Woman and Artist

I

FRENCH AND ENGLISH HOMES

The English, whose knowledge of France consists in a fair acquaintance of that part of Paris lying between the Madeleine and the Faubourg Montmartre, affirm that family life is unknown on our side of the Channel, putting forward as proof the fact that the French language cannot boast of possessing the word home, that appeals so strongly to the British heart. Their conclusion is sublime: Since the French have no such word, they say, it is very evident that they have not the thing. As to the word itself, I am inclined to think they may be right; we have not, or rather we have no longer, a perfect equivalent for the English expression, as our pretty word foyer is only used in pretentious or poetical language. In ordinary conversation the Frenchman does not refer to his foyer. Il rentre à la maison, chez lui. M. Perrichon, alone, returns to his foyer. Our old French possessed an equivalent for the English word home. It was a substantive that is still with us, but we have it to-day in the form of a preposition – I mean the word chez, which is no other than the word case. The Frenchman of olden times said: "Je rentre en chez moi."

But enough of philology.

I own that an apartment on the fifth floor, au dessus de l'entresol, would not suggest to the heart what the home does to every English mind. But the piquancy and humour of this malevolent criticism, founded, like all international prejudices, on the most crass ignorance and the narrowest patriotism, consists in the fact, that in all parts of London, at the present time, enormous barracks of eight and ten storeys, called flats, are being raised, where the English, tired of the tyranny of domestics, seek refuge, at the terrible risk of likening to Chicago, not only that part of the city devoted to business, but all the pretty, peaceful neighbourhoods, that made London, in summer, the most charming city in the world. They offend the eye, even in St. John's Wood and Hampstead, etc.

True, we have quite near Paris, Ville-d'Avray, Fontenay-sous-Bois, Enghien, Meudon, Bellevue, and I do not know how many more delightful places; but they are suburbs, and not rus in urbe, like Chelsea, St. John's Wood, Hampstead, and many others practically in the heart of London.

France, completely absorbed by Paris in all that is written about her in foreign countries, is as unknown of the English people as the forbidden land of Thibet. Provincial France (where all enjoy the possession of homes, English fashion, plus gaiety), the laborious and thrifty population of our villages (who are the fortune and salvation of France), our family life (narrow, exclusive, nay almost mean, I own it, but made up of love and devotion) – all these are a sealed letter to our neighbours over the Channel, of which a goodly number still hallow the venerable joke, that the French live on frogs and snails. For that matter, there are also in France a great many people perfectly convinced that an Englishman, tired of his wife, may with impunity go and sell her at Smithfield Market. We are quits. As we travel far less than the English, it is not surprising that we should know them still less than they know us. We cannot throw stones at them. In the utter ignorance of what exists and takes place in foreign countries, there are few nations to which France cannot give points.

II

THE HOUSE IN ELM AVENUE

Of all the rustic neighbourhoods bordering on London city, there is none prettier, fresher, and more verdant than St. John's Wood. It is the refuge of workers in search of light, air, and tranquillity. Painters, sculptors, writers, journalists, actors, and musicians – in fact, the majority of the highest intellectual Bohemia – inhabit these semi-rural acres, lying between Regent's Park and Hampstead Heath. Among the leafy haunts of St. John's Wood, numberless masterpieces have been produced by writers and artists whose fame has rung through the world. It is there, in short, that chiefly congregates the artistic intelligence of London. If you doubt my testimony on this point, apply direct for further particulars to the inhabitants of this favoured district.

No. 50 Elm Avenue, St. John's Wood, did not attract the gaze of the passer-by. Walled around and almost hidden by large trees, the house, which could be seen through the iron gates, was a modest, unpretentious, two-storeyed structure. On the ground floor it was traversed by a long vestibule. Those who had been privileged to enter it knew that there was a long drawing-room and boudoir on one side, and on the other a spacious dining-room, and a library with a French window and steps leading down to a beautiful garden, surrounded by spreading elms and chestnut trees. On the outside, glossy ivy with gnarled stems mantled the lower part of the house, and in autumn bold virginia creepers hung wreaths of scarlet around the chamber windows. At the side of the house, with the door opening on the adjacent street, stood a building with high north window, which indicated that the house was the abode of an artist. In this spacious, well-lit studio, worked Philip Grantham, A.R.A.

The house was furnished with great taste; everything spoke of that comfort which the English value before luxury. A thousand and one little details told of an artistic woman's hand reigning supreme in the little domain, and one left the house feeling, "these people are happy and evidently well-off; there may be artists who vegetate, but Philip Grantham is not one of them." The garden was admirably kept, the lawn smooth and soft as a Turkey carpet to the foot; and when the sun filtered through the trees to the grass, you could imagine yourself in the depths of the country, instead of near the centre of a great city.

The studio was a favourite room of the Granthams. Loving care had been expended upon it, and the result was a worker's paradise that invited to lofty labours and cosy conversation. Dora Grantham was her husband's comrade in art, and all the leisure that was hers, after seeing well to her household, was spent at Philip's side. The studio was more than comfortable – it was even luxurious, with its beautiful Renaissance mantelpiece of carved oak, its rich oriental rugs and curtains and hanging eastern lamps. All these gave an atmosphere of restful, dreamy ease to the place; and the fresh flowers that in all seasons filled the rare porcelain vases struck a note of gaiety among the sombreness of the old oak furniture. A thousand curios from all the ends of the earth had been accumulated in this beloved apartment, and here, too, stood Dora's Pleyel piano and Philip's bookcase of precious volumes on art, all richly bound. A huge screen, gay with eastern embroideries, hid the door that opened into the road; and in this veritable nest, nothing reminded of a hustling and bustling world outside. In summer, through the open door that led into the garden, one got a delicious vista of green foliage and turf.

In the centre of the studio stood two easels of almost equal size, and when I have told you that at these two easels, placed side by side, quite near each other, worked Philip and Dora, you will rightly understand that this studio had not been so fitted up to serve as a mere workshop, but that all its details had been suggested by the love of two kindred artistic spirits, who adored each other and passed most of their time there in loving rivalry and mutual encouragement.

Dora had such respect for the studio that she never entered it except when dressed in some colour that harmonised with the carpets and hangings and the rest of the furniture. To speak truly, this was not a difficult matter. Tall, dark, superb in figure and in face, her lips perhaps a trifle haughty in repose, but instantly softened by the lightness of her frank, gay smiles, which disclosed her little even white teeth; with dark hazel eyes through which you seemed to look into her soul as through two open doors; with a smooth, fresh, and clear complexion – almost all colours became her. Philip admired his wife in every separate colour of the rainbow, but he had his preferences as a painter. He loved best for her certain crimsons and deep tones of orange and of Gobelin blue; and, as one must never run counter to the fads of an artist, it was generally in one of these tints that Dora dressed, when she wanted Philip to surpass himself at his painting.

At the time when this story begins, which is but one of yesterday, Philip was thirty-six and Dora twenty-seven. They had been six years married, and possessed a lovely little girl of five, so full of dainty grace and childish fascination, that when Philip was showing a new picture to a friend, and watching out of the corner of his eye to see if his work was being admired, as often as not the friend would say, "Ah, yes! that is a fine creation, a beautiful picture; but there," indicating the lovely child, "is your chef-d'œuvre– nothing can match her." And as in Philip's nature the parent outweighed the painter, he would proudly smile and reply, "You are right."

Philip and Dora had begun their married life in the most modest fashion, but fortune had smiled on them. Each year the painter had become better known and valued, and his pictures more sought after. To-day he was not only well known, but almost celebrated. Every succeeding year had deepened the sincere and strong love of these two lovers and friends, who led a calm, sweet existence, and trod, side by side, a flowered path, under a cloudless sky, with hope, glad labour, honour, and security as companions on the road.

I think I have said enough to convince the reader, that if there existed a happy little corner of the world, it was No. 50 Elm Avenue, St. John's Wood.

III

THE PORTRAIT

On the 10th of May 1897, that is to say on the sixth anniversary of Philip's marriage with Dora, he had promised to present her with a portrait of herself. The picture was all but finished. Only a painter would have noticed that it wanted a few more touches to complete it.

Hobbs, a faithful servant, who had been Dora's nurse in her old home, and had followed her to St. John's Wood when she had married, was dusting the studio and gazing with admiring eyes at the portrait of Dora, which seemed to smile at her from her master's easel.

"Only a few flowers to put in," said the good woman, "and the picture will be finished. I have watched it for weeks. How wonderful it is! Just her beautiful face and kind smile. And to think that there are people who pay hundreds of pounds to have their portrait painted! How lucky a lady is to be the wife of a painter – she can get hers for nothing!"

She was interrupted in her reflections by a ring and a double knock at the studio door. Hobbs ran to answer the postman, and returned immediately, bearing in her hand a box from which some magnificent pansies were escaping. She had great difficulty in extracting the flowers from the badly crushed box.

"Pansies," said she, "for the portrait, no doubt – models for copying. If I were the wife of a painter, that is the only kind of model I would allow my husband to paint from – nature. Fancy women coming to a studio and undressing before a man! – the hussies! I am glad there are no such creatures wanted here."

It is necessary to be an artist, or at any rate of an artistic nature, to understand that it is possible to regard a perfectly nude model with as much sang-froid and respect as one would a statue; but the English middle class have not the artistic nature; and, in the eyes of a good ordinary woman, a female model is a lost creature, and the artist who studies and draws her an abandoned man. England produces something very humorous: this is the prudish model, who comes to an artist's studio, refuses at first, hesitates long, and finally offers to pose in tights. Better still. A French painter in New York was doing the portrait of a beautiful American woman in evening dress. When the head and shoulders were finished, the pretty American declared that she was too busy to pose any longer, and suggested that the picture might be completed from a model of her own height and figure, who could wear her gown. The painter agreed, but had the greatest difficulty in finding a model who would consent to exhibit her charms, as the society lady of the United States had done freely and imperturbably.

Hobbs did not let her indignation get the better of her, and, consoling herself with the thought that "the creatures" were not wanted here, finished dusting the studio, and then, gathering up the pansies, took them to her mistress.

It was ten o'clock. Philip had not yet come to the studio. He usually began working at nine o'clock, and went on steadily until one, so as to profit fully by the best of the light that London puts at the disposition of an artist. Hobbs was astonished that her master was not yet at work, especially as she knew he had promised Dora to finish her portrait by the 10th of May. She herself had told her so. She began making conjectures, when a loud ringing at the studio door aroused her from her reverie.

She returned in a few moments, followed by a young man about twenty-five, tall and distinguished-looking, with a pleasant face, whom she had often seen in the house.

"This way, please, sir," said she, showing him into the studio; "master hasn't come down yet, but I am sure he won't be long. I will go and tell him you are here."

Hobbs knew that M. de Lussac was a friend, and not one of those inconvenient people who bore artists by going to their studios and talking inanities to them about their work. Besides, she had a list of the people whom Philip received at any time. And she went immediately to inform her master of M. de Lussac's arrival.

Georges de Lussac was an attaché at the French Embassy in London. The manly beauty of his face and figure, his good spirits, elegant manners and easy wit, added to the lustre of his name, made him one of the favourites of London society. No ball, dinner, or house-party was quite complete without him, the most sought-after man in the most aristocratic circles. He was a favourite with artists, whose works he well knew how to appreciate, and welcomed in literary society owing to his brilliant conversational powers. These also gained for him the admiration of society women, who were fascinated by his soft, insinuating voice. There are legions of women who admire first in a man – a well-cut coat, an intelligent and handsome face, with a slightly cynical smile which seems so little in earnest that they say to themselves, "He is not serious; with him one can have a good time without fear of being compromised; and then, he is a diplomatist, and as discreet as a tomb." By reason of this reputation for discreetness, the diplomatist is beyond competition in the race for women's favour, without even excepting the brilliant cavalry officer who appeals chiefly to women in love with glitter and who are ready to catch Cupid as he flies. I have not mentioned the tenor, who only makes his chief conquests amongst romantic and flighty women. In high society in France, England, and probably everywhere, the distribution of prizes is somewhat in this order: First prize, the diplomatist; second prize, the officer of hussars; third prize, the tenor. Accesserunt, the remainder who have not much to share between them. In the remainder may be classed husbands.

De Lussac drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket, took a cigarette, and seating himself on a divan began to smoke.

"I know of nothing pleasanter," said he, "than a chat and smoke in the morning with a painter in his sanctum. If I had to live all my time in one apartment, I would choose first a studio, secondly, a library; in all other rooms, one eats, drinks, sleeps, or bores oneself."

He gazed complacently around the studio and his eyes fell on Dora's portrait. He rose, chose a good angle, and inspected the picture carefully.

"Beautiful likeness!" said he, "full of poetry – modelling perfect. It is simply quivering with life – and what lovely flesh colour! There is not a man in England that can paint flesh like Grantham – no, not one that comes up to his ankle. Yet, with the most brilliant future before him, with the foremost place among the painters of the day close at hand, and certain to be a Royal Academician before he is forty – here is a man to whom artistic fame does not suffice."

Without noticing it he had approached the door leading to the garden. He opened it. The lilacs and hawthorns were in bloom, and whiffs of delicious scents were wafted into the studio.

"Who would imagine," thought he, "that in this peaceful retreat, where the rustling of the trees is the only sound to be heard, a man was to be found who had invented a projectile likely to revolutionise modern warfare!"

Philip entered hurriedly.

"Ah, my dear de Lussac – no news yet?"

"No! the Commission is to-day sitting in Paris at the War Office. There is every hope of a favourable decision, I believe."

"Not so loud," said Philip, "not so loud; Dora might hear you. She knows nothing about it. Ah, my dear fellow, I have worked day and night to perfect that shell. The mechanism is so simple and yet so precise, that, by winding up the little spring, the shell will burst without necessarily striking any object on the ground or in the air, at any portion of its course, exactly so many seconds as is wished after it has been fired. The usefulness of the shell in the open field or against fortified positions is obvious."

"That is so! in every case the experiment has proved entirely successful; and we wonder how it is the invention was not immediately bought by the English Government."

"Do you think the Commission will soon arrive at a decision?"

"To-day, probably," replied de Lussac, "very likely in a few hours. We are expecting every minute a telegram from Paris."

"If they should buy it!" said Philip dreamily.

"Well, then, you will be a wealthy man!"

"Shall I?" exclaimed Philip, his eyes shining with joy – "shall I be rich? My dear de Lussac, I am quite satisfied with my lot. I earn more than I want. But my wife, my Dora – I want to be rich for her sake. She was brought up surrounded with every luxury. Six years ago, she left the house of a wealthy and generous father to share the life of a struggling artist. She never once complained, but has been happy and has made me the happiest of men. She has sat constantly by my easel, inspiring my brush by her sweet presence, and encouraging me by her constant and discriminating praise. To better appreciate my work, she has set to work herself, and has had two pictures hung at the Royal Academy, which have been splendidly noticed. How she has helped me! Sometimes she would come and put her arms on my shoulders and say, 'Go on, Philip, you are on the road to fame.' What a wife! Yes," said he, with earnestness and warmth, "I want wealth, but God is my witness that it is for her that I aspire to riches."

"Still in love, I see, cher ami, hein? It is possible then to be in love with one's wife after six years, six long years, of marriage."

"Still in love! Why, I am only now beginning to love her as she deserves. Oh, that wealth may enable me to make her still happier!"

"Amen," said de Lussac, and he turned again to the picture.

"I think this portrait is delightful," said he; "you can never have done a better piece of work than this!"

"Yes! I am fairly satisfied with it," said Philip; "it is like her, is it not? My wife with a bunch of pansies in her hand."

"I don't see the pansies," remarked de Lussac.

"No! I shall put them in presently. I shall finish the picture this afternoon."

"I see," said de Lussac, "that Madame Grantham will have the bunch of pansies in her hand, and that she will look lovingly at them."

"Yes, it is her favourite flower," replied Philip, "and mine too. There was a bed of pansies growing just under her window in that beautiful country house where I met her for the first time and where I courted her. She tended them herself, and called them 'her family.' Before entering the house, I would always pluck one and place it in my buttonhole. When it was faded, I gave it to her. It is utter nonsense, I know; but, after all, happiness is made up of little foolish trifles of that sort."

"The Anglo-Saxons!" said de Lussac – "a practical and yet sentimental race."

Philip went to a bureau and, opening a drawer, took out a little packet carefully tied up.

"Here they are," said he, "her family."

And he replaced the packet with great care.

"This is charming, quite romantic," cried de Lussac, "perfectly idyllic! You know, you are a curious mixture, mon cher ami. Fancy your inventive genius turning to an instrument of war that will make widows of wives who perhaps once had such a 'family.'"

"Oh, if I thought that!" exclaimed Philip.

"You would beg the Commission to kindly return you your shell," suggested de Lussac, with a wink.

"Hardly," said Philip, smiling; "I am too near the goal to do that."

"I think I had better be off now," said de Lussac, looking at his watch. "I am preventing you from working."

"Not at all, my dear fellow. I have, it is true, to finish this portrait to-day; but I have plenty of time. I will go and put on my working-jacket. Dora will be down in a minute … only, dear boy, do not mention the shell, will you? Not a word about it!"

De Lussac, left alone, could not control his curiosity. The drawer in which the pansies had been placed was only half shut. He took the packet in his hand and gave way to hearty laughter at the expense of Philip and Dora.

"Well! I'll be hanged," said he, "if ever a woman makes me save some withered old flowers tied in pink ribbon, like a box of chocolates."

If he had only looked round at the garden door, while indulging in these reflections, he would have seen Dora come into the studio.

Dora was radiant, in a pretty simple morning gown, which accentuated her severe and classical beauty. Her large hazel eyes, encircled with long lashes, had an expression of exquisite sweetness; but they were also capable of making any man, who would dare look into them with any other sentiment than that of profound respect, sink into the ground. Her haughty mouth, with its short upper lip, almost Austrian, betrayed a proud, susceptible, and ardent nature. She had the consciousness of her beauty and intellectual worth. The smallest underhand act filled her with repugnance. On seeing de Lussac with the packet of flowers in his hand and the drawer still open, she hardly knew whether to laugh or treat him with contempt. The corner of her mouth turned slightly up and, with a little mocking smile which completely disconcerted the young diplomatist, she said —

"Well, Monsieur de Lussac, and how are you?"

"How are you, chère madame," answered he in an embarrassed manner.

"Very well, thank you. I thought I heard Philip."

"He is in there, changing his coat." And, remarking that Dora had brought in a handful of pansies, he added —

"More pansies?"

"Why more? Ah! that is true, you have some also, I see."

De Lussac reddened to the tips of his ears.

"Yes! A minute ago Philip was telling me the history of your 'little family,' and when he went out I could not resist the temptation of taking another peep at the little packet that he had left in my hand, and which contains the prologue of your love affairs."

Seeing himself caught in the act he did not hesitate to tell this little fib, so as to reinstate himself in Dora's good graces. She was taken in by it.

"Give the packet to me; you are a very wicked man – these are not for the profane; and Philip is still more wicked than you are to show them to you."

She put the packet back again. She was vexed, almost humiliated. Why had Philip mentioned the story of the pansies to Monsieur de Lussac? It could interest no one, except the two lovers, who had thus repeated their vows. Why had Philip shown him the packet? In her eyes, it was an almost ungentlemanly act. She passed a hand across her forehead, as if to brush away the ideas that came to her mind, and smiled good-humouredly once more.