THE TRIVIAL ROUND.
Being the Utterances of Mrs. Jabberly Jones on Show Sunday.
[Not Intended for Publication.]
Well, there, my dear child, it's no use making a fuss about it—one must do it, and there's an end of it! People in our position ought to be ready to make some sacrifice for Art. I ordered luncheon half-an-hour earlier on purpose. Last year I only did thirty studios, and I want to do much more than that this afternoon, if I can. Of course, I know I shall be a perfect wreck to-morrow, but one expects that. I do wish Artists wouldn't live in such out-of-the-way places. I'm sure Chandler is out of temper already—I can tell by the way he is driving. Yes, this will do nicely, Chandler; we will walk the rest. Quite a string of carriages, you see. It would never have done to have left Mr. Melbury out! No, he didn't exactly send me a card, but I've met him somewhere, and that does quite as well. Oh, my dear, it will be all right; keep close to me, and you needn't even open your lips. Very tastefully decorated, isn't it? Eccentric, of course, but they're all like that. Such a mass of azaleas. I daresay they're only hired for the Sunday, you know, but a very charming effect. Straight on to the studio? Thank you, I know the way perfectly. How are you, dear Mr. Melbury? I couldn't dream of leaving you out, you know. My daughter. Thanks; but I can see beautifully where I am. Oh, of course I recollect the subject. How clever of you to choose it, and how originally you've treated it, too! Not for the Academy? Why, surely they'd never reject that! Oh, because of the glass? I see. Well, I think all pictures ought to be glazed, myself—such an improvement. Good-bye, such a pleasure to have seen it; so many thanks. Eugenia, dear, you must really tear yourself away. So many places to go to; good-bye, good-bye!... Well, to tell you the truth, my dear, the glass got in the way, and I've no more idea what the picture was about than you have. Still, I'm very glad we went in, all the same. Now where shall we go next? Most of the people seem going into that studio across the road, so there's sure to be something worth seeing there. No, I don't know whose it is, but what does that matter? they're always glad to see you on Show Sunday....
Eugenia, my dear, I don't like to see you putting yourself forward so much at your age. Of course I knew as well as you did that it wasn't James the First that Monmouth rebelled against, though I'm not in the school-room. It's not at all pretty of you to correct your mother in that ostentatious manner, and don't let it occur again. There, you needn't say another word. We'll just pop in here for a minute, and then we must drive on somewhere else. I wish I could see you taking more interest in Art, Eugenia. I thought you would enjoy being taken out like this!... Well, yes, I think we will have just a cup.... Good-bye—thank you so much—quite the pictures of the year. Such a treat—oh, not at all—I never flatter.... By the way, Eugenia, did we go up and see his pictures? I thought not. I was dying for a cup of tea, and so,—and then, meeting Mr. Holland Park in the hall like that, I naturally congratulated him. Oh, nonsense—we can't go back now—we shall see them some time, I daresay. I wish I could get Cullender to send me up some of that pretty pinky-coloured cake for my afternoons—it was really quite nice. If I had only thought of it, I would have asked Mr. Park how it was made. And what becoming caps those maids had on! Models, no doubt. Drive as fast as you can, Chandler, it's getting so late. Quite the other side of London—the poor horses, and on Sunday, too!—but it's a little education for you, my dear ...
Look at the carriages—such grand ones, too, most of them; but I've always heard he's a man of extraordinary talent ... Mrs. and Miss Jabberly Jones.... How do you do?...
Quite a distinguished gathering, wasn't it, Eugenia? So pleasant coming across dear Lady Highsniff like that. Your father and I met her in the Riviera, you know. She knew me directly I introduced myself. That's one thing about Art, it does bring you into the very best society. No, I can't say I cared much about his pictures this year—portraits are so very uninteresting, you know—they tell you nothing, unless you happen to know the people, and then you never recognise them. I thought all his were dreadful. Oh, I know I said I should expect to see them all hung on the line—but what of that? One can't be perfectly candid in the world, my dear, much as one would wish to be. What is that you're saying? "On the Hanging Committee this year?" How can you possibly know? "You heard him say so?" Then you ought to have stopped me, instead of standing there like a shy school-girl. Not that he would think I meant anything by a remark like that—why should he? I'm sure I tried to say everything that was pleasant!
I hope I am the last person to practise insincerity, my dear,—it's a thing I have the greatest horror of. Only one doesn't like to hurt people's feelings, don't you see? One can only just hint that a picture isn't quite—especially when one doesn't pretend to know much about it. Not that I am incapable of speaking out when I feel it my duty. If one sees where a little improvement would make all the difference, one ought to mention it. And Artists are so grateful for suggestions of that kind—they like to know how it strikes a perfectly fresh eye. I remember telling the President last year that one of his figures was just a leetle bit out of drawing, and that the folds of his drapery didn't hang right, and he bowed most beautifully and thanked me—but when I came to see the picture exhibited, I found he hadn't altered it a bit! So it really is hardly worth while speaking plainly—painters are so very opinionated.
What a long way it is to Mr. Fitzjohn's to be sure, and the afternoon turning quite chilly—don't take all the rug, my dear, please!
Oh, don't apologise, Mr. Fitzjohn—quite light enough for me, I assure you. Thank you, I will sit down, we've been seeing pictures—good, bad, and indifferent—all the afternoon, so fatiguing, you know, so many ideas to grasp. I don't mean that that's the case with your pictures ... Yes, very nice, charming. Let me see, didn't you exhibit the large one last year? No? Ah! then it's my mistake, I seem to have seen it so often before—a favourite subject with Artists, I suppose. So difficult to hit on anything really original nowadays. But I daresay you despise all that sort of thing. Well, good-bye, I mustn't keep my coachman waiting any longer.
Perhaps, I was a little annoyed, my dear, never offering us a cup of tea or anything, after coming all that way, but I don't think I showed it, did I? Yes, I am rather tired, and I really think that if it wasn't that I can't bear disappointing people, I should turn back now. But we must just drop in on that poor little Mr. Haverstock, now we are so near. The poor man was so anxious that I should see his pictures—we needn't stay long.
There, Mr. Haverstock, you see I haven't forgotten! though we're rather late, and we shall have to drive back directly to dress—we're dining out this evening, you know. What a nice studio! small, of course, but then you don't want a large room, do you? What a quantity of pictures! How you must have worked! If you send in so many, one of them's sure to get in, isn't it? Still, I should have thought that if you had painted only one or two, and taken great pains with them, it might—oh, most of them are your friend's? and only these two yours? Well, no doubt you are quite right not to be too ambitious. Why, this is quite charming—really quite charming, isn't it, Eugenia? Oh, I quite understand it isn't yours, Mr. Haverstock. I suppose your friend has been painting much longer than you have? No? really! Younger, is he? but some people have a natural turn for it, haven't they? Have you had many visitors this afternoon? Ah, well, they will come some day, I daresay. Now I'm going to be very rude, and make a suggestion. Perhaps if you burnt one or two pastilles, or those Japanese joss-sticks, you know,—they're quite cheap—you'd get rid of some of the smell of the paint and the cigarettes—or is it pipes? Oh, I don't mind it, you know, but some do....
Poor dear fellow, I'm afraid he'll never get on. And what a pig-stye to paint in! Well, I'm glad I've done my duty, Eugenia. Mind you remember all the places we've been to. Home, please, Chandler.