Kitabı oku: «Woman and Artist», sayfa 2
"He is coming in a minute, dearie. Come, it is time you went for a walk, Hobbs," said Dora to the good woman, who was laughing at the child's questions; "do not stay out very long; it is chilly, and Miss Eva might catch cold."
"Very well, ma'am," replied Hobbs.
Dora, ascertaining that the child was warmly enough clad, gave her bonnet strings an extra touch, then looked at her and kissed her again and again.
Eva and her nurse went out at the studio door. The latter, finding a letter in the box, came back with it and gave it to Dora, returning again to the child.
Dora, remembering Eva's reproaches, felt the tears come into her eyes. With many women the mother kills the wife, but Dora was so much absorbed in her husband that she often reproached herself with not taking enough notice of the child. She was wife first, mother next. Yet, God knew how she adored her child.
IV
DORA
It was past noon, and Philip had not yet set to work.
For some time past Dora had noticed that Philip had no longer the same lively interest in his painting, but she had been very careful not to speak to him about it. Dora was the ideal artist's wife, not only because she understood her husband's art, but also because she was keenly alive to the conditions under which works of art are produced. If she had been the wife of Bernard de Palissy, she herself would have broken up the furniture of her home to keep alive the furnace fire. Blessed with a calm, even temperament herself, she knew that the artistic nature is sensitive, susceptible, irritable even, and that a veritable diplomacy has to be exercised daily and hourly, if one would so live with an artist as to cheer him in his moments of discouragement, to stimulate him, to give him constantly the discreet and intelligent praise he needs, when it seems to him that his imagination and his powers are forsaking him, and that he is no longer doing his best work. An artist is a piece of machinery that must be wound up every day. There is scarce an artist worthy of the name who does not think he is used up each time that he terminates a new work, and there is not a painter who, when he shows a new picture for the first time, does not watch the scrutinising gaze of the critic, much as a mother watches with anxious eye the expression of the doctor who is going to pronounce himself upon the subject of her sick child. An artist is a child, who must be constantly petted and applauded.
Dora knew all that, and, on this subject, she had nothing to reproach herself with; on the contrary, it was to her that her husband owed his growing celebrity – she had made him what he was. She did not take any credit for this, she had never reminded him of it, never a hint on the subject had passed her lips. A woman like Dora leaves a husband to recognise these things for himself, but never speaks of them.
Dora had not the courage to ask Philip why he painted with less ardour, but she longed to say to him, "You promised me that you would finish the portrait to-day; you tell me that it is only a matter of two or three hours' work; but I am sure that it will take seven or eight hours to finish it … why don't you set about it?" And her imagination fell to inventing all sorts of explanations, each more fantastic and improbable than the other.
The last words of Monsieur de Lussac came back to her memory, "Pansies for thought – Love lies bleeding." What connection would there be between a pansy and a crushed love? No one had ever loved her well enough to break his heart about her, except Philip, and he had married her. But he? Had there been a romance in his life, before she had known him? He had never spoken of anything of the kind. "After all," she said to herself, "the best of men have some experience of that kind in their early life, which they do not talk about. Ah, well! what matters it? Philip has filled my life with happiness."
Her glance wandered again to the picture. "Not yet finished," she murmured. "Has he forgotten his promise? For some time past he has been quite strange; he seems preoccupied, distraught, anxious even – at times his mind seems to be far away." And a thousand ideas flitted through her mind, only to be dismissed as all equally absurd.
Suddenly she uttered a little cry of surprise, to find the vigorous arms of her husband clasped around her waist.
"What is my little wife thinking of so deeply that she does not notice the sound of her husband's footsteps?" said Philip.
"Of you," said Dora, laughing, "and of these flowers."
"They have come again, eh?" said Philip, taking up his palette and brushes.
"Yes; who sends them?"
"That is what I should like to know. As I told you before, an old admirer of yours, I daresay."
"Nonsense, you know better. As I said before, some old sweetheart of yours – far more likely," replied Dora.
Then looking her husband straight in the eyes, she added —
"Confess."
"Look here," said Philip, "I have come to work; if you tease me in this way, I shall never do anything."
He tried his brushes and began mixing his colours.
Dora took the little bunch of pansies which she had arranged, and placed them near the portrait.
"The colours harmonise exquisitely with the yellow of the dress. How sweet they are, these pansies! Look, do look, at this dear little yellow one – what a saucy face! Put it in the picture. By-the-bye, there is a letter for you."
She went to the table, where Hobbs had laid the letter, took it up and read the envelope aloud, "Philip Grantham, Esq., A.R.A. Associate of the Royal Academy! There are lots of people who live in hopes of adding letters to their name, but you, my Philip, will soon drop one: instead of A.R.A., just Royal Academician, R.A."
"Who knows?" said Philip. "Perhaps – thanks to your encouragement and loving praise. There! open the letter for me, will you?"
"It is Sir Benjamin Pond, who announces that he is coming to see you to-day: he wants to choose one or two pictures."
"I hope he will come late, then," said Philip. "I want to finish your portrait before dinner. It ought to be easy enough – two or three hours of steady work, and the thing is done."
Dora smiled a little smile of incredulity.
"Seven or eight," said she, "at least."
Philip had stuck the bunch of pansies on the easel, his palette was ready, he was just going to begin.
"Come here," said he to Dora, "here, quite close – that's it. I can work so much better, darling, when you are near me. Look, the brush works already more easily, my hand is surer – there, that is good – splendid – I shall go ahead now."
Philip was in working mood, and Dora was beaming. She could have hugged him, and would not have been able to resist the temptation, but for the fear of hindering his progress. After a few minutes' silence, she burst out —
"Philip!"
"Yes, dearest," replied Philip, without withdrawing his eyes from his work.
"Don't you think ours is a very romantic life?"
"Very romantic? How do you mean?"
"Oh, I mean that we are so happy."
"Yes, but that is hardly what people call romance. A romantic life is an eventful life, and happy people have no events in their lives. I don't believe that cousin Gerald Lorimer, with all his imagination, could get a one-act play out of our lives. There is no plot to be found in them. To make a novel or a play, there must be intrigue, troubles, misunderstandings, moral storms. There are people who love storms. Some people only love the sea when it is in a fury. Are you fond of storms yourself?"
"Oh no," replied Dora; "I have no sea-legs. I love the life that I lead with you – and my enthusiasm for your art deepens my love for you every day."
"My darling," said Philip, drawing Dora still nearer to him, and caressing the graceful head that was resting against his knee, "do you know that one of these days I shall be jealous of you, you are making such progress with your painting."
"What nonsense! I am learning, so that I may understand you better. To appreciate you thoroughly, my ambition soars no higher than that."
Philip looked at his watch, turned towards the door that led to the street, and made a little gesture of impatience, that did not escape Dora.
"Philip," said she, "what are you thinking of?"
"Why, of you, dear, always you."
"No, you were not thinking about me just now. You cannot deceive me," said she coaxingly. "Do you know that, of late, I have observed a little change in you – oh! just a little change."
"A change? What a little goose you are!"
"Oh, I am not so silly as all that; the fact is you seem absent-minded lately, anxious, irritable even; and, worse than all that, this morning you had forgotten it was the anniversary of our wedding. Now, had you not?"
Philip started.
"Oh, but I am quite sure of what I am saying. I am certain you had forgotten."
"What nonsense! it is all in your imagination, my dear child."
"No, it is not," said Dora, with great emphasis; "a woman's intuition is often a safer guide than her eyes."
"Your intuition, then, for once is wrong."
"Come, come," said Dora tenderly, "tell me, have you any troubles, any little worry?"
"No, dear, none," said Philip, frowning a little. "Let me get on with my work, and don't ask silly questions."
"Oh, very well," said Dora, pouting.
She rose, and went away from the easel a few steps; but noticing that Philip was looking at her, as if to ask her forgiveness for having been a trifle abrupt, she turned her steps towards him, and, laying her head on his shoulder, burst into tears; then looking him in the face, with eyes that were smiling through the tears, she cried, "Oh, do tell me what ails you."
"What a child you are, dearest! I assure you, there is nothing the matter."
"I know better."
"You will have to believe me," said Philip, in a not very convincing tone, but doing his best to comfort her with his look, "when I tell you, that there is absolutely nothing wrong, although" —
"Although? Ah!" cried Dora, "you see that I was right after all. Well?"
And she eagerly waited to hear the explanation that should put an end to all her conjectures.
"Well, then, yes," said Philip resolutely, "there is something. Sometimes I feel I should like to do so much more for you than I have been able."
"What an idea! There is not a woman in the world with whom I should like to change places. How could I be happier than I am?"
"What is your definition of happiness?" said Philip, continuing to paint.
"For a woman," replied Dora, with warmth, "happiness consists in being loved by the man whom she loves and can be proud of; in being rich enough to afford all the necessary comforts of life, and poor enough to make pulling together a necessity; an existence hand in hand, side by side. And what is yours?"
"Well, I confess, I should like to be a little richer than that," said Philip, with a little amused smile.
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Dora sadly; "you are beginning to grow tired of this quiet life of ours. Take care, Philip, noise frightens happiness away. Happy the house that is hidden in the trees, as the nest in the thick of the hedges."
"My dear child, we have to live for the world a little."
"Excuse me if I do not understand you," said Dora; "I am only a woman. I can live for you, and for you alone. I know that love is not sufficient even for the most devoted and affectionate of husbands. A woman can live on love and die of it. That's the difference. Now, what is your definition of happiness?"
"To be blessed with a dear, adorable wife; to have money enough to enable me to surround her with every luxury. Yes, I long to be really rich, if only to make my father repent of his treatment of me. In his eyes a man is successful according to his proven ability to pile up money. Ah, that letter of his, how it rankles in my mind still and always will!"
"What letter is that?" said Dora; "you never spoke to me of it before. Why, what a tomb of dark secrets you are!"
Philip rose, went to a drawer, took out a letter, and returned with it in his hand.
"Here it is," he said; "listen."
"MY SON,
– When I opened to you the doors of the banking house which I have founded, and bade you join me as a clerk who would eventually be master of it, I did not doubt that you had sufficient good sense and filial docility to make you joyfully accept such an opening. It appears that you have neither of these qualities. Twice I have made the offer, twice you have declined it. From this day please to consider yourself free to follow art or any other road to starvation. I relinquish all right to direct your career, but I also require you to relinquish all right to call yourself the son of
"THOMAS GRANTHAM."
Philip folded the letter and replaced it in the drawer.
"Yes," said Dora, "it was a cruel letter, for, after all, your only crime had been to wish to become an artist. And yet, a father knows that out of a hundred men who take up painting as a profession, one or two perhaps get to the top of the tree. Where is the father who would advise his son to work at art, music, or literature for a livelihood? In the case of a real vocation, he may bow gracefully to the inevitable, but, as a rule, a parent does not bring up his sons with a view to making artists of them. On the contrary, he does what he can to dissuade them from choosing that course. In the case of your father, my dear Philip, I think one might allow extenuating circumstances. Where is the head of the family who would not dread for his sons these often illiberal professions? Professions, which ninety-nine times out of a hundred bring in little besides disappointments, disillusions, a miserable pittance, and often despair? Try and forget this grievance, darling. In any case you have had your revenge already. You are celebrated, and we are no longer poor."
"Ah, but we have been, and it has sometimes brought tears of rage to my eyes, and to-day we are a long, a very long way, from being rich."
"Ah, but think what an enviable lot yours is!" said Dora proudly. "Yours is the most honourable of callings. You have no poor wretches sweating for you. Your income is the fruit of your personal handiwork. You are your own master. You help to make life beautiful. You have a fame increasing every day. You enjoy the respect of everybody, the admiration of the public, the appreciation of the best critics, the company and the friendship of all the intelligence of London. A king might well envy the life of a great artist!"
Dora was excited, and Philip looked at her with eyes that thanked her for all she thought of him.
"You are quite right," he resumed, "and I am far from complaining of my fate. I have also full confidence in the future. But you, my darling; it is of you I am thinking."
"Of me?" exclaimed Dora. "But do I not share all your honours? What more can I wish for? Why, my dear boy," she added, laughing, "before ten years have passed you will be knighted, and I run the risk of being one day Lady Grantham. Just fancy?" And she drew herself up most comically.
They both burst out laughing. Philip was in a confessing mood, and he went on.
"I should like," he said, "to see you the mistress of such a house as you were brought up in!"
"Good heavens! It is all I can do to keep this dear little one properly! Besides, where is it now, that beautiful house where I was brought up? After my mother's death, my father took to speculating, and he died penniless. Everything had to be sold to pay his debts. Much better begin as we do than finish as he did."
"I should like," continued Philip, in the same strain, "to see you drive in a handsome carriage of your own."
"A hansom cab," replied Dora, laughing, "is much more convenient, goes faster, costs less, and gives you much less trouble."
"I should like to see rivières of diamonds on your lovely neck, precious stones on your fingers."
Dora looked serious, almost sad.
"I wish no better collar for my neck than your true, manly arms – my Philip! On my fingers? Do you see this little ring?"
"A five-pound ring!" said Philip, with an air of contempt. "I am almost ashamed to see it on your finger."
"A five-pound ring!" exclaimed Dora, – "a priceless ring! Do you remember – ah, I do! – how for many weeks you put away ten shillings a week so as to be able to buy it for me on my birthday? A five-pound ring, indeed! Not for the Koh-i-nûr would I exchange it," she added, as she kissed the little ring passionately. "To me the real value of a jewel is the love it represents in the giver, and no rich gems could be richer in that sense than this dear little ring."
Philip felt deeply moved and almost humiliated. He tenderly kissed Dora, and resumed painting. Dora thought she was gaining her cause, and went on pleading —
"Ah, Philip," she said, "the rich don't know the pleasures they miss, the sweetest pleasures of poverty. Their gifts cost them no sacrifice. They don't possess their wealth, it is their wealth that possesses them. They have not the satisfaction of knowing that they are loved for their own sake. I would not give one year of my life for ten years of a millionaire's life. Why, they don't even have the proof that they are honest. They have no temptations. I would shudder at the idea that I might be rich one day."
"Well," said Philip sarcastically, "I think I could bear it with fortitude. My darling, the philosophers of all ages have taught that money does not make happiness; but sensible men of all times have come to the conclusion that it considerably helps to make it. I want money for no sordid reason. Money is round, it was meant to roll, and I mean to enjoy it."
"No, dear," replied Dora reproachfully and pathetically, "money is flat, it was meant to stop and be piled up a little. And, by the way, do you know that you have made over a thousand pounds this year, and that we have kept very nearly half of it? You see I am of some use after all. The financial position is good, since the Chancellor of the Exchequer has only spent half his budget. We are rich, since we don't want all we have."
"Yes, you are a dear, lovely little housewife," said Philip rather coldly and without raising his eyes from the canvas.
Dora was susceptible. She felt a little wounded.
"Am I?" she said. "Perhaps you will say I am a good little bourgeoise. Possibly! But I will tell you this: happy as I am now, I am not sure that I was not happier still when we were quite poor, pulling, struggling together, hand in hand. I have never dreaded poverty; on the contrary, I have enjoyed it, loved it by your side. To poverty I owe the happiest days of my life. Do you remember, for instance, how we enjoyed the play when, once a month, obscure, unknown to everybody, we went to the upper circle? Wasn't it lovely? And how we often yawn now, once a week, in the stalls!"
"Yes," said Philip, "and how we made the dinner shorter, so as to be able to afford the price of two seats in that upper circle?"
"Right, and that's why we enjoyed the play so much. We were not overfed in those days."
"We were not," seconded Philip.
"You cannot enjoy, even appreciate anything intellectual after a dinner of six or eight courses: you are only fit for a pantomime or a music-hall. And that's why those pathetic forms of entertainment are so successful now. Why, look at the people in the boxes – indifferent, half sulky, lifting their eyebrows and staring their eyes out – like that – awful!"
"Yes," said Philip, "all the response, all the appreciation, all the warmth comes from the pit and gallery."
"And do you also remember when, two years after we were married, our general suddenly gave notice, and left us alone to manage housekeeping as best we could while Hobbs was temporarily absent? And how I cooked all the meals, and how you never enjoyed them better? Now, say it's true."
"Perfectly true. And I peeled the potatoes."
"The less you speak of that, the better. You wasted half of them. But what fun! The house was gay, happy, ringing with our laughter all day long; so much so that, in a month, baby put on six pounds of flesh."
"And how I cleaned the knives!" said Philip, who was enjoying the reminiscences.
"Which helped your appetite for breakfast."
"And the boots – now, I did not like cleaning the boots."
"Yes, you did, and they never shone so beautifully."
"Well, I flatter myself I was able to make myself useful."
"Those were and will always be the dear old days of my life."
"And how pretty you looked," said Philip, "with a white apron on, and your sleeves tucked up, showing your lovely arms."
"Ah!" said Dora, "and do you also remember how you were once turned out of the kitchen for kissing the cook? You were sorry when I got a new servant."
"Upon my word, I believe I was."
"Ah!" exclaimed Dora, "you will never picnic like that again, you will never have such lovely times. My dear Philip, the very rich people must lead very dull lives. We look for happiness far ahead of us, when often we have it close at hand. The poet is right: 'Paradise is cheap enough, it's only the hells we make for ourselves that are expensive.' We are as rich now as we should ever wish to be. And, let me tell you that, if ever we get really rich (that will be through your fault), I shall find my consolation in the constant recollection of all the pleasures I enjoyed when I was poor – as the ear remains for ever under the charm of some sweet old melody that once struck it. I could go on for ever on this theme. Now, do you know the holiday of my life that I shall never forget?"
"Our trip to Paris with ten pounds in our pockets," replied Philip.
"That's not fair; you guess too quickly. Well, didn't we do it after all? We saw everything – the museums, the theatres, the gardens, and when we arrived home" —
"We had to borrow one-and-six from the servant to pay the cab fare from Charing Cross."
"Lovely!" cried Dora, clapping her hands with joy. "What fun we had – real, good, wholesome fun! Now, look at our little girl. She will hardly look at the beautiful dolls she has. She always goes back to the old stuffed stocking, with a face painted on the ball of cotton that does duty for a head. Now, why? Tell me why she prefers it to all the others."
"Oh, probably because she can ill-use it to her heart's content."
"Not a bit of it; because it reminds her of the happiest, the jolliest days of her life. The pleasures of poverty again, my dear Philip, the sweetest, the never-to-be-forgotten ones – alas, never to be enjoyed again, perhaps!"
"I will see that they are not," said Philip.
"Oh, Philip, tell me that you are happy now, that the ambition of your life will be your work, your art, not money."
"Certainly, darling. But, let me tell you also, honestly, that the greatest pleasure in connection with my days of poverty" …
"Well?"
"Is that I am poor no longer."
"You incorrigible cynic."
Dora looked at Philip for some moments.
"Oh, Philip," she cried, "say that you are only teasing me, that you don't mean a word of it."
"Yes, dear, I am only teasing you," said Philip indifferently. "Now, little wife, you must be quiet and let me work, or this portrait will never be finished to-day."
Philip looked at the clock, then at his watch. It was half-past one. A ring was heard at the studio door. He shivered with excitement. "It is perhaps de Lussac," he said to himself.
"I hope it is not that bothering Sir Benjamin coming to disturb me," he said to Dora.
Gerald Lorimer, for whom there was always a cover laid at Philip's table, entered the studio.
"Why, it's Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, rising, and going to shake hands with his friend. "I am as hungry as a hound; I'll go and wash my hands, and we'll have lunch at once."
"Well, and how goes the portrait?" said Lorimer.
"My dear fellow," replied Philip, "I shall have to take a studio a mile or two off, so that my wife will not be able to come and chatter and hinder me from working. Look at it: here have I been for the past two hours in front of this easel, and done half an hour's painting at most."
Philip ran upstairs to wash and change his coat, and quickly rejoined Dora and Lorimer in the dining-room.
