• • • • • • • •
The upshot of these meditations and of the bracing air of Hastings was that Mr. Darby, on his return to Bedford Square, spent a laborious morning in composing the following letter to the Director of the National Gallery:
‘My Dear Sir, I am desirous, on conditions which I should like to discuss with you, of presenting to the Nation my collection of masterpieces of the English School. The collection is housed at the above address.
‘I am
‘Yours faithfully
‘W. JAMES DARBY.’
It may appear to those who have never attempted literary composition that this document is a ludicrously small result of four days of claustration and concentrated thought. Nothing could be more fallacious. Simplicity and directness can be achieved only by the most intense and complicated labour, and to the epicure of style it will be obvious that this letter of Mr. Darby’s is the precious distillation of a whole flower-garden of eloquence. How many fine phrases and dazzling adjectives had perished that this quintessential gem should come into being! Mr. Darby’s study at the end of that laborious morning was strewn knee-deep with a viewless litter of verbs, adverbs, participles (past and present), protases and apodoses, among which the discerning might even have detected here the fragment of a paraprosdokion, there a ruthlessly discarded aposiopesis.
The Director, doubtless a man of taste, must have appreciated the quality of Mr. Darby’s letter, for he went to the trouble of polishing his reply to at least an equal degree. ‘Dear Sir,’ he wrote,
‘I have to acknowledge with thanks your letter of today’s date. A representative of the National Gallery will have pleasure in calling at your house at any hour suitable to you to inspect the pictures to which you refer. Perhaps you will kindly let me know if eleven o’clock on Friday next will be convenient.
‘I am, dear sir,
‘Yours very truly,
‘WILFRED MONTGOMERY,
‘Director.’
Mr. Darby considered this communication carefully as he sat over his breakfast. For a moment he was surprised that the Director should treat the matter so lightly and especially that he should propose to send a representative to view the pictures instead of coming himself. For a moment, but no longer. For one of Mr. Darby’s perspicacity the reason was not far to seek. Obviously Sir Wilfred Montgomery had realized all that lay behind Mr. Darby’s intention. The threat to the old misguided status quo had not escaped him; doubtless he felt that his very position as Director hung in the balance. Small wonder then that he showed no disposition to receive Mr. Darby’s proposal with open arms.
‘Well, my friend,’ said Mr. Darby, nodding gravely at Sir Wilfred Montgomery’s letter which he had propped against the teapot, ‘we shall see! We shall see!’
Meanwhile he despatched a note to Sir Wilfred, to say that eleven o’clock on Friday would suit him perfectly.
Chapter XXI
The Revolution Fails
‘Naturally, I don’t deny,’ said Mr. Darby, in the course of a short preliminary conversation with Mr. Roden, the representative of the National Gallery, who had just been shown into the smoking-room, ‘I don’t deny that the Italians and the Dutch are all very well in their way, but I think you will agree that, when we compare them with the best of our British artists, they lose something of their … ah … supremacy.’
Mr. Darby’s spectacles gleamed challengingly at Mr. Roden. He had already announced to him the conditions upon which he offered his gift.
Mr. Roden, in the circumstances, thought it best to parry. ‘I can see, Mr. Darby,’ he said politely, ‘that you are an enthusiast.’
‘And you too, I hope, are an enthusiast, Mr. Roden.’
‘Oh, certainly I am.’
‘For the British School?’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Roden, looking down from his attenuated, slightly stooping six feet at the compact little gentleman who hardly reached to his shoulder, ‘Well, my own particular preference is for the Florentines.’
‘The Florentines? You prefer a foreign school to our own?’
Mr. Roden could hear from Mr. Darby’s tone that he was pained and shocked. ‘I have a great admiration for the British School,’ he said, ‘and I should certainly class Constable and Turner among the world’s great artists, but I think we must regretfully admit that we cannot compete with the great Florentines.’
‘I don’t admit it,’ said Mr. Darby with some feeling, ‘not for a moment. As Englishmen I feel we have no right to admit it.’
‘Are you speaking now as a patriot, Mr. Darby, or as a critic?’
‘I trust,’ replied Mr. Darby solemnly, and Mr. Roden felt that if the little man had been wearing a hat he would, as he spoke the words, have raised it, ‘I trust I always speak as a patriot.’
Mr. Roden bowed. ‘Your feelings do you great credit, sir. And now, might I … er …?’
‘By all means,’ said Mr. Darby, much mollified. ‘Let us go at once to the Gallery.’
Important and talkative he ushered Mr. Roden across the hall and down the corridor to the doors of the Gallery. ‘Here we are! ‘he said, flinging them open and immediately following Mr. Roden into the room.
They stood for a moment while Mr. Roden underwent the revelation. Mr. Darby did not interrupt him: he was waiting for an exclamation of amazement. But no exclamation came. Tall, pale, and apathetic, Mr. Roden surveyed the gallery: he appeared to be as little moved as if he were surveying a railway station. Really, these officials!
‘There is a catalogue, if you would care to … ah … consult it,’ Mr. Darby remarked at last, indicating a table near the doors.
‘Thank you. Perhaps later!’
‘In any case,’ explained Mr. Darby, ‘all the pictures are labelled, so you’ll have no difficulty.’
Together they approached No. ι. Portrait of a Young Lady by Romney. ‘I picked it up,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘in Greenwich. It was my first … ah … acquisition. Observe, Mr. Roden, the natural elegance of the pose. Now can you show me a Romney to beat that in the National?’
For a moment Mr. Roden did not reply. Then with some hesitation he said: ‘I’m sorry to say, Mr. Darby, that it’s not a Romney.’
‘Not a Romney? ‘Mr. Darby stared up at Mr. Roden open-mouthed, aghast, incredulous.
‘Were you led to suppose that it was?’ asked Mr. Roden.
Mr. Darby did not reply: he could not at the moment have trusted himself to do so.
‘I can assure you, Mr. Darby,’ Mr. Roden went on, ‘that no reputable critic would pass it for a moment.’
‘It was certainly sold to me as a Romney,’ said Mr. Darby hotly; ‘that is to say, it was labelled Romney and my own … ah … knowledge …’
‘I hope you didn’t give a large figure for it.’
‘No!’ said Mr. Darby reflectively, ‘No! not a particularly large figure.’
‘One has to be extremely careful,’ Mr. Roden explained. ‘There are so many copies and fakes about. It is always safer to take an expert opinion before buying.’
‘Might I ask,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘why you doubt its … ah …’
‘Its authenticity? I have no doubt, Mr. Darby. I can assure you with absolute certainty that the picture was not painted by Romney.’
Of course Mr. Darby could not accept a totally unsupported dogmatic statement of that kind. For a moment he felt inclined to ask Mr. Roden if, by any chance, he had ever taken the opportunity of looking at the Romneys in the National Gallery. (Anyone who had even a cursory memory of a portrait there whose name Mr. Darby did not at the moment recollect, could hardly fail to be struck by the close resemblance.) But his natural politeness checked him, and he merely replied, with a certain detachment in his tone: ‘I should like to know how you are so sure.’
‘Have you ever made a careful study of Romney’s technique?’ asked Mr. Roden.
Mr. Darby shied at the curious word. ‘I am familiar with the Romney portraits in the National Collection,�
� he said.
‘And does it not strike you, as it struck me directly I glanced at it,’ said Mr. Roden, ‘that this painting has nothing of Romney’s particular method?’ Mr. Darby did not reply and Mr. Roden added politely: ‘But if you don’t agree with me, Mr. Darby, why not take another opinion? After all, I am not here to trouble you with my views, but, by your kind permission, to inspect your pictures on behalf of the National Gallery.’
He moved on to the next picture, but Mr. Darby did not follow him. He remained blinking sadly at No. 1. Portrait of a Young Lady by Romney. He stood there for perhaps a minute, and—so stimulating is the effect of art on a sensitive mind—gradually his spirits and his confidence were restored. Obviously, quite obviously the judgment of this dry official was not worth much. It would be tiresome and unprofitable to follow him round and Mr. Darby determined to abandon him. ‘Forgive me if I leave you,’ he said, turning to Mr. Roden who was already five pictures away, ‘I must be getting on with some work.’
‘By all means, sir,’ Mr. Roden replied. ‘Shall I find you in the room … er … where …?’
‘In the smoking-room, yes! ‘said Mr. Darby, and turning on his heel he made for the door, taking up on the way and carrying off with him in righteous resentment the pile of blue-bound catalogues which lay on the table.
• • • • • • • •
It was perfectly obvious, as Mr. Darby told himself afterwards, that, once his back was turned, this Mr. Roden had given only the most casual glance at the remainder of the Darby Collection, for he joined Mr. Darby in the smoking-room less than ten minutes later.
Mr. Darby turned in his chair: there was surprise in his spectacles. ‘You’ve finished?’
‘I’ve finished, thank you, Mr. Darby. But don’t let me interrupt your work except to wish you good morning.’
Mr. Darby rose and took the extended hand. He had come to the definite conclusion that this man’s opinion was of no value and had resolved not to ask it, but now he unaccountably changed his mind. Was it just for the sake of something to say, a neat verbal formality with which to round off the occasion, or was it that, although he was not interested in Mr. Roden’s carpings, he was prepared to welcome an official expression of enthusiasm? Even Mr. Darby himself could not have answered this question. Whatever the truth of it, he found himself casually saying, as he shook Mr. Roden’s hand: ‘Well, what do you think of them?’
The question obviously made Mr. Roden extremely uncomfortable. ‘I would rather you called in another opinion, Mr. Darby,’ he said.
‘As you wish,’ said Mr. Darby with dignity. ‘I should have been interested to hear …’
Mr. Roden hesitated. ‘I am perfectly willing, believe me, Mr. Darby, to give my opinion for what it is worth, if you really care to hear it. I hesitate only because I should be sorry, very sorry, to disappoint you.’
‘You don’t think much of the collection, then?’ asked Mr. Darby with an involuntary quaver in his voice.
‘I fear,’ said Mr. Roden, ‘—and you will realize, Mr. Darby, that I am compelled to speak the truth, however disappointing—I fear that none of the pictures is genuine. Indeed two—the Reynolds No. 17 and the Gainsborough No. 39—are Medici prints, as you may discover easily for yourself if you take them from their frames. Please forgive me,’ he added, seeing the sudden distressing collapse of Mr. Darby’s features.’ Good-morning, Mr. Darby, and thank you.’
‘Then … then …’ He had meant to say: ‘Then the National Gallery refuses my gift,’ but the words stuck in his throat. He turned his head and his spectacles suddenly glittered in the light from the windows. He mastered his voice sufficiently to gulp a ‘Good-morning,’ then, under pretext of ringing for Princep, he averted his face, and Mr. Roden went out, closing the smoking-room door behind him.
• • • • • • • •
For an hour Mr. Darby did not stir from the armchair into which he had dropped as Mr. Roden closed the door behind him. It was as if a desolating explosion had suddenly wrecked all the wonderful many-domed edifices of the mind which it had been his delight during the last months to construct and adorn. His imagination found itself suddenly homeless. Into whatever quarter of his mind he retired for comfort and shelter he found only wreckage. An impulse urged him to hurry to the Gallery and, safe now from hostile intrusion, comfort himself and his beloved pictures for the cruel aspersions that had been flung at them. But before he could rise from his chair the impulse had died. He was too miserable, too tired, to move. The thought that all those enthralling expeditions to strange places, all those miraculous and thrilling discoveries, the framing, labelling, hanging and cataloguing of each new prize, all his great scheme for the glorification of British Art were hope and labour and enthusiasm thrown away had reduced him to a state of mental and bodily feebleness that could not face the effort of rising from his chair. But after a while he raised his head. Strength was returning to him: the stimulating tonic of indignation was coming to his rescue. Yes, he was beginning to see the truth of what had happened. He might have known, all along, that the thing was inevitable. He had received a premonition of it when Sir Wilfred Montgomery had written that he would send ‘a representative’ instead of coming himself to view the Collection. Yes, it was all obvious enough now. The ‘representative,’ of course, had received his instructions before starting for Bedford Square: his decision was made before ever he cast a first glance at the first picture. Mr. Darby blamed himself now for the childish simplicity of his behaviour. It was clear enough now that instead of entering the fray single-handed he ought to have enlisted the support of powerful allies. He had failed to take into account the powers of sloth, corruption and evil tradition which he had set out to break. He had thought, in his innocence, that he would at least receive fair play from his opponents, that, though no doubt they would fight tooth and nail against his revolutionary project of ousting the foreigner from the National Gallery, they would at least be honest about the Darby Collection, would acclaim it for what it was, and would move Heaven and earth to get him to modify the conditions of his gift. But no. The threat to themselves and their hide-bound tradition had been too much even for their honesty, and they had stooped to a base subterfuge: to preserve the status quo they had been willing to deprive the nation of the Darby Collection. Mr. Roden had urged him to take another opinion, but whose opinion was he to take? If he called in some other expert, how was he to know that he too was not in the pay of the National Gallery authorities, or if not that, anyhow a member of some unscrupulous ring who would declare that the pictures were not genuine so as to discredit them and persuade him perhaps to part with them at ridiculous prices? Why, after all, should he permit strangers to intrude into his home merely for the purpose of shaking his faith in his pictures and himself? No, he would have nothing more to do with experts.
This uprush of righteous indignation, reinforced by the arrival of lunch, did much to rouse Mr. Darby from his prostration, and by the time he had finished his lunch he had completely reinstated the Darby Collection and their collector in his esteem. He could bear now to face the pictures again, and when he left the dining-room, before going to the smoking-room for his coffee and after-luncheon cigar, he proceeded down the corridor to the gallery.
The first glance was enough to reassure him. It was mere criminal absurdity to say that the pictures were not genuine: you only had to look at them. To any true lover of art whose mind was not obscured by prejudice and pedantry, their genuineness was self-evident. If he had not imposed those revolutionary conditions upon his offer, no doubt Mr. Roden would have sung a very different tune. Well, if it had not been for the wrecking of his cherished scheme, he would not have cared two straws about Mr. Roden’s views. As for allowing them to influence his own feelings, Mr. Darby snorted and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. After he had paced the gallery three or four times he felt the old glow warming his heart once more. The blighting influence of Mr. Roden was exorcized: the pictures blossomed
again with all their old enchantment.
One trifling occurrence, however, may or may not have been the result of Mr. Roden’s visit. In his leisurely course round the gallery Mr. Darby paused before No. 17 by Reynolds and No. 39 by Gainsborough and submitted them to a somewhat severe scrutiny, and when, a few minutes later, Princep brought his cup of coffee to the smoking-room, Mr. Darby ordered him to remove these two pictures from the gallery and place them in the box-room. From which it is evident that, for one reason or another, they had ceased to appeal to him.
• • • • • • • •
It must not for a moment be presumed, because Mr. Darby’s strong-minded stoicism had enabled him to ignore the attempts of a corrupt and prejudiced official to belittle his art treasures, that his spirits remained unaffected by the material result of Mr. Roden’s visit. Next morning’s post brought him official intimation that the National Gallery refused his gift, and with this documentary evidence of the wreck of his high-minded scheme before him on the breakfast-table, he tasted the full bitterness of injustice and ingratitude. He had never supposed that such things could happen in England. In foreign countries malice, corruption and repression were only to be expected, but he had believed in his innocence that England was the home of honesty and freedom. His disillusionment was terrible: he felt that all the zest had gone out of his life. He no longer took any pleasure in London and its sights. Trafalgar Square, which he had been accustomed to regard as the very hub of the Empire, seemed to him now nothing better than a plague spot. He could no longer bring himself to cross it, and was frequently obliged to make troublesome detours in order to avoid doing so. The one thing, besides his beloved pictures, that kept him from despair was indignation. Indignation supplied a fuel that zest could no longer afford, and soon the old resourceful Darby had warmed to action again. Sir Wilfred Montgomery and Mr. Roden, he now reminded himself, were not omnipotent: the last word was not, after all, theirs. They were no more than the servants of the Trustees, and no doubt they had been careful to conceal his offer from them. Very well! He would write to the Board of Trustees direct. He wrote forthwith a letter telling them in dignified terms what had occurred.
The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Page 24
