by George Moore
He had still to paint in the sky, sea, and the Cupids; he worked till the light first reddened the windows, until he began to fear he might spoil his picture if he went on.
Then he carried his easel, with the picture on it, to the lightest part of the room, and surrendered himself to the pleasure of looking at it. It was, he thought, certainly one of the best he had done. The figure was graceful, pretty in colour; the Cupids were well grouped. There was no doubt Mr. Carver would not only be enchanted with it, but would give him other orders. He would undertake to do some more panels at the same price, and then he would ask for an increase: this would be only fair; there was no doubt that Carver, or whatever his name might be, would not be able to get them half so well done for twice the money.
He looked at it from the right and then from the left, and thought what a pity it was he couldn’t have another sitting. The drawing was all there — it only wanted a little finishing; he wondered if he would be able to persuade Gwynnie to get up early, and give him half-an-hour to-morrow morning; but, remembering how much she had suffered for him, he began to grow sentimental, and determined not to ask her.
The morality of the question interested him profoundly. How different girls were! To think that there are thousands who do the very same thing every day of their lives, for one-and-sixpence an hour, and some of them quite good girls; whereas Gwynnie, he did not suppose anything in the world would have induced her to do what she did, but the conviction that she was saving himself from suicide.
He wondered if he would really have gone and drowned himself if she had not sat for him. There was no doubt that he was in the worst fix he had ever been in in his life. Everything pawned, and not a shilling in the house — lots of men had done away with themselves for less cause. It was very probable that he would not have been able to have borne up any longer; but it was all right now.
Then his thoughts went back to Gwynnie, and he had not much difficulty in working himself up to the point of believing that he loved her quite perfectly, and above all, unselfishly. There was no doubt she had done him a very great service, and, vowing that she should be compensated, he began to consider his project of marrying her. The idea fascinated him, and he turned it over in his mind until the room became quite dark, and his stomach told him sharply that he had only eaten a crust of bread all the day long.
Gwynnie, too, had eaten nothing, so he resolved that they should go out together and have some supper.
He went into the passage and listened, but, not hearing her stir, he pushed the door open. She lay fast asleep on the bed. She slept so soundly that he feared to awaken her, and, not knowing how long he might have to wait for her, he determined, after some hesitation, to go out alone, have something to eat, and come back in half-an-hour to see how she was getting on.
But Lewis’ half-hour was a long one; and before he came back, Gwynnie awoke — partly from cold, partly from hunger; she had not eaten anything for nearly twenty hours. She got up and drank a little water: it relieved her; then she groped her way into the studio. It was in complete darkness; she called, but, receiving no answer, began to fear that he had spoilt his work, and gone out in despair. Trembling, she sought for the matches: at length she found them, and, by the light of one, which flared and went out, caught a glimpse of the picture on the easel. Reassured, she struck a second, and lighted a bit of candle, curious to see what she had sat for.
During the rests, she had had no heart for anything but to escape from her dreadful situation. Lewis had asked her to look at his painting, but she had turned away her head. It seemed to her that to cast but a glance at it would be unendurable shame. Now, however, that he was gone, she approached it timidly, terrified, yet with a feeling of compulsion upon her. She must know the worst.
When the light of the candle fell on the panel, she started back in horror. The white woman who rose out of the sea, and, as she threw back a heavy fleece of golden hair, seemed to exult in her nakedness, was she. She recognised herself; the arms, the legs, the hair, were hers, even the face was like hers.
Her first impulse was to dash the vile thing to the ground, and seek some place where she might hide herself. She felt as if she would never dare to encounter human eyes again; she recalled every moment of that terrible day, and she asked herself, half mad with fear, how she would ever be able to meet Lewis.
She glanced round hurriedly, and remembered that he might return at any moment. She felt that she would sooner die than look him in the face. No, they must not meet now; the word “never” was on her lips, but she loved him too well for that. She would see him in a few weeks, in a month; but now she must fly from him. But why? He could not despise her for what she had done: it is impossible to despise those who save our lives. But he might ask her to sit again, and that she would never do. Then she remembered that he had spoken to her of marriage. But her pride tempted her, and she said to herself, that she would never let him marry her out of gratitude. She loved him truly; and, if he returned her love, they would be happy together, but not otherwise. Clearly the best thing would be to leave him. Her resolution was hurriedly taken. At first she did not know where to go, but remembering that a girl who worked in the same shop had often asked her to share her room, she resolved to go to her.
Preparation she had little to make; her few bits of clothes could be rolled into a little bundle, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, she packed up her things.
She came back once or twice to bid good-bye to the studio, where she had found all the happiness and bitterness her life had known. It cost her many a cruel pang to go, but she felt that if she stayed, other temptations would result from what she had done, and, fearful of her own strength to resist, she sought safety in flight.
CHAPTER IV.
A PICTURE DEALER.
AT THE PUBLIC house close by Lewis had something to eat; and then, being a little elated by his luck, and tired by his long day’s work, he thought he would not return home just yet, but would take a turn in the Strand, and see what was going on. There he met some friends whom he had not seen for a long while, and they pressed him to come and have drinks with them in a bar-room where they could sit and talk.
Drink succeeded drink, and it was not till half past twelve, still explaining their artistic sympathies, that the friends bade each other good-night on the pavement.
About ten o’clock the next morning he jumped hastily off his bed and rushed to see his picture.
When he had admired the drawing, the colour, the composition, he remembered last night’s spree. Then he wondered where Gwynnie was; he hoped she would not be angry with him for having gone out without her. Casting a last look at his picture, he went to look for her.
Not finding her in her room, he supposed that she had gone to work. From a lodger he learnt it was half-past ten, so he had just time to clean himself up a bit before going to Mr. Carver’s. He bought a paper collar, brushed his clothes, tied his necktie so as to conceal its shabbiness, and started for Pall Mall, with his picture under his arm.
After having explained his business to the shop assistant, he was told that Mr. Carver would see him when disengaged.
At present he was, as Lewis could see, showing some pictures to a tall, aristocratic looking woman, who, judging from the dealer’s obsequious politeness, was a well-known customer.
She was well, but a little carelessly dressed; there was not that elegance and exactitude in her toilette which betokens the merely fashionable woman. A shrewd judge of character would tell you that she was a woman of the world, spoiled with artistic tastes. After examining the crows’ feet, which were beginning to crawl about the intelligent eyes, he would tell you that she was some years over thirty, and he would add, if he were very sharp, that she was probably a woman who had missed her vocation in life, and was trying to create for herself new interests. There was about her a peculiar air of dissatisfaction.
As she raised her arm to point out some merits or defects in the picture before her,
the movement dragged the long, sleeveless, grey cashmere mantle closer to her figure, and showed the shape of her broad shoulders and delicate waist: the fox fur border made the hand look smaller oven than it really was.
Her rather square face was handsome and intelligent, but not pretty. The mouth was large and sensual; the nose was very small and well shaped, but the nostrils were prominent, like those of negress; the forehead was broad and white, but the black hair was tied up hastily, and slipped from under the dark velvet bonnet.
Lewis watched her attentively: she was the kind of woman who would attract a man like him. He wondered if she loved anyone, and he tried to imagine what this mythical person was like. She looked so aristocratic and dignified, that it seemed to him impossible that anyone could exist whose right was to kiss her lips and call her by her Christian name.
The picture dealer was very busy trying to sell a magnificent mirror in old Saxony, which hung on the wall opposite to which Lewis was sitting.
The lady examined it so attentively that Lewis thought she was going to buy it, but, as he looked from her to the mirror itself, he saw with surprise that she was examining him, and not the red and white flowers. Their eyes met for a moment, then she turned to ask Mr. Carver some questions anent a small picture which stood on a tall Chinese vase in the far corner.
What with an enormous stand laden with china, and the pictures in the window, the back of the shop was in perpetual twilight. Mr. Carver was therefore obliged to take the little picture which interested the lady over to where Lewis was sitting, so that she might admire it thoroughly. Mr. Carver asked Lewis politely to move a little on one side, and then, holding the picture under the lights, began to explain its beauties.
“Yes, Mrs. Bentham, this is a very sweet landscape, by Corot; I can guarantee it; I had it of a man who bought it from the artist himself, you know his signature?”
She made some casual remarks, and then her eyes wandered from the picture to Lewis. Some women would have thought him mawkish, said that his hands were too long and white, his eyes of too soft a blue. The languid poses that his limbs naturally fell into rivalled the sweet dreamful attitudes of Greek statues modelled by Roman sculptors; and all this harmony of body showed the epicene abandon of the man. The beautifully turned temples pointed to the sensual intelligence of the girl, not to the virile intelligence of the male; there was nothing there that fixed the regard, all was transitory all was mobile. So Lewis’s face had the rare charm of touching the imagination; it was as suggestive as a picture by Leonardo da Vinci, and already Mrs. Bentham felt singularly curious to know who he was. He looked so poor, so wretched, and yet so gentlemanly, that, involuntarily, she saw him the hero of a series of romantic misfortunes, and was burning with curiosity to know him.
The occasion was ready at hand. She had seen him unpacking his picture; it was there before her.
“Oh, what a charming panel!” she said, after a moment’s hesitation; “and how prettily the Cupids are grouped round the Venus! Is it an expensive picture, Mr. Carver?”
“It is a commission I had from a gentleman; he ordered it to fit the corner of a smoking-room,” replied Mr. Carver.
Mr. Carver was a large, stout man, and he wore huge bushy whiskers; his face was a rich brown tint, and his fat fingers played perpetually with a heavy gold chain which hung across his portly stomach. Like most men of his calling, he was observant, and having caught Mrs. Bentham more than once looking at the young painter, suspected that she was interested in Mr. Seymour.
Afraid to introduce him because of his shabby appearance, he resolved, seeing that Mrs. Bentham still continued to look at Lewis, to adopt a middle course.
“You see, Mr. Seymour,” he said, in his pompous way, “that listeners do sometimes hear good of themselves.”
Lewis blushed violently, and Mrs. Bentham pretended to look a little confused.
“I am sure I think the picture charming,” she said, half to Lewis, half to the dealer.
Lewis’ heart was in his mouth, and he nervously tried to button his collar.
“I should like to buy this very much,” said Mrs. Bentham, as she advanced to examine the Cupids more minutely; “but don’t you think there’s too much sea and sky for the size of the panel?”
Lewis blushed red, and answered her awkwardly and abruptly. He felt so ashamed of his clothes that he could scarcely say a word.
Mrs. Bentham was disappointed. She had imagined him painting frescoes worthy of Michael Angelo in a garret; had expected to hear him denounce the tyranny of wealth, and by a chance word or two give her an idea of the grandeur of his soul and the austerity of his life. Instead of this he murmured something vague and common-place between his teeth; and after another attempt to get him into conversation, she turned away, thinking him a very uninteresting young man. But at this moment Lewis caught Mr. Carver’s eyes upon him as a gleam of sunlight awakens a bird, he recovered himself, and commenced talking on decorative art.
The spell being broken, Lewis chattered away pleasantly, and Mr. Carver, with the tact that always distinguished him, walked away under the pretext of give an order at the other end of the shop.
“Ha, ha!” thought the picture dealer, as he played pleasantly with his watch-chain, “so, Mrs. Bentham, you like my painters better than my pictures; well, never mind, I daresay I shall be able to turn your tastes to my advantage, no matter how they lie.”
For a moment his face wore the expression of a man who has done a good action, but as he talked to his shopman it grew gradually more reflective. An idea had struck him. He remembered that some time ago — some six months ago, but that didn’t matter — Mrs. Bentham had asked him if he knew an artist who would, under her direction, decorate her drawingroom from a series of drawings she had collected for the purpose. The commission had somehow fallen to the ground, but he now felt that the time had arrived to remind her that she had never put her delightful scheme for the decoration of her ball-room into execution. Charmed with his ingenuity, Mr. Carver came forward and joined in the conversation.
After a few prefatory remarks on art, he introduced the subject of the drawings, and suggested Mr. Seymour as just the person to whom such a work might be confidently entrusted.
Lewis had aroused Mrs. Bentham’s sympathy, and the idea that she might help him was already stirring in her heart. But she was not prepared for so swift a transition from her dream of possibilities to an actual opportunity. The vague desire, in which she had found pleasure a moment earlier, frightened her when it took shape in Mr. Carver’s suggestion, and she received it with silent astonishment. If she should give this commission to the young man, she must ask him as a visitor to Claremont House, and her look of surprise told the dealer that in proposing it he had gone too far. His thoughts had outstripped hers, but, nevertheless, they were travelling on the same road.
He was ready enough to let the question rest, and to talk about the Corot But the idea of the decorations seemed to sing in Mrs. Bentham’s ears, and she feared that her silence might have wounded Lewis. She tried to return to the subject; she glanced at him, she hesitated, and eventually, not knowing well what to do, she promised to call again in the course of the afternoon, and wishing them both good-morning, got into her carriage and vanished like a good fairy.
Lewis stood looking after her in amazement, until Mr. Carver tapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, my young friend,” he said, affecting an American accent, “I guess you are in good luck, you have only to play your cards well;” then, pulling his long whiskers, he leaned and whispered, “she has seven thousand a year, and has been separated from her husband for the last ten years.”
Lewis did not answer, he did not quite understand what the dealer meant.
After watching him for a few moments, his head thrown back in the fashion of a picture he had once possessed, of Napoleon surveying the field of Austerlitz, he said:
“I am afraid you are too green, but if you weren’t—” He did not f
inish his phrase, but he seemed to see a conquered world at his feet. At last, awaking from his reverie, the dealer said, surveying Lewis, attentively:
“You owe me a big debt of gratitude.”
“And which I will repay you one of these days, if I get on as well as you seem to think I shall. But do you think she will give me the work to do that you and she were speaking about?”
“Oh, that I can’t say,” said Mr. Carver, murmuring like one waiting for an inspiration; “but I think it quite possible that she may interest herself in you, that is to say, if I speak of you as perhaps I may be tempted to do.”
Lewis ventured to hope that Mr. Carver would be so tempted.
Mr. Carver did not answer, but continued to look into space, with the deep gaze of his favourite picture; at last he went over to the till, and taking out three sovereigns, gave them to Lewis.
“This is what I owe you; call here to-morrow morning; I shall see her this afternoon, and will speak to her on the subject.”
Lewis thanked him humbly for his kind intentions, and asked him if he were satisfied with the panel.
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly; it is very satisfactory indeed.”
“Then, will you give me another to do?”
“Certainly; I shall have two ready for you to-morrow, that is to say, if nothing comes of the matter in hand,” replied Mr. Carver, with the air of a man who wants to be left alone to his reflections.
Stunned with the shake the sudden turn of Fortune’s wheel had given him, Lewis walked towards the Strand, wondering how it was that Mr. Carver knew so well what Mrs. Bentham would do. As he turned into Pall Mall, he met Frazer, and the two went together. Frazer’s face was wofully ascetic; he lived for art, and for art only. He existed on a shilling a day, and made his wife live on less, whilst he dreamed of a new ideal. He belonged to the group of painters who styled themselves “The moderns,” and sold their pictures to Mr. Bendish. Having the least talent of the lot, he was the most fanatical.
