by Henry Cecil
‘Yes,’ said Basil again. ‘You know.’
At that moment, to the director’s relief, an old customer of his came in and he was genuinely able to disengage himself in order to greet Mrs Grantley Wotherspoon.
‘How very nice to see you again, Mrs Wotherspoon. I do hope you’re so happy with the little Renoir.’
‘Enchanted. Everybody admires it. It fills up that corner just like you said it would. It’s a shame that Henry doesn’t like pictures. He didn’t even notice it. But all my friends simply adore it. And they’re so envious.’
‘I’m so glad. Have you just come in to have a look round. Or do you want to be tempted?’
‘Please tempt me, Mr Macintosh. I shall adore giving in. You don’t happen to have that Monet seascape still, I suppose?’
‘Now, that’s funny. I thought you might ask me that. D’you know, I’ve kept it in my office just in case you happened to come along.’ As they walked to the office, Mr Macintosh suddenly remembered about the Gropists. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you’ve ever heard of the Gropists. I’ve just been asked about them and it’s stumped me.’
Mrs Wotherspoon was in the seventh heaven of delight — she would have been in the eighth if she had known the answer. Here was one of the acknowledged experts asking her a question, coming to her for knowledge. If only she could tell him. She thought for a moment.
‘Aren’t they,’ she began, ‘aren’t they those people who — who —’ and then she made queer movements with her hands. She had had sufficient experience of art experts to give quite a creditable imitation of the antics in which they indulge when trying to say something for which no known words exist.
‘I know them when I see them,’ she added boldly, ‘but they’re a little difficult to explain.’
Mr Macintosh was glad that he had not confessed his ignorance to Basil. He knew, of course, that Mrs Wotherspoon probably hadn’t the remotest idea of what the Gropists were and that it was most likely that she had never heard of them. On the other hand, however, she had been ‘doing’ art for some years now and she might have heard the word somewhere. He decided to look in one of his many works of reference — after he had sold the Monet to Mrs Wotherspoon.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That’s who they are. Thank you very much indeed. I know now. Thank you for saving me from making a fool of myself to a new customer.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Wotherspoon, beaming. ‘Not at all. You have always been so kind to me. I’m delighted to respond.’
As a matter of fact, over the years Mr Macintosh had been extremely kind to Mrs Wotherspoon. He had sold her many pictures and whatever he charged her, they always appreciated in value. If an impecunious person, in a fit of lunacy, decided to invest his last £500 in a picture, the chances are that tastes would change and a few years later it would not be worth half what he had paid for it. But with Mrs Wotherspoon, who was fabulously wealthy, pictures already worth much gold became worth even more. However much (within the limits open to a respectable art dealer) Mr Macintosh increased the price to Mrs Wotherspoon, the result was always the same.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted? You want it for your husband’s study, I’m sure. I know just the place.’ Indeed, he knew every wall in her large house and had been responsible for covering most of them. Only good taste had prevented him from making suggestions for one of the lavatories, which was more like a reading room. He had often thought what a good idea that would be, but he was not sure of Mrs Wotherspoon’s reaction and it was not worth taking the risk.
While the Monet was being admired and shining or glowing or doing whatever a good picture ought to do — including, of course, being sold — Basil and Elizabeth completed their inspection and left for the Markwell Galleries.
‘That was excellent,’ said Basil, ‘keep it up. I’ll tell you what it’s all about on the way home.’
Roughly the same performance was repeated to begin with at the Markwell Galleries, except that the manager there was a foreigner.
‘Gropistes?’ he said, with an accent on the second half of the word. ‘Gropistes?’ He looked really puzzled.
‘Yes. You know,’ said Basil.
He said it with such an air of assurance that even Mr Bronck hesitated, even Mr Bronck, who was not only conceited about his knowledge of art, but was fully justified in being so. He was one of the few dealers who could have told you (out of his head) what and who were the Nabis, what the name meant, how the group started, and all the rest of it. But Gropists, Gropists — who on earth were they? Eventually he made a decision.
‘I have never heard of them,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said Basil. ‘It is Mr Bronck I’m speaking to, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How much is that Sisley?’ inquired Basil casually, and somewhat offensively changing the subject.
‘It is not for sale,’ said Mr Bronck a little curtly.
‘What a pity,’ said Basil, ‘if it hadn’t been too much, I should have liked it. But never mind, darling,’ and he turned to Elizabeth, ‘I believe they’ve one at the Rowntree Galleries.’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth.
By this time Mr Bronck’s natural desire to sell his pictures had replaced his temporary but stronger desire to cut Basil’s throat.
‘I can show you another one which I think you’ll like,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to come with me.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Basil. They went into a small room and Mr Bronck produced the picture.
‘It shines at you, doesn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth, thinking of a new diamond ring.
‘It looks as though it will be above my means,’ said Basil. ‘How much is it?’
Mr Bronck looked at the back of the picture.
‘I can let you have it for £1,500,’ he said.
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Basil. ‘Too much. Very cheap for what it is, but more than I can manage.’
‘It would be very easy to sell again,’ said Mr Bronck, ‘if you found you couldn’t afford it. We often do that for customers.’
‘Yes,’ said Basil, ‘but it’s a picture I want. I’m sorry you’ve not heard of the Gropists,’ he added. ‘You will.’
Mr Bronck had now completely recovered his composure.
‘Do tell me about them,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think there was any group I didn’t know. You mustn’t think me vain, but I’ve had forty years’ experience and I learned from my father, who was one of the greatest experts in Europe.’
‘They’re new,’ said Basil; ‘but I thought everyone had heard of them. I’m not an expert — not like you, anyway — but you mark my words, they’re coming along, like the Impressionists in 1874. They’re cheap at the moment, but they won’t be for long. You’ll see. You’ll be able to tell your son.’
‘This is most interesting,’ said Mr Bronck.
‘I’ve not time to discuss them now,’ said Basil, ‘but if you can get me one’ — he paused for a second — ‘one with fingers or a whole hand, I’d pay up to £50 for it.’
‘One with fingers?’ said Mr Bronck, with some astonishment.
‘Yes,’ said Basil, ‘or a whole hand. Now, we really must be going, darling. We’ll come in again soon. Thank you so much. Good afternoon.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Basil to Elizabeth as they walked home. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. On second thoughts, I’ll wait till we get home. Nicholas and Petula should be back by now, and I might as well tell you all at the same time.’
Nicholas and Petula had been spending a fortnight with a mad but wealthy aunt of Petula’s. It was during their absence that Basil had begun operations, believing that the visit to Petula’s aunt would produce no immediate result.
‘Any luck?’ he said when they were all together.
‘The usual,’ said Nicholas. ‘Just before we left she called Petula into her bedroom. Tell
them, Petula.’
‘ “I shall be dead soon,” she said,’ continued Petula.
‘ “You mustn’t say such things,” I said.
‘ “Why not indeed? Isn’t it what everyone wants to know? I don’t mean you, dear. You’re the only one who’s really fond of me and isn’t after my money.”
‘I gulped something in reply.
‘ “But all the others. Riff-raff. I’m leaving everyone — what d’you think? — a whistle. All except you, I mean. You are different. I want you to have something to remember me by — something you’ll really like, and then in the winter evenings long after I’m gone you’ll be able to sit back and say: “She wasn’t such a bad old aunt after all.”
‘ “Oh, auntie,” I said. “I don’t want anything.”
‘ “It isn’t much, my child,” she went on. “Just your uncle’s old travelling rug. Belonged to his father, I believe. I don’t want it to leave the family.”
‘I ought to have been warned by the “winter evenings”.
‘ “I know you don’t want my money,” she went on. “That’s what I like about you. So I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do with it. No one else knows. It’s all going for a fund to stop Mr Shaw’s new alphabet. I think that would have amused him. It ought to keep a lot of people busy. All his money trying to build up something; all mine trying to knock it down. Good old Shaw. I liked his Too True to be Good, didn’t you?”
‘She took me aside,’ went on Nicholas, ‘just before we left. “My boy,” she said, “can you keep a secret?” I hadn’t heard what she’d said to Petula, so I pricked up my ears. “I’m putting something in this purse, but you’re not to say anything to Petula. I want you to get her something really nice from me when you get home. It’s to be a surprise.”
‘Ten shillings, I suppose,’ said Basil.
‘It was a cheque for £500, but in the place for the signature she’d just put “Whistle”.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Basil. ‘That only proves, as I’m always saying, that the only way to make money is to work for it. Now, listen to this. Let’s all have a drink first.’
‘You’ll need it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You don’t know what I’ve been through.’ She walked up to Petula, examined her face critically and said gravely: ‘The quality of the paint.’ Then she added: ‘Don’t worry. There’s worse to come. Look at him. He glows. Come over here. You can see it better; the Defence Bonds don’t get in the way.’
‘What is all this?’ said Nicholas.
‘It started in a tea-shop,’ began Basil. ‘I’ve not mentioned it before, as I wanted to think about it first. It’s a gamble, if you like, but it’s worth it — I think so, anyway.’
‘He shines,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Think of a pearl necklace, add a new hat, take away a picture and you’re back where you started. He’s been like this all this afternoon.’
‘Patience,’ said Basil. ‘I was eating baked beans on toast. A man sat opposite me with a roll and a cup of cocoa. He appeared to look enviously at my baked beans.’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Nicholas, ‘unless he was very hungry.’
‘As it turned out, he was — very. He had a beard and a certain amount of dirt, but nothing edible — except, of course, the roll. He made short work of that. At first his constant following of the baked beans into my mouth annoyed me. Then it began to fascinate. We watched each other. He watched my knife and fork preparing each mouthful and I watched him watching. I even played a few tricks with him, such as lifting up the loaded fork and then pretending it wasn’t safe and putting it down again for rearrangement. All the time, of course, I was watching his eyes, as they moved with my fork. I felt a little like a snake-charmer. I believe I almost mesmerized him. Then, suddenly, I spoke. I just couldn’t help it. I heard the words come out of my mouth.
‘ “Want a bit?” I said.
‘ “D’you mean that?” was the rather unexpected reply. I had no idea whether I meant it or not. You know what a passion I have for the truth. So I hesitated. Before I could answer, he went on.
‘ “I often get as far as this,” he said, “but they don’t mean it. They just laugh and go on eating. That makes it worse.”
‘ “D’you mean to say that you’re so hungry you want some of my baked beaus on toast?” I said.
‘ “What’s so surprising in that?” he answered. “You’re eating them, presumably, for the same reason. I can’t think of any other. I hate baked beans on toast, but at the moment I feel I could eat my grandmother — if she were alive, I mean,” he added hastily.
‘I pushed my plate across.
‘ “Finish the lot,” I said, and, anticipating his question, “I mean it.”
‘ “You’re very kind,” he said, and then was silent for a little — or fairly silent anyway. When he’d finished, except for a bean which had slipped into his beard on the way from the plate, he repeated his thanks.
‘ “That meant a lot to me.”
‘ “I’m sorry you’re in such a bad way. Have another,” I said, and was just in time with “I mean it.”
‘After he had been supplied with a double portion, he looked happier.
‘ “This is how I get most of my meals,” he said; “but it’s an effort. You were fairly easy, and I’d like really to show you how grateful I am.”
‘ “That’s qulte unnecessary,” I said. “I know what it is to be down on one’s luck. When you’ve made your fortune, you can send me a pair of silver candlesticks or a picture or something.”
‘ “A picture, did you say?” he said, somewhat eagerly. “Are you fond of pictures?”
‘ “I wasn’t serious,” I said. “No. I’m not in the least fond of pictures. I don’t even know what I like. Or rather I do. I don’t like anything.”
‘ “Then I’m afraid it’s no use,” he said. “That’s all I shall ever be able to give you. I’m supposed to be an artist.”
‘ “Really?”
‘ “I suppose the answer to that is ‘Yes’, but it depends what the definition of an artist is. If it means someone who lives by art—well, the answer is ‘Not really.’ If it means someone who does nothing except paint with an occasional and all too infrequent interval for eating, well then that’s me — really.”
‘ “Can’t you sell your pictures?”
‘ “I cannot. Look at this. Who’d want to buy this?” and he bought out a roll of paper from some part of his clothes.
‘ “No — not that — sorry,” he said and hastily put it back again. “This is it, I think,” and this time he brought out a wider roll, which he proceeded to open.
‘ “Who’d want to buy that?” he repeated. I was about to say “Well, why not paint something else?” when my eye caught the picture and I was unable to say anything at all for the moment. It was a picture of an ordinary wireless set and, not very far from it, with no apparent connexion, was part of a human form. Only part. It appeared to me to be a feminine posterior. It was doing nothing in particular. Not that it could.
‘ “I call it Cable and Wireless,” he said.
‘ “Why Cable?” I asked.
‘ “Just to identify it,” he said. “I expect you think it’s pretty silly.”
‘ “I told you I’m not a judge of pictures, but I’m bound to say that I don’t quite follow what it means.”
‘ “It represents,” he said, “according to my uncontrollable ideas, the spirit of the epoch. I have to do it.”
‘ “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Just think what a lot of other things there are to do.”
‘He was not offended. “You’re quite right. I ought to stop it and become a grocer’s assistant or something, but I can’t. I just have to go on. Shall I tell you how it began?”
‘ “Please do. But would you like some more beans?”
‘ “Just another cup of cocoa, thanks — oh, and, if you really mean it, a piece of cake.”
‘ “I was taken by my mother to the National Gallery,” he beg
an.’
‘Perhaps I met him,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but I shouldn’t remember. The only thing that comes back to me from that dreadful afternoon is the tea. I spilled it all over my new dress so that we should have to go home. I was rather fond of the dress, but it was worth it.’
‘ “I was taken by my mother to the National Gallery,” he said,’ went on Basil, ‘ “and there we saw, among other pictures, the Rokeby Venus. Even you, little as you have seen of pictures, even you may have seen a reproduction of it. It’s a picture of a lovely lady lying at full length looking in a minor. For the most part, you only see the back view. The middle of the picture is taken up with her hindquarters. They were the part which caught my eye. I stared and stared at them. They fascinated me. No, more than that. As I looked at them, I could feel — I can feel now — an extraordinary sensation surging through me. I knew then, as I know now, that in some context or other I should have to go on painting them till I die. In the result, every picture I paint has to have them there. It makes no difference what the subject-matter is — a landscape, a seascape, a portrait — or even an (otherwise) abstract picture — there they always are. I just can’t help it. What I’m seeking for I don’t know — but I suppose it’s my dream picture where they will fit in to perfection. As it is, they always seem to me to be just wrong.”
‘ “I’m so sorry,” I said.
‘ “You needn’t laugh,” he said, “I’m quite serious.”
‘ “Then haven’t you thought of fitting them on to a real person? That would appear to a stupid man like me the most suitable place.”
‘ “You don’t mean to a real person — they’d be most annoyed — just think what that lady over there would say if I tried — but you mean to a person in a picture. Of course I have. But it just doesn’t work. No — the nearest I’ve ever got to it was my Mill at Sunset, but even that wasn’t quite right.”
‘I was prepared to believe it, but I didn’t say so. There might have been a limit to his good temper.
