For the rest, she was a rather tall woman, perhaps five feet seven without her high heels, fairly good-looking, with rather small features but a prominent chin and a strong lower jaw. Her most attractive aspect was undoubtedly the profile, and Tom, studying this with a professional eye, decided that it would make quite a good medallion. He even made one or two trial sketches from memory in his notebook with a half-formed intention of offering to paint a medallion portrait; but he abandoned that idea as he realized that the necessary sittings would tend further to cement a friendship that was already too close.
By which it will be seen that Tom was still, so to speak, fighting a rearguard action; still seeking to limit this unsought intimacy. Although he now knew that she could have no matrimonial designs on him, and he no longer feared any attempt to establish a questionable relationship, he disliked the association. He had never wanted a female friend and he resented the way in which this woman had attached herself to him. An eminently self-contained and rather solitary man, his principal wish was to be left alone to live his own life, and, as time went on, he found it more and more irksome to have that life pervaded by another personality, and not even a sympathetic one at that. But he saw no prospect of escape, short of a definite snub, of which he was incapable; and in the end he gave up the struggle, and, with a sigh of regret for the peace and freedom that were gone, resigned himself to making the best of the new conditions.
But the hour of his deliverance was at hand, little as he could have foreseen it, and little as he suspected the benign character of the agent when he arrived bearing, all unknown, the order of release. And as the darkest hour is that before the dawn, so the beginning of his emancipation occurred at a moment when he felt that the nuisance of this forced intimacy was becoming intolerable.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon and the lady had just dropped in at the studio with an invitation to tea, which he had firmly declined.
“Oh, rubbish,” she protested. “You are always too busy to come and have tea with me; at least you say you are, and I don’t believe you. It’s just an excuse. Is it my tea or my society you that don’t like?”
“My dear Mrs. Schiller—” Tom began, but she cut him short.
“Oh, not Mrs. Schiller! Haven’t I told you again and again not to call me by that horrible name? Call me Lotta. I’m sure it’s a very nice name.”
“It’s a most admirable name. Well—er—Lotta—”
“Well, my dear, if you won’t come to have tea with me, I shall stay here and make yours for you and help you to drink it; and then I’ll take myself off and leave my darling old bear to the peaceful enjoyment of his den. You’ll let me stay, Tom, dear, won’t you?”
It was at this moment that the studio bell, jangling imperatively out in the yard, broke into the discussion.
“Shall I run out and see who it is?” asked Lotta.
“No. I’d better go. May be able to settle the business on the doorstep.”
He strode out along the passage, hoping that it might be so. But when he opened the door and discovered on the threshold his old friend, Mr. Polton, accompanied by a stranger, he knew that no evasion was possible. He would have to invite them in.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Polton, greeting him with a cheerful and crinkly smile. “I have taken the liberty of bringing you a client who would like you to paint his portrait. Am I right in using the word ‘client’?”
“Well, we usually call them sitters, though that does sound a little suggestive of poultry. But it doesn’t matter. Won’t you come in?”
They came in, and as they walked slowly along the passage, Polton completed the introductions. The prospective sitter, a light-coloured, good-looking African gentleman, was a Mr. William Vanderpuye, a native of Elmina on the Gold Coast, who was at present attending a course of lectures on Medical Jurisprudence at St. Margaret’s Hospital.
“He is also doing some practical work in our laboratory,” Polton explained further, “as Dr. Thorndyke’s pupil. That is how I came to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
At this point they reached the studio door, which Tom threw open, inviting them to enter. Accordingly they entered, and then, becoming aware of the other occupant of the studio, they both stopped short, and, for a moment, three inquisitive pairs of eyes made a rapid mutual inspection. Sweating with embarrassment and cursing under his breath, Tom haste to introduce his three guests, and then, by way of giving the lady an opportunity to retire, explained:
“Mr. Vanderpuye is going to do me the honour of sitting to me for his portrait.”
“Oh, how interesting!” she exclaimed. “But now I expect you will want to arrange about the sittings, so I suppose I had better run away and leave you to your consultation.”
As she spoke, she directed a subtly appealing glance at Mr. Vanderpuye, who replied instantly and with emphasis:
“Not at all, Mrs. Schiller. You mustn’t let me drive you away. We are not going to talk secrets but just to arrange about the portrait. Besides,” he added, a little ambiguously, “it seems that you paint yourself, so you may be able to advise us.”
“That is very gracious of you,” said she; “and if you would really like me to stay, I should be delighted to hear all about the portrait; and I will make you a nice cup of tea as a thank offering for the invitation.”
She began, forthwith, to set out the tea-things while Polton filled the kettle and put it on the gas-ring, and Tom looked on with mixed feelings which changed from moment to moment. He could easily have dispensed with Lotta’s company; but as he noted the way in which his new patron’s eyes followed her movements, he began to suspect that it might be all for the best. Apparently, he was Lotta’s only male friend. It would be a great relief to him if she should get another.
With this idea in his mind, he observed the trend of events while tea was being consumed (as also did Mr. Polton, to whom the lady was a startling mystery) and found it encouraging. Of a set purpose, as it seemed, Lotta kept the ball of conversation rolling almost entirely between herself and Mr. Vanderpuye, addressing him in a tone of deference which he evidently found flattering. Indeed, the African gentleman was obviously much impressed by the fair Lotta, and openly admiring; which was not unnatural, for she was a good-looking woman (if one did not object to the “abstract colour”), who could make herself extremely agreeable when she tried. And she was obviously trying now.
“I am inclined to envy Mr. Pedley his opportunity,” said she. “You are such an admirable subject for a portrait.”
“Do you really think so?” he exclaimed, delighted. “I was rather afraid that the complexion—and the hair, you know—”
“Oh, but that is what I meant by the opportunity. Your warm olive complexion creates all sorts of possibilities in the way of colour harmonies; so unlike the pale, relatively colourless European face. Perhaps,” she continued reflectively, “that may account for the fact that the African peoples seem to be born colourists. Don’t you think so?”
“It may be so,” Vanderpuye agreed. “They certainly like colour, and plenty of it. My steward, at home, used to wear a scarlet flannel suit and green carpet slippers.”
“But what a lovely combination!” exclaimed Lotta. “Such a subtle and delicate contrast! Don’t you agree with me?”
Mr. Vanderpuye was prepared to agree to anything, and did so with a genial smile; thereby revealing such a set of teeth as seldom gladdens the eye of the modern European.
“But, of course,” he added, “I don’t know much about the matter except that I like bright colours myself, whereas you are an artist and have, no doubt, studied the subject profoundly.”
“I have,” she admitted. “Colour is the engrossing interest of my life. So much do I love it that I am often impelled to paint pictures consisting entirely of colour without any other motive. Symphonies and concertos in colour, you know.”
“They must be very beautiful, I am sure,” said Vanderpuye, “though I don’t qu
ite understand how you can make a picture of colour alone. Perhaps, some day, I may have the privilege of seeing your works.”
“Would you like to? If you would, I should be only too proud and delighted to show them to you. I live next door to Mr. Pedley, so you could easily drop in sometime after one of your sittings.”
“It would be better to make an appointment,” suggested Vanderpuye. “What time would you like me to attend for the sitting, Mr. Pedley?”
“I should prefer the morning light,” replied Tom; “say from nine to twelve. How would that suit you, Mr. Vanderpuye?”
“Admirably,” was the reply. “And as to the date? When would you like to begin?”
“The sooner the better, so far as I am concerned. How would tomorrow do?”
“It would do perfectly for me. Then we will say tomorrow morning at nine. And as to you, Mrs. Schiller; if I should look in at your studio shortly after twelve, would that be convenient?”
“Quite,” she replied. “I shall have just finished my morning’s work. And now,” she added, “as we have emptied the teapot, and I expect that you have some further arrangements to discuss, I had better make myself scarce.”
She rose and, having shaken hands with the two visitors and announced that she would let herself out, bestowed a parting smile on Mr. Vanderpuye and bustled away.
The sound of the closing outer door brought the conversation back to the portrait and the “further arrangements,” but with the details of these we are not concerned. Finally it was decided that the portrait should be a three-quarter length presenting the subject in his barrister’s wig and gown, standing with a brief in his hand as if addressing the court; and having settled this and the question of costs, the two visitors rose to depart.
“Au revoir, then,” said Mr. Vanderpuye, “or, as the Hausa men say in my country, ‘Sei Gobe’—‘Until Tomorrow.’ Nine o’clock sharp will see me on your doorstep.”
“And twelve o’clock sharp on Mrs. Schiller’s,” added Tom, with a sly smile.
Mr. Vanderpuye smiled in return. Whether h also blushed there was no means of judging.
CHAPTER V
A Trivial Chapter, but Not Irrelevant
The vague hopes which Tom Pedley had conceived that a friendship between his new patron and Lotta Schiller might relieve him to some extent of the lady’s society were more than fulfilled. For very soon it began to appear that Mr. Vanderpuye was not merely to share the burden of that intimacy; he had in effect stepped into the reversion of Tom’s status as Lotta’s sole male friend. Not that Tom was totally discarded by her. She still made occasional appearances in the studio; but those appearances tended in a most singular manner to coincide with the presence there of Mr. Vanderpuye.
There was no mistaking the position, nor, indeed, was there any concealment of it. The impulsive and susceptible African gentleman made no secret of his admiration of the fair and sprightly Lotta or of the fact that they spent a good deal of time together; while, as to the lady herself, she was at no pains whatever to disguise the new relationship. Thus Tom, guided by the light of experience, watched with grim amusement the development of the familiar symptoms; noted that Mr. William Vanderpuye had been promoted to the style and title of Billy—with or without the customary enrichments—and that Mrs. Lotta Schiller had ceased to command a surname.
The portrait progressed steadily, but, being a nearly complete life-size figure with some accessories, its execution involved a considerable number of sittings, though Tom often saved time by working at the accessories in the intervals; and as it grew towards completion its quality began to show itself. It was a tactful and sympathetic portrait. There was no flattery. The likeness was faithfully rendered, but it was an eminently becoming likeness, presenting the sitter at his best; and if there was any tendency to stress the more favourable points, that merely reflected Tom Pedley’s ordinary attitude towards his fellow creatures.
From time to time Lotta dropped in at the studio (usually about twelve) to inspect and criticize, and Tom listened to her with delighted amusement. Gone was all the clap-trap about representationalism and imitative art. She was now the frank and honest Philistine. Unlike the art critics from whom she had borrowed her “highbrow” phrases, who dismiss the “mere resemblance” in a portrait as a negligible irrelevancy, she was out for the likeness and nothing but the likeness and as it approached the final stage, even she was satisfied.
“Do you think it is like me, Lotta?” Vanderpuye asked anxiously as they stood before the canvas. “I hope it is, but it seems a little flattering.”
“You are a silly, self-depreciating little ass, Billy,” said she (Billy stood a trifle over six feet in his stockings). “You don’t realize what a good-looking fellow you are.”
“Well, my dear,” he rejoined, regarding her with a fond smile, “I am always willing to learn, especially from you.”
“Then,” said she, “you can take it from me that the handsome legal gentleman in the picture is a faithful representation of my friend Bill, and not flattered in the least. Isn’t that so, Tom?”
“I think so,” he replied. “I have painted him as I see him and as his friends see him, and I hope I have done him impartial justice.”
Tom’s view was confirmed by another of “Bill’s” friends, to wit, Mr. Polton, who made occasional visits and followed the progress of the work with the deepest interest; a sort of proprietary interest, in fact, for it transpired that it was at his instigation that the portrait had been commissioned when photographs had been tried and found wanting (photographs of coloured people tend to be eminently unflattering). The confirmation came on a certain occasion when the four interested parties were gathered around the portrait, now practically finished, to discuss its merits.
“The art of painting,” Mr. Polton moralized, “seems to me almost like a supernatural power. Of course, I can do scale drawings to work from, but they are only diagrams. They don’t look like the real objects; whereas with this picture, if I stand a little way off and look at it with one eye closed, I seem to be actually looking at Mr. Vanderpuye.”
“Yes,” Lotta agreed, “it is a perfect representation; almost as perfect as a photograph.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Polton objected, “but it is a good deal more perfect. You can’t do this sort of thing by photography.”
“Not the colour, of course, but I meant the representation of form.”
“But, ma’am,” Polton persisted, “there is something more than form in this portrait; something that photography can’t do. I tried one or two photographs of Mr. Vanderpuye when I was teaching him the technique, but they were quite a failure. The form was perfectly correct and they would have been excellent for identification; but there was something lacking, and that something was what we might call the personality. But that is just what the portrait has got. It is Mr. Vanderpuye himself, whereas the photographs were mere representations of his shape.”
Tom nodded approvingly. “Mr. Polton is right,” said he. “Photography can give a perfect representation of an object, such as a statue or a building, which is always the same. But a living person changes from moment to moment. A photograph can only show the appearance at a given instant, but the portrait painter must disregard the accidents of the moment and seek out the essential and permanent character.”
This seemed to be quite a new idea to Lotta, for she exclaimed:
“Really! Now I never thought of that; and I am rather sorry, too, because I had meant to ask Mr. Polton to take a photograph of Bill just as he is posed for the painting. But if it would not be a true likeness, I shouldn’t care to have it. Still, it’s very disappointing.”
“There’s no need for you to be disappointed, ma’am,” Polton interposed. “If Mr. Pedley would allow me to take a photograph of the painting, you would have a portrait with all the qualities of the original except the colour. It would be a true copy.”
Lotta was delighted, and most profuse in her thanks. S
he even informed Mr. Polton, much to his surprise, that he was a duck.
“What size, ma’am,” he asked when the permission had been obtained, “would you wish the photograph to be?”
“Oh, quite small,” she replied, “so that I could have it mounted in a little case that I could carry about with me, or perhaps in a brooch or pendant that I could wear. Would that be possible, Mr. Polton?”
“Oh, certainly, ma’am; but, if you will excuse my mentioning it, a brooch or a pendant would not be so very suitable for your purpose because, when you were wearing it, the portrait would be visible to everybody but yourself.”
Lotta laughed. “Of course,” said she. “How silly of me; and exhibiting the sacred portrait to strangers is just what I don’t want to do. But what would you suggest?”
“I think,” he replied, “that the old-fashioned locket would answer the purpose best.”
“A locket,” interposed Vanderpuye. “What is a locket? You will pardon me, but I am only a poor ignorant African.”
“A locket, sir,” Polton explained, “is a sort of pendant, usually of gold, forming a little flat case which opens by a hinge, and displays two little frames. Sometimes there used to be two portraits, one in each frame, but more commonly one frame contained a portrait and the other a lock of the—er—the selected person’s hair either plaited and made up into a tiny coil or arranged in a flat spiral.”
Vanderpuye chuckled gleefully. “I like the idea of the locket,” said he, “but I am afraid you would get into difficulties with my hair.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 269
