EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST IN THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS
Jim Lascelles returned to Balham exactly nine days after he had left
that friendly but uninspired suburb. He had worked hard during his
absence in Yorkshire; the picture of the fair Priscilla had made
excellent progress, and there was a check for five hundred pounds in
prospect on completion. Further, by the interest and undoubted talent
for commerce of his friend Lord Cheriton, Mr. Crosby of the Foreign
Office had been induced to rise to seven hundred and fifty pounds for
the portrait of Mrs. Crosby and her children.
So far as the things of this world were concerned, Jim really returned
to his mother in high feather. The progress he was making in his
profession he felt was out of all proportion to his talent. But it is a
great thing to have a friend at court. So much is done in that way. It
is not always the best picture, or the best oratorio, or the best play,
or the best novel that makes the most guineas in the market-square. It
is one thing to create a masterpiece, and it is another to translate
it into pounds, shillings, and pence. There can be no doubt that Jim
Lascelles had made amazing strides in his art; but all the same, he
was a lucky fellow to have a man like Cheriton to go round with a bell
to call the attention of the picture-buying public to the quality of
his work.
Jim Lascelles would have been less than human had he not been immensely
grateful to Cheriton. And yet he would not have been human either had
he not hated him very sorely. After all, what is the use of material
prosperity if the man who confers it upon you robs you of the only girl
in the world you feel you will ever be able to marry? Certainly he
would now have the means to buy his mother a new frock or so in order
to deprive her of her favorite excuse for not looking older. But life,
even with professional success, was going to be a hollow business.
However, Jim Lascelles contrived in this crisis to behave with a
discretion that was very creditable to his character. He had gone down
to the depths of late, and, as is often the case with such divers in
deep seas, he had brought up a few pearls. One of these was resolution.
He finished the picture of Priscilla out of hand and drew his check;
and although the season was November, he paid several visits to Eaton
Square and did his best for Mrs. Crosby and her youthful family. And
ever and anon he took his courage in his hands and spent an hour in
further devotion to the masterpiece that was to make him famous.
It was not until early in January that Jim Lascelles made the
announcement to his patron that the portrait of Miss Perry was
complete. Thereupon quite a number of people interested in art found
their way to the Acacias. They were by no means unanimous in their
opinion regarding its intrinsic merit, but they all agreed that it was
bound to prove one of the sensations of the year.
“An extraordinarily clever fake,” said a critic of the fine arts
privately.
“Mr. Lascelles,” said a dealer, “I should like you to give me an option
on all the work you produce during the next five years. I feel sure I
could sell it.”
“We have a new Gainsborough here,” said a third person, who spoke in an
unofficial capacity, “and that is all there is to be said about it.”
About the end of the month Cheriton himself appeared, duly armed with
expert opinion, to see for himself. He was accompanied by Miss Burden
and his _fiancée_, who was looking thin and unhappy. It was a beautiful
day for the time of year; and in regard to his appearance, the happy
wooer was as fastidious as usual. Never had he seemed more faultless
in his attire or more scrupulously paternal in his demeanor. He looked
long at the masterpiece, and he looked particularly.
“Lascelles, my good fellow,” said he, “I am forced to arrive at one
conclusion. If you were to paint a thousand pictures, this is something
you will never surpass.”
“Why do you think so?” said Jim.
“Because, my dear fellow, there is growth in it. You began it a
callow stripling; you have finished it, shall I say, a strong man in
the plenitude of his power. I have watched you and the picture grow
together from month to month. It is given to no man to do that sort of
thing twice.”
Jim Lascelles, however, was a robust young fellow--at least, it was
his ideal to be so. He was apt to be on his guard against high-flown
sentiment, yet he knew that Cheriton had spoken the truth.
“You are right,” he said simply. “That canvas has got all I have or all
I ever shall have. I am older now than when I began it, and I hope I’m
wiser.”
“Not wiser really, my dear fellow; we never get wiser. But you have
found yourself. A great career lies before you.”
“You may be right,” said Jim, “or you may not be right, but either way
it doesn’t matter.”
Cheriton inspected the young fellow with the greatest coolness and
impartiality. There was no mistaking that the words were tragic.
Cheriton’s penetration declared them to be so. He took some little time
for reflection, and then he slowly drew a check out of his pocket-book
with an air that was really unfathomable.
“There must be no misunderstanding, Lascelles,” said he, with an air
that was brisk and businesslike. “There is every reason to believe that
the picture of Miss Perry will prove a valuable property. But at the
same time, I hold your promise that I may purchase it on my own terms.
Is not that the case?”
“It is, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, with indifference.
“I hope the bargain I drove with you may not prove too hard,” said
Cheriton, with an enigmatic smile that Jim Lascelles took not the
least pains to fathom. “But if I may say so, your conduct in allowing
me to drive such a bargain was curiously injudicious. For everybody
tells me that your picture is magnificent.”
“I don’t think it matters,” said Jim, who was looking tired. “Although
one is glad you like it, of course.”
“It must always be pleasant to the artist to have his work admired. My
own comment upon your work is this. I hope, my dear fellow, you will be
able to forgive its extravagance.”
As he spoke he gave the check to Jim Lascelles. The painter, however,
paid no heed to it at first. His instinct was to crush it in his hands
and fling it away, so repugnant was the piece of paper to the touch.
Now that the time had come to part with the sole remaining solace he
possessed, he felt unable to yield it.
This, however, was a weakness he must not indulge. He looked at the
paper perfunctorily, and then he gave a little exclamation. The check
was made out in his favor for ten thousand pounds.
“I don’t understand,” said Jim. “Is there not some mistake?”
“You must constrain your modesty a little, that is all,” said Cheriton.
“People tell me it will be worth every penny of this sum to the next
generation. It is pleasant sometimes to anticipate the verdict of
posterity.”
Jim Lascelles did not know how to act or what to say. In his judgment
this was the most Quixotic proceeding he had ever encountered.
“Really, Lord Cheriton,” he said, “I don’t feel that there are
sufficient grounds upon which I can accept such a sum as this.”
“A bargain is a bargain,” said Cheriton. “I hold your promise that I am
to purchase the picture on my own terms.”
In the flood tide of his bewilderment Jim Lascelles had perforce to
remain silent.
“Don’t forget, my dear Lascelles, that the highest pleasure that is
given to any man is to adopt the role of Mæcenas. And are you aware
that the Red House at Widdiford is in the market, and that six thousand
pounds will purchase it?”
Jim flinched a little. A deep flush overspread his face. This was
sacred ground, upon which it behoved the outside world to tread warily.
“I hope you don’t mean that the Red House at Widdiford means nothing to
you?”
Jim was not proof against the assault.
“I’m not sure that it does,” he said miserably.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that if I were you.”
Jim began to look decidedly fierce. In spite of the check for ten
thousand pounds, which he viewed as somewhat in the nature of a
mockery, he showed no disposition to be baited.
“Perhaps it would be wise, Lord Cheriton, not to pursue the subject.”
Cheriton laughed outright at the solemnity of the young fellow’s
manner.
“On the contrary,” said he, “one feels that the subject of the Red
House at Widdiford should be discussed at length. Miss Perry and I have
been over to look at the old place before completing the purchase.”
“Ah! that is interesting,” said Jim, who was more bewildered than ever.
“It seems that, in addition to its other lures, the Red House at
Widdiford has peaches in season.”
“Of course it has,” said Jim, who was beginning to feel that Cheriton
was making a rather long excursion in the realms of bad taste.
“Well, my dear fellow, I put it to you--what is the use of having
peaches in season if one has not the appetite to eat them?”
“What, indeed!” said Jim.
“And again, my dear fellow--what, pray, is the use of giving Buszard a
contract for the large size when cream buns lose their savor?”
Jim made no reply, but merely looked miserable.
“Let me tell you in confidence, Lascelles,” said his patron, in a
becomingly low tone, “that even the circus has begun to pall. And
as for Joseph Wright of Derby, the question of his permanent merit
is beginning to appear almost a matter of indifference. Do you feel
competent to give advice in regard to what ought to be done?”
“I am afraid I don’t, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, rather feebly.
“That is disappointing, for in the past you have shown such a
surprising fertility of ideas and resources. The problem is so
serious. Can one conceive a world in which cream buns have no savor,
circuses no glamor, and in which the Joseph Wrights of Derby are
allowed to ruffle it unquestioned among their betters? Frankly, the
feat is beyond me, Lascelles. And then, too, my dear fellow, the news
that Muffin is to have a new mauve from London to wear in the spring
has excited hardly any enthusiasm.”
“Indeed?” said Jim.
“That is so, I assure you. And to my mind, that is not the least
sinister symptom. I have conferred with the wise woman of Hill Street,
and during my sojourn in the west country also with the presiding
genius of Slocum Magna. And after some discussion of the pros and cons
of the situation, for _mon père_ and _ma tante_ do not appear to see
eye to eye in all things, we are at last in agreement that something
ought to be done to restore the savor to the best confectionery, and
also to insure that no upstart shall occupy without question the same
kind of _fauteuil_ as Rembrandt and Velasquez. The result of our
deliberations is, my dear fellow, that we have come to the conclusion
that you are the man to help us.”
“I!” said Jim, impotently.
“Have you any objection to undertaking such a scheme of philanthropy?”
“If I could do anything to add to Miss Perry’s happiness,” said Jim, “I
should be just about the proudest chap in the world.”
“Well, it seems, my dear fellow, that you can do so. At least, that is
the opinion that has been arrived at by the experts who have communed
over her case.”
Jim’s heart beat painfully.
“Tell me what I can do,” he said rather hoarsely, “for the best, the
truest-hearted, the most absolutely genuine girl in the world.”
“You can marry her.”
“Marry her?” said Jim, weakly.
“Yes, in the afternoon of April the First, at Saint Sepulchre’s Church.”
“But----” said Jim.
“The oracle of Hill Street thinks the First of June is preferable,
because there will be more people in town, and the presents are likely
to be more numerous. But personally I agree with Mrs. Lascelles and
_mon père_ that April is as good a time as any other for visiting the
Prado.”
“But----” said Jim.
“I forget the inn I stayed at when I was last at Madrid. It was ‘El’
Something, and for some obscure reason it had no aspirate. But one Ford
is the authority for Spain, although, to be sure, a certain Borrow
wrote a famous work upon the subject. By the way, we must not overlook
one important argument in favor of June.”
“What is it?” said Jim, mechanically.
“It is hardly right to expect a new mauve to make its _début_ on the
First of April. Yet there seems no help for it. No ceremony could
possibly be considered complete without it.”
“Am I to understand----?” said Jim, who stopped with ridiculous
abruptness right in the middle of his question.
“By the way, my dear fellow, I have taken the liberty of suggesting to
your accomplished mother that it might help her literary career if she
moved a little nearer to the center. A little flat in Knightsbridge
might be a judicious investment. As you may be aware, publishers as
a race are highly susceptible, and an address in Knightsbridge might
favorably impress them.”
“Do you think so?” said Jim, who did not know in the least what he was
saying.
But there is really no reason to persist in this history. In spite
of scruples, which were as much due to pride as to generosity, Jim
Lascelles married the Goose Girl at Saint Sepulchre’s Church on the
First of April. On that significant occasion the presiding genius of
Hill Street displayed an amount of Christian feeling which, in the
opinion of a contemporary, was without parallel in his experience.
The entire family of Slocum Magna, including Milly, whose pigtail was
the color of a yellow chrysanthemum, and was tied with a ribbon, came
up to London and stayed a whole week at Morley’s Hotel. Among other
things, they all went one day to see the Exhibition, and found there
wasn’t one. Papa dined twice in Hill Street, and met dukes and people;
and he brought back the report that Aunt Caroline was less worldly
than he had feared she was. He gave his daughter away on the glorious
First; and Muffin wore her new mauve on that occasion. In the opinion
of all qualified persons it was quite as successful as the peerless
original. Polly, who took after her papa, and had more intellect than
all the rest of the family put together, Dickie and Doggo included,
looked charmingly proper in a “costume” more reticent than Muffin’s.
Her young man assisted the Dean of Dunstable, the uncle of the bride,
in performing the ceremony.
Jim Lascelles and the Goose Girl spent a month in the land of Cervantes
and Velasquez. They are living now at the Red House at Widdiford. Jim
is quite likely to be elected to an Associateship of the Royal Academy
before long. At least, he is getting very good prices for his work, and
his “Miss Perry” has been esteemed a rare triumph for British art. His
“Naiad” also, purchased by the Chantrey Bequest, has been generally and
justly admired.
The accomplished mother of the rising artist took the disinterested
advice of a well-wisher, and a fortnight after her son’s brilliant
marriage--the _Morning Mirror_ described it as such--she left “P.P.C.”
cards on the Miss Champneys at the Chestnuts, and moved “nearer to
the center.” It may have been coincidence, or it may have been cause
and effect, but within a fortnight of her installation at No. 5,
Beaufort Mansions, W., “The Fair Immortal” was accepted on a royalty
by an eminent firm of publishers, and made its appearance in the
course of the summer. It won such unanimous approval from the Press
and the public, that it can now be purchased for sixpence of any
self-respecting bookseller in the United Kingdom; its fortunate
authoress has signed contracts for work for the next three years and
has been elected a member of three of the best ladies’ clubs in the
metropolis.
Muffin’s season at Hill Street was an even greater triumph than her
sister’s--but thereby hangs a tale for a wet afternoon. Aunt Caroline,
in spite of her advanced years, is worth “a good many dead ones” at
present, and in the opinion of her oldest friend her manner has more
amenity. Perhaps it is that the influence of youth has been a good
one in her life. It is right to think so since there is no reason to
believe that she has altered her opinion of the clergy.
Polly has not yet married her parson, but she is certain to do so.
Serious people, however, “make haste slowly,” as the wise Italians say.
It is well that they should. Charley has found his way to Sandhurst
all right, and feels himself to be a field-marshal already. Dickie has
lately been presented to a living worth eleven hundred a year--a really
preposterous emolument, considering the widespread depression in things
ecclesiastical. However, in justice to Dickie, it should be stated
that he was always quietly confident that something would come of his
left-arm bowling. And so it ought if you break both ways.
Milly has been two terms already at her Brighton boarding school. In
the opinion of her mistresses she is the best inside right at hockey
on the South Coast. If she is not chosen to play against Wales in the
forthcoming international match she will be much disappointed.
Entertaining at Cheriton House is still to seek. The thing threatens
to become a national scandal. Comparisons, highly unfavorable to the
present peer, are being constantly drawn by convinced free-fooders and
the praisers of past times. The noble earl, however, is fully occupied
at present in steering a course between the Scylla of Hill Street on
the one hand, and the Charybdis of No. 5, Beaufort Mansions on the
other. The presiding genius of the former locality, however, defines a
coxcomb as a person who never means anything. Still, it doesn’t do to
be too sure in these days.
As an instance of the need for honest doubt, George Betterton did
not lead the fair Priscilla to the altar after all. The world
understood that a religious difference was the rock which sundered
them. Whether George had too little religion and Priscilla had too
much, is one of those things that has never been elucidated clearly.
But, beyond all shade of controversy, they were never brought to the
question. Priscilla made quite a good marriage, all the same. As for
George--well, what really happened to him is a story for one of those
typical English afternoons in which it is really not fit for a dog to
be out. People say that George is much improved lately.
In conclusion, we feel bound to record our opinion that it is gravely
to be doubted whether Jim Lascelles will make as great a painter as
Velasquez. Considering his youth, his attainments, and his temper, we
were among those who predicted a high destiny for the young fellow, but
that was before “the wicket rolled out so plumb.” Authorities upon the
subject are not slow to inform us, however, that it is better to marry
the girl you want to, and to live at the Red House at Widdiford, and
be a county magistrate, and to have a couple of expensive sons in the
Services, and to have your girls dressed by Redfern and presented at
Court, than to appear on a pedestal by public subscription in front of
the National Gallery three centuries after you have ceased to take an
interest in the verdict of posterity.
_Quot homines tot sententiæ._ These wiseacres may be right, or they may
not be right. It is only the Caroline Crewkernes who are infallible.
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.