PAINTER AND PICTURE
Scotty Baker dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred the
mixture carefully, glancing the while smilingly at his wife and
daughter.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed; "it seems good to be back here again."
Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, but Florence
returned the smile companionably.
"And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy," she replied. "Just
think of our being alone, a pair of poor defenceless women, three whole
months without a man about the house! If you ever dare do it again
you're liable to find one in your place when you return. Isn't he,
mamma?"
Her mother looked up reproachfully. "For shame, Florence!" she cried.
But Scotty only observed his daughter quizzically. "I did--almost, this
time, didn't I?" he bantered. "By the way, who is this wonderful being,
this Sidwell, I've heard so much about the last few hours?" He was as
obtuse as a post to his wife's meaning look. "Tell me about him, won't
you?"
Florence laughed a bit unnaturally. It seemed her words had a way of
returning like a boomerang.
"He's a writer," she explained laconically.
"A writer?" Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee between the cup and
his mouth. "A real one?"
The smile left the girl's face. "His family is one of the oldest in the
city," she explained coldly. "His work sells by the thousand. You can
judge for yourself."
Scotty sipped his coffee impassively, but behind the big glasses the
twinkle left his eyes.
"The inference you suggest would have been more obvious if you hadn't
made the first remark," he said a little sharply. "I've noticed the
matter of good family has quite an influence in this world."
The subject was dropped, but nevertheless it left its aftermath.
Easy-going Scotty did not often say an unpleasant thing, and for that
very reason Florence knew that when he did it had an especial
significance.
"By the way," he observed after a moment, "we ought to celebrate to-day
in some manner. I rather expected to find a band at the station to
welcome me yesterday upon my return, but I didn't, and I fear there's
been no public demonstration arranged. What do you say to our packing up
our dinner, taking the elevated, and spending the day in the country?
What say you, Mollie?"
His wife looked at her daughter helplessly. "Just as Florence says. I'm
willing," she replied.
"What speaks the oracle?" smiled Scotty. "Shall we or shall we not?
Personally, I feel a desire for cooling springs, to step on a good-sized
plat of green without having a watchful bluecoat loom in the distance."
Florence fingered the linen of the tablecloth with genuine discomfort.
"You two can go. I'll help you get ready," she ventured at last. "I'm
sorry, but I promised Mr. Sidwell last night I'd visit the art gallery
with him this afternoon. He says they've some new canvases hung lately,
one of them by a particular friend of his. He's such a student of art,
and I know so little about it that I hate to miss going."
Again the smile left Scotty's eyes. "Can't you write a note explaining,
and postpone the visit until some other time?" It took quite an effort
for this undemonstrative Englishman to make the request.
The girl glanced out the window with a look her father understood very
well. "I hardly think so," she said. "He's going away for the Summer
soon, and his time is limited."
Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table and went into the
library. Florence sat for a moment abstractedly; then with her old
impulsive manner she followed him.
"Daddy," the girl's arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressed
against his, "I'm awful sorry I can't go with you to-day. I'd like to,
really."
But for one of the very few times that Florence could remember her
father did not respond. Instead, he removed her arms rather coldly.
"Oh, that's all right," he said; "I hope you'll have a good time." And
picking up the morning paper he lit a cigar and moved toward the shady
veranda.
Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to prevent his leaving
her in that way. But she hesitated and the moment passed.
Yet, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker's morning, by afternoon it
had departed. Sidwell's carriage came promptly, creating something of a
stir behind the drawn shades of the adjoining residences--for the Bakers
were not located in a fashionable quarter. Sidwell himself, immaculate,
smiling, greeted her with the deference which became him well, and in
itself conveyed a delicate compliment. Neither made any reference to the
incident of the night before. His manner gave no hint of the constraint
which under the circumstances might have been expected. A few months
before, the girl would have thought he had taken her request literally,
and had forgotten; but now she knew better. In this fascinating new life
one could pass pleasantries with one's dearest enemy and still smile. In
the old life, under similar circumstances, there would have been
gun-play, and probably later a funeral; but here--they knew better how
to live. Already, in the few social events she had attended, she had
seen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with knives--to emerge
unhurt, unruffled. To be sure, she could not herself do it--yet; but she
understood, and admired.
Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within the high walled
gallery it was cool and pleasant. Florence had been there before, but
earlier in the season, and many other visitors were present. To-day she
and Sidwell were practically alone, and she faced him with a little
receptive gesture.
"You're always getting me to talk," she said. "To-day I'm going to
exchange places. Don't expect me to do anything but listen."
Sidwell smiled. "Won't you even condescend to suggest channels in which
my discourse may flow?" he bantered.
The girl hesitated. "Perhaps," she ventured, "if I find it necessary."
For an hour they wandered about, moving slowly, and pausing often to
rest. Sidwell talked well, but somewhat impersonally. At last, in an
out-of-the-way corner, they came to the modest canvas of his friend, and
they sat down before it. The picture was unnamed and unsigned. Without
being extraordinary as a work of art, its subject lent its chief claim
to distinction. Interested because her companion seemed interested,
Florence looked at it steadily. At first there appeared to her nothing
but a mountain, steep and rugged, and a weary man who, climbing it, had
lain down to rest. Far down at the mountain's base she saw where the
figure had begun its ascent. The way was easy there, and the trail,
through the abundant grasses crushed underfoot, was of one who had moved
rapidly. Gradually, with the upward incline, obstacles had increased,
and the footprints drew nearer together. Still higher, from a straight
line the trail had become tortuous and irregular. Here the climber had
passed around a thicket of trees; there a great boulder had stood in the
path; but, ever indomitable, the way had been steadily upward toward
some point the climber had in view. Steeper and steeper the way had
grown. The prints on the rocky mountain-side, from being those of feet
only, merged into those made by hands. The man had begun to crawl,
making his way inch by inch. Fragments of his torn clothing hung on the
points of rocks. Dim brown lines showed the path his body had taken, as
he sometimes slipped back. Breaks in the scant vegetation told where his
fingers had clutched desperately to halt his descent. Yet each time the
reverse had been but temporary; he had returned, and mounted higher and
higher. But at last there had come the end. He had reached his present
place in the picture. By gripping tightly he could hold his own, but to
advance was impossible. Straight above him, a sheer wall, many times his
own height, was the blank, unbroken face of the rock. That he had tried
to scale even this was evident, for finger-marks from bleeding hands
were thick thereon; but he had finally abandoned the effort. Physically,
he was conquered. It seemed that one could almost hear the quick coming
and going of his breath. Yet, prostrate as he lay, his eyes were turned
toward the barrier his body could not scale, to a something which
crowned its utmost height,--something indefinite and unattainable,--the
supreme desire and purpose of his life.
The two spectators sat silent. Other visitors came near, glanced at the
canvas and at the pair of observers, and passed on with muffled
footsteps.
The girl turned, and, as on the night at the roof-garden, found the
man's eyes upon her.
"What name does your friend give to his work?" she asked.
"He calls it 'The Unattainable.'"
"And what is its meaning?"
"Ambition, perfection, complete happiness--anything striven for with
one's whole soul."
Florence was studying her companion now as steadily as he had been
studying her a moment before. "To your--friend it meant--"
"Happiness."
The girl's hands were clasped in her lap in a way she had when her
thoughts were concentrated. "And he never found it?" she asked.
Unconsciously one of Sidwell's hands made a downward motion of
deprecation. "He did not. We made the circuit of the earth together in
pursuit of it--but all was useless. It seemed as though the more he
searched the more he was baffled in his quest."
For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her hands clasped
tighter and tighter. A thought that made her finger-tips tingle was
taking form in her mind. A dim comprehension of the nature of this man
had first suggested it; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had helped
give it form. The speaker's last words, his even tone of voice, had not
passed unnoticed. She turned to the canvas, searched the skilfully
concealed outlines of the tattered figure with the upturned eyes. The
clasped hands grew white with the tension.
"I didn't know before you were an artist as well as a writer," she said
evenly.
Sidwell turned quickly. The girl could feel his look. "I fear," he said,
"I fail to grasp your meaning. You think--"
Florence met the speaker's look steadily. "I don't think," she said, "I
know. You painted the picture, Mr. Sidwell. That man there on the
mountain-side is you!"
Her companion hesitated. His face darkened; his lips opened to speak and
closed again.
The girl continued watching him with steady look. "I can hardly believe
it," she said absently. "It seems impossible."
Sidwell forced a smile. "Impossible? What? That I should paint a daub
like that?"
The girl's tense hands relaxed wearily.
"No, not that you paint, but that the man there--the one finding
happiness unattainable--should be you."
The lids dropped just a shade over Sidwell's black eyes. "And why, if
you please, should it be more remarkable that I am unhappy than
another?"
This time Florence took him up quickly. "Because," she answered, "you
seem to have everything one can think of that is needed to make a human
being happy--wealth, position, health, ability--all the prizes other
people work their lives out for or die for." Again the voice dropped. "I
can't understand it." She was silent a moment. "I can't understand it,"
she repeated.
From the girl's face the man's eyes passed to the canvas, and rested
there. "Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose it is difficult, almost
impossible, for you to realize why I am--as I am. You have never had the
personal experience--and we only understand what we have felt. The
trouble with me is that I have experienced too much, felt too much. I've
ceased to take things on trust. Like the youth and the key flower I've
forgotten the best." The voice paused, but the eyes still kept to the
canvas.
"That picture," he went on, "typifies it all. I painted it, not because
I'm an artist, but because in a fashion it expresses something I
couldn't put into words, or express in any other way. When I began to
climb, the object above me was not happiness but ambition. Wealth and
social place, as you say, I already had. They meant nothing to me. What
I wanted was to make a name in another way--as a literary man." The dark
eyes shifted back to the listener's face, the voice spoke more rapidly.
"I went after the thing that I wanted with all the power and tenacity
that was in me. I worked with the one object in view; worked without
resting, feverishly. I had successes and failures, failures and
successes--a long line of both. At last, as the world puts it, I
_arrived_. I got to a position where everything I wrote sold, and sold
well; but in the meantime the thing above me, which had been ambition,
gradually took on another shape. Perfection it was I longed for now,
perfection in my art. It was not enough that the public had accepted me
as I was; I was not satisfied with my work. Try as I might, nothing that
I wrote ever reached my own standard in its execution. I worked harder
than ever; but it was useless. I was confronting the blank wall--the
wall of my natural limitations."
The voice paused, and for a moment lowered. "I won't say what I did
then; I was--mad almost--the finger-marks of it are on the rock."
The girl could not look longer into the speaker's eyes. She felt as if
she were gazing upon a naked human soul, and turned away.
"At last," he went on in his confession, "I came to myself, and was
forced to see things as they were. I saw that as well as I thought I had
understood life I had not even grasped its meaning. I had fancied the
attainment of my object the supreme end, and by every human standard I
had succeeded in my purpose; but the thing I had gained was trash.
Wealth, power, notoriety--what were they? Bubbles, nothing more; bubbles
that broke in the hand of him who clasped them. The real meaning and
object of existence lay deeper, and had nothing whatever to do with the
estimate of a person by his fellows. It was a frame of mind of the
individual himself."
Florence's face turned farther away, but Sidwell did not notice. "Then,
for the last time," he hurried on, "the unattainable changed form for
me, and became what it seems now--happiness. For a little time I think I
was happy--happy in merely having made the discovery. Then came the
reaction. I was as I was, as I am now--a product of my past life, of a
civilization essentially artificial. In striving for a false ideal I had
unfitted myself for the real when at last I discovered it."
Unconsciously the man had come closer, and his eyes glowed. At last his
apathy was shaken off, and his words came in a torrent. "What I was then
I am to-day. Mentally, I am like an inebriate, who no longer finds
satisfaction in plain food and drink, but craves stimulants. I demand
activity, excitement, change. In every hour of my life I realize the
narrowness and artificiality of it all; but without it I am unhappy. I
sometimes think Mother Nature herself has disowned me; when I try to get
near her she draws away--I fancy with a shudder. Solitude of desert, of
forest, or of prairie is no longer solitude to me. It is filled with
voices--accusing voices; and I rush back to the crowd and the unrest of
the city. Even my former pleasures seem to have deserted me. You have
spoke often of accomplishing big things, doing something better than
anyone else can do it, as an example of pleasure supreme. If you
realized what you were saying you would know its irony. You cannot do a
thing better than anyone else. People, like water, strike a dead level.
No matter how you strive, dozens of others can do the thing you are
doing. Were you to die, your place would be filled to-morrow, and the
world would wag on just the same. There is always someone just beneath
you watchfully waiting, ready to seize your place if you relax your
effort for a moment. The term 'big things' is relative. To speak it is
merely to refer to something you do not personally understand. Nothing
seems really big to the one who does it. Nothing is difficult when you
understand it. The growing of potatoes in a backyard is just as
wonderful a performance as the painting of one of these pictures; it
would be more so were it not so common and so necessary. The
construction of a steam-engine or an electric dynamo is incomparably
more remarkable than the merging of separate thousands of capital into
millions of combination, yet multitudes of men everywhere can do either
of the former things and are unnoticed. We worship what we do not
understand, and call it big; but the man in the secret realizes the
mockery and smiles."
Closer came the dark face. The black eyes, intense and flashing, held
the listener in their gaze.
"I said that even my pleasures seem to have deserted me. It is true. I
used to like to wander about the city, to see it at its busiest, to
loiter amid the hum and the roar and the ceaseless activity. I saw in it
then only friendly rivalry, like a hurdle race or a football
game--something pleasing and stimulating. Now it all affects me in just
the reverse way. I look beneath the surface, and my heart sinks to find
not friendly competition, but a battle, where men and women fight for
daily bread, where the weak are crowded and trampled upon by the strong.
In ordinary battle the maimed and the crippled are spared, but here they
still fight on. Mercy or quarter is unknown. Oh, it is ghastly! I used
to take pleasure in books, in the work of others; but even this
satisfaction has been taken from me--except such grim satisfaction as a
physician may feel at a _post mortem_. The very labor that made me a
success in literature caused me to be a dissector of things around me.
To learn how others attained their ends I must needs tear their work
apart and study the fragments. This habit has become a part of me. I
overlook the beauty of the product in the working of the machinery that
produced it. I watch the mixing of literary confections, served to the
reader so that upon laying down the book he may have a good taste in his
mouth. People themselves, those I meet from day to day, inevitably go
through the same metamorphosis. I see them as characters in a book.
Their foibles and peculiarities are grist for my mill. Everything,
everyone, when I appear, slips into the narrow confines of a printed
page. I can't even spare myself. Fragments of me can be had for a price
at any of the book-stalls. I've become public property--and with no one
to blame but myself."
The flow of speech halted. The speaker's face was so near now that the
girl could not avoid looking at it.
"Do you wonder," he concluded, "that I am not happy?"
The girl looked up. The two pairs of brown eyes met. Outwardly, she who
answered was calm; but in her lap the small hands were clasping each
other tightly, so that the blood had left the fingers.
"No, I do not wonder now," she answered simply.
"And you understand?"
"Yes, I--no, there's so much--Oh, take me home, please!" The sentence
ended abruptly in a plea. The slender body was trembling as with cold.
"Take me home, please. I want to--to think."
"Florence!" The word was a caress. "Florence!"
But the girl was already on her feet. "Don't say any more to-day! I
can't stand it. Take me home!"
Sidwell looked at her closely for a moment; then the mask of
conventionality, which for a time had lifted from his face, dropped once
more, and he also arose. In silence, side by side, the two made their
way down the long hall to the exit. Out of doors, the afternoon sun,
serene and smiling, gave them a friendly greeting.