The art of the photographer usually arouses in me all that is splenetic, and I had not submitted myself to him for years before Dora made such a preposterous point of it—years in which, as I sadly explained to her, I might have submitted to the ordeal with much more ‘pleasing’ results. She had often insisted before, but I could never see that she made out a particularly good case for the operation until one afternoon when she showed me the bold counterfeit presentment of an Assistant Adjutant-General or some such person, much flattered as to features but singularly faithful in its reproduction of the straps and buttons attached. To my post also there belongs a uniform and a cocked hat sufficiently dramatic, but persons who serve the State primarily with the intelligence are supposed to have a mind above buttons; and when I decided that my photograph should compete with the Assistant Adjutant-General’s, I gave him every sartorial advantage. I gathered that the offer, cabinet size, of this gentleman had been a spontaneous one; that certainly could not be said of mine. Most unwillingly I turned one morning into Kauffer’s; and I can not now imagine why I did it, for emulation of the Assistant Adjutant-General was really not motive enough, unless it was with an instinct prepared to stumble upon matter germane in an absurd degree to this little history.
I had the honour to be subjected to the searching analysis of Mr. Kauffer himself. It was he who placed the chair and arranged the screw, he who fixed the angle of my chin and gently disposed my fingers on my knee. He gave me, I remember, a recent portrait of the Viceroy to fix my eye upon, doubtless with the purpose of inspiring my countenance with the devotion which would sit suitably upon one of His Excellency’s slaves, and when it was all over he conducted me into another apartment in order that I might see the very latest viceregal group—a domestic one, including the Staff. The walls of the room contained what is usually there, the enlarged photograph, the coloured photograph, the amateur theatrical group, the group of His Excellency’s Executive Council, the native dignitary with a diamond-tipped aigrette in the front of his turban. The copy in oils of some old Italian landscape, very black and yellow, also held its invariable place, and above it, very near the ceiling, a line of canvases which, had I not been led past them to inspect our ruler and his family, who sat transfixed on an easel in a resplendent frame, would probably have escaped my attention. I did proper homage to the easel, and then turned to those pictures. It was plain enough who had painted them. Armour’s broad brush stood out all over them. They were mostly Indian sporting subjects, the incident a trifle elliptical, the drawing unequal, but the verve and feeling unmistakeable, and colour to send a quiver of glorious acquiescence through you like a pang. What astonished me was the number of them; there must have been at least a dozen, all the same size and shape, all hanging in a line of dazzling repetition. Here then was the explanation of Armour’s seeming curious lack of output, and plain denial of the supposition that he spent the whole of his time in doing the little wooden ‘pochade’ things whose sweetness and delicacy had so feasted our eyes elsewhere. It was part, no doubt, of his absolutely uncommercial nature—we had experienced together passages of the keenest embarrassment over my purchase of some of his studies—that he had not mentioned these more serious things exposed at Kauffer’s; one had the feeling of coming unexpectedly on treasure left upon the wayside and forgotten.
‘Hullo!’ I said, at a standstill, ‘I see you’ve got some of Mr. Armour’s work there.’
Mr. Kauffer, with his hands behind him, made the sound which has its counterpart in a shrug. ‘Yass,’ he said, ‘I haf some of Mr. Armour’s work there. This one, that one, all those remaining pictures—they are all the work of Mr. Armour.’
‘I didn’t know that any of his things were to be seen outside his studio,’ I observed.
‘So? They are to be seen here. There is no objection.’
‘Why should there be any objection?’ I demanded, slightly nettled. ‘People must see them before they buy them.’
‘Buy them!’ Kauffer’s tone was distinctly exasperated. ‘Who will buy these pictures? Nobody. They are all, every one of them to REfuse.’
‘If you know Mr. Armour well enough,’ I said, ‘you should advise him to exhibit some of his local studies and sketches here. They might sell better.’
My words seemed unfortunately chosen. Mr. Kauffer turned an honest angry red.
‘Do I not know Mr. Armour well enough—und better!’ he exclaimed. ‘What this man wass doing when I in Paris find him oudt? Shtarving, mein Gott! I see his work. I see he paint a very goot horse, very goot animal subject. I bring him oudt on contract, five hundred rupees the monnth to paint for me, for my firm. Sir, it is now nine monnth. I am yoost four tousand five hundred rupees out of my pocket by this gentleman!’
To enable me to cope with this astonishing tale I asked Mr. Kauffer for a chair, which he obligingly gave me, and begged that he also would be seated. The files at my office were my business, and this was not, but no matter of Imperial concern seemed at the moment half so urgently to require probing. ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘that is an unusual piece of enterprise for a photographic firm to employ an artist to paint on a salary. I don’t know even a regular dealer who does it.’
Mr. Kauffer at once and frankly explained. It was unusual and entirely out of the regular line of business. It was, in fact, one of the exceptional forms of enterprise inspired in this country by the native prince. We who had to treat with the native prince solely on lofty political lines were hardly likely to remember how largely he bulked in the humbler relations of trade; but there was more than one Calcutta establishment, Mr. Kauffer declared, that would be obliged to put up its shutters without this inconstant and difficult, but liberal customer. I waited with impatience. I could not for the life of me see Armour’s connection with the native prince, who is seldom a patron of the arts for their own sakes.
‘Surely,’ I said, ‘you could not depend on the Indian nobility to buy landscapes. They never do. I know of only one distinguished exception, and he lives a thousand miles from here, in Bengal.’
‘No, not landscape,’ returned Mr. Kauffer; ‘but that Indian nobleman will buy his portrait. We send our own man—photographic artist—to his State, and he photograph the Chief and his arab, the Chief and his Prime Minister, the Chief in his durbar, palace, gardens, stables—everything. Presently the Chief goes on a big shoot. He says he will not have a plain photograph—besides, it is difficult. He will have a painting, and he will pay.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I begin to see.’
‘You see? Then I send this Armour. Look!’ Mr. Kauffer continued with rising excitement, baited apparently by the unfortunate canvas to which he pointed, ‘when Armour go to make that I say you go paint ze Maharajah of Gridigurh spearing ze wild pig. You see what he make?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it is a wonderfully spirited, dashing thing, and the treatment of all that cane-brake and jungle grass is superb.’
‘Ze treatment—pardon me, sir, I overboil—do you know which is ze Maharajah?’
‘I can’t say I do.’
‘Neider does he. Ze Maharajah refuse zat picture; he is a good fellow, too. He says it is a portrait of ze pig.’
‘But it is so good,’ I protested, ‘of the pig.’
‘But that does not interest the Maharajah, you onderstand, no. You see this one? Nawab of Kandore on his State elephant.’
No doubt about it,’ I said. ‘I know the Nawab well, the young scoundrel. How dignified he looks!’
There was a note of real sorrow in Kauffer’s voice. ‘Dignified? Oh, yes; dignified, but, you observe, also black. The Nawab will not be painted black. At once it is on my hands.’
‘But he is black,’ I remonstrated. ‘He’s the darkest native I’ve ever seen among the nobility.’
‘No matter for that. He will not be black. When I photograph that Nawab—any nawab—I do not him black make. But ziss ass of Armour—ach!’
It was a fascinating subject, and I could have pursued it all along the line of poor Armour’s rejected canvases, but the need to get away from Kauffer with his equal claim upon my sympathy was too great. To have cracked my solemn mask by a single smile would have been to break down irrepressibly, and never since I set foot in India had I felt a parallel desire to laugh and to weep. There was a pang in it which I recognize as impossible to convey, arising from the point of contact, almost unimaginable yet so clear before me, of the uncompromising ideals of the atelier and the naive demands of the Oriental, with an unhappy photographer caught between and wriggling. The situation was really monstrous, the fatuous rejection of all that fine scheming and exquisite manipulation, and it did not grow less so as Mr. Kauffer continued to unfold it. Armour had not, apparently, proceeded to the scene of his labours without instructions. In the pig-sticking delineation he had been specially told that the Maharajah and the pig were to be in the middle, with the rest nowhere and nothing between. Other injunctions were as clear, and as clearly disregarded. Armour, like the Maharajahs, had simply ‘REfuse’ to abandon his premeditated conceptions of how the thing should be done. And here was the result, for the laughter of the gods and anybody else that might see. I asked Kauffer unguardedly if no sort of pressure could be brought to bear upon these chaps to make them pay up. His face beaming with hope and intelligence, he suggested that I should approach the Foreign Office in his behalf; but this I could not quite see my way to. The coercion of native rulers, I explained, was a difficult and a dangerous art, and to insist, for example, that one of them should recognize his own complexion might be to run up a disproportionate little bill of our own. I did, however, compound something with Kauffer; I hope it wasn’t a felony. ‘Look here,’ I said to Kauffer, ‘this isn’t official, you know, in any way, but how would it do to write that scamp Kandore a formal letter regretting that the portrait does not suit him, and asking his permission to dispose of it to me? Of course it is yours to do as you like with already, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t ask. I should like it, but the Porcha tiger beat will do as well.’
Kauffer nearly fell upon my neck.
‘That Kandore will buy it to put in one bonfire first,’ he assured me, and I sincerely hoped for his sake that it would be the case.
‘Of course it’s understood,’ I bethought me to say, ‘that I get it, if I do get it, at Mr. Armour’s price. I’m not a Maharajah, you know, and it isn’t a portrait of me.’
‘Of course!’ said Kauffer, ‘but I sink I sell you that Porcha; it is ze best of ze two.’
I ventured for a few days to keep the light which chance had shed for me upon Armour’s affairs to myself. The whole thing considered in connection with his rare and delicate talent, seemed too derogatory and disastrous to impart without the sense of doing him some kind of injury in the mere statement. But there came a point when I could no longer listen to Dora Harris’s theories to account for him, wild idealizations as most of them were of any man’s circumstances and intentions. ‘Why don’t you ask him point-blank?’ I said, and she replied, frowning slightly, ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that. It would destroy something—I don’t know what, but something valuable—between us.’ This struck me as an exaggeration, considering how far, by that time, they must have progressed towards intimacy, and my mouth was opened. She heard me without the exclamations I expected, her head bent over the pencil she was sharpening, and her silence continued after I had finished. The touch of comedy I gave the whole thing—surely I was justified in that!—fell flat, and I extracted from her muteness a sense of rebuke; one would think I had been taking advantage of the poor devil.
At last, having broken the lead of her pencil three times, she turned a calm, considering eye upon me.
‘You have known this for a fortnight?’ she asked. ‘That doesn’t seem somehow quite fair.’
‘To whom?’ I asked, and her answer startled me.
‘To either of us,’ she said.
How she advised herself to that effect is more than I can imagine, but the print of her words is indelible, that is what she said.
‘Oh, confound it!’ I exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t help finding out, you know.’
‘But you could help keeping it to yourself in that—in that base way,’ she replied, and almost—the evening light was beginning to glimmer uncertainly through the deodars—I could swear I saw the flash of a tear on her eyelid.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she went on a moment later, ‘but I do hate having to pity him. It’s intolerable—that.’
I picked up a dainty edition of Aucassin and Nicolette with the intention of getting upon ground less emotional, and observed on the flyleaf ‘D.H. from I.A. In memory of the Hill of Stars.’ I looked appreciatively at the binding, and as soon as possible put it down.
‘He was not bound to tell me,’ Dora asserted presently, in reply to my statement that the mare had somehow picked up a nail in the stable, and was laid up.
‘You have been very good to him,’ I said. ‘I think he was.’
‘His reticence was due,’ she continued, as if defying contradiction, ‘to a simple dislike to bore one with his personal affairs.’
‘Was it?’ I assented. My tone acknowledged with all humility that she was likely to know, and I did not deserve her doubtful glance.
‘He could not certainly,’ she went on, with firmer decision, ‘have been in the least ashamed of his connection with Kauffer.’
‘He comes from a country where social distinctions are less sharp than they are in this idiotic place,’ I observed.
‘Oh, if you think it is from any lack of recognition! His sensitiveness is beyond reason. He has met two or three men in the Military Department here—he was aware of the nicest shade of their patronage. But he does not care. To him life is more than a clerkship. He sees all round people like that. They are only figures in the landscape.’
‘Then,’ I said, ‘he is not at all concerned that nobody in this Capua of ours knows him, or cares anything about him, or has bought a scrap of his work, except our two selves.’
‘That’s a different matter. I have tried to rouse in him the feeling that it would be as well to be appreciated, even in Simla, and I think I’ve succeeded. He said, after those two men had gone away on Sunday, that he thought a certain reputation in the place where he lived would help anybody in his work.’
‘On Sunday? Do you mean between twelve and two?’
‘Yes, he came and made a formal call. There was no reason why he shouldn’t.’
‘Now that I think of it,’ I rejoined, ‘he shot a card on me too, at the Club. I was a little surprised. We didn’t seem somehow to be on those terms. One doesn’t readily associate him with any conventionality.’
‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t,’ said Dora again, and with this vague comment we spoke of something else, both of us, I think, a little disquieted and dissatisfied that he had.
‘I think,’ Dora said as I went away, ‘that you had better go up to the studio and tell him what you have told me. Perhaps it doesn’t matter much, but I can’t bear the thought of his not knowing.’
‘Come to Kauffer’s in the morning and see the pictures,’ I urged; but she turned away, ‘Oh, not with you.’
I found my way almost at once to Amy Villa, not only because I had been told to go there. I wanted, myself, certain satisfactions. Armour was alone and smoking, but I had come prepared against the contingency of one of his cigars. They were the cigars of the man who doesn’t know what he eats. With sociable promptness I lighted one of my own. The little enclosed veranda testified to a wave of fresh activity. The north light streamed in upon two or three fresh canvases, the place seemed full of enthusiasm, and you could see its source, at present quiescent under the influence of tobacco, in Armour’s face.
‘You have taken a new line,’ I said, pointing to a file of camels, still half obscured by the dust of the day, coming along a mountain road under a dim moon. They might have been walking through time and through history. It was a queer, simple thing, with a world of early Aryanism in it.
‘Does that say anything? I’m glad. It was to me articulate, but I didn’t know. Oh, things have been going well with me lately. Those two studies over there simply did themselves. That camp scene on the left is almost a picture. I think I’ll put a little more work on it and give it a chance in Paris. I got in once, you know. Champ de Mars. With some horses.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ I said. ‘Capital.’ I asked him if he didn’t atrociously miss the life of the Quarter, and he surprised me by saying that he never had lived it. He had been en pension instead with a dear old professor of chemistry and his family at Puteaux, and used to go in and out. A smile came into his eyes at the remembrance, and he told me one after the other idyllic little stories of the old professor and madame. Madame and the omelet—madame and the melon—M. Vibois and the maire; I sat charmed. So long as we remained in France his humour was like this, delicate and expansive, but an accidental allusion led us across the Channel when he changed. He had no little stories of the time he spent in England. Instead he let himself go in generalizations, aimed, for they had a distinct animus, at English institutions and character, particularly as these appear in English society. I could not believe, from the little I had seen of him, that his experience of English society of any degree had been intimate; what he said had the flavour of Radical Sunday papers. The only original element was the feeling behind, which was plainly part of him; speculation instantly clamoured as to how far this was purely temperamental and how far the result of painful contact. He himself, he said, though later of the Western States, had been born under the British flag of British parents—though his mother was an Irishwoman she came from loyal Ulster—and he repeated the statement as if it in some way justified his attitude towards his fellow countrymen and excused his truculence in the ear of a servant of the empire which he had the humour to abuse. I heard him, I confess, with impatience, it was all so shabby and shallow, but I heard him out, and I was rewarded; he came for an illustration in the end to Simla. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘at what they call their “Government House list”; and look at Strobo, Signor Strobo. Isn’t Strobo a man of intelligence, isn’t he a man of benevolence? He gave ten thousand rupees last week to the famine fund. Is Strobo on Government House list? Is he ever invited to dine with the Viceroy? No, because Strobo keeps a hotel! Look at Rosario—where does Rosario come in? Nowhere, because Rosario is a clerk, and a subordinate. Yet Rosario is a man of wide reading and a very accomplished fellow!’
It became more or less necessary to argue then, and the commonplaces with which I opposed him called forth a wealth of detail bearing most picturesquely upon his stay among us. I began to think he had never hated English rigidity and English snobbery until he came to Simla, and that he and Strobo and Rosario had mingled their experiences in one bitter cup. I gathered this by inference only, he was curiously watchful and reticent as to anything that had happened to him personally; indeed, he was careful to aver preferences for the society of ‘sincere’ people like Strobo and Rosario, that seemed to declare him more than indifferent to circles in which he would not meet them. In the end our argument left me ridiculously irritated—it was simply distressing to see the platform from which he obtained so wide and exquisite a view of the world upheld by such flimsy pillars—and my nerves were not soothed by his proposal to walk with me to the Club. I could hardly refuse it, however, and he came along in excellent spirits, having effected the demolition of British social ideals, root and branch. His mongrel dog accompanied, keeping offensively near our heels. It was not even an honest pi, but a dog of tawdry pretensions with a banner-like tail dishonestly got from a spaniel. On one occasion I very nearly kicked the dog.
‘The fact is,’ I said to Dora as we rode down to the gymkhana, ‘his personality takes possession of one. I constantly go to that little hut of his with intentions, benevolent or otherwise, which I never carry out.’
‘You mean,’ she answered, ‘that you completely forgot to reveal to him your hateful knowledge about Kauffer.’
‘On the contrary, I didn’t forget it for a moment. But the conversation took a turn that made it quite impossible to mention.’
‘I can understand,’ Miss Harris replied softly, ‘how that might be. And it doesn’t in the least matter,’ she went on triumphantly, ‘because I’ve told him myself.’
My nerves must have been a trifle strung up at the time, for this struck me as a matter for offense. ‘You thought I would trample upon him,’ I exclaimed.
‘No, no really. I disliked his not knowing it was known—rien de plus,’ she said lightly.
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, not much. What should he say?’
‘He might have expressed a decent regret on poor Kauffer’s account,’ I growled. Dora did not reply, and a glance showed her frowning.
‘I believe he apologized!’ I cried, pushing, as it were, my advantage.
‘He explained.’
‘Oh!’
‘Of course he hasn’t relished the position, and of course he didn’t realize it before he came. Shall we trot?’
I was compelled to negative the idea of trotting, since we were descending quite the steepest pitch of the road down to Annandale. We went on at a walk, and it occurred to me, as my contemplative gaze fell on my own pig-skins, that we were, even for Simla, an uncommonly well-turned-out pair. I had helped to pick Dora’s hack, and I allowed myself to reflect that he did my judgment credit. She sat him perfectly in her wrath—she was plainly angry—not a hair out of place. Why is it that a lady out of temper with her escort always walks away from him? Is her horse sympathetic? Ronald, at all events, was leading by a couple of yards, when suddenly he shied, bounding well across the road.
The mare, whose manners I can always answer for, simply stopped and looked haughtily about for explanations. A path dropped into the road from the hillside; something came scrambling and stumbling down.
‘Oh!’ cried Dora, as it emerged and was Armour on his much enduring white pony, ‘how you frightened us!’
‘Why don’t you stick to the road, man?’ I exclaimed. ‘It isn’t usual to put ponies up and down these coolie tracks!’
He took no notice of this rather broad hint that I was annoyed, but fixed his eager, light, luminous eyes upon Dora.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and added, ‘I did not expect to see you today!’
‘Not till tomorrow,’ she returned. ‘You remember that we are sketching tomorrow?’
He looked at her and smiled slightly; and then I remember noticing that his full, arched upper lip seldom quite met its counterpart over his teeth. This gave an unpremeditated casual effect to everything he found to say, and made him look a dreamer at his busiest. His smile was at the folly of her reminder.
‘I’ve just been looking for something that you would like,’ he said, ‘but it isn’t much good hunting about alone. I see five times as much when we go together.’
He and his pony barred the way; he had an air of leisure and of felicity; one would think we had met at an afternoon party.
‘We are on our way,’ I explained, ‘to the gymkhana. Miss Harris is in one of the events. You did enter for the needle-threading race, didn’t you, with Lord Arthur? I think we must get on.’
A slow, dull red mounted to Armour’s face and seemed to put out that curious light in his eyes.
‘Is it far?’ he asked, glancing down over the tree-tops. ‘I’ve never been there.’
‘Why,’ cried Dora, suddenly, ‘you’ve been down!’
‘So you have,’ I confirmed her. ‘Your beast is damaged too.’
‘Oh, it was only a stumble,’ Armour replied; ‘I stuck on all right.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘you had better get off now, as you didn’t then, and look at your animal’s near fore. The swelling’s as big as a bun already.’
Again he made me no answer, but looked intently and questioningly at Dora.
‘Get off, Mr. Armour,’ she said, sharply, ‘and lead your horse home. It is not fit to be ridden. Goodbye.’
I have no doubt he did it, but neither of us were inclined to look back to see. We pushed on under the deodars, and I was indulgent to a trot. At the end of it Dora remarked that Mr. Armour naturally could not be expected to know anything about riding, it was very plucky of him to get on a horse at all, among these precipices; and I of course agreed.
Lord Arthur was waiting when we arrived, on his chestnut polo pony, but Dora immediately scratched for the brilliant event in which they were paired. Ronald, she said, was simply cooked with the heat. Ronald had come every yard of the way on his toes and was fit for anything, but Lord Arthur did not insist. There were young ladies in Simla, I am glad to say, who appealed more vividly to his imagination than Dora Harris did, and one of them speedily replaced her, a fresh-coloured young Amazon who was staying at the Chief’s. She wandered about restlessly over the dry turf for a few minutes, and then went and sat down in a corner of the little wooden Grand Stand and sent me for a cup of tea.
‘Won’t you come to the tent?’ I asked a little ruefully, eyeing the distance and the possible collisions between, but she shook her head.
‘I simply couldn’t bear it,’ she said, and I went feeling somehow chastened myself by the cloud that was upon her spirit.
I found her on my return regarding the scene with a more than usually critical eye, and a more than usually turned down lip. Yet it was exactly the scene it always was, and always, probably, will be. I sat down beside her and regarded it also, but more charitably than usual. Perhaps it was rather trivial, just a lot of pretty dresses and excited young men in white riding-breeches doing foolish things on ponies in the shortest possible time, with one little crowd about the Club’s refreshment tent and another about the Staff’s, while the hills sat round in an indifferent circle; but it appealed to me with a kind of family feeling that afternoon, and inspired me with tolerance, even benevolence.
‘After all,’ I said, ‘it’s mainly youth and high spirits—two good things. And one knows them all.’
‘And who are they to know?’ complained Dora.
‘Just decent young Englishmen and Englishwomen, out here on their country’s business,’ I replied cheerfully; ‘with the marks of Oxford and Cambridge and Sandhurst and Woolwich on the men. Well-set-up youngsters, who know what to do and how to do it. Oh, I like the breed!’
‘I wonder,’ said she, in a tone of preposterous melancholy, ‘if eventually I have to marry one of them.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said. She looked at me with interest, as if I had contributed importantly to the matter in hand, and resumed tapping her boot with her riding-crop. We talked of indifferent things and had long lapses. At the close of one effort Dora threw herself back with a deep, tumultuous sigh. ‘The poverty of this little wretched resort ties up one’s tongue!’ she cried. ‘It is the bottom of the cup; here one gets the very dregs of Simla’s commonplace. Let us climb out of it.’
I thought for a moment that Ronald had been too much for her nerves coming down, and offered to change saddles, but she would not. We took it out of the horses all along the first upward slopes, and as we pulled in to breathe them she turned to me paler than ever.
‘I feel better now,’ she said.
For myself I had got rid of Armour for the afternoon. I think my irritation with him about his pony rose and delivered me from the too insistent thought of him. With Dora it was otherwise; she had dismissed him; but he had never left her for a moment the whole long afternoon.
She flung a searching look at me. With a reckless turn of her head, she said, ‘Why didn’t we take him with us?’
‘Did we want him?’ I asked.
‘I think I always want him.’
‘Ah!’ said I, and would have pondered this statement at some length in silence, but that she plainly did not wish me to do so.
‘We might perfectly well have sent his pony home with one of our own servants—he would have been delighted to walk down.’
‘He wasn’t in proper kit,’ I remonstrated.
‘Oh, I wish you would speak to him about that. Make him get some tennis-flannels and riding-things.’
‘Do you propose to get him asked to places?’ I inquired.
She gave me a charmingly unguarded smile. ‘I propose to induce you to do so. I have done what I could. He has dined with us several times, and met a few people who would, I thought, be kind to him.’
‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘I have had him at the Club too, with old Lamb and Colonel Hamilton. He made us all miserable with his shyness. Don’t ask me to do it again, please.’
‘I’ve sent him to call on certain people,’ Dora continued, ‘and I’ve shown his pictures to everybody, and praised him and talked about him, but I can’t go on doing that indefinitely, can I?’
‘No,’ I said; ‘people might misunderstand.’
‘I don’t think they would MISunderstand,’ replied this astonishing girl, without flinching. She even sought my eyes to show me that hers were clear and full of purpose.
‘Good God!’ I said to myself, but the words that fell from me were, ‘He is outside all that life.’
‘What is the use of living a life that he is outside of?’
‘Oh, if you put it that way,’ I said, and set my teeth, ‘I will do what I can.’
She held out her hand with an affectionate gesture, and I was reluctantly compelled to press it.
The horses broke into a trot, and we talked no more of Armour, or of anything, until Ted Harris joined us on the Mall.
I have rendered this conversation with Dora in detail because subsequent events depend so closely upon it. Some may not agree that it was basis enough for the action I thought well to take; I can only say that it was all I was ever able to obtain. Dora was always particularly civil and grateful about my efforts, but she gave me only one more glimpse, and that enigmatic, of any special reason why they should be made. Perhaps this was more than compensated for by the abounding views I had of the situation as it lay with Ingersoll Armour, but of that, other persons, approaching the subject without prejudice, will doubtless judge better than I.
It was better not to inquire, so I never knew to what extent Kauffer worked upon the vanity of ancient houses the sinful dodge I suggested to him; but I heard before long that the line of Armour’s rejected efforts had been considerably diminished. Armour told me himself that Kauffer’s attitude had become almost conciliatory, that Kauffer had even hinted at the acceptance of, and adhesion to, certain principles which he would lay down as the basis of another year’s contract. In talking to me about it, Armour dwelt on these absurd stipulations only as the reason why any idea of renewal was impossible. It was his proud theory with me that to work for a photographer was just as dignified as to produce under any other conditions, provided you did not stoop to ideals which for lack of a better word might be called photographic. How he represented it to Dora, or permitted Dora to represent it to him, I am not so certain—I imagine there may have been admissions and qualifications. Be that as it may, however, the fact was imperative that only three months of the hated bond remained, and that some working substitute for the hated bond would have to be discovered at their expiration. Simla, in short, must be made to buy Armour’s pictures, to appreciate them, if the days of miracle were not entirely past, but to buy them any way. On one or two occasions I had already made Simla buy things. I had cleared out young Ludlow’s stables for him in a week—he had a string of ten—when he played polo in a straw hat and had to go home with sunstroke; and I once auctioned off all the property costumes of the Amateur Dramatic Society at astonishing prices. Pictures presented difficulties which I have hinted at in an earlier chapter, but I did not despair. I began by hauling old Lamb, puffing and blowing like a grampus, up to Amy Villa, filling him up all the way with denunciations of Simla’s philistinism and suggestions that he alone redeemed it.
It is a thing I am ashamed to think of, and it deserved its reward.
Lamb criticized and patronized every blessed thing he saw, advised Armour to beware of mannerisms and to be a little less liberal with his colour, and heard absolutely unmoved of the horses Armour had got into the Salon. ‘I understand,’ he said, with a benevolent wink, ‘that about four thousand pictures are hung every year at the Salon, and I don’t know how many thousand are rejected. Let Mr. Armour get a picture accepted by the Academy. Then he will have something to talk about.’
Neither did Sir William Lamb buy anything at all.
The experiment with Lady Pilkey was even more distressing. She gushed with fair appropriateness and great liberality, and finally fixed upon one scene to make her own. She winningly asked the price of it. She had never known anybody who did not understand prices. Poor Armour, the colour of a live coal, named one hundred rupees.
‘One hundred rupees! Oh, my dear boy, I can never afford that! You must, you must really give it to me for seventy-five. It will break my heart if I can’t have it for seventy-five.’
‘Give me the pleasure,’ said Armour, ‘of making you a present of it. You have been so kind about everything, and it’s so seldom one meets anybody who really cares. So let me send it to you.’ It was honest embarrassment; he did not mean to be impertinent.
And she did.
Blum, of the Geological Department—Herr Blum in his own country—came up and honestly rejoiced, and at end of an interminable pipe did purchase a little Breton bit that I hated to see go—it was one of the things that gave the place its air; but Blum had a large family undergoing education at Heidelberg, and exclaimed, to Armour’s keenest anguish, that on this account he could not more do.
Altogether, during the months of August and September, persons resident in Simla drawing their income from Her Majesty, bought from the eccentric young artist from nowhere, living on Summer Hill, canvases and little wooden panels to the extent of two hundred and fifty rupees. Lady Pilkey had asked him to lunch—she might well! and he had appeared at three garden-parties and a picnic. It was not enough.
It was not enough, and yet it was, in a manner, too much. Pitiful as it was in substance, it had an extraordinary personal effect. Armour suddenly began to turn himself out well—his apparel was of smarter cut than mine, and his neckties in better taste. Little elegances appeared in the studio—he offered you Scotch in a Venetian decanter and Melachrinos from a chased silver box. The farouche element faded out of his speech; his ideas remained as fresh and as simple as ever, but he gave them a form, bless me! that might have been used at the Club. He worked as hard as ever, but more variously; he tried his hand at several new things. He said he was feeling about for something that would really make his reputation.
In spite of all this his little measure of success made him more contemptuous than before of its scene and its elements. He declared that he had a poorer idea than ever of society now that he saw the pattern from the smart side. That his convictions on this head survived one of the best Simla tailors shows that they must always have been strong. I think he believed that he was doing all that he did do to make himself socially possible with the purpose of pleasing Dora Harris. I would not now venture to say how far Dora inspired and controlled him in this direction, and how far the impulse was his own. The measure of appreciation that began to seek his pictures, poor and small though it was, gave him, on the other hand, the most unalloyed delight. He talked of the advice of Sir William Lamb as if it were anything but that of a pompous old ass, and he made a feast with champagne for Blum that must have cost him quite as much as Blum paid for the Breton sketch. He confirmed my guess that he had never in his life until he came to Simla sold anything, so that even these small transactions were great things to him, and the earnest of a future upon which he covered his eyes not to gaze too raptly. He mentioned to me that Kauffer had been asked for his address—who could it possibly be?—and looked so damped by my humourous suggestion that it was a friend of Kauffer’s in some other line who wanted a bill paid, that I felt I had been guilty of brutality. And all the while the quality of his wonderful output never changed or abated. Pure and firm and prismatic it remained. I found him one day at the very end of October, with shining eyes and fingers blue with cold, putting the last of the afternoon light on the snows into one of the most dramatic hill pictures I ever knew him to do. He seemed intoxicated with his skill, and hummed the ‘Marseillaise,’ I remember, all the way to Amy Villa whither I accompanied him.
It was the last day of Kauffer’s contract; and besides, all the world, secretaries, establishments, hill captains, grass widows, shops, and sundries, was trundling down the hill. I came to ask my young friend what he meant to do.
‘Do?’ he cried. ‘Why, eat, drink, and be merry! Kauffer has paid up, and his yoke is at the bottom of the sea. Come back and dine with me!’
The hour we spent together in his little inner room before dinner was served stands out among my strangest, loveliest memories of Armour. He was divinely caught up, and absurd as it is to write, he seemed to carry me with him. We drank each a glass of vermouth before dinner sitting over a scented fire of deodar branches, while outside the little window in front of me the lifted lines of the great empty Himalayan landscape faded and fell into a blur. I remembered the solitary scarlet dahlia that stood between us and the vast cold hills and held its colour when all was grey but that. The hill world waited for the winter; down a far valley we could hear a barking deer. Armour talked slowly, often hesitating for a word, of the joy there was in beauty and the divinity in the man who saw it with his own eyes. I have read notable pages that brought conviction pale beside that which stole about the room from what he said. The comment may seem fantastic, but it is a comment—I caressed the dog. The servant clattered in with the plates, and at a shout outside Armour left me. He came in radiant with Signor Strobo, also radiant and carrying a violin, for hotel-keeping was not the Signor’s only accomplishment. I knew Strobo well; many a special dish had he ordered for my little parties; and we met at Armour’s fireside like the genial old acquaintances we were. Another voice without and presently I was nodding to Rosario and vaguely wondering why he looked uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Armour, as we sat down, ‘I’ve got nothing but beer. If I had known you were all coming, no vintage that crawls up the hill would have been good enough for me.’ He threw the bond of his wonderful smile round us as we swallowed his stuff, and our hearts were lightened. ‘You fellows,’ he went on nodding at the other two, ‘might happen any day, but my friend John Philips comes to me across aerial spaces; he is a star I’ve trapped—you don’t do that often. Pilsener, John Philips, or Black?’ He was helping his only servant by pouring out the beer himself, and as I declared for Black he slapped me affectionately on the back and said my choice was good.
The last person who had slapped me on the back was Lord Dufferin, and I smiled softly and privately at the remembrance, and what a difference there was. I had resented Dufferin’s slap.
We had spiced hump and jungle-fowl and a Normandy cheese, everybody will understand that; but how shall I make plain with what exultation and simplicity we ate and drank, how the four candid selves of us sat around the table in a cloud of tobacco and cheered each other on, Armour always far in front turning handsprings as he went. Scraps come back to me, but the whole queer night has receded and taken its place among those dreams that insist at times upon having been realities. Rosario told us stories Kipling might have coveted of the under life of Port Said. Strobo talked with glorious gusto of his uncle the brigand. They were liberated men; we were all liberated men. ‘Let the direction go,’ cried Armour, ‘and give the senses flight, taking the image as it comes, beating the air with happy pinions.’ He must have been talking of his work, but I can not now remember. And what made Strobo say, of life and art, ‘I have waited for ten years and five thousand pounds—now my old violin says, “Go, handle the ladle! Go, add up the account!”’ And did we really discuss the chances of ultimate salvation for souls in the Secretariat? I know I lifted my glass once and cried, ‘I, a slave, drink to freedom!’ and Rosario clinked with me. And Strobo played wailing Hungarian airs with sudden little shakes of hopeless laughter in them. I can not even now hear Naches without being filled with the recollection of how certain bare branches in me that night blossomed.
I walked alone down the hill and along the three miles to the Club, and at every step the tide sank in me till it cast me on my threshold at three in the morning, just the middle-aged shell of a Secretary to the Government of India that I was when I set forth. Next day when my head clerk brought me the files we avoided one another’s glances; and it was quite three weeks before I could bring myself to address him with the dignity and distance prescribed for his station as ‘Mr.’ Rosario.