“Oh, I understand, of course,” she delicately anticipated me, “that that
could never be _your_ view, your personal view; but since occasions
_may_ arise--do arise--when it becomes necessary to--to put a price on
the priceless, as it were--I have thought--Miss Copt has suggested--“
“Some day,” Eleanor encouraged her, “you might feel that the picture ought
to belong to some one who has more--more opportunity of showing it--letting
it be seen by the public--for educational reasons--“
“I have tried,” Mrs. Fontage admitted, “to see it in that light.”
The crucial moment was upon me. To escape the challenge of Mrs. Fontage’s
brilliant composure I turned once more to the picture. If my courage needed
reinforcement, the picture amply furnished it. Looking at that lamentable
canvas seemed the surest way of gathering strength to denounce it; but
behind me, all the while, I felt Mrs. Fontage’s shuddering pride drawn
up in a final effort of self-defense. I hated myself for my sentimental
perversion of the situation. Reason argued that it was more cruel to
deceive Mrs. Fontage than to tell her the truth; but that merely proved the
inferiority of reason to instinct in situations involving any concession to
the emotions. Along with her faith in the Rembrandt I must destroy not only
the whole fabric of Mrs. Fontage’s past, but even that lifelong habit of
acquiescence in untested formulas that makes the best part of the average
feminine strength. I guessed the episode of the picture to be inextricably
interwoven with the traditions and convictions which served to veil Mrs.
Fontage’s destitution not only from others but from herself. Viewed in
that light the Rembrandt had perhaps been worth its purchase-money; and I
regretted that works of art do not commonly sell on the merit of the moral
support they may have rendered.
From this unavailing flight I was recalled by the sense that something
must be done. To place a fictitious value on the picture was at best a
provisional measure; while the brutal alternative of advising Mrs. Fontage
to sell it for a hundred dollars at least afforded an opening to the
charitably disposed purchaser. I intended, if other resources failed,
to put myself forward in that light; but delicacy of course forbade my
coupling my unflattering estimate of the Rembrandt with an immediate offer
to buy it. All I could do was to inflict the wound: the healing unguent
must be withheld for later application.
I turned to Mrs. Fontage, who sat motionless, her finely-lined cheeks
touched with an expectant color, her eyes averted from the picture which
was so evidently the one object they beheld.
“My dear madam--“ I began. Her vivid smile was like a light held up to
dazzle me. It shrouded every alternative in darkness and I had the flurried
sense of having lost my way among the intricacies of my contention. Of
a sudden I felt the hopelessness of finding a crack in her impenetrable
conviction. My words slipped from me like broken weapons. “The picture,”
I faltered, “would of course be worth more if it were signed. As it is,
I--I hardly think--on a conservative estimate--it can be valued at--at
more--than--a thousand dollars, say--“
My deflected argument ran on somewhat aimlessly till it found itself
plunging full tilt against the barrier of Mrs. Fontage’s silence. She sat
as impassive as though I had not spoken. Eleanor loosed a few fluttering
words of congratulation and encouragement, but their flight was suddenly
cut short. Mrs. Fontage had risen with a certain solemnity.
“I could never,” she said gently--her gentleness was adamantine--“under any
circumstances whatever, consider, for a moment even, the possibility of
parting with the picture at such a price.”