Stucco and Speculation

Chapter I

" I'm at ease now, friend ; worldly in this world, I take and like its way of life." Robert Browning. Colin B. Travers was not a great man. He was a writer of plays, and an attempter of many things besides. Having taken a second class at Oxford, he went in for painting. For the space of two years and seven months, he and Lawrence Gresham shared quarters in Rue Lepic, Montmartre. Their days they spent at Julier's Atelier, and their evenings elsewhere. Pleasant enough those times had been, beginning with coffee at 7-30, and a brisk walk to the Atelier, as the scavengers' carts slid down the B STUCCO. streets, and the rag-pickers worked at the refuse heaps, ahead; the halt at the kiosque, for "Figaro" or " L' Evenement." Then the Atelier ! The keen competition. The familiar art -jargon. Hopeless despair alternating with wild expectancy.

The joy when Travers' study of Schtankiewitz was exhibited, and Gresham's La Pecheresse was hung on the line. There were evenings at the " Francais " or the OpeVa ; others at the Eden, the Folies Bergeres, or the little theatre at Batignolles ; and dim reminiscences of lively suppers at otherwise dreary restaurants. But there were so many painters of pictures, that that idea had to be given up — besides, in London there were no models like " Filette." Paris and art were, therefore, simul taneously renounced. For three months Travers tried the City ; but it did not work. " No atmosphere," he told Gresham, and then confided that he had thrown it up. He wrote a novel (an " impression," he termed it). Nobody read it but the reviewers ; so he gave up the thought of fiction. He took to writing articles, tempering them to the titles of the papers for which he worked.

Finally, having decided that the coming form of literature was Drama, he set himself to study life from a dramatic standpoint. There was something in his work ; he could generally dispose of his plays without difficulty, but they rarely achieved any- STUCCO. 3 thing of a run. " Too French for England," he would say, " not French enough for France." Whilst interested in every aspect of life, in every phase of thought, he, nevertheless, met everything with an impenetrable guard of indifference. Though a staunch enough friend, he would declare that he had never loved ; that had he been capable of devotion he might have become " a master of fiction, a renowned painter, a prosaic husband, or a minor Thomas a Kempis." To a remark of Gresham's, that had he wished he might have been a leader, he replied, " And so I am, a leader of mediocrity."

Travers' study was somewhat characteristic. It partook of a woman's drawing-room, a man's smoking-room, a studio and a bookseller's shop window. Though more than comfortable it was scarcely luxurious. There was little or no idea of arrangement. The room looked what it was — an outward development of the man's self. It was modern, all modern. The light oak wood work was untoned by time. The book-cases, form ing part of fire-place and overmantel, were filled with modern literature ; works, in many cases, of living authors. The paintings were, for the most part, gifts from former fellow-students, daring in subject, French in execution. The red-wax model of a ballet girl was a souvenir from a modern master's studio ; whilst L'Ouvrier's statuette " La b — STUCCO. 4 Desire " had been received in payment of a debt.

The one or two etchings were signed proofs. More womanly characteristics were revealed in plants, cut flowers, a screen, even in silk cushions, and foot-stools. Yet Colin Travers was in no way effeminate. He had not cultivated his æsthetic tastes and appreciation of comfort, at the expense of physical manliness. With a certain rough knicker bocker suit he donned the Colin of the country and gave free vent to his barbaric instincts. He estimated his own character fairly well when he remarked that he changed his nature with his clothes, that he had " the friends of his dress-suit, of his frock-coat, his great-coat, tweeds, and dress ing-gown." Somewhere away in West Kensington, Lawrence Gresham had a studio. It was neither gay there, nor picturesque, but — it was cheap. Gresham's special line was " London Studies," street effects ; a group seen by a coster's flaring gas-jet ; a hansom reflected in the wet light of a colourless sun-set ; or a glimpse of the after-glow behind a barricade of chimneys.

Where others saw only ugliness, Gresham set himself to show them many things. But he had to sell his work in Paris ; London did not recognise him. STUCCO. 5 Travers had more than once tried to paint Gresham's portrait, but had finally given it up : " You either develop into a Viking, a woman, or a Christ," he exclaimed, as he tossed his brushes aside. According to Gresharh's opinion, Travers had in him the making of anything great, from an actor to an orator, or a painter to a poet ; whereas he could only paint, and that indifferently. Travers had a way of dashing off an effect, at which it might have taken Gresham hours to arrive ; only, the drawing was faulty. Gresham had no dress-clothes friends. He only went out at all because Travers liked him to. What he enjoyed more than dinners and "At Homes," was to have Travers to himself, either in the studio, or up at Travers' rooms.

But Colin was a man of numerous engagements, and the " purlieus of West Kensington " were somewhat beyond his beat, so it rather oftener happened that Gresham came to Travers' chambers than that Travers went over to the studio. It was with the hope of finding his friend disen gaged that Gresham, towards the close of an Octo ber afternoon, called at Travers' rooms. " I am yours till, say 7.30 — I am out to dinner," was the answer to Gresham's query. " All right," responded Gresham as he filled his pipe from the tobacco-jar. ' Who are the favoured ? " STUCCO. "The Dorays. Felice has something rather novel, she tells me." " In what form ? " In the form of the Modern Advanced." "Woman ? " Travers nodded assent. "There are several species belonging to that genus," suggested Gresham. " Where did Mrs. Doray find her ?

" "She is the sister of that young Harmon, that's all I know of her. But I am always grateful for something new." " Yes, it makes one appreciate the old.' " Or rather, it makes one forget the old " The new in time becomes the old." " And has in its time to be forgotten. By-the way, did the fellow come about those paintings ?" " Yes, he came." " Well ? " " He admired them — asked the price. I told him thirty a-piece, whereupon he promptly offered me thirty-five for the two ! " Travers tossed back his head, and laughed. " Did he take them ? " " He said he would write." There was a sparkle of humour in Gresham's glance : " How about the Monologue ? " STUCCO. 7 " If Pierson refuses it, Aubrey offets a hundred. Not so bad for nine pages." " I hope Aubrey will get it, he'd make something of it. It all depends upon the rendering."

Gresham knocked the ash from his pipe, by tapping it against his boot, as it rested on the fender-bar. " I wish it were possible," he continued, " to choose one's buyers. Do you know, I would rather keep those two pieces than sell them to that tact less, tasteless, bargaining Jew ; and yet," he added, " if he would rise to it, I would take sixty for them. How I hate this working for money. Money ! " he repeated, contemptuously. " I tell you, Travers, I love my work while it is still work, and I hate it when, as a ' picture,' it is fitted into a case. Every time I receive money for my painting, I feel de graded ; just as one would feel in taking money for service done to a friend. As long as I am handling the brushes I am a man, and when I touch the coin, I feel on the level of a crossing sweeper."

"Of course, it is all wrong, I agree, but then one must live, and brain-work is as much market able produce as manufactured goods, and, likewise, has its value. It's not a very ideal state of things, certainly, but this is not much the age for ideals. You see everything is done for ' lucre,' even these Socialist fellows, just as much as parsons, demand STUCCO. payment for their oratory. One pays to get married, more to get unmarried ; even dying and being born demand money. I don't think," Travers added, " that you need to be squeamish, you do not rob your fellow-creatures over much." It was nearing eight o'clock as Gresham and Travers nodded good-night, Gresham to return to West Kensington and Travers to walk the few steps to Seymour Street. Felicia Doray was standing in the coloured light of her pretty drawing-room.

Near her stood Richard Harmon, lieutenant on board the Vindictive ; whilst Mr. Doray was talking to Jean Harmon and his sister Norah. Travers liked the Dorays. They appreciated him ; and Travers liked to be appreciated. Felicia had a way of attracting small lights to her house. She liked some persons who had done nothing, but she certainly preferred those who had achieved something ; probably she imagined that it some how added a brilliancy to her own lustre, for Felicia liked to shine. Now Travers not only wrote plays, that were sometimes acted, but, he could talk to order, and then he always looked nice and that, with Felicia, in itself counted for much ; besides which, he liked her just enough to make it interesting for both of them. As to Harmon, he was, from her point of STUCCO. 9 view, " a boy," and then " sailors are always at sea, so that they are not much trouble."

Felicia liked a dinner of six, she could lead and control the conversation, and had the two men of her choice on either hand. Harmon was less responsive on this occasion than if he had been dining there without his sister, but he was fairly satisfactory, whilst Colin was all he should be. " Do you know, Colin," Felicia remarked in an aggrieved tone, " you promised to ask me to meet that Norseman friend of yours, and you have never done so ? " " You would never suit each other ; you are not his style," responded Travers. " Oh ! And what may the Norseman's style be ? If I knew, I might adapt myself." " That you must discover for yourself." " But how can I, if we are never to meet ? Do you know, Jean," continued Felicia, " that Mr. Travers has the most fascinating friend whom he keeps all to himself ?

And I am for ever bothering to see him." " I think I can understand wanting to keep a friend to one's self," responded Jean, in quiet tone. " Now why ? Do tell us," asked Felicia. " Perhaps because one is afraid of losing part of them." " I see," said Mrs. Doray, as if some problem had been solved. " You mean then, that Mr. STUCCO. 10 Travers won't introduce me to the Norseman for fear he should like me best ? " " No, not that ; only, I think we have niches for our friends and we do not care to place different friends in the same niche." " Yes," replied Travers, " that is about it. But all the same," (turning to Mrs. Doray) " I am per fectly willing for you to meet." " Who may the Norseman be?" queried Har mon. " Ah ! that I cannot tell you," replied Felicia, " all I know is that I have often met Mr. Travers with a tall man, who answers to the name of ' Gresham.' " " Gresham !

" repeated Jean, " is that Lawrence Gresham, the artist ? " " The same," answered Travers, "do you know his work ? " " Yes, and I love his pictures. I had often wondered why no painter had ever devoted himself to the lovely bits one so constantly sees in London, and then — quite by chance — I saw some of Mr. Gresham's work, and I felt that there was one man who realised that London was beautiful. After that," she continued, " I found his studio was quite close to us, and that — without knowing who he was — I had often met him. He is tall, is he not ; with fair moustache and an ' imperial,' and eyes like a woman's . . . ." STUCCO. 11 " I should fancy you must have painted his portrait," interrupted her brother, as he glanced disapproval across the table. " Yes, that is Gresham," responded Travers, ignoring the interruption.

" I expect you would get on together if you admire his paintings. They are quite a style by themselves." " Now," broke in Felicia, " I know Mr. Gres ham's style ! To begin with, then, I must admire his pictures (unfortunately I don't recollect ever to have seen any) ; tell me, Jean, what else I must do?" " I should suggest that, to begin with, you should be sincere, and next that you should say exactly what you really thought about his work. But," she broke off, " I am judging of Mr. Gresham's character entirely by his appearance." " You have arrived at a very fair estimate, not withstanding," put in Travers, " I think you and Mrs. Doray must come to tea at my rooms, and I will try and induce Gresham to make a fourth. How about Monday ? " he asked, turning to Felicia. "Well, I was going to some flower show, but that does not signify.

I can very well do both. Miss Harmon might go direct to your rooms. Would that do, Jean ? " she asked. " Yes, I should be very pleased to come." Later, in the drawing-room, Felicia confided to STUCCO. Travers : " Miss Harmon, you know, has quite the oddest ideas. To look at her you would not think so ; she looks much like other girls. But she believes in all sorts of theories, utterly imprac ticable all of them, but, all the same, most interest ing. Of course she does not believe in Church and that sort of thing, but there is nothing out of the way in that. It is on social questions she has the most peculiar ideas. In fact, I do not quite know what she thinks about marriage. She advocates platonic friendship, says it is perfectly possible to have men friends just as it is to have women friends.

For my part, I never went in for women friends, only, I know I much prefer men," and she laugh ingly glanced at Travers. "Besides," she continued " women talk like that till they have been in love and then they say no more about it." "They find being 'in love' better than being friends, eh ? " " Much better ! " responded Felicia, with em phasis, and continued volubly, " she does not mind where she goes alone, or what she does. She is awfully poor, you know, and I believe she even goes to the Pit by herself, too ; Dick Harmon, I am, sure, would not be seen there." (Travers here made a mental comment.) " I admire women like that, but — I don't under stand them." Just then young Harmon came up, and Travers STUCCO. 13 crossed the room to where Norah Doray was standing by the fire. He wished to talk to Miss Harmon, and instead, discussed forthcoming pieces at the theatres, pro blematic dances, and the last novel, with his host's sister.

He reflected as he walked home, that he had been invited to meet Jean Harmon, and that he had not addressed two words to her during the evening. He concluded that it is a mistake to tell people they are asked for each other's benefit as, under those circumstances, they usually avoid each other, or mutually each finds the other rather dull. After which reflection he dismissed the evening from his thoughts, and wrote off the first scene of his new play, which was to be neither comic nor tragic — simply real. '4

Chapter II

Walks life's muddy ways Barefooted ; preaches, sometimes prays, Is modern, is advanced, has views." Mrs. Hubert Bland. It could not have been much after four, when Jean Harmon mounted to the third floor of the Edgware Chambers. She read Travers' name on the brass above the bell, that responded clamorously to her touch. She was shown into Travers' study by a youth, who corresponded to no class of manservant she had ever seen. Travers rose from his writing-table, and, with his hand extended, came towards her. " I am so glad you have arrived first ; come and sit down here by the window," and he drew a chair forward. " I am afraid I am rather early, but, coming by omnibus, I can never calculate quite how long I shall take." " That is altogether too much of a calculation for me. I never try it."

STUCCO. 15 " No, you men go in hansoms, and we ride on omnibuses," she said with a laugh. " I plead guilty ; I must do life comfortably." Jean glanced round the room, and, looking directly at Travers, she said : " You know how to do it too." " Well, I think it comes pretty naturally to most of us — that knowledge." " Yes, it is knowledge of discomfort we have to learn," and Jean buried her face amongst a bowl of chrysanthemum blossoms ; " I just love the smell of chrysanthemums," she said. " But they have no scent," objected Travers. " No, not scent, only a delicious fragrance of Autumn, a kind of essence of mists, of dry, dead leaves, and rich, ploughed earth." "That is imagination ; I have never discovered it." "Ah," replied Jean, quietly, "then it must be imagination." Travers glanced at his visitor, but she was not looking at him.

( " May I look at your books ?" she asked, at the same time rising to her feet. " Do. Are you fond of books ? " " It is a pleasure to me just to read the titles," she responded, in answer, as her eyes roved over the backs before her. "I suppose you read a great deal?" asked Travers. STUCCO. "Sometimes, yes; but I am rather busy ; I illus trate, and it takes up one's time." " That is why you understood Gresham's paintings ? " " No ; it was not as pictures I liked them, rather as words." " Because they expressed thought ? " Travers asked. " Yes ; and thought is the revelation of the in dividual, and therein lies the meaning of all work." "You, that is to say, admire art purely as the expression of the artist." M Yes ; I can see landscapes and sea-pieces for myself, but it is through the medium of the painter that I see them with the added beauty of a new conception."

" Do you feel that in Gresham's work ? " " I realise ' soul ' in his painting ; every Londoner sees what he sees, but it is his individuality which transforms the common-place into a poem-picture for others to read ; that is why I call his paintings « words.' " " They appeal to very few." "That in itself almost proves that they are worth much ; the most popular things are never the best ; the best comes from within, and the popular is viewed from without." " Do you judge of books in that way too, or were you only broadly generalising? " STUCCO. 17 " I judge of books, of people, of everything in that light. The great always have, and still must, stand alone ; they are not understood ; their 'words ' are the words of the future." " But I think you are generalising too widely. Look at the style of books, the plays, the music, that is appreciated in the present day, does not that prove that ' the best ' may sometimes be popular ?

" " Popular in the sense that it is run after, yes. But how many people do you think, who rave about Wagner, understand him, and how many people who go to ' The Connoisseur ' appreciate the motive, the meaning of the play, and do not rather go because it is ' the thing y' know ' ? " " Yes ; but I still think you are severe. You must own that the tone of popular criticism is not what it was a few years ago ; it is more discrimi nating, more intellectual, better in every way." " More cultivated certainly, but I attribute much of that to the extensive reading of reviews by able critics, and not so much to the genuine criticism of the individual. So much of what is made to look like solid stone is mere stucco, we have yet to reach the reality." They both turned as the door opened, and Lawrence Gresham stepped from the dark passage into the sun-lighted room.

To Jean he seemed quite familiar. She had often seen him pass their c STUCCO. house. He was not a man to be seen and forgotten, and besides that she knew him through his paintings. It came quite naturally to her to hold out her hand to him as they were introduced, and to say : " I am so glad to meet you, I have often wished I knew you.'' Gresham looked at the woman before him. With his quick painter's glance, he took in the shape of her face. In the firm mouth he read determination, which, somehow, was to a certain extent contra dicted in the over wistful expression of the eyes, which, being green, irresistibly suggested the sea. The shape of the eyelids gave, even when she smiled, a look of sadness to the face. She was fairly tall, but not slender : her well-built figure denoted strength, and about the clasp of her hand there was a manly grasp that pleased him.

" This," he responded, "is only seeing, but I trust it may lead to knowing." Then, turning to Travers, he said, " This time the Jew stumped up, he agrees to sixty for the two." " Will you take it ? " " Probaby, ' il faut manger,' et cetera." And again the door opened and Felicia Doray, all apologies, stepped in. " My dear Colin, I trust I have not delayed the feast. I am simply satiated with chrysanthemums STUCCO. 19 as large as shields, and fashions as far-fetched as they are frightful. And you here too, Jean," turning to Miss Harmon, " it is really most in excusable my being so late. I crave forgiveness on all hands." " Here, Felice," said Travers, "is your Norseman : Mr. Gresham, Mrs. Doray." " He is very unconventional, isn't he ? " pleaded Mrs. Doray, of the Norseman. " He thinks he is," replied Gresham, as, with a smile, he looked at Travers.

"Do you know," continued Felicia, "Mr. Travers has guarded you as if you were an Egyptian manuscript. I have often asked him to bring you to see me — but no." She raised her hands with a gesture that served for the completion of incompleted sentences. " Felice," commanded Travers, " you must do the honours," and he placed a chair conveniently beside the tea-table. " Say, who takes sugar ? " and Felicia poised in the air diminutive sugar-tongs. " Colin, of course, and Mr. Gresham ? " she asked. " No thank you." " Ah, Jean, I remember your peculiarity ; no sugar, no cream. You just like to be different to other people, now don't you? " " To some people, certainly," replied Jean, readily, and then laughed. c — STUCCO. 20 " Now, Mr. Gresham," she began, " tell me, you are a Scandinavian, are you not."

" My mother was a Norwegian, and her name," he replied, " was Julie Fischer." Mrs. Doray, nothing disconcerted, continued, — " How interesting ; I ahvays told Mr. Travers you were like a ' Norseman,' and ought to act in one of Ibsen's plays." " It was really most discerning," responded Gresham, " I must think about offering myself as actor the next time Ibsen-drama is to the fore." Jean looked at him as he stood leaning against the corner of the mantel-piece, balancing an absurd little spoon on his first finger. " Give me due warning," put in Travers, "that I may secure a seat. You would make a fine actor ! " he added, playfully. " I suppose, Jean," asked Felicia, " that your brother has gone." " He gave you his last evening," she replied. " How you must miss him. Sailors are so de lightful."

" I miss him very much and Mic still more.' " Is ' Mic ' a dog ? " asked Travers. "Of course not," answered Felicia, "'Mic' is Michael, Miss Harmon's nephew, and a very im portant personage, I assure you ; a sort of demon and darling combined." STUCCO. 21 " Does he play in the Barton Gardens a good deal ? " asked Gresham. "Yes, constantly," answered Jean. " I know the little chap then, and recollect having seen you with him. On one or two occasions I have made so bold as to speak to him, but with that strange ' hold-offishness ' of children, he has never responded to my advances." " But he has told me of them afterwards," Jean responded, in extenuation of the boy's behaviour. " I assure you, he looks upon you with the same admiration and awe with which he regards the post man and milkman."

" I see, there are rivals in the field," and Gres ham laughed, a laugh that made Jean feel happy. Jean shortly afterwards announced that she must be going. " Going, my dear Jean ! " ejaculated Felicia, " why I have only just come." " I daresay," laughed Jean, " but I have been here a long time." " It is just because we mentioned Mic, now isn't it ? " " Well, as you ask me — yes." " I knew it was, it is ridiculous how you devote yourself to that boy ; do stay a little longer." " Yes, do ! " echoed Travers. " I'm afraid I musn't, thank you, good-bye," and she held out a hand. STUCCO. As she was prepared to shake hands with Gresham, he put down his cup and suggested that, as they were both destined for the same locality, they might as well go together. To which Jean agreed. " How mean of Jean Harmon to carry off the Norseman," said Felicia Doray, really vexed that she had seen so little of Travers' friend.

" I should say he carried her off," Colin remarked. " Oh ! it is all the same. Well, what do you think of her ? " Felicia asked. " She interests me. Do you know, she is not quite the sort of woman I understand by ' ad' vanced,' she is — well, more womanly." " Now that is precisely the mistake you men make about advanced women. You think they al wear divided skirts, cut their hair short, and wear outrageous boots. That is quite an obsolete notion. The modern independent is always well turned out. She adapts herself to any position, and some how or other it is just those women who are bringing about a new social era. Jean is the sort of woman who might do something wildly unconventional. I feel it. I do not understand her, but I know that she is of the nouveau siecle, and we STUCCO. 23 frivolous women who are merely ' up-to-date ' will die out with the century."

As Felicia finished speaking, she looked into the glowing hollows of the fire. The early darkness of October evenings had crept into the room, from which the sun-set light had died away. " Why I object to Miss Harmon being called ' advanced,' is because the very word conjures up some masculine anomaly, whereas . . . ." " Whereas ? " queried Felicia, " Miss Harmon is just real," finished Travers. " Yes," said Felicia, and the word had the value of a full stop. Then she continued, " We have acted to you, played for you, laughed for you — yes, and cried too ; we have been artificial, false, untrue ; and now you are beginning to see the falseness of it all and to look for the ' real.' " " Felice," said Travers, in kindly, reproachful tone, " Felice, what is it ? " " It is that I am tired. The chrysanthemums were unreal.

The people were unreal. Then I meet people like your Norseman and that woman, and I know that I, too, am unreal. It is just horrid ! " Travers leant forward, placed one hand over Felicia's two, as they lay clasped on her lap, and then he bent over and kissed her. " We like the unreal best," he murmured. " Yes, the others are too good for you now, but STUCCO. some day you will learn to love them as they deserve to be loved." (She looked at him reproach fully, and there were tears in her eyes.) " You would never have kissed Miss Harmon as you kiss me." " Why, Felice, I do not know her." " It is not that. Had you known her for two years, as you have known me, you would not have done it then." Travers realised the truth of the remark. "Don't you like me to kiss you?" he asked, as with real concern he looked into her pretty blue eyes.