Woman and Artist

by Max O'Rell

The rent of his house was a thousand a year. When he added what he would have to pay in parish taxes, Queen's taxes, and all those little blessings which endear Great Britain to every true-born Englishman, Philip had to come to the conclusion that his new house would cost him about fifteen hundred pounds a year.

He spent some five thousand pounds upon his installation. The furniture was chosen by Dora, who was consulted upon every point. Most of the things from the St. John's Wood house were distributed throughout the new one, but Dora took it upon her to arrange, on the ground floor, behind the dining-room, the library, exactly as it had been arranged in Elm Avenue; not a book, nor a picture, not a photograph, nor a knick-knack was forgotten. Dora had the bump of remembrance.

This library would be her favourite room, she said to herself, and she would pass an hour or two every day here among the souvenirs of the happy days lived in the artists' quarter. Near the drawing-room, Philip arranged a room which might have passed for a studio in the eyes of people who see likenesses everywhere. To speak truly, there was no longer a studio.

As for painting, there was no more question of that; Philip had other ideas in his head. He would go into society and would entertain. He could do it now that he had a suitable house. He would make useful acquaintances, and the celebrity that his invention of the famous shell had brought him would lead to his being sought after. He had no doubts, no misgivings. The future was safe enough.

Occasionally, however, he fell into reflection. He had spent something like five thousand pounds over his installation; there remained therefore in hand not more than thirty-two or three thousand pounds. At five per cent. interest, that would bring him an income of some fifteen hundred pounds, just about the amount of his rent and taxes. Now, he had started his new existence on a scale which entailed an expenditure of at least ten thousand a year. He would therefore need to earn the rest, about eight thousand pounds, or else his capital would last him only four years. There it was—a judgment without appeal, arrived at by the inflexible rule of three.

It is not money that ensures a man's being rich, it is the excess of his receipts over his expenditure. Such is the declaration made by that great philosopher who was called Monsieur de la Palice. Such is also, however, the principle which even very intelligent people fail to understand.

Philip reflected. "Pooh!" said he to himself, "there is no need to bother myself yet; fortune has smiled on me once, she will again."

Dora consented to everything without a murmur. With the exception of a general sadness, which she could not entirely dissimulate, she gave no outward sign of dissent, and approved before Philip many things which she tacitly condemned. She did not encourage her husband in his new ideas, but she did not feel the strength of will to discourage him. She would not earn reproaches. She had taken a resolution to let events follow their course and to remain firm at her post of observation, so as to be ready to save Philip before the coming of the downfall which to her seemed inevitable. She almost found a happiness in this new part. "I will prevent his going under," she said to herself.

Gaiety had vanished, there was no more laughter, the chief subject of talk was speculations. In the mornings Philip read the financial papers.

"By Jove!" he would exclaim, "here is a South African mine which was worth one pound a share. These shares are now worth twelve pounds." Philip was probably seeking to solve this problem: How can I make eight thousand pounds a year with a capital of hardly forty thousand pounds? And the devil answered him: By placing your money where you can get twenty-five per cent. interest for it.