THE MAN HE KNEW
[Until he becomes an artistic star of the first magnitude (when he is apt to be as rich and as arrogant as the fabled Indian Rajah,) the world is often exceedingly ungenerous to the struggling young painter, however talented he may be. Even Paris—usually so kind to budding genius—is sometimes guilty of this offense. The following little narrative will prove the truth of my statement.]
[Until he becomes an artistic star of the first magnitude (when he is apt to be as rich and as arrogant as the fabled Indian Rajah,) the world is often exceedingly ungenerous to the struggling young painter, however talented he may be. Even Paris—usually so kind to budding genius—is sometimes guilty of this offense. The following little narrative will prove the truth of my statement.]
Little Barlow was very poor indeed and, what was much more serious, had stretched his limited credit just as far as it would go. He didn’t like to do this at all, but there was no help for it and it grieved him sorely. Therefore he became daily more despairing and sick at heart as one by one his most promising schemes for money making came to naught and the trades-people presented their bills with a machine-like promptness and inevitability.
He possessed only one living relative in America, a millionaire uncle—who was addicted to the pernicious habit of endowing memorial hospitals and colleges in total oblivion of his duty towards his only nephew. Little Barlow had timidly approached this uncle for help the year before—when he was suffering almost as badly from a similarly acute period of ill-chance—and had received three hundred dollars by cable in return, but, when the American mail arrived a week afterward, it brought with it such an unnecessarily brutal letter that he heartily regretted that by paying his creditors nearly all the money he had rendered himself powerless to send it flying back across the ocean, accompanied by the very choicest anathemas in his vocabulary.
The most exasperating feature of the letter was the offensive position his uncle took in regard to his chosen work. He advised him to give it up “as he did not seem to be a great success at it.” Success meaning to him—as it does to so many other business men—solely and uniquely the possession of the special faculty for making money.
“Yet,” said Little Barlow to his patient little wife, “I don’t think I have been a total failure, and won’t admit yet awhile that—even from his point of view—I am not a success.” “No dearest,” she joined in indignantly, “we won’t admit that at all;” and then she added proudly, “we will show him some day that you will be rich as well as famous, and will prove to him that he might have acquired far more lasting honor, at very much less expense, by giving you a few well-paid orders now—and so helping you over some rough places in your career—than he can ever gain with all his vain-glorious memorials put together.”
Little Barlow kissed his thanks on the lips of his loyal little wife and resumed: “I imagine sometimes that the old gentleman means well but doesn’t understand our case. He went into business as a boy, made all his money himself, and considers struggling was good for him and formed his character, so I suppose he honestly thinks that that is the very best training for an artist also. He doesn’t comprehend that we depend for our actual livelihood on the caprice of the public (and are often undeservedly worried thereby) or that we cannot paint directly for money, or that if we do so our work is tolerably certain not to sell. You can add up a column of figures, or measure calico, or weigh out sugar, or sweep a room, or do a lot of other useful things with the idea of remuneration for your pains in view, but you cannot write a greatpoem, or compose a great piece of music, or paint a great picture—which must be poetic and musical as well—with an eye solely bent on the acquisition of the almighty dollar. I never in all my life painted but one of those horrid affairs that we so suggestively call ‘pot boilers’ and that—heaven help me!—has been knocking around my studio as a lesson ever since. There seems to be something in it that proclaims it a monster to the least intelligent, something mean about it which says money was the sole object of its being born at all.
“On the contrary, if you paint a subject because you find it beautiful, or interesting, or because you love to do it, it is astonishing indeed if you do not find somebody else who would ‘love’ to have it and be glad to pay what he can afford for its possession.”
Little Barlow had followed this theory consistently and had very little left in his studio to sell. He had found that a great many people “loved” his pictures; the only trouble was that the ones who “loved” and wanted them the most had very little to give in exchange for them; and that after the expenses for frames, canvases, paints, rents, taxes, models and commissions had been deducted, there was scarcely anything remaining for the sweet young wife, the two wee children, and little Barlow himself. Still he hoped for better things in the future and worked on, as he had always done, with a great joy in his heart.
Little Barlow had had a hard life of it and had practically “made” himself, but in spite of all the sordid shocks his artistic nature had received in that process it still remained intact and valiant. He had also had his share of successes as well, although they did not exactly come within his uncle’s definition of the word. He had had two drawings and a prize painting hung on the walls of Julian’s, the title of “Premier” in the admission examination at the Ecole des Beaux Arts and an Honorable Mention and a Third Class Medal at the old Salon. When he received his “Mention” he was so proud and confident of his powers that he rashly rushed off and proposed to a charming little girl art-student just as poor and as ingenious as himself.
It was during his honey-moon—when he was blissfully happy—that he produced his medal picture, and then there came ahalt in his affairs for lack of money, and the bills and the babies rolled in on him till they had threatened to drown him altogether, and in sheer desperation he composed his little plaint to his uncle which brought him the saving three hundred dollars and, a week later, the awful letter that made him red with shame for months afterward.
In spite of all his resolves and struggles fate had been adverse to him once more. He was in great difficulties, and the necessity of facing an immediate danger was again upon him. It was of course useless and entirely out of the question to write a second letter to the uncle, whom he felt in his anger would willingly see them all slowly die of starvation rather than help them further, provided, of course, they could do so decently and quietly and not make any unpleasant scandal about it.
“I shall not write to him again, whatever happens,” he said, clinching his fists; and then he added, with an altogether ugly look on his usually placid face, “if the worst comes to the worst and we have to shoot ourselves, or otherwise go under, it will make a great deal of unfavorable talk at home and that,” he continued, smiling grimly, “is something he won’t like at all.”
Little Barlow had not been indulging in any such gloomy reflections the month before; on the contrary he had not been so hopeful and light hearted for a long time. He had paid his rent and a big color bill (which threatened to become malignant) with the compensation he had received for a remarkably living portrait of a rich and titled Englishman. “If I receive two more orders of the kind I will be on solid rock,” he triumphantly asserted to his beaming little wife, “and there now seems every prospect that I’ll get them. Lord Richemont was very much pleased with my work—as was his friend Sir Garnet Walton—and they have practically promised me at least one more order apiece. I will probably have to go to London soon to paint Lady Richemont, and who knows what will come out of the connections I may make there.”
Poor little Barlow’s day dreams were short lived, for toward the end of the following week—when he was just upon the point of starting—he received a letter from his patron telling him that Lady Richemont found his portrait wonderfully good and true and liked it immensely, but that she would be unable to pose for him for some time on account of a serious and sudden illness which had pulled her down in strength and temporarily altered her face. Then the bread bill dropped in, and little Barlow, wearing an exceedingly serious and abstracted air, settled it with the money he had reserved for his ticket to England, and the next day (out of an almost cloudless sky) fell an unkind and unexpected thunderbolt, in the shape of a legal summons from his frame-maker to pay one hundred and forty seven francs still due.
Now this was needlessly cruel on the frame-maker’s part, for little Barlow had ordered from him—or recommended his friends to order—nearly six thousand francs worth of work in the past five years. But the frame-maker suddenly “saw red,” as they say in France, and was in financial troubles in his turn, and decided to fall on poor little Barlow’s back with the entire and somewhat massive machinery of the French law.
“This document,” said little Barlow, gazing with mingled awe and curiosity at the officially stamped paper, “calls for our immediate attention. We are coming dangerously near to the point of being seized and sold out, and, if that were ever to take place, it would mean a complete and definite end to us.” While he was reflecting what it was best for him to do under the circumstances, the postman once again passed by and handed in another letter from London which when he had torn it open and read it, eased his mind mightily. It informed him that if he would accept £20 instead of the catalogue price of £30 for a last year Salon picture—then exposed at the Crystal Palace—he could dispose of it immediately.
He was so delighted at this unexpected good fortune that he caught his little wife by the waist—although she held a baby in each arm at the time and was in danger of dropping and injuring them seriously—and waltzed her round and round the studio. Then he told her all about the good news, and sat down and wrote a reply agreeing to let his picture go somewhat reluctantly (for the looks of the thing) provided he was paid at once; after which he sallied out and walked way over across town and deposited it himself in the main post office of the rue du Louvre so that there would be a little less chance of its going astray than by simply dropping it in a branch office letter-box in the next street. Then he went home and patiently waited for the response.
A whole week passed and it did not come and he was at length forced by the actual necessities of life to borrow twenty francs from a friend named Bolton. Toward the middle of the second week he got another ten from an acquaintance named Sidney, but still the anxiously looked for communication did not put in its appearance. Matters were assuming a decidedly ominous aspect now—the frame-maker’s suit having been decided against him by default—so he wrote a rather peevish letter to the Secretary of the Exhibition which, after some further delay, elicited a reply. In it he was told that the gentleman who had wanted his picture had gone away for a short cruise on his yacht and had neglected as yet to make known his ultimate intentions in regard to it.
This note rendered little Barlow well-nigh desperate. What was he to do? He remembered a kind friend, a Dr. Galt, who had offered to loan him a little money once before (and whom he knew had a warm heart for all the world), so he went over to his office on the rue St. Honore to ask him if he could help him in his emergency, but Fortune was once again against him and he learned with a sinking heart thatthe doctor had gone to Edinburg to attend a medical congress then being held there and would not be back for at least two weeks.
Then he returned to his studio, much discouraged and cast down, and told his brave but sad little wife about this last and crowning disappointment.
“It’s no use,” said little Barlow despairingly, “every thing is against us and we are now certain of being sold out. The danger is immediate and our furniture may be seized at any moment. If I had only a little more time I think I should be able to get the money somewhere, but the hundred and forty-seven francs—and the twenty-five extra ones for costs—might just as well be so many thousands, for I’m as powerless to raise them as though they were. All the fellows who are likely to have any money to spare are out of town and I’ve borrowed all I can from Bolton and Sidney.”
His wife knit her brow and reflected a moment; then she said slowly but bravely, “I think I have found a way of paying the bill. It’s an unpleasant way, but it’s the only one of which I know. We have pawned practically all our silver and jewelry butthis, and it’s right thatitshould go now;” saying which, she resolutely drew off her engagement ring—daintily set with small diamonds and pearls—and held it out toward her husband. “I hoped, dear, when you put it on my finger to have always kept it there, but it’s best under the present circumstances that it should leave it.”
Little Barlow refused to take it, with tears in his eyes at the sacrilege, but she smiled at him cheerily and continued gently. “It is off now and the damage is done, so don’t be gloomy, sweetheart, but take it like a good boy. We won’t have to leave it at theMont de Pietepermanently, for you are sure of getting some more money one of these days, and then we can redeem it, and I will have another association with it and will value it all the more on that account.”
So little Barlow was at length prevailed upon to go with it to theSuccursaleof the rue de Rennes, and borrowed the utmost which that establishment would lend on it, which was only sixty francs.
“This partially solves the difficulty,” he said gloomily, on his return, “but if we cannot raise a hundred and twelve francs more for the rest of the bill and costs, we might just as well have nothing at all, for the real good it will do us.”
“There is that Mrs. Harvey at the Hotel Continental,” suggested his wife furtively; “she wrote to you last spring and asked you theprice of the little Salon picture which you had already sold. You called on her at the time and she seemed affable and well-meaning, so why don’t you try her now?”
“I don’t know that she’s in town, even,” little Barlow replied, “but if she is, I’ve nothing left to sell her, and I don’t know how to beg. If it were for anyone else, say Bolton or Sidney for instance, I might try to do it, but for myself, or you, or the little ones—who after all are part of me—I really couldn’t. I’m afraid I’ve too much pride left even yet!”
“Well,” said his wife, “if that is the only objection, I can suggest an ingenious course of action for you. An idea, which is nothing short of brilliant, has just occurred to me.Why don’t you ask her for the money as though it were for some one else?You can give her that impression easily without telling an untruth. You can say thatyou know a man—which you do, don’t you, you big goose?”—she rattled on, laughing heartily—“that you know a man who is in great trouble—which is again true, isn’t it? You can expatiate on the sad particulars of his case just as much as ever you please, in fact the more you do so the better. If this will save your pride and enable you to ask her for the money, I don’t think, all things considered, the deceit is an unpardonable one. We were given our wits by a kind Providence, and there’s no law that I know of—either in Heaven or Earth—against our using them on desperate occasions like this.”
Little Barlow, in spite of his sorry plight, joined his wife in a burst of laughter on the conclusion of her monologue and rolled over and over on the sofa in convulsions of irrepressible merriment.
“Yes,” continued his wife, laughing so that she could hardly speak, “let’s save our pride and try to get out of our difficulty at the same time. Mrs. Harvey thinks we are fairly well off, as we dress well, have rather a swell looking studio and apartment, and appear tolerably prosperous to the outside world, so she will never suspect she is assisting you, whom, I am sure, however, she would much rather help than a perfect stranger. However, to be doubly secure, we will start a subscription book for the unhappy mortal, whose name you must not disclose out of consideration for his sensitiveness, and I will put my name down at thevery top of the listfor sixty francs. You must also make Bolton and Sidney each write down their names and the amounts they have loaned you as if they were contributions.”
“You’re a genius,” said little Barlow admiringly, giving vent to a fresh burst of laughter, “and I’ll take your advice. It’s too bad we’re obliged to impose on the old lady’s credulity, but it won’t hurt her seriously, and it will save us all from certain ruin; besides, we can pay her back later when something lucky turns up.”
Accordingly, the next evening, little Barlow decked himself out very carefully in his best suit, pinned a gardenia in the lapel of his coat, and, looking exceedingly prosperous and handsome, called on Mrs. Harvey at the hotel Continental. He was fortunate enough to find her at home, and alone. He chatted with her pleasantly on all sorts of subjects, and finally leading the conversation ’round with considerable tact to the heart breaking case of THE MAN HE KNEW, surprised himself at the success of his hypocrisy.
He told the old lady the mostnavrantedetails of his situation, and so worked on her sympathies with the probabilities of the wife and babies becoming homeless, that she positively shed tears, and felt in her pocket for her purse; and when—judging the moment to be opportune—he showed her the subscription book, she tremulously wrote her name down for one hundred francs and paid him the money then and there.
He felt rather mean and uncomfortable in taking it, but it meant life and hope to him again, so he thanked her fervently for the MAN HE KNEW and, promising to give her news of him in the near future, somewhat abruptly took his departure.
His little wife was overjoyed at the success of her scheme; but they still lacked twelve francs. This sum they finally raised by pawning a silver belt-buckle, two broken scarf pins, and their four remaining coffee spoons, and little Barlow was able to pay the horrid frame-maker in full and tell him what he thought of him in perfect safety.
A fortnight later he received a check for £20 from the gentleman who had been off on the boating expedition, and about the same time he got word from Sir Garnet Walton that he could paint his portrait whenever he chose. So he returned Mrs. Harvey’s contribution, with the heartfelt gratitude of the MAN HE KNEW, and crossed the channel to a period of great triumph and prosperity. He not only painted the portrait of Sir Garnet Walton, but that of his mother, and his wife, and his little daughter, and several of his friends.
He is out of the gloomy woods of poverty at last, and his feet are firmly planted on the high road which leads to fame and fortune.Furthermore he has learned to smile at his past misery and even to forgive his short-sighted but benevolently inclined uncle for not alleviating it.
“I suppose, considering the trying situation, it was not inexcusably wicked to impose, as I did, on old Mrs. Harvey’s kindness,” he remarked one day to his wife; “but all the same it was steering rather too close to a confidence game to suit my conscience altogether. I didn’t like the business at all, but there are unfortunately many things in life which border on untruthfulness of action but which one is compelled to do nevertheless. This happened to be one of them.”
—John P. Rogers.