–My dear colleague, you are allowing yourself to talk like Alexander Dagg, said the Daimon Maimas. I am pushing him gently in the direction dictated by his destiny, and I have not infinite means of doing that. I must work with whatever is at hand. He is to be a connoisseur, a patron of art, a man who understands art—though there will be dozens of Alexander Daggs of a more sophisticated sort to assert rancorously that he knew nothing whatever about it. Don’t expect me to make an omelette without breaking eggs.
–I was thinking about breaking hearts.
–Oh, hearts! Nobody gets through life without a broken heart. The important thing is to break the heart so that when it mends it will be stronger than before. If you will allow me to say so, my dear Zadkiel, you angels are very easily pulled toward sentimentality. If you had my work to do, you would know how ruinous that can be.
–I am disposed sometimes toward pity, if that is what you are talking about.
–If Francis was an ordinary boy he might have been lucky enough to have a guardian angel assigned to him, to keep him out of trouble and put pretty things in his way. But I am no guardian angel, as you well know: I am a daimon, and my work must sometimes seem rough. We haven’t seen the last of Francis before the mirror, and next time he won’t have his back to it.
–Ah, well. Let us go on with our story.
As Aunt managed everything in St. Kilda her taste was apparent not only in her own room, but everywhere, and especially in the pictures. In the dining-room, for instance, hung two large paintings by François Brunery, which had cost the Senator a pretty penny but which were, as Aunt explained to him, emblematic of his position in the world.
One was called, on the medallion at the bottom of the frame, The Point of the Story. At a dining-table in what was plainly a palace in Rome sat five cardinals in scarlet, and a bishop in purple. Oh, how shrewd, how intelligent were the faces (three plump, two thin) that were inclined forward, intent upon the sixth, a cardinal whose upraised forefinger and twinkling eyes showed that the point of the good story was about to break upon his hearers. What could it be? Some tale of Vatican intrigue, some subtle reverse of fortune in the Curia, or, perhaps, some scandal about a lady? The look of discreet enjoyment on the face of the major-domo in the background suggested the last. And look at the table! What gold and silver objects, what crystal glasses, what ruby wine. (Oh, that’s clever, contrasting the colour of the wine with the scarlet of the robes, without letting them swear at one another!) And what promise of further wine in the gorgeous silver wine cistern that stands in the foreground, on the finely painted hardwood floor. (Look, Hamish, there’s wood for you!) A great picture, a real work of art, and just the thing for a dining-room.
On the opposite wall was an even jollier picture; jolly, but perhaps a little sly. It was called The Tired Model. A young monk, a Dominican by his robe, stands before the easel in his studio, upon which is a picture of a saintly old cardinal, his hands pressed against his breast. Just look at that delicate old flesh against the scarlet moire, and his gaze raised to Heaven, from which is coming the light that enfolds him! But on the model-throne sits the old man, slumped in his chair, fast asleep; the artist—a handsome young fellow with curly hair around his tonsure—is scratching his head in dismay.
Are not these pictures reverential, showing a devotion to the things of the Church and especially to its hierarchy, yet asserting that their owner shares a common humanity with the red-robed cardinals? These are such pictures as you might expect to find in the dining-room of a B.C.L. (as a Big Catholic Layman was jokingly called in Church circles), a man who knew his place, but who also knew his worth—a man who could re-gild a spire or contribute a splendid bell without having to think twice about the bill. Aunt had taken care that Hamish had what was right for him. When Father Devlin and Father Beaudry dined in that room they understood the subtle message; no domineering priests’ ways in this house, if you please, gentlemen. Drink your wine and mind your manners.
Canada had officially embraced Prohibition in 1916, in order that when the brave boys returned after the War they would find a country purged of one of the major causes of evil-doing. In such houses as the Senator’s the cellars contained stocks of wine bought long before, and there was no stint. But even substantial stocks dwindled, and this was reason for some unease. A good cellar needs regular replenishing. Marie-Louise’s friends could nip their way through a surprising amount of white wine in an afternoon of bridge, before it was time for a substantial tea.
By the standards of Blairlogie, quite a lot of entertaining was done at St. Kilda, and in this, as in everything else, Aunt was the unobtrusive manager. Unobtrusive, that is, until it came to music, and then she shone. In every realm, without any hint of undesirable bohemianism or deviation from the strictest morality, Aunt was “artistic”.
“Shall we have a little music?” she would say when, after dinner, the guests had had an hour in which to chat and digest. Nobody would think of replying that it might be more fun to go on talking; that would be an affront to the high aesthetic atmosphere of St. Kilda, which Aunt had created, to the greater glory of her brother and his wife.
When it had been enthusiastically agreed that nothing could be pleasanter than a little music, Aunt would go to the piano and, if there were someone present who had not been to dinner before, she would plunge immediately into a difficult and noisy piece, such as a Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody. The guest, if not of a positively turnip-like insensitivity, would be astonished at the noise, the pell-mell speed, the sheer cultivated racket that Aunt was producing. Even more astonished when, at the conclusion, when he was about to say, “Miss McRory, I never dreamed—” the other guests would break into mocking applause, and Aunt herself would turn on the piano stool, shaking with laughter.
For the piano was a Phonoliszt (World Renowned Pianists At Your Beck and Call… no pedals to push, no levers to learn…) and this was Aunt’s little joke. The pianist had been the great Teresa Carreno, a famous matador of the instrument, imprisoned forever on a perforated roll of paper.
“But if you would like me to sing—” she would say, and all the guests agreed eagerly that they would like her to sing.
Aunt sang in English and French and it was generally agreed that her repertoire was very chaste. What was not chaste was the sound she made. She had a good voice, a true contralto, and produced a big, fruity tone surprising in such a small woman. She had always sung, and had been “finished” in Montreal in twelve lessons with Maestro Carboni. The maestro’s method was simple, and effective: “All moving utterance is based upon the cry of the child,” said he; “make a sound like a child crying—not in anger, but for love—and refine on it, Mademoiselle, and everything else will fall into place.” Aunt had done so, and her singing was both good and astonishing, for it moved and troubled even musical ignoramuses.
The songs she sang were, in one way or another, cries for love. Songs in French, from the pen of Guy d’Hardelot, or in English, by Carrie Jacobs-Bond. Strongly emotional songs. Had Aunt known it, songs orgasmic in their slow, swelling climaxes.
But beyond any doubt Aunt’s finest effort, her unfailing war-horse, was “Vale”, by Kennedy Russell. Although Francis could see plainly on the music that its name was “Vale”, Aunt and all cultivated persons pronounced it “Wally”, because it was Latin and meant “Farewell”. In two brief verses by de Burgh d’Arcy (obviously an aristocrat of some kind) it caught the very soul of Aunt, and most other hearers. It was about a man who was dying. He begged somebody (wife? lover?—oh, surely not a lover, not when one was dying) to stay at his side during the creeping, silent hours.
Mourn not my loss, you lov’d me faithfully
(Obviously a wife, who had done her wifely duty.) The conclusion was dramatically splendid:
Then, when the cold grey dawn breaks silently,
Hold up THE CROSS… and pray for me!
For a dying person, Aunt made a remarkable amount of noise at Hold up THE CROSS and then fa
ded almost into silence at and pray for me! as if the singer were actually pegging out. This was done by what Maestro Carboni called “spinning the tone”, a very good Italian trick, and not easy to acquire.
Aunt sang this song often. It was always in demand when St. Bonaventura’s had one of its concerts to raise money, and Father Devlin had said, in language that might have been more happily phrased, that when Miss McRory sang “Wally” we all got as near to dying as we’d get before our time actually came.
Aunt’s music had a lighter side, not for parties, but for those quiet evenings when it was just herself and the Senator and Marie-Louise, and Dr. J.A., who often dropped in after his evening rounds, tired out and wanting relaxation.
“Sing ‘Damn Stupid’, Mary-Ben,” he would say, as he stretched his legs toward the fire.
“Oh, Joe, you do love to make fun of me,”Aunt would say, and then sing the ballad from Merrie England:
Dan Cupid hath a garden
Where women are the flowers—
Which went on to declare that the sweetest flower loved by Cupid was the Lovely English Rose. She, the wholly Highland Scots old maid, and he, the wholly Irish old bachelor, found a distilment of their own stifled, unacknowledged romance in this very English song by Edward German Jones, born on the Welsh Border. Music, as Aunt often told Francis, knows no frontiers.
Francis heard it all. Sometimes he sat in the drawing-room, already in his pyjamas, but wrapped in rugs, because he had begged to hear Aunt sing, and what singer can refuse such a tribute, so obviously sincere? Sometimes, when there were guests and he was supposed to be in bed, he sat on the stairs, in his pyjamas and without any rugs. To the pictures he responded with mind and heart, eager not only to understand what they had to say, but to know how they were made; to the music he listened with his heart alone.
He was finding out one or two things about pictures. He had the run of Aunt’s collection of prints, and a number of books she possessed, with names like Gems From the World’s Great Galleries. He was probably the only boy within a five-hundred-mile radius who knew what the Pitti was, or what putti were. But better than that, he was getting some notion of how pictures were put together.
His teacher was an unlikely one. Among Aunt’s books was one which she had bought long ago, glanced at, and decided that it had nothing to say to her. It was called How to Draw in Pen and Ink, and the author was Harry Furniss. Indeed, he was still alive, and would be alive for a further five years after Francis first met with his book. Furniss was a remarkable caricaturist, but, as he explained in his genial prose, to draw caricatures it is first necessary to be able to draw people, and if you want to draw people you had better try your hand at drawing anything and everything. You cannot make Mr. Gladstone look like an old eagle if you cannot draw a serious Mr. Gladstone and a serious old eagle. You must develop an eye; you must see everything in terms of line and form. Andrea del Sarto was no Raphael, but he could correct Raphael’s drawing; you could aim at drawing like del Sarto even if you hadn’t a hope of being anything better than a Harry Furniss—which wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to be, either.
Francis had access to unlimited paper and pencils; he had but to ask Aunt and plentiful supplies appeared. He did not tell Aunt about Harry Furniss, whom she had rejected as unworthy, and doubtless coarse in his methods. But a man who had been able, as a youth, to attend a London fire, make pages of rapid sketches, and then work them up into a full-page engraving for the London Illustrated News was just the man to catch Francis’s imagination. A man who could make such vivid caricatures of people whom Francis had never heard of, but whose essence he felt in Furniss’s drawings, was just the man to dispel the impression given by Aunt that it all had to be done by geniuses, usually foreigners, in studios, under the spooky guidance of the Holy Mother and perhaps even of A Certain Person. This was a gust of fresh air in art. This made art a possibility—remote, but still a possibility—for somebody like himself.
Always have paper in your pocket, said Harry Furniss. Never be without a notebook. Never miss a significant figure in the streets or at the theatre or in Parliament. Catch every turn of the head, every gleam in the eye. You can’t draw pretty girls if you can’t draw gutter crones. If you can’t keep files of your notes, don’t; but once having disciplined your hand and eye to capture every detail and nuance, perhaps you don’t need files, for these things are filed in your brain and your hand.
Just the sort of sea-breeze to blow away the odour of sanctity. Francis was conscious of his notebook, which marked him as an artist. But where many a boy would have made a parade of what he was doing, and attracted attention from adults who wanted to see what he was up to, he mastered the trick of sitting quietly, making his rapid sketches without signalling.
A few weeks after Christmas he was able to go outside for limited airings, but he was not anxious to attract attention from Nosy Parkers who would want to know why he was in the streets when all decent boys were either in school, or at home with infantile paralysis, or simply with swollen glands. Not to be easily noticed is an acquirement, as is always being noticed; Francis studied the art of invisibility, and made sketches wherever he was.
He was perched on a bale of straw in the stable one February day, making sketches of the horses as they ate, when Zadok Hoyle said to him: “Frank, it’s a fine day and I have to go over to The Portage this afternoon; why don’t you ask your Aunt if you can come with me?” Aunt demurred a little, but finally said yes, he might go, but he must be well bundled up.
Bundled up he was, almost to the point of immobility, as he sat beside Zadok on the driver’s seat. The wagon was not one of his grandfather’s, but an odd cart with a low, boxed-in back; its purpose could not be immediately guessed. They drove perhaps four miles in the sharp air to a hamlet on a river-bank, which had a name of its own but from long custom was always called The Portage. Zadok pointed far beyond the river with his whip. “See that, Frankie? That’s Quebec. And some funny things happen on this river.”
They stopped on the river-bank at a shed, from which a fat, dark-jowled man appeared, nodded to Zadok, returned to the shed, and shortly returned carrying a box; between them he and Zadok loaded six such boxes into the back of the cart. Not a word was said, and they drove off.
“That was the happy call,” said Zadok. “Now we make the sad call.” Happy? What was happy about it? Not a word said and the fat man had what Francis thought was a bad eye, and he wished he could have made a rapid sketch of it. And now—the sad call?
They drove somewhat less than a mile to a farmhouse, where Zadok spoke briefly with a woman in black; another, older woman, also in black, was to be seen in the background. A man appeared from the barn, and helped Zadok to carry a large package out of the house; a long package, wrapped in rough brown holland; it was clearly a man. They shoved it into the back of the cart, with the boxes, Zadok said something kindly, the man nodded and spat, and the horse was turned in the direction of Blairlogie.
“Is that a dead person, Zadok? Why are we carrying a dead person?”
“Why do you suppose, Frankie? It’s Mr. Devinney’s business; I pick ‘em up, and I get ‘em ready. I drive the hearse. Mr. Devinney does the business end. He sees to putting the death notice in The Clarion, and ordering and sending out the death-cards. He marches in the procession in his plug hat. He does all the condoling, which isn’t easy work, but he has quite a poetic turn, sometimes. And of course he does all the billing, reckons up the number of plumes on the hearse, and all that. This one in the back is Old McAllister—a mean old sodbuster, but a customer now—and I’ll have to get him ready for the funeral, lug him out to the farm again, and lug him back again on Friday, for the burial. Lot o’ hauling in this business. We’re riding on the death-cart, Frankie. Didn’t you know? Aw, but then a lot o’ things are kept from a boy like you.”
When they reached Blairlogie they drove up Dalhousie Street, which was the main and only business street, and stopped at a side door
of Devinney’s Furniture and Undertaking Parlours. Briskly, Zadok leaped down, opened the door of the shop, pulled out a light table on rubber wheels, shifted Old McAllister on to it, threw a sheet over him and had him into the shop in approximately fifteen seconds.
“Have to be quick. People don’t like to see how things are done. A funeral’s a work of art, y’see, dear boy, and all the rough part is no business of the public’s.”
This was as he was wheeling Old McAllister on his cart through the furniture part of the store, toward the back, which was closed off by a partition with a curtained double door. Beyond the curtains, Zadok switched on the light—it was a dim light, afforded by two bulbs of modest power—and opened another double door, very heavy and with broad hinges. From inside came a cold breath, damp and stuffy, the smell of slowly melting ice. Quickly Old McAllister was wheeled inside, and doors were closed.
“Don’t want too much melting,” said Zadok. “Mr. Devinney is always complaining about the ice bill.”
“But Zadok, what are you going to do with him?” said Francis. “Do you just leave him in there till the funeral?”
“I should say not,” said Zadok. “I make him look better than he ever looked in his life. It’s an art, Frankie, and though anybody can learn the elements of it, the real art’s inborn.—You didn’t know I was an artist, did you?”
It was then that Francis made his great confession. “Zadok, I think I’m an artist too.” He rummaged in his outer clothes, and produced his sketch-book.
“By the Powers of Old Melchizedek,” said Zadok (this was his mighty oath), “you are, dear boy, and no mistake. Here’s Miss McRory to the life. Ah, Frankie, you’ve been a bit severe with the little cap, dear man. Ah, never be cruel, me dear. But b’God it’s true enough, even if it is sharp. And here’s Miss Cameron. You’ve made her look almost like one of your Aunt’s spooky pictures. But it’s true, too. And here’s me! To think I was once accounted a handsome man! Ah, ye devil! That’s the red nose to the life! Ah, Frankie, y’ rascal! You make me laugh at myself. Oh, you’re an artist. And what are you going to do about it?”
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