Andria

Chapter I

Peter Bent stood before Andria's portrait and mused. ' If I could only paint like that always,' he said to himself, ' the confounded superfine critic could never talk of my bourgeois art. There 's feeling for you ! there 's delicate brush-work ! there 's tone ! there 's — well — there 's inspiration.' In truth it was a charming portrait of a beautiful bright-haired girl, and Bent had excuses for his elation. The vivid passions and emotions stirring within him all sprang from the portrait. For years he had turned out the machine-made pictures which, by process of popular selection, and the medium of copyright, drift into the oleographic reproduction of the lodging-house drawing-room. But there was nothing machine-made in Andria's portrait. 'I didn't think it was in you, candidly I didn't,' said Straight the R.A. when he saw it.

Bent had smiled. Secretly he considered Straight a patronising old impostor, but he always concealed convictions of this kind. There was not an ounce of open envy in his character. His tolerant good-nature (on the surface) had made him popular in the world A ANDRIA 2 of artists and he was moving steadily towards his haven in the Royal Academy. ' Peter Bent, R.A.', shone clear and luminous on the foreground of the future. Whilst the studios of far more brilliant artists were piled high with their unsold works Peter Bent's found a constant market. No name gave greater lustre to the big Christmas publications. He exploited the oily sentimental bias, which the big public mistake for a love of art, and to which the illustrated Christmas numbers, with unerring skill and knowledge, successfully pander.

The copyright of some of his worst pictures brought him in annually sums which the proprietor of a world-wide quack medicine would not have despised. When the country visitors see his work at the Academy, hung always prominently on the line, they exclaim, ' that 's a Peter Bent ! ' in the same tone of awe as they might say, 'that's a Rembrandt or a Vandyke.' In vain the superfine sniff and sneer. Peter paints the smug stolid domestic picture the British public loves. ' If ninety per cent, of the population worship the commonplace, why should not I profit by it if I can?' This is Bent's excuse to himself when The Wasp abuses him. For to the ' artistic temperament ' Bent added ata vistic business instincts. Peter Bent senior, now six years dead, the inventor of the famous ' Milo Corset,' the ' mainstay of the corpulently smart,' had set his son an example from which he had not failed to ANDRIA 3 profit.

The father discovered what the public wanted in corsets, the son found what it chiefly desired in pictures. But once Peter Bent had his dreams like the rest of the world. Big ambitions dogged his steps at the outset and sent him to literature for inspira tions. His ' Childe Ronald to the Dark Tower came,' painted before he left the Academy Schools, and which nearly won (and some thought deserved), the Travelling Studentship, 'showed,' said a thoughtful and competent critic, 'imaginative force of a high and original order.' But although hung well at the Academy neither the public nor the press took the trouble even to sniff at it. ' Childe Ronald ' came back to the painter's then modest studio, 'off' the Fulham Road. His father eyed it contemptuously and said, ' Peter ! what the public want is the " Milo Corset !

" You take the hint, my lad.' And so Peter did, but under a slight skirmish of protest. ' The public never heard of " Childe Ronald " nor the " Dark Tower," ' said Peter. ' Sure I never did ! ' cried his father. ' Indeed,' retorted the son, ' yet Browning's poem is supposed to be popular.' ' Me and your mother is the public,' replied Bent senior. ' Remember that we like something we can understand. What d'you call him a "child" for, when he 's a big young man with a long sword, playing a tune on a trumpet.' Then the young painter perceived the aptness of ANDRIA this criticism as well as his own commercial mistake. Was not ' the public ' of his own household ? 'If,' said his father, 'you mean to make a living out o' your business, don't do that sort o' thing ! ' Peter Bent endeavoured to defend ' Childe Ronald,' and said glib things, as became a promising Academy student fresh from the president's lectures, on 'Art for Art's Sake ' and ' Art and its Higher Aims.' But his father rudely interrupted his eloquence and said, ' That 's only " patter," and " patter " don't pay 'xcept in advertisement.

Don't you run away with the idea that what a chap reads in books, or what his teachers tell him, helps him to understand what the public want.' And although, for a show, young Bent stood to his guns, talked of ' the nobler aims of art,' and slightly exasperated his father as a practical corsetier in consequence, he felt all the time that the old man was right. ' Ought an artist to try to please himself or the public ? ' young Bent inquired, with that proud in flection of voice that answers its own question. ' The public, to be sure, if he 's a man of business,' replied the old gentleman scornfully. ' Where should I be, where would your mother be, where would you be, I should like to know, if I'd made stays to please myself?' This conversation had never been forgotten by Peter Bent. From that day forward, and so long as Providence spared him his parents as valuable Philistine guides to the public taste, he never chose a subject for a picture without consulting them.

His mother was an invaluable counsellor in aiding him ANDRIA 5 to exploit the 'domestic sentimental' side, for she was born with what she described as ' a feeling heart,' whilst his father enabled him to keep this form of art within the strictly conventional lines necessary for its success. Thus, with unfaltering, vulgar brush, Peter Bent learned to please the public whilst he almost lost the ambition to please himself. But as Peter Bent grew older, and the sober tints of middle life commenced to enfold him, and his parents and the Milo Corset were forgotten, he reached a point in his development in which some of his higher and earlier aspirations were rekindled. To make money and please the dull at times scarcely satisfied his ambitions. For the force of circumstance, or, in other words, the sacred hunger for gold, brought him into close association with some beautiful young souls.

He met them in his own lucrative and fashionable ' School of Art.' For Bent opened his studio twice a week to pupils at terms which excluded all save wealthy amateurs. His favourite pupil, but scarcely his most promising, was Andria Vincent. Andria's drawing was not strong, nor was her industry so great as her ambition, yet Bent thought her perfect. He had made dozens of studies of her lovely face before painting the superb portrait that stood on his easel. ' Andria ! ' There was, he thought, a restful murmur in the name that epitomised what she was as well as what she looked. 'She is,' said he, gazing at her portrait, 'one of those impalpable forces which mould the will of men. Does she not make an atmosphere for herself, ANDRIA 6 for me, and for most other men and women of delicate fibre whom she sails past with the full sweep of her gracious wings ? ' Thus mentally Bent apostrophised the picture. ' You must be in love with her ! ' cried the vulgar monitor of his actions, who sat in the recesses of his being, and dragged Peter's feet to the ground when ever his aspirations desired a romantic flight. ' Are you not a little old for that kind of thing ? ' 'Peace, fool!' retorted Peter's other self; for in his newly discovered moods the two often exchanged insults ; ' this isn't love, it is ' The definition baffled him.

Yet when Peter gasped for the unborn word which was not ' love,' although of love's wide family, his monitor answered with the cynic's grin : ' You are quite too old to marry Andria.' 'Do you suppose I imagine she would think of marrying me ? ' retorted Bent. ' I 'm sure she would not,' replied the voice. ' Are you the man to inspire a romantic passion ? You are short, you are rather stout, some might call you plain. Still you possess (together with the business instincts inherited from your father) what your mother used to call " a feeling heart." Perhaps Andria might be satisfied with that.' But here Peter Bent lit a pipe and determined to discuss the matter no further with his tormentor, fearing that, if he talked of love with Andria, she might never come to his art class again. Already he was aware that the other pupils ex changed significant smiles whenever he spent more than twenty minutes correcting her defective drawing, ANDRIA 7 or insisted on placing her easel within the most con venient distance of the model to the detriment of the other students with prior claims of place. But he was willing to purchase the pleasure of Andria's society at a far higher price than that of a little easy ridicule.

Chapter II

Peter Bent, the painter, had every excuse for being in love with Andria, as well as for loving her with diffidence. There was at least one rich rival in the field; but Miss Vincent had just come under the restless intellectual spell which frequently takes possession of young women of active mind and un satisfied aspirations, and sets up for them intellectual and moral ideals such as no ordinary mortal with a taste for self-indulgence and the usual trifling social equipment can hope to satisfy. Unfortunately, too, as Bent half guessed, Andria had assimilated a num ber of tiresome views on the equality of men and women in questions of conduct which have upset the comfortable and old-fashioned notions of the relations of the sexes planned for the convenience of the male, and converted women into arbitrary critics of man's proneness to transgress.

Whilst these opinions might be a protection against the ordinary, intelligent com monplace lover, like Reggie Carter, who had £9000 a year, and followed Andria about like a good-looking, reticent, adoring ' friend of the family,' they were scarcely an encouragement to himself. Still the painter was not without hope. Did not Andria sit at his feet to learn how to mix her colours ? At all events, he persuaded himself that he had more in common with her, though she was a brilliant ' sportswoman,' than ANDRIA 9 the young gentlemen, her brother's friends, who quarrelled for her programme whenever she went to a dance. But Bent was a cautious and business-like lover. He meant to marry Andria if he could, but decided life would not be insupportable if he could not. This he regarded as the philosophic spirit. 'People ought to be happy and wholesome,' said Andria, at the University Match at Lord's. Her brother, Arthur Vincent, was a ' Blue.' Peter Bent had just learned that a ' Blue ' is a subtle admixture of the athletic undergraduate and the demigod. ' Few of us,' he thought, ' appreciate the glories conquerable in fields of enterprise beyond the regions of our own ambitions.' But he kept the sententious reflection to himself, for fear of boring Andria. ' But what 's the value of a " Blue " to your brother, Miss Vincent, after he leaves college ? ' he asked, the unconscious spirit of commercialism prompting the question. 'I cannot quite understand why the athletic undergraduate should long for the distinction with an ardour that men of my profession scarcely feel for the R.A.-ship.' ' I 'm sorry for Arthur's sake,' said Andria laughing, ' that there isn't a pension attached to it.

Still they do think highly of it at the universities.' It was at this point she told Bent that she ' liked people to be happy and wholesome.' For Andria at that time worshipped her brother, and resented every suggestion that threatened to depreciate his prowess. Bent was too wise to argue that there existed no logical association between health and happiness and ANDRIA an admiration for 'Blues.' For his sole excuse for sitting on the drag at her side was his complete ignorance of university cricket, on which Andria proposed to enlighten him. ' You must come and see the match,' she had said, ' and let me tell you all about it.' ' I should like it above all things,' said Bent en thusiastically. ' I have always longed to see a great match at Lord's.' ' Did not you ever play cricket ? ' she asked. ' I never played any games.' ' What a pity ! ' ' I mean, seriously,' he replied hastily, ' as they play them now.

My ignorance is only relative, you know.' This conversation had taken place a few days pre viously at one of Bent's ' At homes.' He always gave eight in the season, and took care they should be fully reported in the papers. Celebrities were quite common in his spacious studio. He found it very pleasant to sit in the warm sun shine on the drag, although Mr. Carter was on the other side. His place was slightly below Andria's, and he could watch her face changing in the excite ment of the game. A soft breeze fluttered across Lord's, rustling the leaves of the trees behind them. The great circle of spectators was bright with splashes of colour and flickering sunshades. 'You are quite right, Miss Vincent,' said Bent meekly. ' To succeed in being happy and wholesome is to solve the most difficult problem of life.' Fortunately for him, Andria was too absorbed to ANDRIA 11 seek his meaning.

For a wicket had fallen, and Arthur was next in. Mrs. Vincent, a handsome, portly lady, whose figure reminded Bent of a once popular advertisement of the now long-forgotten ' Milo Corset,' faced the ordeal calmly. ' It 's Arthur's turn now, Andria,' she said. 'Yes,' said her daughter nervously, whilst Bent watched anxiety spreading over her face and tighten ing the curving lines of her lovely mouth. Under her blueand -white muslin dress he fancied he could almost hear her warm heart beating with excitement. ' I wonder if he is as nervous as you are ? ' he asked. ' Worse — a hundred times. Here he comes.' ' What a splendid young man ! ' said Bent. ' I should like to paint him.' ' I wish you would. But there ! — he 's going to bat.' If her brother had been about to confront a cannon ball, Andria's face could scarcely have been more solemn. ' He 's as nervous as he can be,' she said. ' I can see by the way he is standing.

I feel he is going to get out. He always does when mother and I come to see him. He says we make the ball bump on a "plumb" wicket.' Bent did not ask what a ' plumb wicket ' might be. He was catching some of her anxiety, and when Arthur drove the next ball to the boundary with a grand sweep of his splendidly balanced frame the artist's voice helped to swell the volume of applause. ' A splendid stroke ! ' cried Andria, the colour rushing triumphantly to her face. 'Magnificent!' exclaimed Bent, hot with the in tensity of his sympathy. ANDRIA 12 ' He 's getting " set," ' said Andria. ' Mother ! we haven't brought him bad luck this time.' ' I hope not, dear ! ' ' Arthur will be all right if he isn't in a hurry to score,' said Mr. Carter, a sunburnt young gentleman with a large bunch of cornflowers in his new frock coat, who was at Arthur's college, and a year his senior. ' I think he is " set," now,' said Peter Bent, to show his acquaintance with the terminology of the game.

But the capricious providence that presides over cricket decided that it was not to be the brilliant Arthur's day. After three 'beautiful' (the adjective was supplied by Andria) 'boundary hits,' and three singles, a fieldsman whom Carter described as ' the cleverest slip at either 'Varsity ' dexterously caught him, and the spectators roared applause. ' What a misfortune ! ' exclaimed Bent, as he saw Andria's face cloud over with acute disappointment, whilst her brother walked from the wicket in resigned acquiescence with the decrees of fate. ' I bet Arthur 's pretty sick,' said his friend to Andria. ' I hoped he was in for a " century." ' ' I wish he had been,' she answered dolefully. ' He is sure to do better next innings,' said Bent with the air and conviction of a connoisseur. 'It's better than being "clean bowled,"' said Andria. ' Or even than " playing on," as he did last year.' ' Much better,' said the sympathetic Bent. ' He got out very nicely with that clever " slip." ' Then the university man frowned at him.

ANDRIA 13 Seen many 'Varsity matches, Mr. Bent ? ' he asked. No. This is the first one.' Oh!' Mr. Carter's contemptuous ' Oh ' brought Andria to the rescue. 'Can't you see what an intelligent interest Mr. Bent takes in the game ? ' she said. ' Are you a " Blue," Mr. Carter ? ' asked the painter, hoping he were not. ' No,' said the young man. 'Mr. Carter just missed his cricket "Blue,"' ex plained Andria. ' They put in Burt the fast bowler in his place at the last moment. Arthur says it 's a mistake and that Burt is no good on these fast wickets.' ' Can't say I think him very dangerous on a sticky one,' said Carter. ' All I hope is that the 'Varsity won't suffer from the choice, and that Burt will "come off." But I shouldn't be surprised myself if he lost us the match.' ' Dear ! dear ! dear ! ' said Bent sympathetically.

But the great Arthur, like a god from high Olympus, deigned to come amongst his friends on the coach, whilst all the other spectators in the enclosure envied them their prize, and sat like an ordinary mortal with a cloud on his brow, to be petted and admired. ' 0 Arthur, what bad luck ! ' cried Andria. ' My luck 's always bad,' said Arthur. ' Any other man would have been let off' ' What 's the bowling like ? ' asked Mr. Carter. ' Piffle ! ' said Arthur contemptuously. ' Let me introduce you to Mr. Bent, Arthur,' said his sister. ANDRIA 14 Then Arthur extended a powerful brown hand and said, ' How d' you do, Mr. Bent ? ' ' Mr. Bent has never seen a 'Varsity match before, Vincent,' said Mr. Carter. ' It is quite true,' said Bent meekly, in answer to Arthur's look of wonder. 'Your sister has been acting as cricket interpreter for me.

She tells me you have a very strong eleven.' ' The strongest since Todd's year,' said Arthur, with the conviction of perfect knowledge. Then he turned his handsome sun-tanned face on the painter, and, guessing from the expression he found there that the cricket enthusiasm of his new acquaintance was a fictitious emotion, said : 'Andria took me to the Academy yesterday and showed me your picture of the Girl with her Dolls.' ' " Good-night, Dollie " — eh ? ' suggested Carter. ' Yes,' said Arthur, ' I don't pretend to know any thing about painting, but I thought yours was " ripping." ' Peter Bent felt he liked Arthur. ' Thank you, very much,' said Bent, laughing good humouredly. ' My relation to cricket is like yours to painting. I don't pretend to know anything about it, but I enjoyed seeing you play immensely.' Then Arthur laughed too. 'I only wish,' he said, 'I had given you a better opportunity.' But another man's stumps had been reached by the ball, and Arthur looked grave. 'Four wickets for 75.

What a poor show for a team like ours ! Luckily we 've no tail to speak of.' ' How about Burt and Jopping ? ' asked Carter. ANDRIA 15 ' Even they knock up runs sometimes,' said Arthur. ' Yes they fluke a bit when runs are not wanted. To-day they'll both be in a blue funk. Jopping's defence is all gaps and Burt has no defence at all.' ' Every one is in a funk at the 'Varsity match,' said Arthur. ' I couldn't see the first over Taylor bowled me, thanks partly to the moving background of top hats in the pavilion.' But the new man began to make runs carefully. The score went steadily up and Arthur and Andria began to look happier. But Carter with his eyes fixed on Andria felt he ' didn't care a hang if they lost the match.' ' Andria has made a painting of me, Mr. Bent,' said Arthur. ' Did she show it to you ? ' 'No; I should like to see it.' ' The drawing would horrify you,' said Andria. ' It is the image of Arthur,' said Mrs. Vincent proudly. ' I shall take it back to college and hang it up in my rooms.' ' That is the best place for it,' said Andria. ' There will be no critics there like Mr. Bent to crush you.' The painter smiled, remembering how his other pupils suspected him of finding ' a certain feeling ' in her work which no one else ever saw. ' I 'm not so sure of that,' said Arthur. ' Some men talk a lot of art at the 'Varsity.' 'Wifflyn, Upshott, Winter, Byrling and all that crew,' said Mr. Carter. ' They all talk rot.' 'They fling stones at Ruskin and even the Royal Academy,' said Arthur slyly. ' The profane rebels,' said Bent, laughing.

ANDRIA 'Some of the younger dons encourage 'em, you know,' explained Arthur. 'They give each other teas, and the ladies of the place, who are keen on culture, turn up too.' 'I don't think it is quite nice of the dons,' said Mrs. Vincent. 'There are æsthetic teas in London even now at the ninth hour,' said Bent, 'at which the Royal Academy is given to the dogs, and impressionism, " Whistlerism," and newer isms of which I never heard are set up in the place of our noble British orthodoxy.' ' Orthodoxy must learn tolerance,' said Andria, but with most of her attention given to the cricket. 'In the name of orthodoxy,' said the painter, 'I claim tolerance.' ' Ah ! you are always tolerant, Mr. Bent.' 'Perhaps, in my case, it only means a decay of enthusiasm,' said he. 'A man can't always be "keen,"' said Arthur, glancing at Bent and wondering if he should ever look quite as old. ' I 'm sure, Arthur dear,' said his mother, ' you will always be " keen," as you call it.

Your father was, to the last day of his life.' ' It 's easy enough when things don't bore you,' said Arthur philosophically, but intent on the bats men. ' I wish Taylor had given me a few of those "long hops." They'll take him off next over if they've any sense. Anyhow if they mean to get a wicket before lunch, they must " buck up." ' But the sunny vacant space of the turf, and the shifting white-clad figures with the thick border of ANDRIA 17 spectators began to half-hypnotise Peter Bent. The faint drowsiness took the angles off the spurious eagerness he had caught from Andria. Lord's might be the fervid focus of concentrated cricket excitement, but he had slipped out of the circle. The thirteen active young gentlemen in the field might mean what Arthur called 'keenness,' but overhead stretched the warm sky, with its haze of London dust, haunted by the remote screech of ghostly locomotives.

There was no 'keenness' there, only the indifference of nature to the affairs of men, manifest in the battalions of soft curled clouds moving eastward in majestic procession. ' What a magnificent artificial excitement cricket is ! ' exclaimed Bent after a minute's cloud-gazing. ' Depends on the sort o' sportsman,' observed Mr. Carter. 'Not nearly so artificial as painting, Mr. Bent,' said Arthur. ' It 's as real as the circulation of the blood.' ' As real as Use, then,' answered the painter. ' Why ! I 've known men to secretly weep in the pavilion because they haven't scored in a 'Varsity match,' said Arthur. ' Poor fellows ! ' said the earnest Andria. ' Still, Arthur, it's absurd to compare an amusement to a splendid art like painting.' ' That depends on the painter,' said Bent. ' And on the sportsman,' insisted Carter. 'Tested by the volume of popular interest,' said Arthur satirically, ' I maintain that cricket is of more importance than painting.

As a philosopher, how ever much I regret it, I cannot be blind to the fact.' n ANDRIA 18 Then Bent, interpreting Andria's smile and her brother's affected solemnity, suspected the young men were chaffing him. ' Your logic,' said the painter, ' is flawless. But I can't help thinking that a prolonged attendance at cricket matches — as a spectator, I mean — must end in deadening the intellect.' ' Depends on the intellect,' said Carter. ' And on the class of cricket,' said Arthur. 'How would you like to spend eighteen hours a week looking at cricket, Miss Vincent ? ' Bent asked. ' I might endure it with patience if any one was playing in whom I was interested,' she answered. 'I would sooner see a bad cricket match than a room full of bad pictures,' said Carter ; 'wouldn't you, Miss Vincent ? ' ' I have never seen a gallery quite full of pictures that I thought entirely bad,' said Andria. ' The Wasp says there isn't a decent one in this year's Academy,' said Carter.

He had been watching his opportunity to drag in The Wasp, for The Wasp had scoffed with bitterness at both Bent's works. But the painter had no difficulty in pardoning the young man's jealousy. ' The gentleman who does the art notices for The Wasp was lately a reporter on a country paper,' said Bent. 'His name is MacTavish. He knows less of painting than I do of cricket. His only qualifications are impudence and fluency. Beauchamp Pettit told me of him.' 'That's rough on the artists,' said Arthur. 'But then reporters generally do " rot " a man. It 's their business. But there ! Merton 's out and it 's lunch- ANDRIA 19 time. I'll look you up again after lunch, mother, and will bring you round some of our men. You '11 like them. There isn't an ounce of side in the team.' Then Arthur departed to feast with the other young gods of cricket whilst the servants spread out Mrs. Vincent's repast.

Thanks to Andria the guests all became very merry. Even Mr. Carter, growing affable under the genial influence of the moment and the champagne, deigned to smoke with approval one of Bent's cigars. When he discovered that the painter had an appointment at four o'clock, the Oxford man became almost cordial and proposed to ' look him up ' at his studio. Andria never forgot that university cricket match. It was one of those days which, viewed retrospectively, seemed to dovetail the separate fragments of her life. Walking across the turf in the interval between the innings with her stalwart brother, the Dean of Brazenknob stopped the undergraduate to discuss the prospects of the game. The don was accompanied by a tall pale thin man of studious brow, and at a hint from the Dean's bushy eyebrow, Arthur presented them to his sister.

Andria thought the great don a robust clerical gentleman with a patronising manner, but the strange, pale, abstracted gaze of his companion deeply interested her, al though she exchanged only a few commonplace remarks with him before the bell to clear the ground sent them back to their places. ' Who was the tall thin man, Arthur ? ' she asked. ' Louis Otway, the philosopher,' he said. ' What ! the author of Society and Civilisation . ' she asked excitedly. ANDRIA 20 ' Yes. He was a Fellow of Brazenknob, and has a thundering reputation. He is a sort of " up-to-date " Schopenhauer. The 'Varsity's proud of him and expects great things. But he 's not a little bit of a sportsman. Sport with him means " the cult of the animal in man." To add to his fascinations, he 's a woman-hater. You don't catch him drinking tea with the wives of the heads of colleges, so he 's their pet prize.' ' I wish I had known who it was sooner.' ' You don't imagine he would talk philosophy with you, surely!' ' But the Olympians do come down from the hill tops, sometimes,' said Andria, as she left her brother at the entrance to the pavilion, and Carter came up with her mother to escort her back to the drag.