"I was never more serious in my life," insisted Wyndham, now wheeling
forward a smaller easel, in order to display the pictures he had at
first selected. "I consider it frightfully clever to make money."
"My dear sir, fools often make money," Mr. Robinson assured him.
Wyndham shook his head incredulously. "Do you care much about this
landscape?" he asked.
"Very much indeed. It is so green and fresh and airy, and those are
grand old trees."
"It's our old home in Hertfordshire. I lost the property and a modest
fortune through a rascally set of lawyers."
Mr. Robinson's face expressed deep concern. "Yes, I remember the affair
well," he said. "I remember reading it over the breakfast-table to my
wife and daughter. We saw your name among the creditors. It was a bad
business."
"They had managed all our family concerns for thirty years."
Wyndham was now wound up to enter into more personal matters than he had
so far touched upon. As before, he was perfectly frank, recounting in
the intimacy of the moment all the details of this financial
catastrophe. He spoke freely of his relations in the country, and of his
sister Mary, and the independent way in which she was earning her bread;
passing from canvas to canvas the while, and breaking off frequently to
discuss the paintings.
At last they had gone through all the selection, but the unfailing
appreciation of his visitor was so pleasant to the artist that he could
not help bringing forward two or three more, and then finally another.
And still yet another after!--like the preacher's "one word more."
"I have passed a very happy time here with you," the old man declared,
as Wyndham restored the lamp to its usual place on the table. "You see I
was right; the occasion was well worth the accident that brought it
about."
"Happily you were not really hurt. So all's well that ends well."
The old man took hold of his rush-bag. "I mustn't forget my middle of
salmon," he smiled. "I generally fetch something home for my wife--some
game or fish fresh from the market."
"You make me wish _I_ had a husband in the City," sighed Wyndham.
Mr. Robinson laughed. "Well, I suppose I must make up my mind to be off,
else my wife and daughter will be wondering what has become of me."
Wyndham came forward hurriedly. "I hope I have not been keeping you," he
murmured. Somehow he did not like being left alone now. The old man's
coming had saved him for the time being from the clutch of a terrible
despair, and he saw it waiting to descend swiftly on him. The half-hour
of self-respect would vanish like an illusion.
But Mr. Robinson's voice was breaking in on his mood again.
"Would it be presuming too much on our slight acquaintance if I
suggested----" The old man hesitated with an evident shyness that was
very winning.
"Pray suggest anything you like," said Wyndham.
Thus encouraged, Mr. Robinson launched out boldly. "Would you come home
and dine with us--quite without ceremony. We're the simplest of people,
but we shall offer you the heartiest of welcomes."
"That is very kind of you," said Wyndham. "I should not be deranging
your household?"
"I am sure my wife and daughter will be as delighted to see you as I am.
Will you not come home with me now--in a simple, friendly way?"
"Since I am to meet ladies," smiled Wyndham, "I should like to make
myself presentable. I have just been across town, and in this filthy,
murky atmosphere one gets to feel so utterly unclean."
"Oh, yes; am I not in the same plight myself?" smiled Mr. Robinson.
Wyndham escorted him to the door, and the old man again thanked him for
the pleasure the visit had afforded him.
"We dine at half-past seven," was his parting reminder, and Wyndham,
promising faithfully to be punctual, closed the door after him.
V
But his visitor had no sooner departed than Wyndham experienced a sharp
revulsion of feeling. How stupid to have accepted this invitation! His
isolation in this suburban wilderness had always afforded him a certain
satisfaction--he had consistently maintained his magnificent want of
interest in all this Philistine population. His studio was his castle,
and if he chose to starve therein it was at least a mitigation of his
misery to be able to do so without the sense of others' eyes prying at
him. And now he had surrendered his privacy. The indiscretion was really
inexplicable! And he had let his tongue run on so recklessly and
confidentially! He might even have drawn back at the very last--alleged
an engagement, and cut short the acquaintanceship there and then.
Perhaps it was not yet too late!
In his annoyance he started pacing the length of the studio. But the
great canvas, still glistening there on the easel, suddenly claimed his
attention again, and brought him to a standstill. Impulsively he caught
up the lamp, and once more directed its light on to the surface. The
picture took deep hold of him, and he stood absorbed in it. And somehow
Mr. Robinson's wondering voice began to sound its praises. "Marvellous!"
the old man seemed to be saying. "It doesn't need an art education to
see that's a work of genius." And as he recalled each stroke of
admiration, he nodded his head in agreement.
Was not the old man's appreciation of good augury? Surely it
foreshadowed a popular Academy success. Whatever one's personal art
ideals, it did not detract from their worth if one could carry them out
and please the crowd at the same time--incidentally, of course--without
deliberate intention. Did not Moliere first try his comedies on his
housekeeper? Mr. Robinson's tastes were the tastes of the great
public--nay, of even the better classes that went to the galleries. Like
him, they dwelt entirely on the illustrative aspect of painting, and
were altogether swayed by the humanity of a picture, by its dramatic or
anecdotal interest. No wonder some of his fellow-craftsmen had been
driven to the opposite extreme, and tried to rule out humanity
altogether. But the human side of art need not be necessarily on a low
plane, or descend to mere anecdote. In his hands art should be the
vehicle of real intellect and emotion.
If only he were not forced to do those idiotic trifles! After holding
out so long, to capitulate absolutely for want of bread! No, he would
not dine with Mr. Robinson--he would starve rather!
"Better to starve than stoop to inferiors!" he exclaimed, as he set down
the lamp again. How little, indeed, he had eaten all that day! And with
the thought a distressing weakness came over him. There was a humming at
his temples: the studio disappeared in a mist, then reappeared
oscillating. He was constrained to steady himself by clutching at the
table.
In a minute or two the vertigo passed off, leaving him with a dull
craving for food and drink. He might make some sort of a meal from such
poor provender as his larder afforded--a portion of a loaf, the
remainder of a tin of sardines, a hunk of cheese; but somehow the
prospect was singularly uninviting. He might, indeed, add variety to the
store by laying out his last shilling in the streets adjoining, but the
shilling was too precious, and anyway he had not the energy to go
shopping. There swam up before him the picture of a well-lighted,
comfortable dining-room with a heavily laden table, and of a middle of
salmon, piping hot, that was being served with a dainty white sauce. And
then there were hosts of bottles on a mahogany sideboard: fat,
gold-tipped bottles; tall, long-necked bottles; fantastic twisted
bottles. Good well-cooked food was nourishing him, a delicate wine was
moistening his feverish palate, touching his whole dull self to a
lighter mood.
He had accepted the invitation. The Robinsons were expecting him, would
be troubled and put out if he did not arrive. He carried the lamp up to
the gallery, and began his preparations. And then the whim took him to
change his clothes again. Not that he supposed the Robinsons affected to
be fashionable of an evening, but the pride of the half-starved man rose
in irrational self-assertion.
So he dressed carefully, tying his bow to perfection, and arranging the
set of his waistcoat fastidiously. It was so long since he had put on
evening clothes, and as he saw himself in the glass, well set up, and
bearing himself exquisitely, the fact of his poverty seemed absurd and
incredible. His face, too, seemed to have recovered some of its olden
confidence as he scanned it critically. True the cheeks were a trifle
thin and shrunken, but the lines of dejection and sadness had lightened
at the new stirring within him.
Then for the first time in all these years he made his way up the road
to the ugly house at the corner that had stamped itself upon him as the
symbol of all Suburbia, as the stronghold of a type of life that Bohemia
mocked at and Belgravia waved aside as impossible.
If he had not yet entirely overcome his distaste, it was at least
mitigated by a splendid sense of condescension.