An Academy Picture
With the beginning of a new term two very important events happened in
Lorraine's little world. Mervyn was sent to Redfern College, and Morland
went into training. Mervyn's exodus was really somewhat of a relief, for
he had been getting rather out of hand lately, and had waxed so
obstreperous on occasion that his father had decided to pack him off at
once for a taste of the discipline of a public school. Morland, who was
now eighteen, went away in high spirits. On the whole he was tired of
lounging about at home. He had reached the age when the boy is passing
into manhood, and begins to think of making his own way in the world.
All kinds of shadowy pictures of the future were floating in his mental
vision, day dreams of brave deeds and great achievements, and laurel
wreaths to be won by hands that had the luck to pluck them. His eyes
were shining as he bade Lorraine good-bye.
"You must have thought me rather a slacker sometimes," he said. "But
really there wasn't anything to urge a fellow on at home. Perhaps I'll
tumble into my own niche some day. Who knows? Would you be glad,
Lorraine, if you saw me doing decently?"
"Glad? Of course I should!"
"I didn't know whether you'd worry your head one way or another about
it, or care twopence whether I went to the dogs or not!"
"Don't be silly! You're not going to the dogs."
"I might--if nobody was sufficiently interested in me to mind."
"Heaps of people are interested!"
"One doesn't want people in heaps--I prefer interest singly. By the by,
if you've any time to spare, you might write to a fellow now and again.
I'll want letters in camp."
"All serene! I'll send you one sometimes."
"Just to remind me of home."
"Morland! I believe you've got home-sickness as badly as Claudia. You'll
be back at Porthkeverne before long, unless I'm greatly mistaken!"
"With my first leave, certainly," twinkled Morland.
As the weeks passed by in April, the artistic world of Porthkeverne
reached a high pitch of anticipation and excitement. Practically every
painter there had submitted something to the Academy, and the burning
question was which among them would be lucky enough to have their work
accepted. They looked out eagerly for the post, awaiting either a
welcome varnishing ticket or a printed notice regretting that for lack
of space their contributions could not be included in the exhibition,
and requesting them to remove their pictures as speedily as possible.
In the studio down by the harbour expectation ran rife. Margaret Lindsay
had finished her painting of "Kilmeny"--if not altogether to her own
satisfaction, at any rate to that of most of her friends--and had
dispatched it to the Academy.
"I don't believe for a moment that it will get in," she assured
Lorraine. "I never seem to have any luck, somehow. I'm not a lucky
person."
"Perhaps you will have this time," said Lorraine, who was washing out
oil paint brushes for her friend, a messy task which she sometimes
undertook. "Let's _will_ that you shall be accepted. You _shall_ be!"
"All the 'willing' in the world won't do the deed if the judges 'will'
the other way, and their will tugs harder than ours!" laughed Margaret.
"It depends so much on the taste of the judges. There's a fashion in
pictures as in other things, and it's constantly changing."
"Is there? Why?"
"That I can't tell you, except that people tire of one style and like
another. First the classical school was the favourite, then
pre-Raphaelitism had its innings, then impressionism came up. Each
period in painting is generally boomed by some celebrated art critic who
deprecates the old-fashioned methods and cracks up the new. The public
are rather like sheep. They buy what the critics tell them to admire.
_Punch_ had a delightful skit on that once. Ruskin had been pitching
into the commonplace artist's style of picture rather freely, so _Punch_
evolved a dejected brother of the brush giving vent to this despairing
wail:
'I takes and paints,
Hears no complaints,
And sells before I'm dry;
Then savage Ruskin
He sticks his tusk in,
And nobody will buy!'"
"I love _Punch_!" cackled Lorraine, drying the brushes on a clean
paint-rag. "Tell me some more artistic titbits."
"Do you know the one about the old lady in the train who overheard the
two artists talking? One said to the other:
"'Anything doing in children nowadays?'
"And his friend answered: 'A feller I know knocked off seven little
girls' heads--nasty raw things they were too!--and a chap came in and
carried them off just as they were--wet on the stretcher--and said he
could do with a few more.'
"The poor old lady, who knew nothing of artists' lingo, imagined that
she had surprised details of a ghastly murder, instead of a satisfactory
sale to an enterprising dealer. But to come back to the Academy,
Lorraine; I know I shan't get in! I've sent five times before, and
always had the same disappointment, if you can call it a disappointment
when you don't expect anything. The last time it happened I was in town,
and I went to the Academy myself to fetch away my pictures. As I walked
down the court-yard and out into Piccadilly with my parcel under my arm,
I felt pretty blue, and I suppose I looked it, for a wretched little
street arab stared at me with mock sympathy, and piped out: 'Have they
rejected you too, poor darling?' He said it so funnily that I couldn't
help laughing in spite of my blues."
"When are you likely to hear your luck?" asked Lorraine.
"Any day now; but it will be bad luck."
"Then I shall call every day on my way home from school to see if you've
had a letter."
Lorraine kept her word, and each afternoon took the path by the harbour
instead of the direct road up the hill. Day after day passed, and the
post-woman had not yet delivered the longed-for official communication.
"No news is good news!" cheered Lorraine. "Mr. Saunders had his
rejection last week, so Claudia told me. Mr. Castleton only heard this
morning."
"How many has he in?"
"Three--the view of Tangy Point from the beach, Madox wheeling Perugia
in the barrow, and the portrait of Madame Bertier. Claudia says they're
immensely relieved, because even Mr. Gilbertson is 'out' this year. Here
comes the second post! Is there anything for you? I'm going to see!"
Lorraine, in her impatience, tore down the wooden steps of the studio,
and waylaid the post-woman. She came back like a triumphant whirlwind,
waving a letter.
"I believe this is 'it'. Oh, do open it quick! I can't wait. I never
felt so excited to know anything in all my life! I could scream!"
Margaret, equally agitated, nevertheless kept her feelings under
control, and opened the envelope with outward calm, though her fingers
trembled noticeably. She looked at the enclosure, flushed crimson, and,
turning to Lorraine, dropped a mock curtsy.
"Madam Kilmeny," she announced, "I'm happy to be able to inform you that
your portrait is to appear upon the walls of the Royal Academy!"
"Oh, hurrah!" jodelled Lorraine, careering round the studio in an
ecstatic dance, somewhat to the peril of various studies on easels. "I
_knew_ it would get in, Carina! I had a kind of premonition that it
would!"
"And I had a premonition the other way entirely. I never was so
surprised in my life! You've been my little mascot, and brought me the
luck!"
"No, indeed; it's your own cleverness. It's a beautiful painting.
Claudia says even her father admired it, and he scarcely ever allows
anybody's work is decent except his own."
"I certainly take praise from Mr. Castleton as a compliment," admitted
Margaret. "I'm glad to hear that he liked it. Well, this is actually my
first real artistic success. I don't know myself this afternoon. I feel
an inch taller than usual."
"And so do I, to think I'm going to be hung in the Academy! Of course, I
know you've idealized me out of all recognition; but there's a
foundation of 'me' in the picture--enough to cock-a-doodle about. The
Castletons have been painted so often, they don't care; but it's a
unique experience for me. It makes me feel somehow as if _I_ were
Kilmeny, and had spent those seven long years among the fairies. I felt
it all the time I was standing for you, Carina."
"That's where you made such a perfect model. I could see the glamour of
the fairies in your face, and tried to catch it in my painting. I always
contend that one of the chief elements in a good sitter is imagination,
so as to maintain the right expression. One sees many apathetic
portraits, and knows that the originals must have been feeling bored to
tears. You never looked bored."
"No, the fairies were dancing round me all the time! You conjured them
up. Do you know, Carina, I think fairies are your forte? I like those
small paintings of them better than anything else you do."
"Those coloured frontispieces for children's magazines? They're
certainly the only things in which I've ever succeeded. It's well to
realize one's limitations. I've been so ambitious in my time, and wanted
to paint historic scenes and battle-pieces, and other things quite
beyond my powers. It's strange if the line we rather despise turns out
to be our best bit of work. Look at Edward Lear. He was a rather
classically inclined artist, whose serious work seems to have vanished,
yet he is known and appreciated all over the world by the delightful and
inimitable _Book of Nonsense_ that he knocked off in a few leisure hours
to amuse the children of a noble family whose portraits he was painting.
Hans Andersen, too, is another instance. No one ever now reads his
numerous novels and solid books, but his fairy-tales have been
translated into almost every language. Nothing so charming and poetical
has ever been written. His is a magic flute that draws children of every
clime and age to listen to him. Not that I'm for a moment comparing
myself to Edward Lear or Hans Andersen! All the same, I think I shall
take a hammer and smash up those statues I was trying my hand at, and
stick to fairies for the future."
"I hope they'll hang 'Kilmeny' on the line!"
"So do I, but I don't expect it. It will be most exciting to go up to
town and see it. I wonder----"
"You wonder what?" asked Lorraine, for Margaret had suddenly stopped
short.
"Never mind! It was an idea that came into my head. Perhaps I'll tell
you some other time."
"Oh, do tell me now!"
"Certainly not--you must wait. No, it's no use your guessing, for I
shan't say whether you're right or wrong."
Lorraine's guesses, which were of rather a wild description, did not
come anywhere near the real truth, which was sprung upon her a few days
later by her enterprising friend. It was nothing more or less than an
invitation to go up to London with Miss Lindsay and see "Kilmeny" for
herself on the wall of Burlington House.
"I daren't tell you beforehand in case it should be an impossible
scheme," said Margaret, "but your mother gives permission, and I saw
Miss Kingsley myself, and she promised you a few days' holiday. I told
her it was part of your education to see the Academy, and she quite
agrees with me. So you're to go!"
This was news indeed! Lorraine was half crazy with joy. Though she had
turned seventeen, she had never yet been to London. Porthkeverne was a
long journey from town, and any holidays which she had taken had been to
visit relations in other parts of the country. She had envied Rosemary
when the latter started for the College of Music; now she was actually
to see the great city for herself, and in company with Carina, of all
delightful people in the world. They were to go up for a whole precious
week, and to stay in a hotel--Lorraine had never yet stayed in a
hotel--and they were to do theatres, and as many of the sights as could
possibly be crammed into the short space of time. The prospect was
dazzling. Monica, catching in her breath sharply, decreed: "You're the
biggest lucker I've ever met, Lorraine!"
Clothes, of course, were a paramount topic.
"I can't let Miss Lindsay take a Cinderella with her to London," said
Mother, looking over the fashionable advertisements in the papers, and
trying to decide what was the most suitable costume for a girl of
seventeen. "You want something to look smart in at the Academy, and yet
that won't get soiled directly with going about in motor omnibuses. Now
this is a sweet dress! I'd like you in this, but it would be ruined in
five minutes if you were caught in a shower; and how can we guarantee
fine weather? Does your umbrella want re-covering? If there isn't time
to have it done, Rosemary must lend you her new one."
By dint of much eager cogitation on the part of the whole family,
Lorraine's wardrobe was at last satisfactorily arranged and packed in a
suit case. She herself, in a new grey coat and skirt and a grey
travelling hat trimmed with pink, joined Margaret Lindsay at the railway
station. They were to catch the early express, and Mother, Rosemary, and
Monica came to see them off. It felt so grand to be going away without
the rest of the family, and to hang out of the carriage window shouting
good-bye while they frantically waved handkerchiefs upon the platform.
Lorraine, still clutching in her new gloves the sticky packet of sweets
that Monica had pressed as a last offering into her hand, went on
signalling until Margaret pulled her forcibly back on to her seat.
"We don't want your head whisked off first thing, please, and we're
coming to the bridge. I wouldn't sit on the lunch-basket, if I were you!
Let me put it up on the rack."
"I'm _so_ excited!" sighed Lorraine. "I'm glad we've got the carriage
to ourselves, Carina, because we can talk. Isn't it sport?"
"We shan't keep it long. It will probably fill up at St. Cyr, so work
off your spirits now, if you want to. But my advice is to take things
calmly, or you'll be tired out before we get to town."
The long railway journey, first along the coast, and then inland through
scenery which was very different from Porthkeverne, was deeply
interesting to Lorraine; and if she grew tired and closed her eyes for
part of the route, her enthusiasm woke again when they reached London.
The great station with its crowds of people, the rows of cabs and taxis,
the streets with their endless traffic, all seemed a new world to the
little country mouse who was making her first acquaintance with the
metropolis.
"It's busier than I expected, and ever so much dirtier!" she commented.
"Yes, it's a different world from Porthkeverne--no arum lilies and
yuccas and aloes--only plane-trees and lilac-bushes in the squares. Here
we are at our hotel! It will be nice to wash and rest!"
Lorraine, with a beaming face, sat next morning at the little table
laid for two, and discussed plans over the breakfast bacon. She had
drawn up a programme of things she wanted to see in town, of so lengthy
a description that Margaret Lindsay declared it would take at least a
month instead of a week to work through it adequately.
"Some of the shows are shut up because of the war," she said, going
through the list and putting ticks against the most suitable places. "We
can see the Zoo, and Madame Tussaud's, and Kew Gardens, and I'll enquire
whether the Tower and the Houses of Parliament are open to visitors at
present. Westminster Abbey will, of course, be on view, but I expect we
shall find the monuments banked up with sandbags for fear of raids.
Never mind, we'll do Poets' Corner at any rate. What would you like to
start with this morning?"
"May I choose? Then I plump for the Academy!"
So to the Academy they went, and it was a very gay, pink-cheeked,
bright-eyed version of Lorraine who walked up the flight of stairs at
Burlington House, and through the turnstile into the entrance hall where
the palms are. She had seen small exhibitions at the Arts Club in
Porthkeverne, but never a series of great rooms hung with large
pictures. Margaret was turning over the pages of the catalogue.
"Oh, do find out where 'Kilmeny' is, and let us go and see her first!"
begged Lorraine.
"She's in Room VII, No. 348."
It was difficult to tear Margaret away from the nearest pictures, but
Lorraine's impatience dragged her along to Room VII. "Kilmeny" was
really in a very good position, if not exactly on the line, only just
above it, and fortunately the pictures on either side were in low tone,
and did not spoil the effect of colour.
"A field of poppies or a Venetian carnival next door would have utterly
killed my sunset and thistledown!" rejoiced Margaret. "I ought to be
very grateful to the hanging committee. It doesn't look so bad as I
expected."
"Bad! It's the most beautiful picture in the whole room."
"We must hunt up our other friends," said Margaret, turning over the
pages of the catalogue. "Where are Mr. Castleton's, I wonder? Oh,
there's one in the next room--No. 407. Let's go and look at it."
The picture in question was the portrait of Madame Bertier, a clever
study in an impressionist style, showing the bright eyes and eager
features of that volatile lady under cover of a large black hat and
veil. It was perhaps one of the best pictures that Mr. Castleton had
ever painted, and it was attracting quite a small crowd. Margaret and
Lorraine came up, and joined the outer circle of admirers. In front of
them stood two gentlemen and a lady--foreigners. They spoke softly and
rapidly together in French. Lorraine, whose knowledge of that language
was not far beyond the ordinary schoolgirl standard, could not
understand all they were saying, but she caught a word here and there.
The lady was admiring the skill of the painting, and voting it worthy of
the Salon in Paris; one of the gentlemen admired the beauty of the
model, the other, with a pleased smile, explained that it was his wife,
and that, though a charming portrait, it scarcely did justice to the
original.
"Mais c'est à merveille!" he said, with a quick gesticulation, as he
moved on to allow other people access to the picture.
Lorraine nudged Margaret, and drew her aside.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered. "That man in the light suit declared
that Madame Bertier was his wife!"
"Impossible! Her husband is interned in Germany!"
"Well, that was what he said at any rate."
"Perhaps he was making up, just for effect. Some people like to tell
these wonderful fibs in public, just to impress the outside world."
"Then why didn't he speak English, if he wanted to impress people?"
"Which man was it?"
"That one--next to the lady in blue."
"Why--why--if I'm not utterly mistaken, I verily believe it's the man we
looked at through the glasses from Tangy Point: he met Madame Bertier on
the shore."
"And I couldn't remember where I'd seen him before. Oh, Carina! Let's
follow them, and I'll look at him again."
But the crowd in the Academy was rapidly increasing, and the three
foreigners were lost behind a row of ladies in fashionable spring hats.
They must have made an unexpected exit, for though Lorraine kept her
eyes open for them the whole of the morning, she did not chance to see
them again.
"It's rather mysterious, isn't it?" she said to Margaret afterwards.
"It is--if he was telling the truth. Some of these foreigners are queer
people. Never mind Madame Bertier now; let us enjoy ourselves. Shall we
get tickets for a _matinée_ to-morrow, or leave theatres for the
evenings? Remember, we want plenty of time for Kew."