A Crystal-Gazer and Other Matters
The cheerful atmosphere of the old house in Wellclose Square soon
dissipated my gloomy thoughts. It was nearing supper-time when I
arrived, and an agreeable clink of china proceeded from the
dining-room, accompanied by a faint aroma suggestive of curry. On my
landing I found Lilith and Miss Finch engaged in earnest discussion,
and both greeted me as if I had returned after a long absence.
“We have been wondering,” said the former, “what had become of our
Sibyl” (she had bestowed this title on me, presumably, by reason of my
peculiarly “psychic” cast of countenance). “As for the poor Titmouse”
(this was Miss Finch’s pet name), “she has been wandering about like
a cat that has lost its kitten.”
“Or like a kitten that has lost its cat,” I suggested, bestowing an
affectionate pinch on my little comrade’s ear. “Well, I haven’t been
far afield, but I have done quite an important stroke of business.”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve sold something!” the Titmouse exclaimed,
incredulously.
“Not actually sold. But I have discovered a market. I have tidings of
a benevolent person--of the Scottish persuasion, I believe--who
traffics in works of art and other productions of the human hand.”
“A Scotchman!” exclaimed Miss Finch. “I thought all art dealers were
Jews. When are you going to call on the Laird?”
“It is hardly worth while to call on him until I have a fair
collection of work to show him,” said I.
“I don’t agree with you, Sibyl,” said Lilith. “The first thing to do
is to catch your dealer. To do that, you must find out what he wants.
He is sure to have his own personal fancies, and he knows what he can
sell most easily. Take him all that you have ready. He will be able to
see from that what you can do, and he will tell you what kind of work
he will take from you. And don’t lose any time. I should go to-morrow
if I were you.”
“Does an artist have to work to order, then, like salaried
journeymen?” I asked.
“Practically, yes,” replied Lilith. “And why not? He makes things that
he wants people to buy. Surely it is only reasonable that he should
consider the needs and the wishes of the buyers. And all good
craftsmen do. Chippendale’s chairs were not only good to look at; they
were comfortable to sit on and serviceable in use. The only difference
between an artist craftsman and a commercial producer is that the
artist always does his best, for his own satisfaction apart from the
question of payment; whereas the commercial producer thinks of the
profit only, and turns out the worst stuff that the buyer will put up
with.”
“But surely an artist may choose what he will make,” said I.
“Of course he may,” replied Lilith, “if he is willing to keep the
thing when he has made it. Not if he is going to ask someone to pay
him money for it.”
I was inwardly somewhat taken aback by this exhibition of hard-headed
reasonableness on the part of the mystical Lilith; so much so that,
when she had gone to her room, I remarked on it to Miss Finch.
“Yes,” she agreed; “Lilith is an extraordinary girl. In fact, there
seem to be two Liliths; one is as cranky as a March hare, and the
other is perfectly sane and really very shrewd. I sometimes wonder
whether she really believes in all that crystal-gazing tosh and
telepathic bunkum. But she practices what she has just been preaching.
She does her fashion-plates according to orders--but ever so much
better than she need--and does other work to please herself and is
content to keep it. You should look in at her studio and see her at
work; then you’d understand.”
“And you think I had better take her advice?”
“I do. First catch your dealer; and if he wants to keep you turning
out the same things over and over again, try to catch another dealer
who wants something different. The great thing is to get a market.
It’s frightfully disheartening to keep on doing good work and having
it all left on your hands.”
Impressed by this wise counsel, I betook myself after supper to my
workshop and reviewed my stock. A month’s work had produced no great
accumulation, for I was still a slow worker, though the continuous
practice was improving that. On the other hand, I had brought with me
a certain number of unfinished pieces as well as some of my finished
work; so that I had enough to give Mr. Campbell the means of judging
my capabilities. When I had looked over the collection and withdrawn
one or two pieces that were not up to my present standard, I packed
the approved specimens in a hand-bag which I took up with me in
readiness for the morrow. I was just opening the door of my room when
Lilith came running up the stairs.
“You see,” I said, holding up the hand-bag. “I am acting on your
advice. I have packed up a selection from my stock to take to the
dealer to-morrow morning.”
“I am glad of that,” said she. “The business side of art is tedious
and disagreeable, but you have got to sell if you are to live by your
work. Would you mind giving me a private view of your masterpieces?”
“I shall be proud to show them to you,” I replied, conducting her into
my room and placing the arm-chair by the table, “Let us put out the
whole collection.”
I emptied the bag of its contents, which I set out on the table to the
best advantage, and she examined the pieces one by one.
“They _are_ charming,” she exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I can’t judge
the work, though it looks most expert to my inexpert eye, but the
design is delightful. They are all so individual and full of
character, and so simple and restrained. You have a fine colour-sense,
too. I think your use of enamel quite masterly, and I like your
employment of bronze in place of the precious metals. It is fortunate
that your dealer is a Scotchman, for the Jews, from Solomon downwards,
have always had a leaning towards gold.”
“Yes,” said I; “bronze is my favourite material, even for personal
ornaments. And it is capable of great variety in the patina,
especially if one uses the Japanese methods of surface treatment. I
wish it took the enamel better.”
“You seem to have overcome the difficulties pretty completely,” said
Lilith. “This pendant, for instance, is beautiful, and so is the
belt-clasp. Do you know, Sibyl, I think we might collaborate. Some of
my designs might very well include metal ornaments--clasps, buckles,
and buttons forming part of the decorative scheme. We must talk it
over. And now, my dear Sibyl, I want to say something to
you--something quite serious--and I want you to listen without
prejudice.”
I looked at her, and was instantly aware of a change that had come
over her. The shrewd, business-like, capable Lilith had suddenly
become transformed into the mystic--wide-eyed, dreamy, yet intense.
“I have avoided talking to you about the things that are to me the
great things of life,” she said in low, earnest tones. “I have wished
to, but I have been fearful of intruding on your strongly individual,
self-contained personality. But I have felt that you have great
gifts--great psychic gifts. You are a woman of power. The common herd
live their little lives locked up in the prison of the visible and the
conscious. If they would convey their thoughts to other minds they
must use the unwieldy means of speech and visible signs. What they
know of their fellow-immortals reaches them crudely through the organs
of sense; and through those primitive and inadequate media they must
needs communicate with others, bound by the limitations of time and
space and mere material contact--at least, so long as they are
prisoned within a material body. But there are others for whom no such
limitations exist; specially gifted souls who can see without mere
material eyes, who can hear without ears, who can speak their thoughts
across the gulfs of time and space; who can look into the remote past,
and even into the future; who can make their will-power operate at
limitless distances and without the aid of gross bodily action. And
you are one of these, Sibyl. I am convinced that you are endowed with
these powers. But they are latent, unsuspected, because you have never
tried to exercise them; because you have never sought to bring the
subconscious within the domain of the conscious, or rather to make a
contact between the two.”
To this strange and rather wild harangue (which the matter-of-fact
Titmouse would have called “barmy”) I listened with grave attention,
though with little enough conviction--for I could not but recall my
ignorance and my mistaken judgment in the greatest crisis of my
life--noting how like a prophetess the picturesque Lilith looked, with
her golden aureole of auburn hair and her great, blue eyes and parted
lips. But I made no reply--there was, indeed, nothing to say--and
after a short pause she continued:
“Don’t think I am saying this with any impertinent intention of trying
to force my own views on you. I have a definite practical purpose. You
are going to-morrow to make your first essay in a vitally important
branch of an artist’s calling. On your success depends the possibility
of your following art as a profession--that is, if you have not enough
to live without work.”
“I have not,” said I.
“Then artistic success is not sufficient. You must achieve industrial
success; you must get a livelihood out of your work. As far as the
creation of beautiful things is concerned you are quite competent and
will become more so with more practice. Now you have to learn how to
dispose of those works profitably; how to make people buy them.”
“But surely that will be decided by the suitability of the things
themselves.”
“Partly, no doubt. But you mustn’t leave it at that. You must learn to
exercise the power of silent willing combined with suggestion.”
“I don’t think I quite understand,” said I.
“We must talk about this more fully some other time,” said Lilith,
“and go into the theory and the results of experiments. For the
present you must try to take my word for the fact that silent willing
and suggestion are real powers. I don’t ask you to believe it without
proof--I will give you the proof later--but I do beg you, dear Sibyl,
to give the method a trial. If it fails in your hands you will be none
the worse; but it won’t fail if you make up your mind to succeed.”
“What do you want me to do, Lilith?” I asked, not a little bit
bewildered by her mysterious and rather vague expressions.
“I will tell you what I do myself,” she replied. “When I take a batch
of drawings to a publisher, I stand outside the office for five
minutes and silently will that he shall accept them. Sometimes I write
on a piece of paper a command to the publisher to accept my work, and
while I am waiting for the interview I keep my eyes fixed on the
writing and mentally endorse the command. The writing, you see, helps
me to concentrate my will-power. Then, at the interview, I use the
method of suggestion. Whatever the editor or publisher may say,
whatever objections he may make to my work, I continue steadily to
impress on him that he is going to accept it, that, in fact, he has
accepted it. If he refuses it, I ignore the refusal and go on talking
as if he had accepted it--not rudely, of course; one must do these
things tactfully--and all the time that he is talking, I continue
silently to concentrate my will-power on him.”
“And what is the result?” I asked.
“The result, my dear Sibyl, is that I sell all the drawings that I
offer for sale.”
This sounded convincing enough, and would have been more so if I had
not happened to know that Lilith’s drawings were of the very best of
their kind, and that she submitted them to the most rigorous criticism
before letting anyone see them. Still, the fact that she sold her work
was undeniable, and it was impossible to say how many excellent
drawings had failed to gain acceptance. Certainly every capable artist
is not a successful one.
“And what is it exactly that you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you,” she replied, “to do just what I do, myself. I want you
to stand outside the shop for five minutes and silently will that this
dealer shall buy your work. It would probably help you if you were to
write down the command and keep your eyes fixed on the writing while
you are willing; but if the dealer himself should happen to be
visible, it would be well to fix your eyes on him so as to direct the
will-force with more precision. And when you go into the shop, keep on
willing with the greatest concentration that you can command, and when
you are talking to the dealer, talk as if he had bought your work;
keep on impressing on him that he _has_ bought it, and don’t take any
notice of contrary statements on his part. If he seems to think that
he has refused it, you must correct his mistake and guide his thoughts
into the proper channels.”
I suppose I must have looked somewhat dismayed at this rather
startling programme, for Lilith continued, eagerly: “Now, don’t raise
objections, Sibyl, dear. It will be quite easy if you will only make
up your mind. You have abundant will-power, and I am certain that you
have the gift of projecting your mental states into the minds of
others. And I am so anxious that you should succeed and that your
great gifts should not be wasted. Say you will try, Sibyl, if only to
please your friend.”
What could I do? Utterly as my mind refused to accept the connection
between the alleged cause and effect, I could not say that no such
connection existed. I was completely unconvinced; but my unconviction
might conceivably be less rational than Lilith’s whole-hearted belief.
For she declared herself able to support her belief with proof,
whereas I had to admit that my scepticism was largely a matter of
temperament. And she was so eager, and it was so sweet of her to be so
full of anxiety on my behalf, that it would have seemed ungracious to
make difficulties. The end of it was that I agreed to carry out her
plan of conquest, on which she further inducted me into the arts of
silent willing and suggestion and even supervised me while I wrote
out, at her dictation, a peremptory command to the dealer, which I
promised to use, as directed, for the reinforcement of my will-power
at the appropriate time.
On the following morning, after a careful study of my father’s atlas
of London, which I had brought with me from Maidstone, I set forth,
hand-bag in hand and encouraged by the good wishes of my comrades and
of Lilith in particular. Entering the Underground Railway at Mark
Lane, I came to the surface at Charing Cross Station and bore away
northwards across Leicester Square. During the journey, I had turned
over in my mind the plan of attack to which I stood committed, with
increasing distaste, I must admit, as the time for its execution drew
nearer. And as my dislike grew, so also did my scepticism. I found
myself recalling the fact that Lilith, successful as she claimed to
be, was yet a fashion-plate artist very much against her own wishes,
and reflecting that, if her silent willing were as efficacious as she
believed it to be, she might surely compel the purchase of the kind of
work that she enjoyed doing, instead of being herself compelled to
follow a distasteful occupation. However, it was useless to think
about it now. I had promised to give the method a trial and must carry
out my promise.
These reflections brought me to the bottom of Wardour Street, and my
attention was now fully occupied by the search for Mr. Campbell’s
shop. Mr. Otway had omitted to give me the number of the house, but I
remembered his saying that it was on the west side near the Oxford
Street end; so I walked slowly up the east side and scanned the
shop-fronts across the road. Near the top of the street my eye lighted
on a smallish shop, above the window of which was inscribed in faded
gold lettering “Donald Campbell,” and I immediately crossed the road,
becoming aware as I did so of a sudden access of nervousness. For this
was a new experience to me. Hitherto all my transactions with
shopkeepers had been in the character of a purchaser; and my
transformation into a vendor was accompanied by a diffidence and
shyness that I had not expected or foreseen. Indeed, in the course of
that short journey across the road, my bashfulness increased so much
that I had nearly forgotten my promise to Lilith and was on the point
of entering the shop when it flashed into my mind.
But even when I recalled Lilith’s instructions, they were not easy to
carry out. I swerved from the shop door to the side of the window and
stood there trying to concentrate my will-power. But it would not be
concentrated. In the window was displayed a fascinating array of base
metal spoons which instantly rivetted my attention; particularly a
set, of the late seventeenth century, wrought in a fine-coloured
latten, and exhibiting in a most charming manner the combined effect
of delicate workmanship, with the patina of age and the softening of
outlines from use and wear. Unconsciously, I had begun to compare them
with my own cruder productions before I realized that my will-power
had escaped control. Then I jerked myself back from the spoons to my
present task, and, hastily drawing the paper from my pocket, fixed my
eyes on the written command and struggled to concentrate my thoughts
on it and to suppress a growing consciousness of the absurdity of the
whole proceeding. Presently I raised my eyes from the paper, and as
they sought to dodge the spoons, they encountered another object
equally disturbing. “It was only a face at the window,” as the
ridiculous song has it, but it instantly engrossed my attention and
transported me in spirit, not to any Highland glen, but straight away
to the banks of the Jordan; a fattish face, framed with glossy, black
hair that broke out at the temples into rows of little crisp curls
like a barrister’s wig; a face with small, grey eyes, full under the
lids, and surmounted by strong, black eyebrows, with full, red lips
and a rather sketchy nose of the general form of a William pear with
the stalk uppermost. It was clearly not Mr. Campbell’s face, but it
appertained to the establishment; and, recalling Lilith’s instructions
to direct my will-power with more precision by fixing my eyes on the
dealer, I directed a stony stare at the face and willed silently. But
here I was countered again; for the owner of the face was also
apparently possessed of psychic gifts, and fixes on me a gaze of such
intensity that I was covered with confusion. On this I straightway
forgot all about will-power, and, hastily pocketing the paper, walked
nervously and guiltily into the shop.
The proprietor of the face confronted me impassively across the
counter; and such was my trepidation that, although he obviously was
not Mr. Campbell, I could think of nothing better than to ask him if
he was; whereupon he completed my discomfiture by replying in the
affirmative.
“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I; at which he suddenly grew keenly attentive,
and I continued: “I understand that Mr. Otway--Mr. Lewis Otway--has
written to you about me. I had a letter from him to that effect.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Campbell, “he has; and, if I remember rightly, he
suggested that I might be able to dispose of some of your work. I
think he said you did some repoussé or something of the kind.”
Apparently Mr. Campbell was preparing to treat me as an amateur, and
my work as the product of a hobby. This would not do at all. Before
saying anything further, I opened my bag and handed out the pieces one
by one, setting them on the counter before him.
“Oh!” said he. “Yes; ha--hum; this isn’t exactly what I expected.” He
picked up a teaspoon, turned it over between his fingers, closely
examined the joining of the shank and bowl and the little bust that
formed the knob, and then held it at arm’s length with his head on one
side. There was something in the action and the facial expression that
accompanied it which encouraged me even before he spoke.
“Nithe thpoon that,” was his comment as he laid it down (I observed
that he tended to develop a lisp when preoccupied or off his guard);
“well made, well designed; quite original, too. Spoons are my
fancy--you saw that set in the window. If I could afford it, I would
specialize in them more than I do. Not but what I’m fond of all
goldsmith’s work if it’s good--or any other art work, for that matter;
but I do love a good spoon.”
This was pleasant hearing, for I had a weakness for spoons myself.
They are useful objects, they admit of infinite variety in design, and
their small size adapted them peculiarly to my rather limited
resources.
“But there is one thing that you must bear in mind,” continued Mr.
Campbell. “Single spoons are not very saleable unless they are antique
or collectors’ pieces. Modern spoons are bought for use as well as
ornament, and buyers like them in sets; not all alike, of course, but
with a general design running through the set. Twelve spoons, all
different, but all brothers; that’s what they want.”
“Like the apostle sets,” said I.
“Yes,” he replied, “but we don’t want any more apostles. Too many on
the market already. The apostles are done. They’re a back number.
Everybody does them because they can’t think of anything else
connected with the number twelve. But there is an opening for
something original. If you can do me a set with a good striking
design, I think I know where I can place them at a liberal price.”
I made a note of this proposal, and Mr. Campbell proceeded with his
examination of my samples, accompanying the process with shrewd
comments and useful hints. “Now, I’m rather doubtful about this,” said
he, picking up a bronze paper-weight on which was a little figure with
an open book; “it’s pretty and might take the fancy of a bookish man,
but I question whether you’ll get paid for the work that you’ve put
into it. People don’t always realize the value of a bronze casting.
You must have done this by the _cire perdue_ process.”
“I did.”
“Well, I should save that for more important pieces. Simple modelling
and sand-casting is good enough for paper-weights. And you are too
lavish with your silver. Just feel this candlestick. You could have
done it with half the silver and got paid just as much. The extra cost
of the unnecessary silver will have to come off the workmanship--at
least, that is the tendency although it is nominally sold by weight.”
As Mr. Campbell was speaking, a woman came out of an inner room and
advanced to the counter. I glanced at her casually and then looked
again more attentively, for I had instantly the feeling of having seen
her before, though I could not recollect where. She was a Jewess of
the dark and sallow type, about my own age, and of a sombre and rather
forbidding aspect; and the glance that she cast on my samples, though
impassive, was faintly disparaging.
“This is Mrs. Otway, me dear,” said Mr. Campbell. “You remember the
letter I showed you about her. And these pretty things are her work.”
Mrs. Campbell--as I assumed her to be--raised her eyes and bestowed on
me a quietly insolent stare, but made no remark. Then she cast another
disparaging glance at my wares and said coldly:
“They are all right of their kind; but you don’t want to fill the
place up with modern stuff.”
Disagreeable as the remark was, its matter impressed me less than its
manner. For again I was sensible of a certain vague familiarity in the
voice, the intonation and the accent. She gave me, however, no
opportunity for studying either, for, with the curt observation that
“she supposed he knew his own business,” she retired to the inner room
without taking any further notice of me.
“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “there’s some truth in what my wife says. I
can’t afford to lock up my capital in things that I can’t sell. But I
like your work. It is good work, and you’ll improve. I am willing to
buy this lot of pieces--at a price. But it will have to be a low
price, because I don’t know how they will go. If you take my advice,
you’ll leave them with me and let me try the market with them. When I
have sold one or two I shall know what I can do with them, and then I
can offer you a fair price based on what they fetch. How will that
thoot you?”
It seemed, on the whole, the most satisfactory arrangement, though I
should have liked to have some definite idea as to the value of my
work. I mentioned this, pointing out that I wanted to know if it would
be worth my while to continue this kind of occupation.
“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “you leave the things with me, and I will
look them over carefully and weigh the silver. Then I will make you
the best offer I can for the lot, and you can either accept it or
refuse it, or wait and see what the things fetch. Give me your address
and I will write you out a receipt for what you leave. Will that do?”
I replied that it would do admirably, whereupon he supplied me with a
slip of paper and pen and ink, and retired to the desk with my
collection to write out the receipt. I had taken off my glove and was
beginning to write when somebody entered the shop with a quick, light
step, suggesting a young and active man. Just behind me the footsteps
shopped short, and a pleasant, masculine voice addressed the dealer.
“All right, Mr. Campbell; don’t let me disturb you. I’m in no hurry.”
“I’m afraid, sir, your things are not quite ready, but if you don’t
mind waiting a moment I’ll make sure.”
“I suspected,” the voice rejoined, “that I might be a little
over-punctual. However, you finish what you are doing, while I browse
round the museum.”
At the first sound of the voice my pen stopped short; and it seemed as
if my heart stopped, too--though it soon began to make up for lost
time. I was disconcerted and vaguely annoyed that a small surprise
should set up such a disproportionate disturbance. Perhaps, too, I was
a little startled to find a voice so long unheard elicit such instant
and undoubting recognition. But I recovered immediately and resumed my
writing, though, to be sure, the pen-point no longer traced the firm
and steady lines of the first-written words. Meanwhile, Mr. Campbell
had completed his receipt, and we now exchanged our documents, I
checking his list of my sample works, and he scanning my address with
apparent surprise.
“Wellclose Square,” he read out. “There is a Wellclose Square
somewhere down Wapping way. It won’t be that one?”
“Yes. But I think it is actually in Ratcliff. When shall I hear from
you?”
“I will write and post the letter this evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Campbell. Good morning.”
As we exchanged bows, I turned and met the newcomer approaching the
counter. He glanced at me, at first without recognition; then he
looked again.
“Why, surely it is Miss Vardon!” he exclaimed.
“Wrong, Mr. Davenant,” said I. “It is Mrs. Otway. But that is a mere
quibble. I am the person whom you knew as Miss Vardon.”
“Well, well,” said he, “what a piece of luck to meet you--and here of
all places!”
“Is this a peculiarly unlikely place, then?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose it isn’t, really; at any rate, I mustn’t let Mr.
Campbell hear me say that it is. Do you mind waiting a moment while I
settle my little business with him? I want to hear all your news.”
His little business amounted to no more than an arrangement that he
should call in about three days for his “things,” whatever they were,
and when this had been settled, we left the shop together.
“Which way are you walking?” he asked.
“I really don’t know,” I answered. “I think I had some dim idea of
seeing the town and taking a look at the shops.”
“Then,” said he, “as you are a country mouse, whereas I am a town
sparrow of the deepest dye, perhaps I may be permitted to act as
conductor and expositor of the wonders of the Metropolis, while you
give me the news from Maidstone.”
“There is little to tell you excepting that I have lost my father. He
died quite suddenly, about two months ago, from heart failure.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Davenant, “I had a presentiment that it was so. Seeing
you in mourning, I was afraid to ask after him; and I need not tell
you how deeply I sympathize with you. I remember how much you were to
one another. What a mercy it is that you were married!”
To this I made no reply, and for a time we walked on slowly without
speaking. But though nothing was said, much was thought, at least by
me. For I had to make up my mind now, and once for all, on a point
that I felt to be of vital importance. Should I tell him how things
were with me? Or should I let him think that all was well, and that I
was a normal married woman? Something--I did not ask myself
what--urged me to tell him everything. But caution, prudence,
whispered--and that none too softly--that it were better not. The
sudden wave of emotion that had surged over me at the sound of his
voice was still a vivid and startling memory; and it counselled
reticence.
Thus two opposing forces contended; on the one hand, an emotional
impulse, on the other the admonitions of reason; and it is needless to
say that reason played losing game. Swiftly I argued out the issues.
Sooner or later, the inevitable question must come, and with it the
choice of an evasion or a straightforward answer. If it was to be
evasion, then must I put Jasper Davenant out of my life at once and
for ever, for the evasion could never be maintained; must shut out
this gleam of sunshine that came to me from the old, happy days as if
to light up my sombre, lonely life, and wend on my pilgrimage without
a friend save the companions of my working days.
And reason whispered again that it were better so.