Leaning there above the table, shoulder to shoulder, his light finger tips caressing the wax model which she had begun, he told her clearly, and with the engaging candour which she already had begun to adore in him, all about what she had achieved in the interesting trifle before them — explained to her wherein she had failed not only to accomplish but to see correctly — wherein she had seen clearly and wrought intelligently.
He might have been talking to a brother sculptor — and therein lay the fascination of this man — for her — that, and the pains he always took with her — which courtesy was only part of him — part of the wonder of this man; of his unerring goodness in all things to her.
Listening, absorbed in all that he said she still was conscious of a parallel thread of thought accompanying — a tiny filament of innocent praise in her heart that chance had given her this man to listen to and to heed and talk to and to think about.
“I won’t touch what you’ve done, Miss West,” he said, smilingly; “but just take a pinch of wax — that way! — and accent that relaxed flank muscle!… Don’t be afraid; watch the shape of the shadows…. That’s it! Do you see? Never be afraid of dealing vigorously with your subject. Every modification of the first vigorous touch is bound to weaken and sometimes to emasculate…. I don’t mean for you to parade crudity and bunches of exaggerated muscle as an ultimate expression of vigour. Only the devotee of the obvious is satisfied with that sort of result; and our exhibitions reek with them. But there is no reason why the satin skin and smooth contour of a naked child shouldn’t express virility and vigour — no reason why the flawless delicacy of Venus herself should not, if necessary, express violence unexaggerated and without either distortion or lack of finish.”
He glanced across at the dozing cat:
“Under that silky black fur there are bones and fibres and muscles. Don’t exaggerate them and call your task finished; merely remember always that they’re there framing and padding the velvet skin. More is done by skilful inference than by parading every abstract fact you know and translating the sum-accumulative of your knowledge into the over-accented concrete. Reticence is a kind of vigour. It can even approach violence. The mentally garrulous kill their own inspiration. Inadequacy loves to lump things and gamble with chance for effective results.”
He rose, walked over and examined Gladys, touched her contemplatively with the button of his mahl-stick, and listened absently to her responsive purr. Then, palette still in hand, he sat down opposite Valerie, gazing at her in that detached manner which some mistook for indifference:
“There are, I think, two reasons for failure in art,” he said, “excess of creative emotion, excess of psychological hair-splitting. The one produces the normal and lovable failures which, decorate our art exhibitions; the other results in those curious products which amuse the public to good-humoured contempt — I mean those pictures full of violent colour laid on in streaks, in great sweeps, in patches, in dots. The painter has turned half theorist, half scientist; the theories of the juxtaposition of colour, and the science of complementary colours, engrosses his attention. He is no longer an artist; he is a chemist and physiologist and an artisan.
“Every now and then there is a revolt from the accepted order of things. New groups form, sometimes damning what they call the artificial lighting of the studio, sometimes exclaiming against the carnival of harmonious or crude colour generally known as ‘plein air.’ Impressionists scorn the classic, and vice versa. But, Miss West, as a matter of fact, all schools are as good as all religions.
“To speak of studio lighting as artificial and unworthy is silly. It is pretty hard to find anything really artificial in the world, indoors, or out, or even in the glare of the footlights. I think the main idea is that a man should prefer doing what the public calls his work, to any other form of recreation — should use enough reason — not too much — enough inspiration — but watching himself at every brush stroke; and finally should feel physically unfettered — that is, have the a b c, the drudgery, the artisan’s part of the work at his finger tips. Then, if he does what makes him happy, whether in a spirit of realism or romanticism, he can safely leave the rest to Fate.”
He looked at her, curiously for a moment, then a smile wholly involuntary broke over his face:
“Lord! What a lecture! And you listened to all that nonsense like an angel!”
The dreamy absorption died out in her eyes; she clasped her hands on her knee, looked down, then up at him almost irritably:
“Please go on, Mr. Neville.”
“Not much. I’ve a few stunts to execute aloft there—”
He contemplated her in amused silence, which became more serious:
“You have talent, Miss West. Artistic talent is not unusual among Americans, but patience is. That is one reason why talent accomplishes so little in this country.”
“Isn’t another reason that patience is too expensive to be indulged in by talent?”
He laughed: “That is perfectly true. The majority of us have to make a living before we know how.”
“Did you have to do that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You were fortunate?”
“Yes. I was — perhaps…. I’m not sure.”
She touched the lump of green wax gravely, absently. He remained looking at her, busy with his own reflections.
“Would you like to have a chance to study?” he asked.
“Study? What?”
“Sculpture — any old thing! Would you like to try?
“What chance have I for such expensive amusements as study?” she laughed.
“I’ll be responsible for you.”
“You?” — in blank surprise.
“I’ll attend to the material part of it, if you like. I’ll see that you can afford the — patience.”
“Mr. Neville, I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” he asked, lazily humorous.
“Do you mean — that you offer me — an opportunity—”
“Yes; an opportunity to exercise patience. It’s an offer, Miss West. But
I’m perfectly certain you won’t take it.”
For a long while she sat, her cheek resting on one palm, looking fixedly into space. Then she stirred, glanced up, blushed vividly, sprang to her feet and crossed to where he sat.
“I’ve been considering your offer,” she said, striving to speak without effort.
“I’ll bet you won’t accept it!”
“You win your wager, Mr. Neville.”
“I wonder why?” he said with his bantering smile: “but I think I know.
Talent in America is seldom intellectually ambitious.”
To his amazement and vexation tears sprang to her eyes; she said, biting her lower lip: “My ambition is humble. I care — more than anything in the world — to be of use to — to your career.”
Taken completely by surprise he said, “Nonsense,” and rose to confront her where she stood wholly charming in her nervous, flushed emotion:
“It isn’t nonsense, Mr. Neville; it is my happiness.
“I don’t believe you realise what your career means to me. I would not willingly consider anything that might interrupt my humble part in it — in this happy companionship…. After all, happiness is the essential. You said so once. I am happier here than I possibly could be in an isolation where I might perhaps study — learn—” Her voice broke deliciously as he met her gaze in cool, curious disapproval.
[Illustration: “For a long while she sat, her cheek resting on one palm, looking fixedly into space.”]
“You can’t understand it!” she said, flushing almost fiercely. “You can’t comprehend what the daily intimacy with a man of your sort has done — is doing for me every moment of my life. How can you understand? You, who have your own place in the world — in life — in this country — in this city! You, who have family, friends, clubs, your social life in city and country, and abroad. Life is very ful
l for you — has always been. But — what I am now learning in contact with you and with the people to whom you have introduced me — is utterly new to me — and — very — pleasant…. I have tasted it; I cannot live without it now.”
She drew a deep quick breath, then, looking up at him with a tremulous smile:
“What would you think if I told you that, until Sam took me, I had never even been inside a theatre except when I was engaged by Schindler? It is perfectly true. Mother did not approve. Until I went with John Burleson I had never ever been in a restaurant; until I was engaged by Schindler I had never seen the city lighted at night — I mean where the theatres and cafés and hotels are…. And, Mr. Neville, until I came here to you, I had never had an opportunity to talk to a cultivated man of my own age — I mean the kind of man you are.”
She dropped her eyes, considering, while the smile still played faintly with the edges of her lips; then:
“Is it very hard for you to realise that what is an ordinary matter of course to the young of my age is, to me, all a delightful novelty? — that I am enjoying to a perfectly heavenly degree what to you and others may be commonplace and uninteresting? All I ask is to be permitted to enjoy it while I am still young enough. I — I must! I really need it, Mr. Neville. It seems, at moments, as if I could never have enough — after the years — where I had — nothing.”
Neville had begun walking to and fro in front of her with the quick, decisive step that characterised his movements; but his restlessness seemed only to emphasise the attention he concentrated on every word she spoke; and, though he merely glanced at her from moment to moment, she was conscious that the man now understood, and was responding more directly to her than ever before in their brief and superficial acquaintance.
“I don’t want to go away and study,” she said. “It is perfectly dear of you to offer it — I — there is no use in trying to thank you—”
“Valerie!”
“What!” she said, startled by his use of her given name for the first time in their acquaintance.
He said, smilingly grave: “You didn’t think there was a string attached to anything I offered?”
“A — a string?”
“Did you?”
She blushed hotly: “No, of course not.”
“It’s all right then,” he nodded; but she began to think of that new idea in a confused, startled, helpless sort of way.
“How could you think that of me?” she faltered.
“I didn’t—”
“You — it must have been in your mind—”
“I wanted to be sure it wasn’t in yours—”
“You ought to have known! Haven’t you learned anything at all about me in two months?”
“Do you think any man can learn anything about anybody in two months?” he asked, lightly.
“Yes, I do. I’ve learned a good deal about you — enough, anyway, not to attribute anything — unworthy—”
“You silly child; you’ve learned nothing about me if that’s what you think you’ve discovered.”
“I have discovered it!” she retorted, tremulously; “I’ve learned horrid things about other men, too — and they’re not like you!”
“Valerie! Valerie! I’m precisely like all the rest — my selfishness is a little more concentrated than theirs, that’s the only difference. For God’s sake don’t make a god of me.”
She sat down on the head of the sofa, looking straight at him, pretty head lowered a trifle so that her gaze was accented by the lovely level of her brows:
“I’ve long wanted to have a thorough talk with you,” she said. “Have you got time now?”
He hesitated, controlling his secret amusement under an anxious gravity as he consulted the clock.
“Suppose you give me an hour on those figures up there? The light will be too poor to work by in another hour. Then we’ll have tea and ‘thorough talks.’”
“All right,” she said, calmly.
He picked up palette and mahl-stick and mounted to his perch on the scaffolding; she walked slowly into the farther room, stood motionless a moment, then raising both arms she began to unhook the collar of her gown.
When she was ready she stepped into her sandals, threw the white wool robe over her body, and tossed one end across her bare shoulder.
He descended, aided her aloft to her own eyrie, walked across the planking to his own, and resumed palette and brushes in excellent humour with himself, talking gaily while he was working:
“I’m devoured by curiosity to know what that ‘thorough talk’ of yours is going to be about. You and I, in our briefly connected careers, have discussed every subject on earth, gravely or flippantly, and what in the world this ‘thorough talk’ is going to resemble is beyond me—”
“It might have to do with your lack of ceremony — a few minutes ago,” she said, laughing at him.
“My — what?”
“Lack of ceremony. You called me Valerie.”
“You can easily revenge that presumption, you know.”
“I think I will — Kelly.”
He smiled as he painted:
“I don’t know why the devil they call me Kelly,” he mused. “No episode that I ever heard of is responsible for that Milesian misnomer. Quand même! It sounds prettier from you than it ever did before. I’d rather hear you call me Kelly than Caruso sing my name as Algernon.”
“Shall I really call you Kelly?”
“Sure thing! Why not?”
“I don’t know. You’re rather celebrated — to have a girl call you Kelly.”
He puffed out his chest in pretence of pompous satisfaction:
“True, child. Good men are scarce — but the good and great are too nearly extinct for such familiarity. Call me Mr. Kelly.”
“I won’t. You are only a big boy, anyway — Louis Neville — and sometimes I shall call you Kelly, and sometimes Louis, and very occasionally Mr. Neville.”
“All right,” he said, absently— “only hold that distractingly ornamental head and those incomparable shoulders a trifle more steady, please — rest solidly on the left leg — let the right hip fall into its natural position — that’s it. Thank you.”
Holding the pose her eyes wandered from him and his canvas to the evening tinted clouds already edged with deeper gold. Through the sheet of glass above she saw a shred of white fleece in mid-heaven turn to a pale pink.
“I wonder why you asked me to tea?” she mused.
“What?” He turned around to look at her.
“You never before asked me to do such a thing,” she said, candidly.
“You’re an absent-minded man, Mr. Neville.”
“It never occurred to me,” he retorted, amused. “Tea is weak-minded.”
“It occurred to me. That’s what part of my ‘thorough talk’ is to be about; your carelessness in noticing me except professionally.”
He continued working, rapidly now; and it seemed to her as though something — a hint of the sombre — had come into his face — nothing definite — but the smile was no longer there, and the brows were slightly knitted.
Later he glanced up impatiently at the sky: the summer clouds wore a deeper rose and gold.
“We’d better have our foolish tea,” he said, abruptly, driving his brushes into a bowl of black soap and laying aside his palette for his servant to clean later.
For a while, not noticing her, he fussed about his canvas, using a knife here, a rag there, passing to and fro across the scaffolding, oblivious of the flight of time, until at length the waning light began to prophesy dusk, and he came to himself with a guilty start.
Below, in the studio, Valerie sat, fully dressed except for hat and gloves, head resting in the padded depths of an armchair, watching him in silence.
“I declare,” he said, looking down at her contritely, “I never meant to keep you all this time. Good Lord! Have I been puttering up here for an hour and a half! It’s nearly eight o’clock! Why on earth didn’t
you speak to me, Valerie?”
“It’s a braver girl than I am who’ll venture to interrupt you at work,
Kelly,” she said, laughingly. “I’m a little afraid of you.”
“Nonsense! I wasn’t doing anything. My Heaven! — can it be eight o’clock?”
“It is…. You said we were going to have tea.”
“Tea! Child, you can’t have tea at eight o’clock! I’m terribly sorry” — he came down the ladder, vexed with himself, wiping the paint from his hands with a bunch of cheese cloth— “I’m humiliated and ashamed, Miss West. Wait a moment—”
He walked hastily through the next room into his small suite of apartments, washed his hands, changed his painter’s linen blouse for his street coat, and came back into the dim studio.
“I’m really sorry, Valerie,” he said. “It was rotten rude of me.”
“So am I sorry. It’s absurd, but I feel like a perfectly unreasonable kid about it…. You never before asked me — and I — wanted to — stay — so much—”
“Why didn’t you remind me, you foolish child!”
“Somehow I couldn’t…. I wanted you to think of it.”
“Well, I’m a chump….” He stood before her in the dim light; she still reclined in the armchair, not looking at him, one arm crook’d over her head and the fingers closed tightly over the rosy palm which was turned outward, resting across her forehead.
For a few moments neither spoke; then:
“I’m horridly lonely to-night,” she said, abruptly.
“Why, Valerie! What a — an unusual—”
“I want to talk to you…. I suppose you are too hungry to want to talk now.”
“N-no, I’m not.” He began to laugh: “What’s the matter, Valerie? What is on your mind? Have you any serious fidgets, or are you just a spoiled, pretty girl?”
“Spoiled, Kelly. There’s nothing really the matter. I just felt like — what you asked me to do—”
She jumped up suddenly, biting her lips with vexation: “I don’t know what I’m saying — except that it’s rather rude of me — and I’ve got to go home. Good-night — I think my hat is in the dressing-room—”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 521