Ben Blair

by Will Lillibridge

  CHAPTER XVIII

  PAINTER AND PICTURE

  Scotty Baker dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred themixture carefully, glancing the while smilingly at his wife anddaughter.

  "By Jove!" he exclaimed; "it seems good to be back here again."

  Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, but Florencereturned the smile companionably.

  "And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy," she replied. "Justthink of our being alone, a pair of poor defenceless women, three wholemonths without a man about the house! If you ever dare do it againyou'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, thistime, 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 asobtuse as a post to his wife's meaning look. "Tell me about him, won'tyou?"

  Florence laughed a bit unnaturally. It seemed her words had a way ofreturning like a boomerang.

  "He's a writer," she explained laconically.

  "A writer?" Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee between the cup andhis mouth. "A real one?"

  The smile left the girl's face. "His family is one of the oldest in thecity," she explained coldly. "His work sells by the thousand. You canjudge for yourself."

  Scotty sipped his coffee impassively, but behind the big glasses thetwinkle left his eyes.

  "The inference you suggest would have been more obvious if you hadn'tmade the first remark," he said a little sharply. "I've noticed thematter 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 thatvery reason Florence knew that when he did it had an especialsignificance.

  "By the way," he observed after a moment, "we ought to celebrate to-dayin some manner. I rather expected to find a band at the station towelcome me yesterday upon my return, but I didn't, and I fear there'sbeen no public demonstration arranged. What do you say to our packing upour 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'mwilling," 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-sizedplat 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'msorry, but I promised Mr. Sidwell last night I'd visit the art gallerywith 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 effortfor this undemonstrative Englishman to make the request.

  The girl glanced out the window with a look her father understood verywell. "I hardly think so," she said. "He's going away for the Summersoon, and his time is limited."

  Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table and went into thelibrary. Florence sat for a moment abstractedly; then with her oldimpulsive manner she followed him.

  "Daddy," the girl's arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressedagainst 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 herfather 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." Andpicking up the morning paper he lit a cigar and moved toward the shadyveranda.

  Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to prevent his leavingher in that way. But she hesitated and the moment passed.

  Yet, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker's morning, by afternoon ithad departed. Sidwell's carriage came promptly, creating something of astir behind the drawn shades of the adjoining residences--for the Bakerswere not located in a fashionable quarter. Sidwell himself, immaculate,smiling, greeted her with the deference which became him well, and initself conveyed a delicate compliment. Neither made any reference to theincident of the night before. His manner gave no hint of the constraintwhich under the circumstances might have been expected. A few monthsbefore, the girl would have thought he had taken her request literally,and had forgotten; but now she knew better. In this fascinating new lifeone could pass pleasantries with one's dearest enemy and still smile. Inthe old life, under similar circumstances, there would have beengun-play, and probably later a funeral; but here--they knew better howto live. Already, in the few social events she had attended, she hadseen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with knives--to emergeunhurt, unruffled. To be sure, she could not herself do it--yet; but sheunderstood, and admired.

  Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within the high walledgallery it was cool and pleasant. Florence had been there before, butearlier in the season, and many other visitors were present. To-day sheand Sidwell were practically alone, and she faced him with a littlereceptive gesture.

  "You're always getting me to talk," she said. "To-day I'm going toexchange places. Don't expect me to do anything but listen."

  Sidwell smiled. "Won't you even condescend to suggest channels in whichmy 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 torest. Sidwell talked well, but somewhat impersonally. At last, in anout-of-the-way corner, they came to the modest canvas of his friend, andthey sat down before it. The picture was unnamed and unsigned. Withoutbeing extraordinary as a work of art, its subject lent its chief claimto distinction. Interested because her companion seemed interested,Florence looked at it steadily. At first there appeared to her nothingbut a mountain, steep and rugged, and a weary man who, climbing it, hadlain down to rest. Far down at the mountain's base she saw where thefigure had begun its ascent. The way was easy there, and the trail,through the abundant grasses crushed underfoot, was of one who had movedrapidly. Gradually, with the upward incline, obstacles had increased,and the footprints drew nearer together. Still higher, from a straightline the trail had become tortuous and irregular. Here the climber hadpassed around a thicket of trees; there a great boulder had stood in thepath; but, ever indomitable, the way had been steadily upward towardsome point the climber had in view. Steeper and steeper the way hadgrown. The prints on the rocky mountain-side, from being those of feetonly, 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 thepoints of rocks. Dim brown lines showed the path his body had taken, ashe sometimes slipped back. Breaks in the scant vegetation told where hisfingers had clutched desperately to halt his descent. Yet each time thereverse had been but temporary; he had returned, and mounted higher andhigher. But at last there had come the end. He had reached his presentplace in the picture. By gripping tightly he could hold his own, but toadvance was impossible. Straight above him, a sheer wall, many times hisown height, was the blank, unbroken face of the rock. That he had triedto scale even this was evident, for finger-marks from bleeding handswere thick thereon; but he had finally abandoned the effort. Physically,he was conquered. It seemed that one could almost hear the quick comingand going of his breath. Yet, prostrate as he lay, his eyes were turnedtoward the barrier his body could not scale, to a something whichcrowned its utmost height,--something indefinite and unattainable,--thesupreme desire and purpose of his life.

  The two spectators sat silent. Other visitors came near, glanced at thecanvas and at the pair of observers, and passed on with muffledfootsteps.

 
The girl turned, and, as on the night at the roof-garden, found theman'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 withone's whole soul."

  Florence was studying her companion now as steadily as he had beenstudying 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 herthoughts were concentrated. "And he never found it?" she asked.

  Unconsciously one of Sidwell's hands made a downward motion ofdeprecation. "He did not. We made the circuit of the earth together inpursuit of it--but all was useless. It seemed as though the more hesearched the more he was baffled in his quest."

  For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her hands claspedtighter and tighter. A thought that made her finger-tips tingle wastaking form in her mind. A dim comprehension of the nature of this manhad first suggested it; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had helpedgive it form. The speaker's last words, his even tone of voice, had notpassed unnoticed. She turned to the canvas, searched the skilfullyconcealed outlines of the tattered figure with the upturned eyes. Theclasped hands grew white with the tension.

  "I didn't know before you were an artist as well as a writer," she saidevenly.

  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, "Iknow. You painted the picture, Mr. Sidwell. That man there on themountain-side is you!"

  Her companion hesitated. His face darkened; his lips opened to speak andclosed again.

  The girl continued watching him with steady look. "I can hardly believeit," she said absently. "It seems impossible."

  Sidwell forced a smile. "Impossible? What? That I should paint a daublike that?"

  The girl's tense hands relaxed wearily.

  "No, not that you paint, but that the man there--the one findinghappiness unattainable--should be you."

  The lids dropped just a shade over Sidwell's black eyes. "And why, ifyou please, should it be more remarkable that I am unhappy thananother?"

  This time Florence took him up quickly. "Because," she answered, "youseem to have everything one can think of that is needed to make a humanbeing happy--wealth, position, health, ability--all the prizes otherpeople work their lives out for or die for." Again the voice dropped. "Ican'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 restedthere. "Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose it is difficult, almostimpossible, for you to realize why I am--as I am. You have never had thepersonal experience--and we only understand what we have felt. Thetrouble with me is that I have experienced too much, felt too much. I'veceased to take things on trust. Like the youth and the key flower I'veforgotten the best." The voice paused, but the eyes still kept to thecanvas.

  "That picture," he went on, "typifies it all. I painted it, not becauseI'm an artist, but because in a fashion it expresses something Icouldn't put into words, or express in any other way. When I began toclimb, the object above me was not happiness but ambition. Wealth andsocial place, as you say, I already had. They meant nothing to me. WhatI wanted was to make a name in another way--as a literary man." The darkeyes 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 tenacitythat was in me. I worked with the one object in view; worked withoutresting, feverishly. I had successes and failures, failures andsuccesses--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 soldwell; 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 meas I was; I was not satisfied with my work. Try as I might, nothing thatI wrote ever reached my own standard in its execution. I worked harderthan ever; but it was useless. I was confronting the blank wall--thewall of my natural limitations."

  The voice paused, and for a moment lowered. "I won't say what I didthen; 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 ifshe were gazing upon a naked human soul, and turned away.

  "At last," he went on in his confession, "I came to myself, and wasforced to see things as they were. I saw that as well as I thought I hadunderstood life I had not even grasped its meaning. I had fancied theattainment of my object the supreme end, and by every human standard Ihad succeeded in my purpose; but the thing I had gained was trash.Wealth, power, notoriety--what were they? Bubbles, nothing more; bubblesthat broke in the hand of him who clasped them. The real meaning andobject of existence lay deeper, and had nothing whatever to do with theestimate of a person by his fellows. It was a frame of mind of theindividual himself."

  Florence's face turned farther away, but Sidwell did not notice. "Then,for the last time," he hurried on, "the unattainable changed form forme, and became what it seems now--happiness. For a little time I think Iwas happy--happy in merely having made the discovery. Then came thereaction. I was as I was, as I am now--a product of my past life, of acivilization essentially artificial. In striving for a false ideal I hadunfitted myself for the real when at last I discovered it."

  Unconsciously the man had come closer, and his eyes glowed. At last hisapathy was shaken off, and his words came in a torrent. "What I was thenI am to-day. Mentally, I am like an inebriate, who no longer findssatisfaction in plain food and drink, but craves stimulants. I demandactivity, excitement, change. In every hour of my life I realize thenarrowness and artificiality of it all; but without it I am unhappy. Isometimes think Mother Nature herself has disowned me; when I try to getnear her she draws away--I fancy with a shudder. Solitude of desert, offorest, or of prairie is no longer solitude to me. It is filled withvoices--accusing voices; and I rush back to the crowd and the unrest ofthe city. Even my former pleasures seem to have deserted me. You havespoke often of accomplishing big things, doing something better thananyone else can do it, as an example of pleasure supreme. If yourealized what you were saying you would know its irony. You cannot do athing better than anyone else. People, like water, strike a dead level.No matter how you strive, dozens of others can do the thing you aredoing. Were you to die, your place would be filled to-morrow, and theworld would wag on just the same. There is always someone just beneathyou watchfully waiting, ready to seize your place if you relax youreffort for a moment. The term 'big things' is relative. To speak it ismerely to refer to something you do not personally understand. Nothingseems really big to the one who does it. Nothing is difficult when youunderstand it. The growing of potatoes in a backyard is just aswonderful a performance as the painting of one of these pictures; itwould be more so were it not so common and so necessary. Theconstruction of a steam-engine or an electric dynamo is incomparablymore remarkable than the merging of separate thousands of capital intomillions of combination, yet multitudes of men everywhere can do eitherof the former things and are unnoticed. We worship what we do notunderstand, and call it big; but the man in the secret realizes themockery and smiles."

  Closer came the dark face. The black eyes, intense and flashing, heldthe listener in their gaze.

  "I said that even my pleasures seem to have deserted me. It is true. Iused to like to wander about the city, to see it at its busiest, toloiter amid the hum and the roar and the ceaseless activity. I saw in itthen only friendly rivalry, like a hurdle race or a footballgame--something pleasing and stimulating. Now it all affects me in justthe reverse way. I look beneath the surface, and my heart sinks to findnot friendly competition, but a battle, where men and women fight fordaily bread, where th
e weak are crowded and trampled upon by the strong.In ordinary battle the maimed and the crippled are spared, but here theystill fight on. Mercy or quarter is unknown. Oh, it is ghastly! I usedto take pleasure in books, in the work of others; but even thissatisfaction has been taken from me--except such grim satisfaction as aphysician may feel at a _post mortem_. The very labor that made me asuccess in literature caused me to be a dissector of things around me.To learn how others attained their ends I must needs tear their workapart and study the fragments. This habit has become a part of me. Ioverlook the beauty of the product in the working of the machinery thatproduced it. I watch the mixing of literary confections, served to thereader so that upon laying down the book he may have a good taste in hismouth. People themselves, those I meet from day to day, inevitably gothrough 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 printedpage. I can't even spare myself. Fragments of me can be had for a priceat any of the book-stalls. I've become public property--and with no oneto blame but myself."

  The flow of speech halted. The speaker's face was so near now that thegirl 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 whoanswered was calm; but in her lap the small hands were clasping eachother 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 sentenceended 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! Ican't stand it. Take me home!"

  Sidwell looked at her closely for a moment; then the mask ofconventionality, which for a time had lifted from his face, dropped oncemore, and he also arose. In silence, side by side, the two made theirway down the long hall to the exit. Out of doors, the afternoon sun,serene and smiling, gave them a friendly greeting.