PAGE 9
The Pot-Boiler
by
Stanwell had to wait a long time for the doctor; and when the latter came out he looked grave. Worse? No, he couldn’t say that Caspar was worse–but then he wasn’t any better. There was nothing mortal the matter, but the question was how long he could hold out. It was the kind of case where there is no use in drugs–he had just scribbled a prescription to quiet Miss Arran.
“It’s the cold, I suppose,” Stanwell groaned. “He ought to be shipped off to Florida.”
The doctor made a negative gesture. “Florida be hanged! What he wants is to sell his group. That would set him up quicker than sitting on the equator.”
“Sell his group?” Stanwell echoed. “But he’s so indifferent to recognition–he believes in himself so thoroughly. I thought at first he would be hard hit when the Exhibition Committee refused it, but he seems to regard that as another proof of its superiority.”
His visitor turned on him the penetrating eye of the confessor. “Indifferent to recognition? He’s eating his heart out for it. Can’t you see that all that talk is just so much whistling to keep his courage up? The name of his disease is failure–and I can’t write the prescription that will cure that complaint. But if somebody would come along and take a fancy to those two naked parties who are breaking each other’s heads, we’d have Mr. Caspar putting on a pound a day.”
The truth of this diagnosis became suddenly vivid to Stanwell. How dull of him not to have seen before that it was not cold or privation which was killing Caspar–not anxiety for his sister’s future, nor the ache of watching her daily struggle–but simply the cankering thought that he might die before he had made himself known! It was his vanity that was starving to death, and all Mungold’s hampers could not appease that hunger. Stanwell was not shocked by the discovery–he was only the more sorry for the little man, who was, after all, denied that solace of self-sufficiency which his talk so noisily pro- claimed. His lot seemed hard enough when Stanwell had pictured him as buoyed up by the scorn of public opinion–it became tragic if he was denied that support. The artist wondered if Kate had guessed her brother’s secret, or if she were still the dupe of his stoicism. Stanwell was sure that the sculptor would take no one into his confidence, and least of all his sister, whose faith in his artistic independence was the chief prop of that tottering pose. Kate’s penetration was not great, and Stanwell recalled the incredulous smile with which she had heard him defend poor Mungold’s “sincerity” against Caspar’s assaults; but she had the insight of the heart, and where her brother’s happiness was concerned she might have seen deeper than any of them. It was this last consideration which took the strongest hold on Stanwell–he felt Caspar’s sufferings chiefly through the thought of his sister’s possible disillusionment.
IV
WITHIN three months two events had set the studio building talking. Stanwell had painted a full-length portrait of Mrs. Archer Millington, and Caspar Arran had received an order to execute his group in marble.
The name of the sculptor’s patron had not been divulged. The order came through Shepson, who explained that an American customer living abroad, having seen a photograph of the group in one of the papers, had at once cabled home to secure it. He intended to bestow it on a public building in America, and not wishing to advertise his munificence, had preferred that even the sculptor should remain ignorant of his name. The group bought by an enlightened compatriot for the adornment of a civic building in his native land! There could hardly be a more complete vindication of unappreciated genius, and Caspar made the most of the argument. He was not exultant, he was sublimely magnanimous. He had always said that he could afford to await the Verdict of Posterity, and his unknown patron’s act clearly shadowed forth that impressive decision. Happily it also found expression in a cheque which it would have taken more philosophy to await. The group was paid for in advance, and Kate’s joy in her brother’s recognition was deliciously mingled with the thrill of ordering him some new clothes, and coaxing him out to dine succulently at a neighbouring restaurant. Caspar flourished insufferably on this regime: he began to strike the attitude of the recognized Great Master, who gives advice and encouragement to the struggling neophyte. He held himself up as an example of the reward of disinterestedness, of the triumph of the artist who clings obstinately to his convictions.