CHAPTER XV
An Academy Picture
With the beginning of a new term two very important events happened inLorraine's little world. Mervyn was sent to Redfern College, and Morlandwent into training. Mervyn's exodus was really somewhat of a relief, forhe had been getting rather out of hand lately, and had waxed soobstreperous on occasion that his father had decided to pack him off atonce for a taste of the discipline of a public school. Morland, who wasnow eighteen, went away in high spirits. On the whole he was tired oflounging about at home. He had reached the age when the boy is passinginto manhood, and begins to think of making his own way in the world.All kinds of shadowy pictures of the future were floating in his mentalvision, day dreams of brave deeds and great achievements, and laurelwreaths to be won by hands that had the luck to pluck them. His eyeswere shining as he bade Lorraine good-bye.
"You must have thought me rather a slacker sometimes," he said. "Butreally there wasn't anything to urge a fellow on at home. Perhaps I'lltumble into my own niche some day. Who knows? Would you be glad,Lorraine, if you saw me doing decently?"
"Glad? Of course I should!"
"I didn't know whether you'd worry your head one way or another aboutit, or care twopence whether I went to the dogs or not!"
"Don't be silly! You're not going to the dogs."
"I might--if nobody was sufficiently interested in me to mind."
"Heaps of people are interested!"
"One doesn't want people in heaps--I prefer interest singly. By the by,if you've any time to spare, you might write to a fellow now and again.I'll want letters in camp."
"All serene! I'll send you one sometimes."
"Just to remind me of home."
"Morland! I believe you've got home-sickness as badly as Claudia. You'llbe back at Porthkeverne before long, unless I'm greatly mistaken!"
"With my first leave, certainly," twinkled Morland.
As the weeks passed by in April, the artistic world of Porthkevernereached a high pitch of anticipation and excitement. Practically everypainter there had submitted something to the Academy, and the burningquestion was which among them would be lucky enough to have their workaccepted. They looked out eagerly for the post, awaiting either awelcome varnishing ticket or a printed notice regretting that for lackof space their contributions could not be included in the exhibition,and requesting them to remove their pictures as speedily as possible.
In the studio down by the harbour expectation ran rife. Margaret Lindsayhad finished her painting of "Kilmeny"--if not altogether to her ownsatisfaction, at any rate to that of most of her friends--and haddispatched it to the Academy.
"I don't believe for a moment that it will get in," she assuredLorraine. "I never seem to have any luck, somehow. I'm not a luckyperson."
"Perhaps you will have this time," said Lorraine, who was washing outoil paint brushes for her friend, a messy task which she sometimesundertook. "Let's _will_ that you shall be accepted. You _shall_ be!"
"All the 'willing' in the world won't do the deed if the judges 'will'the other way, and their will tugs harder than ours!" laughed Margaret."It depends so much on the taste of the judges. There's a fashion inpictures as in other things, and it's constantly changing."
"Is there? Why?"
"That I can't tell you, except that people tire of one style and likeanother. First the classical school was the favourite, thenpre-Raphaelitism had its innings, then impressionism came up. Eachperiod in painting is generally boomed by some celebrated art critic whodeprecates the old-fashioned methods and cracks up the new. The publicare rather like sheep. They buy what the critics tell them to admire._Punch_ had a delightful skit on that once. Ruskin had been pitchinginto the commonplace artist's style of picture rather freely, so _Punch_evolved a dejected brother of the brush giving vent to this despairingwail:
'I takes and paints, Hears no complaints, And sells before I'm dry; Then savage Ruskin He sticks his tusk in, And nobody will buy!'"
"I love _Punch_!" cackled Lorraine, drying the brushes on a cleanpaint-rag. "Tell me some more artistic titbits."
"Do you know the one about the old lady in the train who overheard thetwo artists talking? One said to the other:
"'Anything doing in children nowadays?'
"And his friend answered: 'A feller I know knocked off seven littlegirls' heads--nasty raw things they were too!--and a chap came in andcarried them off just as they were--wet on the stretcher--and said hecould do with a few more.'
"The poor old lady, who knew nothing of artists' lingo, imagined thatshe had surprised details of a ghastly murder, instead of a satisfactorysale to an enterprising dealer. But to come back to the Academy,Lorraine; I know I shan't get in! I've sent five times before, andalways had the same disappointment, if you can call it a disappointmentwhen you don't expect anything. The last time it happened I was in town,and I went to the Academy myself to fetch away my pictures. As I walkeddown the court-yard and out into Piccadilly with my parcel under my arm,I felt pretty blue, and I suppose I looked it, for a wretched littlestreet arab stared at me with mock sympathy, and piped out: 'Have theyrejected you too, poor darling?' He said it so funnily that I couldn'thelp laughing in spite of my blues."
"When are you likely to hear your luck?" asked Lorraine.
"Any day now; but it will be bad luck."
"Then I shall call every day on my way home from school to see if you'vehad a letter."
Lorraine kept her word, and each afternoon took the path by the harbourinstead of the direct road up the hill. Day after day passed, and thepost-woman had not yet delivered the longed-for official communication.
"No news is good news!" cheered Lorraine. "Mr. Saunders had hisrejection last week, so Claudia told me. Mr. Castleton only heard thismorning."
"How many has he in?"
"Three--the view of Tangy Point from the beach, Madox wheeling Perugiain the barrow, and the portrait of Madame Bertier. Claudia says they'reimmensely relieved, because even Mr. Gilbertson is 'out' this year. Herecomes the second post! Is there anything for you? I'm going to see!"
Lorraine, in her impatience, tore down the wooden steps of the studio,and waylaid the post-woman. She came back like a triumphant whirlwind,waving a letter.
"I believe this is 'it'. Oh, do open it quick! I can't wait. I neverfelt so excited to know anything in all my life! I could scream!"
Margaret, equally agitated, nevertheless kept her feelings undercontrol, and opened the envelope with outward calm, though her fingerstrembled noticeably. She looked at the enclosure, flushed crimson, and,turning to Lorraine, dropped a mock curtsy.
"Madam Kilmeny," she announced, "I'm happy to be able to inform you thatyour portrait is to appear upon the walls of the Royal Academy!"
"Oh, hurrah!" jodelled Lorraine, careering round the studio in anecstatic dance, somewhat to the peril of various studies on easels. "I_knew_ it would get in, Carina! I had a kind of premonition that itwould!"
"And I had a premonition the other way entirely. I never was sosurprised in my life! You've been my little mascot, and brought me theluck!"
"No, indeed; it's your own cleverness. It's a beautiful painting.Claudia says even her father admired it, and he scarcely ever allowsanybody's work is decent except his own."
"I certainly take praise from Mr. Castleton as a compliment," admittedMargaret. "I'm glad to hear that he liked it. Well, this is actually myfirst real artistic success. I don't know myself this afternoon. I feelan inch taller than usual."
"And so do I, to think I'm going to be hung in the Academy! Of course, Iknow you've idealized me out of all recognition; but there's afoundation of 'me' in the picture--enough to cock-a-doodle about. TheCastletons have been painted so often, they don't care; but it's aunique experience for me. It makes me feel somehow as if _I_ wereKilmeny, and had spent those seven long years among the fairies. I feltit all the time I was standing for you, Carina."
"That's where you made such a perfect model. I cou
ld see the glamour ofthe fairies in your face, and tried to catch it in my painting. I alwayscontend that one of the chief elements in a good sitter is imagination,so as to maintain the right expression. One sees many apatheticportraits, and knows that the originals must have been feeling bored totears. You never looked bored."
"No, the fairies were dancing round me all the time! You conjured themup. Do you know, Carina, I think fairies are your forte? I like thosesmall paintings of them better than anything else you do."
"Those coloured frontispieces for children's magazines? They'recertainly the only things in which I've ever succeeded. It's well torealize one's limitations. I've been so ambitious in my time, and wantedto paint historic scenes and battle-pieces, and other things quitebeyond my powers. It's strange if the line we rather despise turns outto be our best bit of work. Look at Edward Lear. He was a ratherclassically inclined artist, whose serious work seems to have vanished,yet he is known and appreciated all over the world by the delightful andinimitable _Book of Nonsense_ that he knocked off in a few leisure hoursto amuse the children of a noble family whose portraits he was painting.Hans Andersen, too, is another instance. No one ever now reads hisnumerous novels and solid books, but his fairy-tales have beentranslated into almost every language. Nothing so charming and poeticalhas ever been written. His is a magic flute that draws children of everyclime and age to listen to him. Not that I'm for a moment comparingmyself to Edward Lear or Hans Andersen! All the same, I think I shalltake a hammer and smash up those statues I was trying my hand at, andstick to fairies for the future."
"I hope they'll hang 'Kilmeny' on the line!"
"So do I, but I don't expect it. It will be most exciting to go up totown and see it. I wonder----"
"You wonder what?" asked Lorraine, for Margaret had suddenly stoppedshort.
"Never mind! It was an idea that came into my head. Perhaps I'll tellyou some other time."
"Oh, do tell me now!"
"Certainly not--you must wait. No, it's no use your guessing, for Ishan't say whether you're right or wrong."
Lorraine's guesses, which were of rather a wild description, did notcome anywhere near the real truth, which was sprung upon her a few dayslater by her enterprising friend. It was nothing more or less than aninvitation to go up to London with Miss Lindsay and see "Kilmeny" forherself on the wall of Burlington House.
"I daren't tell you beforehand in case it should be an impossiblescheme," said Margaret, "but your mother gives permission, and I sawMiss Kingsley myself, and she promised you a few days' holiday. I toldher it was part of your education to see the Academy, and she quiteagrees with me. So you're to go!"
This was news indeed! Lorraine was half crazy with joy. Though she hadturned seventeen, she had never yet been to London. Porthkeverne was along journey from town, and any holidays which she had taken had been tovisit relations in other parts of the country. She had envied Rosemarywhen the latter started for the College of Music; now she was actuallyto see the great city for herself, and in company with Carina, of alldelightful people in the world. They were to go up for a whole preciousweek, and to stay in a hotel--Lorraine had never yet stayed in ahotel--and they were to do theatres, and as many of the sights as couldpossibly be crammed into the short space of time. The prospect wasdazzling. Monica, catching in her breath sharply, decreed: "You're thebiggest lucker I've ever met, Lorraine!"
Clothes, of course, were a paramount topic.
"I can't let Miss Lindsay take a Cinderella with her to London," saidMother, looking over the fashionable advertisements in the papers, andtrying to decide what was the most suitable costume for a girl ofseventeen. "You want something to look smart in at the Academy, and yetthat won't get soiled directly with going about in motor omnibuses. Nowthis is a sweet dress! I'd like you in this, but it would be ruined infive minutes if you were caught in a shower; and how can we guaranteefine weather? Does your umbrella want re-covering? If there isn't timeto have it done, Rosemary must lend you her new one."
By dint of much eager cogitation on the part of the whole family,Lorraine's wardrobe was at last satisfactorily arranged and packed in asuit case. She herself, in a new grey coat and skirt and a greytravelling hat trimmed with pink, joined Margaret Lindsay at the railwaystation. They were to catch the early express, and Mother, Rosemary, andMonica came to see them off. It felt so grand to be going away withoutthe rest of the family, and to hang out of the carriage window shoutinggood-bye while they frantically waved handkerchiefs upon the platform.Lorraine, still clutching in her new gloves the sticky packet of sweetsthat Monica had pressed as a last offering into her hand, went onsignalling until Margaret pulled her forcibly back on to her seat.
"We don't want your head whisked off first thing, please, and we'recoming to the bridge. I wouldn't sit on the lunch-basket, if I were you!Let me put it up on the rack."
"I'm _so_ excited!" sighed Lorraine. "I'm glad we've got the carriageto ourselves, Carina, because we can talk. Isn't it sport?"
"We shan't keep it long. It will probably fill up at St. Cyr, so workoff your spirits now, if you want to. But my advice is to take thingscalmly, or you'll be tired out before we get to town."
The long railway journey, first along the coast, and then inland throughscenery which was very different from Porthkeverne, was deeplyinteresting to Lorraine; and if she grew tired and closed her eyes forpart of the route, her enthusiasm woke again when they reached London.The great station with its crowds of people, the rows of cabs and taxis,the streets with their endless traffic, all seemed a new world to thelittle country mouse who was making her first acquaintance with themetropolis.
"It's busier than I expected, and ever so much dirtier!" she commented.
"Yes, it's a different world from Porthkeverne--no arum lilies andyuccas and aloes--only plane-trees and lilac-bushes in the squares. Herewe are at our hotel! It will be nice to wash and rest!"
Lorraine, with a beaming face, sat next morning at the little tablelaid for two, and discussed plans over the breakfast bacon. She haddrawn up a programme of things she wanted to see in town, of so lengthya description that Margaret Lindsay declared it would take at least amonth instead of a week to work through it adequately.
"Some of the shows are shut up because of the war," she said, goingthrough the list and putting ticks against the most suitable places. "Wecan see the Zoo, and Madame Tussaud's, and Kew Gardens, and I'll enquirewhether the Tower and the Houses of Parliament are open to visitors atpresent. Westminster Abbey will, of course, be on view, but I expect weshall find the monuments banked up with sandbags for fear of raids.Never mind, we'll do Poets' Corner at any rate. What would you like tostart with this morning?"
"May I choose? Then I plump for the Academy!"
So to the Academy they went, and it was a very gay, pink-cheeked,bright-eyed version of Lorraine who walked up the flight of stairs atBurlington House, and through the turnstile into the entrance hall wherethe palms are. She had seen small exhibitions at the Arts Club inPorthkeverne, but never a series of great rooms hung with largepictures. Margaret was turning over the pages of the catalogue.
"Oh, do find out where 'Kilmeny' is, and let us go and see her first!"begged Lorraine.
"She's in Room VII, No. 348."
It was difficult to tear Margaret away from the nearest pictures, butLorraine's impatience dragged her along to Room VII. "Kilmeny" wasreally in a very good position, if not exactly on the line, only justabove it, and fortunately the pictures on either side were in low tone,and did not spoil the effect of colour.
"A field of poppies or a Venetian carnival next door would have utterlykilled my sunset and thistledown!" rejoiced Margaret. "I ought to bevery grateful to the hanging committee. It doesn't look so bad as Iexpected."
"Bad! It's the most beautiful picture in the whole room."
"We must hunt up our other friends," said Margaret, turning over thepages of the catalogue. "Where are Mr. Castleton's, I wonder? Oh,there's one in the next room--No. 407. Let'
s go and look at it."
The picture in question was the portrait of Madame Bertier, a cleverstudy in an impressionist style, showing the bright eyes and eagerfeatures of that volatile lady under cover of a large black hat andveil. It was perhaps one of the best pictures that Mr. Castleton hadever painted, and it was attracting quite a small crowd. Margaret andLorraine came up, and joined the outer circle of admirers. In front ofthem stood two gentlemen and a lady--foreigners. They spoke softly andrapidly together in French. Lorraine, whose knowledge of that languagewas not far beyond the ordinary schoolgirl standard, could notunderstand all they were saying, but she caught a word here and there.The lady was admiring the skill of the painting, and voting it worthy ofthe Salon in Paris; one of the gentlemen admired the beauty of themodel, the other, with a pleased smile, explained that it was his wife,and that, though a charming portrait, it scarcely did justice to theoriginal.
"Mais c'est a merveille!" he said, with a quick gesticulation, as hemoved on to allow other people access to the picture.
Lorraine nudged Margaret, and drew her aside.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered. "That man in the light suit declaredthat Madame Bertier was his wife!"
"Impossible! Her husband is interned in Germany!"
"Well, that was what he said at any rate."
"Perhaps he was making up, just for effect. Some people like to tellthese wonderful fibs in public, just to impress the outside world."
"Then why didn't he speak English, if he wanted to impress people?"
"Which man was it?"
"That one--next to the lady in blue."
"Why--why--if I'm not utterly mistaken, I verily believe it's the man welooked at through the glasses from Tangy Point: he met Madame Bertier onthe shore."
"And I couldn't remember where I'd seen him before. Oh, Carina! Let'sfollow them, and I'll look at him again."
But the crowd in the Academy was rapidly increasing, and the threeforeigners were lost behind a row of ladies in fashionable spring hats.They must have made an unexpected exit, for though Lorraine kept hereyes open for them the whole of the morning, she did not chance to seethem again.
"It's rather mysterious, isn't it?" she said to Margaret afterwards.
"It is--if he was telling the truth. Some of these foreigners are queerpeople. Never mind Madame Bertier now; let us enjoy ourselves. Shall weget tickets for a _matinee_ to-morrow, or leave theatres for theevenings? Remember, we want plenty of time for Kew."