The Hermit and the Wild Woman

WITHIN three months two events had set the studio building talking.  Stanwell had painted a full-length portrait of Mrs. Archer Millington, and Caspar Arran had received an order to execute his group in marble.

The name of the sculptor’s patron had not been divulged.  The order came through Shepson, who explained that an American customer living abroad, having seen a photograph of the group in one of the papers, had at once cabled home to secure it.  He intended to bestow it on a public building in America, and not wishing to advertise his munificence, had preferred that even the sculptor should remain ignorant of his name.  The group bought by an enlightened compatriot for the adornment of a civic building in his native land!  There could hardly be a more complete vindication of unappreciated genius, and Caspar made the most of the argument.  He was not exultant, he was sublimely magnanimous.  He had always said that he could afford to await the Verdict of Posterity, and his unknown patron’s act clearly shadowed forth that impressive decision.  Happily it also found expression in a cheque which it would have taken more philosophy to await.  The group was paid for in advance, and Kate’s joy in her brother’s recognition was deliciously mingled with the thrill of ordering him some new clothes, and coaxing him out to dine succulently at a neighbouring restaurant.  Caspar flourished insufferably on this regime:  he began to strike the attitude of the recognized Great Master, who gives advice and encouragement to the struggling neophyte.  He held himself up as an example of the reward of disinterestedness, of the triumph of the artist who clings obstinately to his convictions.

“A man must believe in his star—­look at Napoleon!  It’s the dogged trust in one’s convictions that tells—­it always ends by forcing the public into line.  Only be sure you make no concessions—­don’t give in to any of their humbug!  An artist who lis- tens to the critics is ruined—­they never have any use for the poor devils who do what they tell them to.  Run after fame and she’ll keep you running, but stay in your own corner and do your own work, and by George, sir, she’ll come crawling up to you and ask to have her likeness done!”

These exhortations were chiefly directed to Stanwell, partly because the inmates of the other studios were apt to elude them, partly also because the rumours concerning Stanwell’s portrait of Mrs. Millington had begun to disquiet the sculptor.  At first he had taken a condescending interest in the fact of his friend’s receiving an order, and had admonished him not to lose the chance of “showing up” his sitter and her environment.  It was a splendid opportunity for a fellow with a “message” to be introduced into the tents of the Philistine, and Stanwell was charged to drive a long sharp nail into the enemy’s skull.  But presently Arran began to suspect that the portrait was not as comminatory as he could have wished.  Mungold, the most kindly of rivals, let drop a word of injudicious praise:  the picture, he said, promised to be delightfully “in keeping” with the decorations of the ball-room, and the lady’s gown harmonized exquisitely with the window-curtains.  Stanwell, called to account by his monitor, reminded the latter that he himself had been selected by Mungold to do the Cupids for Mrs. Millington’s ball-room, and that the friendly artist’s praise could, therefore, not be taken as positive evidence of incapacity.

“Ah, but I didn’t do them—­I kicked him out!” Caspar rejoined; and Stanwell could only plead that, even in the cause of art, one could hardly kick a lady.

“Ah, that’s the worst of it.  If the women get at you you’re lost.  You’re young, you’re impressionable, you won’t mind my saying that you’re not built for a stoic, and hang it, they’ll coddle you, they’ll enervate you, they’ll sentimentalize you, they’ll make a Mungold of you!”

“Ah, poor Mungold,” Stanwell laughed.  “If he lived the life of an anchorite he couldn’t help painting pictures that would please Mrs. Millington.”

“Whereas you could,” Kate interjected, raising her head from the ironing-board where, Sphinx-like, magnificent, she swung a splendid arm above her brother’s shirts.

“Oh, well, perhaps I shan’t please her; perhaps I shall elevate her taste.”

Caspar directed a groan to his sister.  “That’s what they all think at first—­Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.  But inside the Dark Tower there’s the Venusberg.  Oh, I don’t mean that you’ll be taken with truffles and plush footmen, like Mungold.  But praise, my poor Ned—­praise is a deadly drug!  It’s the absinthe of the artist—­and they’ll stupefy you with it.  You’ll wallow in the mire of success.”

Stanwell raised a protesting hand.  “Really, for one order, you’re a little lurid!”

“One?  Haven’t you already had a dozen others?”

“Only one other, so far—­and I’m not sure I shall do that.”

“Not sure—­wavering already!  That’s the way the mischief begins.  If the women get a fad for you they’ll work you like a galley-slave.  You’ll have to do your round of ‘copy’ every morning.  What becomes of inspiration then?  How are you going to loaf and invite the soul?  Don’t barter your birthright for a mess of pottage!  Oh, I understand the temptation—­I know the taste of money and success.  But look at me, Stanwell.  You know how long I had to wait for recognition.  Well, now it’s come to me I don’t mean to let it knock me off my feet.  I don’t mean to let myself be overworked; I have already made it known that I will not be bullied into taking more orders than I can do full justice to.  And my sister is with me, God bless her; Kate would rather go on ironing my shirts in a garret than see me prostitute my art!”

Kate’s glance radiantly confirmed this declaration of independence, and Stanwell, with his evasive laugh, asked her if, meanwhile, she should object to his investing a part of his ill-gotten gains in theatre tickets for the party that evening.

It appeared that Stanwell had also been paid in advance, and well paid; for he began to permit himself various mild distractions, in which he generally contrived to have the Arrans share.  It seemed perfectly natural to Kate that Caspar’s friends should spend their money for his recreation, and by one of the most touching sophistries of her sex she thus reconciled herself to the anomaly of taking a little pleasure on her own account.  Mungold was less often in the way, for she had never been able to forgive him for proposing that Caspar should do Mrs. Millington’s Cupids; and for a few radiant weeks Stanwell had the undisputed enjoyment of her pride in her brother’s achievement.

Stanwell had “rushed through” Mrs. Millington’s portrait in time for the opening of her new ball-room; and it was perhaps in return for this favour that she consented to let the picture be exhibited at a big Portrait Show which was held in April for the benefit of a fashionable charity.

In Mrs. Millington’s ball-room the picture had been seen and approved only by the distinguished few who had access to that social sanctuary; but on the walls of the exhibition it became a centre of comment and discussion.  One of the immediate results of this publicity was a visit from Shepson, with two or three orders in his pocket, as he put it.  He surveyed the studio with fresh disgust, asked Stanwell why he did not move, and was impressed rather than downcast on learning that the painter had not decided whether he would take any more orders that spring.

“You might haf a studio at Newport,” he suggested.  “It would be rather new to do your sitters out of doors, with the sea behind them—­showing they had a blace on the gliffs!”

The picture produced a different and less flattering effect on the critics.  They gave it, indeed, more space than they had ever before accorded to the artist’s efforts, but their estimate seemed to confirm Caspar Arran’s forebodings, and Stanwell had perhaps never despised them so little as when he read their comments on his work.  On the whole, however, neither praise nor blame disquieted him greatly.  He was engrossed in the contemplation of Kate Arran’s happiness, and basking in the refracted warmth it shed about her.  The doctor’s prognostications had come true.  Caspar was putting on a pound a week, and had plunged into a fresh “creation” more symbolic and encumbering than the monument of which he had been so opportunely relieved.  If there was any cloud on Stanwell’s enjoyment of life, it was caused by the discovery that success had quadrupled Caspar’s artistic energies.  Meanwhile it was delightful to see Kate’s joy in her brother’s recovered capacity for work, and to listen to the axioms which, for Stanwell’s guidance, she deduced from the example of Caspar’s heroic pursuit of the ideal.  There was nothing repellent in Kate’s borrowed didacticism, and if it sometimes bored Stanwell to hear her quote her brother, he was sure it would never bore him to be quoted by her himself; and there were moments when he felt he had nearly achieved that distinction.

Caspar was not addicted to the visiting of art exhibitions.  He took little interest in any productions save his own, and was moreover disposed to believe that good pictures, like clever criminals, are apt to go unhung.  Stanwell therefore thought it unlikely that his portrait of Mrs. Millington would be seen by Kate, who was not given to independent explorations in the field of art; but one day, on entering the exhibition—­which he had hitherto rather nervously shunned—­he saw the Arrans at the end of the gallery in which the portrait hung.  They were not looking at it, they were moving away from it, and to Stanwell’s quickened perceptions their attitude seemed almost that of flight.  For a moment he thought of flying too; then a desperate resolve nerved him to meet them, and stemming the crowd, he made a circuit which brought him face to face with their retreat.

The room in which they met was momentarily empty, and there was nothing to intervene between the shock of their inter-changed glances.  Caspar was flushed and bristling:  his little body quivered like a machine from which the steam has just been turned off.  Kate lifted a stricken glance.  Stanwell read in it the reflexion of her brother’s tirade, but she held out her hand in silence.

For a moment Caspar was silent too; then, with a terrible smile:  “My dear fellow, I congratulate you; Mungold will have to look to his laurels,” he said.

The shot delivered, he stalked away with his seven-league stride, and Kate moved tragically through the room in his wake.