had been telling tales of him and spoiling all his fun! Very well, let
him find himself alone with it--just once! And he went off very soberly
into the shrubbery, whence in a few minutes came sounds of 'worrying.'
In half an hour Don came out again; his collar was gone, and in his
mouth he trailed a long piece of chewed ribbon, which he dropped with
the queerest mixture of penitence and reproach at Daisy's feet. After
that, of course, it was impossible to do anything but take him into
favour at once, and he was generous enough to let Daisy see that he bore
her no malice for the trick she had played him.
What became of the card no one ever discovered; perhaps Don had buried
it, though Daisy has very strong suspicions that he ate it as his best
revenge.
But what is more important is that from that day he became a slim and
reformed dog, refusing firmly to go on board a steamer on any pretence
whatever, and only consenting to sit up after much coaxing, and as a
mark of particular condescension.
So that Daisy's experiment, whatever may be thought of it, was at least
a successful one.
_TAKEN BY SURPRISE_
BEING THE PERSONAL STATEMENT OF BEDELL GRUNCHER, M.A.
There are certain misconceptions which a man who is prominently before
the public is morally bound to combat--more for the sake of others than
his own--as soon as it becomes probable that the popular estimate of his
character may be shaken, if not shattered, should he hold his peace.
Convinced as I am of this, and having some ground to anticipate that the
next few days may witness a damaging blow to my personal dignity and
influence for good, I have thought it expedient to publish the true
history of an episode which, if unexplained, is only too likely to
prejudice me to a serious extent. Any circumstance that tends to
undermine or lessen the world's reverence for its instructors is a
deplorable calamity, to be averted at all hazards, even when this can
only be effected by disclosures scarcely less painful to a delicate
mind.
For some years I, Bedell Gruncher, have consecrated my poor talents to
the guidance and education of public taste in questions of art and
literature. To do this effectively I have laboured--at the cost of some
personal inconvenience--to acquire a critical style of light and playful
badinage. My lash has ever been wreathed in ribbons of rare texture and
daintiest hues; I have thrown cold water in abundance over the nascent
flames of young ambition--but such water was systematically tinctured
with attar of roses. And in time the articles appearing in various
periodicals above the signature of 'Vitriol' became, I may acknowledge
without false modesty, so many literary events of the first magnitude. I
attribute this to my early recognition of the true function of a critic.
It is not for him to set up sign-posts, or even warning-boards, for
those who run and read. To attain true distinction he should erect a
pillory upon his study table, and start the fun himself with a choice
selection of the literary analogues of the superannuated eggs and futile
kittens which served as projectiles in the past. The public may be
trusted to keep it going, and also to retain a grateful recollection of
the original promoter of the sport. My little weekly and monthly
pillories became instantly popular, for all my kittens were well aimed,
and my eggs broke and stuck in a highly entertaining fashion. We are so
constituted that even the worst of us is capable of a kindly feeling
towards the benefactor who makes others imperishably ridiculous in our
eyes; and to do this was my _metier a moi_. At first my identity with
the lively but terrible 'Vitriol' was kept a profound secret, but
gradually, by some means which I do not at present remember, it leaked
out, and I immediately became a social, as well as a literary,
celebrity. Physically I have been endowed with a presence which, though
not of unusual height and somewhat inclined to central expansion,
produces, I find, an invariably imposing effect, especially with members
of the more emotional and impressionable sex. Consequently I was not
surprised even at the really extraordinary sensation I inspired upon my
first introduction to a very charming young lady, Miss Iris Waverley, as
soon as my _nom de guerre_ was (I forget just now by whom) incidentally
alluded to. However, as it turned out, she had another and a deeper
reason for emotion: it seemed she had been engaged to a young poet whose
verses, to her untaught and girlish judgment, seemed inspired by
draughts of the true Helicon, and whose rhythmical raptures had stirred
her maiden heart to its depths.
Well, that young poet's latest volume of verse came under my notice for
review, and in my customary light-hearted fashion I held it up to
general derision for a column or two, and then dismissed it, with an
ineffaceable epigrammatic kick, to spin for ever (approximately) down
the ringing grooves of criticism.
Miss Waverley, it happened, was inclined to correct her own views by the
opinions of others, and was, moreover, exceptionally sensitive to any
association of ridicule with the objects of her attachment--indeed, she
once despatched a dog she fondly loved to the lethal chamber at
Battersea, merely because all the hair had come off the poor animal's
tail! My trenchant sarcasms had depoetised her lover in a similar
fashion; their livid lightning had revealed the baldness, the glaring
absurdity of the very stanzas which once had filled her eyes with
delicious tears; he was dismissed, and soon disappeared altogether from
the circles which I had (in perfect innocence) rendered impossible to
him.
Notwithstanding this, Miss Waverley's first sentiments towards me were
scarcely, oddly enough, of unmixed gratitude. I represented the rod, and
a very commendable feeling of propriety made her unwilling to kiss me on
a first interview, though, as our intimacy advanced--well, there are
subjects on which I claim the privilege of a manly reticence.
I hasten over, then, the intermediate stages of antipathy, fear,
respect, interest, and adoration. In me she recognised an intellect
naturally superior, too indifferent and unambitious to give life to its
own imaginings--too honest, too devoted to humanity, to withhold merited
condemnation from those of others. I was the radiant sun whose scorching
beams melted the wax from the pinions of many a modern Icarus; or, to
put the metaphor less ingeniously, the shining light in which, by an
irresistible impulse of self-destruction, the poetical and artistic
moths flew and incontinently frizzled.
One trait in my character which Iris valued above all others was the
caution with which I habitually avoided all associations of a ridiculous
nature; for it was my pride to preserve a demeanour of unsullied dignity
under circumstances which would have been trying, if not fatal, to an
ordinary person. So we became engaged; and if, pecuniarily speaking, the
advantage of the union inclined to my side, I cannot consider that I was
the party most benefited by the transaction.
It was soon after this happy event that Iris entreated from me, as a
gift, a photograph of myself. I could not help being struck by this
instance of feminine parsimony with regard to small disbursements,
since, for the trifling sum of one shilling, it was perfectly open to
her to procure an admirable presentment of me at almost any stationer's;
for, in obedience to a widely expressed demand, I had already more than
once undergone the ordeal by camera.
But no; she professed to desire a portrait more peculiarly her own--one
that should mark the precise epoch of our mutual happiness--a caprice
which reminded me of the Salvation Army recruit who was photographed, by
desire, 'before and after conversion'; and I demurred a little, until
Iris insisted with such captivating pertinacity that--although my
personal expenses (always slightly in excess of my income) had been
further swelled since my engagement by the innumerable _petits soins_
expected by an absurd custom from every lover--I gave way at length.
It was her desire that my portrait should form a pendant to one of
herself which had been recently taken by a fashionable photographer, and
I promised to see that this wish should be gratified. It is possible
that she expected me to resort to the same artist; but there were
considerations which induced me to avoid this, if I could. To the extent
of a guinea (or even thirty shillings) I could refuse her nothing; but
every one knows what sums are demanded by a photographer who is at all
in vogue. I might, to be sure, as a public character, have sat without
being called upon for any consideration, beyond the right to dispose of
copies of my photograph; but I felt that Iris would be a little hurt if
I took this course, and none of the West-end people whom I consulted in
the matter quite saw their way to such an arrangement just then. There
was a temporary lull, they assured me, in the demand for likenesses of
our leading literary men, and I myself had been photographed within too
recent a period to form any exception to the rule.
So, keeping my promise constantly in mind, I never entered a secluded
neighbourhood without being on the look-out for some unpretending
photographic studio which would combine artistic excellence with
moderate charges.
And at last I discovered this photographic phoenix, whose nest, if I
may so term it, was in a retired suburb which I do not care to
particularise. Upon the street level was a handsome plate-glass window,
in which, against a background of dark purple hangings and potted ferns,
were displayed cartes, cabinets, and groups, in which not even my
trained faculties could detect the least inferiority to the more costly
productions of the West-end, while the list of prices that hung by the
door was conceived in a spirit of exemplary modesty. After a brief
period of hesitation I stepped inside, and, on stating my wish to be
photographed at once, was invited by a very civil youth with a slight
cast in his eye to walk upstairs, which I accordingly did.
I mounted flight after flight of stairs, till I eventually found myself
at the top of the house, in an apartment pervaded by a strong odour of
chemicals, and glazed along the roof and the whole of one side with
panes of a bluish tint. It was empty at the moment of my entrance, but,
after a few minutes, the photographer burst impetuously in--a tall young
man, with long hair and pale eyes, whose appearance denoted a nervous
and high-strung temperament. Perceiving him to be slightly overawed by a
certain unconscious dignity in my bearing, which frequently does produce
that effect upon strangers, I hastened to reassure him by discriminating
eulogies upon the specimens of his art that I had been inspecting
below, and I saw at once that he was readily susceptible to flattery.
'You will find me,' I told him frankly, 'a little more difficult to
satisfy than your ordinary _clientele_; but, on the other hand, I am
peculiarly capable of appreciating really good work. Now I was struck at
once by the delicacy of tone, the nice discrimination of values, the
atmosphere, gradation, feeling, and surface of the examples displayed in
your window.'
He bowed almost to the ground; but, having taken careful note of his
prices, I felt secure in commending him, even to the verge of
extravagance; and, besides, does not the artistic nature demand the
stimulus of praise to enable it to put forth its full powers?
He inquired in what style I wished to be taken, whether full-length,
half-length, or vignette. 'I will answer you as concisely as possible,'
I said. 'I have been pressed, by one whose least preference is a law to
me, to have a photograph of myself executed which shall form a
counterpart or pendant, as it were, to her own. I have, therefore, taken
the precaution to bring her portrait with me for your guidance. You will
observe it is the work of a firm in my opinion greatly
overrated--Messrs. Lenz, Kamerer, & Co.; and, while you will follow it
in style and the disposition of the accessories, you will, I make no
doubt, produce, if you take ordinary pains, a picture vastly superior in
artistic merit.'
This, as will be perceived, was skilfully designed to put him on his
mettle, and rouse a useful spirit of emulation. He took the portrait of
Iris from my hands and carried it to the light, where he examined it
gravely in silence.
'I presume,' he said at length, 'that I need hardly tell you I cannot
pledge myself to produce a result as pleasing as this--under the
circumstances?'
'That,' I replied, 'rests entirely with you. If you overcome your
natural diffidence, and do yourself full justice, _I_ see no reason why
you should not obtain something even more satisfactory.'
My encouragement almost unmanned him. He turned abruptly away and blew
his nose violently with a coloured silk handkerchief.
'Come, come,' I said, smiling kindly, 'you see I have every confidence
in you--let us begin. I don't know, by the way,' I added, with a sudden
afterthought, 'whether in your leisure moments you take any interest in
contemporary literature?'
'I--I have done so in my time,' he admitted; 'not very lately.'
'Then,' I continued, watching his countenance with secret amusement for
the spasm I find this announcement invariably produces upon persons of
any education, 'it may possibly call up some associations in your mind
if I tell you that I am perhaps better known by my self-conferred
_sobriquet_ of "Vitriol."'
Evidently I had to do with a man of some intelligence--I obtained an
even more electrical effect than usual. '"_Vitriol!_"' he cried, '_not_
surely Vitriol, the great critic?'
'The same,' I said carelessly. 'I thought I had better mention it.'
'You did well,' he rejoined, 'very well! Pardon my emotion--may I wring
that hand?'
It is not my practice to shake hands with a photographer, but I was
touched and gratified by his boyish enthusiasm, and he seemed a
gentlemanly young fellow too, so I made an exception in his favour; and
he did wring my hand--hard.
'So you are Vitriol?' he repeated in a kind of daze, 'and you have
sought me out--_me_, of all people in the world--to have the honour of
taking your photograph!'
'That is so,' I said, 'but pardon me if I warn you that you must not
allow your head to be turned by what is, in truth, due to the merest
accident.'
'But what an accident!' he cried; 'after what I have learnt I really
could not think of making any charge for this privilege!'
That was a creditable and not unnatural impulse, and I did not check it.
'You shall take me as often as you please,' I said, 'and for nothing.'
'And may I,' he said, a little timidly--'would you give me permission to
exhibit the results?'
'If I followed my own inclinations,' I replied, 'I should answer
"certainly not." But perhaps I have no right to deprive you of the
advertisement, and still less to withhold my unworthy features from
public comment. I may, for private reasons,' I added, thinking of Iris,
'find it advisable to make some show of displeasure, but you need not
fear my taking any proceedings to restrain you.'
'We struggling photographers must be so careful,' he sighed. 'Suppose
the case of your lamented demise--it would be a protection if I had some
written authority under your hand to show your legal representatives.'
'_Actio personalis moritur cum persona_,' I replied; 'if my executors
brought an action, they would find themselves non-suited.' (I had
studied for the Bar at one period of my life.)
'Quite so,' he said, 'but they might drag me into court, nevertheless. I
should really prefer to be on the safe side.'
It did not seem unreasonable, particularly as I had not the remotest
intention either of bringing an action or dying; so I wrote him a hasty
memorandum to the effect that, in consideration of his photographing me
free of charge (I took care to put _that_ in), I undertook to hold him
free from all molestation or hindrance whatever in respect of the sale
and circulation of all copies resulting from such photographing as
aforesaid.
'Will that do?' I said as I handed it to him.
His eyes gleamed as he took the document. 'It is just what I wanted,'
he said gratefully; 'and now, if you will excuse me, I will go and bring
in a few accessories, and then we will get to work.'
He withdrew in a state of positive exultation, leaving me to
congratulate myself upon the happy chance which had led me to his door.
One does not discover a true artist every day, capable of approaching
his task in a proper spirit of reverence and enthusiasm; and I had
hardly expected, after my previous failures, to be spared all personal
outlay. My sole regret, indeed, was that I had not stipulated for a
share in the profits arising from the sale--which would be doubtless a
large one; but meanness is not one of my vices, and I decided not to
press this point.
Presently he returned with something which bulged inside his velvet
jacket, and a heap of things which he threw down in a corner behind a
screen.
'A few little properties,' he said; 'we may be able to introduce them
by-and-by.'
Then he went to the door and, with a rapid action, turned the key and
placed it in his pocket.
'You will hardly believe,' he explained, 'how nervous I am on occasions
of importance like this; the bare possibility of interruption would
render me quite incapable of doing myself justice.'
I had never met any photographer quite so sensitive as that before, and
I began to be uneasy about his success; but I know what the artistic
temperament is, and, as he said, this was not like an ordinary
occasion.
'Before I proceed to business,' he said, in a voice that positively
trembled, 'I must tell you what an exceptional claim you have to my
undying gratitude. Amongst the many productions which you have visited
with your salutary satire you may possibly recall a little volume of
poems entitled "Pants of Passion"?'
I shook my head good-humouredly. 'My good friend,' I told him, 'if I
burdened my memory with all the stuff I have to pronounce sentence upon,
do you suppose my brain would be what it is?'
He looked crestfallen. 'No,' he said slowly, 'I ought to have known--you
would not remember, of course. But _I_ do. I brought out those Pants.
Your mordant pen tore them to tatters. You convinced me that I had
mistaken my career, and, thanks to your monitions, I ceased to practise
as a Poet, and became the Photographer you now behold!'
'And I have known poets,' I said encouragingly, 'who have ended far less
creditably. For even an indifferent photographer is in closer harmony
with nature than a mediocre poet.'
'And I _was_ mediocre, wasn't I?' he inquired humbly.
'So far as I recollect,' I replied (for I did begin to remember him
now), 'to attribute mediocrity to you would have been beyond the
audacity of the grossest sycophant.'
'Thank you,' he said; 'you little know how you encourage me in my
present undertaking--for you will admit that I can _photograph_?'
'That,' I replied, 'is intelligible enough, photography being a pursuit
demanding less mental ability in its votaries than that of metrical
composition, however halting.'
'There is something very soothing about your conversation,' he remarked;
'it heals my self-love--which really was wounded by the things you
wrote.'
'Pooh, pooh!' I said indulgently, 'we must all of us go through that in
our time--at least all of _you_ must go through it.'
'Yes,' he admitted sadly, 'but it ain't pleasant, is it?'
'Of that I have never been in a position to judge,' said I; 'but you
must remember that your sufferings, though doubtless painful to
yourself, are the cause, under capable treatment, of infinite pleasure
and amusement to others. Try to look at the thing without egotism. Shall
I seat myself on that chair I see over there?'
He was eyeing me in a curious manner. 'Allow me,' he said; 'I always
pose my sitters myself.' With that he seized me by the neck and
elsewhere without the slightest warning, and, carrying me to the further
end of the studio, flung me carelessly, face downwards, over the
cane-bottomed chair to which I had referred. He was a strong athletic
young man, in spite of his long hair--or might that have been, as in
Samson's case, a contributory cause? I was like an infant in his hands,
and lay across the chair, in an exceedingly uncomfortable position,
gasping for breath.
'Try to keep as limp as you can, please,' he said, 'the mouth wide open,
as you have it now, the legs careless--in fact, trailing. Beautiful!
don't move.'
And he went to the camera. I succeeded in partly twisting my head round.
'Are you _mad_?' I cried indignantly; 'do you really suppose I shall
consent to go down to posterity in such a position as this?'
I heard a click, and, to my unspeakable horror, saw that he was
deliberately covering me from behind the camera with a revolver--_that_
was what I had seen bulging inside his pocket.
'I should be sorry to slay any sitter in cold blood,' he said, 'but I
must tell you solemnly, that unless you instantly resume your original
pose--which was charming--you are a dead man!'
Not till then did I realise the awful truth--I was locked up alone, at
the top of a house, in a quiet neighbourhood, with a mad photographer!
Summoning to my aid all my presence of mind, I resumed the original pose
for the space of forty-five hours--they were seconds really, but they
_seemed_ hours; it was not needful for him to exhort me to be limp
again--I was limper than the dampest towel!
'Thank you very much,' he said gravely as he covered the lens; 'I think
that will come out very well indeed. You may move now.'
I rose, puffing, but perfectly collected. 'Ha-ha,' I laughed in a sickly
manner (for I _felt_ sick), 'I--I perceive, sir, that you are a
humorist.'
'Since I have abandoned poetry,' he said as he carefully removed the
negative to a dark place, 'I have developed a considerable sense of
quiet humour. You will find a large Gainsborough hat in that
corner--might I trouble you to put it on for the next sitting?'
'Never!' I cried, thoroughly revolted. 'Surely, with your rare artistic
perception, you must be aware that such a headdress as that (which is no
longer worn even by females) is out of all keeping with my physiognomy.
I will _not_ sit for my photograph in such a preposterous thing!'
'I shall count ten very slowly,' he replied pensively, 'and if by the
time I have finished you are not seated on the back of that chair, your
feet crossed so as to overlap, your right thumb in the corner of your
mouth, a pleasant smile on your countenance, _and_ the Gainsborough hat
on your head, you will need no more hats on this sorrowful earth.
One--two----'
I was perched on that chair in the prescribed attitude long before he
had got to seven! How can I describe what it cost me to smile, as I sat
there under the dry blue light, the perspiration rolling in beads down
my cheeks, exposed to the gleaming muzzle of the revolver, and the
steady Gorgon glare of that infernal camera?
'That will be extremely popular,' he said, lowering the weapon as he
concluded. 'Your smile, perhaps, was a _little_ too broad, but the pose
was very fresh and unstudied.'
I have always read of the controlling power of the human eye upon wild
beasts and dangerous maniacs, and I fixed mine firmly upon him now as I
said sternly, 'Let me out at once--I wish to go.'
Perhaps I did not fix them quite long enough; perhaps the power of the
human eye has been exaggerated: I only know that for all the effect mine
had on him they might have been oysters.
'Not yet,' he said persuasively, 'not when we're getting on so nicely. I
may never be able to take you under such favourable conditions again.'
That, I thought, I could undertake to answer for; but who, alas! could
say whether I should ever leave that studio alive? For all I knew, he
might spend the whole day in photographing me, and then, with a madman's
caprice, shoot me as soon as it became too dark to go on any longer! The
proper course to take, I knew, was to humour him, to keep him in a good
temper, fool him to the top of his bent--it was my only chance.