"You must have thought me rather a slacker sometimes," he said. "But really there wasn't anything to urge a fellow on at home. Perhaps [197]I'll tumble into my own niche5 some day. Who knows? Would you be glad, Lorraine, if you saw me doing decently?"
"Glad? Of course I should!"
"I didn't know whether you'd worry your head one way or another about it, or care twopence whether I went to the dogs or not!"
"Don't be silly! You're not going to the dogs."
"I might—if nobody was sufficiently6 interested in me to mind."
"Heaps of people are interested!"
"One doesn't want people in heaps—I prefer interest singly. By the by, if you've any time to spare, you might write to a fellow now and again. I'll want letters in camp."
"Just to remind me of home."
"Morland! I believe you've got home-sickness as badly as Claudia. You'll be back at Porthkeverne before long, unless I'm greatly mistaken!"
"With my first leave, certainly," twinkled Morland.
As the weeks passed by in April, the artistic8 world of Porthkeverne reached a high pitch of anticipation9 and excitement. Practically every painter there had submitted something to the Academy, and the burning question was which among them would be lucky enough to have their work accepted. They looked out eagerly for the post, awaiting either a welcome varnishing10 ticket [198]or a printed notice regretting that for lack of space their contributions could not be included in the exhibition, and requesting them to remove their pictures as speedily as possible.
In the studio down by the harbour expectation ran rife11. Margaret Lindsay had finished her painting of "Kilmeny"—if not altogether to her own satisfaction, at any rate to that of most of her friends—and had dispatched it to the Academy.
"I don't believe for a moment that it will get in," she assured Lorraine. "I never seem to have any luck, somehow. I'm not a lucky person."
"Perhaps you will have this time," said Lorraine, who was washing out oil paint brushes for her friend, a messy task which she sometimes undertook. "Let's will that you shall be accepted. You shall be!"
"All the 'willing' in the world won't do the deed if the judges 'will' the other way, and their will tugs12 harder than ours!" laughed Margaret. "It depends so much on the taste of the judges. There's a fashion in pictures as in other things, and it's constantly changing."
"Is there? Why?"
"That I can't tell you, except that people tire of one style and like another. First the classical school was the favourite, then pre-Raphaelitism had its innings, then impressionism came up. Each period in painting is generally boomed by some celebrated13 art critic who deprecates the old-fashioned methods and cracks up the new. The public are rather like sheep. They buy what the critics [199]tell them to admire. Punch had a delightful14 skit15 on that once. Ruskin had been pitching into the commonplace artist's style of picture rather freely, so Punch evolved a dejected brother of the brush giving vent1 to this despairing wail16:
'I takes and paints,
Hears no complaints,
And sells before I'm dry;
And nobody will buy!'"
"I love Punch!" cackled Lorraine, drying the brushes on a clean paint-rag. "Tell me some more artistic titbits."
"Do you know the one about the old lady in the train who overheard the two artists talking? One said to the other:
"'Anything doing in children nowadays?'
"And his friend answered: 'A feller I know knocked off seven little girls' heads—nasty raw things they were too!—and a chap came in and carried them off just as they were—wet on the stretcher—and said he could do with a few more.'
"The poor old lady, who knew nothing of artists' lingo19, imagined that she had surprised details of a ghastly murder, instead of a satisfactory sale to an enterprising dealer20. But to come back to the [200]Academy, Lorraine; I know I shan't get in! I've sent five times before, and always had the same disappointment, if you can call it a disappointment when you don't expect anything. The last time it happened I was in town, and I went to the Academy myself to fetch away my pictures. As I walked down the court-yard and out into Piccadilly with my parcel under my arm, I felt pretty blue, and I suppose I looked it, for a wretched little street arab stared at me with mock sympathy, and piped out: 'Have they rejected you too, poor darling?' He said it so funnily that I couldn't help laughing in spite of my blues21."
"When are you likely to hear your luck?" asked Lorraine.
"Any day now; but it will be bad luck."
"Then I shall call every day on my way home from school to see if you've had a letter."
Lorraine kept her word, and each afternoon took the path by the harbour instead of the direct road up the hill. Day after day passed, and the post-woman had not yet delivered the longed-for official communication.
"No news is good news!" cheered Lorraine. "Mr. Saunders had his rejection22 last week, so Claudia told me. Mr. Castleton only heard this morning."
"How many has he in?"
"Three—the view of Tangy Point from the beach, Madox wheeling Perugia in the barrow, and the portrait of Madame Bertier. Claudia says they're immensely relieved, because even Mr. Gilbertson is 'out' this year. Here comes the second post! Is there anything for you? I'm going to see!"
Lorraine, in her impatience23, tore down the wooden steps of the studio, and waylaid24 the post-woman. [201]She came back like a triumphant25 whirlwind, waving a letter.
"I believe this is 'it'. Oh, do open it quick! I can't wait. I never felt so excited to know anything in all my life! I could scream!"
Margaret, equally agitated26, nevertheless kept her feelings under control, and opened the envelope with outward calm, though her fingers trembled noticeably. She looked at the enclosure, flushed crimson27, and, turning to Lorraine, dropped a mock curtsy.
"Madam Kilmeny," she announced, "I'm happy to be able to inform you that your portrait is to appear upon the walls of the Royal Academy!"
"Oh, hurrah28!" jodelled Lorraine, careering round the studio in an ecstatic dance, somewhat to the peril29 of various studies on easels. "I knew it would get in, Carina! I had a kind of premonition that it would!"
"And I had a premonition the other way entirely30. I never was so surprised in my life! You've been my little mascot31, and brought me the luck!"
"No, indeed; it's your own cleverness. It's a beautiful painting. Claudia says even her father admired it, and he scarcely ever allows anybody's work is decent except his own."
"I certainly take praise from Mr. Castleton as a compliment," admitted Margaret. "I'm glad to hear that he liked it. Well, this is actually my first real artistic success. I don't know myself this afternoon. I feel an inch taller than usual."
[202]"And so do I, to think I'm going to be hung in the Academy! Of course, I know you've idealized me out of all recognition; but there's a foundation of 'me' in the picture—enough to cock-a-doodle about. The Castletons have been painted so often, they don't care; but it's a unique experience for me. It makes me feel somehow as if I were Kilmeny, and had spent those seven long years among the fairies. I felt it all the time I was standing32 for you, Carina."
"That's where you made such a perfect model. I could see the glamour33 of the fairies in your face, and tried to catch it in my painting. I always contend that one of the chief elements in a good sitter is imagination, so as to maintain the right expression. One sees many apathetic34 portraits, and knows that the originals must have been feeling bored to tears. You never looked bored."
"No, the fairies were dancing round me all the time! You conjured35 them up. Do you know, Carina, I think fairies are your forte36? I like those small paintings of them better than anything else you do."
"Those coloured frontispieces for children's magazines? They're certainly the only things in which I've ever succeeded. It's well to realize one's limitations. I've been so ambitious in my time, and wanted to paint historic scenes and battle-pieces, and other things quite beyond my powers. It's strange if the line we rather despise turns out to be our best bit of work. Look at Edward Lear. He was a rather classically [203]inclined artist, whose serious work seems to have vanished, yet he is known and appreciated all over the world by the delightful and inimitable Book of Nonsense that he knocked off in a few leisure hours to amuse the children of a noble family whose portraits he was painting. Hans Andersen, too, is another instance. No one ever now reads his numerous novels and solid books, but his fairy-tales have been translated into almost every language. Nothing so charming and poetical37 has ever been written. His is a magic flute38 that draws children of every clime and age to listen to him. Not that I'm for a moment comparing myself to Edward Lear or Hans Andersen! All the same, I think I shall take a hammer and smash up those statues I was trying my hand at, and stick to fairies for the future."
"I hope they'll hang 'Kilmeny' on the line!"
"So do I, but I don't expect it. It will be most exciting to go up to town and see it. I wonder——"
"You wonder what?" asked Lorraine, for Margaret had suddenly stopped short.
"Never mind! It was an idea that came into my head. Perhaps I'll tell you some other time."
"Oh, do tell me now!"
"Certainly not—you must wait. No, it's no use your guessing, for I shan't say whether you're right or wrong."
Lorraine's guesses, which were of rather a wild description, did not come anywhere near the real [204]truth, which was sprung upon her a few days later by her enterprising friend. It was nothing more or less than an invitation to go up to London with Miss Lindsay and see "Kilmeny" for herself on the wall of Burlington House.
"I daren't tell you beforehand in case it should be an impossible scheme," said Margaret, "but your mother gives permission, and I saw Miss Kingsley myself, and she promised you a few days' holiday. I told her it was part of your education to see the Academy, and she quite agrees with me. So you're to go!"
This was news indeed! Lorraine was half crazy with joy. Though she had turned seventeen, she had never yet been to London. Porthkeverne was a long journey from town, and any holidays which she had taken had been to visit relations in other parts of the country. She had envied Rosemary when the latter started for the College of Music; now she was actually to see the great city for herself, and in company with Carina, of all delightful people in the world. They were to go up for a whole precious week, and to stay in a hotel—Lorraine had never yet stayed in a hotel—and they were to do theatres, and as many of the sights as could possibly be crammed39 into the short space of time. The prospect40 was dazzling. Monica, catching41 in her breath sharply, decreed: "You're the biggest lucker I've ever met, Lorraine!"
"I can't let Miss Lindsay take a Cinderella with her to London," said Mother, looking over the [205]fashionable advertisements in the papers, and trying to decide what was the most suitable costume for a girl of seventeen. "You want something to look smart in at the Academy, and yet that won't get soiled directly with going about in motor omnibuses. Now this is a sweet dress! I'd like you in this, but it would be ruined in five minutes if you were caught in a shower; and how can we guarantee fine weather? Does your umbrella want re-covering? If there isn't time to have it done, Rosemary must lend you her new one."
By dint43 of much eager cogitation44 on the part of the whole family, Lorraine's wardrobe was at last satisfactorily arranged and packed in a suit case. She herself, in a new grey coat and skirt and a grey travelling hat trimmed with pink, joined Margaret Lindsay at the railway station. They were to catch the early express, and Mother, Rosemary, and Monica came to see them off. It felt so grand to be going away without the rest of the family, and to hang out of the carriage window shouting good-bye while they frantically45 waved handkerchiefs upon the platform. Lorraine, still clutching in her new gloves the sticky packet of sweets that Monica had pressed as a last offering into her hand, went on signalling until Margaret pulled her forcibly back on to her seat.
"We don't want your head whisked off first thing, please, and we're coming to the bridge. I wouldn't sit on the lunch-basket, if I were you! Let me put it up on the rack."
"I'm so excited!" sighed Lorraine. "I'm glad [206]we've got the carriage to ourselves, Carina, because we can talk. Isn't it sport?"
"We shan't keep it long. It will probably fill up at St. Cyr, so work off your spirits now, if you want to. But my advice is to take things calmly, or you'll be tired out before we get to town."
The long railway journey, first along the coast, and then inland through scenery which was very different from Porthkeverne, was deeply interesting to Lorraine; and if she grew tired and closed her eyes for part of the route, her enthusiasm woke again when they reached London. The great station with its crowds of people, the rows of cabs and taxis, the streets with their endless traffic, all seemed a new world to the little country mouse who was making her first acquaintance with the metropolis46.
"It's busier than I expected, and ever so much dirtier!" she commented.
"Yes, it's a different world from Porthkeverne—no arum lilies and yuccas and aloes—only plane-trees and lilac-bushes in the squares. Here we are at our hotel! It will be nice to wash and rest!"
Lorraine, with a beaming face, sat next morning at the little table laid for two, and discussed plans over the breakfast bacon. She had drawn47 up a programme of things she wanted to see in town, of so lengthy48 a description that Margaret Lindsay declared it would take at least a month instead of a week to work through it adequately.
[207]"Some of the shows are shut up because of the war," she said, going through the list and putting ticks against the most suitable places. "We can see the Zoo, and Madame Tussaud's, and Kew Gardens, and I'll enquire49 whether the Tower and the Houses of Parliament are open to visitors at present. Westminster Abbey will, of course, be on view, but I expect we shall find the monuments banked up with sandbags for fear of raids. Never mind, we'll do Poets' Corner at any rate. What would you like to start with this morning?"
"May I choose? Then I plump for the Academy!"
So to the Academy they went, and it was a very gay, pink-cheeked, bright-eyed version of Lorraine who walked up the flight of stairs at Burlington House, and through the turnstile into the entrance hall where the palms are. She had seen small exhibitions at the Arts Club in Porthkeverne, but never a series of great rooms hung with large pictures. Margaret was turning over the pages of the catalogue.
"Oh, do find out where 'Kilmeny' is, and let us go and see her first!" begged Lorraine.
"She's in Room VII, No. 348."
It was difficult to tear Margaret away from the nearest pictures, but Lorraine's impatience dragged her along to Room VII. "Kilmeny" was really in a very good position, if not exactly on the line, only just above it, and fortunately the pictures on either side were in low tone, and did not spoil the effect of colour.
[208]"A field of poppies or a Venetian carnival50 next door would have utterly51 killed my sunset and thistledown!" rejoiced Margaret. "I ought to be very grateful to the hanging committee. It doesn't look so bad as I expected."
"Bad! It's the most beautiful picture in the whole room."
"We must hunt up our other friends," said Margaret, turning over the pages of the catalogue. "Where are Mr. Castleton's, I wonder? Oh, there's one in the next room—No. 407. Let's go and look at it."
The picture in question was the portrait of Madame Bertier, a clever study in an impressionist style, showing the bright eyes and eager features of that volatile52 lady under cover of a large black hat and veil. It was perhaps one of the best pictures that Mr. Castleton had ever painted, and it was attracting quite a small crowd. Margaret and Lorraine came up, and joined the outer circle of admirers. In front of them stood two gentlemen and a lady—foreigners. They spoke53 softly and rapidly together in French. Lorraine, whose knowledge of that language was not far beyond the ordinary schoolgirl standard, could not understand all they were saying, but she caught a word here and there. The lady was admiring the skill of the painting, and voting it worthy54 of the Salon55 in Paris; one of the gentlemen admired the beauty of the model, the other, with a pleased smile, explained that it was his wife, and that, though a charming portrait, it scarcely did justice to the original.
[209]"Mais c'est à merveille!" he said, with a quick gesticulation, as he moved on to allow other people access to the picture.
Lorraine nudged Margaret, and drew her aside.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered. "That man in the light suit declared that Madame Bertier was his wife!"
"Well, that was what he said at any rate."
"Perhaps he was making up, just for effect. Some people like to tell these wonderful fibs in public, just to impress the outside world."
"Then why didn't he speak English, if he wanted to impress people?"
"Which man was it?"
"That one—next to the lady in blue."
"Why—why—if I'm not utterly mistaken, I verily believe it's the man we looked at through the glasses from Tangy Point: he met Madame Bertier on the shore."
"And I couldn't remember where I'd seen him before. Oh, Carina! Let's follow them, and I'll look at him again."
But the crowd in the Academy was rapidly increasing, and the three foreigners were lost behind a row of ladies in fashionable spring hats. They must have made an unexpected exit, for though Lorraine kept her eyes open for them the whole of the morning, she did not chance to see them again.
"It's rather mysterious, isn't it?" she said to Margaret afterwards.
[210]"It is—if he was telling the truth. Some of these foreigners are queer people. Never mind Madame Bertier now; let us enjoy ourselves. Shall we get tickets for a matinée to-morrow, or leave theatres for the evenings? Remember, we want plenty of time for Kew."
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1
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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obstreperous
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| adj.喧闹的，不守秩序的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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6
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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7
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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8
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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10
varnishing
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| 在（某物）上涂清漆( varnish的现在分词 ) | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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14
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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15
skit
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| n.滑稽短剧；一群 | |
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16
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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17
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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tusk
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| n.獠牙，长牙，象牙 | |
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19
lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mascot
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| n.福神，吉祥的东西 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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45
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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46
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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49
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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50
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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51
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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55
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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interned
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| v.拘留，关押( intern的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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