A Modern Lover — Volume 3 Chapter 7

London: Tinsley Brothers, 1 June 1883, pages 100-128, 4,898 words

CHAPTER VII.

A PRIVATE VIEW.

It was private view day at the Royal Academy. The doors had just been opened, and in another hour or so the élite of London would be there. But for the moment the galleries were quite deserted; not a soul was to be seen but one little old man, who moved silently along the lines of pictures, stopping every now and then to make entries in his pocket book.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Stanley, "we aren’t the first after all; there goes old Bendish, he must have been waiting outside before the doors were opened.”

"So it is," said Crossley; "well, it is good of the little beggar to take so much interest in our success; let’s come and speak to him.”

"Take interest in our success," growled Thompson; "considering he has hundreds of pounds’ worth of our pictures in his possession, all of which he bought for a tenth part of their value.”

“Yes, but he did not know that when he bought them; let’s come and speak to him, anyhow," replied Harding, interested in the fact that it was principally a silly old man, knowing no more about art than a child, whom fate had selected to keep alive the most important artistic movement of the present century.

And the novelist proceeded to explain how the cursed dilettanti, who for the past ten years had done nothing but mumble about the traditions, would, in a week hence, be nodding their heads suggestively, and softly murmuring of a modern art, the outcome of our present civilisation.

"So, Mr. Bendish," said Thompson, accosting the old man, "you have come to see us; well, this time, I think we are going to have a success."

"Oh, splendid, Mr. Thompson; I have just been looking at your picture. I wish I had bought it," replied the old man, in a thin voice.

"Why, surely you don’t want any more of our pictures, do you?" returned Thompson, laughing; you must have some hundreds.”

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Bendish, "I think I have a fine collection. I have been very busy sorting them since I heard of your success. You must come and see them, they cover two whole walls of the big room.”

"Very well, I will," said Thompson, shaking hands with the old man, who immediately continued peering at and taking notes of the different pictures.

"What a strange old beggar he is," said Crossley; "you know he wouldn’t part with any one of his pictures if you offered him ten times the price he paid for it.”

"Marvellous," replied Harding; but at this moment they caught sight of Thompson’s picture, and they rushed forward simultaneously.

"By Jove, there’s no doubt," said the novelist, after a pause, during which the whole party gazed in speechless admiration, “there’s no doubt but that we have let the medievalists have it this time!”

If letting the medievalists have it meant staring them out of countenance, there was no doubt that this at least Thompson had achieved. It was impossible to see anything else in the room but the housemaid and her print dress.

The picture represented a pretty but dirty girl whitening the stops of a house. Red geraniums flared in the window, where a large card announced that there were lodgings to let. The girl sat on her heels, with one red hand resting on her bucket, talking to the milkman, who had put down his cans.

Thompson looked at his picture quietly. The hour of dawn was nigh upon him, the hour long desired, the hour long dreamed of, but now that it had come it seemed an ordinary, if not commonplace event. For what, after all, would it bring him?

His victory had long been won. What cared he for the praise or blame of the dilettanti? He had to thank them for nothing. In his case they had acted as they have done since art began to be; they had striven to retard the taste of the age, and, having failed, would now, when their praise or blame was valueless, join in the chorus of applause. He knew well enough that to-day they would wag their heads knowingly, forgetful of the fact that they had jeered only a few months ago; forgetful that he had been the same man seven years earlier as he was to-day. What were their praises to him? He had worked and laboured, not for them, but for his own heart’s praise, and for that of the little band of artists that surrounded him; what were these gilded saloons, subsidised by the state, to him? It was not there he made his debut, as Harding said afterwards in an article, but in dusty garrets of Chelsea. It was not the wealthy dilettanti that had found him out and recognised his great talent; it was some dozen or so of poor unknown artists and writers who had fought for him, and forced an unbelieving public to believe, and it was of them, and not of the praises of an uncritical public, that Thompson thought as he looked at his picture. He was not dreaming now of the brilliant drawing-rooms to which he would soon be invited, but of the cold lodging where he had overcome hunger, and, what was worse than hunger, cruel lassitudes and yearnings for rest; where, at the point of his iron will, he had driven himself to his work, scorning respite and comfort. He thought of the past; there it lay before him, concentrated into a few yards of canvas, but of the cost and the worth, who could speak but himself? What could his friends tell of? A few years of perseverance and privation, but only he knew of the terrible drama of abdication, of the life that might have been, of the life he had let lie in the limbo of unborn things, of the love, the dreams, the joys and sentiments that he had ruthlessly torn out of his heart and flung like flowers under the resistless wheels of the chariot of art, that most implacable god, that most terrible of all Juggernauts.

"By Jingo," said Stanley, "I don’t believe that anyone ever was so much in the open air before; I can’t imagine, Thompson, how you managed to model the hands and arms in that pure cold light.”

“It is the positivism of art," exclaimed Frazer; "at last we have got an art in concord with the philosophy of our age.”

Stanley and Crossley looked disposed to laugh, and Thompson turned for an explanation, for of positivism of art he had no idea when he painted the picture.

"Yes, quite so," said Harding; "I know what he means, it is the positivism of art, for it is an art purely material and experimental. Bravo, Frazer! you have given me a title for my article; "and the novelist repeated the phrase which had suggested to him a whole host of ideas.

At this moment they were joined by Holt, the academician. Thompson shook him by the hand warmly.

“We owe it all to you," said the red-bearded Scotchman, with tears in his voice.

"You owe me nothing,” replied Holt, "if I have gnawed through a few threads of the veil of folly and prejudice, which stifles all artistic aspirations, I have done good work, and am amply recompensed. But you have no idea what a fight I have had for it. They knew that they could not well turn you out; they would probably only have hidden you up there, but when they saw that I was making a stand for the whole school, by Jove, I can’t describe it! Hilton stood by his maidens, and said that he would defend beauty, poetry, and grace, and the rest of it, to the last. However, I was successful, let’s say no more about it; come, and I’ll show you the rival picture. It is at the other end of the gallery; we’ll see all our own things on the way down.

Although it might not be apparent to the general public, the walls of the Academy in ’79 offered the interesting spectacle of a contest between two rival schools of painting, one purely material and experimental, the other wholly ideal and subjective.

The extreme note was struck by Thompson on one side, with his maid of all work; on the other by Mr. Hilton; but on every wall there were pictures which showed, both in execution and sentiment, the influence of either school.

The galleries were now gradually filling.

Frazer, Crossley, Stanley and Holt had gone different ways; but Harding, who had an important review article to write, remained with Thompson. They walked up and down together, talking seriously and examining the pictures. At last, stopping before Lewis’ Clytemnaestra, Thompson said:

"Did you ever see anything so piteous? You remember the fellow, he began with us.”

"Yes," said Harding, “he was one of those creatures who exercise a strange power over all with whom they come in contact, a control that is purely physical, yet acting equally on the most spiritual as on the most gross natures, and leading us independently of our judgment. How can we blame the women for going mad after him, when even we used to sacrifice ourselves, over and over again, to help him?"

“Quite true," replied Thompson, reflectively; "I took a lot of trouble about him; and, although I knew in my heart he wasn’t worth it, I’m d — if I could help myself!"

“Marvellous," said Harding, profoundly interested; "and he married the most lovely girl in London. In fact, he succeeded through women; he never had a half-penny worth of talent. But, by Jove! he is just the man I want. I must have some one to hold up to ridicule; let me see, how can I describe his picture?" And the novelist’s face grew still more cynical as he searched for a scathing criticism. After a pause he said:

“To show how utterly outworn is the classical formula, I cannot cite a better example than Mr. Seymour’s picture of Clytemnaestra. Here we have a figure, drawn, I will admit, with tolerable correctness, the modelling is fairly well executed, and the composition is well balanced, and yet it excites as little emotion as a design for a chair in an upholsterer’s catalogue. Then, you know, I will go on to explain how, in the academies, a pupil is taught that that is right, and that that is wrong, that good painting is this, and bad painting that, and I shall sum up by showing that an emotionless art is the inevitable result of such training.”

"What you say is true enough," replied Thompson; "but, after all, is he worth attacking? Wouldn’t it be better to say that Mr. Seymour has painted a picture, which, doubtless, all the ladies in Mayfair will declare to be utterly fascinating?"

At that moment, two fashionably dressed women stopped before the picture.

First fashionable lady. — “Sweetly pretty, is it not?”

Second fashionable lady. — "Charming; what lovely arms she has got.”

First fashionable lady. — "Lovely; I believe he did them from his wife.”

Second fashionable lady. — “Delightful man is Mr. Seymour. How very handsome he is, and what good manners; ’tis a pity all painters are not like him."

First fashionable lady. — "It is, indeed; how beautifully he paints satin.”

Second fashionable lady. — “He always shows such taste in the arrangement of his dresses, and, above all, he doesn’t make one look ugly, and that is the principal thing.”

First fashionable lady. — “Of course, what’s the use of having an ugly picture?”

Thompson. — "Heavens, and those are the people who come to look at our pictures!”

Harding. — "And it is to be known to such people that we sacrifice our lives.”

The fashionable world had now begun to arrive, and the rooms were already thronged with artists, praising and abusing each other’s work, and showing their pictures to their friends and relations.

Lady Helen passed through the crowd talking to Sir Thomas Towler, the president; Lewis followed, walking between Lady Marion and Lady Worthing; Lord Worthing had just stopped to speak to Lady Ann Sedgwick, and was calling to Lewis.

Everybody was there. Mrs. Liston was laughing with Mr. Ripple; she had left her husband in the first room, examining a couple of pictures of ancient Egypt, one of which profoundly interested him. Mr. Ripple was telling Mrs. Liston, who did not understand a word he was saying, about the moderns and medievalists. As he hurried her forward to show her Thompson’s picture, they bowed to Mrs. Campbell Ward, who was with her husband. Mrs. Bentham was with Mrs. Thorpe, and Mr. Carver, magnificently dressed in a new pair of white and black plaid trousers, gallantly proposed to take her to Thompson’s picture, an offer which was politely declined.

Everyone talked of the maid-of-all-work. Mr. Swannell, who had lost his seat at the last election, declared that it was a picture of great political significance; it appeared to him to represent the tide of Radicalism which was carrying away the bulwarks of our entire social system. Mrs. Bentham thought it very coarse, but admitted its power. Mrs. French and Mrs. Collins agreed that it was immoral, but refused to give their reasons for thinking it so; it suggested an epigram to Mr. Ripple; and Lady Helen, finding that the general opinion was against the picture, declared herself in its favour; but, on her husband calling their love into question, was induced to modify her opinion. As for the critics, they never ceased talking, they passed through the rooms to and fro between the two pictures, rapidly asking each other what they thought, and discussing the meaning of the phrase, "positivism of art," which was now in everybody’s mouth.

Thompson still walked about, looking at the pictures with Harding, and, as he passed, everyone who knew him pointed him out to their friends. Everybody wanted to be introduced to him.

Lewis was absolutely frantic. He had hoped that the paragraph in Fashion, describing his Clytemnaestra as representing the classical interest, would have attracted some little attention, but it had been entirely passed over, and people seemed to him to have no eyes or ears for anything but the rival pictures.

As he edged his way through the crowd, throwing civil words to the paragraphists as they passed him, he met Lady Helen and Mrs. Bentham, and they asked him to bring them to see Mr. Hilton’s Hesperia. Biting his lips with vexation, he assented. Thompson’s picture was the most talked about, but Hilton s was certainly the most praised. Everyone spoke in raptures of its poetry and passion. Mr. Ripple declared that it was the "pain of unassuaged desire," and, enchanted with his phrase, he went about recklessly repeating it much to the annoyance of the matrons.

Mr. Hilton’s picture was hung at the end of the galleries, just opposite to Thompson’s maid-of-all-work. It represented a band of maidens in rose-coloured draperies, pink, white, yellow, and purple, dreaming amid rose-crowned, and sea-begirt rocks. Some sat on high crags, some lay on the low shore, all seemingly overcome by the perfume of the flowers, and the intense glory of the sunset, which flamed around them.

Lady Helen, notwithstanding her general inclination to abuse what other people liked, grew quite enthusiastic, and leaving her husband with Mrs. Bentham, she walked down the galleries, and explained to Mr. Hilton the infinite emotions it suggested to her, and the poem she intended to write immediately she got home.

It was now mid-day, and all who had been able to obtain invitations were within the walls of Burlington House. Grave men with pocket books edged their way down the lines of pictures, taking notes; now and then they exchanged ideas with their friends, but it was easy to see that they were performing their daily work. Chaperonless young girls, in terra-cotta, or sage-green dresses, with puffed sleeves, passed in great numbers — they criticised the pictures energetically. Occasionally stylish dresses cast a clear gay note here and there, but the fashionable world remained distinct from the artistic; only a few youths who seemed to belong equally to both passed from one to the other. Among these the most remarkable was a tall, thin young man with an excessively narrow face. He was dressed in a long, dark green frock coat, and his flaxen hair fell on his shoulders; as he passed he spoke affably of art in general terms. Every now and then was heard the phrase: "Positivism of art.”

Mrs. Bentham and Lewis walked about through the crowd, looking at the pictures. It was the first time he had found himself alone with her since his marriage, and now in this hour of bitter discouragement, her sympathy was the solace he needed. Lady Helen's impetuous enthusiasm wearied and irritated him. She passed over his faint-heartedness as if it did not exist; but Mrs. Bentham understood him, and he told her of his troubles and sorrows, and she pacified him just as she used to do in the old time. Then they went together to see the Clytemnaestra, and she spoke of it in a tenderer way than Lady Helen had ever done. She condoned its faults, pointed out its merits, reminded him that after all it was only the first day of the exhibition, and that he really did not know what the critics would say of it. Lewis brightened up at her words, and he talked with the gaiety of a convalescent who has been brought out into the sunshine after an illness. He praised her, he thanked her, and he scolded her affectionately, "you never come to see us," he said. "Us" was an awkward word, but he slid over it, and continued to tell her how lonely he often was, how much he missed her advice, etc.

As they walked through the rooms, they were stopped from time to time by artists, critics, and friends, who told them what they thought of the pictures, and repeated the stray fragments of gossip that were going the round of the galleries. Most of this was idle verbiage, but, nevertheless, one bit of startling news reached Lewis’ ears.

It was to the effect that Harding was doing an important article on the Academy. This was quite enough, and Lewis found no difficulty in imagining the terrific shaking he would receive. His first idea was to renew his acquaintance with Harding, ask him to dinner, and persuade him, as best he could, not to be too hard on the Clytemnaestra. But this, on second thoughts, seemed to him a very simple way of proceeding, and it struck him that it would be far more ingenious to introduce Harding to his wife and leave her to speak for him. Full of the idea, he bade Mrs. Bentham good-bye, and looked round for Lady Helen. After some little difficulty he found her talking to a whole group of people under the "Land of Hesperia." He signed to her that he wanted her, she nodded assent, and, profiting by an occasion that offered itself, said good-bye to the people she was with, and walked up the galleries with her husband.

Lewis explained to her in brief phrases his fears that Harding was going to "slate" his Clytemnaestra, and proposed that he should introduce her to the novelist. She readily consented, and he told her what she was to say.

"You know he is a very clever fellow, and will be able to tell you far more about your verses than I can.”

Lady Helen had read many of Harding’s novels, and she thought at once of the advice he would be able to give her on certain questions of versification that interested her.

"Of course, my dear, I shall be delighted to know him, and you can depend on me to make it all right.”

"I wish I knew where to find him," repeated Lewis, looking about him anxiously, and nodding rapidly to his acquaintances so that they should see that he didn’t want to be interrupted.

"If he is writing about the moderns we may probably find him near their pictures," suggested Lady Helen.

"Not a bad idea; come, I’ll show you Frazer’s Railway Junction," replied Lewis, plucking up courage.

The picture was not difficult to find; it was surrounded by a jeering crowd; ladies, critics, and artists pressed forward smiling and curious

to see, and then retired shaking with laughter. Frazer watched from the other side of the room, and his long, sallow face showed no trace of either anger or disappointment.

"That’s Frazer," Lewis whispered to Lady Helen; "did you ever see anything like it, he doesn’t seem to mind. If my picture were laughed at like that, I think I should die.”

"What a curious man he is," replied Lady Helen, looking at the enthusiast with interest. "I should like to know him.”

"Oh, impossible," returned Lewis; "he says the most extraordinary things, but I’d give anything to show you his studio. In old times he used to keep a raven that he had taught to say, ‘ Frazer is a great painter,’ and he used to call the bird his art critic. He’s the most curious card you ever saw in your life. But, come and look at his picture.”

Frazer’s picture represented a railway junction seen from above, probably from a railway bridge. Through clouds of steam three or four engines loomed indistinctly, their yellow wheels glaring horribly.

“Well, do you know," said Lady Helen, after a long pause, "it doesn’t seem to me to be as bad as you say it is. The wide, grey track covered with a network of lines is very real, and it is like no one; you can’t say it isn’t original.”

"What’s the use of being original and bad," said Lewis, pettishly; "I’d sooner be like someone, and do good work.”

The argument perplexed Lady Helen, and she was annoyed that she couldn’t find an answer.

"But," said Lewis, stopping suddenly, "there’s Holt’s picture; did you ever see anything so shockingly coarse?”

The last phrase was whispered softly to Lady Helen; and then, in the hope of being overheard, Lewis talked loudly and extravagantly in its praise.

Holt’s picture showed a group of peasant women bathing in a shady pool. Overcome with heat, they had left the glaring cornfields, indicated here and there through the opening in the trees, and were plunging about in a way that clearly showed that bathing was to them a novelty. Both in conception and handling, it was undoubtedly a very powerful painting; and being a sort of compromise between the classics and the moderns, mightily pleased the dilettanti and critics, who prided themselves on their impartiality.

Lewis continued to point out the merits of the picture, and, as luck would have it, his words were not wasted; for Harding, who was passing at the time, stopped to listen. At first the novelist did not intend to speak, but he was so astonished at hearing Lewis praise Holt’s picture, instead of abusing it, that he could not help saying:

"I shouldn’t have thought that you would have cared for anything so modern as that.”

Lewis turned round at once; surprised at the success he had so quickly achieved. He shook Harding warmly by the hand, and declared he was delighted to see him. Then, after these expressions of good will, Lewis said that the peasant women were simply magnificent; and that he wasn’t in the least opposed to the moderns when they took the trouble to draw correctly. This opinion being very much Harding’s own, he felt already disposed to take a more lenient view of the man whom he intended to slate; an introduction to Lady Helen helped him, therefore, in a few minutes, to believe that Lewis was not half such a bad fellow after all.

Lady Helen congratulated Harding on his last novel, mentioning certain details which obviously pleased him. Then she questioned him about the new phrase, "positivism of art," and laughingly declared that she was sure he was the author of it. For the moment, Harding forgot to pry into the truth and falseness of things; and, blindfolded, Lady Helen led the analyst away to talk to him of her poetry.

Lewis walked up the room. The excitement of introducing his wife to Harding being over, he began to grow dejected, and to think again of Mrs. Bentham. Looking about for her, he passed from room to room, until he found himself opposite his Clytemnaestra. Now and again a small group would form round it, but it suffered from the presence of a large landscape on the right, which was much admired, and Crossley’s pictures of race-horses, which attracted a good deal of attention. Lewis, as he looked at his picture, felt quite heartbroken; it seemed to him detestable; and mechanically he began to count the people who stopped to look at it. He continued to do so, as if in a dream, until at last he remarked a girl who appeared to notice nothing in the room but the Clytemnaestra. She had come back to it two or three times, and now she had taken a seat so that she might examine it without being observed. She was noticeable among the crowd that surged past, looking at the picture, for her ordinary, if not dowdy appearance; Lewis could not make out who she was. She was not dressed negligently, like an artist, nor fashionably, like a lady; she seemed like a servant, but how on earth, he asked himself, could a servant be at the Academy private view? Curious to see who she was, Lewis moved to one side, where he could catch sight of her face, and to his astonishment, he found that it was Westhall, his wife’s maid, who was admiring his picture so intently. Still more puzzled, he approached, and speaking over her shoulder, said:

"Well, Westhall, I hope you like my picture?"

Gwynnie, who had not heard him approaching, started at the sound of his voice, but the instincts of a servant predominating, she rose at once to her feet. Gwynnie looked at him hastily, she was far too confused to think of telling him who she was, and when he asked her how it was she was at the private view, it was with difficulty she explained that her Ladyship had given her a ticket.

Her blushes amused him. But as he stood watching, wondering what he should say next, he felt some one touch him on the shoulder; it was Lady Helen, she looked surprised to find him talking to her maid, and Harding, thinking there was something wrong, chuckled inwardly.

Then, as they turned away, Lady Helen said:

"Well, Westhall, I hope you have enjoyed the pictures.”

Gwynnie murmured something to the effect that she had, and retreated into the crowd.

"How did you meet her?" said Lady Helen, taking her husband’s arm.

"I saw her looking at my picture as if she were fixed to the ground," replied Lewis, "and I was so astonished that I couldn’t help asking her how she got in.”

"It’s very strange," replied Lady Helen, musingly. "I never met so curious a girl in my life. Fancy, Mr. Harding, a lady’s maid wanting to go to a private view! What shall we come to next? She is such a nice little thing, and she begged for a ticket, I couldn’t refuse her.”

Harding, who was deeply interested in the coincidence, replied that it was undoubtedly curious, but he determined in his own mind that the lady’s maid was in love with Lewis, and that she didn’t care any more about art than any other lady’s maid.

The conversation then returned to the pictures, and dwelt on Thompson’s success, which Harding declared was undoubted. Lewis said he was delighted, that it was deserved; at the same time expressing fear for the traditions, so that he might not appear too conciliatory.

The novelist accompanied them to the turnstile, and then in the clearest tones of her flute-like voice, Lady Helen said:

"Good-bye, Mr. Harding, I shall expect you to-morrow; we lunch at two.”

Harding bowed, and continued to watch the delicate neck, fluffed with delicate lemon coloured down, till it was lost in the shadow of the lower hall. When he turned he saw, much to his irritation, Thompson and Frazer examining some bas-reliefs. Accosting them familiarly, he took Thompson’s arm, and they walked again through the galleries, and agreed that no better title could be found than "positivism of art" for the article he was about to write.

Thompson did not mention Lewis’ name even when looking at the Clytemnaestra, a fact that somewhat disconcerted Harding, but he still congratulated himself that his walk with Lady Helen had passed unperceived, until the Scotchman said to him as they parted in the street:

"By the way, Harding, I nearly forgot to tell you; take my advice, and don’t make an example of Seymour in your article, he isn't worth it.”