The scandal grew.
Society wrangled for him.
“Lord of Furnishments” (writes Bartholomew Doome about this time, the summer being at wane, to Mr. Pompey Malahide)—“the air of this city of London is stifling me; the very sins of the town are grown banal, commonplace. I must to Paris. I leave no address for three months; but a telegram to the Hotel Albe will be seen within three days. The town is grown an empty caldron—you yourself had best get away with your lovely daughters to some gayer city of fresh air and to change of cheerful small vices and reflecting shop-windows.... But you will go, whether I advise or not. Meanwhile I am letting the studio to the Honourable Ponsonby Ffolliott, only son and heir to Lord Wyntwarde of Cavil, until the twenty-seventh of September. It will take three full days to rid it of the multifarious scents upon him, and to lay the echoes of his yaw.... Can I procure you fal-lals of price for Miss Mary, or adornments to mar the beauty of Miss Judith? Tush! I speak cant. It is all nonsense about painting the rose. Why do beautiful women wear clothes if so? And what a noise would be in Fleet Street, if the roses came out wholly without adornment! Fancy thyself, Lord of Furnishments, blushing like peony, taking thy Johnsonian walks abroad, unbedecked and unadorned—not, as now, almost wholly hidden! Thou wouldst be fantastically wonderful indeed, who art never wholly devoid of fantasy. The ladies might come out better; but naughtiness would the more shamefully abound. Personally, I am not against the rose; but the gods have ordered the painting. So be it paint.
I think you have galled the emotions of the egregious rival. I passed Tankerton Wollup on the Embankment meditating on the sea-gulls and the factories beyond, alone with nature who was never given to contemplate the works of nature. It is full time you joined the Primrose League, captured a seat in the Commons, and rubbed elbows with the nobility—when Tankerton Wollup has headache by reason of your greatness. I see, too, in visions, Miss Judith with a coronet a-top her pretty brows. But mark the law—rub elbows only with the old nobility—the new aristocracy is so very exclusive. Have an eye to subtleties; and thy translation is sure.
But should the gods burst the casket of their very uttermost honours at your feet, and fill your broad lap with treasure, you will never be greater than you are.
Yours, mightily beholden,
Bartholomew Doome.P.S.—The sting is ever in the tail. Nature herself hath so ordered it. I ought to tell you that this Ponsonby Ffolliott thinks he can paint. Gods of little Egypt, it is all very dreadful—makes the teeth ache—but he is well satisfied. What more can heaven send? But the point of the tail is this: ... He took to the arts, patronized them, but six weeks ago. He had drawn ‘funny pictures’ as somewhat ignoble school-boy at Harrow, it is true; but it was the study of the nude model that finished the business—’twas beauty unadorned, lacking even as to fig-leaf, attracted our recruit. He fell into someone’s studio, a model sitting at the time, and the great idea was bred—within the winking of an eyelid—leaped, hissing hot, from the intellectual furnace.
There is already a more than ugly story going about that has to do with this blood ass of Balaam coupled with that pretty little ethereal woman who sat for me a while ago. I suppose one must believe women capable of any enormity in these days. And these youths sin such dirty mean sins—even sin has lost the grand manner.
And the tools of his craft! Such an ordering of the Latest Thing! I was present—a silent witness. My poor easel for the making of the mere black-and-white art is well put away in hiding, or had cracked of envy in such splendid company. No expense spared.
Yet he has his patiences. Rubs out more than he puts in. Is indeed a master of much bread-crumbs. He has the catch-words, too—is for Art for Art’s sake, contemns Story, shrugs at the Anecdote, sneers at the Soul, purrs of Values, insists that the Picture shall Keep Within the Frame, rattles all the jargons, and shows a fine contempt for Sargent and all the modern men—yet has almost decided that Whistler may live—holds, however, that great Art died with the Renaissance; is not quite sure what the Renaissance was—or where—or when. He chats as glibly as the rest now—hee-haws against the hee-haws of Quogge Myre—and not always in vain. Indeed there are degrees in asininity, when splendour of hee-hawing out-brays the lesser hee-haw. And, Beelzebub! such knees as are on him!”
CHAPTER XV
Which tells of a Poet that offered Himself for Sacrifice, and was Rejected of the Gods
The last day of September has early bridal with the night. Though the afternoon was not full spent, the dark shadows of the coming darkness held the town. In the midst of the gloom that was in Doome’s studio stood the sulky figure of the Honourable Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott; and, at his feet, there crouched on the floor a very young and very beautiful woman, and her head was bowed. Wringing her clasped hands upon her knees she said hoarsely:
“God have mercy upon me—for this is an awful caricature of His image.... I am lost—lost.”
He fidgeted peevishly: