That certain Something.
RUSKIN
It was a hot summer evening, and I had gone into the studio after dinner to sit opposite my last-accomplished work, and smoke a cigarette to add to my joy in the contemplation thereof. It is a great moment even for a great artist when he can sit and sigh in solitary satisfaction before a finished picture. I had looked at it while I was waiting for dinner, and even in that empty hour it had seemed most masterly; so that now, when I may perhaps – if I apologize in advance for the unacademical vulgarism of the idea – be allowed to say that I was comfortably replete, I expected to feel in it that which surpasses the merely masterly of talent (to which degree of excellence ordinary painters, undowered by the divine afflatus, may attain by eminent industry) and approaches the superb – ecstatic. Well, in a word, if I may venture – with all becoming diffidence, and only, it will be understood, for the good-natured purpose of making myself intelligible to the general reader – if I may venture to quote a remarkable critic of mine, a most far-seeing fellow, who, in recognizing the early promise of my work, in the early days when I was still struggling to scale those heights to which I afterwards so successfully attained, aptly described whatever of merit I had then displayed as ‘the undefinable of genius’ – this was what I had come to recognize on the great canvas before me, to feel, to revel in, to know in the utmost significance of the term as something all-comprehensive enough to be evident to the meanest man’s capacity in its power to make him feel, while yet remaining beyond the range of language to convey. I had sat some time, however; my cigarette was half finished; the enjoyable sensation of having dined was uninterrupted by any feeling of regret on the subject of what I had eaten. I had, in fact, forgotten what I had eaten, which, when the doctor has put us under stoppages, as the military phrase is, and we have, nevertheless, ventured upon forbidden fruit, I take to be a proof that we have done so with impunity. The balmy summer air blew in upon me freshly from the garden through the south lattice of the studio; blackbird and thrush no longer lilted their love-songs – it was late; but a nightingale from the top of a tall tree, unseen, filled the innermost recesses of audition with inimitable sound. The hour, the scene – and the man, I may say – were all that is best calculated to induce the proper appreciation of a noble work of art; and the pale grey shades of evening had been dispelled by the radiant intensity of the electric light; but, although I had reclined in a deep easy chair long enough to finish a cigarette, not a single fibre of feeling had responded to the call of the canvas upon it. I felt the freshness, the nightingale’s note in the stillness; that luxurious something of kinship which comes from the near neighbourhood of a great city with companionable effect when one is well disposed. But the work of art before me moved me no more than a fresh canvas standing ready stretched upon the easel, with paints and palette lying ready for use beside it would have done – not so much, in fact, for such preparations were only made when a new idea was burning in my being to be expressed; I should have been feeling it then; but now I was conscious of nothing more entrancing than the cold ashes of an old one. Yes! cold ashes, quite extinct, they were, and I found myself forced to acknowledge it, although, of course, I assured myself at the same time that the fault was in my mood of the moment, not in the picture. If I went out into the streets and brought in a varied multitude to gaze, I never doubted but that I should hear them shout again those paeans of praise to which I had long become accustomed – accustomed, too, as we are to the daily bread which we eat without much thought or appetite, but cannot do without. But certainly on this particular evening, while I gazed, persistent thoughts obtruded themselves instead of refined sensations. As I rounded that exquisite arm I remembered now that I had had in my mind the pleasurable certainty that the smiles of the Lady Catherine Claridge, her little invitations to ‘come when you have nothing better to do – but not on my regular day, you know. You will always find me at home,’ and her careless-seeming hint of a convenient hour, meant as much as I cared to claim. There had been in her blush, I knew, the material for my little romance of that season. And then, as I flecked in those floating clouds, I had been calculating the cost of these little romances, and deciding the sum it would be necessary to set upon this picture, in order to cover the more than usually extravagant outlay which would be entailed by her gentle ladyship’s idea of my princely habits. When I was engaged upon those love-limpid eyes, it had occurred to me to calculate how much a year I should lose by spending the price of this picture, instead of reserving it as capital to be invested; and here I had asked myself, was it wise to lavish so much on one caprice? Then suddenly my mind had glanced off to the last Levée. I had certainly been slighted on that occasion – obviously neglected – allowed to pass with the kind of nod of recognition which does for a faithful lackey. At the recollection of it my forehead contracted with anger, the pride of performance forsook me, my effect had not come to those eyes, and I threw down my brush in disgust. I had gone over all that ground afterwards, for it is well known that I am nothing if not painstaking, and, indeed, my work is everywhere quoted in proof of the assertion that genius obviously is an infinite capacity for taking pains. But now again, as I gazed, the effect that I had tried for was absent; the whole work answered no more to my expectation than if it had been altogether stale, flat and unprofitable; and there gradually took possession of me a great amazement, not to say alarm, as I forced myself to acknowledge that there must be some blunting of my faculties to account for the powerlessness of the picture to move me as it ought. What could be the matter with me? Loss of nerve-power? Visions of delicate artistic susceptibilities injured when not actually wiped out by the coarse influences of indigestion, horrid possibilities, had begun to assail me rudely, when the ringing of the studio bell suddenly startled me back to my normal state of mind. It rang once sharply, and, although it is not my habit to answer bells for myself, I arose on some unaccountable impulse, and, going to the outer door of the studio, which opened on to a flight of steps leading down into the road, did so on this occasion.
A young woman was waiting without. The electric light from behind me fell full upon her face. I did not think her particularly attractive in appearance, and the direct look of her eyes into mine was positively distasteful. It was the kind of glance which either fascinates or creates a feeling of repulsion. Coming from a creature whose exterior does not please, such a glance inevitably repels, especially if there is anything commanding in it, and more particularly the command of a strong nature in an inferior position, when it is likely to cause a degree of irritation which would, amongst unrefined people, result in an outburst of rough hostility; but with us, of course, only expresses itself in a courtly coldness.
‘Do you want a model?’ the young woman asked, speaking without a particle of respect or apology, as if to an equal.
I would have answered in the negative shortly, and shut the door, but for – I had it just now, but for the moment it has escaped me. However, I shall remember it by and by, and for the present it is only necessary to state that I did not say ‘No’, and shut the door. I hesitated.
‘You can’t tell, of course, until you see me,’ the applicant pursued in a confident tone. ‘I had better come in and show myself.’
And involuntarily I stood aside to let her pass, conscious at the same time that I was bending my body from the waist, although I certainly never meant to bow to a model. My position necessitates so many bows, however, that it has really become more natural for me to acknowledge the approach of a fellow creature so, than in any other posture.
Ah! now I recall what it was that had made me hesitate – her voice. It was not the voice of a common model. And as she passed into the studio before me now, she struck me as not being a common person of any kind. Someone in distress, I thought, driven to earn an honest penny. All sorts of people come in this way to us artists, and we do what we can for them without asking questions. Sometimes we get an invaluable model with distinct marks of superior breeding, in this way; a king’s daughter, displaying in every lineament the glory of race, which inspires. Oftener it is a pretty ‘young lady’ out of a situation. The latter appears in every academy by the name of some classical celebrity. But then, again, we have applicants like the present, not attractive, whom it would be folly to engage to sit, however willing we may be to oblige them by employing them. In such cases a sovereign or so is gratefully accepted, as a rule, and there the matter ends; and I had put my hand in my pocket now as I followed my visitor in, thinking for a moment that I could satisfy her with such substantial proof of sympathy, and get rid of her; but directly she stopped and turned to me, I felt an unaccountable delicacy about doing so. ‘This is no beggar, no ordinary object of charity,’ I thought; ‘it would be an insult to offer her anything that she has not earned.’
She had placed herself full in the light for my inspection, with her back to my picture, and I looked at her attentively, gauging the possibility of making anything out of such a face, and the rather tall bundle of loose, light wraps which was the figure she presented. ‘Hopeless!’ was my first impression; ‘I’m not sure’, the second; and the third, ‘Skin delicate, features regular, eyes’ – but there the fault was, I discovered, not in the shape or colour, but in the expression of them. They were the mocking eyes of that creature most abhorrent to the soul of man, a woman who claims to rule and does not care to please; eyes out of which an imperious spirit shone independently, not looking up, but meeting mine on the same level. Now, a really attractive, womanly woman looks up, clings, depends, so that a man can never forget his own superiority in her presence.
‘Well?’ she broke in upon my reflections, prolonging the word melodiously.
And instantly it occurred to me that as I had not yet begun another serious work, I might as well do a good deed, and keep my hand in at the same time, by making a study of her. Certainly, the type was uncommon.
‘Yes,’ I replied, speaking, to my own surprise, in a satisfied tone, as if I were receiving instead of conferring a favour, although I cannot understand why I should have done so. ‘You may come tomorrow and give me some sittings. Be here at ten.’
She was turning away without a word, and she had not ventured to look at the picture; but this I thought was natural diffidence, so I called her back, feeling that a man in my position might, without loss of dignity, give the poor creature a treat.
‘You may look at the picture if you like,’ I said, speaking involuntarily very much as I should have done to – well, to the Lady Catherine Claridge herself !
She glanced at the picture over her shoulder. ‘Pooh!’ she said. ‘Do you call that a picture?’ And then she looked up in my face and laughed.
When next I found myself thinking coherently, it was about her teeth. ‘What wonderful white ones she has!’ I was saying to myself. But the studio door was shut, and all echo of her departing footsteps had died away long before I arrived at that reflection.
The next morning I was in the studio before ten o’clock, and the first thing I did was to cover my new work with a curtain, and then I set my palette. But a quarter past ten arrived and no model. Half-past – this was hardly respectful. Eleven, twelve, luncheon, light literature, a drive, the whole day – what could the woman mean? I had intended to take tea with Lady Catherine, but just as I approached the house, I was suddenly seized with a curious dislike of the visit, an unaccountable distaste for herself and everything about her, which impelled me to drive on past the place without casting a glance in that direction. I wondered afterwards if she had seen me, but I did not care in the least whether she had or not.
After dinner, as on the previous evening, I retired to the studio to enjoy a cigarette; but this time I sat with my back to the picture, before which the curtain still remained drawn, and looked out of the lattice at the lights which leaves take when fluttering in the moonlight; and listened to the nightingale – until there stole upon my senses something – that something which did not come to me out of my picture the night before. I found myself in a moment drinking in the beauty of the night with long, deep sighs, and thinking thoughts – thoughts like the thoughts of youth, which are ‘long, long thoughts’.1 I had even felt the first thrill of a great aspiration, when I was disturbed again by the ringing of the studio bell. Again, involuntarily, I hastened to open the door, and there she stood in exactly the same position at the foot of the steps, looking up at me with her eyes that repelled – but no! I was mistaken. How could I have thought her eyes repellent? They were merrily dancing, mischievous eyes, that made you smile in spite of yourself.
‘Well, I didn’t come, you see,’ she said in a casual way. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be ready for me.’
‘Not ready for you?’ I exclaimed, without thinking whether I ought to condescend to parley with a model. ‘Why, I waited for you the whole morning.’
‘Oh, that is nothing,’ she answered cheerfully – ‘nothing, at least, if nothing comes of it. You must wait, you know, to recover yourself. You’ve lost such a lot. What is the use of having paint on your palette if the rage to apply it is not here?’ She looked up at me with big, bright, earnest eyes as she spoke, and clasped her hands over her chest. Then she stooped and peeped unceremoniously under my arm into the studio. ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘you have covered that thing up’ – meaning my picture! ‘That’s right. And you’ve been sitting by the lattice – there’s your chair. Last night it was in front of the easel. Well! I will look in tomorrow, just to see how you are getting on. No trouble, I assure you. There! you can shut the door. If you stand there when I am gone, staring at the spot where I stood as you did last night, you’ll be in a draught and catch cold, which is risky for a middle-aged man, just now especially, with so much influenza about. Goodnight!’
She turned to walk away as she spoke, and her gait was like music in motion, she moved so rhythmically.
‘What an extraordinary person!’ I exclaimed, when she was out of sight. While she was with me, however, she did not seem extraordinary, and it was only after she had gone that I even recognized the utter incongruity of my own attitude towards her when under the immediate influence of her singular personality.
But what was it that set me thinking of Martha troubled about many things2 when she mentioned the draught and the influenza? And also reminded me that to be a great artist one must be a great man in the sense of being a good one?
Now, somehow, next morning I knew better than to expect her at ten o’clock. I noticed that the paint had dried on my palette, and ordered my man to clean it, but I did not set it afresh, for what, I asked myself, is the use of paint on a palette if one has nothing to express?
The day was devoted to social duties. I went in and out several times, asking always on my return if anyone had been, to which my man, an old and faithful servant, invariably replied as if he understood me, ‘Not even a model, sir.’
I had had to attend a Levée in the afternoon, and when it was over, one of the dukes, a noted connoisseur, asked me if I would ‘be so good’ as to show him my new picture – the exact expression was: ‘Your last great work.’ Other gentlemen came up while he was speaking to me, and it ended in several of them returning with me forthwith to view the picture.
I had not looked at it myself since I had covered it up, and now that I was forced to draw the curtain from before it, I felt it to be a distasteful duty.
‘Well, that is a picture!’ the duke exclaimed, and all the other gentlemen praised the work in a choice variety of elegantly selected phrases. They even looked as if they liked it, a fact which clearly proved to me they had not one of them got further than I had myself before dinner on the eventful evening when she first appeared.
I was to have dined out that day, but just as I was about to step into my carriage, I saw a figure in loose, light draperies, charmingly disposed, approaching. (What was it made me think of Lot’s wife?)3 I turned back into the house on the instant, and retired to the studio, the outer door of which I opened at once for her convenience.
She walked straight in without ceremony.
‘You were going to some feeding function tonight, I suppose,’ she observed. Then she looked round, chose a chair and sat herself down deliberately.
I remained standing myself with my hands folded, regarding her with an expression in which I hoped she would see good-natured tolerance of one of the whimsical sex struggling with a certain amount of impatience carefully controlled. And she did study my face and attitude critically for some seconds; then she shook her head.
‘Don’t like it!’ she exclaimed. ‘No native dignity in it, because anybody could see that you are posing.’
Involuntarily I altered my position, planting myself more firmly on my feet.
‘That’s better,’ she said, and then she looked at me again, frowning intently, and once more shook her head. ‘You live too well, you know,’ she admonished me. ‘There is a certain largeness in your very utterance which bespeaks high feeding, and an oleosaccharine quality in the courtly urbanity even of your everyday manner which comes of constant repletion. One is obliged to fall into it oneself to express it properly,’ she added apologetically. ‘But you are a prince now, you know; you’re not an artist. You’ve eaten all that out of yourself.’
‘I am not a great eater,’ I protested, in a tone which should have shown her that I was gravely offended by the liberty of language she allowed herself.
‘Well, don’t be huffy,’ she said. ‘It is not so much in the matter of meat and drink that your appetite is gross, I allow; it was the Tree of Life4 to which I alluded. You cannot pretend that you only nibble at that! You know you deny yourself none of it, so long as what you can reach is sufficiently refined to please you. You have fed your senses to such a monstrous girth that they have crowded the soul out of you. What you put into your pictures now is knowledge, not inspiration. But that is the way with all of you artist-princes at present. Inspiration is extinct at Hampstead and in St John’s Wood, and even here, on Melbury Hill, there is scarcely a flicker.’ She slowly removed her outer wrap, and as she put the long pin with a black glass head which had held it together carefully back in it, she added emphatically: ‘People may look at your pictures to their heads’ content, but their hearts you never touch.’
She sat still, looking gravely at the ground, for a few seconds after this last utterance; then she rose in her deliberate, languid way, and went, with her long wrap depending from her left arm and gracefully trailing after her, up to the picture, and drew aside the curtain that concealed it.
‘Now, look at that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your flesh is flesh, and your form is form; likewise your colour is colour, and your draperies are drapery – although too luxuriant, as a rule; you riot in fulness and folds with an effect that is wormy – but there isn’t a scrap of human interest in the whole composition, and the consequence is a notable flatness and insipidity, as of soup without salt.’ She looked close into the picture, then drew back and contemplated it from a little distance, with her head on one side, and then she carefully covered it up with the curtain, remarking as she did so contemptuously, ‘There is not a scrap of “that certain something” in it, you know; it is merely a clever contrivance of paint upon canvas.’
‘But there is pleasure in the contemplation of a coat of colour laid on with a master’s hand,’ I modestly observed, changing my balance from one leg to the other, and crisping the fingers of my left hand as they lay upon the right.
‘For some people,’ she replied; ‘there is an order of mind, mind in its infancy, which can be so diverted. We have a pet frame-maker at home [Who can she be?], and one day when he brought back a new picture we thought we would give him a treat, so we took him into the picture gallery [A picture gallery argues a mansion], and invited him to look at the pictures, and then we watched him walking down the long length of it slowly, passing in review a whole sequence of art, ancient and modern. [She must belong to considerable people, there are not many such private collections.] But not a muscle of his face moved until he came to an exquisite little modern gem – it was not one of yours,’ she hastened to assure me. I made a deprecating gesture to show her I had not the egotism to suppose it might be. ‘Gems by you are exceedingly difficult to procure,’ she proceeded, in a tone which suggested something sarcastical, but I failed to comprehend. ‘Well,’ she pursued, ‘our good frame-maker stopped opposite to that gem. His countenance, which had been sombre as that of one who patiently accomplishes a task, now cleared, his eyes brightened intelligently, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted to exclaim, and I thought to myself, “Now for a genuine glimpse of the soul of a working man!” He looked again, as if to make sure before he committed himself, then, turning to me, he exclaimed triumphantly, “I made that frame!” ’
‘Ah – yes,’ I was conscious of murmuring politely. ‘Extremely good! But we were talking about paint.’
‘Oh, well, of course, if you can’t see the point—’ She shrugged her shoulders and turned the palms of her hands outwards. Then she sat down again and looked at my feet. I shifted them uneasily.
‘I was going out to dinner,’ I ventured at last, breaking in upon her meditations tentatively.
‘I know,’ she responded, with a sigh, as if she were wearied in mind. ‘It would be just as well to send the carriage back. There is no use keeping the coachman and horses at the door. I daresay the cook has some cutlets that will do for us.’
‘I am sure I shall be delighted if you will do me the honour—’ I was beginning, when again she laughed in my face, showing much of her magnificent set of strong white teeth. Why did I never dream of opposing her?
‘Oh, come now!’ she exclaimed, apparently much amused; ‘you are not at Court, you know. Here in the studio you should be artistic, not artificial; and what you don’t feel you shouldn’t pretend to feel. Shall we dine here? Put that thing back,’ – pointing to the picture – ‘pull out the throne – it will make a capital low table – and order in two easy chairs for us to recline upon opposite to each other. You are nothing if not classical in appearance. Fancy you in a frock-coat, with spats upon your boots! and you in modern evening dress! It is absurd! You should wear a toga.’
I was going to say something about the incongruity of such a costume, but she would not let me speak. ‘Just wait a moment,’ she said; ‘it is my innings.5 And nobody knows better than I do that High Street, Kensington, would be more amazed than edified by the apparition of yourself in a toga, or, better still – for I take you to be more Greek than Roman – clad in the majestic folds of the himation, and without a cravat – admirably as either would set off your attractive personal appearance. Here on the hill, however, it is different. I tell you, you are nothing if not classical, both in your person and your work; but a modern man must add of the enlightenment of today that which was wanting to the glory of the Greeks. Your work at present is purely Greek – form without character, passionless perfection, imperfectly perfect, wanting the spirit part,6 which was not in Greece, but is, or ought to be, in you; without which the choicest masterpiece of old was merely “icily regular, splendidly null”,7 with which the veriest street arab put upon canvas is “equal to the god”! I tell you, you are a true Greek, but you must be something more, for this is not Athens in Greece, but Melbury Hill, Kensington, London, W.8 – coming whence we will accept nothing but positive perfection, which is form and character, flesh and blood, body and soul, the divine in the human— But there!’ she broke off. ‘That is as much as you must have at present. And I am fatigued. Do get the room arranged and order in dinner, while I retire to refresh myself by indulging in the comfort of a bath. I suppose I shall find one somewhere, with hot and cold water laid on.’
She walked with easy grace out of the studio into the house when she had spoken, leaving me gravely perplexed. And again I wonder why, at the time, it never occurred to me to oppose her; but certainly it never did.
My difficulty now was how to make the arrangements she required without taking the whole establishment into my confidence; but while I still stood in the attitude in which she had left me – an attitude, I believe, of considerable dignity, the right foot being a little in advance, at right angles to the left, and the left elbow supported on the back of the right hand, so that the fingers caressed the left cheek – my faithful old confidential servant entered.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he began – and I could see that he was perturbed and anxious, like one in dread lest he shall not perform the duty exacted of him satisfactorily – ‘but the lady said you wanted me to arrange the scene for the new picture.’
Instantly I understood her delicate manner of getting me out of my difficulty, and having given my man full directions, I stood looking on while the necessary arrangements were being completed, making a suggestion now and then as to the disposition of table decorations, and myself choosing the draperies that were to decorate the lounges upon which we were to recline. While so engaged, I, as it were – if I may venture to use such an expression – warmed to the work. At first I had looked on as a grown-up person might do when viewing with pleased toleration the preparations for some childish frolic; but as the arrangements neared completion, and I gradually beheld one end of my studio transformed with the help of rare ancient vessels, statues and furniture of the most antique design, which I had collected for the purposes of my art, into such a scene as Apelles9 himself might have countenanced, I felt an unwonted glow of enthusiasm, and fell to adjusting hangings and dragging lounges about myself. It was a close evening, and the extraordinary exertion made me so hot, that, without a thought of my dignity, I dashed my coat and vest on the floor, and worked in my shirtsleeves.
‘That’s right!’ said a tuneful voice at last, and upon looking round, I saw my model – or guest of the evening, shall I say? She was standing between two heavy curtains which screened off one side of the studio from an outer apartment. Her right hand was raised high in the act of holding one of the curtains back, and her bare, round arm shone ivory-white against the dark folds of the curtains. It was a striking attitude, instinct with a singular grace and charm, both of which, on looking back, I now recognize as having been eminently characteristic; and their immediate effect upon me was to make me entreat her not to move for a moment until I had caught the pose in a rapid sketch. She signified her consent by standing quiescent as a statue, while I hastily got out my materials, choosing charcoal for my medium, and set to work. And so great was my eagerness that I actually remained in my shirtsleeves without being aware of the fact – a statement which will, I know, astonish my friends, and appear to them to be incredible, even upon my own authority. But there must have been something powerfully – what shall I say? – demoralizing? – about this extraordinary woman. And yet it was not at all that, but elevating rather; even my model manservant, to judge by his countenance, felt her effect. Her mere presence seemed to be making him, ‘the reptile equal’– for the moment in his own estimation – ‘to the god’,10 that is to say, to me. Under the strange, benign influence of her appearance as she stood there, I could see that he had suddenly ceased to be an impassive serving-machine, and had become an emotional human being. There was interest in his eyes, and admiration, besides an all-devouring anxiety to be equal to the occasion – a disinterested trepidation on my account, as well as on his own. He was fearful that I should not answer to expectation, as was evident from the way that he, hitherto the most respectful of fellows, forgot himself, and ventured upon the liberty of looking on, first at the model and then at my sketch as it progressed. He came and peeped over my shoulder, went up to the model for a nearer view, then stepped off again to see her from another point, as we do when studying a fascinating object; and so inevitable did it seem even for a manservant to think and feel in her presence, that I allowed his demonstrations to pass unreproved, as though it were part of the natural order of things for a lackey so to comport himself.
But in the meantime the attention to my subject which the making of the sketch necessitated brought about a revelation. As I rapidly read each lineament for the purpose of fixing it on my paper, I asked myself involuntarily how I could possibly have supposed for a moment that this magnificent creature was unattractive? Why, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot – what expression! There was a volume of verse in her glance – Oh, Sappho! – a bounteous vitality in her whole person – Oh, Ceres! – an atmosphere of life, of love, surrounded her – Oh, Venus! – a modest reserve of womanhood – Diana!11 – a—
‘Get on, do!’ she broke in upon my fervid analysis.
An aplomb, I concluded, a confidence of intellect; decision, intelligence and force of fine feeling combined in her which brought her up to date.
‘Yes,’ she observed, dropping the curtain, and coming forward when I had finished my sketch – in which, by the way, she took not the slightest interest, for she did not cast so much as a glance upon it. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, as if in answer to my thoughts – I wonder if perchance I had uttered them aloud? ‘Yes, you are right. I commend you. I am a woman with all the latest improvements. The creature the world wants. Nothing can now be done without me.’ She silently surveyed me after this with critical eyes. ‘But hop out of that ridiculous dress, do’, she said at last, ‘and get into something suitable for summer, for a man of your type, and for the occasion.’
I instantly unbuttoned a brace.
‘Hold on a moment,’ she said rather hastily. ‘Where is your classical wardrobe?’
My man, who had been waiting on her words, as it were, ran to a large carved chest at the further end of the studio, and threw up the lid for answer.
‘Johnson,12 as he appears in St Paul’s Cathedral, may be all very well for people at church to contemplate; but that isn’t my idea of a dinner dress,’ she proceeded.
She was walking towards the chest as she spoke, and I noticed that her own dress, which had struck me at first as purely classical, was not really of any form with which I was acquainted, ancient or modern; but was of a design which I believe to be perfectly new, or, at all events, a most original variation upon already known designs. It was made of several exquisitely harmonized tints of soft silk.
When she reached the great chest, she stood a moment looking into it, and then began to pull the things out and throw them on the floor behind her, diving down deeper and deeper into the chest, till she had to stand on tiptoe to reach in at all, and the upper part of her body disappeared at every plunge. Near the bottom she found what she wanted. This proved to be a short-sleeved tunic, reaching to the knees, with a handsome Greek border embroidered upon it; some massive gold bracelets; a pair of sandals; and a small harp, such as we associate with Homer.13
She gathered all these things up in her arms, brought them to me, and threw them down at my feet. ‘There!’ she exclaimed; ‘be quick! I want my dinner.’
With which she delicately withdrew until my toilette was complete.
When she returned, she held in her hand a laurel wreath, tied at the back with a bow of ribbon, and with the leaves lying symmetrically towards the front, where they met in a point. It was the form which appears in ancient portraits crowning the heads of distinguished men.
I had placed myself near a pedestal, with the harp in my hand, and, as she approached, felt conscious of nothing but my bare legs. My man, who had helped to attire me, also stood by, with deprecating glances entreatingly bespeaking her approval.
Having crowned me, she stepped back to consider the effect, and instantly she became convulsed with laughter. My servant assumed a dejected attitude upon this, and silently slunk away.
‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘If Society could only see you now! It isn’t that you don’t look well,’ she hastened to reassure me – ‘and I trust you will kindly excuse my inopportune mirth. It is a disease of the mind which I inherit from an ancestor of mine, who was a funny man. He worked for a comic paper, and was expected to make new jokes every week on the three same subjects: somebody drunk, somebody’s mother-in-law, something unhappy – or low for preference – in married life; a consequence of which strain upon his mind was the setting up of the deplorable disease of inopportune mirth, which has unfortunately been transmitted to me. But I am altogether an outcome of the age, you will perceive, an impossible mixture of incongruous qualities, which are all in a ferment at present, but will eventually resolve themselves, as chemical combinations do, into an altogether unexpected, and, seeing that already the good is outweighing the bad and indifferent ingredients, admirable composition, we will hope. But, as I was going to say, those ambrosial locks and that classic jowl of yours, not to mention your manly arms embraceleted, and—’ But here she hesitated, apparently not liking to mention my legs, although she looked at them. ‘Well,’ she hurriedly summed up, ‘I always said you would look lovely in a toga, and the short tunic is also artistic in its own way. But now let us dine; I am mortal hungry.’
I was about to hasten, harp in hand, across the studio to ring for dinner, but the moment I moved she went off again into convulsions of laughter.
‘Excuse me,’ she implored, drying her eyes, ‘but it is so classical! I can’t help it, really! Just to see you go gives me little electric shocks all over! But don’t be huffy. You never looked nicer, I declare. And you can put on a toga, you know, if the tunic isn’t enough. It is somewhat skimpy, I confess, for a man of your girth.’
When she had spoken, she went to the chest and obligingly looked me out some yards of stuff, which she said, when properly draped, would do for a toga; and having arranged it upon my shoulders to please herself, she conducted me to one of the couches, remarking that dinner would be sure to come all in good time, and recommending me to employ the interval in cultivating a cheerful frame of mind, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 – a copybook precept, good for the digestion when practised, she insisted, as she thoughtfully adjusted my harp; after which she begged me to assume a classical attitude, and then proceeded to dispose herself in like manner on the other couch opposite.
‘This is delicious,’ she said, sighing luxuriously as she sank upon it. ‘I guess the Greeks and Romans never really knew what comfort was. Imagine an age without springs!’
Dinner was now served by my man, who was, I could see, still shaking in his shoes with anxiety lest everything should not be to her mind. He had donned a red gown, similar to that worn by attendants at the Royal Academy on state occasions, and was suffering a good deal from the heat in consequence. But the dinner was all that could be desired, as my guest herself observed. And she should have known, too, for she ate with a will. ‘I must tell you,’ she explained, ‘Aesculapius14 prescribed a tonic for me on one occasion, and I have been taking it, off and on, ever since, so that I am almost all appetite.’
What was it that made me think at that moment of Venus’s visit to Aesculapius?
We were now at dessert, nibbling fruit and sipping wine, and my face was suffused with smiles, but my companion looked grave, and I thought that her mood was resolving itself into something serious by the sober way she studied my face.
‘Excuse me, but your wreath is all on one side,’ she remarked at last – quite by the way, however.
I rose hastily to readjust the wreath at a mirror, and then returned and leisurely resumed my seat. I had been about to speak, but something new in the demeanour of the lady opposite caused me to forget my intention. There was an indescribable grace in her attitude, a perfect abandon to the repose of the moment which was in itself an evidence of strength in reserve, and fascinating to a degree. But the curious thing about the impression that she was now making upon me is that she had not moved. She had been reclining in an easy manner since the servant left the room, with her arm resting on the back of her couch, twirling a flower in her fingers, and hadn’t swerved from the pose a fraction; only a certain quietude had settled upon her, and was emanating from her forcibly, as I felt. And with this quietude there came to me quite suddenly a new and solemn sense of responsibility, something grave and glad which I cannot explain, something which caused me an exquisite sense of pleasurable emotion, and made me feel the richer for the experience. My first thought was of England and America, of the glorious womanhood of this age of enlightenment, compared with the creature as she existed merely for man’s use and pleasure of old; the toy-woman, drudge, degraded domestic animal, beast of intolerable burdens. How could the sons of slaves ever be anything but slaves themselves? slaves of various vices, the most execrable form of bondage. To paint – to paint this woman as she is! – in her youth, in her strength, in her beauty – in her insolence, even! in the fearless candour of her perfect virtue; the trifler of an idle hour, the strong, true spirit of an arduous day – to paint her so that man may feel her divinity and worship that!
I had covered my eyes with my hands, so as the better to control my emotions and collect my thoughts; but now a current of cold air playing upon my limbs, and the faint sith15 of silk, aroused me. I looked up. The couch was empty.
The next morning she arrived by ten o’clock in a very ugly old grey cloak. I was engaged at the moment in reading the report in a morning paper of the dinner at which I ought to have appeared on the previous evening, and the letter of apology for my unavoidable absence which I forgot to mention that my guest had induced me to send. She came and read the report over my shoulder.
‘That is graceful,’ was her comment upon my letter. ‘You are a charming phrase-maker. Such neatness of expression is not common. But,’ she added severely, ‘it is also disgraceful, because you didn’t mean a word of it. And an artist should be an honest, earnest man, incapable of petty subterfuge; otherwise, however great he may be, he falls short of the glory, just as you do. But there!’ she added plaintively, ‘you know all that – or, at all events, you used to know it.’
‘ “He is the greatest artist who has the greatest number” ’16 – I was beginning, when she interrupted me abruptly.
‘Oh, I know! You have it all off by heart so pat!’ she exclaimed. ‘But what good do precepts do you? Why, if maxims could make an artist, I should be one myself, for I know them all; and I am no artist!’
‘I don’t know that,’ slipped from me unawares.
‘That is because you have become a mere appraiser of words,’ she declared. ‘You, as an artist, would have divined that if I could paint myself I should not be here. I should be doing what I want for myself, instead of using my peculiar power to raise you to the necessary altitude.’
‘Oh, of course!’ I hastened to agree, apologetically, feeling myself on familiar ground at last. ‘The delicate, subtly inspiring presence is the woman’s part; the rough work is for man, the interpreter. No woman has ever truly distinguished herself except in her own sphere.’
‘Now, no cant, please,’ she exclaimed. ‘You are not a pauper priest, afraid that the offertory will fall off if he doesn’t keep the upper hand of all the women in the parish.’
‘But,’ I protested, ‘few women have ever—’
‘Now just reflect,’ she interrupted, ‘and you will remember that in the days of our slavery there were more great women than there have ever been great men who were also slaves; so that now that our full emancipation is imminent, why, you shall see what you shall see.’
‘Then why don’t you paint?’ I asked her blandly.
‘All in good time,’ she answered suavely. ‘But I have not come to bandy words with you, nor to be irritated by hearing nonsensical questions asked by a man of your age and standing. I am here to be painted. Just set your palette while I see to my attire. You seem to have forgotten lately that a woman is a creature of clothes in these days – and there never were more delightful days, by the way, since the world began.’
When she returned, she ascended the throne, but before falling into a set attitude, she addressed me: ‘The great stories of the world are deathless and ageless, because of the human nature that is in them, and you know that in your head, but your heart does not feel it a bit. Your sentiments are irreproachable, but they have survived the vivifying flush of feeling, parent of sympathetic insight, upon which you formed them, and the mere dry knowledge that remains is no use for creative purposes. All through Nature strong emotion is the motive of creation, and in art, also, the power to create is invariably the outcome of an ardent impulse. But there you stand, in full conceit beside your canvas, with your palette and brushes in your hand, a mere cool, calculating workman, without an atom of love or reverence, not to mention inspiration, to warm your higher faculties into life and action; and in that mood you have the assurance to believe that you have only to choose to paint me as I am, and you will be able to do so – able to paint, not merely a creature of a certain shape, but a creature of boundless possibilities, instinct with soul – no, though, I wrong you,’ she broke off scornfully. ‘The soul of me, the part that an artist should specially crave to render through the medium of this outer shell, which of itself alone is hardly worth the trouble of copying on to the canvas, has never cost you a thought. Rounded form, healthy flesh and lively glances are all that appeal to you now.’
I bent my head, considering if this were true; but even while I asked myself the question I was conscious of a curious shock – a shock of awakening, as it were, a thrill that traversed my body in warm, swift currents, making me tingle. I knew what it was in a moment – her enthusiasm. She had communicated it to me occultly, a mere spark of it at first, but even that was animating to a degree that was delicious.
‘Don’t put anything on canvas that you cannot glorify,’ she resumed. ‘The mere outer husk of me is nothing, I repeat; you must interpret – you must reveal the beyond of that – the grace, I mean, all resplendent within.’ She clasped her hands upon her breast, and looked into my eyes. ‘You remember your first impression when I offered myself as a model?’ she pursued. I felt ashamed of my own lack of thought, and hung my head. ‘Compare your present idea of my attractions with that, and see for yourself how far you have lapsed. You have descended from art to artificiality, I tell you. You have ceased to see and render like a sentient being; you are nothing now but a painting machine. Now!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together, ‘stand straight and look at me!’
Like one electrified, I obeyed.
‘I am the woman who stood at the outer door of your studio and summoned you to judge me; the same whom, in your spiritual obscurity, you then found wanting. Rend now that veil of flesh, and look! Who was at fault?’
‘I was,’ burst from me involuntarily.
When I had spoken, I clasped my palette, and hastily selected a brush. Her exaltation had rapidly gained upon me. I was consumed with the rage to paint her – or, rather, to paint that in her which I suddenly saw and could reproduce upon canvas, but could not otherwise express.
Slowly, without another word, she lapsed into an easy attitude, fixing her wonderful eyes upon mine. For a moment my vision was clouded; I saw nothing but mist. As that cleared, however, there penetrated to the inner recesses of my being – there was revealed to me— But the tone-poets must find the audible expression of it. My limit is to make it visible.
But never again, I said to myself as I painted, shall mortal stand before a work of mine unmoved; never again shall it be said: ‘Well, it may be my ignorance, which it would be bad taste for me to display in the presence of a picture by so great a man; but, all the same, I must say I can’t see anything in it.’ No, never again! if I have to sacrifice every delight of the body to keep my spiritual vision unobscured; for there is no joy like this joy, nothing else which is human which so nearly approaches the divine as the exercise of this power.
‘For heaven’s sake don’t move!’ I implored.
She had not moved, but the whole expression of her face had changed with an even more disastrous effect. The glorious light which had illuminated such enthusiasm in me had passed out of her eyes, giving place to that cold, critical expression which repelled, and she smiled enigmatically.
‘I can’t stand here all day,’ she said, stepping down from the throne. ‘You know now what you want.’
She was at the outer door as she pronounced those words, and the instant after she had uttered them she was gone, absolutely gone, before I could remonstrate.
I had thrown myself on my knees to beg for another hour, and now, when I realized the cruelty of her callous desertion of me at such a juncture, I sank beside the easel utterly overcome, and remained for I cannot tell how long in a kind of stupor, from which, however, I was at length aroused by a deep-drawn sigh.
I looked up, and then I rose to my feet.
It was my faithful servant who had sighed. He was standing at gaze before the all-unfinished work. I looked at it myself.
‘It is wonderful, sir,’ he said, speaking in an undertone, as if in the presence of something sacred.
Yes, it was wonderful, even then, and what would it be when it was finished? Finished! How could I finish it without a model – without that model in particular? I recognized her now – a free woman, a new creature, a source of inspiration the like of which no man hitherto has even imagined in art or literature. Why had she deserted me? – for she had, and I knew it at once. I felt she would not return, and she never did; nor have I ever been able to find her, although I have been searching for her ever since. You may see me frequently in the corner of an open carriage, with my man seated on the box beside the coachman; and as we drive through the streets, we gaze up at the windows, and into the faces of the people we pass, in the hope that some day we shall see her; but never a glimpse, as yet, have we obtained.
My man says that such capricious conduct is just what you might expect of a woman, old-fashioned or new; but I cannot help thinking myself that both in her coming and her going, her insolence and her ideality, her gravity and her levity, there was a kind of allegory. ‘With all my faults, nothing uncommonly great can be done without my countenance,’ this was what she seemed to have said to me; ‘but my countenance you shall not have to perfection until the conceit of you is conquered, and you acknowledge all you owe me. Give me my due; and when you help me, I will help you!’