V
THE DRAMATIC AUTHOR AND THE PATRON OF ARTS

Gerald Lorimer, although still quite young, was already a dramatist of some note. He was gaiety and insouciance personified. A genial philosopher, witty, sometimes a cynic, but always a kindly one, indulgent to the shortcomings of humanity, he looked at life as a comedy, which he witnessed from the most comfortable of orchestra stalls. The world amused him and supplied him with types for study. He enjoyed robust health, the joy of living was written all over his face, and, wherever he went, he brought an atmosphere of contagious irresistible gaiety. He was a handsome man, distinguished-looking, and fairly well off. When asked why he did not marry, he answered, "Thanks, I prefer to study from afar; one observes better at a distance."

He had a little house in Philip's neighbourhood, that was the envy of all who were privileged to enter its doors. Women thought it impudence of a man to dare to install himself thus, and so prove urbi et orbi that it is not absolutely necessary to have a woman under one's roof to enjoy the most perfect comfort. And yet, when asked why Lorimer did not marry, all that women had to say, was, "No inclination, I suppose."

Women adore parties given by bachelors. They went in crowds, when Lorimer asked them to an "At home" or a garden-party. They took free advantage of the permission he gave them to wander over the house, and examined all its corners. Every bachelor's house interests women and arouses their curiosity. They pried into every nook and cranny, in the hope of bringing to light a mystery, perchance some woman's portrait – Heaven knows what, perhaps a hairpin on the carpet. Wherever they looked, everything was ease, comfort, and liberty; and they arrived at the conclusion, that one may be a bachelor and yet live happily, but consoled themselves with the thought that nobody has found the way to live a bachelor and die happily. Lorimer's house was arranged with taste, in the oriental style. The drawing-room, dining-room, library, and smoking-room formed a delightful suite of rooms.

"You see," said some woman, "nothing but men-servants – a French cook, a German valet: our host must be a woman-hater."

"I do not see that that follows, dear," said another one: "men are more discreet and less gossiping than women, and I warrant that this house has been the scene of many an interesting little tête-à-tête."

Each one had her own opinion; none of them really knew anything about it. Lorimer had never given anyone occasion to gossip about him; he was English and a gentleman, therefore discreet. The French boast often of things they have never done; the English never boast of what they do. The latter are right. Besides, a bachelor, in giving his house a reputation of perfect respectability, can thus invite to it not only his friends, but their wives and daughters.

Lorimer knew all London: the club world, the aristocratic world, the artistic world of Chelsea and St. John's Wood; and at his parties duchesses, actresses, cabinet ministers, painters, writers, actors, and journalists jostled one another.

A friend of men, because of his good-fellowship, frankness, and loyalty; and of women, by reason of his wit, his discretion, and his charming manners, Lorimer was received everywhere with open arms. He could have dined and lunched out every day, if this had been the programme of his existence. On the contrary, he worked hard, went out little, knew everybody, but was the intimate acquaintance of but few, and amongst these were numbered Philip and Dora, whom he liked exceedingly and who interested him intensely.

They sat down in merry mood and did honour to the simple and appetising lunch.

"What a pity you did not turn up a few moments earlier, my dear fellow!" said Philip to Lorimer. "You would have been edified, and have heard Dora holding forth against wealth. The contempt my wife has for money is sublime. She is of the opinion that art, like virtue, should be its own reward."

"I'm sorry to say it's often the only one art gets," said Lorimer. "Well, what's your news?"

"Haven't any," said Philip. "Oh yes, though," added he, "Sir Benjamin Pond threatens to pay us a visit to-day … deuce take him."

"You're in luck; he spends a mint of money in pictures."

"They say he buys them by the dozen."

"Hum," said Lorimer, "by the square yard. He's an awful ass, but his money is as good as that of the cleverest. When I said just now, 'What's your news?' I meant from the workshop."

"My wife's portrait will be finished in an hour's time; you shall see it after lunch."

"And what will you call it?"

"Oh, simply, 'Portrait of Mrs. Grantham,' or perhaps, 'A Bunch of Pansies.'"

"'A Bunch of Pansies,' that's charming," said Lorimer; "I should like to have a title like that for my new play, as simple" …

"Oh, by-the-bye, how about your play, is it getting on?"

"It's finished, my dear fellow. I have the manuscript with me. I have to read it to the company at the Queen's Theatre to-day at four o'clock."

"Are you pleased with it?"

"My dear friend, when a man has the artistic temperament, his work never realises his ideal – but, thank goodness, when I have finished a play, I think of nothing but – the next one."

"You are right – but, still, with your experience – you have been writing plays for years."

"I wrote my first play when I was seventeen," said Lorimer, drawing himself up in a comic manner.

"When you were seventeen?" exclaimed Dora.

"Yes! a melodrama, and what a melodrama it was! – blood-curdling, weird, terrible, human, fiendish. I portrayed crime, perfidy and lying triumphing for a while, but overtaken in the long-run by fatal chastisement."

"And was the piece produced?" interrupted Dora.

"It was read," answered Lorimer. "I received a very encouraging letter from the manager of the theatre. My play, it appeared, showed a deplorable ignorance of stagecraft, but was well written and full of fine and well-conceived situations. However, horrors followed one another so closely that it was to be feared that the audience would scarcely have time to draw breath and dry their tears. Finally, the letter terminated with a piece of good advice. This was, in the future, not to kill all my dramatis personæ, so that, at the fall of the curtain, there might be someone left alive, to announce the name of the author, and bring him forward!"

"It was most encouraging," said Dora, in fits of laughter.

"That is not all," added Lorimer; "I received, a month later, an invitation to a dinner given by the Society of Dramatic Authors, and found myself amongst the leading authors and actors of the day."

"You must have been proud," said Dora.

"Proud, my dear madam," said Lorimer; "if you would form an idea of what I felt, try to imagine a little shepherd of Boeotia asked to dine with Jupiter, to meet all the gods of Olympus."

"Now, come, tell us about your new play," said Philip.

"Oh, well, you know, I hope it will be a success, but you never know what will please the great B.P. The dialogue is good, the characters are interesting, the situations are strong without being vulgar, the idea is new … yes, I must say, I am sanguine."

"Bravo!" said Philip, "the theme is original."

"Perfectly original," said Lorimer. "I don't adapt Parisian plays for the Pharisian stage."

"It must be enchanting," cried Dora, "to see one's own creations in flesh and blood … alive!"

"Yes, for one month, two months, perhaps six months. The creations of painters last for centuries."

"That is true," said Dora, looking at Philip.

"Shakespeare and Molière are still being played with success," said Philip.

"Yes, I grant you these two. Human nature is still and always will be what it was in their time. There are no new passions, follies, to portray since their time; but against those two names which you cite … real demi-gods … I could give you two hundred painters and sculptors dating from antiquity down to the present day."

Dora was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It seemed to her that Philip no longer enthused over his art, and she tried her utmost to rekindle the sacred fire that threatened to go out. So, encouraging Lorimer to continue in the same strain, she said —

"Yes, you are right. It is painting that expresses all that is beautiful in the world."

"Especially Philip's art," said Lorimer, seeming to grasp Dora's meaning from the warmth with which she spoke. "You paint nature, my dear friend, flowers, portraits … you do not inflict the nude upon us, as do so many of your brothers in art, who show themselves but poor imitators of the French school, servum pecus."

"But nature is surely always beautiful, wherever she is found," said Dora.

"The ideal, yes," said Lorimer; "but it is the realistic method of treatment, in most pictures, that displeases me. Perhaps I am a little puritanical; but what can you expect? I'm English!"

"But there is no ideal nature, there is only true nature," said Dora. "Call it realism, if you wish: what is real is true, and what is true is beautiful."

"My dear Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, "if you are going to argue out that subject with Dora, you are lost, I warn you. You will get the worst of it."

"Well, you will admit this much, I suppose," said Dora, "that the models chosen are generally beautiful. English models are even more than beautiful, they are mostly pure in form."

"Quite so, but no artist has a right to expose a woman's nude figure to the public gaze. In sculpture it may be permissible, – the cold purity of the marble saves everything, – but never in painting."

"Shake up the Englishman," said Dora, laughing, "and the Puritan rises to the surface. I thought you were artistic, my dear friend. One may forgive a Puritan, but a pruritan, excuse the word. Oh!.. I have met people who only saw in the Venus de Milo a woman with no clothes on. Poor Venus! I wish she could grow a pair of arms and hands to box the ears of such Philistines. Of course, I must say, these people were not of our society."

"Well, call me prejudiced if you will; but I hate to see woman robbed of her modesty … and of her clothes, for the edification of a profane public, especially a public as inartistic as our English one. Your remark about the Venus de Milo proves that I am right. In France it is another matter. The public understands. It knows that such and such a picture is beautiful, and why it is beautiful. Even the workmen over there have been visitors of picture galleries from generation to generation, and I have heard some, at the Louvre and the Luxembourg, making criticisms of pictures that they looked at, criticisms which proved to me that they had more true appreciation of painting than the fashionable crowd that goes to the Royal Academy on private view day. No, I say, the nude in France, if you will; but in England, Heaven preserve us from it!"

"And yet," said Dora, in a calmer tone of voice, "the novelists and dramatists of to-day, for the most part, do exactly the same thing."

"What do you mean to say? Novelists and dramatists describe the emotions, the passions of the soul. To uncover the heart and uncover the body are two vastly different things. Add to that, in England on the stage, if not in the novel, that virtue triumphs invariably."

"Yes, but at what cost? Firstly, often at the expense of insulting one's common-sense; but that is the fault of a public that insists on being sent home, perfectly convinced that the hero and heroine still henceforth live happily ever after. That is not the worst of it. Before seeing the triumph of virtue, often an impossible kind of virtue, one must assist at the heartrending dissection of a woman's soul. All the deformities of her heart are laid bare. I suppose you call that realism too, I call it clinical surgery – that is to say, my dear friend, that modern fiction exhales a strong odour of carbolic acid. Ah, I must say I prefer a picture in which a woman is presented in all her beauty of form and colour, to a novel or a play, in which we see woman represented as impure, corrupted" …

"I told you that you would be beaten, Lorimer. Own yourself vanquished."

"My dear madam," said Lorimer, "you preach to a convert. But I must remind you that converting the British public is not my rôle. I serve up to that worthy public, which has always been kind to me, the dish of its predilection. We cannot always put on the stage Pauls and Virginias, who, moreover, are getting rarer every day, as you will admit."

"Virginias, especially," said Philip, in parenthesis.

"Oh, that's another thing," exclaimed Dora almost indignantly; "you work, you turn out dramatic literature, for what it brings you in; own it at once – to make money! That is modern art, the art of making ten thousand a year. Some are writers, some are green-grocers; you put them all in the same category. Under these conditions, I do not see why Philip should not accept offers to paint advertisements for manufacturers of soaps and hair restorers."

"But, my dear friend," said Lorimer, "some of our greatest academicians have accepted such commissions with the most satisfactory results."

"Oh, hold your tongue, you are incorrigible!" said Dora, laughing.

Philip saw that it was time to put a stop to the conversation that threatened to get too heated, and proposed a smoke in the studio. Dora did not go with them; she made a solemn bow to Lorimer; and all three burst out laughing and separated the best of friends.

Philip and Lorimer lit their cigars, the latter without taking his eyes off the portrait of Dora, which he thought a splendid likeness and perfect in colouring and modelling.

"Ah, my dear friend, what a wife you have! What a companion for an artist! Upon my word, if I were married to such a woman, I believe I could write masterpieces."

Philip hardly heeded him. He paced up and down the studio, looking at the clock, then at the door, and starting at every sound he heard in the street.

"I should like to gain the world, to lay it at the feet of this woman," said he, standing before the portrait a moment. Philip felt more and more agitated. Lorimer looked at him fixedly.

"Why, old fellow, what on earth is the matter with you?"

"My dear Lorimer," answered Philip, who could conceal his feelings no longer, "you see me to-day in an indescribable state of excitement. In a few moments, I may hear that I am a rich man."

"You don't say so," said Lorimer, amazed; "an old uncle about to depart this life?"

"No," said Philip; "my work, my very own work is perhaps on the point of making me wealthy. For months past, night and day so to speak, I have been working" …

"At a great picture," interrupted Lorimer.

"At an invention."

"Nonsense! take care. You will die in the workhouse."

"Not at all, old fellow," said Philip; "there are two kinds of inventors, those who seek and those who discover. I have discovered."

"What have you discovered, dear friend?" said Lorimer, more and more surprised.

"A shell that may revolutionise the art of warfare. A Special Commission is now sitting at the War Office in Paris, to discuss its merits. I am awaiting their decision. I shall get a telegram to-day, perhaps in a few moments. I offered my shell to the English Government, but they declined it."

"Are you speaking seriously?"

"Do I look as if I were joking? Can't you see, man, I'm in such a fever of impatience, that I can't hold a brush, my hand is trembling so? I have neither the courage nor the strength to finish this portrait, which only requires about an hour's work. But not a word to Dora on the subject; she knows nothing about it yet, and never will, if the affair falls through."

A violent ringing was heard at the studio bell.

"There," said Philip, "that is it perhaps … the telegram at last." And he ran to open the door himself.

He returned accompanied by a big man, pompous and shiny, who entered the studio with a majestic step. Bald, chubby-faced, with a huge nose that divided his face in two, as the Apennines divide Italy, and two large round eyes set lobster-fashion, he was, with his huge white waistcoat, a fair example of a certain type of city merchant, in all his glory. This pretentious personage cast a look into every corner of the studio.

"Plague take the bore," said Philip to Lorimer.

"I'll be off," said Lorimer.

"Oh no, please stay. Sir Benjamin Pond's visit won't last long."

"Ah, ah," said the big City alderman; "you received my note, in which I announced my visit?"

Philip made a sign in the affirmative. Sir Benjamin placed his hat on a table and, rubbing his hands, threw a condescending glance at Philip, which seemed to say, "You ought to be proud to have a visit from me." He took stock of the furniture in detail.

"Very cosy here; very comfortable quarters indeed. You are evidently doing well. One is constantly hearing of artists who live on buns in garrets … upon my word, I don't know any such inviting and attractive houses as those inhabited by artists, and I flatter myself I know them all."

"Painters surround themselves with a certain artistic luxury, as a means of inspiration," said Philip; "and then, Sir Benjamin," added he, laughing, "I don't see why all the good things of this life should be for the fools. Pray, take a seat."

"Thanks," said the patron of arts … "I came" …

"To arrange for a portrait?"

"No, no, not a portrait. Now I hope I shan't offend you by saying so, but I really don't care for portraits in oil. You may say what you like, but, to have a perfect likeness, give me a good coloured photograph. That's my tackle. For fancy portraits, very good, but otherwise" …

"It sounds promising," thought Lorimer, who took up his position near the window, to enjoy the fun.

"The moment a process is discovered for photographing colour as well as lines and shade," continued Sir Benjamin, "nobody will want a painted portrait. For a portrait, you don't want imagination, you want truth, sir, real truth, an exact reproduction of the original."

"Some people prefer Madame Tussaud's Exhibition to the Louvre or the British Museum," said Lorimer.

The City alderman turned round and looked at him, and Philip introduced them to each other.