Money Magic: A Novel

by Hamlin Garland

  CHAPTER XVII

  BERTHA BECOMES A PATRON OF ART

  Bertha, deeply engrossed in the conceptions called up by this visit, didnot feel like calling upon the Mosses, even though they were almost nextdoor. She was troubled, too, with a feeling of helplessness in the useof a pen. She wanted to write to Fordyce, but was afraid to do so,knowing that a letter would disclose her ignorance of polite forms; butthis, instead of discouraging her, roused her to a determination tolearn. This was the saving clause in her character. She acknowledgedshortcomings, but not defeats. Here again she was of the spirit thatlifts the self-made man.

  The Congdons had been most generous of letters of introduction, and inaddition to those to Mrs. Brent and the Mosses, Bertha was in possessionof two or three envelopes addressed to people in New York City,presumably artists also, as they bore the names of certain studios. Thenote to Moss was unaffected and simple in itself, quite innocent of anyqualification, but the letter which had privately preceded it was in thetrue Congdon vein, and Moss, like Mrs. Brent, did not delay his call.His card was in the Haney box when they returned. "Sorry to miss you.Come into my studio at five if you can," he had pencilled on the back.

  "Your artistic bunch," Congdon had written, "won't mind meeting one ofthe most successful and picturesque of our gamblers, Marshall Haney,especially as the walls of his big house are bare and his wife ispretty. They are ripping types, old man; not in the 'best society,' youunderstand, but I know you'll like 'em. Be as good to 'em as you canwithout involving anybody. Little Mrs. Haney is a corker. Good start ona self-made career. They're both unsophisticated in a way, and a littlereal sympathy will drag their secret history to the light. Do a sketchof her for me. She's likely to be famous. Haney is rolling in doughthese days--(miner)--and she's bound for some whooping big thing, Idon't know what, but she's like a country boy with a stirring ambition.It wouldn't surprise me to see her on Fifth Avenue one of these days.With these few burning words I commend them into your plastic hands.Don't let Sammy paint her, for God's sake. Oh yes, I worked 'em for acouple of canvases. What do you think. In this buoyant climate we allmove. Yours in the velvet."

  With such a letter before him Joe Moss awaited his amazing guests withimpatience, cautioning the few who were in the secret not to dodge whenthe Captain reached for his pocket-handkerchief. "And, above all, youare to praise Colorado and condemn the East as a place of residence."Joe prided himself on his _savoir faire_ and on his apparel, which hadnothing about it to distinguish the sculptor. "In fact," he often said,"there _are_ people who say I'm not a sculptor. Be that as it may, Imanage by daily care to look like a clerk in a hardware store."

  And he did. He customarily wore a suit of pepper and salt, neat andtrig, a "bowler hat" (as they say in London), a ready-made four-in-handtie, and a small pearl scarf-pin. "No more fuzzy hair for me, no redtie, no dandruff," he had said on his return from Paris. "Right here wemelt into the undistinguishable ocean of the millions, unless we can bedistinguished by reason of our sculpture." He always included Julia, hiswife, in this way (although she never "modelled a lick"), for she wroteall his letters, made out all his checks, and took charge of himgenerally. Some said his success was due to her management. She was adark-eyed, smiling little woman, exquisite in her dress and brisk in hermanner.

  Their studio occupied the whole north side of the attic of a big officebuilding in the heart of the city's traffic. "We want to be in the midstof trade, but above it," Moss explained to those who wondered at hischoice of location. "Sculpture, as I see it, is a part of architecture.I'm not above modelling a door-knocker if they'll only let me do it myway. Sculpture was a part of life in the old days, and we don't want tomake it a thing too 'precious' now. I want to get close to the businessmen, not to avoid them. I like the roar of trade."

  The Haneys, therefore, led by the sagacious Lucius, soon foundthemselves in the Wisconsin Block, and shooting aloft in a bronzeelevator that seemed fired from a cannon ("express to the 10th floor"),with nothing to suggest art in the men or in the signs about them. Onthe thirteenth story they alighted, and, walking up one flight ofstairs, found themselves at the end of a bright hall, before a doorwhich bore, in simple gold letters, "Jos. Moss, Sculptor." Bertha heardlaughter within, and her heart misgave her. It was not easy for her tomeet these artist folk. Of business men, miners, railway managers shewas unafraid, but these people who joke and bully-rag each other andtalk high philosophy one minute and gossip the next, like the Congdons,were "pretty swift" for her. After a moment's pause she said to theCaptain, "They can't kill us; here goes!" and knocked gently.

  Moss himself opened the door, and his cordial, "How de do, Mrs. Haney,"established him in her mind at once as a good fellow. He was quite asdirect as Congdon. "I'm glad to see you," he said to the Captain. "Comein." He looked keenly at Lucius, who composedly explained himself. "TheCaptain is a little lame, and I just came along to see that he got hereall right. I'll be back at 5.30."

  The door opened into a big room, which was darkened at the windows andlighted by shaded electric globes. It was cool and bare in effect.Around a small table in a far corner a half-dozen people were sitting.Mrs. Moss, who was pouring tea, rose in her place at the tea-urn as herhusband approached, and cordially shook hands with her guests. "I'm veryglad you came. Please tell me how you'll have your tea," she said.

  Bertha was accustomed to take her tea "any old way," and said so, beinginfluenced by Mrs. Moss' candid eyes and merry smile. Haney, with aqueer feeling of being on the stage as a character in a play, sankheavily into the chair at his hostess' right hand and said: "I nevertook tea in my life, but I'm not dodgin' anything you mix."

  Joe earnestly protested. "Don't do it, Captain, there's some Scotch downcellar."

  Mrs. Moss indicated one or two other dimly seen faces about her andintroduced their owners in a most casual manner while she compounded ahot drink for her Western guest.

  "How long have you been in our horrible town, Mr. Haney?" she asked,heedful of Joe's warning.

  "One day, ma'am."

  "You're just 'passing through,' I presume--that's the way all Coloradopeople do."

  Haney smiled. He was getting the drift of her remarks. "'Tis natural,ma'am; for, you see, 'tis a long run and a heavy grade, and hard toside-track on the way."

  Bertha, to whom Moss addressed himself, was candidly looking abouther--profoundly interested in what she saw. Dim forms in bronze andplaster stood on shelves, brackets, and pedestals, and at the end of thelong room a big group of figures writhed as if in mortal combat. It wasa work-shop--that was evident even to her--with one small nook devotedto tea and talk.

  "Would you like to poke about?" he asked, anticipating her request.

  "Yes, I would," she bluntly replied.

  "There isn't much to see," he said. "I'm the kind of sculptor who workson order. I believe in the 'art for service' idea, and when I get anorder I fill it as well as I can, make it as beautiful as I can, andsend it out on its mission. I'd like to model mantel-pieces andandirons, because they are seen and actually influence people's lives.What I started to say was this: my stuff all goes out--my real stuff; myfool failures stay by me--this thing, for instance." He indicated thebig clump of nude forms. "I had an 'idea' when I started, but it was tooambitious and too literary. Moreover, it isn't democratic. It don't gibewith the present. I'd be a wild-animal sculptor if I knew enough aboutthem."

  It was a profoundly moving experience for this raw mountain-bred girl tostand there beside that colossal group while the man who had modelled ittook her into his confidence. There was no affectation in Moss's candor.He had come to a swift conclusion that Congdon had attempted to let himinto a trap, for Bertha's reticence and dignity quite reassured him. Ifshe had uttered a single one of the banal compliments with whichvisitors "kill" artists he would have stopped short; but she didn't, sheonly looked, and something in her face profoundly interested him.Suddenly she turned and said:

  "Tell me what it means."

  "It don't
mean anything--now. Originally I intended it to mean 'TheConquest of Art by the Spirit of Business,' or something like that. Istarted it when I was fresh from Paris, and wore a red tie and a pointedbeard. I keep it as a record of the folly into which exotic instructionwill lead a man. If I were to go at it now I'd turn the whole thingaround--I'd make it 'Art Inspiring Business.'"

  Bertha did not follow his thought entirely, but she felt herself in thepresence of a serious problem and listening to something deep down inthe heart of a strong man. Here was another world--not an altogetherstrange world, for Congdon had also talked to her of his work--but aworld so far removed from her own life that it seemed some other planet."How well he talks," she thought. "Like a book."

  "How charming she is," he was thinking. And the alert, aspiring pose ofher head made his thumb nervously munch at the bit of clay he had pickedup.

  They wandered up and down the long room while he showed her tiles formantel decoration, bronze cats' heads for door-knobs, and curious andlovely figures for lamps and ash-trays. "I take a shy at 'mosteverything," he explained.

  "Do you sell these?" she asked, indicating some designs for electricdesk-lamps.

  He smiled. "Sometimes--not as often as I'd like to."

  "How much are they?"

  "Fifty dollars each."

  "I'll take them both," she said, and her pulse leaped with the pride ofbeing a patron of art.

  "Now see here, Mrs. Haney, I'm not displaying these to you as asalesman--not that I'm so very delicate about offering my things, but Itry to wait till a second visit." He really did feel mean about it."Don't take 'em--wait till to-morrow. They're pretty middling badanyway. They're supposed to be mountain lions, but as a matter of fact Inever saw a mountain lion outside the Zoo."

  "They're lions, all right. I want 'em, and I know the Captain will like'em." She stepped back to call Haney. But finding him surrounded by allof the other callers (they had "got him going" telling stories of hiswild life in the West), she turned to the sculptor with a smile, saying:"Never mind, _I_ know they're what he needs--if he don't." And Moss,recalling Congdon's description of the Haneys' material condition,answered: "Very well, if you insist; but I really feel as though I hadplayed a confidence game on you."

  "Can you fix 'em up with lights?" she asked, eager as a child. "I meanright now."

  "Certainly." He unscrewed a couple of small bulbs from a near-bybracket, and, putting them into place on the lamps, turned on thecurrent. She laughed out in delight. One of the lions was playing withthe stem which supported the light. As if rising from a sleep, he layupholding the globe on one high-raised paw. The other--a counterpart, ornearly so in pose--had a different expression. The cub was snarling andclutching at the light, as if it were a bird about to escape.

  "I had an idea of putting them on the corners of a mantel to light apiece of low relief," he explained, "but I never got at the relief. Itought to be characteristic Western scenery, and I've never seen theWest. Shameful, isn't it?"

  "I want you to do that mantel for me," she said. "I don't know what youmean by 'low relief,' but I know it would be up to these, and they are_right_!"

  "Your trust in me is beautiful, Mrs. Haney, and maybe I'll come out thissummer and try to meet it."

  "I wish you would," she said, and she meant it. "I'll show youColorado."

  "If you're starting to be a patron of art, Mrs. Haney, don't overlookCongdon; he's a first-class man." He became humorous again. "We'removing swiftly, but I'm going to tell you that he wanted me to make asketch of you. If you'll be so good as to give me two or three sittings,I'll do something we can send out to him--if you wish."

  "What do you mean by a sketch?"

  "Something like this." And, leading her before a curious, half-human,veiled object, he began to unwind damp yellow cloths till at last thehead of a young woman appeared on a small revolving stand. It was verydainty, very sweet, and smiling.

  Bertha was puzzled. "It ain't your wife, and yet it looks like her."

  "It is my wife's sister--a quick study from life--just the kind of thingFrank wants. Will you sit for me A couple of mornings will answer." Hewas eager to do her now. Her profile, so clear, so firm, so strangelyboyish, pleased him. He could feel the "snap" that the sketch would havewhen it was done.

  Bertha considered. She owed a great deal to the Congdons, and she likedthis man. Her homesickness at the moment was abated, and to stay two, oreven three, days in Chicago promised at the moment to be not sodreadful, after all.

  "Yes, I'll do it," she decided. "I don't know what Mr. Congdon will dowith a picture of me, but that's his funeral." And her laughing lip madeher seem again the untaught girl she really was.

  As they went back to the group around the Captain, Julia Moss treatedher husband to a glance of commiseration, thinking him a bored anddefeated man. "You've missed the Captain's racy talk," she whispered.

  Haney was enjoying himself very well in the "centre of the stage," anddoing himself credit. Never in his life had he known a keener audiencethan these artists, who studied him from every point of view.

  "Yes," Haney was saying, "'tis possible to bust a bank if the game isstraight--that is, at faro; but most machine games are built so that'the house'--that is, the bank--is protected. My machines was alwaysstraight. I'd as soon turn a sausage-grinder as run a wheel that was'fixed' in me favor."

  Bertha did not like this talk of his abandoned trade, and her cheeksburned as she put her hand on his shoulder. "I reckon we'd better begoing."

  He recovered himself. "Of course I quit all that when I married," heexplained, and dutifully rose.

  "Oh, Mrs. Haney," pleaded Mrs. Moss, "don't take him away! We were justgetting light on the game of faro. Please sit down again."

  Bertha resented this tone. "No, we've got to go. Glad to have met you."She nodded towards the men who had risen. "Much obliged," she said againto Moss. "I'll send for them things to-morrow."

  Mrs. Moss cordially insisted on their coming again.

  "She's going to pose for me," reported Moss. "To-morrow morning at ten?"he inquired.

  "Ten suits me as well as any time," Bertha replied.

  Mrs. Moss beamed at Haney. "You come, too, Captain. I want to know moreabout those delightful games of chance."

  Bertha went back to her hotel with throbbing brain. The day had been sofull of experience! She was tired out and fairly bewildered by it all.

  As her excitement ebbed and she had time to recover her own point ofview, Colorado, her home, the Springs, and the memory of her own peoplecame rushing back upon her, making the city and all it contained but ahandful of east wind. Ben's kiss burned vividly again upon her lips."Was it wrong of him to say what he did?" she began to ask herself. Agood-bye kiss would not have so deeply stirred her; it was his face, hisvoice, his intensely uttered words which deeply thrilled her, even now,as she recalled them one by one. "You are beautiful and I love you."These were the most important words to a woman, and they had come atlast to her.

  Then her cheek flushed with shame of her husband as she remembered hisgambling talk at the studio. "Why _must_ he always go back to that?" sheasked, hotly.

  They ate their dinner in the big dining-room surrounded by waiters,while the Captain discussed his sister and her family. "I'll dosomething for Fan," he said. "She's a different sort from Charles.McArdle seems a hard-workin' chap, the kind that a little help wouldn'tspile. What do you think of buyin' them a bit of a house somewhere?"

  Bertha listened with a languor of interest new to her, and when herepeated his question and asked her if she were tired, she answered:"Yes; and I think I'll go to bed early to-night. It's been a hard day."