“That’s shop talk, West.”
“All the world’s a shop, my boy; always has been, always will be. Why, even the socialist idea is to turn the country into a universal provider. Don’t think it would help matters if poets and painters were endowed by the State and hadn’t to work for a living. You can’t tell me of any rich man—any man born rich—who has ever done any art work worth talking about. If it weren’t for women and money the world would die of inanition.”
“What rot you do talk sometimes, West; I suppose you find it a useful habit in business; when a wise man can disguise himself as a foolish, he’s sure to get on.”
“And the reverse also holds good, from which, logically, it must be deduced that to appear other than you are is the first law of existence! But as a matter of fact you know I’m not talking nonsense. If I were to say to you: ‘I’ll give you an annuity of three thousand a year, on condition that you give me all the pictures you paint, but you’ve only to paint when you feel inspired to do so,’ why, my dear fellow, you know as well as I do that your career would be over. Thank your lucky stars you’ve got to work for your living. Well, I must be off, Aggy will wonder what on earth’s become of me. She’s always expecting me to smash myself. Do you think I may ‘walk into the parlor’ and say ‘good-by’ to—cook?”
CHAPTER XIX
Had Maddison known that West’s advice had been inspired by Marian he would have set it aside angrily, but in his ignorance he looked on it as curiously coincidental with much of what she had said to him, when she had urged upon him the necessity of their separating again. The fear of Squire’s persecution had been thrust into the background, and he had tried also to shake off the feeling that had gradually been growing upon him, that his love for her was interfering detrimentally with his work. “The Rebel” he believed, in fact he knew, to be the finest picture he had yet painted, and the portrait of Mrs. West would, he believed, be good; but beyond these two canvases he could not see. Marian seemed to stand between him and his inspiration, upon which he had never before called in vain, upon which, indeed, he had never before been compelled to call, for it had always come unsummoned.
Many difficulties faced him. He could not bring himself to sell “The Rebel,” even to West—it seemed like parting with Marian. The portrait would bring him in a large sum, but not sufficient to meet the expense of the coming year. His resources were low; he had always lived close up to his income, saving scarcely anything, and that little had now been drawn upon to the full. All this would not have mattered had he been alone, with only himself to care for; though fond of luxury, he was not a slave to it. But he had taken Marian into his charge, was responsible for her well-being, not only now, but under compulsion of honor and love not to leave her penniless if anything ill should chance to come to him. The fact that faced him was that he must set to work at once, must work rapidly and well. It was not essential that his pictures should be exhibited at any of the spring shows—the dealers were always ready to welcome and able to dispose of any work he could offer them. Nevertheless time pressed, unless he borrowed upon work undone, so mortgaging the future, of doing which he hated and feared the thought.
With Marian as model he could doubtless paint more than one picture, but strive as he would he could think of no subject; it was Marian as Marian who occupied him entirely, and to paint her portrait in this, that and the other attitude would be not merely banal, but distasteful to him. Further still, with her beside him, near him, within call, there seemed to be no room in his life for any other desire than to be with her, just to see her, to love her, to please her. On the other hand, if they parted, did the experience of the short separation through which he had gone hold out any promise of greater ability to work? Not much. But this new separation would be different; it would be caused by the necessity of work so that they might be together; the better, the quicker the work, the shorter the separation; surely that great incentive would spur him on to success? It was Marian alone whom he must consider. To go on as he was meant being forced to ask her to make sacrifices, and that idea he put behind him at once and finally. To go away for a while, with only occasional meetings with her during the next few months, was her own suggestion, based, indeed, upon other reasons than those upon which he would act, and he appreciated what he believed to be the loving unselfishness that inspired it, for to her, as to him, the parting and the separation would be full of pain. But did not love for her demand of him that he should pursue this course? After all, would not the resultant reward be great? It seemed to him that it refined and purified his love for Marian the making of this sacrifice for her sake. So far his passion had been entirely selfish; he had thought so little of herself and so much of himself; so much of what she gave him, so little of what he gave her; so much of his future with her, so little of what might come to her. It was hot passion at first, overwhelming passion for a beautiful, desirable woman; this passion had not decreased, had not in any way been satiated by possession, but added to it now was the other part of love, which is as unselfish as passion is selfish. Her happiness, her peace, her delight, how could he best secure them? It shocked him at first when he tried to reduce this vague wish to practicality, to find that the first thing he must do was to work for money. There was no escaping from that—he must make money; he must work. He could not work with her beside him—at least he could not do so now; perhaps the time would come when he could not work apart from her—perhaps that time had indeed come, though he did not know it—perhaps—perhaps—; so round and round in this circle his thoughts flew, and the one thing that came forth clear to him was that he must agree to Marian returning to town and to his not seeing her for some weeks.
He saw her off; stood looking after her, almost dazed, then turned away like one blind, and walked slowly home to the empty studio and the empty life.