CHAPTER XLIV
Wherein a Palace of Art disappears in the Night
Bartholomew Doome’sgreat studio was in a haze with the smoking of much tobacco; and it were almost as though the lolling figures had smoked in church.
The tapestried walls showed sombrely rich, their glowing colour only half revealed by the ghostly light of the huge white candles that flamed on high, held aloft by great gilt candlesticks the heavily wrought feet of which stood reflected on the dark-stained floor. And the handsome sheaves of crystal lustres that hung from the ceiling glittered and sparkled aloft like hundreds of precious gems.
The beautiful image of the Mary and the spangled ikons of the Russian Church, which stood on the suavely carved mantel, flanked by the pastel of a ballet-girl by Degas, and a frail nude beauty by Manet, gleamed mysterious—religious.
Before the mantel, on huge iron dogs, was set a scarlet coffin.
On the scarlet coffin sat Bartholomew Doome.
About the room, seated at tables, young fellows were bawling a drinking chorus.
Before Doome stood the weak-kneed figure of the bailiff, gorgeous in an ill-fitting livery that was a world too capacious for his meagre body.
As the drunken fellow held the tankard of beer aloft he made a supreme effort to take a last high note—his voice cracked—he spilled the liquor on his upraised face, spluttered, coughed, tripped over his own feet, and fell—amidst a shout of laughter and loud cries of “Encore” from the assembled throng.
Rippley and Fluffy Reubens carried the fallen man to a sofa and laid him upon it.
There was a lull in the riot; and in the lull there arose from his chair, unsteadily, the figure of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, rather the worse for drink. Holding a glass in his hand, he straddled over to Doome, where he sat on the scarlet coffin, and he uttered a silly laugh as he brought his vague legs to an unsteady halt.
“Hullo, Ffolliott!” cried Doome. “What is it?”
Ffolliott blew through dry red lips:
“Civilization,” said he, with a racking hiccup—“civilization (hiccup) has its drawbacks.”
“Yes, Ffolliott.” Doome laughed. “Civilization has its drawbacks—there is the hand mirror.”
Ffolliott came nearer, and, disregarding the insinuation, added with drunken confidence:
“D’you know, Doome—you don’t mind my saying so—but I believe you’re engaged.”
“Nonsense, Ffolliott!”
Doome got up from his grim bench and slapped the weak-limbed exquisite a sounding thump on the narrow shoulders with heavy jocular hand’s buffet, so that he spilled the liquor down the front of him.
Ffolliott, when he had wiped himself dry with dandified handkerchief, said:
“Oh—it’s no use your pretending to be so colossally gay, you know. I always notice that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself (hiccup) about a woman (hiccup) he becomes austere—morally austere.”
“Hiccup!” said Rippley; and there was loud applause at the tables.
Doome laughed:
“You were always a comic ass, Ffolliott,” said he—“but when did you degenerate into a philosopher?”
“Oh, yes—get me off the rails, of course! But I always notice that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself about a woman (hiccup)—fool enough, I mean, to become engaged—he becomes mollar’ly (hic)—mollarly austere.”
“Oh, damn!” said Doome.
Ffolliott raised drunken eyelids:
“But saying damn can go with great moral austerity.” He paused and uttered a giggle. “That’s an epigram, I think,” he said.
“What on earth are you jabbering about, Ffolliott?”
Ffolliott stuck to his theme with drunken persistence.
“A fellow who is engaged doesn’t seem to laugh at the same places in thecomedy of lifethat he laughs at before he is engaged.”
“Get on, Ffolliott—get on. You talk like Euclid trying to invent a comic song.”
Ffolliott blinked:
“I’ve always noticed,” said he—“that a fellow does not become really austere until he is engaged....” He sighed heavily. “I know such a good chap, who’s become engaged. He used to read thePink Un; but now he readsThe Descent of Man.”
“Shush!” said Doome impatiently.
Ffolliott giggled:
“D’you know,” said he—“I started to tell him such a comic story to-day—by George, I’ll tell it toyou,” he tittered. “You know how ridiculous a woman with a pronounced nose looks in a bathing-dress! Well. But—perhaps I’d better not tell you—I’msureyou’re engaged——”
Doome slapped the narrow shoulders again with jovial hand, and sent more liquor flying down Ffolliott’s trousers:
“By Hermes, you are a clever fellow, Ffolliott,” said he.
“Oh, no—not always,” bleated the affected voice of Ffolliott—“I’mrather deliriously clever at times—in a flukey sort of way. I don’t mean to be. It’s hereditary. My mother’s uncle was a rural dean, you know, and——”
“But why do you wear an eyeglass?”
Ffolliott simpered:
“Foljambe of Baliol was the most pronounced man at the ’varsity; he is the most pronounced man at the bar—and Foljambe wears an eyeglass.”
“Doeshe?”
“Rather,” bleated Ffolliott. “And though, between you and me (hiccup), Foljambe’s a conceited ass, he is rather a remarkable ass; and I don’t know whether you have noticed it (hiccup), but in these days it takes rather a clever fellow to be aremarkableass.”
Doome smote Ffolliott a rollicking buffet, that sent more liquor down his trousers:
“By the Greek gods,” cried Doome, “we are having a roaring evening, eh? Hang me, we are only bachelors once—so we’ll make gay whilst the moon shines. Damn it, you shall sing.”
“Oh, yes; I’ll sing. I can’t—but I will——”
Fluffy Reubens came up and pushed Ffolliott aside roughly:
“Hist!” said he—“Doome, the bailiff’s asleep....” He turned round and called in a loud whisper: “Rippley!”
“’Ullo!”
“Have you got the furniture vans all ready?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“In my studio,” said Rippley. “I hope to Jupiter the horses haven’t knocked the stuffing out of my stattoos. I tipped the men to stay all night.”
“Splendid! Get ’em round, Rip, quick—by the back way, and into the court here—the door of the dressing-room opens into the court, and was made for taking big pictures through. There’s not a moment to lose.”
Rippley hurried out of the room.
“Quick, boys—one of you lock the hall door after Rippley!” cried Fluffy Reubens hoarsely; “we’ve got to pack out the whole parcel of toys in a couple of hours.”
He flung off his coat, and began to roll up a great Persian carpet.
In the early morning, the sleeping bailiff was roused by a rude hand upon his shoulders.
“Get up!” said a rough voice.
He sat up, untidy, frowsy, weak-eyed, snuffling and grumbling in the ridiculous gorgeousness of the ill-fitting livery.
He rubbed his eyes:
“God!” said he hoarsely.
His jaw dropped; and he stared miserably round the room.
Before him stood the vulgar overdressed figure of Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup, with his choleric eyes fixed upon him, bullock-like, bloodshot:
“You blighter!” said Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup.
The miserable man rubbed his drowsy eyes—he rubbed them again. His mouth was too dry to utter speech.
He was sitting on the top of a scarlet coffin, that stood on two chairs; and, with the solitary exception of these things, the room was wholly empty of furnishment.
He burst into tears.
“You bleating idiot!” The vulgar dealer’s eyes snapped contempt. “The house is empty as a money-lender’s unwritten promise. They loaded the vans in the night; and you slept through it all!... Get your legs out o’ the light!”
He struck the lean shins with his cane.
The poor abject fellow cried out, and, rising, like a whipped cur he slunk across the room, buried his face in his arm, and sobbed against the wall.
The bloodshot eyes of the company-promoter, as he stooped down putting his thick hands on his great fat thighs, peered at the white paint on the side of the scarlet coffin; there had been no haste, every letter was balanced and well-drawn, and the whole phrase told decoratively on the scarlet lacquer:Art in England is dead, it said.Try France.
The little fat man laughed harshly. He shook his head:
“I don’t know how the Beelzebub I shall break this musical comedy to Samuel.... Overreached in my own business and by a Christian!”
He walked gloomily out of the place.
******
After the irate dealer had departed, his miserable bailiff ceased his sobbing against the wall, took off the gorgeous coat, and staunched his tears on the sleeve of his tattered shirt. He was a broken figure of dejection—blear-eyed, weak-kneed, ragged, snuffling.
He changed into his old clothes, went and seated himself on the scarlet coffin, and crouched there, a woe-begone wonderer in despair.
He burst into tears.
He put his grimy hand into the side-pocket of his greasy coat for a handkerchief—it struck against a sheet of paper.
He blew his nose on a rag, soiled to mud-colour, unfolded the paper, and read it:
“If you should be dismissed from employment, communicate with Sir Pompey Malahide’s butler, who will see to it that you do not suffer. Don’t forget to call him my lord. Ecod, you sang like a damned canary.”
“If you should be dismissed from employment, communicate with Sir Pompey Malahide’s butler, who will see to it that you do not suffer. Don’t forget to call him my lord. Ecod, you sang like a damned canary.”