II

I was delighted to be told by Sleaford, whom I met one afternoon in

Piccadilly, that Cyril had returned to London within the last few

days. 'He is appointed artist-in-chief of the new comic paper, _The

Caricaturist,_ said Sleaford, 'and is in great feather. I have just

been calling upon him.'

'The very man I want to see,' I replied. Sleaford thereupon directed

me to Cyril's studio 'You'll find him at work,' said he, 'doin' a

caricature of Wilderspin's great picture, "Faith and Love." Mother

Gudgeon is sittin' as his model. He does everything from models, you

know.'

'Mother Gudgeon?'

'A female costermonger that he picked up some where in the slums, the

funniest woman in London: haw! haw! I promise you she'll make you

laugh when Cyril draws her out.'

He then began to talk upon the subject which interested him above all

others, the smartness and swiftness of his yacht. 'I am trying to

persuade your mother and aunt to go for a cruise with me, and I think

I shall succeed.'

He directed me to the studio, and we parted.

I found Cyril in a large and lofty studio in Chelsea, filled with the

curiously carved black furniture of Bombay, mixed, for contrast, with

a few Indian cabinets of carved and fretted ivory exquisitely

wrought. He greeted me cordially. The walls were covered with

Japanese drawings. I began by asking him about The Caricaturist.

'Well,' said he, 'now that the House of Commons has become a

bear-garden, and t'other House a waxwork show, and the intellect and

culture of the country are leaving politics to dummies and cads, how

can the artistic mind condescend to caricature the political world--a

world that has not only ceased to be intelligent, but has even ceased

to be funny? The quarry of _The Caricaturist_ will be literature,

science, and art. Instead of wasting artistic genius upon such small

fry as premiers, diplomatists, and cabinet ministers, our cartoons

will be caricatures of the pictures of Millais, Leighton,

Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Madox Brown, Holman Hunt, Watts, Sandys,

Whistler, Wilderspin: our letterpress will be Aristophanic parodies

of Tennyson, Browning, Meredith, Arnold, Morris, Swinburne; game

worth flying at, my boy! The art-world is in a dire funk, I can tell

you, for the artistic epidermis has latterly grown genteel and thin.'

Already I was beginning to ask myself whether it was possible to make

a confidant of this inscrutable cynic. 'You are fond of Oriental

things?' I said, wishing to turn the subject. I looked round at the

Chinese, Indian, and Japanese monstrosities scattered about the room.

'That,' said he, pointing to a picture of a woman (apparently drunk)

who was amusing herself by chasing butterflies, while a number of

broad-faced, mischievous-looking children were teasing her--'that is

the masterpiece of Hokusai. The legend in the corner is "Kiyó-jo chó

ni tawamureru," which, according to the lying Japanese scholars,

means nothing more than "A cracked woman chasing butterflies." It was

left for me to discover that it represents Yoka, the goddess of Fun,

sportively chasing the butterfly souls of men, while the urchins, the

little Yokas, are crying, "Ma! you're screwed."'

'But what are these quaint figures?' I asked, pointing to certain

drawings of an obese Japanese figure, grinning with lazy good-humour

above several of the cabinets.

'Hoteï, the fat god of enjoyment.'

'A Japanese god?' I asked.

'Yes, nothing artistic is quite right now unless it has a savour of

blue mould or Japan. Wonderful people, the Japanese, to have

discovered the Jolly Hoteï. And here is Hoteï's wife, the

goddess-queen Yoka herself--the real masquerader behind that mystic

veil which has so enveloped and bemuddled the mind of poor

Wilderspin. She is to figure in the first number of _The

Caricaturist_.'

He pointed to an object I had only partially observed: a broad-faced

burly woman, of about forty-five years of age, in an eccentric dress

of Japanese silks, standing on the model-throne between two lay

figures. 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'why, she's alive.'

'An' kickin', sir,' said a voice that was at once strident and

unctuous. Owing to the almond shape of her sparkling black eyes and

the flatness of her nose, the bridge of which had been broken (most

likely in childhood), she looked absurdly like a Japanese woman, save

that upon her quaintly-cut mouth, curving slightly upwards horse-shoe

fashion, there was that twitter of humorous alertness which is

perhaps rarely seen in perfection except among the lower orders,

Celtic or Saxon, of London. Her build was that of a Dutch

fisher-woman. The set of her head on her muscular neck showed her to

be a woman of immense strength. But still more was her great physical

power indicated by her hands, the fingers of which seemed to have a

grip like that of an eagle's claws.

I then perceived upon an easel a large drawing. 'I have not seen

Wilderspin's "Faith and Love,"' I said; 'but this, I see, must be a

caricature of it.'

In it the woman figured as Isis, grinning beneath a veil held over

her head by two fantastically-dressed figures--one having the face of

Darwin, the other the face of Wilderspin.

'Allow me,' said Cyril, 'to introduce you to the Goddess Yoka, the

true Isis or goddess of bohemianism and universal joke, who, when she

had the chance of I making a rational and common-sense universe,

preferred amusing herself with flamingoes, dromedaries, ring-taile

monkeys, and men.'

'Pardon me,' I said; 'I merely called to see you. Good afternoon.'

'Allow me,' said he, turning to the woman, 'to introduce to your

celestial majesty Mr. Henry Aylwin, a kinsman of mine, whose

possessions in Little Egypt are as brilliant (judging from the

colours of his royal waggon) as are his possessions in Philistia.'

The woman made me a curtsey of much gravity. 'And allow me to

introduce _you_,' he said, turning to me, 'to the real original

Natura Mystica,--she who for ages upon ages has been trying by her

funny goings-on to teach us that "the _Principium hylarchicum_ of the

cosmos" (to use the simple phraseology of a great spiritualistic

painter) is the benign principle of joke.'

The woman made me another curtsey. 'You forget your exalted position,

Mrs. Gudgeon,' said Cyril; 'when a mystic goddess-queen is so

condescending as to curtsey she should be careful not to bend too

low. Man is a creature who can never with safety be treated with too

much respect.'

'We's all so modest in Primrose Court, that's the wust on us,'

replied the woman. 'But, Muster Cyril, sir, I don't think you've

noticed that the queen's _t'other_ eye's got dry now.'

Cyril gravely poured her out a glass of foaming ale from a bottle

that stood upon a little Indian bamboo-table, and handed it to her

carefully over the silks, saying to me,

'Her majesty's elegant way of hinting that she likes to wet both

eyes!'

Such foolery as this and at such a time irritated me sorely; but

there was no help for it now. Whether I should or should not open to

him the subject that had taken me thither, I must, I saw, let him

have his humour till the woman was dismissed.

'And now, goddess,' said he, 'while I am doing justice to the design

of your nose--'

'You can't do that, sir,' interjected the creature, 'it's sich a

beauty, ha! ha! I allus say that when I do die, I shall die

a-larfin'. They calls me "Jokin' Meg" in Primrose Court. I shall die

a-larfin', they say in Primrose Court, and so I shall--unless I die

a-cryin',' she added in an utterly different and tragic voice which

greatly struck me.

'While I am trying to do justice to that beautiful bridge you must

tell my friend about yourself and your daughter, and how you and she

first became two shining lights in the art world of London.'

'You makes me blush,' said the woman, 'an' blow me if blushin' ain't

bin an' made _t'other_ eye dry.'

She then took another glass of ale, grinned, shook herself, as though

preparing for an effort, and said,

'Well you must know, sir, as my name's Meg Gudgeon, leaseways that

was my name till my darter chrissened me Mrs. Knocker, and I lives in

Primrose Court, Great Queen Street, and my reg'lar perfession is

a-sellin' coffee "so airly in the mornin'," and I've got a darter as

ain't quite so 'ansom as me, bein' the moral of her father as is over

the water a-livin' in the fine 'Straley. And you must know, sir, that

one of summer's day there comes a knock at our door as sends my 'eart

into my mouth and makes me cry out, "The coppers, by jabbers!" and

when I goes down and opens the door, lo! and behold, there stan's a

chap wi' great goggle eyes, dressed all in shiny black, jest like a

Quaker.' (Here she made a noise between a laugh and a cough.) 'I

allus say that when I do die I shall die a-larfin'--unless I die

a-cryin',' she added, in the same altered voice that had struck me

before.

'Well, mother,' said Cyril, 'and what did the shiny Quaker say?'

'They calls me "Jokin' Meg" in Primrose Court. The shiny Quaker, 'e

axes if my name is Gudgeon. "Well," sez I, "supposin' as my name _is_

Gudgeon,--I don't say it is," says I, "but supposin' as it is,--what

then?" sez I. "But _is_ that your name?" sez 'e. "Supposin' as it

was," sez I, "what then?" "Will you answer my simple kervestion?" sez

'e. "Is your name Mrs. Gudgeon, or ain't it not?" sez 'e. "An' will

_you_ answer _my_ simple kervestion, Mr. Shiny Quaker?" sez I.

"Supposin' my name was Mrs. Gudgeon,--I don't say it _is_, but

supposin' it was,--what's that to you?" sez I, for I thought my poor

bor Bob what lives in the country had got into trouble agin and had

sent for me.'

'Go on, mother,' said Cyril, 'what did the shiny Quaker say then?'

'"Well then," sez 'e, "if your name is Mrs. Gudgeon, there is a

pootty gal as is, I am told, a-livin' along o' you." "Oh, oh, my fine

shiny Quaker gent," sez I, an' I flings the door wide open an' there

I stan's in the doorway, "it's _her_ you wants, is it?" sez I. "And

pray what does my fine shiny Quaker gent want wi' my darter?" "Your

darter?" sez 'e, an opens 'is mouth like this, and shets it agin like

a rat-trap. "Yis, my darter," sez I. "I s'pose," sez I, "you think

she ain't 'ansom enough to be my darter. No more she ain't," sez I;

"but she takes arter her father, an' werry sorry she is for it," sez

I. "I want to put her in the way of 'arnin' some money," sez 'e. "Oh,

_do_ you?" sez I. "How very kind! I'm sure it does a pore woman's

'eart good to see how kind you gents is to us pore women's pootty

darters," sez I,--"even shiny Quaker gents as is generally so quiet.

You're not the fust shiny gent," sez I, "as 'ez followed 'er 'um, I

can tell you,--not the fust by a long way; but up to now," sez I,

"I've allus managed to send you all away with a flea in your ears,

cuss you for a lot of wicious warm exits, young and old," sez I, "an'

if you don't get out," sez I--"My good woman, you mistake my

attentions," sez 'e. "Oh no, I don't," sez I, "not a bit on it. It's

sich ole sinners as you in your shiny black coats," sez I, "as I

never _do_ mistake, and if you don't git out there's a pump-'andle

behind this werry door, as my poor bor Bob brought up from the

country for me to sell for him--" "My good woman," sez 'e, "I am a

hartist," sez 'e. "What's that?" sez I. "A painter," sez 'e. "A

painter, air you? you don't look it," sez I. "P'raps it's holiday

time with ye," sez I, "and that makes you look so varnishy. Well,

and what do painters more nor any other trade want with pore women's

pootty darters?" sez I,--"more nor plumbers nor glaziers, nor

bricklayers, for the matter of that?" sez I. "But I ain't a

'ousepainter," sez 'e; "I paints picturs, and I want this gal to set

as a moral," sez 'e. "A moral! an' what's a moral?" sez I. "You ain't

a-goin' to play none o' your shiny-coat larks wi' my pootty darter,"

sez I. "I wants to paint her portrait," sez 'e, "an' then put it in a

pictur." "Oh," sez I, "you wants to paint her portrait 'cause she's

such a pootty gal, an' then you wants to make believe you drawed it

out of your own 'ead, an' sell it," sez I. "Oh, but you're a downy

one, you are, an' no mistake," sez I. "But I likes you none the wuss

for that. I likes a downy chap, an' I don't see no objection to that;

but how much will you give to paint my pootty darter?" sez I. "P'raps

I'd better come in," sez he. "P'raps you 'ad, if we're a-comin' to

bisniss," sez I; "so jest make a long leg an' step over them

dirty-nosed child'n o' Mrs. Mix's, a-settin' on my doorstep, an' I

dessay we sha'n't quarrel over a 'undud p'un' or two," sez I. An'

then I bust out a-larfin' agin--I shall die a-larfin'.' And then she

added suddenly in the same tone of sadness, 'if I don't die

a-cryin'.'

'Really, mother,' said Cyril, 'it is very egotistical of you to

interrupt your story with prophecies about the mood in which you will

probably shuffle off the Gudgeon coil and take to Gudgeon wings. It

is the shiny Quaker we want to know about.'

'And then the shiny Quaker comes in,' said the woman, 'and I shets

the door, being be'ind 'im, and that skears _'im_ for a moment, till

I bust out a-larfin': "Oh, you needn't be afeard," sez I;--"when we

burgles a Quaker in Primrose Court we never minces 'im for

sossingers, 'e's so 'ily in 'is flavour." Well, sir, to cut a long

story short, I agrees to take my pootty darter to the Quaker gent's

studero; an' I takes 'er nex' day, an' 'e puts her in a pictur. But

afore long,' continued the old woman, leering round at Cyril, 'lo!

and behold, a young swell, p'raps a young lord in disguise (I don't

want to be pussonal, an' so I sha'n't tell his name), 'e comes into

that studero one day when I was a-settlin' up with the Quaker gent

for the week's pay, an' he sets an' admires me, till I sets an'

blushes as I'm a-blushin' at this werry moment; an' when I gits 'ome,

I sez to Polly Onion (that's a pal o' mine as lives on the ground

floor), I sez, "Poll, bring my best lookin'-glass out o' my bowdore,

an' let's have a look at my old chops, for I'm blowed if there ain't

a young swell, p'raps a young lord in disguise, as 'ez fell 'ead over

ears in love with me." And sure enough when I goes back to the

studero the werry nex' time, my young swell 'e sez to me, "It's your

own pootty face as I wants for _my_ moral. I dessay your darter's a

stunner--I ain't seen her yit--but she cain't be nothin' to you." And

I sez to 'im, "In course she ain't, for she takes arter her father's

family, pore gal, and werry sorry she is for it."'

At this moment a servant entered and said Mr. Wilderspin was waiting

in the hall.

All hope having now fled of my getting a private word

with Cyril that afternoon, I was preparing to slip I away; but he

would not let me go.

'I don't want Wilderspin to know about the caricature till it is

finished,' whispered he to me; 'so I told Bunner never to let him

come suddenly upon me. You'd better be off, mother,' he said to the

old woman, 'and come again to-morrow.'

She bustled up and, throwing off the Japanese finery, left the room,

while Cyril removed the drawing from the easel and hid it away.

'Isn't she delightful?' ejaculated Cyril.

'Delightful! What, that old wretch? All that interests me in her is

the change in her voice after she says she will die laughing.'

'Oh,' said Cyril, 'she seems to be troubled with a drunken son in the

country somewhere, who is always getting into scrapes. Wilderspin's

in love with her daughter, a wonderfully beautiful girl, the finding

of whom at the very moment when he was in despair for the want of the

right model gave the final turn to his head. He thinks she was sent

to him from Paradise by his mother's spirit! He does, I assure you.'

'Wilderspin in love with a model!'

'Oh, not _à la_ Raphael.'

'If you think Wilderspin to be in love with any woman, you little

know what love is,' I exclaimed. 'He is in love with his art and with

that beautiful memory of his mother's self-sacrifice which has

shattered his reason, but built up his genius. Except as a means

towards the production of those pictures that possess him, no model

is anything more to him than his palette-knife. Shall you be alone

this evening?'

'This evening I dine at Sleaford's. To-morrow I am due in Paris.'

Wilderspin, who had now entered the studio, seemed genuinely pleased

to see me again, and told me that in a few days he should be able to

borrow 'Faith and Love' of its owner for the purpose of beginning a

replica of it, and hoped then to have the pleasure of showing it to

me.

'I observed Mrs. Gudgeon in the hall,' said he to Cyril. 'To think

that so unlovely a woman should, through an illusion of the senses,

seem to be the mere material mother of her who was sent to me from

the spirit-world in the very depths of my despair! Wonderful are the

ways of the spirit-world. Ah, Mr. Aylwin, did it never occur to you

how important is the expression of the model from whom you work?'

'I am not a painter,' I said, 'only an amateur,' trying to stop a

conversation that might run on for an hour.

'It has never occurred to you! That is strange. Let me read to you a

passage upon this subject just published in _The Art Review_, written

by the great painter D'Arcy.'

He then took from Cyril's table a number of _The Art Review_, and

began to read aloud:--

It is a curious thing that not only the general public, but the art

connoisseurs and the writers upon art, although they know full well

how a painter goes to work in painting a picture, speak and write

as though they thought that the head of a beautiful woman was drawn

from the painter's inner consciousness, instead of from the real

woman who sits to him as a model. Notwithstanding all the technical

excellence of Raphael, his extraordinary good luck in finding the

model that suited his genius had very much to do with his enormous

success and fame. And with all Michael Angelo's instinct for

grandeur, if he had not been equally lucky in regard to models, he

could never adequately have expressed that genius. It is impossible

to give vitality to the painting of any head unless the artist has

nature before him; this is why no true judge of pictures was ever

deceived as to the difference between an original and a copy. It

stands to reason that in every picture of a head, howsoever the

model's features may be idealised, Nature's own handiwork and

mastery must dominate.

Here Cyril gently took the magazine from Wilderspin's hand, but did

not silence him. 'As I told you in Wales,' said he to me, 'I had an

abundance of imagination, but I wanted some model in order to realise

it. I could never meet a face that came anything nigh my own ideal of

expression as the purely spiritual side of the beauty of woman; and

until I did that I knew that I should achieve nothing whereby the

world might recognise a new power in art. In vain did I try to

idealise such faces as did not please me. And this was because

nothing could satisfy me but the perfect type of expression which not

even Leonardo nor any other painter in the world had found--the true

Romantic type.'

'I understand you, Mr. Wilderspin,' I said. 'This I perfect type of

expression you eventually found--'

'In the daughter,' said Cyril, 'of the goddess Gudgeon.'

'By the blessing of Mary Wilderspin in heaven,' said Wilderspin.

And then the talk between the two friends ran upon artistic matters,

and I heard no more, for my mind was wandering up and down the London

streets.

Wilderspin and I left the house together. As we walked along, side by

side, I said to him: 'You spoke just now of your mother's blessing.

Am I really to understand that you in an age like this believe in the

power of human blessings and human curses?'

'Do I believe in blessings and curses, Mr. Aylwin?' said Wilderspin

solemnly. 'You are asking me whether I am with or without what your

sublime father calls the "most powerful of the primary instincts of

man." He tells us in _The Veiled Queen_ that "Even in this material

age of ours there is not a single soul that does not in its inner

depths acknowledge the power of the unseen world. The most hardened

materialist," says he, "believes in what he calls sometimes 'luck'

and sometimes 'fortune.'" Let me advise you, Mr. Aylwin, to study the

voice of your inspired father. I will send a set of his writings to

your hotel to-morrow. And, Mr. Aylwin, my duty compels me to speak

very plainly to you upon a subject that has troubled me since I had

the honour of meeting you in Wales. There is but one commandment in

the decalogue to which a distinct promise of reward is attached; it

is that which bids us honour our fathers and our mothers. Good-day,

sir.'