Henry James: Complete Stories 1864-1874 (60 page)

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Page 351

was not more embarrassed than she was, but he was agitated: it was as if in the sittings (for the child, too, was beautifully quiet) something was growing between them or had already growna tacit confidence, an inexpressible secret. He felt it that way; but after all he could not be sure that she did. What he wanted her to do for him was very little; it was not even to confess that she was unhappy. He would be superabundantly gratified if she should simply let him know, even by a silent sign, that she recognised that with him her life would have been finer. Sometimes he guessedhis presumption went so farthat he might see this sign in her contentedly sitting there.

III

At last he broached the question of painting the Colonel: it was now very late in the seasonthere would be little time before the general dispersal. He said they must make the most of it; the great thing was to begin; then in the autumn, with the resumption of their London life, they could go forward. Mrs. Capadose objected to this that she really could not consent to accept another present of such value. Lyon had given her the portrait of herself of old, and he had seen what they had had the indelicacy to do with it. Now he had offered her this beautiful memorial of the childbeautiful it would evidently be when it was finished, if he could ever satisfy himself; a precious possession which they would cherish for ever. But his generosity must stop therethey couldn't be so tremendously beholden to him. They couldn't order the pictureof course he would understand that, without her explaining: it was a luxury beyond their reach, for they knew the great prices he received. Besides, what had they ever donewhat above all had
she
ever done, that he should overload them with benefits? No, he was too dreadfully good; it was really impossible that Clement should sit. Lyon listened to her without protest, without interruption, while he bent forward at his work, and at last he said: Well, if you won't take it why not let him sit for me for my own pleasure and profit? Let it be a favour, a service I ask of him. It will do me a lot of good to paint him and the picture will remain in my hands.

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How will it do you a lot of good? Mrs. Capadose asked.

Why, he's such a rare modelsuch an interesting subject. He has such an expressive face. It will teach me no end of things.

Expressive of what? said Mrs. Capadose.

Why, of his nature.

And do you want to paint his nature?

Of course I do. That's what a great portrait gives you, and I shall make the Colonel's a great one. It will put me up high. So you see my request is eminently interested.

How can you be higher than you are?

Oh, I'm insatiable! Do consent, said Lyon.

Well, his nature is very noble, Mrs. Capadose remarked.

Ah, trust me, I shall bring it out! Lyon exclaimed, feeling a little ashamed of himself.

Mrs. Capadose said before she went away that her husband would probably comply with his invitation, but she added, Nothing would induce me to let you pry into
me
that way!

Oh, you, Lyon laughedI could do you in the dark!

The Colonel shortly afterwards placed his leisure at the painter's disposal and by the end of July had paid him several visits. Lyon was disappointed neither in the quality of his sitter nor in the degree to which he himself rose to the occasion; he felt really confident that he should produce a fine thing. He was in the humour; he was charmed with his
motif
and deeply interested in his problem. The only point that troubled him was the idea that when he should send his picture to the Academy he should not be able to give the title, for the catalogue, simply as The Liar. However, it little mattered, for he had now determined that this character should be perceptible even to the meanest intelligenceas overtopping as it had become to his own sense in the living man. As he saw nothing else in the Colonel to-day, so he gave himself up to the joy of painting nothing else. How he did it he could not have told you, but it seemed to him that the mystery of how to do it was revealed to him afresh every time he sat down to his work. It was in the eyes and it was int he mouth, it was in every line of the face and every fact of the attitude, in the indentation of the chin, in the way the hair was planted, the moustache was twisted, the smile came and went, the breath

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rose and fell. it was in the way he looked out at a bamboozled world in shortthe way he would look out for ever. There were half a dozen portraits in Europe that Lyon rated as supreme; he regarded them as immortal, for they were as perfectly preserved as they were consummately painted. It was to this small exemplary group that he aspired to annex the canvas on which he was now engaged. One of the productions that helped to compose it was the magnificent Moroni of the National Gallerythe young tailor, in the white jacket, at his board with his shears. The Colonel was not a tailor, nor was Moroni's model, unlike many tailors, a liar; but as regards the masterly clearness with which the individual should be rendered his work would be on the same line as that. He had to a degree in which he had rarely had it before the satisfaction of feeling life grow and grow under his brush. The Colonel, as it turned out, liked to sit and he liked to talk while he was sitting: which was very fortunate, as his talk largely constituted Lyon's inspiration. Lyon put into practice that idea of drawing him out which he had been nursing for so many weeks: he could not possibly have been in a better relation to him for the purpose. He encouraged, beguiled, excited him, manifested an unfathomable credulity, and his only interruptions were when the Colonel did not respond to it. He had his intermissions, his hours of sterility, and then Lyon felt that the picture also languished. The higher his companion soared, the more gyrations he executed, in the blue, the better he painted; he couldn't make his flights long enough. He lashed him on when he flagged; his apprehension became great at moments that the Colonel would discover his game. But he never did, apparently; he basked and expanded in the fine steady light of the painter's attention. In this way the picture grew very fast; it was astonishing what a short business it was, compared with the little girl's. By the fifth of August it was pretty well finished: that was the date of the last sitting the Colonel was for the present able to give, as he was leaving town the next day with his wife. Lyon was amply contenthe saw his way so clear: he should be able to do at his convenience what remained, with or without his friend's attendance. At any rate, as there was no hurry, he would let the thing stand over till his own return to London, in November,

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when he would come back to it with a fresh eye. On the Colonel's asking him if his wife might come and see it the next day, if she should find a minutethis was so greatly her desireLyon begged as a special favour that she would wait: he was so far from satisfied as yet. This was the repetition of a proposal Mrs. Capadose had made on the occasion of his last visit to her, and he had then asked for a delaydeclared that he was by no means content. He was really delighted, and he was again a little ashamed of himself.

By the fifth of August the weather was very warm, and on that day, while the Colonel sat straight and gossiped, Lyon opened for the sake of ventilation a little subsidiary door which led directly from his studio into the garden and sometimes served as an entrance and an exit for models and for visitors of the humbler sort, and as a passage for canvases, frames, packing-boxes and other professional gear. The main entrance was through the house and his own apartments, and this approach had the charming effect of admitting you first to a high gallery, from which a crooked picturesque staircase enabled you to descend to the wide, decorated, encumbered room. The view of this room, beneath them, with all its artistic ingenuities and the objects of value that Lyon had collected, never failed to elicit exclamations of delight from persons stepping into the gallery. The way from the garden was plainer and at once more practicable and more private. Lyon's domain, in St. John's Wood, was not vast, but when the door stood open of a summer's day it offered a glimpse of flowers and trees, you smelt something sweet and you heard the birds. On this particular morning the side-door had been found convenient by an unannounced visitor, a youngish woman who stood in the room before the Colonel perceived her and whom he perceived before she was noticed by his friend. She was very quiet, and she looked from one of the men to the other. Oh, dear, here's another! Lyon exclaimed, as soon as his eyes rested on her. She belonged, in fact, to a somewhat importunate classthe model in search of employment, and she explained that she had ventured to come straight in, that way, because very often when she went to call upon gentlemen the servants played her tricks, turned her off and wouldn't take in her name.

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But how did you get into the garden? Lyon asked.

The gate was open, sirthe servants gate. The butcher's cart was there.

The butcher ought to have closed it, said Lyon.

Then you don't require me, sir? the lady continued.

Lyon went on with his painting; he had given her a sharp look at first, but now his eyes lighted on her no more. The Colonel, however, examined her with interest. She was a person of whom you could scarcely say whether being young she looked old or old she looked young; she had at any rate evidently rounded several of the corners of life and had a face that was rosy but that somehow failed to suggest freshness. Nevertheless she was pretty and even looked as if at one time she might have sat for the complexion. She wore a hat with many feathers, a dress with many bugles, long black gloves, encircled with silver bracelets, and very bad shoes. There was something about her that was not exactly of the governess out of place nor completely of the actress seeking an engagement, but that savoured of an interrupted profession or even of a blighted career. She was rather soiled and tarnished, and after she had been in the room a few moments the air, or at any rate the nostril, became acquainted with a certain alcoholic waft. She was unpractised in the
h,
and when Lyon at last thanked her and said he didn't want herhe was doing nothing for which she could be usefulshe replied with rather a wounded manner, Well, you know you
ave
ad me!

I don't remember you, Lyon answered.

Well, I daresay the people that saw your pictures do! I haven't much time, but I thought I would look in.

I am much obliged to you.

If ever you should require me, if you just send me a postcard

I never send postcards, said Lyon.

Oh well, I should value a private letter! Anything to Miss Geraldine, Mortimer Terrace Mews, Notting 'ill

Very good; I'll remember, said Lyon.

Miss Geraldine lingered. I thought I'd just stop, on the chance.

I'm afraid I can't hold out hopes, I'm so busy with portraits, Lyon continued.

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Yes; I see you are. I wish I was in the gentleman's place.

I'm afraid in that case it wouldn't look like me, said the Colonel, laughing.

Oh, of course it couldn't compareit wouldn't be so andsome! But I do hate them portraits! Miss Geraldine declared. It's so much bread out of our mouths.

Well, there are many who can't paint them, Lyon suggested, comfortingly.

Oh, I've sat to the very firstand only to the first! There's many that couldn't do anything without me.

I'm glad you're in such demand. Lyon was beginning to be bored and he added that he wouldn't detain herhe would send for her in case of need.

Very well; remember it's the Mewsmore's the pity! You don't sit so well as
us!
Miss Geraldine pursued, looking at the Colonel. If
you
should require me, sir

You put him out; you embarrass him, said Lyon.

Embarrass him, oh gracious! the visitor cried, with a laugh which diffused a fragrance. Perhaps
you
send postcards, eh? she went on to the Colonel; and then she retreated with a wavering step. She passed out into the garden as she had come.

How very dreadfulshe's drunk! said Lyon. He was painting hard, but he looked up, checking himself: Miss Geraldine, in the open doorway, had thrust back her head.

Yes, I do hate itthat sort of thing! she cried with an explosion of mirth which confirmed Lyon's declaration. And then she disappeared.

What sort of thingwhat does she mean? the Colonel asked.

Oh, my painting you, when I might be painting her.

And have you ever painted her?

Never in the world; I have never seen her. She is quite mistaken.

The Colonel was silent a moment; then he remarked, She was very prettyten years ago.

I daresay, but she's quite ruined. For me the least drop too much spoils them; I shouldn't care for her at all.

My dear fellow, she's not a model, said the Colonel, laughing.