The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “I like a hard chair,” replied Tom.

  “So do I. Odd, isn’t it, that women seem to want a chair stuffed like a feather bed and piled up with cushions? I could never understand why, seeing that they are lighter than men, as a rule, and better covered.”

  “Perhaps,” Tom suggested, as he subsided on to the wooden-seated chair, “it is because they wear less clothes and want the cushions for warmth.”

  “Well, at any rate,” said she, as she put a match to the gas-ring on the hearth which supported a handsome copper kettle, “we are on the same plane in the matter of chairs, so we have one agreement to start with.”

  She drew up a light mahogany armchair, and, seating herself, gave her attention to the kettle; and while it was heating she continued the discussion with a whimsical mock-seriousness that Tom found quite pleasant. In fact, there was no denying that Mrs. Schiller’s personality was distinctly attractive if one could forget the atrocities of her painting; and Tom, who liked women well enough so long as they did not want him to marry them, realized with some surprise that he was finding the little informal function quite agreeable (though he was still resolved that this visit should “close the incident”). The excellent China tea was brewed to perfection, the table appointments, including the kettle, were pleasant to look on, and his hostess’s bright flippancies kept him mildly amused.

  Presently the conversation reverted to the subject of painting, and Tom ventured to seek some solution of the mystery that had perplexed him.

  “Have you always painted in the modernist manner?” he asked.

  “Always!” she repeated with a smile. “I haven’t always painted at all. It is a completely new venture on my part, and it came about quite by chance; a very odd chance it seems when I look back on it. A girl friend of mine asked me to go with her to a show at a gallery in Leicester Square; an exhibition of works of modern masters. I didn’t want to go, because I had never felt the least interest in pictures and didn’t know anything about them, but she insisted that I must go because everybody was talking about these pictures, and the art critics declared they were the latest discoveries in art.

  “So I went, and, to my surprise, I was tremendously impressed and interested. The pictures were so different from anything that I had ever seen before; so quaint and curious. They looked as if they might have been done by children. I was really charmed with them; so much so that I decided to try if I could do anything like them. And I found that I could. Isn’t it strange? I had never drawn or painted before, and yet I found it quite easy to do. Don’t you think it is very remarkable?”

  “Very remarkable,” Tom agreed quite sincerely, though not quite in the sense that she meant. For him the mystery was now completely solved, though there were other matters concerning which he was curious.

  “Do you send in to the exhibitions?” he asked. “It is rather necessary if you expect to make a living by your work.”

  “I haven’t actually exhibited,” she replied, “but I am getting a collection together in readiness, and I go to see the modernist shows to see what sort of prices works of my kind fetch, or, at least, are offered at. They seem to me rather high, but I notice that very few of the pictures are sold.”

  “Yes,” said Tom, “there are not many picture-buyers nowadays, and the few picture-lovers who do buy mostly prefer work of the traditional kind. But your best plan would be to try some of the dealers who specialize in modernist works. They would know what your pictures are worth in their market, and they might be able to give you some useful advice. They might even buy some of your works—at their own price, of course.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” said she. “I will certainly try it. Perhaps you could give me the names of one or two dealers. Would you?”

  Tom shook his head. “My dealers would be no good for you. They are old-fashioned fellows who deal in old-fashioned work. No modernist stuff for them. They’d be afraid of frightening away their regular customers.”

  “That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” she re marked with a wry smile.

  “I suppose it doesn’t,” Tom admitted; and in the pause that followed it was suddenly borne in on him that these comradely confidences were not very favourable to the “closure of the incident.” And then, in the vulgar but convenient phrase, he “put the lid on it.”

  “You appear,” said he, “to work exclusively in water colour. Do you find that more suitable than oil?”

  “The truth is,” she replied, “that I have never tried oil painting because I don’t quite know how to go about it; I mean as to mixing the paint and putting it on with those queer-looking stiff-haired brushes. But I should like to paint in oil, or at least give the medium a trial.” She paused for a few moments. Then in an insinuating tone she continued, “I wonder whether my kind and helpful neighbour would come to my assistance.”

  Tom looked at her apprehensively. “I suppose I’m the neighbour,” said he, “but I don’t quite see what you want me to do.”

  “It is only a modest request,” she urged, “but I should be so grateful if, sometime when you are at work, you would let me come and look on.”

  “But to what purpose?” he demanded. “My painting and your painting are not the same kind of thing at all.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “But, after all, modernist painters use the same materials and implements as artists of the more old-fashioned type. Now, you know all about the methods of oil painting, and, if I could watch you when you are working, I should see how you do it, and then I should be able, with a little practice, to do it myself. Won’t you let me come once or twice? I promise not to waste your time or interrupt you by talking.”

  Tom looked at the smiling, wheedlesome face and realized that he was cornered. It would be churlish to refuse, and indeed, utterly unlike him to withhold any help from a fellow artist, no matter how bad. But still it was necessary for him to “mind his eye.” It would never do to give this enterprising young woman the run of his studio.

  “When I am at work,” he said at length, “I like to be alone and concentrate on what I am doing, but I shall be very pleased to give you a demonstration of the technique of oil painting. What I would suggest is that you bring in one of your pictures, and that I make a copy of it in oil, while you look on. Then you can ask as many questions as you please and I will give you any tips as to the management of the medium that seem necessary. How will that do?”

  “But it is the very thing that I would have asked for if I had dared. I am delighted, and more grateful than I can tell you. Perhaps you will let me know when I may come for the demonstration.”

  “I will,” he replied. “It won’t be for a day or two, but when I have finished the picture that I have in hand, I will drop a note into your letter-box giving one or two alternative dates. And I hope,” he continued as he rose to depart, “that you will like the medium and do great things in it.”

  As he re-entered his studio and occupied himself in cleaning his palette and brushes and doing a few odd jobs, he cogitated profoundly on the events of the afternoon. One thing was plain to him; the “closure of the incident” was “off.” The good lady had fairly taken possession of him. Already she had established herself definitely as an acquaintance, and he saw clearly that the next interview would put her on the footing of a friend. It was an unfortunate affair, but he must make the best of it and continue to “mind his eye”—if the word “continue” was strictly applicable.

  As to the woman herself, he was completely puzzled. He could make nothing of her. Was she simply an impostor or did she suffer from some extraordinary delusion? The plain and obvious facts were that she could not draw at all, that her water-colour painting was that of an untalented child and that she seemed to have no artistic ideas or the capacity to invent a subject. But was it possible that she had some kind of artistic gifts which he was unable to gauge? The supposition seemed to be negatived by her own admission that she had never felt any interest in pictures. For the outstand
ing characteristic of real talent is the early age at which it shows itself. Pope “lisped in numbers, for the numbers came,” Mozart and Handel were accomplished musicians, and even composers, when they were small children; John Millais was a masterly draughtsman at the age of five; Bonington died in the twenties with a European reputation; and so with Fred Walker, Chantrey, and a host of others. No, a person who reaches middle age without showing any sign of artistic aptitude is certainly not a born artist.

  The only possible conclusion seemed to be that Mrs. Schiller was either a rank impostor or the subject of some strange delusion; and at that he had to leave it. After all, it was not his affair. His concern was to see that he was not involved in any entanglements; and the lady’s masterful ways promised to give him full occupation in that respect without troubling about her artistic gifts.

  CHAPTER IV

  Mr. Vanderpuye

  There are persons, unfortunately too common, who seem to be incapable of doing anything well. Impatience to get the job finished and inability to concentrate on the doing, beget slipshod work and faulty results. Conversely, there are some more happily constituted who cannot bring themselves to do anything badly. Of this type Tom Pedley was a representative specimen. To the simplest task he gave his whole attention and would not leave it until it was done to a finish, even though the task was no more than the washing of a teacup or the polishing of a spoon. Hence the demonstration of oil technique, though he secretly regarded it as a waste of time, was carried out with as much thoroughness as if Mrs. Schiller had been a pupil of the highest promise.

  “I have brought two of my pictures,” the lady explained when she made her appearance on the appointed day; “the Symphony in Green and Blue the Adam and Eve subject. Which do you think will be the more suitable?”

  “May as well do them both,” replied Tom, “as one has some sort of shape in it and the other hasn’t. We’ll begin with the Symphony. You seem to have used mighty big brushes and kept the paper uncommonly wet.”

  “Oh, I didn’t use any brushes at all. I just soaked the paper in water, mixed up some emerald oxide and French ultramarine in separate saucers and poured it on in long streaks. When I tilted the board, of course, the streaks ran together and produced those subtle gradations of colour that I have tried to express by the word Symphony.”

  “I see,” said Tom with an appreciative grin. “Deuced good method. Labour-saving, too. Well, you can’t do that sort of thing in oil. Got to do the blending with the brush unless you work with the knife. I’ll show you.”

  He set up the “Symphony” on the easel with a fourteen by twelve canvas by its side. Then, on a clean palette, he squeezed out three blobs of colour, emerald oxide, French ultramarine and flake white, and, taking up the palette knife, mixed one or two tints to match those of the “Symphony.”

  “We’ll follow your methods as far as we can in oil,” said he. “We begin with streaks of the deepest colour, add lighter tints at the edges, and then paint them into one another to produce the subtle gradations. Like this.”

  He fell to work with a couple of large brushes, keeping an attentive eye on the “Symphony” and giving from time to time a few words of explanation as to the management of the brush and the mixing of the tints. At the end of a quarter of an hour’s work he had produced a copy of the “Symphony” which might have been a facsimile but for the difference in the medium. His pupil watched him and listened to his explanations without saying a word until he had finished. Then, as he stepped back and laid down his palette, she exclaimed:

  “How extraordinary! You’ve made a perfect copy; and so quickly, too. It is really wonderful; and it looks so easy.”

  “Easy!” Tom repeated. “Of course it’s easy. Any—er—anyone” (he had nearly said “any fool”) “can put streaks of colour on a canvas and paint their edges into one another. But, of course,” he added hurriedly, “you’ve got to invent the streaks. Now we’ll have a go at Adam and Eve.”

  This, however, presented more difficulty. Try as he would, he could not quite attain the childish effect of the original. His figures persisted in looking slightly human and even in differentiating themselves into a recognizable man and woman.

  “There,” he said as he stepped back and regarded his performance with a grim smile, “I think that will do, though it isn’t a fair copy. I seem to have missed some of the ‘essential form,’ but that doesn’t matter. You see the method. And now, as a wind up, I’ll just show you how to work with the knife. That may suit you better than the brush.”

  He placed on the easel a slab of millboard, and, taking a couple of small, thin-bladed, trowel-shaped knives, rapidly executed another rendering of the “Symphony,” while his pupil watched with delighted surprise. Finally, he showed her how to clean the palette and wash the brushes, admonishing her that a tidy worker takes care of his tools and doesn’t waste his materials.

  “And now,” he concluded, “you know all about it. Facility will come with practice, and the ideas you have already, so all you’ve got to do is to provide yourself with the materials and fire away.”

  “I will certainly do that,” said she. “But I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” She came close up to him, looking earnestly in his face and laying her hands on his arms (and for one awful moment he thought she was going to kiss him) and exclaimed: “It was so kind of you to take all this trouble for a mere stranger. I think you are a perfect dear. But we aren’t really strangers, are we?”

  “Well,” Tom admitted cautiously, “I’ve certainly seen you before.”

  “Now, don’t be an old bear,” she protested smilingly. “Seen me before, indeed! But never mind. You haven’t done with me yet. I want you to come with me to the artists’ colourman and show me what I must get for a start. You will do that for me, won’t you? Say yes, like a duck.”

  “Can’t very well do that,” objected Tom, “as I’ve never heard a duck say yes; but I’ll come to the shop with you and see that you don’t waste your money on foolishness. Might as well nip along now and get it done with. Shop’s close by. Only take us a few minutes. What do you say?”

  She said “yes” with a sly and very understanding smile; and Tom realized too late that his studied gruffness, so far from fending her off, had only put her on a more intimate footing. So they went forth together, and when Tom had superintended her purchases and seen her provided with the bare necessaries for a beginning, he took up the bulky parcel and escorted her home; and as he handed her the parcel and said “good-bye” on her doorstep, the effusiveness of her gratitude made him thankful that the farewells were exchanged in a public thoroughfare.

  He turned away with a troubled face and a sinking heart. No self-delusion was now possible. He had failed utterly to “mind his eye” and had been definitely adopted, willy-nilly, by this remarkable young woman as her special friend and comrade. And there seemed to be no escape. A coarser and less genial man would have administered an effective rebuff; but Tom was a kindly soul, courteous and considerate by nature and habit and with all the old bachelor’s deference to women. Unwillingly, he had to accept the conviction that this unwanted friendship was an established fact to which, henceforth, his old simple, self-contained way of life should be subject.

  And so it proved. His new friend was not actually intrusive. She recognized that he was a solitary man who liked to work alone. But somehow it happened that hardly a day passed in which she did not make some kind of appearance. Of course, he had to go in to see her experiments in the new medium (at which he gazed stolidly, his capacity for astonishment having been exhausted) and give her further purely technical advice. Then she would drop in at the studio now and again to ask a question, to offer some little service or to bring some small gift, and the number of chance meetings in the neighbouring streets was such as to confound all the known laws of probability. Thus, insensibly, the intimacy grew and with it the space which she occupied in his life.

  Tom observed the process with anxious forebod
ing and cursed the ill luck that had brought her into his orbit. But presently he began to realize that things were not so bad as he had feared. In the first place, she was not a widow. There was a husband in the background—apparently a German background; a dim figure, but still an undeniable bar to matrimony. So the principal danger was excluded. Then certain other reassuring facts became evident. At first her astonishing familiarity had horrified him, and the endearing phrases and epithets she used had seemed positively alarming, but he soon grew accustomed to being addressed as “Tom” or even “Tommy,” and as to the endearments, they appeared to be no more than a playful habit. He realized this as he noted the essential correctness of her conduct when they were together. Never was there the slightest tendency to sentimentality or philandering.

  She might call him “my dear” or “duck” or even “Tommy, darling,” but the mere words seemed harmless enough—though foolish—in view of her perfectly matter-of-fact behaviour; and Tom, now reassured and satisfied that no real entanglement threatened, made shift to put up with what he regarded as a “damn silly and rather objectionable habit.”

  As to the woman herself, her personality was not unpleasing. Sprightly, humorous and amusing, she might have been a quite acceptable companion if he had wanted one—which he emphatically did not—and if she had shown any glimmer of sensibility to art as he understood it. But, though she soon dropped the art-journalist’s jargon and tried to interest herself in his work, she really knew nothing and cared nothing about normal art; and lacking that interest, they had nothing in common.

  Her appearance, on the other hand, rather interested him, and, in his capacity as an occasional portrait painter, he gave it some attention. He would have described her as a luridly picturesque woman; blonde, showy, and made up in the height of an ugly fashion, with vermilion lips, rouged and powdered cheeks, pencilled eyebrows, and a remarkable mass of fuzzy hair, which had apparently once been bobbed and was now in process of being unbobbed. That hair interested him especially. He had never seen anything quite like it. In colour it was a very light brown, approaching flaxen, but there was something unusual in its texture; something that gave it a peculiar shimmering character when it caught the light and seemed to make the colour variable. Considering the problem of rendering it in a portrait, Tom studied its changing lights and compared it with the greenish hazel eyes and as much of the complexion as he could make out; finally reaching the conclusion that it was some sort of fake, but what sort of fake he could not imagine.