“CAROLINE CREWKERNE’S GAINSBOROUGH”
From the moment that “Caroline Crewkerne’s Gainsborough” came upon the
town there was no denying her success. She was a new sensation; and
happy in her sponsors the diminished glories of Hill Street emerged
from their eclipse. If old Lady Crewkerne derived a grim satisfaction
from the absolute possession of the nine days’ wonder, Cheriton was
one of the proudest and happiest men in London. He took to himself the
whole merit of the discovery.
“I assure you,” he declared to a circle of the elect, “that blind old
woman would never have seen the likeness. It was quite providential
that I happened to look in and point it out.”
In matters of art Cheriton’s taste was really fastidious. And in
addition to his other foibles no man was more susceptible to beauty.
Every morning for a week he called at Hill Street, to view his
discovery more adequately in the full light of day. It was in vain,
however, that he tried to surprise her. She was kept very close.
For one thing the creature had positively no clothes in which to submit
to the ordeal of the public gaze. Almost the first thing Caroline
Crewkerne did was to send for her dressmaker, who was commanded to
make Miss Perry “appear respectable,” and was given only three days in
which to perform the operation.
“I assure your ladyship it is impossible in three days,” said the
dressmaker.
“If that is your opinion,” said her ladyship, “I shall go elsewhere.”
As it was her ladyship’s custom to pay her bills quarterly, on the
morning of the fourth day Miss Perry came down to breakfast in a
blue-serge costume. It was rigid in outline and formal in cut. In fact,
it had been chosen by Miss Burden, and had been wrought in the style
affected by that model of reticent good taste.
It was in this attire, surmounted by a straw hat of the regulation type
in lieu of the inverted vegetable basket, that Cheriton saw Miss Perry
for the second time.
“What are you thinking of, Caroline?” said he tragically. “Where is
your instinct? It is a gross act of vandalism to consign a genuine
Gainsborough to the tender mercies of a woman’s tailor.”
“Pooh,” said Caroline.
All the same Cheriton was roused to action. At noon next day a cab
appeared at the door of Caroline’s residence. It contained a milliner
and twenty-two hats in twenty-two boxes. The milliner said she had
instructions to wait for Lord Cheriton.
The redoubtable Caroline’s first instinct was to order the milliner off
the premises.
“Gross impertinence,” she declared.
However, the perverse old woman had a liberal share of reason. Cheriton
had his foibles, but emphatically he knew on which side of the bread
to look for the butter. In all matters relating to this world, from
racehorses to French millinery, wise people respected his judgment.
At five minutes after midday Cheriton himself appeared in the company
of an amiable, courteous, and distinguished foreigner.
“What, pray, is the meaning of this invasion?” said Caroline, with a
snort of hostility.
“This is Monsieur Duprez,” said Cheriton, “the great genius who comes
to London twice a year from Raquin’s at Paris.”
Monsieur Duprez, overwhelmed by this melodious flattery, very nearly
touched the Persian carpet with his nose. Caroline scowled at him.
“Cheriton,” said she, “who has given you authority to turn my house
into a dressmaker’s shop?”
“I have the authority,” said Cheriton, “of a pure taste unvitiated by
Whig prejudice and Victorian tradition. Miss Burden, will you have
the great goodness to summon Nature’s masterpiece so that Art, her
handmaiden, may make an obeisance to her; and might I also suggest that
you procure Lady Crewkerne’s knitting?”
Miss Burden, thrilled by the unmistakable impact of romance, waited
with animation for permission to obey my lord.
“I will not have my niece tricked out like a play-actress,” said
Caroline. “Cheriton, understand that clearly.”
Cheriton, feeling his position to be impregnable, was as cool as you
please. As is the case with so many people, his coolness bordered upon
insolence. Caroline was so much the slave of her worldly wisdom that
in a case of this kind she would be compelled to bow the knee to an
array of acknowledged experts. Besides, it was so easy for Cheriton to
justify himself in the most dramatic manner. He pointed histrionically
to the world-famous Duchess of Dorset.
“Caroline,” said he, “if you will take the advice of an old friend
you will attend to your knitting. Three experts are present. They
can be trusted to deal with this matter effectually. Indeed, I might
say four. Miss Burden, I know you to be in cordial sympathy with the
highest in whatever form it may manifest itself. Therefore I entreat
you, particularly as the time of Monsieur Duprez and Madame Pelissier
belongs not to themselves, nor to us, but to civilization, to produce
our great work of Nature, in order that her handmaiden Art may deck
her.”
Caroline’s hostile upper lip took a double curl, a feat which was the
outcome of infinite practice in the expression of scorn.
“I hope you will not put ideas into the creature’s head, that’s all,”
said she. “Fortunately she is such a born simpleton that it is doubtful
whether she is capable of retaining any. Burden, you may fetch her.”
It was a charming April morning, and the sunshine was flooding the
room. It made a canopy for Miss Perry as she came in simply and
modestly through the drawing-room door. At once it challenged that
wonderful yellow mane of hers that was the color of daffodils, which on
its own part seemed to reciprocate the flashing caresses of the light
of the morning. The yellow mane appeared to grow incandescent and shoot
out little lights of its own. The glamor of pink and white and azure
was very wonderful, too, as the sunlight wantoned with it in its own
inimitable manner. Here was Juno indeed, and none recognized the fact
so clearly as the Prince of the Morning.
Monsieur Duprez’s eyes sparkled; Madame Pelissier gave a little
exclamation.
“You have here a great subject,” said Lord Cheriton to those rare
artists. “And there you have the manner in which the great Gainsborough
treated it.”
Madame Pelissier disclosed her creations. Hat after hat was fitted to
the daffodil-colored mane. Cheriton hovered round and round the young
goddess, surveying each separate effect from every point of view. His
gravity could not have been excelled by a minister of state.
“They must be enormous,” said he, with ever-mounting enthusiasm. “They
must sit at the perfect angle. They must be of the hue of the wing of
the raven. Yes, feathers decidedly. And they must flop like the dooce.”
“Cheriton,” said the warning voice, “don’t be a coxcomb.”
“Yes, I like that wicker-work arrangement. The way it flops is capital.
It will do for week-days. But there must be one for Sunday mornings in
which to go to church.”
Madame Pelissier was inclined to be affronted by Cheriton’s extreme
fastidiousness. There was not a single creation in the whole collection
which had quite got “that,” he declared, snapping his fingers in the
manner of Sir Joshua.
“Madame Pelissier,” said he, solemnly, “it comes to this. You will have
to invoke your genius to create a Sunday hat for Juno. You observe what
Gainsborough did for her great-grandmamma. Mark well that masterpiece,
dear Madame Pelissier, for je prends mon bien où je le trouve.”
“Carte blanche, milor?” said Madame Pelissier, with a little shrug.
“Absolument,” said my lord. “Give a free rein to your genius, ma chère
madame. Crown the young goddess with the noblest creation that ever
consecrated the drab pavement of Bond Street.”
“I warn you, Cheriton,” said the aunt of the young goddess, “I will
not have the creature figged out like a ballet-dancer or a female in a
circus.”
“Peace, Caroline. Where is your knitting?” He shook a finger of
warning at her. “Really, Caroline, you must refrain from philistine
observations in the presence of those who are dedicated to the service
of art.”
Caroline snorted with great energy.
Monsieur Duprez, crowing with delight, was absorbing Gainsborough’s
masterpiece.
“I haf it,” said he, tapping the center of his forehead, “ze very ting.”
“May it prove so, my dear Duprez, for then we shall have a nine days’
wonder for the town.”
Thus it will be seen that in the beginning “Caroline Crewkerne’s
Gainsborough,” as she was so soon to be christened by the privileged
few who write the labels of history, owed much to Cheriton’s foresight,
judgment, and undoubted talent for stage management.
She really made her début at Saint Sepulchre’s Church--in which sacred
and fashionable edifice, I regret to say, her aunt Caroline was an
infrequent worshiper--and afterwards in Hyde Park on the second Sunday
morning in May.
At least a fortnight before the great occasion Cheriton had declared
his intention to the powers that obtained in Hill Street of making
Miss Perry known to London on the first really bright and warm Sunday
morning that came along. Thanks to the behavior of providence, her
church-going clothes arrived the evening before the weather; whilst
only a few hours previously a deft-fingered jewel of a maid had arrived
expressly from Paris, at the instance of the experts, who was learned
in the set of the most marvelous frocks and hats, and who also was a
rare artist in the human hair.
Therefore let none confess to surprise that Miss Perry was the
innocent cause of some excitement when she burst upon an astonished
world. Mr. Marchbanks was the first to behold Miss Perry, when on
this historic second Sunday morning in May she quitted the privacy
of her chamber fittingly clothed to render homage to her Maker. He
beheld her as she came down the marble staircase in an enormous black
hat with a wonderful feather, a miracle of harmonious daring, and in
a lilac frock, not answering, it is true, in every detail to that in
which her famous great-grandmamma had been painted by Gainsborough,
but none the less a triumph for all concerned in it. However, to judge
by the demeanor of shocked stupefaction of the virtuous man who first
encountered it, who himself was about to accompany Mrs. Plunket to
Divine worship, this was an achievement that was not to the taste of
everybody. In the opinion of Mr. Marchbanks it might be magnificent,
but it was not religion.
By one of those coincidences in which real life indulges so recklessly,
Miss Perry had not reached the bottom of the stairs when Cheriton, duly
admitted by John, and himself armed _cap-à-pie_ for Divine worship in a
brand-new wig, with freshly dyed mustache, light-gray trousers, lilac
gloves, white gaiters, and a gardenia in his buttonhole, was enabled to
take up a strategical position in the entrance-hall.
His greeting was almost as melodramatic as his appearance.
“A positive triumph!” he cried. “My dear young lady--my dear Miss
Perry--my dear Miss Araminta, the highest hopes of a sanguine
temperament have been exceeded. Art, the handmaiden, has done her work
nobly, but of course the real triumph belongs to Nature.”
“Isn’t my new frock a nice one?” said Miss Perry.
“Incomparable.”
“It is almost as nice as the mauve one Muffin had last summer but one,”
said Miss Perry.
It seemed to Cheriton that the speech of Miss Perry was absurdly suited
to her clothes. He led her proudly to the morning-room.
“Caroline,” said he, “prepare for the conquest of London.”
That old woman had never looked so fierce. As a preliminary she snuffed
the air.
“Burden,” said she, “cease behaving like a fool and have the goodness
to get my spectacles.”
Miss Burden obeyed her in a kind of delirium. The scrutiny of the
powers was severe and prolonged. There was no approbation in it.
“An old-fashioned respect for the English Sunday,” said Caroline,
“precludes my going to church with a _tableau vivant_.”
Cheriton scorned her openly.
“You perverse woman,” said he, “why are you so blind? Here is a triumph
that will ring through the town. Are you prepared to identify yourself
with it or are you not?”
Caroline Crewkerne subjected her niece to a second prolonged and severe
scrutiny.
“Humph,” said she, ungraciously.
However, she was a very shrewd old woman. Further, she was a very
clear-sighted old woman, who knew herself to be what Cheriton did not
hesitate to proclaim her. She was a philistine. Upon any matter which
impinged upon life’s amenities she was far too wise to trust her own
judgment. Cheriton, on the other hand, in spite of an inclination
towards the bizarre and the freakish, she allowed to have taste.
“I shall go to church,” she announced to her gentlewoman.
She spoke as if she were flinging down a gauntlet.
The Church of Saint Sepulchre, as the elect do not need to be told, is
quite near to Hill Street. Caroline Crewkerne was ready to start ten
minutes before the service began.
“Easy, Caroline,” said Cheriton, studying his watch reflectively;
“there is no hurry.”
“Even if they bore one,” said Caroline, “it is not good manners to be
disrespectful to the officiating clergy.”
Cheriton, however, although he advanced no positive reasons why
disrespect should be offered to the officiating clergy, showed a marked
disposition for Divine Service to begin without him. He loitered and
loitered upon absurdly flimsy pretexts. And just as the procession was
about to start from the door of Caroline’s residence he mislaid his
umbrella.