Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “It is true in all sorts of ways, Hildebrand,” she said. “For instance at the entertainment the other night, it only needed that one rude boy should laugh at Colonel Chase’s ghost story to set the whole room off. I wonder if it was meant to be funny or meant to thrill us.”

  “Oh, meant to thrill without a doubt,” said Hildebrand, “but it just turned out different from what he expected. Like puddings. I only hope Miss Howard’s exhibition will turn out different to what I expect, for if it doesn’t she won’t sell a single picture. But we must both go to it.”

  “Of course. Poor Miss Howard. But perhaps somebody will buy one, and other people follow as you said.”

  This duty of going to the Green Salon had escaped their memories (or was inconvenient to fulfil) for the first three days that it was open, and thus, when on Wednesday Mrs. Holders and Tim made their amiable conspiracy, neither the Vicar nor his wife had seen the numerous pictures of his church. But on Thursday morning it so happened that she had to go to the post office, and he to visit a sick parishioner. Their ways lay in the same direction, and they set off together; the sight of the Baths put the forgotten duty into Mrs. Banks’s head.

  “Let us pop in for a moment and see poor Miss Howard’s pictures,” said she. “She may not be there yet, which would be a good thing, for if she comes round with us and looks sad, we shall find it difficult not to buy one.”

  Miss Howard was there, going through some list with the custodian. But so far from looking sad, her face expressed high elation, and she came tripping towards them with the greatest cheerfulness.

  “How de-do Mrs. Banks?” she said. “So good of you and the padre to look in. Very little worth seeing, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, you mustn’t think this is our first visit,” said Mrs. Banks, who had a perfect genius for just not telling lies. “And as for there being very little worth seeing, well I can’t agree. Oh look, Hildebrand, there’s a lovely, lovely picture of St. Giles’s. Why it has a little red star on it. Does that mean it is sold Miss Howard? What a disappointment!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s gone,” said Miss Howard. “But you’ll find one somewhere from nearly the same point of view, but in the evening. There it is. Ah, that’s sold too. I can’t keep pace with them.”

  Somehow this put a very different aspect on poor Miss Howard and her exhibition, and when she went back to the task of verifying the purchased pictures with the custodian, looking the very reverse of sad, and not showing the slightest inclination to go round with them, the two, who had not been near the Green Salon before, began at the very beginning on an attentive and respectful scrutiny. The padre’s sermon was assuming the prophetical aspect.

  “What a lot she’s sold,” said Mrs. Banks in discreet tones. “And really they are very charming. Look at No. 7, Hildebrand. ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting Day’, with the spire of St. Giles’s among the trees. Sweet! But I see that’s sold.”

  “I think I like No. 6 even better,” said Mr. Banks. “Number 6, God’s Acre. Very feeling. Tombstones. Really I should immensely like to possess that. A truly religious touch about it. God’s Acre, too, a beautiful description.”

  While he stood there with his head on one side, quite lost in admiration, the custodian who had finished the agreeable task with Miss Howard, sidled up to his wife.

  “There is a price-list, madam,” he softly insinuated.

  “Yes, let me look,” she whispered, and found it was only ten-and-sixpence.

  “I’ll take it,” she said. “Mrs. Banks, the Vicarage. Put a star on it at once and get me change.”

  Miss Howard, seeing that business was going on delicately left the Green Salon, and Mrs. Banks joined her husband who was still basking in God’s Acre.

  “Hildebrand, dear. God’s Acre is yours. My Christmas present to you. I had been wondering what to give you.”

  He gave a start of pleasure and surprise.

  “My dear,” said he, “what a delicious present. I can’t tell you what joy—”

  “But you must forget all about it again,” she said, “till I give it you on Christmas morning.”

  After that it was only fair that Mrs. Banks should have her turn to be lost in admiration of another picture, and the one she happened to select for that purpose was Evening Bells. When it was quite clear that she liked this more than any, Hildebrand wandered quietly away to the custodian who was busy at the moment detaching a strip of toilet-paper for Colonel Chase, and asked for the price-list. Two guineas was rather a staggerer, and it was distinctly bad luck that his wife had so firmly set her affections on Evening Bells, when almost anything else might have been had for a quarter of that sum, but he could not be blind to her clear choice. He produced two pound notes, a shilling and two sixpences.

  “The Vicar,” he said rather sadly. “Put a label on Number 27 as sold.”

  “Hurroi!” said the custodian, and went out to find Miss Howard and tell her of this huge accession to the treasury.

  Colonel Chase was in a rather lofty mood that morning. Kind but lofty.

  “Well, padre,” he said. “We meet on a charitable errand. Wouldn’t do to have nobody coming to our friend’s little effort. What? You’ve been buying one, have you? Well, I call that kind. I’ll be bound it’s the first that’s been sold, and, I shouldn’t wonder if it was the last. I suppose I must get a catalogue. What! Is there nothing but that type-written thing? Nothing printed? Oh, they don’t charge for it. I dare say it will do very well.”

  He began reading the catalogue glancing hastily at the pictures to verify the titles.

  “Golf links, Wentworth,” he said. “Yes, that’s right, and a lot of trouble I spent over them too. But that tree has gone now. Quite changed the look of the place, as well as spoiling one of the best holes. Number 5 now. Bethesda. Ah yes, I see, a cat. I suppose Bethesda is the name of the cat. No, no: my mistake. Number 5 is ‘Pussy-dear’. That’s Mrs. Oxney’s cat: I hear enough of it at night without wanting to see a picture of it, and ‘Pussy-dear’ doesn’t quite interpret my feelings about it. Still, the picture has a sort of look of the animal. Good morning, Mrs. Padre: how’s the violin? It was a pretty piece you played us the other night. Fully deserved an encore, I thought.”

  “No time for the violin to-day, Colonel Chase,” she said. “Every minute that I can spare this morning I shall give to these pictures. Impossible to tear oneself away. And just think, my husband has given me Evening Bells, the loveliest of all, as a Christmas present. Isn’t it too dear of him?”

  “Very kind I’m sure,” said Colonel Chase, “now let’s see. Number 6. God’s Acre. What are those white things? Ah, tombstones: yes, God’s Acre. That’s got a little star on it, which I suppose means it’s sold. And Number 7 is sold too, and 13. Why, there seems to be a regular run on Miss Howard’s pictures. I am surprised.”

  “I’m sure I’m not,” said Mrs. Banks, who being the owner of one picture and the purchaser of another was bound to spur everyone else to buy too. “Such feeling! Such beautiful technique. And the critics think the world of them. There was an article in the Bolton Gazette, and the writer couldn’t have said more of them if they had been by Mr. Sargent. I think I am indeed fortunate to have Evening Bells before anybody else snapped it up.”

  All this was beginning to work a subtle change in Colonel Chase: he was looking at these little efforts with quite a different eye. He had come in Baalam’s first mood, inclined to curse the expenditure of sixpence as the payment of blackmail, but this public eagerness to secure an example of Miss Howard’s skill, made him wonder whether he should not be blessing a blackmail which seemed to offer an opportunity of securing something worth having at a most reasonable outlay. He had hazarded the cynical conjecture that Miss Howard had written that laudatory notice herself, but, however that might be, purchasers were rife, for he saw, looking enquiringly round, that a dozen of the little efforts had already been snapped up, and were twinkling with little red stars. The priced catalogue
, into which at this moment the custodian, that fine psychological observer, suggested he might like to glance, told him that almost any of the remaining pearls could be acquired for half-a-guinea, and what if they turned out to be of the true Orient destined to be eagerly sought for by the cognoscenti? A bargain always appealed to him if it did not entail much outlay, and the fact that Florence, who had just come in, was looking fixedly at Golf-links, Wentworth made him hate the notion that anyone but he should possess a work which in addition to its artistic merit should surely be owned by the creator of the golf links. ‘A pretty sketch,’ he could imagine himself saying, ‘I laid the links out myself.’ He hurriedly produced a ten shilling note and six coppers and entered his name on the lengthening list as its purchaser. Out came the pill box and the custodian’s tongue and he shot forward with a red star on the tip of it, and in his eagerness affixed it to the centre of the picture.

  “Snapped up, I’m afraid, Miss Kemp,” said Colonel Chase jovially. “One has to make up one’s mind quickly if one wants one of Miss Howard’s sketches. I couldn’t let anyone else have that picture of my golf links with the dear old tree still standing by the centre green. Very beautiful effect is it not?”

  Colonel Chase had now enrolled himself in the ranks of those who, having bought pictures, were all agog that others should buy as well, thus endorsing their own wisdom and artistic taste, and presently he and the padre and Mrs. Banks were all strongly advising Florence to secure ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s here’, before it was too late. She had only just put it out of the reach of other aspirants, when there arose a perfect hubbub at the door, and the custodian’s voice was heard respectfully but shrilly demanding an entrance fee.

  “No, my lady,” he said, “the exhibition isn’t free to nobody. Admission sixpence each,” and there was Lady Appledore and Miss Jobson, the former in a state of dignified resentment.

  “Pay it then, Miss Jobson,” she said, “though after all I’ve done for the town, I should have thought my admittance was a matter of course. Let me see: Colonel Chase is it not; who told us those amusing ghost stories. And Mr. Banks. And Mrs. Banks: the violin. Quite a crowd. I cannot understand why I have received no notice of Miss Howard’s exhibition before, as it is well known that I make a point of encouraging local industries. An odd omission. It was quite by accident that I saw a small placard outside the Baths as I was driving by. ‘Miss Jobson,’ I said, ‘kindly go and see what that placard is.’”

  They all three assailed her with laudatory remarks.

  “A lucky accident indeed,” said Mrs. Banks. “You will be charmed with Miss Howard’s work.”

  “We all are, Lady Appledore,” said Colonel Chase. “The art critic in the Bolton Gazette was most enthusiastic.”

  “My wife has given me God’s Acre for a Christmas present, Lady Appledore,” said Mr. Banks.

  “And I have got ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s here’,” said Florence, who, not having been introduced, stated the fact to nobody in particular.

  “And my husband has given me Evening Bells, which I think you will agree is the gem of them all, Lady Appledore,” said Mrs. Banks.

  “A catalogue,” said Lady Appledore, putting out her hand. Four catalogues were thrust into it.

  “I will look round and judge for myself,” said she. “Dear me, do all those red stars on the pictures mean that they are sold?”

  “Yes,” said everybody.

  “I am sorry not to have heard about this earlier,” said she, “for I have always been a great judge of water-colours. Miss Howard must have made quite a fortune. It was Miss Howard, I think, who played us little pieces of Chopin the other night, but I do not know her, do I, Miss Jobson? I hope I shall like her pictures better than her playing. Number 6 is pretty: a good middle distance. What is Number 6 called, Miss Jobson. Oh, God’s Acre, I see to be sure. But it is bought.”

  “Yes, am I not fortunate? That is mine,” said Mr. Banks.

  “You have not chosen badly. Full of feeling. Number 9 Miss Jobson.”

  “‘The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day’,” said Miss Jobson.

  “That is not bad either. It is evening, Miss Jobson. Curfew is invariably in the evening. About eight o’clock. That is not sold, I see. Put a mark against it till I have seen the rest. Somebody will lend you a pencil if you have not got one.”

  The majestic procession moved slowly on.

  “A cat,” said Lady Appledore. “I do not like cats. Miss Howard should not have painted a cat. Mist in the Valley represents Bolton Spa, Miss Jobson, but you cannot see it because of the mist. Put a smaller mark opposite Mist in the Valley. Mist on the Hills is Bolton Spa also, but now you can see Bolton Spa because there is no mist in the valley. Put nothing opposite Mist on the Hills. Geraniums: that is better. They are red: I should say that they are decidedly geraniums. Let somebody give me the catalogue of prices. . . . Geraniums, one guinea: that is a great deal of money. Still Life: I should call it Still Death because there is no animation about it.”

  Mr. Banks who was holding the price catalogue in front of Lady Appledore like the Book of the Gospels gave a sycophantic laugh.

  “Excellent!” he said. “How you hit it off, Lady Appledore. Still Death! I must remember that. Did you hear that, Colonel? My lady says that Still Life should be called Still Death. I did not care for the picture myself and now I know the reason. No animation: an admirable criticism.”

  “Very true, very true indeed,” said Colonel Chase. “I hope you like the little picture I have bought Lady Appledore. Golf links, Wentworth. I took a lot of trouble in laying them out.”

  Lady Appledore kindly retraced her steps to Number 6.

  “A matter of taste,” she said. “It does not appeal to mine. If I were you I should instantly purchase Geraniums, Colonel Chase. Geraniums is well worth a guinea. I should not let Geraniums slip through my fingers. But I would not buy Still Life. You may trust my judgment, Colonel Chase, and have nothing to do with Still Life, but buy Geraniums before it is snapped up. You will never regret it.”

  She fixed him with an implacable eye which was not removed till he had told the custodian to put the fatal red star on Geraniums.

  “Make a rule, Colonel Chase,” she said, “always to buy the best work, and then you will know — well, that you have the best. Geraniums and The Curfew are undoubtedly Miss Howard’s masterpieces. (This was agonising for Mr. Banks, who might have bought both masterpieces for less than he had paid for Evening Bells). Of the two I prefer The Curfew which I shall now purchase. Miss Jobson see to a star on Curfew, and say the remittance will follow.”

  Miss Howard meantime had been hovering about outside the Green Salon, torn between the desire not to appear supplicant for purchase, and the longing to make Lady Appledore’s acquaintance, for she had not been introduced to her on the evening of the entertainment. Her curiosity also to see how many more pictures had been bought (for the custodian had been flitting about all this time with the price catalogue) was becoming unbearable. So she tripped in quite unconscious of Lady Appledore’s presence, and of the unusual number of visitors in the Green Salon and felt the temperature of the hot-water pipes. She withdrew her fingers with a little exclamation of dismay at their intense fervour and turned off the tap.

  “I can’t have you all roasted, Mr. Banks,” she said. “That would be too bad after your kindness in coming to see my little pictures.”

  That was sufficient indication of her identity, and Lady Appledore held out her hand.

  “I am pleased to have seen your pictures, Miss Howard,” she said. “That is not any empty compliment, for I have bought your Curfew. A very creditable effort. Nice tone. Should you ever be in the neighbourhood of the Grange, you will find some fine subjects in the Park. You may tell them at any of the lodges that I have given you leave to paint in the Park. Miss Jobson, kindly tell the motor that I am ready.”

  Miss Jobson hurried out to inform the intelligent machine, whic
h thereupon ousted the bus for Wentworth that was standing at the entrance, forcing it to drive out of ‘Out’, and come in again behind it at ‘In’. Miss Howard saw Lady Appledore off, leaving Colonel Chase trying to revoke the purchase of Golf links on the grounds of having chosen Geraniums instead. The custodian was contesting the point with great firmness. . . .

  It was now so near lunch-time that Mr. Banks who was engaged to take this meal at the Warwickshire Hotel with a button king from Manchester decided to postpone his visit to the sick parishioner till afternoon. As was natural he told his host about the honour Lady Appledore had done to the exquisite exhibition in the Green Salon, and about her purchase of Miss Howard’s finest example. The best of the pictures (as well as far the most expensive he was afraid) had already been secured, but there were some very charming pieces left.

  “The art critics are wild about them,” he said, “it is a great opportunity for any collector.”

  The button king had most artistic tastes, and owned a gallery of pictures.

  “‘Oward?” he said. “Never ‘eard of ‘Oward. Have we got a ‘Oward, missus? Don’t think we’ve got a ‘Oward. Better ‘ave a look at them after lunch before my bath. Glass of champagne for you, Mr. Banks. Wish I could drink champagne, but it’s poison to me. And the Countess of Appledore bought one, did she? Pleased to know about them.”

  This promised well but ended in a fiasco. The button king hobbled into the Green Salon before his bath, but was vexed at being charged sixpence for admission: this was paltry. Paltrier yet was the price-catalogue, for nothing for which you were charged only half-a-guinea could possibly be worth purchase. He had hoped that the least price would be fifty-guineas or a hundred: that might have been worth considering. But who wanted a ten-and-sixpenny picture? Paltry he called it, and went to be pickled instead. Missus, however, took a different view: she thought them sweetly pretty, and bought two for her boudoir.