A Likely Story

  CHAPTER V

  Mr. Aiken's sequel. Pimlico Studios. Mr. Hughes's Idea.Aspects of Nature. Mr. Hughes's foot. What hadMr. Aiken been at? _Not_ Fanny Smith. It was Sairah!!Who misunderstood and turned vermilion? Her malice.The Regent's Canal. Mr. Aiken's advice from his friends.Woman and her sex. How Mr. Hughes visited Mr. Aikenone evening, and the Post came, with something too bigfor the box, while Mrs. Parples slept. Mr. Aiken's verysincerely Madeline Upwell. Her transparency. How thepicture's photo stood on the table. Interesting lucubrationsof Mr. Hughes. What was that? But it was nothing--onlyan effect of something. The Vernacular Mind. NegativeJuries. How Mr. Aiken stopped an echo, so it wasMr. Hughes's fancy.

  The story's brief reference to Mr. Aiken's life afterhis good lady forsook him, may be sufficient forits purposes, but the author is in a certain sensebound to communicate to the reader any detailsthat have come to his knowledge.

  Mr. Aiken's first step was to take an intimatefriend or two into his confidence. But his intimatefriend or two had a quality in common with thePickwickian bottle or two. An intimate friend orsix would be nearer the mark--or even twelve.He did not tell his story separately to each; therewas no need. If the mention of a private affairwithin the hearing of cat or mouse leads to itsbeing shouted at once from the top of thehouse--and that was the experience of Maud's young manwho went to the Crimea--how much more publicwill your confidences become if you make them toa tenant of a Studio that is one of a congeries.

  Pimlico Studios was a congeries, built toaccommodate the Artists of a great age of Art, nowpending, as though to meet the needs of locusts. Forthere can be no doubt that such an age is at hand,if we are to judge by the workshop accommodationthat appears to be anticipating it.

  An ingenious friend of the author--you must havenoticed how many authors have ingenious friends?--hasbeen able to determine by a system of averagesof a most convincing nature, that the cubic areaof the Studios in Chelsea and Kensington aloneexceeds that of the Lunatic Asylums of the Metropolisby nearly seven and a quarter per cent. Thisgentleman's researches on the subject areconsequent upon his singular conviction that the outputof the Fine Arts, broadly speaking, is small inproportion to the amount of energy and capitaldevoted to them. We have reasoned with him invain on the subject, pointing out that the Fine Artshave nothing in common with the economics ofManufacture, least of all in any proportions betweenthe labour expended and the results attained.Were it otherwise, the estimation of a painter'smerit would rise or fall with his colourman's billand the rent of his studio. This gentleman--althoughhe is a friend of the author--has no Soul.If he had, the spectacle of the life-struggle whichis often the lot of Genius would appeal to him, andcause him to suspend his opinion. It is always,we understand, desirable to suspend one's opinion.

  He would do so, for instance, in the case of anArtist, a common acquaintance of ours, whom atpresent he condemns freely, calling him names.This Artist has five Studios, each of them full ofeasels and thrones. The number of his half-usedcolour tubes that won't squeeze out is as the sandsof the sea, while his bundles of brushes that onlywant washing to be as good as new, may be likenedto corn-sheaves, in so far as their stems go--a mereaffair of numeration. But their business ends areanother pair of shoes altogether; for the hairs of thebrushes have become a coagulum as hard as agate,calling aloud for Benzine Collas to disintegratethem--to the tune, this Artist admits, of threepenceeach--whereas the ear of corn yields to less drastictreatment. Contrivances of a specious nature injapanned tin and celluloid abound, somewhat asspray abounds on oceans during equinoxes, andeach of these has at one time fondly imagined itwas destined to become that Artist's great resourceand stand-by, the balustrade his genius would notscorn to be indebted to. But he has never drawna profile with the copying-machine that has legs,nor availed himself of the powers of thegraphoscope--if that is its name--that does perspective,nor done anything with the countless woodenfigures except dislocate their universal joints; nor,we fear, for a long time paid anything on accountof the quarterly statements that flutter about, withpalette-knives full of colour wiped off on them, thatare not safe to sit down upon for months. But noimpartial person could glance at any of theinaugurations of pictures on the thousand canvasesin these five Studios without at once exclaiming,"This is Genius!" The Power of the Man is everywherevisible, and no true lover of Art ever regretsthat so few of them have been carried into thatdoubtful second stage where one spoils all themoddlin' and the colour won't hold up, and somehowyou lose the first spirit of the Idear and don'tget any forwarder. It never occurs to any matureCritic to question the value of this Artist's results,even of his least elaborated ones. And, indeed, anopinion is current among his friends that restrictionof materials and of the area of his Studios mighthave cramped and limited the free development ofa great mind. They are all unanimous that afeller like Tomkins must have room to turn round,or where are you! And, if, as we must all hope, thegrowth of genius such as his is to be fostered as itdeserves, no one should look with an ungenerouseye upon such agglomerations of Art-workshops asthe Pimlico Studios, or sneer at them as uncalledfor, merely because a Philistine Plutocracy refusesto buy their produce, and has no walls to hang it onif it did. We for our part can only note withregret that any Studios should be so badly adaptedto their purpose, and constructed with so littleconsideration for the comfort of their occupants, asthese same Pimlico Studios.

  We have, however, been tempted away from oursubject, which at present is the community ofArtists that occupied them; and must return to itto say that these very drawbacks were not altogetherwithout their compensations. For though theseStudios were, like the arguments of Dissent,unsound--being constructed to admit rainwater andretain products of combustion, each of its ownstove and the Studio beneath it--these structuralshortcomings were really advantages, in so far asthey promoted interchange of social amenitiesbetween the resident victims of the speculativebuilder who ran up the congeries. Sympathyagainst their common enemy, the landlord, broughtall the occupants of Pimlico Studios into a hotchpotof brotherly affection, and if the choruses ofexecration in which they found comfort have reached theears for which they were intended, that builder willcatch it hot, one of these odd-come-shortlies. Thisexpression is not our own.

  When Mr. Reginald Aiken, with his domesticperplexity burning his tongue's end and cryingaloud for utterance, called upon the Artist fromwhom we have borrowed it, that gentleman, Mr. Hughes,one of his most intimate friends, wasthinking. He had been thinking since breakfast--thinkingabout some new Aspects of Nature, whichhad been the subject of discussion with some friendsthe evening before. They were those new Aspectsof Nature which have been presented so forcibly byVan Schronk and Le Neutre; and of which, in thisArtist's opinion, more than a hint is to be foundin Hawkins. He was thinking deeply when Mr. Aikencame in, and not one stroke of work had hedone, would that gentleman believe him, since heset out his palette. Mr. Aiken's credulity was notovertaxed.

  Mr. Hughes wanted to talk about himself, andsaid absently, "You all right, Crocky?" addressingMr. Aiken by a familiar name in use among hisintimate friends. He was not well disposed towardsa negative answer when Mr. Aiken gave one; anequivocal one certainly, but not one to whosemeaning it was possible to affect blindness. Thewords were "Middlin'--considerin'!" But Mr. Hugheswas not going to be too coming.

  "Wife well?" said he remotely.

  Mr. Aiken sprang at his inattentive throat, andnailed him. "Ah, that's it," said he. "That'sthe point."

  Mr. Hughes was forced to inquire further, andstand his Idea over, for later discussion. But hemight just as well have let it alone--better, if youcome to that. He really was a stupid feller, Hughes,don't you know? "I say," said he, "don't yourun away and say I didn't tell you what wouldhappen." For he had interpreted his friend'sagitated demeanour and equivocal speech as theresult of a recent insight into futurity, showing himin the position of a detected and convicted parent,without the means of providing for an increasingfamily.
For they do that, families do.

  "Don't be an ass, Stumpy," said he, using afamiliar name no fact in real life warranted. "It'snot that sort of thing, thank God! No--I'll tellyou what it is, only you mustn't on any accountmention it."

  "All right, Crocky! I never mention things.Honest Injun! Go ahead easy." Mr. Hughes wasgreatly relieved that his surmise had been wrong.Good job for Mr. Aiken, as also for his wife!Mr. Hughes desired his congratulations to this lady, butwithdrew them on second thoughts. Because, yousee, her escape from the anxieties of maternity wasentirely constructive. Mr. Hughes felt that he hadput his foot in it, and that his wisest course wouldbe to take it out. He did so. But Mr. Aiken hadsomething to say about his wife, and made it acorollary to her disappearance from the conversation.

  "She's bolted!" said he lugubriously. "Wentaway Thursday, and wrote to say she wasn't comingback, Friday. It's a fact."

  Mr. Hughes put back his foot in it. "Who's shebolted with? Who's the feller?"

  Mr. Aiken flushed up quite red, like anyturkey-cock. "Damn it, Stump!" said he, "you reallyought to take care what you're saying. I shouldlike to see any fellow presume to run away withEuphemia. Draw it mild!" He became calmer,and it is to be hoped was ashamed of his irritability.But really it was Mr. Hughes's fault--talking justlike as if it was in a novel, and Euphemia a character.

  "I beg your pardon," said that offender humbly."It was the way you put it. Besides, they aregenerally supposed to."

  Mr. Aiken responded, correctively and loftily:"Yes, my dear fellow, on the stage and in novels." Headded, with something of insular pride, "ChieflyFrench and American."

  "What's her little game, then?" asked Mr. Hughes."If it's not some other beggar, _what_ isit she's run away with?"

  "She has not run away with anybody," saidMr. Aiken with dignity. "Nor anything. PerhapsI should explain myself better by saying that shehas refused to return from her Aunt's."

  "Any reason?" said Mr. Hughes, who wanted toget back to his Idea.

  "I'm sorry to say it was my fault, Stumpy,"came very penitently from the catechumen.

  Interest was roused. "I say, young man," saidMr. Hughes, with a tendency of one eye to close,"what have you been at?"

  "Absolutely nothing whatever!"

  "Yes, of course! But along of who? Who'sthe young woman you _haven't_ been making love to?Tell up and have done with it."

  "You are under a complete misconception,Stump. Really _nobody_!"

  Mr. Hughes thought a moment, as though hewere at work on a conundrum. Then he pointedsuddenly. "Fanny Smith!" said he convictingly.

  Mr. Aiken quite lost his temper, and gotdemonstrative. "Fanny Smith--Fanny grandmother!"he exclaimed meaninglessly! "How can you talksuch infernal rot, Stumpy. Do be reasonable!"

  "Then it was _somebody_," said his tormentor, andMr. Aiken felt very awkward and humiliated.

  However, he saw inevitable confession ahead, andbraced himself to the task. "Really, Stump,"said he, "it would make you cry with laughing toknow who it was that was at the bottom of it. Isaid 'Fanny grandmother,' just now, but at anyrate Fanny Smith's a tailor's wife with no legs tospeak of, who sits on the counter, and a very nicegirl if you know her. I mean there's nofundamental absurdity in Fanny Smith. Thiswas." Which wasn't good speechwork, but, oh dear, howlittle use accuracy is!

  "Who was it then?" Mr. Hughes left one eyeshut, under an implied contract to reopen it as soonas the answer came to his question.

  "Well!" said Mr. Aiken reluctantly. "If you_must_ have it, it was Sairah!" He was reallyrelieved when his friend looked honestly puzzled,repeating after him "Sairah! What!--the gurl!"in genuine astonishment. It was now evident thatthe Idea would have to stand over.

  Mr. Hughes said farewell to it, almost audibly;then said "Stop a minute!" and lit a pipe; thensettled down in a rocking chair to listen, saying,"Now, my boy!--off you go." He was a long andloose-limbed person who picked his knees upalternately with both hands, as though to hold hislegs on. Whenever he did this, the slipper in thatconnexion came off, with the effect of bringing itsowner's sock into what is called keeping with therest of the Studio, one which many persons wouldhave considered untidy.

  After which Mr. Aiken went off, or on--whicheveryou prefer. "Of course I don't expect youfellers to do anything but chaff, you know. Butit's jolly unpleasant, for all that. It was like this,don't you see? A young female swell had broughther sweetheart--I suppose, unless he was her cousin--tosee a picture I'm cleaning for her parent, who'sa Bart. In Worcestershire. Know him? SirStopleigh Upwell."

  Mr. Hughes didn't, that he could call to mind,after a mental search which seemed to imply greatresources in Barts.

  "Well--she was an awfully jolly girl, but quitethat sort." Mr. Aiken tried to indicate by gesture,a fashionably dressed young lady with a stylishfigure, and failed. But Mr. Hughes, an ImpressionistArtist, could understand, and nodded promptappreciation. So Mr. Aiken continued:

  "When they cleared out, Euphemia said theyoung woman was 'up-to-date.' And I supposeshe was...."

  "Oh certainly--quite up to date--not a doubt of it!"

  "Well--I made believe not to know the meaningof the expression, just to take a rise out of Euphemia.And you know she has just _one_ fault--she's somatter-of-fact! She said everyone knew themeaning of 'up-to-date,' that knew anything. Askanybody! Ask her Aunt Priscilla--and I certainlywasn't going to run the risk--like beardinga tigress in her den with impertinent questions!--orMrs. Verity the landlady. Or, for that matter,ask the gurl, Sairah! That's where _she_ came in,Stump." Mr. Aiken seemed to hang fire.

  "But," said Mr. Hughes, "she only comes in asan abstraction, so far. I can't see her carcass init." From which we may learn that Mr. Hughesthought that abstract meant incorporeal; or, atleast, imponderable. It is a common error. "Whatdid _you_ say?" he asked.

  "I said 'Suppose I ask Sairah!' and rang forher, for a lark. Euphemia was in an awful rageand pretended to go, but stopped outside to listen." Thespeaker's hesitation appeared to increase.

  "Well--and when she came?..."

  "Why, the stupid idiot altogether misunderstoodme. Damn fool! What the dooce she thoughtI meant, I don't know...."

  "What did you say? Out with it, old chap!" Mr. Hughesseemed to be holding intense amusementback, with a knowledge that it would get thebit in its teeth in the end.

  Mr. Aiken, seeing this, intensified and enlargedhis manner. "I _merely_ said--no, really it's thesimple honest truth, every word--I _merely_ said,'Your mistress says you know the meaning of"up-to-date," Sairah.' And what does the beastof a girl do but turn vermilion and stand staringlike a stuck pig!"

  Mr. Hughes began shaking his head slowly fromside to side. But he did not get to the direction_accelerando_, for he stopped short, and said abruptly,"Well--what next?"

  Mr. Aiken assumed a responsible and maturemanner, rather like that of a paterfamilias on hisbeat. "I reasoned with the girl. Pointed out thather mistress wouldn't say things to turn vermilionabout. I tried to soothe her suspicions...."

  Mr. Hughes interrupted, saying dubiously: "Isee. No tong-dresses, of course?"

  Mr. Aiken explained that that was just where themisapprehension had come in. If his wife hadbeen inside the room instead of on the _stairs_, shewould have seen that there was absolutely _nothing_.Mr. Hughes looked incredulous.

  "There must have been somethin', old chap, toset your missis off. Don't tell me!"

  But Mr. Aiken _would_ tell Mr. Hughes--wouldinsist on doing so. "It was the horrible, shamelessbrute's diabolical malice!" he shouted. "Nothingmore nor less! What does she do but say out loudjust as my wife was coming into the room, 'Youkeep your 'ands off of me, Mr. Aching!' and ofcourse, when Euphemia came in, she thought I hadjust jumped half a mile off. And it was rough onme, Stump, because really my motive was to savemy wife having to get another house-and-parlourmaid."

  "Motive for what?" said Mr. Hughes shrewdly.He had touched the weak point of the story. "
Didyou, or did you not, young man, take this youngperson round the waist or chuck her under thechin?"

  "My dear Hughes," said Mr. Aiken, withundisguised impatience, "I wouldn't chuck thatodious girl under the chin with the end of abarge-pole. Nor," he added after reflection, "take herround the waist with one of the drags in readinessat the Lodge." The barge-pole had conducted hisimagination to the Regent's Canal, and left it there.

  Mr. Aiken had had no intention when he calledon his friend Hughes to take the whole of PimlicoStudios into his confidence. But what was he todo when another Artist dropped in and Mr. Hughessaid, "You won't mind Triggs? The mostdiscreet beggar _I_ ever came across!" What couldhe say that would arrest the entry of Mr. Triggsinto the discussion of his family jar that would notappear to imply that that gentleman was anindiscreet beggar? And what course was open tohim when Mr. Hughes told yet another artist, whosename was Dolly, that he might come in, but hewasn't to listen? And yet another, whose namewas Doddles?

  Even if there had been no other chance visitorsto the Studio during the conclave on Mr. Aiken'sprivate affairs, there would have been everylikelihood of complete publicity for them in the course ofa day or two at most. For nothing stimulatesRumour like affidavits of secrecy. It's such funtelling what is on no account to go any farther. Butas a matter of fact more than one gentleman whowould have resented being called a _flaneur_, lookedin at Mr. Hughes's Studio casually that morningto talk over that gentleman's Idea, mooted yesterdayat The Club, and found himself outside a circlewhose voices subsided down to inaudible exchangesof postscripts to finish up. As each newcomer actedupon this in the sweet and candid manner of thiscommunity, saying unaffectedly, "What's the fun?"and some friend of his within the circle usually saidto him, "Shut up! Tell you after!" and as moreoverit was invariably felt that a single exclusiononly embarrassed counsel, no opportunity wasreally lost of making Europe acquainted with thedisruption of Mr. Aiken's household. And it wasa pity, because so much gossip doesn't do any good.Besides, the time might have been profitablyemployed ventilating Mr. Hughes's Idea, and gettinga sort of provisional insight into the best means ofcarrying it out. As it was, when, some time aftermidday, someone said, "I say, Stump, my boy,how about that Idea of yours we were talking aboutat The Club yesterday?" everyone else looked athis watch, and said it was too late to get on to thatnow; we must have lunch, and have a real serioustalk about it another time. Then we went to lunchat Machiavelli's, and it was plenty early enough ifwe were back by three.

  Mr. Aiken received a good deal of very soundadvice from his friends as to how he might best dealwith his emergency. He turned this over in hismind as he turned himself over on his couch whenhe got home about three in the morning, and wasrather at a loss to select from it any samples fromdifferent Mentors which agreed upon a course. Infact, the only one thing they had in common wasthe claim made by their respective promulgatorsto a wider and deeper knowledge of that mysteriouscreature Woman than Mr. Aiken's inexperiencecould boast. One said to him--speaking as fromlong observation of a Sex you couldn't make heador tail of--that, depend upon it, she would comeround, you see if she didn't. They always did.Another, that this said Sex was obstinacy itself,and you might depend upon it she would stick out.They always did. Another, that a lot the bestthing for a husband in like case to do was to goand cosset the offended lady over with appropriatecaresses, before which she would be sure to soften.They always did. Another, that if you couldconvince her by some subtle machinations thatyou didn't care a twopenny damn how long shestayed away, back she would come on the nail.They always did. In the multitude of counsellorsthere is Wisdom, no doubt, but when the multitudeis large enough to advise every possible course, it isjust as easy to run through all the courses open toadoption by oneself, and choose one on the strengthof its visible recommendations. More particularlybecause so many advisers insist on your taking theiradvice, and go on giving it, cataballatively, if youdon't. Mr. Aiken felt, when he retired for thenight, like the sheet Aunt Sally hangs up behindher when she folds it up at the end of a busy dayon Epsom Downs.

  It was a great pity that Mr. Aiken's domesticupset did not occur a few days later, because thenMr. Hughes's Idea would have had such a muchclearer stage for its _debut_. As it was, what with onething and what with another, the mature discussionof this subject was delayed a full week. Next dayTriggs had to go to Paris, and of course it wasnonsense to attempt anything without him--forlook at the clearness of that man's head! Then,when Triggs came back, a day later than expected,his aunt must needs invite her nephew down toSuddington Park, which is her place in Shropshire,which had earned for Mr. Triggs the name of ThePobble--you remember Aunt Jopiska's Park, ifyou read your Lear in youth--and which was anexpectation of his, if he kept in favour with the oldlady. Of course, the Idea didn't depend on Triggs,or any one man. No, thank you! But Triggshad a good business head on his shoulders, and wasparticularly sound on the subject of Premises. Itis a singular and noticeable thing that wheneverany great motive or scheme germinates in thehuman brain, that brain, before it has formulatedthe conditions thereof, or fully defined its objects,will begin to look at Premises, and while it isexamining some very much beyond its means--inPiccadilly, for instance, or Old Bond Street--will feelthat the project is assuming form, and that nowwe shall get on to really _doing_ something, and cometo the end of this everlasting talk, talk, talk, thatleads to nothing, and only sets people against us.So really very little could be done till The Pobblecame back from Aunt Jopiska. When he did comeback there was some other delay, but it's alwayswell to be beforehand. The enthusiasts of thisIdea could look at Premises; and did so.

  All this has little or nothing to do with the story.But it serves to individualize Mr. Hughes, who, butfor it, would be merely a long artist with a goateebeard, who not infrequently looked in to smoke apipe on the split wild boar whose head endangeredthe safety of self-warmers on Mr. Aiken's floor inthe Studio near the stove where he found the Vestasthat were all stuck together.

  Mr. Hughes was standing there, a good manyweeks after our last date, chatting with Mr. Aiken,who was becoming quite slovenly and dirty withnobody to look after him--because, of course,Mrs. Parples, who came in by the day, hadn't the sense tosee to anything; and, moreover, he was that snappyat every turn, there wasn't, according toMrs. Parples, many would abear him.

  He had been hoping that the first of his adviserswhom we cited was right, and that if he waited areasonable time he would see if his wife wouldn'tcome round. If they always did, she would. Buthe was beginning to be afraid they sometimesdidn't. He had even impatiently expressed aview equivalent to that which identified her withobstinacy itself, the quality. But this was onlytemper, though no doubt she might stick out.They might sometimes, those curious examples ofa perfectly unique Sex. He really wanted to goto her with persuasive arts and procure areconciliation. But he was too proud.

  Besides, if that was possible now, it would beequally so three months hence. As to the fourthalternative, that of showing he didn't care, thatwould be capital on the stage, but he wasn't goingto burn his fingers with it in real life. So he passedhis days working, in his own conceit; and smokingin a chair opposite to his work, in Mrs. Parples'.Perhaps neither conception was quite correct. Hisevenings he mostly passed seeing bad plays wellacted, or good plays ill acted--these are the onlysorts you can get free paper for. It was ridiculousfor him, knowing such a lot of actors, to pay at thedoor. Now and again, however, he stayed athome, and a friend came in for a quiet smoke.Even so Mr. Hughes, this evening.

  "Things improvin' at all, Crocky?" said he, notexactly as if he thought he wasn't inquisitive.

  Mr. Aiken kept an answer, which was coming,back for consideration. He appeared to reject it,going off at a tangent by preference. He had madeup his mind, he said, not to fret his kidneys anymore over his wife's absence. She would comeround before long, and eat humble-pie for havingmade such a fool of herself. He preferred theexpression "damn fool," but chivalry limited itsutter
ance to a semi-_sotto voce_. "I might get aletter from her any minute," said he. "Why,when the post came just now, I fully expected itwas a letter from her." He appeared to confusebetween expectation's maximum and its realization."There he is again. I shouldn't be theleast surprised if this one _was_."

  He left the room with a transparent parade ofdeliberation. But before he had reached thestaircase the postman knocked again, and Mr. Aikencame back saying: "It isn't her. It's somethingthat won't go in the box." This was slack languageand slack reasoning--confusion confounded. ButMr. Aiken retired on it with dignity, saying:"Mrs. Parples attends to the door."

  The something continued to refuse, audibly, togo in the box, and Mrs. Parples didn't attend to thedoor. The postman put all his soul into a finalknock, which seemed to say, "I am leaving,half-out, what may be only an advertisement, or maybe vital to your hereafter, or somebody's;" andthen washed his hands of it and took up NextDoor's case. Mr. Aiken listened for Mrs. Parples,who remained in abeyance, and then went out againand returned with a very ill-made-up consignmentindeed, and a normal square envelope with abespoken "M" embossed on its flap, directed inan upright hand, partly robust, partly aesthetic,an expression applied nowadays to anythingwith a charm about it. This handwriting had one.

  "Parples is sleeping peacefully," said Mr. Aiken."It would be a shame to disturb Parples. I knowwho this is." He opened the envelope withdifficulty, but looked stroked and gratified. Thelatter was from his very sincerely Madeline Upwell.Just you notice any male friend of yours next timeyou have a chance of seeing one open a letter fromyouth and beauty which remains--howevertheoretically--his very sincerely, and see if he doesn'tlook stroked and gratified.

  Mr. Hughes picked up the delivery that had giventhe letter-box so much trouble, and looked throughit at each end. Mr. Aiken was busy reading hisletter over and over; so he could only throw outa sideways carte-blanche to Mr. Hughes to unpackthe inner secret of the roll. This was what he wasreading:

  "DEAR MR. AIKEN,

  "I think you may like a copy of the photoCaptain Calverley (who perhaps you will remembercame with me to your Studio) made of this beautifulpicture, which I am never tired of looking at. Ithink it so good. Please accept it from us if youcare to have it. Believe me, dear Mr. Aiken, withkind regards to yourself and Mrs. Aiken, in whichmy mother joins,

  "Yours very sincerely, "MADELINE UPWELL.

  "P.S.--I know you will be sorry to hear thatCaptain Calverley's regiment is ordered out toSouth Africa. Of course, it makes us very anxious."

  "Transparent sort of gurl!" said Mr. Hughes,when Mr. Aiken read the letter aloud to him. "Ofcourse, Captain Carmichael's her sweetheart.Anybody can see that with half an eye."

  "Calverley," said Mr. Aiken. "Yes--they getlike that when it's like that." And both pondereda little, smoking, over the peculiarities of humanity,especially that inexplicable female half of it."Chuck it over here and let's have a look at it," headded, and Mr. Hughes chucked him over thephotograph. He contemplated it for a moment insilence; then said: "I expect she wasn't far out,after all. Euphemia, I mean."

  "Chuck it back again and let's have anotherlook," said Mr. Hughes. Mr. Aiken did so, and lethim have the other look. "Yes," said he. "Theywent it in Italy about that time, don't you know!Fifteenth or sixteenth century. That sort ofthing!" For Mr. Hughes knew a lot about Italy,and could quote Browning. He uncrickled a resultof the shape of that letter-box, or tried to, and thenstood the photograph so that they could both seeit, while they talked of something else, against thegres-de-Flandres straight-up pot that was so handyto stand brushes in, like umbrellas.

  They had plenty to talk about, because at thistime the Idea of Mr. Hughes that was destined tofill so important an horizon in the History of ModernArt, and was also pregnant with incalculableconsequences to several things or persons, besideshaving an indirect bearing on several others, andchallenging the bedrock of Modern Art Criticism--forit had the courage of its convictions, and stuckat nothing--this Idea was taking form slowly butsurely, and was already making itself felt in moreways than one. It was easy to laugh at it--thiswas indisputable--but he who lived longest wouldsee most. It had a future before it, and if youwould only just wait twenty years, you would seeif it hadn't. You mark the words of its disciple,whoever he was you were talking to--that was allhe said--and see if he wasn't right! He was alittle indignant--some samples of him--withaudiences who decided to wait, his own enthusiasmbelieving that the results might be safely anticipated.However, the Idea prospered, there is no doubt ofthat, and the circle of enthusiasts who had leaguedthemselves together to foster it and promote a trueunderstanding of it had already taken premises,and their telephone number was 692,423 Western.

  "It's true," said Mr. Hughes, "that the light inthe galleries is bad, and the hot-air system ofwarming will destroy any ordinary oil-picture ina month. But altering all that is the merestquestion of money--comes off the guarantee fund,in fact. And one thing nobody but a fool can helpseein', at the first go off, is that the Galleries arerum. Rumness is half the battle." This expressedso deep and indisputable a truth that Mr. Aikencould not assent strongly enough in mere words.He nodded rapidly and most expressively, withoutspeech. However, when he had reached the naturallimits of a nod's assenting power, he added, "Rightyou are, Stumpy, my boy. Gee up!" and Mr. Hughesresumed:

  "I ain't sayin', mind you, Crocky, that anysort of hocus-pocus is justifiable in any case. WhenI use the expression 'rum,' I am keepin' in view theabsolute necessity for a receptive attitude of mindin the visitor to the Galleries. Tell me such anattitude of mind is possible without a measure ofrumness as a stimulant, and I say 'Humbug!'"

  Mr. Aiken said again, "Right you are, Stumpy." Buthe did not rise to enthusiasm--seemed low anddepressed.

  "It all connects with the fundamental root ofthe Idea," Mr. Hughes continued. "No one wouldbe more repugnant than myself to any ramificationin the direction of Wardour Street ... youunderstand me?..."

  "Rather!" said Mr. Aiken. And he seemed todo so. It is not necessary for the purposes of thisstory to prove that either of these gentlemenunderstood what they were talking about, oranything else, but their conversation has a bearing ontheir respective characters and their preoccupationsat this moment, which are part of it.

  Mr. Hughes had mounted a rhetorical hobby, andwished to have his ride. He rigged up three fingersof his left hand, holding them in front of him tocheck off three heads on, as soon as he should cometo that inevitable stage. He did not know whatthey would be, but his instinctive faith madenothing of that. They would be needed, all ingood time.

  "I am not saying," he pursued, "that WardourStreet, in its widest sense, has nothing torecommend it. I am not saying that it makes no appeal.I am not disputing its historical and ethicalstandpoints ... you see what I mean?"

  This was a concession to the difficulties thatawait the orator who expects to round up hissentences. Mr. Aiken interjected, to help this oneout of an embarrassment: "Couldn't be better put!Let it go at that;" and knocked some ashes out ofhis pipe.

  Mr. Hughes was grateful, because he had had noidea what to say next. His indebtedness, however,had to be ignored; else, what became of Dignity?An enlarged manner accepted a laurel or two dueto lucidity, as he continued: "But I do say this,that, considered as a basis--perhaps I should saya fulcrum--or shall I say as a working hypothesis ofthe substratum or framework of the Idea?..." Thespeaker hesitated.

  "That's the safest way to put it," said Mr. Aiken,but rather gloomily. He was re-lightinghis pipe.

  "I think so," said Mr. Hughes judicially."Considered as ... what I said just now ... WardourStreet is, to my thinkin', played out. Quitedistinctly played out.... What's that?"

  "What's what?" The questions seemed torefer to something heard and unheard, by eachspeaker respectively. Mr. Aiken did not press foran answer, but went to the door, persuading hispipe to draw by the way. "Want anything,Mrs. Parples?" said he, looking out. But no answercame. "Mr
s. P. is sleeping happily in the kitchen,"said he, returning. "It wasn't her. It was aneffect of something."

  "I suppose it was. Thought I heard it, too!"

  Perhaps, if you ever chanced to hear a conversationabout nobody could exactly say what, younoticed that nobody did say anything very exactly,and everybody talked like these two gentlemen,who certainly had heard something, but whodecided that they hadn't, because they couldn'tfind out what it was. It was too slight to discuss.

  They each said "Rum!" and settled down tochat again, after turning down the gas, which madea beastly glare. Mr. Hughes had forgotten aboutthe three heads, though, and taken his fingers down.He did, however, pursue the topic which claimedhis attention, having embarked upon it, and feelingbound to conduct it to a close. He said somethingto this effect, and we hope our report is fairlyaccurate. He certainly appeared to say thatsomething, which could hardly have been anything,grammatically, but the close to which he conductedthe topic, embodied the point which underlay thewhole of the extensive area which the Idea opened upfor development, and turned upon the indisputabletruth that the Highest Art--sculpture, music,painting, poetry--is never intelligible to theVernacular Mind. How could any inference be moreincontestable than that no Art could rise abovemediocrity until a quorum of commonplace personsshould be found honestly incapable of attachingany meaning to it? By making unintelligibility tothe banal mind a criterion of superiority in Art, weestablished a Standard of Criticism, and eliminatedfrom consideration a wilderness of insipidity whichMr. Hughes did not hesitate to call a nightmare.For his part, he was so confident that the systemof Negative Juries, as they had been called, wassounder than any appeal to popular applause thathe was quite willing that his own work should standor fall by the decision of the CommonplaceIntelligence as to which side up the picture should belooked at. He would go that length, and take theconsequences. Let the Selection Committee oftheir proposed Annual Exhibition consist entirelyof such Intelligences, and let the HangingCommittee hang all the pictures they were unable tomake head or tail of, and such a galaxy ofproductions of Genius would be accumulated everyyear on their walls as the World had never before seen.

  "Not work in practice?" said Mr. Hughes,replying to a morose doubt of Mr. Aiken's. "Justyou redooce it to practice. Take the case thatyour Jury guesses the subject of a picture. Outit goes! Did you ever know that class able tomake head or tail of the subject of a work of Genius?Gradual and infallible elimination, my boy--that'sthe ticket!" The speaker, who, though perhapsrather an idiot--only, mind you, he was subjectnow and then to something almost like Inspiration--threwhimself back in his chair as though he hadexhausted the subject, and might rest.

  "Don't b'lieve it would work," said Mr. Aiken,sucking at his pipe. But he was evidently in atemper this evening, and Mr. Hughes paid noattention to his nonsense. However, it was no usetalking about the Idea to him until he was moresympathetic. He would come right presently.

  To cajole him into a better frame of mind,Mr. Hughes began talking of something else. "Queersort of Studio, this of yours, Crocky," said he.

  "What do you make out's queer about it,Stumpy?" said Mr. Aiken.

  "Such peculiar echoes!"

  "I don't hear any echoes."

  "Well, when you went to the door--you heard that?"

  "Oh, that wasn't an echo: that was somebodyspoke outside."

  "Somebody spoke outside? What did she say?What was it you heard?"

  "Couldn't say. What did you?"

  "Well, what I heard sounded like a sort of bastardItalian." Mr. Hughes said this to sound grand."You shut up and listen a minute." Mr. Aikenshut up, and the two sat listening in the half-dark.

  Now, whenever sounds are listened for, they showa most obliging spirit, becoming audible whereyou thought silence was going on peacefully alone.The first sound that made Mr. Hughes say "Therenow!--what's that?" turned out to be the gas,which, at a carefully chosen point, rippled. Thenext proved to be an intermittent spring fizzing onthe hot stove from a water-jar placed upon it.The third was a spontaneous insect unknown toEntomology, which had faced the difficulties ofself-making, behind the skirting, and evidently wasnot going to remain a mere cipher. The fourthwas something or other that squeaked on the table,and if one changed the places of things, noises likethat always stopped. So Mr. Aiken shifted thethings about, and said Mr. Hughes would see thatwould stop it. He faced the responsibilities of theInvestigator by quenching the phenomenon, atime-honoured method. He wrapped up the photograph,and put it away in a drawer to show toEuphemia. It would be interestin' to see if sherecognized it.... Oh yes! she would be back inthe next few days--sure to!

  And Mr. Hughes saw that the shifting about ofthe things on the table _had_ stopped the noise hecalled an echo, and what more could he or anybodywant? So he sat down again and had some toddy,and talked about the Idea. And towards one inthe morning he got the opportunity of checking offthree heads on his three fingers, and feeling thathe ought to have been in Parliament. He had feltpreviously rather like a Seneschal with three spearsvacant over his portcullis, longing for a healthydecapitation to give them employment.

  The foregoing chapter, apart from the way inwhich it emphasizes Mr. Aiken's loneliness anddiscontent as a bachelor, would be just as well leftout of the story, but for the seemingly insignificantincident of the echo, or whatever it was, whichmight have been unintelligible if referred tohereafter, without its surroundings.