Chapter 69
"But if there's no such thing as color, how can they paint?"
"They don't. Their canvases are blank. Then there are the Combinationists. They don't repudiate color, but they repudiate paint.
The most famous Combinationist picture exhibited so far consisted of half a match-box, a piece of orange-peel, and some sealing-wax, all stuck upon a slip of sugar-paper. The other Combinationists wanted to commit suicide because they despaired of surpa.s.sing it. Roger Cadbury wrote a superb introduction, pointing out that it must be either liked or disliked, but that it was impossible to do both or neither. It was that picture which inspired Hezekiah Penny to write what is considered one of his finest poems. You know it, perhaps?
"Why do I sing?
There is no reason why I should continue: This image of the essential bin is better Than the irritated uvulas of modern poets.
That caused almost as great sensation as the picture, because some of his fellow-poets maintained that he had no right to speak for anybody but himself."
"Who is Hezekiah Penny?" Sylvia asked.
"Hezekiah Penny is a provincial poet who began by writing Provencal verse."
"But this is madness," Sylvia exclaimed, looking round her at the studio, where the representatives of modernity eyed one another with surprise and distaste like unusual fish in the tank of an aquarium.
"Behind all this rubbish surely something truly progressive exists.
You've deliberately invited all the charlatans and impostors to meet me.
I tell you, Ronnie, I saw lots of pictures in New York that were eccentric, but they were striving to rediscover life in painting. You're prejudiced because you belong to the decade before all this, and you've taken a delight in showing me all the extravagant side of it. You should emulate t.i.thonus."
"Who was he?"
"Now don't pretend you can't follow a simple allusion. The gentleman who fell in love with Aurora."
"Didn't he get rather tired of living forever?"
"Oh, well, that was because he grew a beard like you. Don't nail my allusions to the counter; they're not lies."
"I'll take pity on you," said Ronnie. "There is quite a clever youth whom I intended for you from the beginning. He's coming in later, when the rest have gone."
When she and Ronnie were alone again and before Lucian Hope, the young painter, arrived, Sylvia, looking through one of his sketch-books, came across a series of studies of a girl in the practice-dress of dancing; he told her it was Jenny Pearl.
"Maurice Avery's Jenny," she murmured. "What happened to her?"
"Didn't you hear about it? She was killed by her husband. It was a horrible business. Maurice went down to see her where she lived in the country, and this brute shot her. It was last summer. The papers were full of it."
"And what happened to Maurice?"
"Oh, he nearly went off his head. He's wandering about in Morocco probably."
"Where I met him," said Sylvia.
"But didn't he tell you?"
"Oh, it was before. More than three years ago. We talked about her."
Sylvia shuddered. One of her improvisations had been Maurice Avery; she must burn it.
Lucian Hope arrived before Sylvia could ask any more questions about the horrible event; she was glad
She would have liked to ask him what pleasure he derived from such mimicry of a sterile and professional distinction, but she feared to hurt his young vanity; moreover, she was disarmed by those squirrel's eyes, so sharp and bright even in the falling dusk. The three of them talked restlessly for a while, and Sylvia, seeing that Ronald was preparing to broach the subject for which they were met, antic.i.p.ated him with a call for attention, and began one of her improvisations. It was of Concetta lost in a greater city than Granada. By the silence that followed she knew that her companions had cared for it, and she changed to Mrs. Gainsborough. Then she finished up with three of the poems.
"Could you paint me a scene for that?" she asked, quickly, to avoid any comment.
"Oh, rather!" replied the young man, very eagerly; though it was nearly dark now, she could see his eyes flas.h.i.+ng real a.s.surance.
They all three dined together that evening, and Lucian Hope, ever since Sylvia had let him know that she stood beside him to conquer the world, lost his early shyness and talked volubly of what she wanted and what he wanted to do. Ronald Walker presided in the background of the ardent conversation, and as they came out of the restaurant he took Sylvia's arm for a moment.
"All right?"
"Quite all right, thanks."
"So's your show going to be. Not so entirely modern as you gave me to suppose. But that's not a great fault."
Sylvia and Lucian Hope spent a good deal of time together, so much was there to talk about in connection with the great enterprise. She brought him to the Airdales' that he might meet Jack, who was supposed to have charge of the financial arrangements. The sight of the long-haired young man made Sylvius cry, and, as a matter of course, Rose, also, which embarra.s.sed Lucian Hope a good deal, especially when he had to listen to an explanation of himself by Olive for the children's consolation.
"He's a gollywog," Sylvius howled.
"He's a gollywog," Rose echoed.
"He's tum to gobble us," Sylvius bellowed.
"To gobble us, to gobble us," Rose wailed.
"He's not a gollywog, darlings," their mother declared. "He makes pretty pictures, oh, such pretty pictures of--"
"He _is_ a gollywog," choked Sylvius, in an ecstasy of rage and fear.
"A gollywog, a gollywog," Rose insisted.
Their mother changed her tactics. "But he's a kind gollywog. Oh, such a kind gollywog, the kindest, nicest gollywog that was ever thought of."
"He _is_--ent," both children proclaimed. "He's bad!"
"Don't you think I'd better go?" asked the painter. "I think it must be my hair that's upsetting them."
He started toward the door, but, unfortunately, he was on the wrong side of the children, who, seeing him make a move in their direction, set up such an appalling yell that the poor young man drew back in despair. In the middle of this the maid entered, announcing Mr. Arthur Madden, who followed close upon her heels. Sylvius and Rose were by this time obsessed with the idea of an invasion by an army of gollywogs, and Arthur's pleasant face took on for them the dreaded lineaments of the foe. Both children clung shrieking to their mother's skirts. Sylvia and Jack were leaning back, incapable through laughter. Arthur and Lucian Hope surveyed miserably the scene they had created. At last the nurse arrived to rescue the twins, and they were carried away without being persuaded to change their minds about the inhuman nature of the two visitors.
Arthur apologized for worrying Sylvia, but his mother was so anxious to know when she was coming down to Dulwich, and as he had been up in town seeing about an engagement, he had not been able to resist coming to visit her.
Sylvia felt penitent for having abandoned Arthur so completely since they had arrived in England, and she told him she would go back with him that very afternoon.
"Oh, but Miss Scarlett," protested Lucian, "don't you remember? We arranged to explore Limehouse to-morrow."
Arthur looked at the painter very much as if he were indeed the gollywog for which he had just been taken.
"I don't want to interfere with previous arrangements," he said, with such a pathetic haughtiness that Sylvia had not the heart to wound his dignity, and told Lucian Hope that the expedition to Limehouse must be postponed. The young painter looked disconsolate and Arthur blossomed from his fading. However, Lucian had the satisfaction of saying, in a mysterious voice, to Sylvia before he went:
"Well, then, while you're away I'll get on with it."
It was not until they were half-way to Dulwich in the train that Arthur asked Sylvia what he was going to get on with.