows nothing about it yet, and never will, if the affair
falls through."
A violent ringing was heard at the studio bell.
"There," said Philip, "that is it perhaps ... the telegram at last." And
he ran to open the door himself.
He returned accompanied by a big man, pompous and shiny, who entered the
studio with a majestic step. Bald, chubby-faced, with a huge nose that
divided his face in two, as the Apennines divide Italy, and two large
round eyes set lobster-fashion, he was, with his huge white waistcoat, a
fair example of a certain type of city merchant, in all his glory. This
pretentious personage cast a look into every corner of the studio.
"Plague take the bore," said Philip to Lorimer.
"I'll be off," said Lorimer.
"Oh no, please stay. Sir Benjamin Pond's visit won't last long."
"Ah, ah," said the big City alderman; "you received my note, in which I
announced my visit?"
Philip made a sign in the affirmative. Sir Benjamin placed his hat on a
table and, rubbing his hands, threw a condescending glance at Philip,
which seemed to say, "You ought to be proud to have a visit from me." He
took stock of the furniture in detail.
"Very cosy here; very comfortable quarters indeed. You are evidently
doing well. One is constantly hearing of artists who live on buns in
garrets ... upon my word, I don't know any such inviting and attractive
houses as those inhabited by artists, and I flatter myself I know them
all."
"Painters surround themselves with a certain artistic luxury, as a means
of inspiration," said Philip; "and then, Sir Benjamin," added he,
laughing, "I don't see why all the good things of this life should be
for the fools. Pray, take a seat."
"Thanks," said the patron of arts ... "I came" ...
"To arrange for a portrait?"
"No, no, not a portrait. Now I hope I shan't offend you by saying so,
but I really don't care for portraits in oil. You may say what you like,
but, to have a perfect likeness, give me a good coloured photograph.
That's my tackle. For fancy portraits, very good, but otherwise" ...
"It sounds promising," thought Lorimer, who took up his position near
the window, to enjoy the fun.
"The moment a process is discovered for photographing colour as well as
lines and shade," continued Sir Benjamin, "nobody will want a painted
portrait. For a portrait, you don't want imagination, you want truth,
sir, real truth, an exact reproduction of the original."
"Some people prefer Madame Tussaud's Exhibition to the Louvre or the
British Museum," said Lorimer.
The City alderman turned round and looked at him, and Philip introduced
them to each other.