The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 10/Told in the Studios
THREE STORIES OF ARTIST LIFE.
By "Rita,"
Author of "Sheba," "Gretchen," "The Laird o' Cockpen," "Dame Durden," &c.
INTRODUCTION
"Brothers of the Brush."
HE studios stood in a meadow high above the quaint little fishing village of Trenewlyn. The meadow, which the proprietor had jestingly named "Le Champ des Beaux Arts,'
came suddenly upon one as a surprise on mounting the stony, dusky street that led up from the quay. The studios—three in number—were a still greater surprise, so modern and out of place they looked in this little old-world nook, where only fisher folk had lived and worked since the village had existed.
The streets were narrow and steep, and rudely paved with rough stones from the neighbouring quarry. The houses were piled in an incongruous fashion up the sloping hill, as if the builders had begun at the quay and gone on at intervals dropping these primitive dwellings here and there just as the fancy took them. History stated that the little village had suffered severely at the hands of the Spaniards in 1595, at which time these ruthless invaders had partly destroyed the beautiful old church which stood in the parish of Polwyn, about a mile off.
The wide blue waters of the bay could be stormy and wild at times, and the fleet of brown-sailed fishing boats were glad enough of the shelter and anchorage formed by the solid stone sea wall that stretched out right and left of the little harbour. It was a pretty sight to see them resting on the pebbly beach, or rocking on the soft rise and fall of the waves, or again standing out to sea like a flock of dark-winged birds, while the groups of women and children stood watching on the quay for a last look or smile from some stalwart lover, or father, or husband. They had their hours of peril, those bronzed and hearty toilers, for the coast was rough and dangerous, and the risk of life and its many hardships but poorly compensated. But, for all that, they were contented and cheerful folk, and apparently satisfied enough with their primitive life and surroundings. There was much that was picturesque and quaint about the little hamlet, and wonderful beauty of bay and coast, where the wide blue sea rolled bold and unbroken to the Lizard Point. And the varying lights and shadows, the quaint dusky houses, the steep streets, the groups of fishermen with their brown nets drying in the sun, the occasional and uncommon beauty of the women, which was curiously Spanish in type and colouring—all these were the delight and inspiration of many an artist who had strayed thither by chance, to stay often enough from choice.
So, in course of time, it entered the mind of one Jasper Trenoweth, owner of the old manor house of Trenoweth, and accounted by the country folk as a somewhat eccentric individual, to buy the waste piece of meadow land that commanded so unrivalled a view, and build thereon a set of studios for the benefit of such artists as cared for marine subjects. The studios had been built and tenanted for some years, and the place itself had acquired considerable favour among the "Brothers of the Brush." Jasper Trenoweth was a man of great culture and of artistic tastes. He had travelled much, read much, and, in an unobtrusive and almost unrecognised manner, done an immense amount of good to members of a profession which he held in high reverence and esteem. Indeed, he himself had worked and studied as an artist in his youth with no inconsiderable success. But of late years, and, strangely enough, since the first year that the studios had been completed and opened, Jasper Trenoweth had never touched brush or pencil. He gave no reason, but then he was a man too reserved and cold to give confidence easily. A few friends dear to him by association, or kindred tastes, were all he ever asked to the lonely old mansion on the hill-side, where for nearly two centuries the Trenoweths had been born, and dwelt, and died. He was the last of that race; a man living quite alone, with no ties of family, and very few friends. He made good and generous use of his wealth, but always in an unobtrusive manner that few suspected. To artists in their days of struggling and despair he had ever been a friend, but he conferred benefits so delicately that it would have been a difficult matter to trace them back to his hand. A cold man, a cynical man, a man scant of praise, intolerant of feebleness, so said the art world; but here and there some nature would recognise the deep tenderness and nobility of this unknown benefactor; would learn that no man held genius in greater reverence, or gave to it more ready help, even as his scathing words and bitter contempt held up to scorn all that was imitative and mediocre.
Five years had passed since the studios had been tenanted—four since that strange rule had been framed and published by their owner that they would never be let to a woman artist. He was very strict on this point. He would give no reason, and suffer no questioning, but the rule, once made, had been rigidly adhered to.
Various tenants had held the studios from time to time, some remaining but a few months, others for a year or more. One artist, however, a young Irishman, celebrated for his sea pieces, and a great favourite with Jasper Trenoweth, had held his studio ever since they had been opened. This young man knew more of the cynical and reserved owner than any of the "art brotherhood" to whom his tall figure, and grave stern face, and quiet merciless criticisms were familiar.
"He opened the door."
As far as it was in him to unbend to, or care for anyone, Jasper had unbent to Denis O'Hara: perhaps because the bright sunny nature and genial temperament were so unlike his own—perhaps because he recognised in the youth of five-and-twenty those possibilities which had once allured himself, and knew that he, too, loved art more than fame, in an age when men care all for fame and little for art.
For five years the two had been constantly together, save for some months when Jasper Trenoweth would be travelling in Italy, or Switzerland, or Norway. It was after returning from one of these tours that one evening Jasper Trenoweth took his way down the hillside to the studios.
The general room where the artists usually sat and smoked and drank coffee in the evenings, was bright with lamplight and firelight as he opened the door, and stood for a moment on the threshold looking at the group round the fireplace.
They sprang up at his advent to give him a warm welcome. Brushes had been laid aside, easels forsaken. On the morrow the pictures destined for acceptance or rejection at the Royal Academy would be on view to the village folk, or gentry around. Hard work was over for a time. It remained to be seen what its results would produce.
"Welcome, welcome. Just in time!" rang out cheerily as the well-known face looked back at them.
"I suppose you've come to see what we've been doing," said Denis O'Hara, shaking him warmly by the hand. "You couldn't have hit on a better time, only—" he stopped and glanced round at his companions, a momentary chill and embarrassment on his bright face, and in his usually gay young voice.
"Only—what?" said Jasper Trenoweth, his deep tones sounding less stern than usual as he glanced round at the familiar scene.
A small table stood by the fire-place. It was littered over with sketches, and it seemed to him that the eyes of these "Brothers of the Brush" had suddenly turned to that table, and its loosely scattered contents.
Denis O'Hara seemed to constitute himself spokesman. "Sit down," he said, "and I'll tell you in what schoolboy fashion we were going to amuse ourselves. You see those sketches, . . . we found them in that cupboard yonder, and after some valuable and impartial criticism—which you've missed—we agreed to relate each a story of the origin or subject of one particular sketch, to be selected by vote."
"A good idea and interesting, if you tell the truth," said Jasper Trenoweth. "You must not let my visit interfere with your proposed amusement."
"Who did that?"
He came forward and stood by the little table, looking down with grave unsmiling eyes at the scattered suggestions before him. Idly enough his hand turned over the various sheets. The three men resumed their chairs and pipes. They were used to his visits and his ways, and accepted them without remark. Denis O'Hara alone of the group watched the face that was bent over the sketches, watched it with that sense of interest and speculation that it had always aroused in his breast. It was usually so calm and impressive a face that he was startled to see it suddenly flush darkly, hotly to the very brow, as the hand so idly moving among the scattered sheets turned up one and seemed arrested by that one.
A quiver as of pain, or the memory of pain, disturbed the usually impassive features. Jasper Trenoweth's eyes flashed keen and startled on the young and earnest face so intently watching him.
"Who—who did that?" he asked hoarsely. Denis O'Hara glanced at the sketch. "It is mine," he said, simply.
For a moment the man who had asked that question stood silent and still, gazing down at the picture in his hand, his thoughts and memories centred in something it had recalled. Something—a dream, a hope, a memory?
Ah! even men, the coldest and hardest of men, may have one such dream, one such hope, one such memory. "So it is yours, that sketch," said Jasper Trenoweth. "But it is unfinished. Lend me your pencil, Denis; you may have the credit of the sketch, but I think I alone could tell the story aright."
"And you will, you will!" cried Denis O'Hara eagerly. "How often I've wanted to know—how often I've wondered. Trenoweth, don't think me intrusive or curious, but you know that old folly—the romance of that first year we spent here—if only I knew what had become of—her!"
For a moment Jasper Trenoweth was silent. The others now roused and wondering were looking at him, and at Denis, marvelling at the unwonted excitement of the one, the disturbance of the other. Then they saw the pencil working rapidly over the panel that Jasper Trenoweth held. No one spoke. Swiftly with unerring certainty, with that firmness and ease which bespoke certain knowledge and artistic skill, the sketch grew and lived before their eyes, and Denis O'Hara, breathless and wondering, watched it as no one else watched it, for to him it meant what it could never mean to anyone else, or so, in youth's blind egotism, he imagined.
Then with a deep-drawn breath, almost a sigh, Jasper Trenoweth handed him the sketch, and took the vacant chair placed for himself.
The face of the young artist grew pale as he looked at the little picture.
It was so simple, so unpretentious, and yet it might hold so tragic a meaning.
He looked questioningly at his friend. "I—I cannot understand,” he said hesitatingly. "I could not tell the story from this now."
A faint smile quivered on those pale set lips of Jasper Trenoweth. "No?" he said. "But the sketch was yours; describe it."
"A—a large room, one it seems of many rooms. Pictures cover the wall. Before one picture a group of figures standing. Behind the group a man, his frame bent, almost crippled it seems, leaning on a woman's arm. I—I know the woman—I made this sketch of her long years ago—but"
"I know what you would say," interrupted Trenoweth. "Tell the story of that woman as you know it. I will finish it."
STORY THE FIRST.
"19 on the Line."
Denis O'Hara kept the sketch in his hand, and glanced at it from time to time as he spoke.
"When I first came here," he said, "I had the place all to myself. I came in one of those fits of enthusiasm at which you all laugh. I had determined to do a great work, and I found everything here I wanted—light, views, climate, and models. Our friend Trenoweth introduced me to the place, gaveane inestimable hints, and (no use shaking your head, Jasper; you shall not always hide your light under a bushel) in every way made me at home and comfortable. We were much together, for he was, or said he was, interested in my work, and approved of my subject. Sometimes I painted out of doors, favoured by the soft, grey light and equable climate, for which this place is famous. Sometimes I would work in the studio, and often, taking pity on my loneliness, Trenoweth would drop in here in the evenings, and we would talk—as he alone can make anyone talk. Altogether it was very pleasant, and I am not sure that I felt pleased when one evening he strolled down here to show me a letter he had received from one of our fraternity asking to hire a studio for three months in order to complete a picture.
"The handwriting was bold and clear; the signature at the end of the simple, concise words only 'M. Delaporte.' We discoursed and speculated about M. Delaporte. We wondered if he was old or young, agreeable or the reverse; if he would be a bore, or a nuisance—in fact, we talked a great deal about him during the week that intervened between his letter and his arrival. Trenoweth saw to the arrangements of the studio. It was No. II. he had agreed to let, and gave directions as to trains, &c., and then left me to welcome the new comer who was to arrive by the evening train. I had been out all day, and when I came home tired, cold, and hungry, I saw lights in No. II., and thought to myself, 'My fellow artist has arrived, then.' Thinking it would be only civil to give him welcome, I walked up to the door and knocked. A voice called out, 'Come in!' and, turning the handle, I found myself in the presence of—a woman! For a moment I was too surprised to speak. She was mounted on a short step-ladder, arranging some velvet draperies, and at my entrance she turned and, with the rich-hued stuffs forming a background for the pose of the most beautiful figure woman could boast of, faced me with as much ease and composure as—well, as I lacked.
"'Mr. Trenoweth?' she asked inquiringly.
"Her voice was one of those low, rich, contralto voices, so rare and so beautiful."
"She was arranging some velvet draperies."
His own voice trembled; he glanced again at the sketch in his hand. "But then everything about her was beautiful and perfect. That says enough. 'I'm not Mr. Trenoweth,' I said, 'I'm only an artist living in the next studio. I—I came here to see if Mr. Delaporte had arrived; I beg your pardon for intruding.'
"'Do not apologise,' she said frankly. 'This studio is let to me, and you are very welcome.'
"'To you?' I said somewhat foolishly. 'I thought you were a man.'
"She laughed. 'I have not that privilege,' she said. 'But I am an artist, and art takes no count of sex. I hope we shall be friends as well as neighbours.'
"I echoed that wish heartily enough. Who would not in my place, and with so charming a companion? There and then I set to work to help her arrange her studio and fix her easel. The picture seemed very large, to judge from the canvas, but she would not let me see it then. I forgot fatigue, hunger, everything. I thought I had never met a woman with so perfect a charm of manner. The ease and grace and dignity of perfect breeding, yet withal a frank and gracious cordiality that was as winning as it was resistless. But there—what use to say all this! Only when I once begin to talk of Musette Delaporte I feel I could go on for ever.
"That was a memorable evening. When the studio was arranged to her satisfaction, she made me some tea with a little spirit-lamp arrangement she had, and then we locked up the room, and I took her through the little village to try and find lodgings. Of course, Jasper and I having decided that M. Delaporte was a man, had expected him to rough it like the rest of us. I could not let her stay in Trenewlyn itself, but took her up the hill-side to a farmhouse, where I felt certain they would accommodate her. She was in raptures with the place, and I agreed with her that it was a paradise, as indeed it seemed to me on that August night. I remember the moon shining over the bay, the fleet of boats standing out to sea, the lights from the town and villages scattered along the coast, or amidst the sloping hills. I did not wonder she was charmed; we all have felt that charm here, and it doesn't lessen with time; we all have acknowledged that also. . . . But I must hurry on. When Trenoweth heard of the new artist's sex he was rather put out. I could not see why myself, and I agreed that the mistake was our own. M might stand for Mary, or Magdalen, or Marietta, just as well as for Maurice, or Malcolm, or Mortimer. However, when he came down and saw M. Delaporte here, I heard no more about the disadvantages of sex. She was essentially a woman for companionship, cultured, brilliant, artist to her finger-tips, yet with all her beauty and fascination, holding a certain proud reserve between herself and ourselves, marking a line we dared not overstep. At the end of a month we knew little more about her than we did on that first evening. I opined that she was a widow; but no hint, however skilful, no trap, however baited, could force her into confidence or self-betrayal. We called her Mrs. Delaporte. Her name was Musette, she told me. Her mother had been a Frenchwoman; of her father she never spoke. She worked very hard, often putting me to shame, but still she would not let me see the picture, always skilfully turning the easel so that the canvas was hidden whenever Jasper or myself entered the studio. We were never permitted to do so in working hours, but when the daylight faded, and the well-known little tea-table was set out, we often dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat. It was all so pleasant, so homelike. The studio, with its draperies and its bowls of flowers, its plants, and books, and feminine trifles . . . I—I wonder how it is some women seem to lend individuality to their surroundings. . . . The studio has never looked the same since she left. . . ."
He paused, and laid down the sketch. The usual gaiety and brightness of his face was subdued and shadowed.
"A cup of tea and a chat."
"I—well, it's no good to dwell on it all now," he said abruptly. "Of course I fell madly in love with her. Who could help it? I bet any of you fellows here would have done the same. I neglected work. I could only moon and dream and follow her about, when she let me, which I am bound to say was not very often. I'm sure I used to bore Trenoweth considerably at that time, though he was very patient. And she was just the same always: calm, friendly, gracious, absorbed in her work, and to all appearances unconscious of what mischief her presence had wrought. As the third month drew near to its end I grew desperate. I thought she avoided me, she never let me into the studio now, and I must confess I had a great curiosity to see the picture. But she laughingly evaded all my hints, and would only receive me at the farmhouse. I believe Trenoweth was equally unsuccessful. At last I could stand it no longer. I spoke out and told her the whole truth. Of course," and he laughed somewhat bitterly, "it was no use. If she had been my mother or my sister she could not have been more serenely gracious, more pitiful, or more surprised. I—I had made a fool of myself as we men call it, and all to no purpose. It was maddening, but I knew it was hopeless. I had almost known it before my desperate confession. I couldn't bear to see her again. I felt I hated the place, it was so full of memories. So, suddenly, without a word to Trenoweth or herself, I packed up my traps and started off on a sketching tour through Cornwall. When I came back, the studio was closed, and Trenoweth had gone away. The man left in charge and who made the arrangements for letting them, told me that a new rule had been made by their landlord. They were never to be let to women artists. That is all my part of the story. This—this sketch is only the figure I remember. She was standing once just like that, looking at the wall of the studio, as if to her it was peopled with life, and form and colour. 'I—I was fancying myself at the Academy,' she said to me, as I asked her at what she was gazing, 'at the Academy, and my picture on the line.' I do not know if she ever attained her ambition," he added. "I have never seen or heard of her since."
He glanced at Jasper Trenoweth, who silently held out his hand for the sketch.
For a moment silence reigned throughout the room. The eyes of all were on the bent head and sad, grave face of the man who sat there before them, his thoughts apparently far away, so far that he seemed to have forgotten his promise to finish the story which Denis O'Hara had begun.
At last he roused himself. "There is not much more to add," he said slowly. "All that Denis has said of Musette Delaporte is true, and more than true. She was one of those women who are bound to leave their mark on a man's life and memory. After Denis left so abruptly I saw very little of her. She seemed restless, troubled, and disturbed. Her mind was absorbed in the completion of her picture. That unrest and dissatisfaction which is ever the penalty of enthusiasm, had now taken the place of previous hopefulness. 'If it should fail,' she said to me. 'Oh, you don't know what that would mean. You don't know what I have staked on it.'
"Still she never offered to show it to me, and I would not presume to ask. I kept away for several days, thinking she was best undisturbed. All artists have gone through that phase of experience which she was undergoing. . . . It is scarcely possible to avoid it, if, indeed, one has any appreciation for, or love of, art in one's nature.
"Oh, Maurice!"
"At last, one day I walked down to the studio. I knocked at the door. . . . There was no answer. I turned the handle, and entered. In the full light of the sunset, as it streamed through the window, stood the easel, covered no longer, and facing me, as I paused on the threshold, was the picture. I stood there too amazed to speak or move. . . . It was magnificent. If I had not known that only a woman's hand had converted that canvas into a living breathing history, I could not have believed it. There was nothing crude or weak or feminine about it. The power and force of genius spoke out like a living voice, and seemed to demand the homage it so grandly challenged. Suddenly I became aware of a sound in the stillness—the low, stifled sobbing of a woman. . . . I saw her then, thrown face downwards on the couch at the farthest end of the room, her face buried in the cushions, her whole frame trembling and convulsed with a passion of grief. 'Oh, Maurice!' she sobbed, and then again only that name—'Maurice! Maurice! Maurice!'
"I closed the door softly, and went away. There seemed to me something sacred in this grief. . . . I—I could not intrude on it. She was so near to Fame. She held so great a gift. . . and yet she lay weeping her heart out yonder, like the weakest and most foolish of her sex, for—well, what could I think, but that it was for some man's sake? . . ."
He paused, his voice seemed a little less steady, a little less cold.
"On the morrow," he said abruptly, "she was gone, leaving a note of farewell, and—and thanks for me. I felt a momentary disappointment. I should like to have said farewell to her, and it was strange, too, how much I missed her and Denis. The loneliness and quiet of my life grew more than lonely as the days went on, and I at last madeupmy mind to go to London. Whether by chance or purpose I found myself there on the day the Academy opened. All who are artists know what that day means for them. I—well, I was artist enough to feel the interest of art triumphs, and the sorrow of its failures. I went where half London was thronging, and mingled with the crowd, artistic, critical, and curious, who were gathered in the Academy galleries. I passed into the first room. I noticed how the crowds surged and pushed and thronged around one picture there, and I heard murmurs of praise and wonder from scores of lips as I, too, tried to get sight of what seemed to them so marvellous and attractive. At last a break in the throng favoured me. I looked over the heads of some dozen people in front of the picture, and I saw—the picture I had gazed at in such wonder and delight in the studio of Musette Delaporte! Deservedly honoured, it hung there on the line, and already its praises were sounding, and the severest critics as well as the most eager enthusiasts were giving it fame.
"Leaning on her arm was a man—bent and crippled."
"I turned away at last. My steps were, however, arrested on the outskirts of the crowd by sight of a woman whose figure seemed strangely familiar. Her face was veiled and somewhat averted, but I knew well enough that pose of the beautiful head, that coil of gold brown hair, just lifted from the white neck. She—she did not see me as for a moment I lingered there. Then I noticed she was not alone. Leaning on her arm was a man, his face pale and worn, as if by long suffering, his frame bent and crippled. As his eyes caught the picture I saw the sudden light and wonder that leaped into his face. I saw, too, the glory of love and tenderness in hers. I drew nearer, the man was speaking: 'How could you do it,' he said, 'how could you?' 'Oh, Maurice, forgive me,' said that low, remembered voice. 'Dearest, are we not one in heart and soul and name? I only finished what you had so well begun. You were so ill and helpless, and when you went into the hospital, oh, the days were so long and so empty. I meant to tell you, but when it was finished I had not the courage, so I just sent it, signed, as usual, M. Delaporte. I—I never dared to hope it would be accepted. After all, what did I do? The plan, the thought, the detail all were yours, only my poor weak hand worked when yours was helpless.'
I was so close I heard every word, so close that I saw him bend and kiss with reverence the hand that she had called poor and weak, so close that I heard the low breathed murmur from his lips, 'God bless and reward you, my noble wife!'"
***
"And she was married all the time!" said Denis plaintively. "She might have told us!"
Jasper Trenoweth was silent.