Love Among the Artists

The Author to the Reader

Dear Sir or Madam:

Will you allow me a word of personal explanation now that I am, for the second time, offering you a novel which is not the outcome of my maturer experience and better sense? If you have read my Irrational Knot to the bitter end, you will not accuse me of mock modesty when I admit that it was very long; that it did not introduce you to a single person you could conceivably have been glad to know; and that your knowledge of the world must have forewarned you that no satisfactory ending was possible. You may, it is true, think that a story teller should not let a question of mere possibility stand between his audience and the satisfaction of a happy ending. Yet somehow my conscience stuck at it; for I am not a professional liar: I am even ashamed of the extent to which in my human infirmity I have been an amateur one. No: my stories were meant to be true ex hypothesi: the persons were fictitious; but had they been real, they must (or so I thought at the time) have acted as I said. For, if you can believe such a prodigy, I was but an infant of twenty-four when, being at that time, one of the unemployed, I sat down to mend my straitened fortunes by writing The Irrational Knot. I had done the same thing once before; and next year, still unemployed, I did it again. That third attempt of mine is about to see the light in this volume. And now a few words of warning to you before you begin it.

(1)Though the wisdom of the book is the fruit of a quarter century's experience, yet the earlier years of that period were much preoccupied with questions of bodily growth and nutrition; so that it may be as well to bear in mind that even the youngest of us may be wrong sometimes. (2)Love among the Artists is what is called a novel with a purpose; I will not undertake to say at this distant me what the main purpose was; but I remember that I had a notion of illustrating the difference between that enthusiasm for the fine arts which people gather from reading about them, and the genuine artistic faculty which cannot help creating, interpreting, and unaffectedly enjoying music and pictures. (3)This book has no winding-up at the end. Mind: it is not, as in The Irrational Knot, a case of the upshot being unsatisfactory! There is absolutely no upshot at all. The parties are married in the middle of the book; and they do not elope with or divorce one another, or do anything unusual or improper. When as much is told concerning them as seemed to me at the time germane to my purpose, the novel breaks off. But, if you prefer something more conclusive, pray do not scruple to add a final chapter of your own invention. (4)If you find yourself displeased with my story, remember that it is not I, but the generous and appreciative publisher of the book, who puts it forward as worth reading. I shall polish it up for you the best way I can, and here and there remove some absurdity out of which I have grown since I wrote it, but I cannot substantially improve it, much less make it what a novel ought to be; for I have given up novel writing these many years, during which I have lost the impudence of the apprentice without gaining the skill of the master.

There is an end to all things, even to stocks of unpublished manuscript. It may be a relief to you to know that when this "Love among the Artists" shall have run its course, you need apprehend no more furbished-up early attempts at fiction from me. I have written but five novels in my life; and of these there will remain then unpublished only the first—a very remarkable work, I assure you, but hardly one which I should be well advised in letting loose whilst my livelihood depends on my credit as a literary workman.

I can recall a certain difficulty, experienced even whilst I was writing the book, in remembering what it was about. Twice I clean forgot the beginning, and had to read back, as I might have read any other man's novel, to learn the story. If I could not remember then, how can I presume on my knowledge of the book now so far as to make promises about it? But I suspect you will find yourself in less sordid company than that into which The Irrational Knot plunged you. And I can guarantee you against any plot. You will be candidly dealt with. None of the characters will turn out to be somebody else in the last chapter: no violent accidents or strokes of pure luck will divert events from their normal course: no forger, long lost heir, detective, nor any commonplace of the police court or of the realm of romance shall insult your understanding, or tempt you to read on when you might better be in bed or attending to your business. By this time you should be eager to be at the story. Meanwhile I must not forget that it is only by your exceptional indulgence that I have been suffered to detain you so long about a personal matter; and so I thank you and proceed to business.

29, Fitzroy Square, London, W.

Book I, Chapter I

One fine afternoon during the Easter holidays, Kensington Gardens were in their freshest spring green, and the steps of the Albert Memorial dotted with country visitors, who alternately conned their guidebooks and stared up at the golden gentleman under the shrine, trying to reconcile the reality with the description, whilst their Cockney friends, indifferent to shrine and statue, gazed idly at the fashionable drive below. One group in particular was composed of an old gentleman intent upon the Memorial, a young lady intent upon her guide-book, and a young gentleman intent upon the young lady. She looked a woman of force and intelligence; and her boldly curved nose and chin, elastic step, upright carriage, resolute bearing, and thick black hair, secured at the base of the neck by a broad crimson ribbon, made those whom her appearance pleased think her strikingly handsome. The rest thought her strikingly ugly; but she would perhaps have forgiven them for the sake of the implied admission that she was at least not commonplace ; for her costume, consisting of an ample black cloak lined with white fur, and a broad hat with red feather and underbrim of sea green silk, was of the sort affected by women who strenuously cultivate themselves, and insist upon their individuality. She was not at all like her father, the grey-haired gentleman who, scanning the Memorial with eager watery eyes, was uttering occasional ejaculations of wonder at the sum it must have cost. The younger man, who might have been thirty or thereabout, was slight and of moderate stature. His fine hair, of a pale golden color, already turning to a silvery brown, curled delicately over his temples, where it was beginning to wear away. A short beard set off his features, which were those of a man of exceptional sensitiveness and refinement. He was the Londoner of the party; and he waited with devoted patience whilst his companions satisfied their curiosity. It was pleasant to watch them, for he was not gloating over her, nor she too conscious that she was making the sunshine brighter for him; and yet they were quite evidently young lovers, and as happy as people at their age know how to be.

At last the old gentleman's appetite for the Memorial yielded to the fatigue of standing on the stone steps and looking upwards. He proposed that they should find a seat and examine the edifice from a little distance.

"I think I see a bench down there with only one person on it, Mary," he said, as they descended the steps at the west side. "Can you see whether he is respectable?"

The young lady, who was shortsighted, placed a pair of glasses on her salient nose, lifted her chin, and deliberately examined the person on the bench. He was a short, thick-chested young man, in an old creased frock coat, with a worn-out hat and no linen visible. His skin, pitted by smallpox, seemed grained with black, as though he had been lately in a coal mine, and had not yet succeeded in toweling the coal-dust from his pores. He sat with his arms folded, staring at the ground before him. One hand was concealed under his arm: the other displayed itself, thick in the palm, with short fingers, and nails bitten to the quick. He was clean shaven, and had a rugged, resolute mouth, a short nose, marked nostrils, dark eyes, and black hair, which curled over his low, broad forehead.

"He is certainly not a handsome man," said the lady; "but he will do us no harm, I suppose?"

"Of course not," said the younger gentleman seriously. "But I can get some chairs, if you prefer them."

"Nonsense! I was only joking." As she spoke, the man on the bench looked up at her; and the moment she saw his eyes, she began to stand in some awe of him. His vague stare changed to a keen scrutiny, which she returned hardily. Then he looked for a moment at her dress; glanced at her companions; and relapsed into his former attitude.

The bench accommodated four persons easily. The old gentleman sat at the unoccupied end, next his daughter. Their friend placed himself between her and the man, at whom she presently stole another look. His attention was again aroused: this time he was looking at a child who was eating an apple near him. His expression gave the lady an uncomfortable sensation. The child, too, caught sight of him, and stopped eating to regard him mistrustfully. He smiled with grim good humor, and turned his eyes to the gravel once more.

"It is certainly a magnificent piece of work, Herbert," said the old gentleman. "To you, as an artist, it must be a treat indeed. I don't know enough about art to appreciate it properly. Bless us! And are all those knobs made of precious stones?"

"More or less precious: yes, I believe so, Mr. Sutherland," said Herbert, smiling.

"I must come and look at it again," said Mr. Sutherland, turning from the memorial, and putting his spectacles on the bench beside him. "It is quite a study. I wish I had this business of Charlie's off my mind."

"You will find a tutor for him without any difficulty," said Herbert. "There are hundreds to choose from in London."

"Yes; but if there were a thousand, Charlie would find a new objection to every one of them. You see the difficulty is the music."

Herbert, incommoded by a sudden movement of the strange man, got a little nearer to Mary, and replied, "I do not think the music ought to present much difficulty. Many young men qualifying for holy orders are very glad to obtain private tutorships; and nowadays a clergyman is expected to have some knowledge of music."

"Yes." said the lady; "but what is the use of that when Charlie expressly objects to clergymen? I sympathize with him there, for once. Divinity students are too narrow and dogmatic to be comfortable to live with."

"There!" exclaimed Mr. Sutherland, suddenly indignant: "you are beginning to make objections. Do you expect to get an angel from heaven to teach Charlie?"

"No, papa; but I doubt if anything less will satisfy him."

"I will speak to some of my friends about it," said Herbert. "There is no hurry for a week or two, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, none whatever," said Mr. Sutherland, ostentatiously serene after his outbreak: "there is no hurry certainly. But Charlie must not be allowed to contract habits of idleness; and if the matter cannot be settled to his liking, I shall exert my authority, and select a tutor myself. I cannot understand his objection to the man we saw at Archdeacon Downes's. Can you, Mary?"

"I can understand that Charlie is too lazy to work," said Mary. Then, as if tired of the subject, she turned to Herbert, and said, "You have not yet told us when we may come to your studio and see The Lady of Shalott. I am very anxious to see it. I shall not mind its being unfinished."

"But I shall," said Herbert, suddenly becoming self-conscious and nervous. "I fear the picture will disappoint you in any case; but at least I wish it to be as good as I can make it, before you see it. I must ask you to wait until Thursday."

"Certainly, if you like," said Mary earnestly. She was about to add something, when Mr. Sutherland, who had become somewhat restive when the conversation turned upon pictures, declared that he had sat long enough. So they rose to go; and Mary turned to get a last glimpse of the man. He was looking at them with a troubled expression; and his lips were white. She thought he was about to speak, and involuntarily retreated a step. But he said nothing: only she was struck, as he composed himself in his old attitude, by his extreme dejection.

"Did you notice that man sitting next you?" she whispered to Herbert, when they had gone a little distance.

"Not particularly."

Do you think he is very poor?"

"He certainly does not appear to be very rich," said Herbert, looking back.

"I saw a very odd look in his eyes. I hope he is not hungry."

They stopped. Then Herbert walked slowly on. "I should think not so bad as that," he said. "I don't think his appearance would justify me in offering him —"

"Oh, dear, dear me!" said Mr Sutherland. "I am very stupid."

"What is the matter now, papa?"

"I have lost my glasses. I must have left them on that seat. Just wait one moment whilst I go back for them. No, no, Herbert: I will go back myself. I recollect exactly where I laid them down. I shall be back in a moment. "

"Papa always takes the most exact notes of the places in which he puts things; and he always leaves them behind him after all," said Mary. "There is that man in precisely the same position as when we first saw him."

"No. He is saying something to your father, begging, I am afraid, or he would not stand up and lift his hat"

"How dreadful!"

Herbert laughed. "If, as you suspected, he is hungry, there is nothing very dreadful in it, poor fellow. It is natural enough."

"I did not mean that. I meant that it was dreadful to think of his being forced to beg. Papa has not given him anything— I wish he would. He evidently wants to get rid of him, and, of course, does not know how to do it. Let us go back."

"If you wish," said Herbert, reluctantly. "But I warn you that London is full of begging impostors."

Meanwhile Mr Sutherland, finding his spectacles where he had left them, took them up; wiped them with his handkerchief; and was turning away, when he found himself confronted by the strange man, who had risen.

"Sir," said the man, raising his shabby hat, and speaking in a subdued voice of remarkable power: "I have been a tutor; and I am a musician. I can convince you that I am an honest and respectable man. I am in need of employment. Something I overheard just now leads me to hope that you can assist me. I will—" Here the man, though apparently self-possessed, stopped as if his breath had failed him.

Mr. Sutherland's first impulse was to tell the stranger stiffly that he had no occasion for his services. But as there were no bystanders, and the man's gaze was impressive, he became nervous, and said hastily, "Oh, thank you: I have not decided what I shall do as yet." And he attempted to pass on.

The man immediately stepped aside, saying, "If you will favor me with your address, sir, I can send you testimonials which will prove that I have a right to seek such a place as you describe. If they do not satisfy you, I shall trouble you no further. Or if you will be so good as to accept my card, you can consider at your leisure whether to communicate with me or not."

"Certainly, I will take your card," said Mr. Sutherland, flurried and conciliatory. "Thank you. I can write to you, you, know, if I—"

"I am much obliged to you." Here he produced an ordinary visiting card, with the name "Mr. Owen Jack" engraved, and an address at Church Street, Kensington, written in a crabbed but distinct hand in the corner. Whilst Mr. Sutherland was pretending to read it, his daughter came up, purse in hand, hurrying before Herbert, whose charity she wished to forestall. Mr. Owen Jack looked at her; and she hid her purse quickly. "I am sorry to have delayed you, sir," he said. "Good morning." He raised his hat again, and walked away.

"Good morning, sir," said Mr Sutherland. "Lord bless me! that's a cool fellow," he added, recovering himself, and beginning to feel ashamed of having been so courteous to a poorly dressed stranger.

"What did he want, papa?"

"Indeed, my dear, he has shown me that we cannot be too careful of how we talk before strangers in London. By the purest accident—,the merest chance, I happened, whilst we were sitting here five minutes ago, to mention that we wanted a tutor for Charlie. This man was listening to us; and now he has offered himself for the place. Just fancy the quickness of that. Here is his card."

"Owen Jack!" said Mary. "What a name!"

"Did he overhear anything about the musical difficulty?" said Herbert. "Nature does not seem to have formed Mr Jack for the pursuit of a fine art."

"Yes: he caught up even that. According to his own account, he understands music—, in fact he can do everything."

Mary looked thoughtful. "After all," she said slowly, "he might suit us. He is certainly not handsome; but he does not seem stupid; and he would probably not want a large salary. I think Archdeacon Downes's man's terms are perfectly ridiculous."

"I am afraid it would be rather a dangerous experiment to give a responsible post to an individual whom we have chanced upon in a public park." said Herbert.

"Oh! out of the question," said Mr Sutherland. "I only took his card as the shortest way of getting rid of him. Perhaps I was wrong to do even that."

"Of course we should have to make inquiries," said Mary. "Somehow, I cannot get it out of my head that he is in very bad circumstances. He might be a gentleman. He does not look common."

"I agree with you so far," said Herbert. "And I am not sorry that such models are scarce. But of course you are quite right in desiring to assist this man, if he is unfortunate."

"Engaging a tutor is a very commonplace affair," said Mary; "but we may as well do some good by it if we can. Archdeacon Downes's man is in no immediate want of a situation: he has dozens of offers to choose from. Why not give the place to whoever is in the greatest need of it?"

"Very well," cried Mr. Sutherland. "Send after him and bring him home at once in a carriage and pair, since you have made up your mind not to hear to reason on the subject."

"After all," interposed Herbert, "it will do no harm to make a few inquiries. If you will allow me, I will take the matter in hand, so as to prevent all possibility of his calling on or disturbing you. Give me his card. I will write to him for his testimonials and references, and so forth; and if anything comes of it, I can then hand him over to you."

Mary locked gratefully at him, and said, "Do, papa. Let Mr Herbert write. It cannot possibly do any harm; and it will be no trouble to you."

"I do not object to the trouble" said Mr Sutherland. "I have taken the trouble of coming up to London, all the way from Windsor, solely for Charlie's sake. However, Herbert, perhaps you could manage the affair better than I. In fact, I should prefer to remain in the background. But then your time is valuable —"

"It will cost me only a few minutes to write the necessary letters— minutes that would be no better spent in any case. I assure you it will be practically no trouble to me."

"There, papa. Now we have settled that point, let us go on to the National Gallery. I wish we were going to your studio instead."

"You must not ask for that yet," said Herbert earnestly. "I promise you a special private view of The Lady of Shalott on Thursday next at latest."

Book I, Chapter II

Alton College, Lyvern. Sir—In answer to your letter of the 12th instant, I am instructed by Miss Wilson to inform you that Mr. Jack was engaged here for ten months as professor of music and elocution. At the end of that period he refused to impart any further musical instruction, to three young ladies who desired a set of finishing lessons. He therefore considered himself bound to vacate his post, though Miss Wilson desires me to state expressly that she did not insist on that course. She has much pleasure in testifying to the satisfactory manner in which Mr. Jack maintained his authority in the school. He is an exacting teacher, but a patient and thoroughly capable one. During his stay at Alton College, his general conduct was irreproachable, and his marked personal influence gained for him the respect and good wishes of his pupils.— I am, sir, your obedient servant, Phillis Ward, F.C.P., etc.

14 West Precinct, Lipport Cathedral, South Wales. Sir— Mr. Owen Jack is a native of this town, and was, in his boyhood, a member of the Cathedral Choir. He is respectably connected, and is personally known to me as a strictly honorable young man. He has musical talent of a certain kind, and is undoubtedly qualified to teach the rudiments of music, though he never, whilst under our guidance, gave any serious consideration to the higher forms of composition— more, I should add, from natural ineptitude than from want of energy and perseverance. I should be glad to hear of his obtaining a good position.— Yours truly, John Burton, Mus. Doc,

(These were the replies to the inquiries about Mr Jack.)

On Thursday afternoon Herbert stood before his easel, watching the light changing on his picture as the clouds shifted in the wind. At moments when the effect on the color pleased him, he wished that Mary would enter and see it so at her first glance. But as the afternoon wore it became duller; and when she at last arrived, he felt sorry he had not appointed one o'clock instead of three. She was accompanied by a tall lad of sixteen, with light blue eyes, fair hair, and an expression of irreverent good humor.

"How do you do" said Herbert. "Take care of those sketches, Charlie, old fellow. They are wet."

"Papa felt very tired: he thought it best to lie down for a little," said Mary, throwing off her cloak and appearing in a handsome dress of marmalade-colored silk. "He left the arrangements with Mr Jack to you. I suspect the dread of having to confront that mysterious stranger again had something to do with his fatigue. Is the Lady of Shalott ready to be seen?"

"The light is bad, I am sorry to say," said Herbert, lingering whilst Mary made a movement towards the easel.

"Don't push into the room like that, Mary," said Charlie. "Artists always have models in their studios. Give the young lady time to dress herself."

"There is a gleam of sunshine now," said Herbert, gravely, ignoring the lad. "Better have your first look at it while it lasts."

Mary placed herself before the easel, and gazed earnestly at it, finding that expression the easiest mask for a pang of disappointment which followed her first glance at the canvas. Herbert did not interrupt her for some moments. Then he said in a low voice: "You understand her action, do you not?"

"Yes. She has just seen the reflexion of Lancelot's figure in the mirror; and she is turning round to look at the reality."

"She has a deuce of a scraggy collar-bone," said Charlie.

"Oh, hush, Charlie," cried Mary, dreading that her brother might roughly express her own thoughts. "It seems quite right to me."

"The action of turning to look over her shoulder brings out the clavicle," said Herbert, smiling. "It is less prominent in the picture than it would be in nature: I had to soften it a little."

"Why didn't you paint her in some other attitude?" said Charlie.

"Because I happened to be aiming at the seizure of a poetic moment, and not at the representation of a pretty bust, my critical young friend," said Herbert quietly. "I think you are a little too close to the canvas, Miss Sutherland. Remember: the picture is not quite finished."

"She can't see anything unless she is close to it," said Charlie. "In fact, she never can get close enough, because her nose is longer than her sight. I don't understand that window up there above the woman's head. In reality there would be nothing to see through it except the sky. But there is a river, and flowers, and a man from the Lord Mayor's show. Are they up on a mountain?"

"Charlie, please stop. How can you be so rude?"

"Oh, I am accustomed to criticism," said Herbert. "You are a born critic, Charlie, since you cannot distinguish a mirror from a window. Have you never read your Tennyson?"

"Read Tennyson! I should think not. What sensible man would wade through the adventures of King Arthur and his knights? I one would think that Don Quixote had put a stop to that style of nonsense. Who was the Lady of Shalott? One of Sir Lancelot's, or Sir Galahad's, or Sir Somebody else's young women, I suppose."

"Do not mind him, Mr Herbert. It is pure affectation, He knows perfectly well."

"I don't," said Charlie; "and what's more, I don't believe you know either."

"The Lady of Shalott," said Herbert, "had a task to perform; and whilst she was at work upon it, she was, on pain of a curse, only to see the outer world as it was reflected by a mirror which hung above her head. One day, Sir Lancelot rode by; and when she saw his image she forgot the curse and turned to look at him."

"Very interesting and sensible," said Charlie.

"Why mightn't she as well have looked at the world Straight off out of the window, as seen it left handed in a mirror? The notion of a woman spending her life making a Turkey carpet is considered poetic, I sup- pose. What happened when she looked round?"

"Ah, I see you are interested. Nothing happened, except that the mirror broke and the lady died."

"Yes, and then got into a boat; rowed herself down to Hampton Court into the middle of a water party; and arranged her corpse in an attitude for the benefit of Lancelot. I've seen a picture of that.

"I see you do know something about Tennyson. Now, Miss Sutherland, what is your honest opinion?"

"I think it is beautiful. The coloring seemed rather dull to me at first, because I had been thinking of the river bank, the golden grain, the dazzling sun, the gorgeous loom, the armor of Sir Lancelot, instead of the Lady herself. But now that I have grasped your idea, there is a certain sadness and weakness about her that is very pathetic."

"Do you think the figure is weak?" said Herbert dubiously.

"Not really weak," replied Mary hastily. "I mean that the weakness proper to her story is very touchingly expressed."

"She means that it is too sober and respectable for her," said Charlie. "She likes screaming colors. If you had dressed the lady in red and gold; painted the Turkey carpet in full bloom; and made Lancelot like a sugar stick, she would have liked it better. That armor, by the bye, would be the better for a rub of emery paper."

"Armor is hard to manage, particularly in distance," said Herbert. "Here I had to contend with the additional difficulty of not making the reflexion in the mirror seem too real."

"You seem to have got over that pretty successfully," said Charlie.

"Yes," said Mary. "There is a certain unreality about the landscape and the figure in armor that I hardly understood at first. The more I strive to exercise my judgment upon art, the more I feel my ignorance. I wish you would always tell me when make foolish comments. There is someone knocking, I think."

"It is only the housekeeper," said Herbert, opening the door.

"Mr Jack, sir," said the housekeeper.

"Dear me! we must have been very late," said Mary. "It is four o'clock. Now Charlie, pray behave like a gentleman."

"I suppose he had better come in here," said Herbert. "Or would you rather not meet him?"

"Oh, I must meet him. Papa told me particularly to speak to him myself."

Mr Jack was accordingly shewn in by the housekeeper. this time, he displayed linen—a clean collar; and he carried a new hat. He made a formal bow, and looked at the artist and his guests, who became a little nervous.