"It is certainly a work of the imagination," I hazarded, "if you can
read all that into it."
"Giles, my good fellow, confine yourself to your own sphere, how to keep
in life against my will and all laws of humanity my miserable worn out
carcase. That is not a work of the imagination. It is the work of close
and passionate observation, observation so close, and of such integrity
that it fears nothing, evades nothing. It is tremendous."
There was a moment's silence. I was a little hurt. I knew I was ignorant
about art, but after all I had brought the picture to M.'s notice.
"How old is she?"
"Nineteen."
"I've never had a pupil, but if I could live a few months longer I would
take her. I suppose she's starving. I nearly starved at her age. I'll
give her a hundred for it, and I'll see to its future. Send her round
here to-morrow morning." He scrawled and flung me a cheque for a hundred
guineas.
"Now, understand," I said, "I will bring the girl to see you to-morrow
on one condition only, that you buy her husband's 'Last Farewell,'
and 'The dawn of love' for fifty pounds each. They are in this
portfolio--and 'The Goldfish' by his wife for five. Is that a bargain?"
"If you say so it is. You always get your own way. I suppose he's
jealous of her."
"He's just beginning to be, and he doesn't do things by halves."
Perhaps the happiest moment of poor Arthur's tawdry inflamed existence
was when I told him that the great M. had bought his pictures. The
latent suspicion and smouldering animosity died out of his eyes. He
became radiant, boyish, for the moment sane. Perhaps he had looked like
that before the shadow fell. Blanche, too, was suffused with delight.
Mrs. Robinson, hurrying in with an armful of lilac orchids, was
overjoyed. She burst forth in loud jubilation, not unlike the screeches
of the London "syrens" when they herald the coming in of the New Year.
She it seemed had _always_ known, _always_ seen her boy's genius. He
would get into the Academy now, from which jealousy had so long kept him
out. He would be hung on the line. He would be recognised. He would be
as great as M. himself, greater, for she and others among her friends
had never fancied his pictures. They had not the lofty moral tone of
Arthur's.