I
John Clayton had pretty nearly run the gamut of the fine arts. As a boy
at college he had taken a dilettante interest in music, and having
shown some power of sketching the summer girl he had determined to
become an artist. His numerous friends had hoped such great things for
him that he had been encouraged to spend the rest of his little
patrimony in educating himself abroad. It took him nearly two years to
find out what being an artist meant, and the next three in thinking
what he wanted to do. In Paris and Munich and Rome, the wealth of the
possible had dazzled him and confused his aims; he was so skilful and
adaptable that in turn he had wooed almost all the arts, and had
accomplished enough trivial things to raise very pretty expectations of
his future powers. He had enjoyed an uncertain glory among the crowd of
American amateurs. When his purse had become empty he returned to
America to realize on his prospects.
On his arrival he had elaborately equipped a studio in Boston, but as
he found the atmosphere "too provincial" he removed to New York. There
he was much courted at a certain class of afternoon teas. He was in
full bloom of the "might do," but he had his suspicions that a fatally
limited term of years would translate the tense into "might have done."
He argued, however, that he had not yet found the right _milieu_; he
was fond of that word--conveniently comprehensive of all things that
might stimulate his will. He doubted if America ever could furnish him
a suitable _milieu_ for the expression of his artistic instincts. But
in the meantime necessity for effort was becoming more urgent; he could
not live at afternoon teas.
Clayton was related widely to interesting and even influential people.
One woman, a distant cousin, had taken upon herself his affairs.
"I will give you another chance," she said, in a business-like tone,
after he had been languidly detailing his condition to her and
indicating politely that he was coming to extremities. "Visit me this
summer at Bar Harbor. You shall have the little lodge at the Point for
a studio, and you can take your meals at the hotel near by. In that way
you will be independent. Now, there are three ways, any one of which
will lead you out of your difficulties, and if you don't find one that
suits you before October, I shall leave you to your fate."
The young man appeared interested.
"You can model something--that's your line, isn't it?"
Clayton nodded meekly. He had resolved to become a sculptor during his
last six months in Italy.
"And so put you on your feet, professionally." Clayton sighed. "Or you
can find some rich patron or patroness who will send you over for a
couple of years more until your _chef d' oeuvre_ makes its appearance."
Her pupil turned red, and began to murmur, but she kept on unperturbed.
"Or, best of all, you can marry a girl with some money and then do what
you like." At this Clayton rose abruptly.
"I haven't come to that," he growled.
"Don't be silly," she pursued. "You are really charming; good
character; exquisite manners; pleasant habits; success with women. You
needn't feel flattered, for this is your stock in trade. You are
decidedly interesting, and lots of those girls who are brought there
every year to get them in would be glad to make such an exchange. You
know everybody, and you could give any girl a good standing in Boston
or New York. Besides, there is your genius, which may develop. That
will be thrown in to boot; it may bear interest."
Clayton, who had begun by feeling how disagreeable his situation was
when it exposed him to this kind of hauling over, ended by bursting
into a cordial laugh at the frank materialism with which his cousin
presented his case. "Well," he exclaimed, "it's no go to talk to you
about the claims and ideals of art, Cousin Della, but I will accept
your offer, if only for the sake of modelling a bust of 'The Energetic
Matron (American).'"
"Of course, I don't make much of ideals in art and all that," replied
his cousin, "but I will put this through for you, as Harry says. You
must promise me only one thing: no flirting with Harriet and Mary.
Henry has been foolish and lost money, as you know, and I cannot have
another beggar on my hands!"