Without doubt, it was this train of thought which caused her to remark:
‘You haven’t seen your cousin since you returned?’
‘No. All the Simla people are in Scotland.’
‘Geoffrey has been shooting here a good deal.’
‘He’d enjoy that. Has he been hunting?’
‘Claire and he have been hacking on the Downs quite a bit. They’re very often together. I think he took her to Brooklands the other day … for the motor racing.’
‘I didn’t know Claire cared for that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t think she does … but she isn’t good at refusing.’ Lady Broughton smiled. In the pause which followed she leaned slighfly towards him and continued in a tone which, while confidential, she kept deliberately casual. ‘I do worry about her a little, Stephen. She is such a quiet person – introspective, if you like – friendly, yet not good at making friends. To be happy she needs the right kind of companionship – shall I go further, and say the right kind of husband. I needn’t tell you that I shan’t be here for ever. Fairly soon Claire may be alone. And although she loves this place there are many responsibilities – she may find it rather difficult to look after.’
She had said nothing definite, nothing which could in any way embarrass him, yet there was no mistaking her intention. And indeed, before he could speak, she resumed, placing her slightly swollen, veined fingers upon his sleeve.
‘I think you were wise to have that spell in Paris. And your most excellent father was wise to let you go. In my days young men always made the grand tour. Not only was it regarded as a virtual necessity, it got the thing out of their system. They came back, settled down as good landlords and raised a family. That precisely is what you ought to do, dear Stephen.’
‘But supposing.…’ He avoided her gaze, a faint colour in his cheeks. ‘Supposing I felt I ought to go abroad again?’
‘Why?’
‘To continue studying … and working.’
‘At what?’
‘Painting.’
She shook her head, indulgently patted his hand.
‘My dear boy, when I was young and romantic I thought I could write poetry, and I did, to my shame. I got over it, however. And so will you.’
The argument seemed conclusive, she settled back on her cushion. Before Stephen could answer Davie re-entered the room with Claire, carrying a japanned metal box.
‘Look, Stephen, what Claire has given me. All these lovely flies. Ever so many swivels and traces. And this waterproof case.’
‘Don’t forget,’ Claire smiled, ‘we shall expect lots of fish.’
‘Why, with this tackle – I wish school didn’t take up so soon.’
‘Isn’t winter the best time for pike?’
‘Yes, it is. I say, I shall look forward to the Christmas holidays.’
‘Well, mind you come for tea whenever you’re at Chillingham.’
Stephen stood up in preparation for departure, touched by Claire’s kindness to Davie, by the quiet thoughtfulness, apparent through her reserve, in every word and gesture. The last glimmer of the afternoon gilded the long pillared room, not beautiful, but warm, lived-in, charming with the sentiment of an old country house. Through the windows were the exquisite lawns, dim but still visible, shaded by the great cedar tree, the beech woods with red roofs of cottages above, and beyond, rolling away like the sea, the green Downs.
On the way home Davie found his brother unusually silent. After glancing at him once or twice he said:
‘It is jolly at the Court. Don’t you wish we could be there oftener?’
But Stephen gave no answer.
Chapter Eleven
On the following Thursday, luncheon at the Rectory was almost over. It had been a somewhat oppressive meal, for Davie, already formally attired, was due to return to school that afternoon. Yet, glancing around, Stephen was conscious of a tension greater than that demanded by the occasion, a general air of collusion and expectancy. He sensed an intensification of that intangible coercion which, disguised in a smother of affection, had been brought to bear upon him from time to time during the past two weeks.
The Rector, who had looked at his watch three times in the past five minutes, now did so again, finished his coffee and, with his gaze on no one in particular, remarked:
‘It happens that Mr Munsey Peters is in the neighbourhood. Unfortunately he could not come to lunch. But I have asked him to call in the early afternoon.’
‘How interesting, Father,’ Caroline murmured with her eyes upon her plate.
‘Do you mean,’ asked Mrs Desmonde in the tone of one coached for the question, ‘the Munsey Peters?’
‘Yes. You know Mr Peters, Stephen?’ Inattentive, carving a face for Davie on a strip of orange peel, Stephen now looked up, conscious that his father was addressing him. ‘He is a well-known member of the Royal Academy.’
There was a pause. Arrested, his expression suddenly fixed, Stephen waited for Bertram to spring the trap.
‘We thought he might care to see your pictures.’
Again there was a silence which Caroline broke hurriedly, with an air of brightness.
‘Isn’t that fortunate, Stephen? Now you can have the benefit of his advice.’
‘I believe,’ said Mrs Desmonde, ‘if my recollection serves me, that there is a Peters landscape in the Pump Room at Cheltenham. It hangs above the Chalybeate Fountain. A view of the Malvern Hills with a sheep. Most life-like.’
‘He is in the first rank,’ agreed Bertram.
‘Wasn’t there a book too, Father?’ Caroline interposed. ‘Raphael to Reynolds – something like that.’
‘He has written several books on art. The most popular is entitled Art for Art’s Sake.’
‘I must ask for it in the library,’ Caroline murmured.
‘You don’t mind if we show him your paintings?’ The Rector turned to his son with a new firmness. ‘ Since the opportunity has arisen it might be wise to have his opinion.’
Stephen had gone quite white. He did not answer for a moment.
‘Show him anything you like. His opinion is valueless.’
‘What! Munsey Peters is a famous R.A. A regular exhibitor for fifteen years.’
‘What does that mean? Anything more deadly, more vulgar and stupid than his pictures I can’t imagine.’
Abruptly he broke off, sensing that they would think him envious and afraid. Then, as he turned away, he heard the sound of wheels and, through the window, saw the station fly draw up at the front door. A short man, made shorter by a broad-brimmed black sombrero and a black Inverness cape, descended briskly from the cab, surveyed the scene and rang the bell. Bertram rose and, followed by his wife and Caroline, went into the hall. Stephen remained seated at the table, only too well aware of how prearranged was the situation. Peters, from his attire alone, was not visiting in the country but commissioned, no doubt at a fee – had come specially from London like a surgeon called to see a patient dangerously ill, his diagnosis a matter of life or death.
A reassuring touch on his shoulder recalled him. It was Davie.
‘Hadn’t we better go in now? Don’t worry, Stephen, I’ll bet you come out on top.’
In the drawing-room, originally built as a square parlour and subsequently made ugly by a Victorian bay window thrown out on the west side, Munsey Peters was seated on the sofa, plump, smooth-cheeked, briskly officious, already the centre of an intelligent audience.
As Stephen entered he swung round, extended an amiable hand.
‘So this is our young gentleman. Pleased to meet you, sir.’
Stephen shook hands, telling himself, despite the conflict of emotions in his breast, that he must entertain no rancour towards this unwelcome visitor, who no doubt was an honest and estimable person acting in perfect good faith. Yet knowing Peters’s work, which always received prominence in the press and was often reproduced in the better weekly periodicals, those woolly landscapes and bituminous interi
ors, reeking with sentiment and full of that chiaroscuro which Glyn had profanely described as burnt sienna and merde, Stephen could not repress an instinctive aversion, enhanced rather than diminished by the little man’s smug appearance and assured manner which, while somewhat less than assertive, was odiously self-satisfied. He had refused lunch, having ‘satisfied the inner man’ – his actual phrase – in the Pullman dining-car which was always attached to the noon express, but on being pressed, consented to take coffee. And, balancing the cup upon his knee, despatted boots crossed, he directed towards Stephen a series of agreeable inquiries such as a distinguished academician might employ in putting a nervous neophyte at ease.
‘So you’ve been in Paree, eh?’
‘Yes, just under a year.’
‘Working hard, I hope, in the gay city.’ This with a glance of veiled humour towards the others; then, as Stephen did not answer: ‘Who did you study under?’
‘In the beginning – Dupret.’
‘Ah! What does he think of you?’
‘I really don’t know. I left him after a few weeks.’
‘Tut, tut! That was a mistake.’ In a puzzled tone: ‘ D’you mean you’ve been mostly, on your own? You can’t have picked up much that way.’
‘At least I have learned how much will-power, discipline and intense application are necessary to make a good artist.’
‘Hmph! That’s all very fine. But what about being taught?’ The chill in Stephen’s voice was provoking. ‘There are certain essentials. I’ve stressed them over and over again in my book. I daresay you’ve studied it.’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ve been studying at the Louvre.’
‘Oh, copying,’ Peters exclaimed crossly. ‘That’s no good. An artist wants to be original above all things.’
‘Yet all the great artists have influenced one another,’ Stephen argued flatly. ‘Raphael derives from Perugino, El Greco from Tintoretto, Manet from Franz Hals. The Post-Impressionists all helped one another. One could continue the list indefinitely. Why, if you will forgive me, one sees traces in your own work of Leighton and Poynter.’
The mention of these two artists, so famous in the Victorian era, now forgotten, brought to the face of Munsey Peters a mixed expression, as though he scarcely knew whether praise or insult were intended.
Mrs Desmonde, for once tactful, broke the silence.
‘Let me give you more coffee.’
‘No thank you. No.’ He handed over his cup. ‘ In point of fact I am pressed for time, I have kept my conveyance waiting. Shall we proceed to the serious business of the day?’
‘By all means.’ Bertram, an apprehensive observer of this clash of temperaments, gave a sign to Davie, who immediately jumped up and left the room. Almost at once he returned carrying the first picture, a view of the Seine at Passy, which he set up against a high-backed chair already placed in a good light opposite the sofa.
Imposing silence with a finger to his lips, Munsey Peters adjusted his pince-nez. He studied the painting intently and at length, leaning forward, inclining his head to various angles; then, dramatically, he made a gesture to Davie, who removed it, placed it by the window, and brought in the next. For Stephen, standing in the background with a wooden expression and a painfully thudding heart, it was an excruciating experience, a raw exposure of his delicate sensibilities. He looked round the domestic circle his father, seated stiffly erect with finger-tips pressed together, legs crossed, one foot swinging in nervous suspense; Caroline, on a low stool by the sofa, a frown of concern furrowing her brow, staring now at Peters, now at the floor; his mother, dreamily comfortable in an armchair, perfectly detached; and David, in his stiff clean collar and dark grey school suit, his hair brushed back, eyes shining, not quite comprehending the issues, yet full of confidence that his brother would be justified.
It was over at last, the final picture shown.
‘Well?’ exclaimed Bertram.
Munsey Peters did not immediately reply, but rising, made a further survey of the paintings arranged against the oval sill of the bay window, as though to remove any impression that his judgement was hurried or unconsidered. One canvas in particular, the woman at her clothes line, seemed especially to disturb him; time and again, almost stealthily, his eyes came back to its bold contrasts and vivid colours. In the end he let fall his pince-nez, secured by a watered silk ribbon, took his stance on the hearthrug.
‘What do you wish me to tell you?’
Bertram drew a sharp breath.
‘Has my son any chance of becoming a painter … shall I say … the first rank?’
‘None’
There was a dead silence. Impulsively Caroline threw a glance of sympathy towards her brother. The Rector bowed his head. Stephen, with the shadow of a smile, continued to look straight at Munsey Peters.
‘Of course,’ he now resumed, ‘ I could be polite. But I have gathered that you want the truth. And in these canvases, which while they have, perhaps, a certain crude brio, completely ignore our great traditions of painting, traditions of propriety and restraint, I find only …’ he shrugged his shoulders … ‘a matter for condolence and regret.’
‘Then,’ said Bertram slowly, as though determined to be convinced, ‘if they were … for example … submitted to the Academy, you think they would be rejected?’
‘My dear sir, as a member of the hanging committee, I do not think. I am sure. Believe me, it pains me to extinguish your hopes. If your son wishes to continue this as a hobby … a pastime … that is a matter for himself. But professionally … ah, my dear sir, painting is, to us who live by it, a cruel art. It has no place for failures.’
Compassionately, Bertram stole a glance at his son as though expecting him to protest, at least to offer some defence of his work. But Stephen, with that same shadowy smile, that air of proud indifference, kept silent.
‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ said Peters, bowing.
The Rector got to his feet.
‘We are very grateful to you … even though your verdict has been unfavourable.’
Again Munsey Peters bowed and, as he left the room in a grave and polished manner, he accepted nimbly, yet without appearing to see it, the envelope which Bertram, after a murmured apologetic word, slipped into his hand – a transaction accomplished with such dexterity no one seemed to notice it but Stephen. Presently came the sound of a wheezy vehicle. The professor had gone.
As though to spare the others, rather than himself, embarrassment, Stephen went outside. And there, pacing up and down, bare-headed, was the Rector. Immediately Bertram took his son’s arm, a sympathetic pressure, and after traversing the flagstones several times remarked:
‘I have to go to the vestry. Will you walk with me?’
As they went up the lane together Bertram continued, sombrely, without a trace of self-justification:
‘Stephen, that was a painful experience for you and, in no less degree, for all of us. But it was imperative for me to know the truth. I hope you do not reproach me.’
‘Of course not.’ The calmness of his son’s voice caused Bertram a sharp surprise, followed by a feeling of rebuff.
‘You take it well it, Stephen – like a true Desmonde. I feared you might feel angered at me for having thrust this test upon you without warning. But then, if I had told you beforehand, you might have refused …’
‘Yes, I think I should.’
‘You do realise that there was no question of undue influence, that Munsey Peters’s opinion was completely his own?’
‘I’m sure of it. I daresay our little argument at the outset ruffled his plumage slightly. But there’s not the faintest doubt – he hated my paintings like poison.’
‘Ah,’ murmured the Rector condolingly. ‘Poor boy.’
They had now reached the church and, pausing in the chancel, outside the vestry door, Bertram rested his hand upon the effigy of the crusader, a familiar gesture of support, and faced his son.
‘At least the way is n
ow clear … and there is nothing to prevent your returning to take orders. I don’t mean to press you. There is the bar – the services if you wish. Nevertheless’ – he gazed around – ‘your true place is here, Stephen.’
A barely perceptible pause.
‘I’m afraid you don’t understand. I am not giving up my painting.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Simply that I have made up my mind, irrevocably, to devote my life entirely to art.’
‘But you’ve just had the opinion … utterly damning … of an expert.’
‘That idiotic nonentity … eaten up by secret grudges! The fact that he vilified my work was the highest compliment he could pay it.’
‘Are you mad?’ Anger and dismay brought the blood to Bertram’s brow. ‘He is one of the best painters in Britain and might even be the next president of the Academy.’
‘You don’t understand, Father.’ Despite the tensity of his features, Stephen almost smiled. ‘Peters cannot paint for little apples. His work is conventional, sentimental, and without a trace of originality. He’s only succeeded through a crashing mediocrity. Why, even that old fake Dupret, with his peinture léchée, was more tolerable. Weren’t you disgusted by his frightful clichés, his affectations, his podgy little hands? He runs with the herd. The true artist can only fulfil his destiny alone.’
During this speech, which struck him as mere ranting, Bertram’s face had gradually hardened. He steeled himself against the pain in his breast, and an overwhelming longing to take his son in his arms.