The Arm-Chair at the Inn

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

“I describe him thus carefully to you because that first glance of his scarred face had told me his life’s story. It is the same with every man who suffers.

“He talked of his work, of the conspiracies that had followed him all his career, shutting him out of his just rewards, while less brilliant men snatched the prizes which should have been his; of his hopes for the future; of the great competition soon to come off at Rheims, in which he would compete—not that he had yet put his idea into clay—that was always a mere question of detail with him. Then, as if by the merest accident—something he had quite forgotten, but which he thought might interest me—he told me, with a quickening of his glance and the first smile I had seen cross his pasty face, of a certain statue of his, ‘a Masterpiece,’ which a great connoisseur had bought for his garden, and which faced one of the open spaces of Paris. I could see it any day I walked that way—indeed, if I did not mind, he would go with me—he had been housed all the morning and needed the air.

“I pleaded an excuse and left him, for I knew all about this masterpiece which had been bought by a tradesman and planted in his garden among groups of cast-iron dogs and spouting dolphins, the hedge in front cut low enough for passers-by to see the entire collection. Hardly a day elapsed that the poor fellow did not walk by, drinking in the beauty of his work, comforting himself with the effect it produced on the plain people who stopped to admire. Sometimes he would accost them and bring the conversation round to the sculptor, and then abruptly take his leave, they staring at him as he bowed his thanks.

“The following year I again looked him up; his poverty and his courage appealed to me; besides, I intended to help him. When I knocked at his door he did not cry ‘Entrez’—he kept still, as if he had not heard me or was out. When I pushed the door open he turned, looked at me for an instant, and resumed his work. Again my eyes took him in—thinner, dryer, less nourished. He was casting the little images you buy from a board carried on a vendor’s back.

“Without heeding his silence I at once stated my errand. He should make a statue for my garden; furthermore, his name and address should be plainly cut in the pedestal.

“He thanked me for my order, but he made no more statues, he said. He was now engaged in commercial work. Art was dead. Nobody cared. Did I remember his great statue—the one in the garden?—his Apollo?—the Greek of modern times? Well, the place had changed hands, and the new owner had carted it away with the cast-iron dogs and the dolphins and ploughed up the lawn to make an artichoke-bed. The masterpiece was no more. ‘I found all that was left of my work,’ he added, ‘on a dirt heap in the rear of his out-house, the head gone and both arms broken short off.’

“His voice wavered and ceased, and it was with some difficulty that he straightened his back, moved his drying plaster casts one side, and offered me the free part of the bench for a seat.

“I remained standing and broke out in protest. I abused the ignorance and jealousy of the people and of the juries—did everything I could, in fact, to reassure him and pump some hope into him—precisely what you did to your own author, High-Muck. I even agreed to pay in advance for the new statue I had ordered. I told him, too, that if he would come back to the country with me, I would make a place for him in an empty greenhouse, where he could work undisturbed. He only shook his head.

“‘What for?’ he answered—‘for money? I am alone in the world, and it’s of no use to me. I am accustomed to being starved. For fame? I have given my life to express the thoughts of my heart and nobody would listen. Now it is finished. I will keep them for the good God—perhaps He will listen.’

“A week later I found him sitting bolt upright in his chair under the skylight, dead. Above in the dull gloom hung a row of plaster models, his own handiwork—fragments of arms and hands with fists clenched ready to strike; queer torsos writhing in pain; queerer masks with hollow eyes. In the grimy light these seemed to have come to life—the torsos leaning over, hunching their shoulders at him as if blaming him for their suffering; the masks mocking at his misery, leering at each other. It was a grewsome sight, and I did not shake off the memory of the scene for days.