THE IMPRESSION-SEEKER
Have you reckoned the landscape took substance and form that it might
be painted in a picture?
Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?
Or the attraction of gravity and the great laws and harmonious
combinations and the fluids of the air as subjects for the savants?
Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?
WALT WHITMAN.
It was probable that Mrs. Venables came to Naples in order to absorb
impressions. This was the business of her life; she made of herself a
sponge, and let the waters of her experiences fill her. Later, she
squeezed them out. It is admitted, of course, that any sponge will a
little colour with its own individualities of hue the water which
passes through it. She had really a fine power of discerning and
appraising significance in matters the most ordinary. When all is said,
to be easily 'struck' (her own word) must be accounted a gift, like any
other of the manifold gifts of receptiveness. Mrs. Venables was
struck--immensely struck--by the picturesque (her own word again) gaiety
of the Toledo in the late November evening. Her walk through it was a
veritable orgie to her. Her intelligent profile wore at moments a
strained look; it was as if the impressions pressed in with almost too
great a rapidity and force for capture. Capture was all she attempted;
digestion might come later. The same anxious strain may be observed in
the face of the gourmand confronted, he half fears, with more than his
match. This anxiety perhaps takes the edge from entire enjoyment; but
Mrs. Venables had not entered into life to receive pleasure, but
impressions. It was all copy to her: the pedlars' stalls with their
lights and groups of loafers, the unkempt men and women gutter-picking
('the _mozzonari_, Warren,' said Mrs. Venables, impressed), the people
eating macaroni under the awnings of travelling cooks, the rag-sellers
and the bone-buyers, and the general noisy sociability. It was all
absorbed; it would all be squeezed forth in due time; nothing would be
kept back, for the atmosphere of Southern Italy, so unique, depended on
these details. 'Be truthful, and you will certainly be interesting,' was
Mrs. Venables' theory of art; not at all 'Be interesting, and you may
possibly be truthful incidentally.' For which she deserved credit, as
the holder of a commendable ideal.
Her son Warren knew that this walk was of the nature of an orgie. The
curve of his mother's fine lips would alone have conveyed that to him.
The set of his own evinced a little amusement; the scene to him was
ordinary enough, and there seemed to him to be a good many rather
obnoxious people about. People, obnoxious or agreeable, were not to him
copy, unless he wanted to paint them. His dark, clever face missed the
ideality of his mother's; his speculative eyes saw a good deal more.
Outside a cafe a noisy group lounged. One of them was reading something
aloud from a paper; it seemed to be amusing. An explosion of laughter
interrupted the stuttering voice of the reader, as the Venables passed.
The reader, glancing up, looked Warren Venables full in the face. Then
the stuttering voice went on. More laughter exploded.
'What are they reading?' Mrs. Venables wondered, as they left the group
behind them.
'Oh, some rotten thing....' Warren Venables looked abstracted for a
moment or two. Then he jerked back his head, in sudden enlightenment.
'That was it--he was in my house in my last year at school. An infant
with a horrid stutter; I used to lick him for it; never knew whether it
was meant for cheek or not.... What was his name, now?' He pondered it.
'What are you talking about, Warren? Look at that girl. What a striking
face! The features of the Moor and the spirit of the Greek.... Did you
see some one you know, dear boy?'
'Yes--the man reading; I was at school with him in my last year, but I
can't think of his name.... Crevequer, that's it.... Now, that's funny,
rather,' he mused.
'The young man reading, Warren?'
'That's the one. I knew him by his stutter, chiefly--and the blazer. He
knew me, too, or half thought he did. Seems to be amusing himself pretty
well. Do you remember, mother, you said something about my seeing after
him, more or less, when he went to school? You'd met his father, or knew
about him in some way. I suppose that was why I felt I had to lick him
for his stutter; I don't remember that I ever had much other intercourse
with him.'
'Crevequer?... Oh, Maddan Crevequer's boy, do you mean? Yes, I met
Maddan Crevequer once or twice, and I used to hear a good deal about
him. He was an eccentric--a genius, too, I think, only he didn't turn it
in the right directions. Shut himself up in a little place in the North
of Italy, and no one ever knew what he did there. Very striking. Then he
came to England to send his boy to school, and it killed him. He
required Italy for his existence, physically, intellectually, and
spiritually. Quite a pagan, but his wife was a Roman Catholic, and I
heard that the children were brought up to her faith, though she died
quite young.... One feels always about his books that they should be
intensely interesting, but it is an interest somehow run off the
lines.... And so that is Maddan Crevequer's boy!'
The thought suddenly brought her up. The flare of a street lamp had
shown Tommy Crevequer rather plainly--his bare head, his frayed blazer,
his friends, girls and men, who laughed. It was, perhaps, his friends
who chiefly put the ring of surprise into Mrs. Venables' tone. Interest
followed close on its heels. The thing struck her.
'Curious. We must find him out, Warren; get to know him.'
'Must we, mother? Good copy, do you think? But one knows the sort'--he
made a downward movement with his hand--'when it's sober it borrows, and
that's such a bore. Besides, we shan't be able to find him--and he
won't, probably, want to be found.'
'You might go back now....'
'Interrupt the reading? No, I think not. He mightn't be pleased.'
'He looked,' said Mrs. Venables, 'as if he was entering into the life of
the quite poor. That would be an enterprise of immense interest if one
could really accomplish it, really break down the barriers. We must find
the boy, Warren.'
'All right, we'll try. But I expect he's just scum, you know. There are
lots like him in every big town; it drifts about the bottom, that sort,
and personally I don't think it's anything in its favour that it's by
way of being--or having been--a gentleman. But I've no doubt you'd like
it, mother, so we'll look for Crevequer. Only its not an easy sort to
find, I warn you. Nomadic, you know.... Oh, of course Crevequer may be
just on the spree for to-night; he may dress better as a rule.'
The impression of Mr. Crevequer seemed to remain with Mrs. Venables,
standing out above the other dishes of her orgie. She returned to her
hotel replete.
Tommy Crevequer met his sister at the door of the Fondo Theatre, and
walked home with her. He mentioned Venables.
'Head of my house in my first year at school. He was decent to me,
rather. I don't suppose he knew me to-night; he had some one with him,
so I didn't stop him; but I wouldn't mind meeting him again.'
It was quite clear that he would not mind in the least. The Crevequers
never minded meeting people; they were very sociable.
Betty said that Morello had asked her to sit to him.
'I suppose I'd better--had I? It will bore me quite awfully, but it
would be extravagant not to, of course. And he's asked Gina and me to
supper to-morrow. You'd better come too; it may be fun.'
Tommy hummed an air.
'He's a silly ass, Morello is. But we'll have supper with him by all
means, particularly with him and Gina; Gina's great sport.... It's
struck me, Betty, that perhaps Venables did know me, and was feeling
proud or something. If he's proud I should love to meet him again, and
introduce him to--to Luli and every one. It would be our duty, don't you
think? But Venables used to be an awfully good sort--I don't believe
he's really proud--and if we do run into him again, we'll take him about
with us.... I'm awfully hard up just now.'
The Crevequers did not suffer from pride.
Three weeks later, Venables walked into the Crevequers' room. It was
about six o'clock; the Crevequers had guests, who smoked and drank wine
and conversed. Tommy Crevequer sat astride on the table; Betty was on
the arm of a chair, leaning back against Gina Lunelli's broad shoulder.
It was confusing to come into such an intimate party.
Tommy looked round, and broke off in the middle of what he was saying,
and got off the table. He was glad Venables had come. Venables
apologized.
'How are you, Crevequer?... But I'm interrupting you; I'll come in
another time.'
But Tommy drew him in, and introduced him to Betty, and to Luli and Gina
and all the rest, and offered him wine. It was a convivial gathering;
Venables, being a stranger, and wearing a rather clean collar, perhaps
threw a shade of restraint over it, but mirth broke out again before
long. At last, with common accord, the company took its leave--all but
Venables.
'Well, how are you Crevequer? I've been looking for you, you know, all
over the place.'
Tommy had almost forgotten how much he had admired Venables once; it
returned to him now as they talked. He would have liked to see a good
deal of Venables. Venables painted, he learnt--painted successfully,
Tommy presumed, looking at the clean collar and the well-cut coat. It
was perhaps a pity, Tommy reflected, his melancholy eyes, under their
quick, amused brows, turning from Venables to his sister, that he and
Betty were not better dressed to-day. Venables was probably a person of
prejudices, and his collar was very clean.
Venables learned that Crevequer was a journalist.
'What's your paper?'
'That.' Tommy indicated _Marchese Peppino_ on the table; it came out
that day.
'Oh.'
Venables just glanced at it; he showed no desire to inspect it more
closely; possibly he knew enough about it already. His clever face was
scrupulously devoid of expression.
'I chiefly do sketches,' Tommy elaborated. 'You know the sort of thing?
They aren't funny, not a bit; but they sell. Oh, I write for it, too, of
course; and that's funnier, rather. _Novelle in corto_, you know; we
have the news in, as much as if we were anybody; combine instruction
with amusement, don't you know.'
Venables knew quite well.
'I wonder,' he thought afterwards, '_why_ he shoved it down my throat
like that. Mere cheek, perhaps, or to show he didn't mind, or to warn me
off at once in case I didn't like his style. Or doesn't he really,
perhaps, realize....'
Not really to realize, Crevequer must have pushed very far from the
shores of decency.
Venables let the topic of _Marchese Peppino_ lie where Tommy had dropped
it. He delivered his mother's message, not stiffly, but with voice and
face a little vacant of expression, lacking interest. He asked the
Crevequers to come to lunch to-morrow at Parker's Hotel. Mrs. Venables
had not been aware of Betty, but Warren supposed that her existence
would add a further element of picturesque interest to the 'impression.'
The invitation was accepted. Venables stayed a little longer,
and examined the ceiling, and discovered incidentally that the
Crevequers--probably by the sheer insane futility of their stammering
flow--had the power of pricking him at all points to sudden laughter.
He considered it walking home. In his search for Tommy Crevequer he had
happened upon a man--he kept a billiard saloon--who knew him rather
well. His remarks, entirely friendly (he was really fond of Tommy),
conveyed to Venables several items of information about him; among
others, that Venables would at no time have any difficulty in finding
him, as a good many people thought it prudent to keep him under view. At
the same time, Tommy's acquaintances seemed to assume as a matter of
course that he might find an occasional plunge into obscurity a
convenience. These casually conveyed impressions Venables had
assimilated without surprise. As he would have said, one knew the sort.
And Venables liked people who amused him.
But _Marchese Peppino_ stuck in his throat.
Betty observed to Tommy:
'What fun. We shall probably forget to go. But if we don't, we shall
have to eat so much that we shan't need any more for a week. How
economical! Lunch in England--do you remember, Tommy?'
Tommy was thinking.
'Betty, we don't dress well enough. I want a new hat; so do you.
Venables is better dressed than we are. We must be tidy, and cut a dash
at lunch. It's a mistake not to be well dressed; people are so
prejudiced. I shall wear a collar to-morrow--a quite clean one, like
Venables. And we won't have any supper to-night, because we shall have
to eat too much at lunch. And I suppose Mrs. Venables will talk about
father's books, as she's so interested; so let's read them.'
'Perhaps,' said Betty, 'we'd better read her own works too; only I don't
feel sure they'd be quite nice, so I think we'll wait till we're
older--thirty-two and thirty-three. We can tell her if she asks that we
read so little that we have to be very careful about what we read. It
would be so disappointing to read a book we didn't like; she'll
understand that.'