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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Mendel - A Story of Youth - -Author: Gilbert Cannan - -Release Date: June 19, 2017 [EBook #54931] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MENDEL *** - - - - -Produced by Paul Haxo with special thanks to the University -of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, the Hathi Trust Digital -Library, the University of California, and the Internet -Archive. - - - - - -MENDEL - - - -_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - ROUND THE CORNER - OLD MOLE - YOUNG EARNEST -_LONDON, T. FISHER UNWIN LTD._ - - PETER HOMUNCULUS - LITTLE BROTHER - THREE PRETTY MEN - SAMUEL BUTLER - WINDMILLS - SATIRE - THE JOY OF THE THEATRE - FOUR PLAYS - ADVENTUROUS LOVE (POEMS) - - - -MENDEL - -A STORY OF YOUTH -BY GILBERT CANNAN - - -LONDON -T. FISHER UNWIN LTD -ADELPHI TERRACE - - - -_First published in 1916_ - -(_All rights reserved_) - - - -_To D. C._ - -_Shall tears be shed because the blossoms fall, - Because the cloudy cherry slips away, - And leaves its branches in a leafy thrall - Till ruddy fruits do hang upon the spray?_ - -_Shall tears be shed because the youthful bloom - And all th'excess of early life must fade - For larger wealth of joy in smaller room - To dwell contained in love of man and maid?_ - -_Nay, rather leap, O heart, to see fulfilled - In certain joy th'uncertain promised glee, - To have so many mountain torrents spilled - For one fair river moving to the sea._ - - - -CONTENTS - -BOOK I: EAST - - PAGE -I. LONDON WHERE THE KING LIVES 11 -II. POVERTY 21 -III. PRISON 34 -IV. FIRST LOVE 52 -V. A TURNING-POINT 63 -VI. EDGAR FROITZHEIM AND OTHERS 74 -VII. THE DETMOLD 83 -VIII. HETTY FINCH 96 -IX. THE QUINTETTE 109 -X. MORRISON 134 - -BOOK II: BOHEMIA - -I. THE POT-AU-FEU 145 -II. LOGAN 156 -III. LOGAN SETS TO WORK 167 -IV. BURNHAM BEECHES 183 -V. HAPPY HAMPSTEAD 196 -VI. CAMDEN TOWN 209 -VII. MR. TILNEY TYSOE 221 -VIII. THE MERLIN'S CAVE 235 -IX. "GOOD-BYE" 247 -X. PARIS 259 - -BOOK III: THE PASSING OF YOUTH - -I. EDWARD TUFNELL 283 -II. THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 295 -III. SUCCESS 306 -IV. REACTION 320 -V. LOGAN GIVES A PARTY 331 -VI. REVELATION 346 -VII. CONFLICT 364 -VIII. OLIVER 382 -IX. LOGAN MAKES AN END 404 -X. PASSOVER 415 - - - -BOOK ONE - -EAST - - - -I - -LONDON WHERE THE KING LIVES - -THE boat-train had disgorged its passengers, who had huddled together -in a crowd round the luggage as it was dragged out of the vans, and -then had jostled their way out into the London they had been so long -approaching. When the crowd scattered it left like a deposit a little -knot of strange-looking people in brilliant clothes who stared about -them pathetically and helplessly. There were three old men who seemed -to be strangers to each other and a handsome Jewess with her -family--two girls and three boys. The two elder boys carried on their -backs the family bedding, and the youngest clung to his mother's -skirts and was frightened by the noise, the hurrying crowds of people, -the vastness and the ugly, complicated angular lines of the station. -The woman looked disappointed and hurt. Her eyes searched through the -crowds, through every fresh stream of people. She was baffled and -anxious. Once or twice she was accosted, but she could not understand -a word of what was said to her. At last she produced a piece of paper -and showed it to a railway official, who came up thinking it was time -these outlandish folk moved on. He could not read what was written on -it, for the paper was very dirty and the characters were crabbed and -awkwardly written. He turned to the old men, one of whom said -excitedly the only English words he knew--"London--Jewish--Society." -The official looked relieved. These people did not look like Jews, and -the eldest girl and the little boy were lovely. He went away, and the -woman, whose hopes had risen, once more looked disconsolate. The -little boy buried his face in her apron and wept. - -A suburban train came wheezing into the platform, which was at once -alive with hurrying men in silk hats and tail-coats. Catching sight of -the brilliantly attired group, the handsome woman and the lovely girl, -the boys with their heads bowed beneath the billowing piles of feather -bedding, some of them stopped. The little boy looked up with tears in -his eyes. One man put his hand in his pocket and threw down a few -coppers. Others followed his example, and the little boy ran after the -showering pennies as they bounced in the air, and rolled, span, and -settled. He danced from penny to penny and a crowd gathered; for, in -his bright jerkin and breeches and little top-boots, dancing like a -sprite, gay and wild, he was an astonishing figure to find in the -grime and ugliness of the station. Silver was thrown among the pennies -to keep him dancing, but at last he was exhausted and ran to his -mother with his fists full of money, and the men hurried on to their -offices. - -The official returned with an interpreter, who discovered that the -woman's name was Kühler, that she had expected to be met by her -husband, that she had come from Austrian Poland, and that the address -written on the piece of paper was Gun Street. The number was -indecipherable. - -The three old men were given instructions and they went away. The -interpreter took charge of the family and led them to a refuge, where -he left them, saying that he would go and find Mr. Kühler. With a roof -over her head and food provided for her children, Mrs. Kühler sat -stoically to wait for the husband she had not seen for two years. She -had no preconceived idea of London, and this bleak, bare room was -London to her, quite acceptable. The stress and the anxiety of the -detestable journey were over. This was peace and good. Her husband -would find her. He had come to make a home in London. He had sent for -her. He would come. - -Hours passed. They slept, ate, talked, walked about the room, and -still Mr. Kühler did not come. The peace of the refuge was invaded -with memories of the journey, the rattle, rattle, rattle of the -train-wheels, the brusque officials who treated the poor travellers -like parcels, the soldiers at the frontiers, the wet, bare quay in -Holland, the first sight of the sea, immense, ominous, heaving, -heaving up to the sky; the stinking ship that heaved like the sea and -made the brain oscillate like milk in a pan; the solidity of the -English quay, wet and bare, and of the English train, astonishingly -comfortable. . . . And still Mr. Kühler did not come. - -The girls were cold and miserable. The boys wrestled and practised -feats of strength with each other to keep warm, and looked to their -mother for applause. She gave it them mechanically as she sat by the -little boy, whom she had laid to sleep on the bedding. He would be -hungry, she thought, when he woke up, and she must get him food. There -was the money which had been thrown to him, but she did not know its -value. People do not throw much money away. At home people do not -throw even small money away. There such a thing could not happen. -There money, like everything else, avoids the poor. But this was rich -England, where it rained money. - -When the boy woke up she would go out and buy him something good to -eat, and if Mr. Kühler did not come to-morrow she would find some work -and a room, or a corner of a room, to live in. Perhaps Jacob had gone -to America again. He had been there twice, and both times suddenly. -People always went to America suddenly. He went out and bought a clean -collar, and said he was going and would send money for her as soon as -he had enough. . . . Poor Jacob, he could not endure their poverty and -he would not steal, but he would always fight the soldiers and the -bailiffs when they came to take the bedding. . . . The sea heaved, and -it rained money. The two boys began to fight, a sudden fury in both of -them. Their sisters rushed to part them and Mrs. Kühler rose. - -At the end of the long room she saw Jacob peering from group to group. -He looked white and ill, as he had done when he came again and again -to implore her to marry him, and she felt half afraid of him, as she -had done when the violent fury of love in him had broken down her -resistance and dragged her from her comfortable home to the bare life -he had to offer her. He came to her now with the same ungraciousness -that had marked his wooing, explained to her that he had just got a -job and could not get away to meet her, and turned from her to the -children. The boys were grown big and strong, and the eldest girl was -a beauty. He was satisfied, stooped and picked up little Mendel in his -strong arms. The child woke up, gave a little grunt of pleasure as he -recognized the familiar smell of his father, and went to sleep again. - -"He's heavy," said Mrs. Kühler. "You cannot carry him all the way." - -"His face is like a flower," said Jacob. - -He went first, carrying the boy, and his family followed him into the -roaring streets. The lamps were lit and the shops were dazzling. There -were barrows of fruit, fish, old iron, books, cheap jewellery, all lit -up with naphtha flares. The children were half frightened, half -delighted. The smells and the noise of the streets excited them. Every -now and then they heard snatches of their own language and were -comforted. They came to shops bearing Yiddish characters and London no -longer seemed to them forbiddingly foreign, though they began to feel -conscious of their clothes, which made them conspicuous. The boys -cursed and growled under the bedding and began to complain that they -had so far to go. Mr. Kühler found the child too heavy and had to put -him down. Mendel took his mother's hand and trotted along by her side. - -They turned into a darkish street which ran for some length between -very tall houses. It was obscure enough to allow the clear sky to be -seen, patched with cloud and deep blue, starry spaces. At the end of -it was a building covered with lights and illuminated signs. They -shone golden and splendid. Never had Mendel seen anything so glorious, -so rich, so dream-like, so clearly corresponding to that marvellous -region where all his thoughts ended, passed out of his reach, and took -on a brilliant and mighty life of their own, a glory greater than that -of the Emperor at home. But this was England and had only a King. - -"Does the King live there?" he asked his mother. - -"No; that is a shop." - -"Has father got a shop like that?" - -"Not yet." - -"Will he soon have a shop like that?" - -"Very soon." - -Mendel would have liked to have stood and gazed at the glorious, -glittering shop. He felt sure the King must buy his boots there, and -he thought that if he stayed long enough he would see the King drive -up in his crystal coach, with his crown on his head, and go into the -shop. But his father led the way out of the darkish street into -another that was still darker, very narrow, and flanked with little -low houses. One of these they entered, and in a small, almost -unfurnished room they had supper, and Mendel went to sleep hearing his -father say to his mother, "Thirteen shillings." Just before that his -father had held his hands out under the candle, and they were raw and -bleeding. - -* * * * * - -One room was luxury to them. At home in Austria they had had a corner -of a room, and the three other corners were occupied by the carpenter, -the stableman, and the potter. In the centre of the room stood the -common water-bucket and the common refuse-tub. London had showered -money on them and provided them with a whole room. They felt hopeful. - -Mr. Kühler made thirteen shillings a week polishing walking-sticks, -and when that trade was bad he could sometimes get work as a furrier. -He had intended to take his family over to America, but finding work -in London, he thought it better to stay there. Besides, he had a -grudge against America, for while there he had invented a device for -twisting tails of fur, but his invention had been stolen from him and -he had missed his chance of making a fortune. America was evil and -living was very dear. London was the more comfortable place for the -struggle. And in London he had found Abramovich, the friend of his -boyhood, the one creature in the world upon whom he relied. He had no -reason for his faith. Abramovich had never done him any good, but he -was not of those who pass. He might disappear for years, but he always -came back again, and time made no difference. He was always the same. -If help was needed he gave it, and if he needed help he asked for it. -Abramovich was a very strong reason for staying in London. . . . The -boys would soon be working and the eldest girl was a beauty. The -match-makers would be busy with her. Another two years, and the -match-makers would find her a rich man who would help them all and put -money into a business. That was Jacob's desire, to have a business of -his own, for he loathed working for another man. He could not do it -for long. Always he ended with a quarrel, perhaps with blows, or he -simply walked out and would not return. - -He was a devout Jew and despised Christians, as he despised luxury, -pleasure, comfort, not actively nor with any hatred. He simply did not -need them. He had lived without them, and he asked nothing of life. He -was alive; that was enough. Passions seized him and he followed them. -Without passion he never moved, never stirred a finger except to keep -himself alive. Passion had chosen his wife for him. Golda, the -beautiful, was his wife. In her he was bound more firmly to his race -and his faith, and there was no need to look beyond. He was rooted. -She had borne him children, but he had no more ambition for them than -for himself. Leah, the beauty, should wed a rich man, not for -ambitious reasons, but because, in life, beauty and riches were proper -mates. There is a certain orderliness about life, and certain things -can only be prevented by an irruption of passion. If that happens, -then life takes its revenge and becomes hard and bleak, but it is -still life, and only a fool will complain. Jacob never complained, and -he took his Golda's reproaches in silence, unless she became unjust, -and then he silenced her brutally and callously. She bore with him, -because she prized his honesty, his steadfast simplicity, and because -she knew that his passion had never wakened a profound answer in -herself. She had very slowly been roused to love, which had flowered -in her with the birth of her youngest child, in whom she had learned a -power of acceptance almost equal to her husband's. Like him, she clung -to her race and her faith and never looked beyond. - -In London she found that she was left alone and her life was no longer -hemmed in by a menacing world of soldiers and police and peasants, who -swore the Jews cheated them and spread terrifying tales of Jewish -practices upon Christian children. Christian London was indifferent to -the Jews, and she could be indifferent to Christian London. She had no -curiosity about it and never went above a mile from her house. She -made no attempt to learn English, but could not help gleaning a few -words from her children as they picked it up at school. The synagogue -was the centre of her life, and from it came all the life she cared to -have outside her family. She was absorbed in little Mendel, by whom -her world was coloured. If he was happy, that was sunshine to her. If -he was oppressed and tearful, her sky was overcast. If he was ill, it -seemed to her a menace of the end. - -He was a strange child and very slow in growing into a boy. The other -children had seemed to shoot into independence almost as soon as they -could walk. But Mendel clung to her, would not learn to feed himself, -and would not go to sleep at night unless she sang to him and rocked -him in the cradle, in which he slept even after he went to school. As -long as he could curl up in it he slept in his cradle, and he made her -learn as much as she could of an English song which had caught his -fancy. It was the only English song she ever knew, and night after -night she had to sing it over and over again as she rocked the heavy -cradle:-- - - Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do; - I'm half crazy, all for the love of you. - -She had no idea what the words meant, but the boy loved the tune and -her funny accent and intonation, and even when she was ill and tired -she would sing him to sleep, and then sit brooding over him with her -fingers just touching his curly hair. And in her complete absorption -in his odd, unchildlike childhood she was perfectly content, and -entirely indifferent to all that happened outside him. Brutal things, -terrible things happened, but they never touched the child, and if she -could, she hid the knowledge of them from him. - -Abramovich collected a little capital and persuaded Mr. Kühler to join -him in a furrier's business. They were not altogether unsuccessful, -and Mr. Kühler took a whole house in Gun Street and bought a piano, -but soon their capital was exhausted and they had given more credit -than they were accorded and the business trickled through their -fingers. Mr. Kühler took to his bed, for he could sleep at will and -almost indefinitely, and so could avoid seeing poverty once more -creeping up like a muddy sea round his wife and children. It had been -bad enough when that happened at home, where at the worst there were -his relations to help, and there were the potato fields to be -despoiled, and, at least, the children could be happy playing in the -roads or by the river, or on the sides of the mountain. But here in -London poverty was black indeed, and there was no one but Abramovich -to help, and he was in almost as bad case as himself. Yet -astonishingly Abramovich came again and again to the rescue. He was a -little squat, ugly man, the stunted product of some obscure Russian -ghetto, and he seemed to live by and for his enthusiasm for the Kühler -family. In their presence he glowed, greedily drank in every word that -Jacob or Golda said, and was always loud in his praises of the -beautiful children. . . . "The sky is dark now," he used to say, "but -they will be rich, and they will give you horses and carriages, and -Turkey carpets, and footmen, and flowers in the winter, and they will -bring English gentlemen to the house and what you want, that you shall -have. . . ." "I want nothing," Jacob would say. "I want nothing. I -will work and be my own master. I will not steal or help other men to -steal." "You wait," Abramovich would reply. "These children have only -to go out into London and all will be given to them." - -Only the eldest girl listened to these conversations, and she used to -hold her head high, and her face would go pale as ferociously she -followed up the ideas they suggested to her. - -But Abramovich could bring no consolation. Jacob would not go back to -the stick-polishing, and at last he could bear it no longer, went out -and bought a clean collar, clipped his beard, and without a word of -farewell, went to America. - - - -II - -POVERTY - -THEN followed, for Golda, the blackest years of her life. She removed -once more to one room in Gun Street, and she and the two boys earned -enough to keep body and soul together. She found work in other -people's houses, helped at parties, and when nothing else was -available she went to a little restaurant to assist as scullery-maid, -and stayed after closing-time to scrub the tables and sweep the floor. -For this she was given crusts of bread and scraps from the plates. She -never had a word from her husband, and she knew she would not hear -unless he made money. If he failed again, as of course he would, he -would live in silence, solitary, proud, avoiding his fellow-men, who -would have nothing to do with him except he made the surrender of -dignity which it was impossible for him to make. She would not hear -from him, and he would return one day unannounced, without a word, as -though he had come from the next street; and as likely as not he would -have given the coat off his back to some one poorer than himself. -. . . Jacob was like that. He would give away on an impulse things -that it had cost him weeks of saving to acquire. Low as he stood in -the world, he seemed always to be looking downwards, as though he -could believe in what came up from the depths but not in anything that -went beyond him. Golda could not understand him, but she believed in -him absolutely. She knew that he suffered even more than she, and she -had learned from him not to complain. The Jews had always suffered. -That was made clear in the synagogue, where, in wailing over the -captivity in Babylon, Golda found a vent for her own sorrows. She -would weep over the sufferings of her race as she wept for those who -were dead, her father and her mother, and her father's father and her -little brother, on the anniversary of their death. However poor she -might be she had money to buy candles for them, and whatever the cost -she kept the observances of her religion. - -So she lived isolated and proud, untouched by the excitements her -children found in the houses of their friends and in the streets. - -Very wild was the life in the neighbourhood of Gun Street. There were -constant feuds between Jews and Christians, battles with fists and -sticks and stones. Old Jews were insulted and pelted by Christian -youths, and the young Jews would take up their cause. There were -violent disputes between landlords and tenants, husbands and wives, -prostitutes and their bullies. Any evening, walking along Gun Street, -you might hear screaming and growling in one of the little houses. -Louder and louder it would grow. Suddenly the male voice would be -silent, the female would rise to a shriek, the door would open, and -out into the street would be propelled a half-naked woman. She would -wail and batter on the door, and, if that were of no avail, she would -go to the house of a friend and silence would come again. . . . Or -sometimes a door would open and a man would be shot out to lie limp -and flabby in the gutter. - -Harry, the second boy, took to this wild life like a duck to water. He -practised with dumb-bells and learned the art of boxing, and so -excited Mendel with his feats of strength that he too practised -exercises and learned to stand on his hands, and cheerfully allowed -his brother to knock him down over and over again in his ambition to -learn the elements of defence and the use of the straight left. In -vain: his brain was not quick enough, or was too quick. His hands -would never obey him in time, but he dreamed of being a strong man, -the strongest man in the world, who by sheer muscle should compel -universal admiration and assume authority. - -In the family the child's superiority was acknowledged tacitly. He had -his way in everything. He wanted such strange things, and was adamant -in his whims. If he were not allowed to do as he wished, he lay on the -ground and roared until he was humoured; or he would refuse to eat; or -he would go out of the house with the intention of losing himself. As -he was known all through the neighbourhood for his beauty that was -impossible. He was an object of pride to the neighbours, and whenever -he was found far from home, there was always some one who knew him to -take him back. But Golda could not realize this, and she suffered -tortures. - -The boy loved the streets and the shops, the markets with their -fruit-stalls and fish-barrows, the brilliant colours in Petticoat -Lane. He would wander drinking in with his eyes colour and beauty, -shaking with emotion at the sight of the pretty little girls with -their little round faces, their ivory skins, and their brilliant black -eyes. Ugliness hurt him not at all. It was the condition of things, -the dark chaos out of which flashed beauty. But cruelty could drive -him nearly mad, and he would tremble with rage and terror at the sight -of a woman with a bloody face or a man kicking a horse. - -He had a friend, a Christian boy, named Artie Beech, who adored him -even as Abramovich adored his father. Golda was alarmed by this -friendship, thinking no good could come out of the Christians, and she -tried to forbid it, but the boy had his way, and he loved Artie Beech -as a child loves a doll or a king his favourite. Together the two boys -used to creep home from school gazing into the shop windows. One day -they saw a brightly coloured advertisement of a beef extract: a -picture of a man rending a lion. "It will make you stronger than a -lion," said Mendel. "Yes," said Artie, "one drop on the tip of your -tongue." "I would be stronger than Harry if I ate a whole bottle," -replied Mendel, and they decided to save up to buy the strength-giving -elixir. It took them seven weeks to save the price of it. Then with -immense excitement they bought the treasure, took it home, and, -loathing the taste of it, gulped it down and tossed a button for the -right to lick the cork. Feeling rather sick, they gazed at each other -with frightened eyes, half expecting to swell so that they would burst -their clothes. But nothing happened. Mendel took off his coat and felt -his biceps and swore that they had grown. Artie took off his coat: -yes, his biceps had grown too. - -They went through the streets with growing confidence, and at school -they were not afraid. Mendel's new arrogance led him into the only -fight he ever had and he was laid low. Aching with humiliation, he -shunned Artie Beech and went alone to gaze at the picture of the man -rending the lion. It took him a week of hard concentrated thought to -realize that the picture and its legend were not to be taken -literally, and his close study led him to another and a strangely -emotional interest in the picture. His eyes would travel up the line -of the man's body along his arms to the lion's jaws, and then down its -taut back to its paws clutching the ground. The two lines springing -together, the two forms locked, gave an impression of strength, of -tremendous impact, which, as the boy gazed, became so violent as to -make his head ache. At the same time he began to develop an appetite -for this shock, and unconsciously used his eyes so as to obtain it. It -would sometimes spring up in him suddenly, without his knowing the -cause of it, when he watched his mother sitting with her hands folded -on her stomach, or cooking with her hand--her big, strong, working -hand--on a fish or a loaf of bread. - -One day in Bishopsgate, that lordly and splendid thoroughfare which -led from the dark streets to the glittering world, he came on a man -kneeling on the pavement with coloured chalks. First of all the man -dusted the stones with his cap, and then he laid another cap full of -little pieces of chalk by his side, and then he drew and smudged and -smudged and drew until a slice of salmon appeared. By the side of the -salmon he drew a glass of beer with a curl of froth on it and a little -bunch of flowers. On another stone he drew a ship at sea in a storm, a -black and green sea, and a brown and black sky. Mendel watched him -enthralled. What a life! What a career! To go out into the streets and -make the dull stones lovely with colour! He saw the man look up and -down and then lay a penny on the salmon. A fine gentleman passed by -and threw down another penny. . . . Oh, certainly, a career! To make -the streets lovely, and immediately to be rewarded! - -From school Mendel stole some chalk and decorated the stones in the -yard at Gun Street. He drew a bottle and an onion and a fish, though -this he rather despised, because it was so easy. Always he had amused -himself with drawing. As a tiny child, the first time his father went -to America, he drew a picture of a watch to ask for that to be sent -him, and this picture had been kept by his mother. And after that he -often drew, but chiefly because it made his father and mother proud of -him, and they laughed happily at everything he did. The pavement -artist filled him with pride and pleasure in the doing of it: and -every minute out of school and away from the Rabbi he devoted to -drawing. His brothers bought him a box of colours, and he painted -imaginary landscapes of rivers and swans and cows and castles. Every -picture he made was treasured by his mother. They seemed to her, as -they did to himself, perfectly beautiful. He used his water-colours as -though they were oils, and laid them on thick, to get as near the -pavement artist's colours as possible. At school there were -drawing-lessons, but they seemed to have no relation to this keen -private pleasure of his. - -In the evenings he would lie on the ground in the kitchen and paint -until his eyes and his head ached. Sometimes his perpetual, silent -absorption would so exasperate his brothers that they would kick his -paints away and make him get up and talk to them. Then he would curse -them with all the rich curses of the Yiddish language, and rush away -and hide himself; for days he would live in a state of gloom and dark -oppression, feeling dimly aware of a difference between him and them -which it was beyond his power to explain. He would try to tell his -mother what was the matter with him, but she could not understand. His -happiness in painting, the keen delight that used to fill him, were to -her compensation enough for her anxiety and the stress and strain of -her poverty. - -His little local fame procured her some relief. At school he won a -prize accorded by vote for the most popular boy. This had amazed him, -for he had very little traffic with the others, and during playtime -used to stand with his back to the wall and his arms folded, staring -with unseeing eyes. When his sister asked one of the boys why Mendel -had won the vote, the answer she received was: "He _can_ draw." As a -result his brothers were helped and his mother was able to get work as -a sempstress. They were relieved from the poverty that paralyses. They -could go from day to day and carry their deficit from week to week. -They could afford friends, and the visits of friends on a ceremonious -basis, and Abramovich was always trying to interest rich men in the -wonderful family. - -It was Abramovich who bought Mendel his first box of oil-paints, not -so much to give the boy pleasure as with the idea that he might learn -to paint portraits from photographs. That, however, was not in the -boy's idea. He abandoned his imaginary landscapes and began to paint -objects, still in the manner of the pavement artist, thrilled with the -discovery that he could more and more exactly reproduce what he saw. -He painted a loaf of bread and a cucumber so like the originals that -Abramovich was wildly excited and rushed off to bring Mr. Jacobson, a -Polish Jew, a timber-merchant and very rich, to see the marvel. - -Mendel was unprepared. He sat painting in the kitchen with his mother -and Lotte, his younger sister. Abramovich and Mr. Jacobson came in. -Jacobson was ruddy, red-haired, with a strange broad face and a flat -nose, almost negroid about the nostrils. He wore a frock-coat, a white -waistcoat with a cable-chain across it, and rings upon his fingers. -Mendel had a horror of him, and was overcome with shyness. Mr. -Jacobson put on his spectacles, stared at the picture. "Ye-es," he -said. "That bread could be eaten. That cucumber could be cut and put -into the soup. The boy is all right. Eh? Ye-es, and a beautiful boy, -too." Mendel writhed. Golda was almost as overcome with shyness as he. -In silence she produced all the boy's drawings and pictures and laid -them before the visitors. Abramovich was loud in his praises, but not -too loud, for he knew that Mr. Jacobson loved to talk. And indeed it -seemed that Mr. Jacobson would never stop. He stood in the middle of -the room and wagged his fat, stumpy hands and held forth:-- - -"In my country, Mrs. Kühler, there was once a poor boy. He was always -drawing. Give him a piece of paper and a pencil and he would draw -anything in the world. The teacher at school had to forbid him to -draw, for he would learn nothing at all. So one day the teacher could -not find that boy. And where do you think they find him? Under the -table. The teacher pulled him out and found in his hand a piece of -paper--a piece of paper. The teacher looked down at the piece of paper -and fainted away. The boy had drawn a picture of the teacher so like -that he fainted away. Well, when the teacher came to himself, he said: -'Boy, did you do that?' 'Yes,' said the boy, 'I did that.' 'Then, said -the teacher, 'I will tell you what you must do. You must paint a -portrait of the King and take it to the King, and he will give you -money, and carriages, and houses, and rings, and watches, for you and -your father, and your uncles and all your family. Ahin and aher. The -boy did that. He painted a portrait of the King and he took it to the -palace. He went to the front door and knock, knock, knock. A lady -opened the door and she said: 'What do you want, little boy?' 'I want -to see the King. I have something to show him.' 'I am the Queen,' said -the lady. 'You can show it to me.' The boy showed the picture and the -Queen fainted away. The servants and the King came running in to see -what had happened, and they stood like stone. 'Who did that?' said the -King. 'I did,' said the boy. 'I don't believe him,' said the King. -'Shut him up for a day and a night, give him paint and brushes, and we -will see what he can do.' Well, they shut the boy up for a day and a -night, and in the morning the door was opened and the King and the -Queen came in. The King took off his hat and put it on the table and -it fell to the ground. That boy had painted a picture of a table so -like that the King thought it was a real table and tried to put his -hat on it. It is true, and the boy painted the King's portrait every -Saturday until he died, and he had houses and money and footmen and -statues in his garden, and his father and mother drove in their -carriages and wore sables even in the summer. And some day, Mrs. -Kühler, we shall see you in your carriage and this boy painting the -portrait of the King." - -The story was received in silence. The emotions it aroused in Golda -and her son were so profound, so violent that they were dazed. The -tension was relieved by a giggle from Lotte, who knew that kings do -not wear hats. Mendel sat staring at his picture, which, try as he -would, he could not connect with the story. - -Abramovich said: "I told you so, Mrs. Kühler. I told you something -would come of it." Already he was convinced that Mendel only had to go -out into London to make the family's fortune. - -But Golda replied: "There's time enough for that, and don't go putting -ideas into the boy's head." - -There was no danger of that. Mendel's was not the kind of head into -which ideas are easily put. He was slow of comprehension, powerful in -his instincts, and everything he perceived had to be referred to them. -School was to him a perfectly extraneous experience. What he learned -there was of so little use to any purpose of which he was conscious, -and it could not be shared with his mother. To her schooling was the -law of the land. A strange force took her boy from her every day and, -as it were, imprisoned him. When he was fourteen he would be free. She -must endure his captivity as she had learned to endure so much else. - -When Mr. Jacobson had gone she said: "There have been boys like that, -and a good boy never forgets his father and mother." - -Mendel looked puzzled and said: "When _I_ drew a picture of teacher he -caned me." - -"Caned you?" cried Golda, horrified. - -"He often does." - -"Thrashed you!" cried Golda; "on the hands?" - -"No," replied Mendel, "on the seat and the back." - -Golda made him undress, and she gave a gasp of anger when she saw the -weals and bruises on his back. "But what did you do?" she cried. - -"I don't know," answered Mendel. This was true. At school he would -suddenly find the teacher towering over him in a fury; he would be -told to stay behind, and then he would be flogged. He had suffered -more from the humiliation than from the pain inflicted. He could never -understand why this fury should descend upon him out of his happy -dreams. And now as his mother wept over the marks upon his body the -suffering in him was released. All the feeling suppressed in him by -his inability to understand came tearing out of him and he shook with -rage. He could find no words to express these new emotions, which were -terrible and frightened him. - -Lotte came up and felt the weals on his back with her fingers, and she -said: "They don't do that to girls." - -"Be quiet, Lotte," said Golda. "Don't touch him. You will hurt him." -And she stood staring in amazement at the boy's back. "That's an awful -mess," she said to herself, and her thoughts flew back to men who had -been flogged by the soldiers in Austria. But this was England, where -everybody was left alone. She could not understand it. She did not -know what to do. The boy could not be kept from school, for they would -come and drag him to it. There were often dreadful scenes in Gun -Street when children were dragged off to school. She made Lotte sit at -the table and write: "Please, teacher, you must not beat my son. His -back is like a railway-line, and it is not good to beat children." She -could think of no threat which could intimidate the teacher, no power -she could invoke to her aid. Her powerlessness appalled her. She -signed the letter and thought she would go to the Rabbi and ask him -what she must do. "Yes," she said, "the Rabbi will tell me, and -perhaps the Rabbi will write to the teacher also." She could feel the -torture in the boy, and she knew that it must be stopped. It was all -very well to knock Harry or Issy about. They could put up with any -amount of violence. But Mendel was different. With him pain went so -deep. That was what made it horrible. He was like a very little child. -It was wicked to hurt him. His silence now was almost more than she -could bear. - -There came a knock at the door. Lotte went to open it and gave a -little scream. It was her father come back from America. He came into -the room, not different by a hair from when he went away; thinner, -perhaps, a little more haggard and hollow under the eyes, so that the -slight squint in his right eye, injured to avoid conscription, was -more pronounced. He came in as though he had returned from his day's -work, nodded to his wife, and looked at the boy's back. - -"Who has done that?" he asked. - -"At school," replied Golda. "The teacher." - -Jacob took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, picked up a chair and -smashed it on the floor. Mendel put on his shirt and coat again and -said: "It is like when you knocked the soldier over with the glass." - -Jacob gave a roar: "Ah, you remember that? Ah! yes. That was when I -had the inn near the barracks. He was an officer. Two of them came in. -They were drunk, the swine! The man made for your mother and the -officer for your sister. The glasses were big, with a heavy base. I -took one of them . . ." - -"And the man spun round three times and fell flat on the floor," said -Mendel. - -"Ah! you remember that? Yes. And I lifted him out into the street and -left him there in the snow. I was a strong man then. I wanted nothing -from them, but if they touch what is mine . . . !" He seized Mendel -and lifted him high over his head. He was tremendously excited and -could not be got to sit down or to talk of his doings in America or of -his voyage. That was his way. He would talk in his own time. His -doings would come out piecemeal, over years and years. Now he was -entirely absorbed with his fury. He was nearly ill with it and could -not eat. Up and down the room he walked, lashing up his rage. Mendel -was sent to bed, and until he went to sleep he could hear his father -pacing up and down and his mother talking, explaining, entreating. - -Next morning Mendel had almost forgotten the excitement and went to -school as usual. In the middle of an arithmetic lesson in walked -Jacob, very white, with his head down. He went quickly up to the -teacher and spoke to him quietly. The class was stunned into silence. -Jacob raised his fist and the teacher went down. Jacob picked him up, -shook him, and threw him into a corner. Then he shouted: "You won't -touch my boy again!" shook himself like a dog, and walked out, closing -the door very quietly. The teacher hurried out and did not return. The -class slowly recovered from its astonishment, shrill voices grew out -of the silence like a strong wind, and books and inkpots began to fly. -Soon the walls were streaked and spattered with ink and when it became -known that it was Kühler's father who had done it, Mendel found -himself a hero. But he took no pride in it. He was haunted by the -teacher's white, terrified face. He had always thought of the teacher -as a nice man. The thrashings inflicted on him had always seemed to -him impersonal and outside humanity altogether. Yet because it was his -father who had thrashed the teacher he accepted it as right. At home -his father, even in his absence, was the law, and could do no wrong. -The violent scene seemed to Mendel to have nothing to do with himself, -and he resented having become the centre of attention. - -The head master hurried in, quelled the class, went on with the lesson -where it had been interrupted. Mendel could not attend. He was -bewildered by a sudden realization of life outside himself. It was no -longer a procession of events, figures, scenes, colours, shapes, light -and darkness passing before his eyes, always charming, sometimes -terrifying, but something violent which met another something in -himself with a fearful impact. It could hurt him, and he knew that it -was merciless, for the thing in himself that answered to it and rushed -out to meet it was wild and knew no mercy either. He had heard of a -thing called the maelstrom in the sea, a kind of spout, with whirling -sides, down which great ships were sucked. And he felt that he was -being sucked down such a spout, in which he could see all that he had -ever known, the mountain and the river in Austria, the train, the -telegraph wires, towns, buses, faces, the street, the school, Artie -Beech, Abramovich, his father. . . . Only his mother stood firm, and -from her came a force to counteract that other force which was -dragging him towards the whirlpool. - -He became conscious of the discomfort in which he lived and was -acutely aware of the people by whom he was surrounded. - - - -III - -PRISON - -THIS time in America Jacob had fared better, and by dint of -half-starving himself and sleeping when he had nothing to do, he had -managed to save over fifty pounds. Abramovich borrowed another fifty, -and once again they set up in business as furriers. They took one of -the old Georgian houses off Bishopsgate, started a workshop in the top -rooms, and in the lower rooms the Kühler family lived, with Abramovich -in lodgings round the corner. They were only twenty yards from the -synagogue and Golda was happy; Jacob too, for in such a house he felt -a solid man. And, indeed, amid the extreme poverty with which they -were surrounded he could pass for wealthy. He had his name on a brass -plate on the door and was always proud when he wrote it on a cheque. -He took his eldest son into his workshop to rescue him from the fate -of working for another master, and he assumed a patriarchal authority -over his family. His sons were never allowed out after half-past nine, -and, tall youths though they were, if they crossed his will he -thrashed them. The girls were forbidden to go out alone. They were -kept at home to await their fate. - -The eldest boy flung all his ardour into dancing, and was the champion -slow waltzer of the neighbourhood. With egg-shells on his heels to -show that he never brought them to the ground, he could keep it up for -hours and won many prizes. Harry scorned this polite prowess. For him -the romance of the streets was irresistible: easy amorous conquests, -battles of tongues and fists, visits to the prize-ring, upon which his -young ambition centred. A bout between a Jew and a Christian would -lead to a free-fight in the audience, for the Jews yelled in Yiddish -to their champion, and the British would suspect insults to them or -vile instructions, and would try to enforce silence . . . And Harry -would bring gruff young men to the house, youths with puffy eyes and -swollen or crooked or broken noses, and he would treat them with an -enthusiastic deference which found no echo in any member of the family -save Mendel, who found the world opened up to him by Harry large and -adventurous, like the open sea stretching away and away from the -whirlpool. - -There was one extraordinarily nice man whom Harry brought to the -house. His name was Kuit, and he had failed as a boxer and had become -a thief, a trade in which he was an expert. His talk fascinated -Mendel, and indeed the whole family. None could fail to listen when he -told of his adventures and his skill. He had begun as a pickpocket, -plying his trade in Bishopsgate or the Mile End Road, and to show his -expertise he would run his hands over Jacob's pockets without his -feeling it, and tell him what they contained. Or he would ask Golda to -let him see her purse, and she would grope for it only to find that he -had already taken it. He had advanced from picking pockets to the -higher forms of theft: plundering hotels or dogging diamond merchants, -and he was keenly interested in America. It was through him that the -family knew the little that was ever revealed to them of Jacob's -doings there. - -Kuit said he would go to America and not return until he had ten -thousand pounds, all made by honest theft, for he would only rob the -rich, and, indeed, he was most generous with his earnings, and gave -Golda many handsome pieces of jewellery, and he lent Jacob money when -he badly needed it. That, however, was not Jacob's reason for -admitting Kuit to his family circle. He liked the man, was fascinated -by him, and thought his morals were his own affair. He knew his race -and the poor too well to be squeamish, and never dreamed of extending -his authority beyond his family. He warned Harry that if he took to -Kuit's practices he would no longer be a son of his, and as the -accounts of prison given to Harry by some of his acquaintances were -not cheering, Harry preferred not to run any risks. Instead, he -devoted himself to training for the glory of the prize-ring. - -For Mendel the moral aspect of Kuit's profession had been settled once -and for all by his seeing the Rabbi with his face turned to the wall, -in the middle of the most terrible of prayers, filch some pennies from -an overcoat. Religion therefore was one thing, life was another, and -life included theft. Kuit was the only man who could think of painting -apart from money, and it was Kuit who gave him a new box of oil -colours, stolen from a studio which he broke into on purpose, and _en -passant_ from one rich house in Kensington to another. Kuit used to -say: "One thing is true for one man and another for another. And what -is true for a man is what he does best. For Harry it is boxing, for -Issy it is women and dancing, and for Mr. Kühler it is being honest. -For me it is showing the business thieves that they cannot have things -all their own way, and outwitting the police. Oh yes! They know me and -I know them, but they will never catch me." - -So charming was Mr. Kuit that Jacob could not object to taking care -from time to time of the property that passed through his hands, and -the kitchen was often splendid with marble clocks and Oriental china -and Sheffield plate, which never looked anything but out of place -among the cheap oleographs and the sideboard with its green paper -frills round the flashing gilt china that was never used. The kitchen -was the living-room of the house, for Jacob only ate when he was -hungry, and it was rarely that two sat down to a meal together. - -As often as not Mendel had his paints on the table, and the objects he -was painting were not to be moved. He clung to his painting as the -only comfort in his distress, and he would frequently work away with -his brushes though he could hardly see what he was at, and knew that -he was entirely devoid of the feeling that until the discomfort broke -out in his soul had never failed him. He dared not look outside his -circumstances for comfort, and within them was the most absolute -denial of that cherished feeling for loveliness and colour. Beyond -certain streets he never ventured. He felt lost outside the immediate -neighbourhood of his home, and only Mr. Kuit reassured him with the -confidence with which he spoke of such remote regions as Kensington -and Bayswater and Mayfair. The rest clung to the little district where -the shops and the language and the smells were Jewish. Yet there, too, -Mendel felt lost, though he had an immense reverence for the old Jews, -for the Rabbis who pored all day long over their books, and the -ancient bearded men who, like his mother, could sit for hours together -doing nothing at all. He loved their tragic, wrinkled faces and their -steadfast peace, so stark a contrast to the chatter and the wrangling -and the harshness that filled his home. - -There were constant rows. Harry upset the household for weeks after -his father forbade him to pursue his prize-fighting ambitions. Jacob -would not have a son of his making a public show of himself. To that -disturbance was added another when Issy began to court, or was courted -by, a girl who was thought too poor and base-born. If he was out a -minute later than half-past nine Jacob would go out and find him at -the corner of the street with the girl in his arms. Issy would be -dragged away. Then he would sulk or shout that he was a man, and Jacob -would tell him in a cold, furious voice that he could go if he liked, -but, if he went, he must never show his face there again. For a time -Issy would submit. Poor though the home was, he could not think of -leaving it except to make another for himself. But there was no -keeping the girl away, and he would be for ever peeping into the -street to see if she were there, and if she were he could not keep -away from her. - -Leah, the eldest girl, had her courtships too. The match-makers were -busy with her, and a number of men, young and old, were brought to -view her. She was dressed up to look fine, and Jacob and Golda would -sit together to inspect the suitors, and at last they chose a huge, -ugly Russian Jew, named Moscowitsch--Abraham Moscowitsch, a -timber-merchant, who had pulled himself up out of the East End and had -a house at Hackney. He was a friend of Kuit's and was willing to take -the girl without a dowry. Leah hid herself away and wept. It was in -vain that Golda, primed by Jacob, told her that she would be rich, and -would have servants and carriages, and could buy at the great shops: -she could not forget the Russian's bristling hair and thick lips and -coarse, splayed nostrils. The tears were of no avail; the marriage had -been offered and accepted. The wedding was fixed, and nothing was -spared to make it a social triumph. The bride was decked out in -conventional English white, with a heavy veil and a bouquet: and very -lovely she looked. Jacob wore his first frock-coat and a white linen -collar, Golda had a dress made of mauve cashmere, with a bodice -heavily adorned with shining beads, and Mendel had a new sailor suit -with a mortar-board cap. There were three carriages to drive the party -the twenty yards to the synagogue. The wedding group was photographed, -and a hall was taken for the feast and the dance in the evening. The -wedding cost Jacob the savings of many years and more, but he grudged -not a penny of it, because he had a rich son-in-law and wished it to -be known. There were over fifty guests at the feast. - -Within a week Leah came home again, pale, thin, and shrunken. -Moscowitsch had been arrested. He had gone bankrupt and had done -"something with his books." - -"Bankrupt!" said Jacob; "bankrupt!" - -He stood in front of his weeping daughter and beat against the air -with his clenched fists. She moaned and protested that she would never -go back to him. Jacob shook her till her teeth chattered together. - -"You dare talk like that! He is your husband. You are his wife. It is -a misfortune. You should be with the lawyers to find out when you can -see him. I am to lose everything because he is unfortunate! A dog will -not turn from a man in his misery, and must a woman learn from a dog? -You are a soft girl! Go, I say, and find out when you can see him. Was -ever a man so crossed by Fate! Where I go, there luck takes wings." - -His violence shook Leah out of the dazed misery in which she had come -home, having no other idea, no other place to which to go. Jacob was -at first for making his daughter wait in her new home until her -husband was returned to her. His simple imagination seized on the idea -and visualized it. It seemed to him admirable, and Golda had hard work -to shake it out of his head. As a piece of unnecessary cruelty he -could not realize it, but when it was brought home to him that he -would have to pay the rent of the house in Hackney, he yielded and -allowed the girl to stay at home. - -Moscowitsch was sentenced to six months' imprisonment, and a gloom, -such as not the darkest days of poverty had been able to create, -descended upon the house. Jacob was ashamed and irritable. He insisted -upon the most scrupulous observance of all the rites of his religion, -and he forbade Mendel to paint. Painting had nothing to do with -religion and he would have none of it. He trampled on Mendel's -friendship with Artie Beech. The Christian world of police and judges -and the law had destroyed his happiness, and not the faintest smell of -Christendom should cross his door. Friction between the father and his -two sons was exasperated, and it seemed to Mendel that Hell was let -loose. He was nearly of an age to leave school, and he dreamed by the -hour of the freedom he would have when he went to work. He would go -out early in the morning and come home late in the evening. He would -stay in the streets and look at the shops and watch the girls go by. -He would go one day out beyond London to see what the world was like -there. He would find a place where there were pictures, and he would -feast on them: for when he went to work he would paint no more, since -painting would be shed with the miserable childhood that was so fast -slipping away from him. - -Yet a worse calamity was to happen. Once again the Christian world of -police, law, and judges was to invade the home of the Kühlers, and -this time it was Jacob himself who was taken. He was charged with -receiving stolen goods. A detective-inspector and two constables -invaded the house and took possession of an ormolu clock, a number of -silver knives, and a brooch which Mr. Kuit had given to Golda. Five of -Mr. Kuit's friends had been arrested, but Mr. Kuit himself was not -implicated. He paid for the defence of the prisoners and took charge -of the Kühler family, transferred the business into Issy's name, and -advanced money to keep it going. He spared neither time nor trouble to -try to establish Jacob's innocence, but it looked almost as though -some one else was taking an equal amount of trouble to prove his -guilt, for every move of Mr. Kuit's was countered, and Jacob himself -was so bewildered and enraged that he could not give a coherent answer -to the questions put to him. He babbled and raved of an enemy who had -done this thing, of a rival who had plotted his ruin, but as he could -not give a satisfactory account of the articles found in his -possession, his passionate protestations and his fanatical belief in -his own honesty were of no avail. From the dock in which he was placed -with Mr. Kuit's other friends he delivered a vehement harangue in -broken English, not more than ten words of which were intelligible to -the judge and jury. The judge was kindly, the jury somnolent. Jacob -was the only member of the party with a clean record, and he received -the light sentence of eighteen months; the rest had double that term -and more. In the Sunday papers they were described as a dangerous -gang, and their portraits were drawn like profiles on a coin by an -artist whose business it was to make villains look villainous for the -delectation of the sober millions who tasted the joys of wickedness -only in print. Golda was staggered by the blank indifference of the -world to her husband's honesty. His word to her was law, but the judge -and the newspapers swept it aside, and he was regarded as one with the -wicked men whose crooked dealings had involved the innocent. This was -the worst disaster that had ever broken upon her: husband and -son-in-law both swept away from her, as it seemed now, in one moment. -The sympathy she received from the neighbours touched her profoundly, -and she accepted their view that the sudden abstraction of male -relatives was a natural calamity, like sickness or fire. Thanks to Mr. -Kuit the business would be kept together, and thanks to Abramovich she -never lacked company. That faithful friend would come in in the -evenings and go over the trial, every moment of which he had heard, -and recount every word of Jacob's speech, which to him was a piece of -magnificent oratory. "Not a tear was left in my eyes," he said. "Not a -throb was left in my heart, and the judge was moved, for his face sank -into his hands and I could see that he knew how unjust he must be." -And he spent many days ferreting out a villain to be the cause of it -all, some inveterate, implacable enemy who had plotted the downfall of -the most honest man in London. He fixed on a certain Mr. Rosenthal, -who years ago had tried to sell them machines for the business when -they had already bought all that were necessary. He was quite sure it -was Mr. Rosenthal who had bribed the thieves to hold their tongues, -when any one of them could have cleared Jacob in a moment. And Golda -believed that it was Mr. Rosenthal and dreamed of unattainable acts of -revenge. - -Mendel used to listen to them talking, and their voices seemed to him -to come from very far away. The upheaval had stunned him, had -destroyed his volition and paralysed his dreams. He felt as though a -tight band were fixed round his head. He had neither desire nor will. -The world could do as it liked with him. If the world could suddenly -invade his home and brand its head and lawgiver as thief, then the -world was empty and foolish and it did not matter what happened. It -amazed him that his brothers and sisters could go about as usual: that -Harry could come home and talk of prize-fighters and sit writing to -girls, and that Issy could go out to meet his Rosa at the corner of -the street. It was astonishing that his mother could still cook and -they could still eat, and that every morning Harry could go down and -open the door to let in the workpeople to clatter up the stairs. . . . -And Harry disliked getting out of bed in the morning. In his father's -absence he ventured to apply his considerable ingenuity to the -problem, and rigged up a wire from his bed to the knob of the -front-door. Nor was this the only sign of the removal of the centre of -authority from the family, for Issy actually brought his girl Rosa to -the house and made his mother be pleasant to her. . . . Golda felt -that her children were growing beyond her, and she thought it was time -Issy was thinking of getting married, though not to Rosa, whose father -was a poor cobbler and could give her no money. - -At regular intervals. Golda swallowed down her dread of the busy -streets and went to Pentonville, where through the bars of the -visitors'-room Jacob received her report and gave his instructions. He -decreed against Rosa, who accordingly was forbidden to enter the house -again. He had orders for every one of his children except Mendel, as -to whom Golda did not consult him. Deep in her inmost heart she was in -revolt against her husband, for she had begun to see that he had -carried pride to the point of folly, and all her hopes, all her -dreams, all her ambitions were centred upon her darling boy. Her -ambitions were not worldly. She knew nothing at all about the world, -and did not believe three parts of what she heard of it. Only she -longed for him to escape the bitterness and bareness that had been her -portion. The boy was so beautiful and could be so gay and could dance -so lightly, and would sometimes be so tempestuous and masterful. It -would be a sin if he were to be cramped over a board or were sent to -work in a tailoring shop. She herself had a love of flowers and of -moonlight and the stars shining through the smoky sky, and she would -sometimes find herself being urged to the use of strange words, which -would make Mendel raise his head and cock his ears as though he were -listening to the very beat of her heart. To that no one in the world -had ever listened, and her life seemed very full and worthy when -Mendel in his childish fashion was awake to it. . . . Pentonville -seemed to suit Jacob. He looked almost fat and said the cocoa was very -good. - -The time came for Mendel to leave school and Issy said he had better -be taken into the workshop. Harry wanted him in the timber-yard in -which he loafed away his days. Abramovich was for getting Mr. Jacobson -to take him into his office, for Mr. Jacobson never failed to ask -after the boy who painted the pictures. Now it so happened that Mendel -had found a bookshop, outside which he had discovered a life of W. P. -Frith, R.A. In daily visits over a period of three weeks he had read -it from cover to cover, the story of a poor boy who had become an -artist, rising to such fame that he had painted the portrait of the -Queen. There it was in print, and must be true. Mr. Jacobson's boy was -only in a story, but here it was set down in a book, with -reproductions of the artist's wonderful pictures--"The Railway -Station," "Derby Day." The book said they were wonderful. The book -spoke with reverence and enthusiasm of pictures and the men who -painted them. - -With tremulous excitement he secretly produced his box of paints -again, and squeezed out the colours on to the plate he used for a -palette. He adored the colours and amused himself with painting smooth -strips of blue, yellow, green, red, orange, grey, for the sheer -delight of handling the delicious stuff. It was a new pleasure, the -joy of colours in themselves without reference to any object, or any -feeling inside himself except this simple thrilling delight. He could -forget everything in it, for it was his first taste of childish glee. -Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing could ever again so -oppress and overwhelm him as distasteful and even pleasant things had -done in the past. He would be an artist, a wonderful artist, like W. -P. Frith, R.A. - -So when he was called into the kitchen one night and they told him he -was to go into Mr. Jacobson's office, he looked as though their words -had no meaning for him, and he said:-- - -"I want to be an artist." - -An artist? Nobody knew quite what that meant. Golda thought it meant -painting pictures, but she could not imagine a man devoting all his -time to it--a child's pastime. - -"He means the drawing!" said Abramovich. "I had a friend at home who -used to paint the flowers on the cups." - -"I'm going to be an artist," said Mendel. - -"But you've got to make your money like everybody else," replied Issy. - -Mendel retorted with details of what he could remember of the career -of his idol. Issy said that was a _Christlicher kop._ There weren't -such things as Jewish artists; whereon Harry threw in the word -"Rubinstein." Asked to explain what he meant, he did not know, but had -just remembered the name. - -Abramovich said he thought Rubinstein was a conductor at the Opera, -and there were Jewish singers and actors. - -"My father," said Harry, "won't hear of that. He won't have a son of -his making a public show of himself." - -Mendel by this time was white in the face, and his eyes were glaring -out of his head. He knew that not one of them had understood his -meaning, and he felt that Issy was bent on having his way with him. He -was in despair at his helplessness, and at last, when he could endure -no more, he flung himself down on the floor and howled. Issy lost his -temper with him, picked him up, and carried him, kicking and biting, -upstairs, and flung him on his bed. - -The subject was dropped for a time, but Mendel refused to eat, or to -sleep, or to leave the house. He was afraid that if he put his nose -outside the door Abramovich would pounce on him and drag him off to -Mr. Jacobson's office. - -However, the matter could not be postponed for long, because money was -very scarce and the boy must be put into the way of providing for -himself. Golda asked Abramovich to find out what an artist was and how -much a week could be made at the trade. Abramovich came in one evening -with a note-book full of facts and figures. He had read of a picture -being sold for tens of thousands of pounds, and this had made a great -impression on him. Mendel was called down from the room in which he -had exiled himself. - -"Well?" said Abramovich kindly. "So you want to be an artist? But -how?" - -"I don't know. I shall paint pictures." - -"But who will feed you? Who will buy you paints, brushes?" - -"I shall sell my pictures." - -"Where, then? How?" - -"To the shops." - -"Where are the shops? Tell me of any shop near here, for I don't know -a single one." - -Again Mendel felt that they were too clever for him, and he was on the -brink of another fit of despair when, fortunately for him, Mr. -Macalister, a commercial traveller in furs, came in. When he was in -London he made a point of calling on the Kühlers, whom he liked, much -as he liked strong drink. He was a man of some attainments, a student -of Edinburgh, who had found the ordinary walks and the ordinary people -of life too tame for his chaotic and vigorous temper, and he went from -place to place collecting just such strange people as these Polacks, -as he used to call them. He looked for passion in men and women, and -accepted it gratefully and even greedily wherever he found it. . . . -He had red hair and a complexion like a white-heart cherry, with -little twinkling eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. - -He kindled at once to the passion with which Mendel was bursting, -stooped over Golda's hand and kissed it--for he knew that was how -foreigners greeted a lady--and then he sat heavily waiting for the -situation to be explained to him. Mendel instinctively appealed to -him. . . . Oh yes! he knew what an artist was, and some painters had -made tidy fortunes, though they were not the best of them. There were -Reynolds, and Lawrence, and Raeburn, and Landseer, and some young -fellows at Glasgow, and Michael Angelo--a tidy lot, indeed. Never a -Jew, that he had heard of. - -"I told you so!" said Abramovich. - -Golda showed Mr. Macalister the boy's pictures, and he was genuinely -impressed, especially by a picture of three oranges in a basket. - -"It's not," he said, "that they make you want to eat them, as that -they make you look at them as you look at oranges. I'll look closer at -every orange I see now. That's talent. Yes. That's talent. Aye." - -Mendel was so grateful to him that he forgot the others and began to -point out to him how well the oranges were painted, with all their -fleshiness and rotundity brought out. And very soon they were all -laughing at him, and that made the meeting happier. - -Mr. Macalister explained that in old days artists used to take boys -into their studios, but that now there were Schools of Art where only -very talented people could survive. He certainly thought that Mendel -ought to be given a chance, and if it were a question of money, he, -poor though he was, would be only too glad to help. Golda would not -hear of that, and Abramovich protested that, in an unhappy time like -this, he regarded himself as the representative of his unfortunate -friend. - -The corner was turned. Feeling was now all with Mendel, and he went to -bed singing in head and heart: "I'm an artist! I'm an artist! I'm an -artist!" - -* * * * * - -So the ball was set rolling. Jacob, seen behind the bars, raised no -objection. He had had time to think, and, to the extent of his -capacity, availed himself of it. When he was told that his youngest -son wanted to be an artist and wept at the suggestion of anything -else, he thought: "Who am I to say 'Yea' or 'Nay'?" and he said "Yea." -"Let the boy have a little happiness while he may, for the Christians -are very powerful and will take all that he cherishes from him." - -The question of ways and means was considered, and here Abe -Moscowitsch took charge. His business had prospered during his -enforced absence, and his bankruptcy had been very profitable. He was -a decent man, and anxious to make amends to his young wife and her -family for the trouble his adventurousness had brought on them. To -please her he took a new house with bow-windows and a garage, and to -please them he jumped at the opportunity of helping Mendel, and -offered to pay his fees at a School of Art. When the boy heard this he -ran to his brother-in-law's office and, before all his workmen, flung -his arms round his neck and embraced him. - -"That'll do. That'll do," said Moscowitsch. "Don't forget us if you're -a rich man before I am." - -"I shall never leave home," said Mendel. "I shall never marry. I shall -live all my days with my mother, painting." - -There arose the difficulty that no one had ever heard of a School of -Art. Mr. Macalister was deputed to look into the matter. He inquired, -and was recommended to the Polytechnic as being cheap and good, and -the Polytechnic was decided on. - -Mr. Kuit came in at the tail of all this excitement, and added to it -by saying that he was just off to America, first-class by the Cunard -Line, for he was going to start in style, live in style, and come back -in style. He was delighted to hear of the brilliant future opening up -before Mendel, and told wonderful stories of famous pictures that had -been stolen, cut out of their frames and taken away under the very -noses of the owners. He was wonderfully overdressed, not loudly or -vulgarly, but through his eagerness to be and to look first-class. He -produced a pack of cards and showed how he could shuffle them to suit -himself, and three times out of five, through the fineness of the -touch, he could "spot" a card. He was a wonderful man. The Kühlers -gaped at him, and Moscowitsch, in emulation, was led on to brag of his -smartness in business, and how he had thrice burned down his -timber-yard and made the insurance people pay up. Yet, though he -warmed up as he boasted, he lacked the magic of Mr. Kuit and could not -conceal the meanness of his deeds behind their glamour. He lumbered -along like a great bear behind Mr. Kuit, and was vexed because he -could not overtake him, and when the glittering little Jew, who seemed -more magician than thief, said he would give Mendel a new suit of -clothes for his entry into the world of art, Moscowitsch promised to -provide a new pair of boots. Mr. Kuit countered with two new hats, -Moscowitsch with underclothes. On they went in competition until -Mendel was magnificently equipped, and at last Moscowitsch laid two -new sovereigns on the table and said they were for the boy's -pocket-money. Not to be outdone, Mr. Kuit produced a five-pound note -and gave it to Golda to be put into the Post Office Savings Bank. - -In her inmost heart Golda was alarmed. For the first time she began to -realize the vast powerful London with which she was surrounded. At -home, in Austria, people stole because they were poor, because they -were starving. She herself had often sent Harry and Issy out into the -market with a sack and a spiked stick with which to pick up potatoes -and cabbages and bread, but here the old simplicity was lacking. The -swagger and the magnitude of Mr. Kuit's operations and her -son-in-law's frauds alarmed her, and she felt that no good could come -of it. They belonged to some power which moved too fast for her, and -it was being invoked for Mendel, her youngest-born, her treasure. -Truly it was a black day that took Jacob from her. Where he was, there -was simplicity. Everything was kept in its place when he was in -authority. Everything was kept down on the earth. There was the good -smell of the earth in all his dealings, all his emotions. Never in him -was the easy fantastic excitement of Kuit and Moscowitsch . . . They -were mad. Surely they were mad. Their excitement infected everybody. -Golda could feel it creeping in her veins like a poison. It came from -the world to which these men belonged, the world of prison. That one -word expressed it all for Golda. She had only been out into it to go -to the prison, and to her that seemed to be the cold empty centre of -it all. The bustle and glitter of the streets led to the prison, and -she had always to fight to get back into her own life, where things -were simple and definite--ugly, maybe--but clear and actual. . . . And -now into that world of hectic excitement playing about the prison and -about Mendel was to go, to be she knew not what, to learn to play with -brushes and colours, to practise tricks which seemed to her not -essentially different from Mr. Kuit's sleight with the cards. She was -sure no good could come of it; but for the present the boy had his -happiness, and to that she yielded. - - - -IV - -FIRST LOVE - -FOR Mendel every day became romantic, though he suffered tortures of -shyness and used to bolt like a rabbit through the doors of the -Polytechnic, rush upstairs to his easel, and never raise his eyes from -it except to gaze at the objects placed before him. He worked in a -frenzy, convinced that it was his business to translate the object on -to the canvas. When he had done that he felt that the object had no -further existence. It ought to vanish as completely as his consuming -interest in it. As a matter of fact, it never did vanish, but it was -lost in the praises of Mr. Sivwright, and the young women and old -ladies who attended the class. The first task set the class after he -joined it was a ginger-beer bottle, of which his rendering was -declared to be a marvel, even to the high light on the marble in the -neck of the bottle. - -He was rather small for his age and was almost absurdly beautiful, -with his curly hair, round Austrian head, and amusing pricked ears. -His eyes were set very wide apart. They were blue. His nose was -straight, and very slightly tip-tilted, and his lips were as -delicately modelled as the petals of a rose. They were always -tremulous as he shrank under the vivid impressions that poured in on -him in bewildering profusion. He began to grow physically and -spiritually, though not at all mentally, and he lived in a state of -bewilderment, retaining shrewdness enough to cling to the necessary -plain fact that he was at the school to be a success, for if he failed -he would sink back into the already detestable world inhabited by Issy -and Harry. - -He created quite a stir at the school. Mr. Sivwright, a Lancashire -Scotsman, whose youthful revolt against commerce and grime had carried -him in the direction of art only so far as the municipal school, said -he was an infant prodigy and made a show of him. To Mendel's disgust -Mr. Sivwright assured the other pupils that he was a Pole. This was -his first intimation that there was, in the splendid free Christian -world, a prejudice against Jews. He was rather shocked and disgusted, -for never in his life had he found occasion to call anything by other -than its right name. It took him weeks to conquer his shyness -sufficiently to protest. - -"I am a Jew," he said to Mr. Sivwright. "Why do you call me a Pole?" - -"Well," said Mr. Sivwright, "there's Chopin, you know, and Paderewski, -don't you know, and Kosciusko, and the Jews don't stand for anything -but money. And, after all, you do come from Poland." - -"But I am a Jew." - -"You don't look it, and there's some swing about being a Pole. There's -no swing about being a Jew. It stops dead, you know. I don't know why -it is, but it stops dead." - -The words frightened Mendel. How awful it would be if he were to stop -dead, to reach the Polytechnic and to go no further! - -He was soon taken beyond the Polytechnic, for Mr. Sivwright led him to -the National Gallery and showed him the treasures there. The boy was -at once prostrate before Greuze. Ah! there were softness, tenderness, -charm: all that he had lacked and longed for. It was in vain that Mr. -Sivwright took him to the Van Eycks and the Teniers and the Franz -Hals, striking an attitude and saying: "Fine! Dramatic! That's the -real stuff!" The boy would return to his Greuze and pour out on the -pretty maidens all the longings for emotion with which he was filled, -and the yearning seemed to him to be the irresistible torrent of art -which carried those who felt it to the pinnacles of fame. . . . Yet he -knew that Mr. Sivwright was a shoddy failure of a man, and he knew -that Mr. Sivwright's ecstasies were forced and had small connection -with the pictures before him. He also knew that he had not the least -desire to paint like Greuze, but he could not resist the fascination -of the pretty maidens and the gush of feeling he had in front of them. -The Italians he did not understand and Velasquez and El Greco repelled -him. Also, the pictures as a whole excited him so that they ran into -each other and he could not extricate them, and Greuze became his -stand-by. He felt safe with Greuze. - -Every day he used to go home and tell his mother of the day's doings, -from the moment when he mounted the bus in the morning to the time -when he walked home in the evening. He gave her minute accounts of all -the people in the class, of the cheap restaurant where he had lunch, -of the marvels of the streets: the old women selling flowers at Oxford -Circus; the gorgeous shop-windows; the illuminated signs and -advertisements, green, red, and yellow; the theatres; the posters of -the comic men outside the music-halls; the rich people in their -motor-cars; the marvellous ladies in their silks and their furs; the -poor men selling matches; the scarlet soldiers and blue sailors; the -big policemen who stopped the traffic with their white hands; the -awful, endless desolation of Portland Place, with trees--actually -trees--at the end of it; the whirl, the glitter, the roar, the -splendour of London. And he used to mimic for her the strange people -he saw, the mincing ladies and the lordly shopwalkers, the tittering -girls and the men working in the streets. The more excited he was the -more depressed was Golda. What was it all for? Why could not people -live a decent quiet life? Why was all this whirligig revolving round -the prison? . . . But she smiled and laughed and applauded him, and -believed him when he said none of the Christians could draw as well as -he. - -He began to win prizes. It became his whole object to beat the -Christians. What they told him to paint he would paint better than any -of them. And by sheer will and concentration he succeeded. - -Mr. Sivwright said there was no holding him, and very soon declared he -had nothing more to learn. - -This was taken by Mendel and his family to mean that he was now an -artist. In all good faith he established himself in a room below the -workshop at home, called it his studio, and set to work. For a few -months he painted apples, fish, oranges, portraits of his mother, -brothers, and sisters, and for a time was able to sell them among his -acquaintance. He had one or two commissions for portraits and could -always make a few shillings by painting from photographs. But -appreciation of art among his own people was limited; he soon came to -an end of it, and there was that other world calling to him. Art lay -beyond that other world. He felt sure of that. It lay beyond Mr. -Sivwright. If he stayed among his own people he would stop dead; for -he knew now that it was true that the Jews stopped dead. - -And then to his horror he stopped. For no reason at all his skill, his -enthusiasm, his eagerness left him. He forced himself to paint, -transferred innumerable idiotic faces from photographs to cigar-box -lids, made his mother neglect her work to sit to him, bribed Lotte to -be his model, but hated and loathed everything that he did. He was -listless, sometimes feverish, sometimes leaden and cold. Often he -thought he was going to die--to die before anything had happened, -before anything had emerged from the chaos of his painful vivid -impressions. - -To make things worse, his father came home and said that he would give -him six months in which to make his living, and at the end of that -time, if he had failed, he would have to go into the workshop. - -He felt hopeless. He went to see Mr. Sivwright and poured out his woes -to him, who wrote a letter to Jacob saying that his son was a genius -and would be one of the greatest of painters. Jacob said: "What is a -genius? I do not know. I know what a man is, and a man works for his -living. In six months, if you can make fifteen shillings a week I will -believe in this painting. If not, what is there to believe? What will -you do when you are to marry, heh? Tell me that. Will your little -tubes of paint keep a wife, heh? Tell me that." - -Mendel could say nothing. He could do nothing. He gave up even trying -to paint, for he might as well have played with mud-pies. He borrowed -money from his brothers and prowled about the streets, and went to the -National Gallery. Greuze meant nothing to him now. He began to feel, -very faintly, the force of Michael Angelo, but the rest only filled -him with despair. He knew nothing--nothing at all. He could not even -begin to see how the pictures were painted. They were miraculous and -detestable. . . . He went home and comforted himself with a little -picture of some apples on a plate. He had painted it two years before -in an ecstasy--a thrilling love for the form, the colour, the texture -of the fruit and the china. It was good. He knew it was good, but he -knew he could do nothing like it now--never again, perhaps. - -And how disgusting the streets had become! Such a litter, such a -noise, such aimless, ugly people! He could understand his mother's -horror of them. Ah! she never failed him. To her his words were always -music, his presence was always light. Half-dead and miserable as he -was, she could know and love the aching heart of him that lived so -furiously behind all the death and the misery and the ashes of young -hopes that crusted him. She was like the sky and the trees. She was -like the young grass springing and waving so delicately in the wind. -She was like the water and the rolling hills. . . . He had discovered -these things at Hampstead, whither he had gone out of sheer -aimlessness. He had never been in the Tube, and one day, with a -shilling borrowed from Harry, it seemed appropriate to him to plunge -into the bowels of the earth. The oppression of the air, the roar of -the train, the flash of the stations as he moved through them, suited -his mood, fantastic and futile. He got out at Hampstead. - -It was his first sight of the country. He could hardly move at first -for emotion. He found himself laughing, and he stooped and touched the -grass tenderly, almost timidly, as though he were afraid of hurting -it. He was fearful at first of walking on it, but that seemed to him -childish, and he strode along with his quick, light-footed stride and -lost himself in the willow groves. He made a posy of wild-flowers and -took them back to his mother, carrying them unashamedly in his hand, -entirely oblivious of the smiles of the passers-by. He knew he could -not tell his mother of the happiness of that day, and the flowers -could say more than any words. - -Yet the happiness only made his misery more acute. He suffered -terribly from the pious narrowness of his home, the restricted, -cramped life of his brothers and sisters, who seemed to him to be -stealing such life as they had from the religious observances to which -they were bound by their father's rigid will. Prayers at home, prayers -in the synagogue: the dreadful monotony of the home, of the talk, of -the squabbles: human life forced to be as dull as that of the God who -no longer interfered in human life. . . . There was a tragedy in the -street. There had been a scandal. A young Rabbi, a gloriously handsome -creature, who sang in the synagogue, had fallen in love with a little -girl of fourteen who lived opposite the Kühlers. Golda had watched the -intrigue from her windows, and she said it was the girl's fault. The -Rabbi used to go every day when her father was out and she used to let -him in. Jacob wrote to the girl's father, and the Rabbi left his -lodgings and took a room over a little restaurant round the corner. He -had his dinner and went upstairs and sat up all night singing, in his -lovely tenor voice, love songs and religious chants, so sweetly that -the neighbours threw their windows open and there was a little crowd -of people in the street listening. And in the morning they found him -with his throat cut. - -"It was the girl's fault," said Golda, but Jacob said: "A man should -know better than to melt when a little girl practises her eyes on -him." - -This tragedy relaxed the nervous strain which had been set up in -Mendel by his troubles. New forces stirred in him which often made him -hectic and light-headed. Women changed their character for him. They -were no longer soothing ministrants, but creatures charged with a -mysterious, a maddening charm. He trembled at the rustle of their -skirts and his eyes were held riveted by their movements. He was -suffocated by his new curiosity about them. - -Sometimes, in his despair over his painting and the apparently -complete disappearance of his talent, he would fill in the day in his -father's workshop, stretching rabbit-skins on a board. Girls and men -worked together, busily, quietly, dexterously, for the most part in -silence, for they were paid by the piece and were unwilling to waste -time. There was a girl who had just been taken into the workshop to -learn the trade. She was small and plump and swarthy, but her face was -beautiful, the colour of rich old ivory. Her eyes were black and -golden from a ruddy tinge in her eyelashes. Her lips were full and -pouting, and she had long blue-black hair, which she was always -tossing back over her shoulder. When Mendel was there she rarely took -her eyes off him, and even when her head was bent he could feel that -she was watching him. - -He waited for her one evening, and with his knees almost knocking -together he asked if she would come to his studio and let him draw -her. With a silly giggle she said she would come, and she ran away -before he could get out another word. - -The next evening he waited in his studio for her, but she did not -come. So again the next and the next, and it was a whole week before -she knocked at the door. He pulled her in. Neither could speak a word. -At last he stammered out: - -"I--I haven't got my drawing things ready." - -"I don't mind," she said, and she gave a little shiver. - -"Are you cold?" he asked, and he touched her neck. - -She threw up her head, seemed to fall towards him, and their lips met. - -Thrilling and sweet were the hours they spent, lost in the miracle of -desire, finding themselves again, laughing happily, weeping happily, -breaking through into the enchanted world, where the few words that -either knew had lost their meaning. They were hardly conscious of each -other. They knew nothing of each other, and wished to know nothing -except the lovely mystery they shared. It was some time before he even -knew her name, or where she lived, or what her people were. She -existed for him only in the enchantment she brought into his life, in -the release from his burden, in the marvellous free life of the body. -Royal he felt, like a king, like a master, and she was a willing -slave. From home she would steal good things to eat, and she would sit -with shining eyes watching him eat; and then she would wait until he -had need of her. . . . Strange, silent, happy hours they spent, free -together in the dark little room, free as birds in their nest, happy -in warm contact, utterly quiescent, utterly oblivious. . . . - -Soon their silence became oppressive to them, but neither could break -it, so far beyond their years and their childish minds was the -experience in which they were joined. When the first ecstasy passed -and they became conscious and deliberate in their delight, they had -unhappy moments, to escape from which he began to draw her. Into this -work poured a strong cool passion altogether new to him, a joy so -magnificent that he would forget her altogether. He was tyrannical, -and kept her so still that she would almost weep from fatigue and -boredom. But he was not satisfied until he had drawn every line of -her, and had translated her from the world of the body to the world of -vision and the spirit. He knew nothing of that. He was only concerned -to draw her as he had drawn the ginger-beer bottle at the Polytechnic. -Certain parts of her body--her little budding breasts and her round -arms--especially delighted him, and he drew them over and over again. -Her head he drew twenty times, and he found a shop in the West End -where he could sell every one. And each time he bought her a little -present. - -She was not satisfied with that. She wanted to display him to her -friends. She wanted him to take her to music-halls and to join the -parade of boys and girls. He refused. That would be profanation. He -and she had nothing to do with the world. He and she were the world. -Outside it was only his drawing. He could not see that she was unable -to share it. Did he not draw her? Did he dream of drawing anything but -her? . . . . To go from that to restaurants, the lascivious -pleasantries of the streets, the garish music-halls, was to him -unthinkable. - -She said he cared more for his drawing than for her, and indeed he -would sometimes draw for a couple of hours and then kiss her almost -absent-mindedly, just as she was going. He was so happy and satisfied -and could not imagine her being anything less, or that she might wish -to express in music-halls and "fun" what he expressed in his work. - -He felt gloriously confident, and naïvely told his mother how happy he -was. Everything had come back. He could draw better than ever. He -would be a great artist. - -Once more he took to painting in the kitchen. The studio was dedicated -to the girl, Sara, who came to him in spite of her disappointment. He -had spoiled her for other boys. - -He painted all day long in the kitchen, and his life became ordered -and regular. He went for a walk in the morning, then worked all day -long until the workpeople began to clatter downstairs, when he would -pack up his paint-box and run up to the studio to wait for Sara to -come tapping softly at his door. - -Golda was overjoyed at his new happiness and the budding manhood in -him, but she knew that this springtime of his youth could not be -without a cause. She knew that he was in love and was fearful of -consequences, and dreaded his being fatally entangled. She kept watch -and saw Sara stealthily leave the house hours after the other -workpeople had gone. She told Jacob, and Sara was dismissed and -forbidden ever to come near the house again. - - - -V - -A TURNING-POINT - -AT first Mendel hardly noticed the passing of Sara. He waited -anxiously for her to come, but when she never appeared he went on -working, only gradually to discover that the first glorious impulse -had faded away. However, the habit of regular work was strong with -him, and he could go on like a carpenter or a mason or any other good -journeyman. But there was no one to buy what he produced, and his -father began to talk gloomily and ominously of the workshop. - -"Never!" said Mendel. "If I am not a great artist by the time I am -twenty-three I will come and work. If I have done nothing by the time -I am twenty-three I shall know that I am no good." - -"I can see no reason," said Jacob, "why you should not work like any -other man and paint in your spare time. Issy is a good dancer in his -spare time, and Harry is good at the boxing. Why should you not paint -in your spare time and work like an honest man?" - -Mendel turned on his father and rent him. - -"You do not know what work is. You work with your hands. Yes. But do -you ever work till your head swims, and your eyes ache because they -can see more inside than they can outside? If I cannot paint I shall -die. I shall be like a bird that cannot sing, like a woman that has no -child, like a man that has no strength. I tell you I shall die if I -cannot paint." - -"Yes, he will die," said Golda. "He will surely die." - -"He will die of starvation if he goes on painting," replied Jacob. - -"And if you had not been able to sleep you would have died of -starvation for all that work ever did for you," cried Golda, convinced -that Mendel was speaking the truth. - -Shortly before this crisis Mendel had discovered a further aspect of -the Christian world. A good young man from an Oxford settlement had -heard of him and had sought him out. This young man's name was Edward -Tufnell. He was the son of a rich Northern manufacturer, and he -believed that the cultured classes owed something to the masses. He -believed there must be mute, inglorious Miltons in the slums, and that -they only needed fertilization. When, therefore, he heard of the poor -boy who sat in his mother's kitchen painting oranges and fish and -onions, he was excited to bring the prodigy within reach of culture. -He made him attend lectures on poetry and French classes. These duties -gave Mendel a good excuse for escaping from home in the evenings, and -he attended the classes, but hardly understood a word of what was -said. He liked and admired Edward Tufnell, who was very nearly what he -imagined a gentleman to be--generous and kind, and quick to appreciate -the human quality of any fellow-creature, no matter what his outward -aspect might be. Edward Tufnell treated Golda exactly as he would have -treated an elderly duchess. - -To Edward Tufnell, therefore, Mendel bore his difficulty, and Edward -took infinite pains and at last, through his interest with the Bishop -of Stepney, procured him a situation in a stained-glass factory, where -he was set to trace cartoons of the Virgin Mary and S. John the -Baptist and other figures of whom he had never heard. But, though he -had never heard of them, yet he understood that they were figures -worthy of respect, and it shocked him to hear the workmen say: "Billy, -chuck us down another Mary," or "Jack, heave up that there J. C. -. . ." He was acutely miserable. To draw without impulse or delight -was torture to him, and he could not put pencil to paper without a -thrill of eagerness and desire, which was immediately baffled when his -pencil had to follow out the conventional lines of the stained-glass -windows. And the draughtsmen with whom he worked were empty, -foul-mouthed men, who seemed to strive to give the impression that -they lived only for the mean pleasures of the flesh. They knew -nothing, nothing at all, and he hated them. - -He was paid five shillings a week, and was told that if he behaved -himself, by the time he was twenty or twenty-one he would be making -thirty shillings a week. Jacob was very pleased with this prospect, -and told his unhappy son that he would soon settle down to it, and he -even began to upbraid him for not painting in the evenings. Mendel -could not touch his brushes. He tried hard to think of himself as an -ordinary working boy, and he endeavoured to pursue the pleasures of -his kind. He went with Harry to boxing matches and joined him in the -raffish pleasures of the streets, which, however, left him weary and -disgusted. He had known something truer and finer, and he could not -help a little despising Harry, who pursued girls as game, and directly -they were kindled and moved towards him he lost interest in them, and, -indeed, was rather horrified by them. - -Strange in contrast was Mendel's relation with Edward Tufnell, who was -entirely innocent and could see nothing in his protégé but a touching -sensitiveness to beauty. The urchin with his complete and unoffended -knowledge of the life of the gutter was hidden from him. Edward found, -and was rejoiced to find, that the boy was sensitive to intellectual -beauty and to ideas. He gave him poetry to read--Keats and the odes of -Milton--and was very happy to explain to him the outlines of -Christianity and the difference that the coming of Christ had made to -the world. He did not aim at making a convert, but only at feeding the -boy's appetite for tenderness and kindness and all fair things. Mendel -was striving most loyally to be resigned to his horrible fate, and the -teachings of Christ seemed to fortify his endeavour. When, therefore, -he asked if he might read the New Testament, Edward lent it to him -without misgiving. - -The result was disastrous. Mendel pored over the book and it seemed to -let light into his darkness. He read of the conversion of S. Paul and -his own illumination was apparently no less complete. The notion of -holding out the other cheek appealed to him, for he felt that the -whole world was his enemy. It had insulted him with five shillings a -week, and if he were meek it would presently add another five. . . . -And then what a prospect it opened up of a world where people loved -each other and treated each other kindly and lived without the rasping -anger and suspicion and jealousy that filled his home. - -He went to the National Gallery and began to understand the Italians. -He would become a Christian and paint Madonnas, mothers suckling their -children, with kindly saints like Edward Tufnell looking on. Yet the -new spirituality jarred with his life at home and was not strong -enough to combat it. That life contained a quality as essential to him -as air. It stank in his nostrils, but it was the food of his spirit -and he could not, though his new enthusiasm bade him do it, -sentimentalize his relation with his mother. Her relation with his -father forbade it, and his father cast a shadow over the greater life -illuminated by the figure of Christ. Yet because of the pictures he -could not abandon the struggle, and he tried to find support by -proselytizing Harry. That roisterer had begun to find his life very -unsatisfying, and he gulped down the new idea simply because it was -new. He got drunk on it, refused to go to the synagogue, and performed -a number of acts that he thought Christian, as wasting his money on -useless and hideous presents for his mother and sisters. Also he took -a delight in talking of the Messiah, and ascribed all the misfortunes -of the family to its adherence to an exploded faith. - -Jacob was furious. This soft Christian nonsense was revolting to him. - -"Say another word," he shouted, "say another word and I turn you out -of the house. Jeshua! I will tell you. In America it has been proved, -absolutely proved in a court of law, that this Jeshua was nothing -better than a pimp. It was proved by a very learned Rabbi before a -Christian judge, and when the judge saw that it was proved he broke -down and wept like a woman." - -"I've only your word for it," said Harry, already rather dashed. - -"I tell you I've seen it in print. If you like I will send for the -book to America." - -Harry held his peace. That settled it for him, and even Mendel was -shaken by the storm his Christian inclinations had let loose. - -"The Christians are liars," said Jacob. "Every one of them is a liar, -and they eat filth." - -There was a passion of belief in his father which Mendel could not but -honour, and that other faith, so far as he knew, was held but mildly. -It was charming in its results, but its spirit was unsatisfying to him -who had been bred on stronger fare. All the same, his attitude towards -his father's authority was changed. His simple acceptance was shaken, -and he was in revolt against the repression of his dearest desires -enjoined by it. His tongue was loosed and he began to talk -enthusiastically to Edward Tufnell about his ambitions. - -"I beat them all at the school," he used to say, "and I would never -let anybody beat me. I can see more clearly than anybody. I can see -colour where they can see none, and shadows where they can see none. -And when I have painted them, then they can see them." - -He was entirely unconscious in his egoism, and Edward was so generous -a creature that he was not shocked or offended by it. He was a Quaker -and as simple in his faith as a peasant, and he was young enough to -know how difficult it was for the boy to expose his thoughts. After he -had listened to his outpourings he would lead the boy on to talk of -his experiences at the stained-glass factory. Mendel had a wonderful -gift of vivid narration. Everything was so real to him, he had no -reason to respect anything in the outside world unless it compelled -the homage of his instinct, and in his broken Cockney English he could -give the most dramatic descriptions of everything he saw and did. When -he was engaged upon such tales, helping them out with wonderful -mimicry, he had no shyness and laid bare his feelings as though they -were also a part of the external scene. - -Edward knew nothing at all about painting, but he could respond to -quality in a human being, and he recognized that here was no ordinary -boy. His first impulse was to rescue him from his surroundings, -support him, send him to school. But what a Hell that would be for the -sensitive foreigner brought face to face with the ruthless force of an -ancient tradition! Edward himself had suffered enough from being such -an oddity as a Quaker, but to send this Jew, who had learned nothing -and had none but his natural manners, to a Public School would be an -act of cruelty. Besides, the boy would not hear of being parted from -his mother, whom he was never tired of praising. He told Edward quite -solemnly that his mother had said things far more beautiful than -anything in Keats or Milton and that no book could ever have held -anything more moving than her descriptions of the life at home in -Austria, with the Jews in their gaberdines with their long curls -hanging by their ears, and the foolish peasants in their bright -clothes, and the splendid officers who clapped children into prison if -they splashed their great shining boots with mud. . . . As he listened -Edward felt more and more convinced that it was his duty not to allow -this rich nature to be swallowed up in the grey squalor of the slums. -He had begun his philanthropic work believing that Oxford had much to -give to the poor, and he had come in time to realize that the world of -which Oxford was the romantic symbol stood sorely in need of much that -the poor had to give. Mendel confirmed and strengthened an impression -which had for some time been disturbing Edward's peace of mind. He -felt that if he could help the boy he would be translating his -perception into action. - -He discussed the matter with his friends, who smiled at his solemnity. -"Dear old Edward" was always a joke to them, so seriously did he take -the problems with which he was faced. They said that, of course, if -the boy was a genius he would find his way out and would be all the -greater for the struggle. Edward protested that young talent was -easily snuffed out, but again they laughed and said that if it were so -then it was no great loss. Edward then said that the boy had a fine -nature which might easily be crippled by evil circumstances. That they -refused to believe either, and Edward made no progress until he told -his tale to a rich young Jew who had lately come to the settlement. -This young man, Maurice Birnbaum, was at once fired. His father was a -member of a committee for aiding young Jews of talent. With Edward he -swooped down on the Kühlers in his motor-car, and Golda showed him all -her son's work, from the watch he drew at the age of three to a study -of Sara's breasts. Birnbaum knew no Yiddish, and Golda scorned a Jew -who could not speak the language of his race. He was also extremely -gauche and talked to her rather in the manner of a parliamentary -candidate canvassing for votes. He patronized her and told her that -her son had talent, but that she must not expect Fortune to wait on -him immediately. "A Christian Jew!" said Golda scornfully when he had -gone. "He stinks of money and shell-fish. If you are going to eat -pork, eat till the grease runs down your chin." And she had a sudden -horror that Mendel might grow like that, all flesh and withered, -uneasy spirit. She felt inclined to destroy all the pictures, and when -Mendel came in she told him of her visitor and of her alarm, and he -reassured her, saying: "What I am I will always be, for without you I -am nothing. . . ." It was only from Mendel that Golda had such -sayings. No one else ever acknowledged in words her quality or her -power for sweetness in their lives, and she was terrified at the -thought of his going. The big motor-car would come and take him and -all his pictures away, she imagined, and he would be swept up into -glittering circles of which alone he was worthy, though they were -quite unworthy of him. And some rich woman would be enraptured with -him, and she would take him to her arms and her bed, and he would be -lost for ever. Mendel told her it meant nothing, that such people -forgot those who were poor and never really helped them, because they -could never know what it was like to need help: but he had a -premonition that he had done with the stained-glass factory. He took -up his brushes again and cleaned them, and chattered gaily of the -things he would do when the motor-car fetched him and he was asked to -paint the portraits of lords and millionaires. - -Edward inquired further of Birnbaum, and he brought Mendel a paper to -fill up, stating his age, circumstances, parentage, etc., etc. He was -to send this, with a letter, to Sir Julius Fleischmann, who was a -famous financier and connoisseur. Edward drafted a letter, but Mendel -found it servile, and wrote as follows:-- - -DEAR SIR,-- - I send you my paper filled up. My father is a poor man and I wish -to be a painter. I have won prizes at a school, but I cannot make my -living by my art. I am not asking for charity. I am only asking that -my work shall be judged. If it is good painting, then let me paint. -Give me my opportunity, please. If it is bad painting, then it is no -great matter, and I will go on until I can paint well, and then I will -show you my work again. If money is given me I will pay every penny of -it back when I am as successful as I shall be. I am sending three -drawings and two paintings. - Yours faithfully, - MENDEL KÜHLER. - -This letter was sent enclosed in a parcel made up with trembling -hands. He knew that the great moment had come, that at last he had -attained the desired contact with the outside world. He was wildly -elated, and had fantastic and absurd visions of Sir Julius himself -driving down at once in his motor-car, knocking at the door and -saying: "Does Mr. Mendel Kühler live here?" Then he would enter and -embrace him and cry: "You are a great artist." And he would turn to -Golda and say: "You are the mother of a great artist. You shall no -longer live in poverty." And he would sit down and write a cheque for -a hundred pounds. The story swelled and swelled like a balloon. It -rose and soared aloft with Mendel clinging desperately to it. But -every now and then it came swooping down to earth again, and then -Mendel would imagine his drawings and pictures being sent back without -a word. Elated or despondent, he passed through life in a dream, and -was hardly conscious of his surroundings either at the factory or at -home. - -This went on for weeks, during which he composed letters of savage -insult to Sir Julius, to Birnbaum, and even to Edward Tufnell, telling -them that he needed no help, that he was a Jewish artist and would -stay among the Jews, the real Jews, those who kept themselves to -themselves and to the faith of their fathers, and had no truck with -the light and frivolous world outside. But he tore all these letters -up, for he knew that the answer he desired would come. - -At last one morning there was a note for him. The secretary of the -committee wrote asking him to take more specimens of his work to Mr. -Edgar Froitzheim, the famous artist, at his studio in Hampstead. -Mendel had never heard of Froitzheim, but it seemed to him an enormous -step towards fame to be going to see a real artist in a real studio. -He felt happier, too, at having this intermediary appointed, for he -knew that artists always knew each other by instinct and helped each -other for the sake of the work they loved. - -Golda made him put on his best clothes, and washed him and brushed his -hair. He packed up half a dozen drawings and his picture of the -apples, which had been too precious to trust to the post or to Sir -Julius, and he set out for Hampstead. To cool his excitement he walked -across the Heath, remembering vividly the day when he had first seen -it, and again it seemed to him a place of freedom and surpassing -loveliness, the sweet, comfortable quality of the grass only -accentuated by the bare patches of ground, which were here and there -of an amazing colour, purple and brown. A rain-cloud came up on the -gusty wind and shed its slanting shower, and its shadow fell on the -rounding slopes. He became aware of the form of the Heath beneath its -verdure and colour. Between himself and the scene he felt an intimacy, -as though he had known it always and would always know it. It amused -him and filled him with a pleasant glee, which, when it passed, left -him shy for the encounter with the famous Froitzheim, the arbiter of -his immediate fortunes. - - - -VI - -EDGAR FROITZHEIM AND OTHERS - -VERY bright was the brass on Mr. Froitzheim's front door, very bright -the face of the smiling maid who opened it. Mendel blushed and -stammered inaudibly. - -"Will you come in?" said the maid, "and I will ask Mr. Froitzheim." - -She left Mendel in the hall and disappeared. This was a very large -house, marvellously clean and light and airy. The wallpaper and the -woodwork were white. On the stairs was a brilliant blue carpet. -Through the window at the end of the passage were seen trees and a -vast panorama of London--roofs, chimneys, steeples, domes--under a -shifting pall of blue smoke. - -The maid went into the studio and told Mr. Froitzheim that a boy was -waiting for him--a boy who looked like an Italian. She thought he -might be selling images, and he had a package under his arm. Mr. -Froitzheim told her to bring the visitor in. He was arranging -draperies, Persian and Indian coats, yellow and red and blue, and he -did not look up when Mendel was shown in. He was a little dark Jew, -neat and dapper in figure and very sprucely dressed, but so Oriental -that he looked out of place in Western clothes. But that impression -was soon lost in Mendel's awe of the studio. Here was a place where -real pictures were painted. There were easels, a table full of paints, -an etching plant, a model's throne, a lay figure, pictures on the -walls, stacks of pictures behind the door, and the little man standing -there, fingering the silks, was a real artist. - -"Hullo, boy!" said Mr. Froitzheim. - -"M-Mendel Kühler." - -"Something to show me, eh?" - -"Ye-yes. Pictures." - -"What did you say your name was?" - -"Kühler. Mendel Kühler." - -"Oh yes. I remember. You know Maurice Birnbaum?" - -"No." - -"Eh? . . . What do you think of these? Lovely, eh? Bought them in -India. You should go there. You don't know what sunlight is until -you've been there--to the East. Ah, the East! Fills you with sunlight, -opens your eyes to colour. . . . Persian prints! What do you think of -these?" - -He showed Mendel a whole series of exquisite things which moved him so -profoundly that he forgot altogether why he had come and began to -stammer out his rapture, a condition of delight to which Mr. -Froitzheim was so unaccustomed that he stepped back and stared at his -visitor. There was a glow in the boy's face which gave it a seraphic -expression. Mr. Froitzheim tiptoed to the door and called, "Edith! -Edith!" And his wife came rustling in. She was a thin little woman -with a friendly smile and an air of being only too amiable for a world -that needed sadly little of the kindness with which she was bursting. -They stood by the door and talked in whispers, and Mendel was brought -back to earth by hearing her say, "Poor child!" He knew she meant -himself, and his inclination was to fly from the room, but they barred -the door. She came undulating towards him, and she seemed to him -terrifyingly beautiful, the most lovely lady he had ever seen. He -thought Mr. Froitzheim must be a very wonderful artist to have such a -studio, such a house, and such a woman to live with him. - -Mrs. Froitzheim made him sit down and drew his attention to a bowl of -flowers--tulips and daffodils. Mendel touched them with his fingers, -lovingly caressed the fleshy petals of a tulip. Mrs. Froitzheim went -over to her husband and whispered to him, who said:-- - -"Yes. Yes. It is true. He responds to beauty like a flower to the -sun." - -In the centre of the studio was a large picture nearly finished of -three children and a rocking-horse, cleverly and realistically -painted. Mendel looked at it enviously, with a sinking in the pit of -his stomach, partly because he could not like it, and partly because -he felt how impossible it would be for him to cover so vast a canvas. - -"Like it?" said Mr. Froitzheim, wheeling it about to catch the best -light. - -"Yes," said Mendel, horrified at his own insincerity and unhappy at -the vague notion possessing him that the picture was too large for -him, whose notion of art was concentration upon an object until by -some inexplicable process it had yielded up its beauty in paint. -Composing and making pictures he could not understand. - -"Well, well," said Mr. Froitzheim. "So you want to be an artist? Art, -as Michael Angelo said, is a music and mystery that very few are -privileged to understand. I have been asked by the committee to give -my opinion, and I feel that it is a serious responsibility. It is no -light thing to advise a young man to take up an artistic career." - -"Yes, Edgar, that is very true," said his wife, with a wide reassuring -smile at Mendel, whom she thought a very charming, very touching -little figure, standing there drinking in the words as they fell from -Edgar's lips. - -Mr. Froitzheim produced a pair of spectacles and balanced them on his -nose. - -"It is a serious thing, not only for the sake of the young man but -also for Art's sake. The sense of beauty is a dangerous possession. It -is like a razor, safe enough when it is sharp, injurious when it is -blunted. Your future, it seems, depends upon my word. I am to say -whether I think your work promising enough to justify your being sent -to a school. I asked you to bring more of your work to confirm the -impression made by what I have already seen." - -He spoke in an alert, sibilant voice so quickly that his words whirled -through Mendel's mind and conveyed very little meaning. Only the words -"a music and mystery" lingered and grew. They were such lovely words, -and expressed for him something very living in his experience, -something that lay, as he would have said, below his heart. He -loosened the string of his untidy parcel and took out the picture of -the apples. There were music and mystery in it, and he held it very -lovingly as he offered it to Mrs. Froitzheim, much as she had just -offered him the bowl of flowers. - -"Very well painted indeed," said she, and Mendel winced. He turned to -the artist as to an equal, expecting not so much praise as -recognition. Mr. Froitzheim took the picture from him and went near -the window. He became more solemn than ever. - -"This is much better than the drawings. Have you always painted -still-life?" - -"I painted what there was at home." - -"Have you studied the still-life in the galleries? Do you know -Fantin-Latour's work?" - -"No," said Mendel blankly. - -"Of course, there is no doubt that you must go on." - -Mendel had never had any doubt of it, and he began to feel more at his -ease. That was settled then. There would be no more factory for him. -He was to be an artist, a great artist. He knew that Mr. Froitzheim -was more excited than he let himself appear. The apples could no more -be denied than the sun outside or the flowers on the table. . . . He -looked with more interest at Mr. Froitzheim's picture. It amused him, -much as the drawings in the illustrated papers amused him, and he was -pleased with the quality of the paint. He was still alarmed by the -hugeness of it. His eyes could not focus it, nor could his mind grasp -the conception. - -Mrs. Froitzheim asked him to stay to tea and encouraged him to talk, -and he told her in his vivid childish way about Golda and Issy and -Harry and Leah and Lotte. She found him delightfully romantic and told -him that he must not be afraid to come again, and that they would be -only too glad to help him. Mr. Froitzheim said:-- - -"I will write to the committee. There is only one school in London, -the Detmold. You should begin there next term, six weeks from now. -Don't be afraid, work hard, and we will make an artist of you. In time -to come we shall be proud of you. I will write to your mother, and one -of these days I will give myself the pleasure of calling on her. . . . -You must come and see me again, and I will take you to see pictures." - -Mendel was in too much of a whirl to remember to say "Thank you." He -had an enormous reverence for Mr. Froitzheim as a real artist, but as -a man he instinctively distrusted him. It takes a Jew to catch a Jew, -and Mendel scented in Mr. Froitzheim the Jew turned Englishman and -prosperous gentleman. And in his childish confidence he was aware of -uneasiness in his host, but of course Mr. Froitzheim could easily bear -down that impression, though he could not obliterate it. He was an -advanced artist and was just settling down after an audacious youth. -He had been one of a band of pioneers who had defied the Royal -Academy, and he had reached the awkward age in a pioneer's life when -he is forced to realize that there are people younger than himself. He -believed in his "movement," and wished it to continue on the lines -laid down by himself and his friends. To achieve this he deemed it his -business to be an influence among the young people and to see that -they were properly shepherded into the Detmold, there to learn the -gospel according to S. Ingres. He had suffered so much from being a -Jew, had been tortured with doubts as to whether he were not a mere -calculating fantastic, and here in this boy's work he had found a -quality which took his mind back to his own early enthusiasm. That -seemed so long ago that he was shocked and unhappy, and hid his -feelings behind the solemnity which he had developed to overawe the -easy, comfortable, and well-mannered Englishmen among whom he worked -for the cause of art. - -He was the first self-deceiver Mendel had met, and the encounter -disturbed him greatly and depressed him not a little, so that he was -rather overawed than elated by the prospect in front of him. He felt -strangely flung back upon himself, and that this help given to him was -not really help. He was still, as always, utterly alone with his -obscure desperate purpose for sole companion. Nobody knew about that -purpose, since he could never define it except in his work, and that -to other people was simply something to be looked at with pleasure or -indifference, as it happened. He used to try and explain it to his -mother, and she used to nod her head and say: "Yes. Yes. I understand. -That is God. He is behind everybody, though it is given to few to know -it. It is given to you, and God has chosen you, as He chose Samuel. -. . . Yes. Yes. God has chosen you." And he found it a relief -sometimes to think that God had chosen him, though he was disturbed to -find Golda much less moved by that idea than by the letter which Mr. -Froitzheim wrote to her, in which he said that her son had a very rare -talent, a very beautiful nature, and that a day would come when she -would be proud of his fame. - -Yet there were unhappy days of waiting. Jacob would not hear of his -leaving the factory until everything was settled, and when Mendel told -the foreman he was probably going to leave to be an artist, that -worthy drew the most horrible picture of the artist's life as a -mixture of debauchery and starvation, and told a story of a friend of -his, a marvellous sculptor, who had come down to carving urns for -graves--all through the drink and the models; much better, he said, to -stick to a certain income and the saints. - -At last Maurice Birnbaum came in his motor-car. Everything was -settled. The fees at the Detmold would be paid as long as the reports -were satisfactory, and Mendel would be allowed five shillings a week -pocket-money, but he must be well-behaved and clean, and he must read -good literature and learn to write good English. "I will see to that," -said Maurice. "I am to take him now with some of his work to see Sir -Julius. His fortune is made, Mrs. Kühler. Isn't it wonderful? He is a -genius. He has the world at his feet. Everything is open to him. I -have been to Oxford, Mrs. Kühler, but I shall never have anything like -the opportunities that he will have. It is marvellous to think of his -drawing like that in your kitchen." Maurice was really excited. His -heart was as full of kindness as a honeycomb of honey, but he had no -tact. His words fell on Golda and Mendel like hailstones. They nipped -and stung and chilled. Golda looked at Mendel, he at her, and they -stood ashamed. "We must hurry," said Maurice. "Sir Julius must not be -kept waiting. He is a stickler for punctuality." - -As a matter of fact, Maurice only knew Sir Julius officially. His -family had never been admitted to the society in which Sir Julius was -a power and a light. The entrance to the house of the millionaire was -a far greater event to him than it was to Mendel. - -The splendid motor-car rolled through the wonderful crowded streets, -Maurice fussing and telling Mendel to take care his parcel did not -scratch the paint, and swung up past the Polytechnic into the -desolation of Portland Place. At a corner house they stopped. The -double door was swung open by two powdered footmen, and by the inner -door stood a bald, rubicund butler. Maurice gave his name, told Mendel -to wait, and followed the butler up a magnificent marble staircase -with an ormolu balustrade. Mendel was left standing with his parcel, -while one of the footmen mounted guard over him. He stood there for a -long time, still ashamed, bewildered, smelling money, money, money, -until he reeled. It made him think of Mr. Kuit, who alone of his -acquaintance could have been at his ease in such splendour. He felt -beggarly, but he was stiffened in his pride. - -The butler appeared presently and conducted him upstairs to a vast -apartment all crystal and cloth of gold. In the far corner sat a group -of people, among whom, in his confusion, Mendel could only distinguish -Maurice Birnbaum and a small, wrinkled, bald old man with a beard, -whose eyes were quick and black, peering out from under the yellow -skull, peering out and taking nothing in. For the purposes of taking -in his nose seemed more than sufficient. It was like a beak, like an -inverted scoop. And yet his features were not so very different from -those of the old men at home whom Mendel reverenced. There was a -strange dignity in them, yet not a trace of the fine quality of the -old faces he loved that looked so sorrowfully out on the world, and -through their eyes and through every line seemed to absorb from the -world all its suffering, all its vileness, and to transmute it into -strong human beauty. There were some women present, but they made no -impression whatever on Mendel, who was entirely occupied with Sir -Julius and with resisting the feeling of helplessness with which he -was inspired in his presence. He heard Maurice Birnbaum talking about -him, describing his life, his mother's kitchen, the street where he -lived, and then he was told to exhibit his pictures. A footman -appeared and put out a chair for him, and on this, one after another, -he placed his drawings and pictures. Not a word was said. Even the -apples were received in silence. Sir Julius gave a grunt and began to -talk to one of the women. Maurice gave Mendel to understand that the -interview was over, and the poor boy was conducted downstairs by the -butler. He had not a penny in his pocket and had to walk all the way -home with his parcel, which his arms were hardly long enough to hold. - - - -VII - -THE DETMOLD - -FLUNG into the art school, he was like a leggy colt in a new field, -very shy of it at first, of the trees in the hedges, of the shadows -cast by the trees. This place was very different from the Polytechnic. -There were fewer old ladies, and more boys of his own age. The -teachers were Professors, and the pupils held them in awe and respect. -There were real models in the life-class, male and female, and the -students, male and female, worked together. No ginger-beer bottles -here, where art was a practical business. The school existed for the -purpose of teaching the craft of making pictures, and its law was that -the basis of the mystery was drawing. - -Mendel's first attitude towards the other students was that he was -there to beat them all. He would swell with eagerness and enthusiasm, -and tell himself that he had something that they all lacked. He would -watch their movements, their heads bending over their work, their -hands scratching away at the paper, and he could see that they had -none of them the vigour that was in himself. And by way of showing how -much stronger he was he would use his pencil almost as though it were -a chisel and his paper a block of stone out of which he was to carve -the likeness of the model. He was rudely taken down when the Professor -stood and stared with his melancholy eyes at his production and -said:-- - -"Is that the best you can do?" - -"Yes." - -"Why do it?" - -This was a stock phrase of the Professor's, but Mendel did not know -that, and he was ashamed and outraged when the class tittered. - -"No," said the Professor. "I don't know what that is. It certainly -isn't drawing." And with his pencil he made a lovely easy sketch of -the model, alongside Mendel's black, forbidding scrawl. It was a -masterly thing and it baffled him, and humiliated him because the -Professor moved on to the next pupil without another word. Not another -line could Mendel draw that day. He sat staring at the Professor's -sketch and at his own drawing, which, while he had been doing it, had -meant so much to him, and he still preferred his own. The Professor's -drawing had no meaning for him. He could not understand it, except -that it was accurate. That he could see, but then his own was accurate -too, and true to what he had seen. The light gave the model a -distorted shoulder, and he had laboured to render that distortion, -which the Professor had either ignored or had corrected. - -Mendel cut out the Professor's drawing and took it home and copied it -over and over again, but still he could not understand it. He was in -despair and told Golda he would never learn. - -"I shall never learn to draw, and the Christian kops will all beat -me," he said. - -"But they sent you to the school because you can draw. Didn't Mr. -Froitzheim say that you could draw!" - -"The Professor looks at me with his gloomy face, like an undertaker -asking for the body, and he says: 'I mean to say, that isn't drawing. -It isn't impressionism. I don't know what it is.'" - -"It can't be a very good school," said Golda. - -"But it is. It is the only school. All the best painters have been -there, and Mr. Froitzheim sent his own brother to it. The Professor -says I shall never paint a picture if I don't learn to draw, and I -can't do it, I can't do it!" - -To console himself he painted hard every evening and regarded the -Detmold entirely as a place to which his duty condemned him--a place -where he had to learn this strange wizardry called drawing, which he -did not understand. He went there every day and never spoke to a soul, -because he realized that his speech was different from that of the -others, and he would not open his mouth until he could speak without -betraying himself. He listened carefully to their pronunciation and -intonation, and practised to himself in bed and as he walked through -the streets. - -So woeful were his attempts to emulate the Detmold style of drawing, -that at last the Professor asked him if he was doing any work at home. -To this Mendel replied eagerly that he was painting a portrait of his -mother. - -"Hum," said the Professor. "May I see it?" - -So Mendel brought the picture, and the Professor said:-- - -"I mean to say, young man, that it wouldn't be a bad thing if you gave -up work a little. I don't want to have to send in a bad report, but -what can I do? There's something in you, plenty of grit and all that, -but you're young, and, I mean to say, you're here to learn what we can -teach you. When we've done with you, you can go your own way and be -hanged to you. If you want to smudge about with paint and fake what -you can't draw, there's the Academy." - -At this awful suggestion Mendel shuddered. He was imbued enough with -the Detmold tradition to regard the Academy as Limbo. - -He gave up painting at home, and hurled himself desperately at the -task of producing a drawing that should satisfy the Professor. Towards -the end of his first term he succeeded, and had his reward in words of -praise in front of the class. - -The Professor had meanwhile taken one of the pupils aside and asked -him not to leave the poor little devil so utterly alone. "After all," -he said, "the school doesn't exist only for drawing. It has its social -side as well, and I don't like to see any one cold-shouldered unless -he deserves it. I mean to say, you other fellows have advantages which -don't necessarily entitle you to mop up all the good things and leave -none for your fellow-creatures." - -Mitchell, the pupil, took his homily awkwardly enough, but promised -that he would do what he could. He seized his opportunity one day when -Mendel at lunch had horrified the company by picking up a chicken bone -and tearing at it with his teeth. Mitchell took him aside and said:-- - -"I say, Kühler, old man, you'll excuse my mentioning it, you know, but -it isn't done. I mean, we eat our food with forks." - -Mendel knew what was meant, for at lunch he had been conscious of -horrified eyes staring at him and had wished the floor would open and -swallow him up. He muttered incoherent words of thanks and wanted to -rush away, but Mitchell caught him by the arm and said:-- - -"I say, we artists must hang together. There aren't many of this crowd -who will come to anything, and the Pro thinks no end of you. Won't you -come along and have tea with me and some of the other fellows?" - -Mendel went with him, delighting in the young man's easy, -condescending Public School manner and pleasant, crisp voice, in which -he spoke with an exaggerated emphasis. - -"Gawd!" he said. "It makes me sick to see all the fools and the women -wasting their time there, scratching away, while those of us who have -any talent and could learn anything are left to flounder along as best -we may. Do you smoke?" - -Mendel had never smoked, but he did not like to refuse. He took a -cigarette, which very soon made him feel sick and giddy. He lurched -along with Mitchell until they came to a tea-shop, where they found -two other young men whose faces were familiar. - -"I've brought Kühler," said Mitchell. "He's a genius. This is Weldon, -who is also a genius, and Kessler, who can't paint for nuts, and I'm a -blame fool, though it's not my fault. My father's a great man. Gawd! -what can you do when your own father takes the shine out of you at -every turn?" - -They began to talk of pictures and of one Calthrop, who was apparently -the greatest painter the world had ever seen and a product of the -Detmold. - -"Sells everything he puts his name to," said Kessler. - -"What a man!" said Weldon. "Goes his own way, absolutely believing in -his art. If they like it, well and good. If they don't like it, let -'em lump it. He's as often drunk as not, and as for women . . . !" - -Weldon and Kessler deserted pictures for women. Mitchell grew more and -more glum, while Mendel was still feeling the effects of the cigarette -too strongly to be able to take in a word. - -"Gawd!" said Mitchell. "There they go, talking away, absolutely -incapable of keeping anything clear of women. I can't stand it." - -He dragged Mendel away, leaving his friends to pay the bill; and, as -they walked, he explained that he was in love, and could not stand all -that bawdy rubbish, and he elaborated a theory that an artist needed -to be in love to keep himself alive to the sanctity of the human body, -familiarity with which was apt to breed contempt or an excessive -curiosity. Mendel said that he also had been in love, and he gave a -vivid account of his raptures with Sara. - -"My God!" cried Mitchell; "you don't mean to say that she came to -you--a girl like that?" - -"Yes," said Mendel; "I was never so happy." - -"But, I say, weren't you afraid?" - -"She was very beautiful." - -Mitchell pondered this for a long time. He seemed to be profoundly -shaken. At last he said:-- - -"But with a girl you _loved?_" - -"I loved her when she was there." - -"But when she wasn't there?" - -"I was busy painting." - -"I say, you are a corker! If it were Weldon or Kessler I should say -you were lying." - -"I do not lie," replied Mendel with some heat. "It may have been -wrong, but it was good, and I was happier after it. I think I should -have gone mad without it, for everything had -disappeared--everything--everything; and without painting you do not -understand how terrible and empty life is to me. I have nothing, you -see. I am poor, and my father and mother will always be poor. Their -life is hard and beastly, but they do not complain, and I should not -complain if I did not have this other thing that I must do." - -"Well, I'm jolly glad to know you," said Mitchell. "I'm not much of a -fellow, but I'd like you to know my people. My father's a great man. -He'll stir you up. And you must come along with me and Weldon and -Kessler and see life while you're young. Good-bye." - -He shook hands vigorously with Mendel and strode off with his long, -raking stride, while Mendel stood glowing with the happiness of having -found a friend, some one to whom he could talk almost as he talked to -Golda: a fine young Englishman, pink and oozing robustious health, -ease, refinement, and comfort. He thought with a devoted tenderness of -Mitchell's rather absurd round face, with its tip-tilted nose and -blinking eyes, its little rosebud of a mouth and plump round chin, on -which there was hardly a trace of a beard. . . . "My friend!" thought -Mendel, "my friend!" And he gave a leap of joy. It meant for him the -end of his loneliness. No longer was he to be the poor, isolated -Yiddisher, but he was to move and have his being with these fine young -men who were the leading spirits of the school, the guardians of the -tradition bequeathed to it by the great Calthrop. . . . Oh! he would -learn their way of drawing, he would do it better than any of them. He -would be gay with them and wild and merry and young. And all the while -secretly he would be working and working, following up that inner -purpose until one day he appeared with a picture so wonderful that the -Professor would say, like Mr. Sivwright, that he had nothing more to -learn. And because of his wonderful work, everybody would forget that -he was a Jew, and he would move freely and easily in that wonderful -England which he had begun to perceive behind the fresh young men like -Mitchell and the cool, pretty girls at the school. That England was -their inheritance and they seemed hardly aware of it. He would win it -by work and by dint of the power that was in him. - -Of the girls at the school he was afraid. He blushed and trembled when -any one of them spoke to him, and he never noticed them enough to -distinguish one from another, so that they existed only as a vague -nuisance and a menace to his happiness. Before Mitchell he was -prostrate. He bewildered and confounded that young man with his -outpourings, both by word of mouth and by letter. He had absolutely no -reserve, and poured out his thoughts and feelings, his experiences, -and Mitchell at last took up a protective attitude towards him and -defended him from the detestation which he aroused in the majority of -his fellow-students. At the same time Mitchell often felt that of the -two he was the greater child, and he would look back upon the years he -had spent at school in a rueful and puzzled state of mind, half -realizing that he had been shoved aside while the stream of life went -on, and that now he had to fight his way back into it. While Mendel -had been wrestling and struggling, he had been put away in -cotton-wool, every difficulty that had cropped up had been met, every -deep desire had found its outlet in convention. And now that he had -set out to be an artist, here was this Jew with years of hard work -behind him, and such a familiarity with his medium that he could do -more or less as he liked without being held up by shyness or -awkwardness. And it was the same in life. Mendel was abashed by -nothing, was ashamed of nothing. Life had many faces. He was prepared -to regard them all, and to fit his conduct to every one of them. He -was critical, not because he wished to reject anything, but because he -must know the nature of everything before he accepted it. He hated and -loved simply and passionately, and if he felt no emotion he never -disguised the fact. Whereas Mitchell and the others were so eager to -feel the emotions which their upbringing had denied that they leaped -before they looked and fabricated what they did not feel. Mendel -learned from them that life could be pleasant, and they became aware -that there were regions of life beyond the fringes of pleasantness. -They softened him and he hardened them. They were always together, -Mendel, Mitchell, Weldon and Kessler, working steadily enough, but out -of working hours kicking up their heels and stampeding through the -pleasures of London. . . . Calthrop was the divinity they served. He -was a man of genius and had made the Detmold famous. Those, therefore, -who came after him at the school must support him in everything. That -was Mitchell's contention, who was by now in full swing of revolt -against his Public School training, and in his adoration Mendel -followed him, and the others were dragged in their train. Calthrop -dressed extravagantly: so did the four. Calthrop smashed furniture: so -did the four. And as Calthrop drank, embraced women, and sometimes -painted outrageously, the four did all these things. - -To Mendel it was Life--something new, rich, splendid, and thrilling. -He had lived so long cramped over his work that it was almost agony to -him to move in this swift stream of incessant excitement. There was no -spirit of revolt in him. He could shed some of the outward forms of -his religion, as to Golda's great distress he did, but against its -spirit he could not rebel. That he carried with him everywhere: the -bare stubborn faith in man, ground down by life and living in sorrow -all his days. Happy he was not, nor did he expect to be so. He might -be happy one day, but he would be miserable the next. Life in him was -not greatly concerned with either, but only to have both happiness and -misery in full measure. His deepest feelings arose out of his work, -the first condition of his existence; they arose out of it and sank -back into it again. His work was the visible and tangible form of his -being, which he hated and loved as it approached or receded from the -terrible power that was both beautiful and ugly, and yet something -transcending either. . . . And away there in London was the Christian -world of shows. What he was seeking lay beyond that, and not in the -dark Jewishness of his home. There lay the spirit, but the outward and -visible form was to be sought yonder, where the lights flared and the -women smiled at themselves in mirrors. He hurled himself into the -shows of the Christian world in a blind desire to break through them, -but always he was flung back, bruised, aching, and weary. - -Day after day he would spend listlessly at home or at the school until -seven o'clock came and it was time to go to the Paris Café, to sit -among the painters and listen to violent talk, talk, talk--abuse of -successful men, derision of the great masters, mysterious and awful -whispers of what men were doing in Paris, terrible denunciations of -dealers, critics, and the public. - -The café was a kind of temple and had its ritual. It was the aim of -the painters to "put some life into dear old London." Calthrop had -given a lead. He had determined that London should be awakened to art, -as the writing folk of a past generation had aroused the swollen -metropolis to literature and poetry. London should be made aware of -its painters as Paris was aware of the Quartier Latin. Bohemia should -no longer be the territory of actresses, horse-copers, and betting -touts. The Paris Café therefore became the shrine of Calthrop's -personality, and thither every night repaired the artists and their -parasites, who saw in the place an avenue to liberty and fame. In the -glitter and the excitement, the brilliance, the colour, the women with -their painted faces, the white marble-topped tables, the mirrors along -the walls, the blue wreathing tobacco-smoke, Calthrop's personality -was magnified and concentrated as in a theatre. The café without him -was Denmark without the Prince, and Mendel found the hours before he -came or the evenings when he did not come almost insupportable. Yet it -was not the man's success or his fame or his notoriety that fascinated -the boy, whose instinct went straight to the immense vitality which -was the cause of all. Calthrop was a huge man, dark and glowering. To -Mendel he was like a figure out of the Bible--like King Saul, in his -black moods and the inarticulate fury that possessed him sometimes; -and when he picked up and hurled a glass at some artist whose face or -whose work had offended him, he was very like King Saul hurling the -javelin. - -There was always a thrill when he entered the café. The buzz would die -down. Where would he sit and whom would he speak to? . . . It was one -of the greatest moments in Mendel's life when one evening Calthrop -came sweeping in with his cloak flung round his shoulders and sat -opposite him and his three companions and raised a finger and -beckoned. - -"He wants you," said Mitchell, pushing Mendel forward. - -"Come here, boy," growled Calthrop, stabbing with his pipe-stem in the -direction of the seat by his side. "Come here and bring your friends. -Bought a drawing of yours this morning. Damn good." - -Mitchell, Kessler, and Weldon came and sat at the table, all too -overawed to speak. - -"What's your drink, heh?" - -Drinks were ordered. - -"Rotten trade, art," said Calthrop. "Dangerous trade. Drink, women, -flattery. Don't drink. Marry, settle down, and your wife'll hate you -because you're always about the place. . . . God! I wish I could be a -Catholic. I'd be a monk. . . . My boy, don't get into the habit of -doing drawings. They won't look at your pictures if you do, and we -want pictures--my God, we do! Everybody paints pictures as though they -were for a competition. You've got life to draw from--real, stinking -life. That's why I have hopes of you." - -Mendel was so fluttered and flattered that he could only gulp down his -drink and blink round the café, feeling that all eyes were upon him; -and indeed he was attracting such attention as had never before been -bestowed on him. A girl at the next table ogled him and smiled. She -was with a young man whom the four detested and despised. This young -man reached over to take a bowl of sugar from their table. To take -anything from the great man's table without so much as "By your leave" -was sacrilege and was very properly resented. There was a scuffle, the -sugar was scattered on the floor, glasses fell crashing down, Mitchell -and Weldon hurled themselves on the young man, and the manager came -bustling up, crying: "If-a-you-pleess-a-gentlemen." But there was no -breaking the mêlée. A waiter was sent out for the police, and three -constables came filing in. One of them seized Mitchell, and Mendel, -half mad with drink and excitement, seeing his beloved friend, as he -thought, being taken off to prison, leaped on the policeman's back and -brought him down. In the confusion Calthrop and the others slipped -away and Mendel was arrested, still fighting like a wild cat, and led -off to the police-station, the constable whispering kindly in his ear: -"Steady, my boy, steady. A youngster like you should keep clear of the -drink." - -The inspector smiled at the extreme youthfulness of the offender, but -decided that a taste of the cells would do no harm and that the boy -had better be sober before he was sent home. So Mendel had four hours -on a hard bench until a constable came in and asked him if he wanted -bail. He said "Yes," and, when asked for a name, gave Calthrop's, who -presently arrived and saw him liberated, after being told to appear in -court next morning at ten o'clock. - -When he reached home he found his mother waiting up for him with wet -cloths in case his head should be bad. - -"What now? What now?" she asked. - -"I've been in prison." - -"Prison!" Golda flung up her hands and sat down heavily. For her all -was lost. It was true then, that, outside in the world, at the other -end of it, was always prison, for the just and for the unjust, for the -old and for the young, for the innocent and for the guilty. - -He tried to make light of it. For him, too, it was a serious matter. -He saw himself figuring in the Sunday papers: "Famous Artist in the -Police Court," with his portrait in profile as on a medallion. -Birnbaum and Sir Julius would read it. He would be taken away from the -Detmold and Edward Tufnell would never speak to him again. He -astonished, embarrassed, and delighted Golda by flinging himself in -her arms and sobbing out his grief. - - - -VIII - -HETTY FINCH - -GOLDA was passing through a very difficult time. Rosa was hotter on -the pursuit of Issy than ever. Harry had had a violent quarrel -consequent on his reiterated demand for proof of the judicial -destruction of Christianity in America, and at last, like his father, -he went out and bought a clean collar and announced his departure for -Paris. He went away and not a word had been heard from him. Lotte -refused to look at any of the young men brought by the match-makers, -and Leah was the only comfortable member of the family, and she made -no attempt to conceal her unhappiness with Moscowitsch. She would come -on Saturday evenings and go up to her mother's room and fling herself -on the bed and cry her heart out, until late in the evening -Moscowitsch came to fetch her, when she would go meekly and apparently -happily enough. . . . And on the top of all these troubles, here was -Mendel going to the devil at a gallop. - -Leah's trouble with Moscowitsch was that he would never let her go out -without him, and he could very rarely be persuaded to go out at all. -As for going away in the summer, he could see no sense in it. He gave -his wife a fine house. What more did she want? She had her children to -look after. What greater pleasure could she desire? His life was -entirely filled with his business and his home, and he would not look -beyond them. The neighbours went to the seaside? The neighbours were -fools who lived for ostentation and display. They did not know when -they were well off. . . . Moscowitsch had a great admiration for his -father-in-law as a man who knew what life was and refused to dilute -its savour with folly, and he regarded Golda as a perfect type of -woman, one who left the management of life to her husband and allowed -herself to be absorbed in her duties as a wife and mother. - -But Leah longed to go to the seaside. It became an obsession with her, -and, because she could never talk of it, she thought of nothing else. -She was sick with envy when she saw the neighbours going off with the -children carrying buckets and spades. Secretly she bought her own -children buckets and spades, though they were much too small to use -them. - -At last, when her worries began to tell on Golda, Leah declared that -what she needed was sea air, and offered to take her for a fortnight -to Margate, and Golda, anxious to escape from the horror of Mendel's -coming home night after night drawn and white with dissipation, and -from the dread of an explosion from Jacob, consented, and asked if -Issy might go, as that Rosa of his was making him quite ill. - -For Golda, Leah knew that Moscowitsch would do anything in the world, -and so she procured his consent on condition that he was not expected -to accompany them, for he hated the sea, which had made him very ill -when he came to England, and he never wished to set eyes on it again. - -Leah already had the address of some lodgings recommended to her by a -neighbour. She engaged them, and on a fine July day went down to -Margate by the express with her children, Golda, and Issy. - -The lodgings were let by a handsome, florid woman with masses of -bleached golden hair, a ruddled complexion, fat hands covered with -cheap rings, plump wrists rattling with bracelets, and a full bosom on -which brooches gleamed. Leah thought her a very fine woman, and was so -fascinated by her that she stayed indoors day after day, helping with -the housework and gossiping, so that she never once saw the sea, -except from the train as she was leaving. Mrs. Finch was a lady, by -birth, but she had been unfortunate. She had an uncle in the Army and -a cousin in the War Office, and she had lived in London, in the best -part of the town, where, in her best days, she had had her flat. Also -she had travelled and had been to Paris and Vienna. But she had been -unfortunate in her friends. Leah commiserated her, and, open-mouthed, -gulped down all her tales of the gentlemen she had known, while Golda, -eager for more information of the glittering world which had swallowed -up her Mendel, listened too, fascinated and shuddering. And Leah, to -show that she also was a person of some consequence, began to talk of -her wonderful brother. She told of the motor-car which had come and -whirled him away, of his visit to the millionaire's house, of the fine -friends he was making, of the men and women he knew whose names were -in the papers. - -"Every day," she said, "he is out to tea, and every evening he is out -at theatres and music-halls and parties and flats and hotels, and his -friends are so rich that they pour money into his pockets. He just -makes a few lines on a piece of paper and they give him twenty pounds, -or he makes up some paint to look like a face or a pineapple and his -pockets are full of money." - -"Yes," said Golda uneasily. "He will be very rich." - -"Then next time you come to Margate," said Mrs. Finch, "it will be the -Cliftonville, and you'll despise my poor lodgings." - -"Oh no," cried Leah, "for it is like staying with a friend." - -Every day Leah added something to the legend of Mendel, Mrs. Finch -urging her on with romances of her own splendid days. But the most -eager listener was Hetty, the girl who did the rough work of the house -and was never properly dressed until the evening, because, from the -moment when she woke up in the morning until after supper, she was -kept running hither and thither at Mrs. Finch's commands. She was -sufficiently like Mrs. Finch to justify Golda in her supposition that -she was that fine woman's daughter, but nothing was ever said in the -matter. Hetty did not have her meals with them, and, indeed, there was -no evidence that she had any meals. In the evenings she was allowed to -go out, and she would come back at half-past ten or so with her big -eyes shining and a flush fading from her cheeks and leaving them -whiter than ever. Very big were her eyes, very big and pathetic, and -her face was a perfect oval. She had rather full lips, always moist -and red. During the whole fortnight she never spoke a word except to -Issy. Indeed, she avoided Golda and Leah, and she alarmed Issy by what -he took to be her forwardness, when she asked him to take her to the -theatre. He complied with her request, but he was much too frightened -of her to speak, and he could think of nothing to say except to offer -to buy her chocolates and cigarettes, which she accepted as though it -was the natural thing for him to give her presents. She talked to him -about Mendel, and wanted to know if it was true that he knew lords and -had real gentlemen to tea with him in his studio. - -"There's more goes on in his studio than I could tell you," said Issy -with a dry, uncomfortable laugh. "Artists, you know!" - -"Oh yes! Artists!" said Hetty with a dreamy, wistful look in her eyes -as she drew in her lower lip with a slight sucking noise. "I wish I -lived in London, I do. Ma used to live in London, but she's too old -now to find any one to take her back there. It's dull here. Does your -brother ever come to Margate?" - -"No," said Issy. "He'd go to Brighton if he went anywhere. I've got -another brother who's gone to Paris." - -"O-oh! Paris! Is he rich too?" - -"No." - -Issy shut up like an oyster. He could feel the girl probing into him, -and he was sorry he had brought her. She was spoiling his fun, the -adventures he had promised himself during his holiday from Rosa's -indefatigable attentions. Hetty was too dangerous. He knew that if she -got hold of him she would not let go. - -He took her home and never spoke another word to her during the -remainder of his visit, and he said to his mother once:-- - -"That's an awful girl." - -"Worse than Rosa?" asked Golda. - -"Rosa would stay. That girl would be off like a cat on the tiles." - -Golda retorted with a description of Rosa of the same kind, but of a -more offensive degree. - -Declaring that they were better for the sea air, and warmly enjoining -Mrs. Finch to visit then if ever she should come to London, the party -left Margate with shells and toffee and painted china for their -friends and relations, conspicuous among their luggage being the -buckets and spades which had never been used. - -As Issy and his mother reached their front-door, he saw Rosa at the -corner of the street, and bolted after her, leaving Golda to enter the -house and give an account of her doings. Mendel, for once in a way, -was at home. He was at work on a picture for a prize competition at -the Detmold, as also were Mitchell and Weldon, so that they were -living quietly for the time being. Golda gave a glowing description of -the beauties of Margate and of Mrs. Finch and her jewellery. She began -to talk of Hetty, but for some reason unknown to herself, with a -glance at Mendel she stopped, and went off into a vague, dreamy -rhapsody concerning Margate streets. - -"The streets are so clean, so nice, and the air is so strong, and the -sky is so clear, with the clouds tumbling across it, little clouds -like cotton-wool and grey clouds like blankets, almost as it was in -Austria, and I was so happy my heart was full of flowers, almost as it -was in Austria." - -"What's the good of talking of Austria?" growled Jacob. "There you had -a corner. Here you have a whole house." - -"But I was happy there." - -Issy came in on that and announced that he was going to be married to -Rosa. There was half a house vacant in the next street, and he -proposed to take it. - -"You shall not," said Jacob. "I will not have that slut in the house. -What sort of children will she give you? Squat-browed and bow-legged -they will be. How will she look after them? A woman that cannot -contain her love for her man will have none for the children. She is a -dirty girl, I tell you, and so is her mother and her father's mother, -and her father's father's mother." - -"I don't know who we are, to hold up our heads so high. You are my -father, but in some things I cannot obey you. The business is mine -. . ." - -"It is not. It is mine!" said Jacob. "It is in your name, but it is -mine. It is in your name, but your name is my name, and you shall not -give it to a woman like that, who goes smelling about street corners -like a dog. Her father has no money, and he never goes to the -synagogue." - -"I am not marrying her father. I shall go out of the business, then, -and I shall start for myself. Rosa will kill herself if I do not marry -her, and I must do it." - -"It is true," said Golda quietly. "I think she will kill herself." - -Jacob stormed on and Issy blustered, until at last he confessed that -Rosa had caught him, and that he had to marry her. Jacob threw up his -hands and in a shrill voice of icy contempt told Issy exactly what he -thought of such marriages; they were nothing but dirt. . . . "Because -you have a little dirt on you, must you roll in the mud? You are like -dirty dogs, all of you. You, and Harry, and Mendel. I don't know what -has come to you in this London. God gave me one woman, and I have -asked for nothing else." - -"You would not let me marry Rosa when I was young." - -Words and feeling ran so high that Mendel, aghast, fled away to his -studio, where the sound of the storm reached him. It raged for hours, -and ended in Issy flinging himself out of the house and slamming the -door. - -A week later Rosa was brought to see Golda, and she fawned on her like -a dog that has been whipped, sat gazing at her with her stupid brown -eyes, and whimpered: "I should have killed myself. Yes, I should have -killed myself." - -"You would not have been so wicked," said Golda. "It is sinful to -throw good fish after bad. Can you cook?" - -"Yes," said Rosa. "I can make cucumber soup. I could do anything for -Issy, he is so strong and handsome." - -And Golda said to Mendel after the interview: "A woman like that is -like a steam bath for a man." - -* * * * * - -A few days later Issy and Rosa were married, without ceremony, without -carriages, or photographs, or guests, or feast. It was a wedding to be -ashamed of, but Jacob would not, and Rosa's father could not, lay out -a penny on it. The couple took half the house in the next street, and -Issy discovered at once that he hated his wife, and was at no pains to -conceal it either from her or from his family. - -Mendel was profoundly depressed by this disturbance and plunge -downwards, for he still half expected his family to rise with him. He -was to make all their fortunes, but, with the rest of the family, he -detested the unhappy Rosa and regarded her as little short of a -criminal. He was depressed, too, because the summer holidays were -approaching and he would be bereft of his beloved Mitchell, who was -going away for three months to the country. He would be left with his -family, in whom there was no peace. Why could they not be like the -Mitchells and the Weldons, who could live together without quarrels, -and could take a happy, humorous interest in each other's doings -without these devastating passions and cursings and denunciations? And -yet when he thought of the Mitchells and the Weldons and the -Froitzheims, in their charming, comfortable houses, there was -something soft and foolish about them all--something savouring of -idolatry, for instance, in the homage Mitchell paid his father, in the -assumption that Mrs. Mitchell was a very remarkable woman, whose -children could not be expected to be ordinary. More and more did -Mendel value his mother, who was content to be just a woman and to -live without flattery of any kind, and to accept everyone whom she met -and to value them as human beings, without regard to their rank, -station, possessions, or achievements. Himself she esteemed no more -because he was an artist, though he had tried hard to make her give -her tribute to that side of his nature. She loved him simply, neither -more for his attainments nor less for his doings, that pained her -deeply. And that direct human contact he obtained nowhere else, and in -no one else could he find it existing so openly and frankly. Yet he -loved the follies and pretences of the outside world. He adored -theatricality, and among his polite friends there was always some -drama towards. It was never drowned in incoherent passions, and he -himself, among the nice cultured folk, was always a startling dramatic -figure. Sometimes they seemed to him all slyness and insincerity, and -then he loathed them; but that was generally when he had aimed at and -failed in some dramatic coup, or when they had encouraged him to talk -about himself until he bored them. On the whole, he was successful -with them, as he wished to be, easily and without calculation. It was -when they made calculation necessary, by feigning an interest that -they did not feel, that he was shocked and angry. If anywhere the -atmosphere was such that he could not be frank, then he avoided that -place and those people. - -Now he was bored, bored to think of the hot stewing months with no -relief except such as he could find in vagrom adventures from the -harsh rigidity of life among his own people. And he was in a strange -condition of physical lassitude. Even his ambition was stagnant. In -his work he had only the pleasure of dexterity. It had no meaning, and -contained no delight. When he painted apples or a dead bird or a -woman, the result was just apples or a dead bird or a woman. The paint -made no difference and the subject was still better than his rendering -of it. He was only concerned with technical problems. Fascinated by a -gradated sky in a picture in the National Gallery, he practised -gradated skies until he could have done them in his sleep. - -And he was tired, tired in body and in soul. Both in his life and in -his work he had had to conquer a convention in order to keep his -footing in the world of his desire. Just as he had only learned the -Detmold style of drawing by a supreme effort of will, so also by a -tremendous effort he had learned the rudiments of manners and polite -conversation. He had had to overcome his tendency to fall violently in -love with every charming person, male or female, he met, and to regard -with an aversion equally violent those in whom he found no charm. Such -charm must for him be genuine and not a matter of tricks, and for this -reason he had regarded every person whom he thought of as old with -dislike. For him anybody above twenty-five was "old." He still thought -he would be made or marred by the time he was twenty-three, but that -age seemed immeasurably far off. Long before then, like a thunderbolt, -his full genius would descend upon him and all the world would know -his name. He was almost innocent of conceit in this. Such, he -believed, was the history of genius, and so far nothing had happened -to deny his inward consciousness of his rarity. Relieve the pressure -of circumstance and he soared upwards. . . . There was a queer, -uncomfortable pleasure in such thoughts and dreams and in imagining a -fatality that should drag him down and down to Issy's level and lower. -There was a sickening fascination in picturing to himself a descent as -swift and irresistible as his upward flight. Yet dreary were the hours -of waiting for the impetus that had once or twice so freely and so -strongly moved in him. Sick with waiting, he would work in a fury to -master trick after trick and difficulty after difficulty in painting, -so as to be ready when the time came. All the cunning and wariness of -his race welled up in him as he prepared deliberately, slowly, -patiently for his opportunity. - -* * * * * - -One afternoon, as Golda was sleeping in her kitchen, she was awakened -by a knock at the door. Going to open it, she found Hetty Finch -waiting there, neatly clad in a brown tailor-made coat and skirt, very -smart, with a trim little feathered hat on her head. Golda's thoughts -flew to Mendel, and her first inclination was to slam the door in -Hetty's face, but, remembering that the boy was out, she admitted her. - -Hetty followed Golda into the kitchen and stood looking round it with -obvious disappointment. She had not imagined the Kühlers to be so -poor. - -"I promised Ma I would call," she said, taking the chair which Golda -dusted for her. - -"And how is your Ma?" asked Golda. - -"She's given up the house and gone into a hotel as manageress," -replied Hetty, lying as usual, for her mother had been sold up and had -taken a place as barmaid in a tavern. "And I've come to London to earn -my living. Ma gave me fourteen shillings, and that was all she could -do for me. Still, I'm off her hands now." - -Golda asked her what she was going to do, and she said she thought of -going into service until she had had a look round. Where was she -living? She had taken a room with some friends, lodgers of Ma's, off -Stepney Green. - -Conversation was lifeless and desultory until Issy came into the room, -when she brightened up, but he was overcome with his old terror of the -girl and soon hurried away. Then she noticed the pictures on the wall -and asked if they were Mendel's. Golda refused flatly to talk about -them, but Hetty persisted and would talk of nothing else. Jacob came -in and she made him talk about Mendel, and she made herself so -charming to him and flattered his simple vanity so grossly that -presently Golda was staggered by the sight of him making tea with his -own hands and pouring it out for the visitor. - -"Yes," said Jacob, "the boy did all those before he was fourteen. He -will get on, that boy. He is bound to get on, but I shall not live to -see him in his glory." - -"I think they're lovely," said Hetty, sipping her tea. And she went on -chattering vivaciously until Jacob was called away to the workshop, -when once again conversation became lifeless and desultory. Golda made -one excuse after another to try to get rid of her, but Hetty would not -budge. At last there came the sound of Mendel's key in the door. Golda -bustled out of the room and whispered to him:-- - -"You must not come in. I have visitors and there are letters waiting -for you upstairs." - -But Mendel had seen a girl sitting in the kitchen and he wanted to -know whether she was pretty or not. She turned and he saw that she was -charmingly pretty. He brushed by his mother. He felt at once that he -had made a good impression, and, indeed, all Hetty's dreams and -fancies were more than realized, though she was a little affronted and -disappointed by the poorness of his clothes. - -"It is Hetty Finch," said Golda, "from Margate." - -Mendel had had Issy's account of Hetty and he was on his guard at -once. - -"Yes. I've come to live in London," said she. - -"I've never lived out of it," he answered. - -"I thought perhaps, as you know so many people, you could help me to -find some work. There must be room somewhere in London for poor little -me." - -"I'll see about it," said Mendel, taking note of her features and -figure, and rather upset to find himself so little excited by her. -Issy had given him to imagine a dashing, overwhelming woman. He only -felt vaguely sorry for Hetty and a desire to stroke her, though he -knew her at once for what she was, and how she was drinking in the -strongly developed male in him. For the first time he felt cool and -detached in the presence of a woman: a deliciously grown-up sensation, -and he wanted more of it. - -She soon said she must go, and in Golda's hearing he promised to write -to her, but when he took her to the door he asked her to come to his -studio, and she said she would come the next day. - - - -IX - -THE QUINTETTE - -HE had more of the deliciously grown-up sensation the next day, when -Hetty came to see him. She was something new. The girls of the streets -he knew, and unattainably above them were the girls at the school and -his friends' sisters, whom he called "top-knots," because of the way -they did their hair. The "top-knots" were hardly female at all to him, -so remote were they, so entirely unapproachable; utterly different -from the girls of the streets, who were so accessible that he had but -to hold out his arms to find one of them, as if by magic, in his -grasp. And now Hetty was different again. - -"You are cosy up here," she said, moving at once to the only -comfortable chair and curling up in it. "Your sister told me about -you." - -"Leah? What lies did she tell you?" - -"Well, I knew it wasn't _all_ true, about the money you were making, -because you wouldn't live here if it was true, would you? But I -suppose some of your friends make a lot of money." - -"They're rich, some of them," replied Mendel, aghast to find himself -thinking coldly of his friends in terms of money, his mind rushing -swiftly between the two poles of his father and Sir Julius. "Yes. -There's plenty of money in London." - -"That's what Ma said when she gave me the fourteen shillings. She said -a girl with eyes like mine had no need to go short in London." Hetty -raised her eyes and looked full at him, who met her stare boldly and -yet with some alarm, finding himself acting a part. - -Hetty was flattering him by regarding him as the possessor of a key to -the wealth of London, and in spite of himself he could not help -accepting the rôle. She had touched an element of his character of -which till then he had been unconscious. The knave in him sprang into -being and thrust all his other qualities aside. He began to boast of -his success and to swagger about the luxury and immorality of London -life, though it was not all braggadocio, but also a kindly desire to -make Hetty happy by talking to her of the things that interested her. - -He told her about Calthrop and the Paris Café, and Maurice Birnbaum -and his motor-car and richly furnished flat in Westminster, and a -Lord's son who was at the Detmold, and Mitchell, whose father was a -great man. And all the time, as he talked, he was astonished at the -sound of his own voice, so different did it sound. - -Hetty wriggled with pleasure in her chair and pouted up her lips. -Presently she said her hat made her head ache, and she took it off and -stretched out her arms and said:-- - -"No more pots and pans for me! I do think you're lovely. It's just -like a story. I call that real fun. Not like Margate. . . . Do you -think I could get work as a model, or do you have to be slap-up?" - -Mendel thought of the drabs who posed and he could not help smiling. - -"I could only tell by your figure, though your face is all right." - -"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked. - -"Very." - -"I'll show you my figure, if you like." - -"All right, I'll light the gas-stove in the bedroom. It's a little -cold in here." - -He showed her into the bedroom, and when she was ready she called to -him. - -She was beautifully made, but she looked so foolish with her anxiety -to please him that he could take hardly any interest in her, and he -was distressed, too, because the only background he could give her -consisted of his new knavish thoughts of the wealth of London. Yet -nothing could disturb it, for the background was suitable. Her white -body was her offering. - -"How much would I be paid?" - -"A shilling an hour." - -"Do you pay that?" - -"Yes." - -"If you could get me work I would sit to you for nothing." - -"I'd pay you," he said. His generous qualities strove hard to reassert -themselves, but there was something about this girl that compelled -just what he was giving her--hardness for hardness, value for value. -Yet she was certainly beautiful, and it was strange to him to be -unable to give her the warm homage that within himself he could not -help feeling. - -She sat on the bed, making no move to cover herself, and said:-- - -"Artists _are_ different. There was an artist once at Margate. It was -him put the idea into my head. But he was very poor and not a -gentleman." - -And now to Mendel she was an object of sheer astonishment. He stood -and warmed his legs by the gas stove and gaped at her, sitting on his -bed and chattering in her clear, hard voice of her ambitions, her -dreams, the drudgery at home, while in everything she said was a -flattery which he could not resist. Worst of all, he felt that he was -one of a pair with her. His talent, her body, were shining offerings -with which they both emerged from the depths of the despised. Entering -into her spirit, he too was filled with a desire for revenge. Yet in -him this desire was charged with passion, which made their present -situation ridiculous. He thought of the poverty and the obscure -suffering downstairs, the dragging penury to which, but for his -talent, he would have been condemned. Then he imagined her as Issy had -described her at Margate, lurking in the kitchen, listening behind the -door as Leah spun her yarns. He could sympathize with her, and she -seemed to him almost gallant. - -He got out a piece of mill-board and began to draw her, but to his -annoyance could not get interested in what he was doing. He wanted to -know more about her, could not rest content that a human being should -be so reduced to a cold purpose. Yet, though she talked freely enough, -nothing fell from her lips to meet his desire. She had no people, no -class, no tradition, but still she was a person. He could not dismiss -her as he dismissed so many, as "nonsensical." - -"I can't make much of you now," he said, almost wailing. "I believe -I'm tired." - -And suddenly he hurled away his drawing and rushed at her and kissed -her. She clung to him and he yielded to her will, seeing clearly that -this was her purpose, this her desire, this her ambition, her all. - -He knew that she was using him, was making certain of being able to -use him. The newly discovered knave in him insisted on having his -existence, and through it he enjoyed a certain defiant happiness. - -Happiness! To be happy! That had seemed impossible. His first year at -the Detmold had been miserable. He had been discouraged and almost -listless. Often he would go to his mother and say: "I shall never be -an artist." - -"Not all at once," Golda would say. "Take a boy who is apprenticed to -a bootmaker. He cannot all at once make good boots. He must spoil a -deal of leather first. Or a tailor-boy: he must spoil cloth. A trade -must be learned, and you can learn this, for you work hard enough at -it." - -For a moment or two he would see through her clear eyes and that was -enough to set him working again, half believing that he would soon -master his craft. But there had been the struggle to master what at -the Detmold, with such unquestionable authority, they called -"drawing." - -This now, with Hetty, was in its way happiness, though he detested it -and her. It was an escape. It was easy. It made no demands on him, -save the small effort to achieve self-forgetfulness, and in that she -aided him, for she seemed superior to himself and enviable in the -clearness of her purpose. She offered herself and made no demands upon -him except of what could cost him nothing: just a few words to his -friends, a start in her chosen profession. - -All the same, he was horrified at himself. Every other crisis and -sudden change in his life had been attended with violent suffering, an -eruption within himself, profound depression, almost a collapse. This -had been as easy as walking through a door, a slipping from one part -of his being to another. . . . Here suddenly was happiness, a queer -detached, almost indifferent condition, full of pleasure, and he -rejoiced in the novelty of it. He watched Hetty draw on her clothes -again and was sickened by the sensual languor of her movements. She -was drowsy, like a cat before a fire. - -"No, I certainly shan't draw you to-day." - -"What about to-morrow?" - -"I shall be painting to-morrow." - -"I do think you're a devil sometimes." - -"I'll take you to the Paris Café, if you like." - -"Will you?" - -She perked up on that. She had not expected so soon to gain her -desire. - -"Yes. If you've got to earn your living you should meet people, and -the sooner you get going the better." - -Hetty sat with her chin in her hands, crouched in elation. Everything -had turned out as she had hoped and planned, as she had willed that it -should, and she regarded him with some contempt because he had been so -easy and because he was so young. She was the same age as he, but she -thought him a little vain boy. Yet when he looked at her she was -afraid of him, for he knew so much and guessed so much more. To defend -herself, her instinct drove through to his vanity and flattered it to -blind him. She feigned an animation she was incapable of feeling to -make herself more beautiful in his eyes, and he thought of his -friends, Mitchell and Weldon, and how they would be stirred with her. -He thought how she would please Calthrop, and he was lured into -believing that he would gain in importance through her. - -"You've come at a very bad time," he said. "They'll all be going away -for the summer." - -"Oh!" she looked dashed, hating to be caught out in a mistake. "Do -they go away for long?" - -"Three months." - -"Oh, well!" she drawled. "I can get a place if nothing turns up. But -something always does turn up. I'm one of the lucky ones, you know." - -"I don't believe in luck," said he, with a sudden irruption of the old -self that seemed to have been left so far behind. - -"I must go now," she said. - -They groped their way down the dark stairs, and he went out with her, -feeling that he could not face his family, from whom he knew now that -his face was turned. In the street a mood of freedom and adventure -came over him, and for this mood she was a fitting mate. He took her -on the top of a bus to the West End, among the promenading crowds, and -she drank it all in with a kind of exaltation, her big eyes glowing, -her body trembling with excitement. Into one café after another he led -her, completely absorbed as he was in her purpose, and at last, when -they mounted the eastward bus, she leaned her head on his shoulder, -and he could hear her murmuring to herself: "London . . . London . . . -London." - -He too was thrilled as he had never been before by London. He had -never so strongly realized it before. The great city had thrilled him -with its beauty and had stirred him with its business, but never -before had its spirit crept into his blood to send it whirling and -singing through his veins. He hardly slept at all that night, and the -next morning it was a long time before he could begin to work, which -then seemed far removed from the effort and almost anguish it used to -cost him. The still-life with which he had been wrestling became quite -easy to do, and very soothing was the handling of brushes and paint. -Every touch was like a caress upon his aching soul. - -So began a period of real happiness. The pieces he painted with such -soothing ease were generally admired and readily bought. The dealer to -whom he took them was also a colourman and gave him apparently -unlimited credit; and he laid in an immense stock of colours and -amused himself with experiments. It seemed that his career was to be -successful without a struggle. His patrons were delighted to find him -so soon making money, and the Birnbaums and the Fleischmanns invited -him down into the country, but as he found that they put him up in a -servant's bedroom or a gardener's cottage he refused to go more than -once, or to any more of their kind who were not prepared to forget his -poverty. - -He would rather stay in London with Hetty, whom he had begun to regard -as a mascot. With her coming everything had changed. She had made -everything easy and happy and delightful. He had no love for her, but -he could not help feeling grateful. She had turned work into a -pleasure, pleasure into a riot of ecstasy. - -Alone with her in the evenings or with some chance acquaintance, -during the holidays he roamed through London, basking in the summer -evenings, discovering unimagined splendours, the Parks, the river, the -Zoo, boating on the Serpentine, the promenade on the romantic -Spaniard's Road at Hampstead. Nearly every night he wrote to Mitchell -in the country, describing his new easy happiness in his work and his -discovery of the charm of nights in London. And once a week Mitchell -would write to him and give him a delightful account of English -country life in a valley, shut in by rolling hills between which -wandered a slow, pleasant stream. Here Mitchell was painting, boating, -playing tennis, making love. - -"There's a Detmold girl lives near here with her people--Greta -Morrison. You may remember her--glorious chestnut hair, big blue eyes, -but as shy as a little mouse. I couldn't get a word out of her until I -began to talk about you, and there's no end to her appetite for that. -I don't mince matters. I tell her exactly what you are, exactly what -you come from, and what a wild beast you are. She has seen you throw -things about at the Detmold, and she seems absolutely to like it. Yet -she is not a fool, and I like her enormously. She makes me feel what a -rotter I am, but I can't get on with her unless I talk about you. I -_have_ heard that her work is good, but she won't show me a thing." - -Mendel was pleased that a "top-knot" should be interested in him, but -beyond the flicker of delight he gave no thought to the idea of Greta -Morrison. The "top-knots" belonged to the world which he was going to -despoil with Hetty Finch. That world must disgorge. It had condemned, -and still condemned, his father and mother to bitter poverty, and he -remembered how on their first coming to London the whole family had -slept in one room, and how he had sat up in the middle of the night -and looked at the recumbent bodies and suffered under the indignity of -it. And his brothers had grown from ruddy, bronzed boys into -pale-faced, worn young men. And behind Hetty was the dirty -lodging-house and her Ma, of whom he had a very clear idea. He used to -wax violent, and his imagination would run riot with the fantastic -visions of success he conjured up. - -Who were the "top-knots" that they should have an easy, pleasant time -in the country while he was left to stew in London? - -Hetty began genuinely to admire him, and her flattery was no longer -empty. There was some sustenance in it. - -"O--oh!" she used to say. "You'll get on. There's no doubt about that. -You'll have a big stoodio and the nobs will come up in their -motor-cars, and you'll be able to paint what you like then." - -"You're a liar," he would reply. "I shall always paint what I like. I -never do anything else, and never will. Once paint for the fools and -you have to do it always, because you become a fool yourself." - -* * * * * - -Golda once met Hetty coming down the stairs. She told her she was a -dirty slut and was not to show her face inside the house again. A few -days later she saw her open the front door and slip out. In her anger -she informed Jacob of the danger to Mendel, and Jacob went up to the -studio. - -"I will not have that harlot in my house," he said. - -"She is not a harlot," replied Mendel rather shakily, for, though his -father's power had dwindled, yet he was still a figure of authority. - -"She is a harlot and a daughter of a harlot, and I will not have her -in my house." - -"She is a model, and I must have models, as I have tried to explain to -you again and again. I am allowed money for models. I must have -models, just as you must have skins." - -"Then there are other models. I know this girl, what she is after, and -she will ruin you." - -"Neither she nor anyone else in the whole world could ruin me," said -Mendel, "for I am an artist, and while I have my art I ask nothing -outside it." - -"Don't argue with me!" shouted Jacob. "I will not have that drab in my -house." - -Mendel had a great respect and regard for his father. He was silent, -and Jacob went downstairs, satisfied that he had asserted himself. - -He said to Golda:-- - -"They will blow the boy's head off his shoulder with the fuss they -make of him. I know how to take him down a peg or two." - -"Don't go too far," said Golda. "It would be a black day for me if he -went away and was ashamed of us." - -"If I saw that he was ashamed of you," replied Jacob, "I would thrash -him within an inch of his life. Ashamed of you, among all the dirt and -trumped-up people he goes among!" - -However, Hetty still came to the studio and there were frequent -explosions, until at last Mendel, intent on the new independence he -had won, declared that he could bear it no longer, and he arranged -with Issy to take the top floor of his house and to turn that into a -studio. This compromise was successful, and pleased both parties: -Golda was happy to be relieved from further friction and Mendel was -glad to be away, for he knew that his doings must hurt her, and that -he hated. Yet he could see no way out of it. He was done for ever with -the old simplicity of his untutored painting in her kitchen. Art was -no longer a pure and hardly-won joy. It was a trade, like any other, -and, like any other, it had its sordid aspect, and, to compensate for -that, it was a career and could also be a triumph. These things he did -not expect his mother to understand. He had Mitchell to talk to now, -Mitchell to whom to impart the burden upon his soul, and Mitchell and -he were to work together and to give to the world such art as it had -never seen since the primitives. - -Mitchell and he! That friendship was the source of his new confidence. -Golda had been and still was much to him, but when it came to painting -she knew nothing at all, and painting was the important thing. Through -painting lay not only satisfied ambitions and fame and riches, but -life itself, and of that what could Golda know? - -It was a great thing, therefore, to be established away from home when -Mitchell returned from the country. And Mitchell approved. He had -suffered from being under his father's shadow, and with Weldon and -Kessler he had taken a studio near Fitzroy Square. He said:-- - -"A time will come when you will have to leave the East End." - -"I shall never leave them," replied Mendel. "What I want to paint is -there. They are my people, and all that I have belongs to them." - -"Rubbish. You'll soon be getting commissions, and you can't ask people -who can afford to pay for portraits to a hole like that." - -"They will come to my studio," said Mendel, "or I will not take their -commissions." - -Though Mitchell was rather shocked by his frank conceit, he could not -but admire and envy the way his impulses came rushing to the surface -and were never deterred by considerations as to the impression he -might be making. Mendel trusted Mitchell absolutely and hid nothing -from him, neither the most scabrous of his deeds nor the most childish -of his desires. He made no secret of the new manly feeling that had -come to him through Hetty, the conviction that he could meet the West -End on its own terms. - -When he showed Mitchell the work he had done during the holidays, his -friend said:-- - -"Gawd! The difference is absolutely startling. There's charm in every -one of them, and they're not fakes either." - -With Hetty he was enraptured. - -"Gawd!" he said; "I'll give ten years to painting her, as Leonardo did -to Monna Lisa, and then it would not be finished. Came from a Margate -lodging-house, did she? Mark my words: she'll marry a successful -artist and queen it among the best." - -With Mitchell, Hetty put forth all her cajolery when she found that he -knew what she thought good people. She could look very pathetic and -delicate, and middle-aged artists were sorry for her, and thought -being a model a perilous profession for her. One of them warned her of -the dangers she must run, and especially mentioned Mitchell and Kühler -as young men to be avoided. They roared with laughter when she told -them. - -The Paris Café was Paradise to her, and she made friends with all its -habitués and attracted the attention of Calthrop, who became Mendel's -enemy for life when she told him that the youngster had said of him -that he had been a good artist once, but was now only repeating -himself. - -With marvellous rapidity she picked up the jargon of the place, and -could quite easily have taken her career in her own hands, but she -would not surrender Mendel, who could no more do without her than he -could without Mitchell. She clung to him and kept him a happy slave to -his three friends, to whom she devoted herself as though her existence -depended on the solidarity of the group. From morning to night she was -with one or other of them, and every evening with the four of them at -the Paris, or making a row at a music-hall and getting themselves -kicked out. - -She was learning her trade as they were learning theirs, and she was -delighted with the ease with which Mendel picked up what she called -"sense"; that is to say, he became much more like the others, affected -their speech, grew his hair long, wore corduroys, a black shirt, and a -red sash, and talked blatantly and with a slight contempt of great -painters. But even so, he was disturbing, for he did all these things -with passion, so that they tinged his soul, and were not as a mere -garment upon it. Even in falsehood he was sincere. - -When Hetty found Calthrop painting a self-portrait, she set her four -boys painting self-portraits, and when she found the older men talking -about the beauty of roofs and chimneys, the four were soon ecstatic -about roofs and chimneys, and painting them without knowing how it had -come about. She could feel what was in the air, and had no difficulty -in making them conform to it, so that they were successful even while -they were students, and were talked of and discussed and approached by -dealers as though they were persons of consequence. Their life was one -long intoxication: money, praise, wine, and debauchery went to their -heads, and of all these excitants Mendel had the largest share, and -found himself the equal even of Kessler, whose father was a -millionaire soap-boiler. He attained an extraordinary skill at doing -what was expected of him, and developed an instinct as sharp as -Hetty's for the success of the moment after next. - -He won scholarships at the Detmold and, carefully adapting his style, -an open prize at the Royal Academy. His patrons were excited and -delighted. He was interviewed by the Yiddish papers and photographed, -palette and brushes in hand, in a dashing attitude. He said many -foolish things to the reporters, but the printed version made him -blush. He was represented as saying that art had been reborn during -the last ten years, that the Royal Academy was exploded and would soon -close its doors, that there was no art criticism in England, that -there had never been a great Jewish artist, and that this deficiency -in the most vital and enduring race in the world would now be -repaired. - -He thanked his stars that his friends could not read Yiddish. Two -well-known Jewish painters wrote to the paper to say that they existed -and to trounce his "bumptious and ignorant dismissal of respected and -respectable art." And he heartily agreed with them. He was shaken out -of the hectic dreams of months, yet could not feel or see clearly. His -way was with Mitchell, and Mitchell was generously rejoicing in it all -as though it had happened to himself, while Hetty was going from -studio to studio spreading the news and declaring the arrival of a -genius. - -He wanted to go and hide his face in his mother's skirts, but she was -so happy and elated with the congratulations of the neighbours and -visits from the Rabbis of the synagogue that he could not but keep up -his part before her. For her and for all his family he bought -extravagant presents, and he went out and sought Artie Beech, whom he -had not seen for years, and gave him a box of cigars. He had a -melancholy idea that he was doing them all an injury and that he must -somehow repair it. The exact nature of the injury he did not know, but -his instinct was very sure that the whole business was false. Yet it -was so actual that he could not help believing in it. He was -hypnotized into accepting it. There seemed no reason why it should not -go on for ever. Here, apparently, was what he had always striven -for--art and homage--and the idea that they could go on for ever was -terrible and paralysing. But there was not a soul in the world with -whom he could share his feeling. If he showed the least hesitation -they would accuse him of ingratitude. - -He was filled with a smouldering rage against them all which found no -vent until Maurice Birnbaum came in his motor-car and asked him to -bring some of his things to show Sir William Hunslet, R.A., who had -been much impressed with his prize picture. Once again Mendel climbed -into the motor-car, and once again he was told not to let his parcel -scratch the paint. - -"Now," said Maurice, "you have the world at your feet, and I feel -proud to have had my share in bringing it about. You can have -everything you want, and if you don't grow into something really big -it won't be our fault. Everything that money can do it shall do." - -The car rolled through the streets which had been the scene of -Mendel's happy rambles, but being carried through them in such -magnificence made him feel helpless, a victim to something stronger -than his own will and that he had always detested. He was being taken -away from his mother and from Mitchell, and he knew whither motor-cars -were driven. All roads ended in Sir Julius, who could sit and look at -pictures without a word. Everything went spinning past him. This was -going too fast, too fast, and he would be exhausted before he had -really known his purpose. Maurice Birnbaum's exciting, patronizing -tones, chattering on exasperatingly, infuriated him, until he felt -like stabbing him in his already dropping stomach. What could a fat -man like that have to do with art? How could so fat a man drive down -to the wretched poverty in Whitechapel and not feel ashamed? - -But in spite of himself and his confused emotions Mendel enjoyed the -drive, which showed him more of London than the narrowed area he -frequented: more to conquer, more to know; shops, strange ugly -buildings, polite, mincing people, women like dolls, men like -marionettes, wide streets and plane-trees, the gardens and squares of -the polite Southwest. Often there were Georgian houses like that in -which his family lived, but so neat and trim and newly painted that -they looked like doll's-houses, proper places for the dolls and the -marionettes. . . . And it was exhilarating to be in the heart of the -roaring traffic, bearing down upon scarlet buses, and swift darting -taxi-cabs and motor-cars as rich as Maurice Birnbaum's. Out of the -traffic they turned suddenly into a quiet street of dead houses and -vast gloomy piles of flats. Outside a house more gloomy than the rest -they stopped. Maurice got out fussily, told Mendel to be careful how -he lifted his parcel out, fussed his way into the house through a -dark, luxuriously furnished hall, and into a vast studio where there -was a group of fashionably dressed women taking tea with Sir William -and exclaiming about the beauties of a portrait that stood on the -easel. - -Maurice stood awkwardly outside the circle and muttered apologies, -while Mendel felt utterly and crushingly foreign to the atmosphere of -the place. He knew how these people would regard him. They would stare -at him with a cold interest not unmingled with horror, and he would be -conscious of bearing the marks of the place he came from, of smelling -of the gutter. Against that separation even art was powerless. And -what had his work to do with this huge, hard, brilliant portrait on -the easel? If they admired that they would never look at his dark -little pictures. - -Sir William introduced Maurice to the ladies, but did not so much as -look at the boy, whom his mind had at once ticked off as a "student," -and therefore to be kept in his place. Maurice explained spluttering: -words like "scholarship," "prize," "genius," "instinct," fell in a -shower from his lips, and one of the ladies put up her lorgnette and -stared at Mendel as though he were a picture or a wax model. - -At last he was told to untie his parcel, and one by one he showed his -pictures. Sir William blew out his chest and his cheeks, and with a -wave of his hand blurted out one word:-- - -"Italy." - -"That's what I say," said Maurice. - -Mendel scented danger. They seemed to him to be conspiring together. - -"Italy!" ejaculated Sir William. "Italy! Blue skies, the sun, the -light. Give him light and landscape with form in it." - -"Am I ill?" thought Mendel with some alarm, for Sir William sounded to -him more like a doctor than a painter. And he decided that the -Academician was not a real artist because he showed no sign of the -fellow-feeling which had been so strong in Mr. Froitzheim. - -Before the ladies he could say nothing. He put his pictures back in -the parcel and heard Maurice and Sir William still conspiring together -to send him to Italy. He was tired of being swung from one idea to -another. At the Polytechnic they had told him that the essential thing -in a picture was "tone," that he must remember the existence of the -atmosphere between himself and the object he was painting, and that -there were no bright colours in nature. At the Detmold little was said -about "tone," but he was told that the essence of a picture was -drawing, "the expression of form." . . . What next? He had a -foreboding that Italy was only another name for another essence of a -picture. Besides, he wanted to live. Though he adored art, yet it did -not contain all that was precious to him--liberty and gaiety, -friendship and affection. Always until the Detmold his life had been -weighed down with poverty and with terrible obsessions like that of -his dread of the fat, curly-headed boy who, during the six long years -of his schooling, had waited for him outside the school-gates every -day to give him a coward's blow and to challenge him to fight and to -jeer at him if he refused. There had been furious, passionate loves to -set him reeling, gusts of inexplicable desires and ambitions which had -often made him weep with pain. And now, just as the world was opening -out before him and he was warm with the friendship of an Englishman -(for he was proud of Mitchell's Public School training), they wished -to take him away and send him to a far country. - -He had had enough of being a foreigner in England, and he loathed the -idea of travel. His father had told him that England was the best -country in the world, and, if he had suffered so much there, what -would it be in others? Italy? He wanted to paint what he had always -painted, fish and onions in a London kitchen. How could Italy help him -to do that? - -He would not go. He would refuse to go. These Birnbaums and -Fleischmanns had had their way with him for long enough. - -So lost was he in this growing revolt that he was already some -distance away from Sir William's studio before he was aware of having -left it. - -"Our greatest painter," said Maurice. "The greatest since Whistler." - -"Yes," said Mendel, aghast at the supersession of Calthrop and the -idols of the Detmold. If Maurice could be so ignorant there was -nothing to be said and argument was vain. - -"He really appreciated your work," Maurice added. - -"He never looked at it!" cried Mendel, enraged. "I put them in front -of him one by one, but he always looked at the fat lady in blue." - -"He could tell with one glance," protested Maurice, who had been -mightily impressed. - -Mendel saw that it was useless to talk, and shut his lips tight while -Maurice chattered to him of his extraordinary good fortune in being -able to go to Italy, to live among the orange groves and with the -greatest galleries of the world to roam in, the most beautiful scenery -and the most delightful food. - -The mention of food made Mendel think of his mother's unsavoury dishes -and sluttish table, the most distasteful feature of his existence, but -he preferred even that to the Italy of Maurice Birnbaum and Sir -William. Through such people, he knew, lay nothing that he could ever -desire. - -As soon as he reached home he told his mother that they wanted to send -him abroad to study. He strode about the kitchen and waved his arms, -growling:-- - -"Study? Study? I want to be an artist, not a student. I _am_ an -artist. I know art students when I see them--the Academy, South -Kensington, the Detmold--they are all the same. Let them go abroad and -never come back. No one will miss them, not even their fathers and -mothers, if they have anything so natural. I will not go--I will not -go!" - -"But if the Maurice Birnbaum thinks you must go, then you must," said -Golda. "It is their money that has been spent on you." - -"They've spent enough," cried Mendel, "without that. I don't want -their money any more. They know that. They want to keep me in their -hands and to say that they made me. They? People like that! God made -me, and they want to keep me all my life saying how grateful I am to -them. Grateful? I am not." - -"But you could go for a little while." - -"I will not go at all." - -He sat down and wrote to Maurice Birnbaum saying that he would not go -to Italy, that he did not want any more of his commissions, and that -he would not be interfered with any more. He would shortly repay every -penny he had had, and he asked only to be allowed to know best what he -wanted to do. - -"Everything that I love is here in London, and I can only learn from -what I love. I am one kind of artist and you want to turn me into -another kind. You will only waste your money, and I will not let you -do it." - -Maurice never answered this letter and patronage and that of his -friends was withdrawn. - -Mendel plunged more ardently than ever into his career with Mitchell -and the others, but found that they were not prepared to share or to -admit the new freedom which he had begun to enjoy. The Birnbaum -patronage had always to a certain extent restrained him, but now that -it was shaken off he plunged madly and wildly into every kind of -extravagance. He was no longer content to be the equal of the others. -He wanted to lead them. He was the most successful of them all, and he -wanted them all to join him in forcing art upon London. Calthrop had -shown them the way, but he had unaccountably stopped short. He had -many imitators, and there were even women who looked like his type, -but it all ended in his personality. . . . Art was something else: -something outside that, an impersonal thing, which London should be -made to recognize. The pictures of Kühler, Mitchell, Weldon, and -Kessler should be, as it were, only forerunners of the mighty pictures -that should be painted. . . . - -He was just as extreme and violent in his vices as he was in his -idealism, and even Mitchell was rather upset by his pranks and -caprices. It was one thing to take a shy tame genius among your -acquaintance, quite another when the genius ran wild and dragged you -hither and thither and with breathless haste from the vilest human -company to the most dizzily soaring ideas. Weldon, who was uncommonly -shrewd, had begun to see the danger of allowing Hetty Finch to arrange -their affairs, and when on top of that Mendel, drunk with freedom and -success, began to take charge, he thought it time to secure himself -and began to withdraw from their undertakings and adventures. - -At last Kessler struck, and told Mendel that he might be the greatest -genius that was ever born, but should sometimes try to remember that -his friends were gentlemen and could not always be making allowances -for his birth and upbringing. This happened in the Paris Café. Mendel -fell like a shot bird, like a stone. The eager words froze on his -lips, his face visibly contracted and became haggard, his eyes blinked -for a moment, then stared glassily. He sat so for some minutes, then -rose from the table and walked quickly out of the café. - -He did not appear for a week, nor was anything heard of him. He sat at -home working furiously. Hetty Finch went to see him, but he turned her -out, telling her that she was a hateful, cold-hearted woman and that -he would never see her again. - -At last he wrote to Mitchell, a letter of agony, for Mitchell, his -friend, seemed to him the worst offender, by not having warned him of -what was in the air:-- - -"You are my friend," he wrote, "my only friend. It is no more to you -what I am, where or how I was born, than it is to me what you are. The -soul of a man chooses his friend, and I trusted you even in my folly. -You could have defended me and our friendship. You have not done so -and I must live miserably without you. Good-bye. I shall not attempt -again to enter a life in which my work is not sufficient -recommendation. I was happy. I was not happy before. I am not happy -now. I have been foolish, but I was your friend." - -Mitchell was irritated by this letter, but he was also moved. He -valued Mendel's sincerity, which had continually jolted him out of his -natural indolence. And, as he had a fine talent and a fairly strong -desire to use it to the full, the friendship had profited him. It had -also helped him to come to reasonable terms with that great man, his -father. - -On the other hand he was in this difficulty, that he too had been -slipping out of the quintette through his new friendship with Miss -Greta Morrison and her friend, Miss Edith Clowes. Knowing Mendel's -contempt for the "top-knots," he had said nothing of this matter, and -had found it sometimes difficult to account for the afternoons and -evenings given to the dilemma of discovering whether Miss Morrison or -Miss Clowes were the love of his life. Mendel was an exacting friend, -and, as he concealed nothing, expected no concealment. - -Mitchell, like the true Englishman he was, deplored the unpleasant -complication, but left it to time, impulse, or inspiration to unravel. -Impulse, in due course, came to his aid and he invented a plan. First -of all he wrote a manly note to Mendel, confessing his inability to -understand why he should suffer for Kessler's caddishness, and -declaring that friendship could not be so lightly broken. He received -no reply to this, and proceeded by taking Morrison and Clowes (as in -the fashion of the Detmold they were called) to see the docks at -Rotherhithe. While there he gazed from Morrison to Clowes and from -Clowes to Morrison, unable to decide which he loved, for both gave him -an equal contraction of the heart, and then he told them that ships -had never been properly painted, never _expressed_ in form and colour; -and then he added that it was clearly a man's job, and then he -informed them that only a short distance away lived Mendel Kühler. - -"Would you like to go and see him?" he asked. "It is the queerest -thing to go and see him. A filthy street, a dark house, a ramshackle -staircase, and there you are--absolutely one of the finest painters -the Detmold has ever turned out." - -"Do let us go and see him!" said Clowes, who had decided in her own -mind that she was the third of the party and in the way. Morrison said -nothing, and looked very solemn, as though she regarded the visit as -an event--something to be half dreaded. She had a very charming air of -diffidence, as though she were very happy and knew this to be an -unusual and peculiar condition. Often she smiled to herself, and then -seemed to shake the smile away, feeling perhaps that she, a slip of a -girl, had no right to be amused by a world so vast and so varied. - -She had enjoyed herself. The ships had stirred her romantically, and -she could not at all agree with Mitchell about painting them, for were -they not works of art in themselves? They moved her in the same way, -arresting her eyes and delighting them, and touching her emotions so -that they began to creep and tickle their way through her whole being. -. . . O wonderful world to contain so much delight! And it pleased her -that the ships should start out of the squalor of the docks like -lilies out of a dark pond. - -She smiled and shook the smile away when Mitchell spoke of Mendel -Kühler. She remembered once meeting Mendel on the stairs at the -Detmold. She had often noticed him--strange-looking, white-faced, -romantic, with a look of suffering in his eyes that marked him out -from all the other young men. . . . After she had passed him on the -stairs she turned to look at him, and at the same moment he turned and -she trembled and blushed, and her eyes shone as she hurried on her -way. - -Mitchell had told her a great deal about him, and she had heard other -people say that he was detestable, an ill-mannered egoist. She -supposed he was so, for she rarely questioned what other people said, -but he remained a clear figure for her, the romantic-looking young man -who had looked back on the stairs. - -"We'll take him by surprise," said Mitchell, with a sudden qualm lest -they should break in upon Mendel and Hetty Finch together. "If we told -him he would hide all his work away and put on a white shirt and have -flowers on the table, for he is terrified of ladies. He says they -don't look like women to him." - -"I'm sure," said Clowes, "I don't want to look like a woman to any -man." - -This was the most encouraging remark Mitchell had had from either -during the day, and he decided that he was in love with Clowes. - -A brisk walk through narrow dingy streets brought them, with some help -from the police, to the door of Issy's house. Mitchell knocked and a -grimy little Jewess opened to them. - -"Mr. Mendel Kühler?" said Mitchell. - -"Upstairs to the top," replied the Jewess as she hurried away. They -climbed the shabbily carpeted stairs and knocked at the door of the -studio. Mendel opened it. He stood with a brush in his hand, blinking. -He stared at Mitchell and then beyond him at Morrison. - -"Come in," he said. "I'd just finished. I've been working rather hard -and haven't spoken to a soul for three days. You must forgive me if I -don't seem very intelligent." - -They went in and he made tea for them, hardly ever taking his eyes off -Morrison. He said pointedly to Mitchell:-- - -"So you came down to the East End to find me." - -Clowes explained:-- - -"I'm a stranger to London and had never seen the docks, you know." - -"I have never seen the docks either, though I live so near," said he. -Then, catching Morrison glancing in the direction of his easel, he -turned his work for her to see, almost ignoring the others. Afterwards -he produced drawings for her to see, and he seemed entirely bent on -pleasing her, which so embarrassed her that, when she could escape his -gaze, she looked imploringly over at the others. They could not help -her, and he went on until he had shown her every piece of work in the -studio. Whenever she spoke, shyly and diffidently, as though she knew -her opinion was of no value, he gave a queer little grunt of triumph, -and his eyes glittered as he looked over at Mitchell, as though to say -that he too knew how to treat the "top-knots" and to please them. - - - -X - -MORRISON - -A FEW days later he wired to Morrison at the Detmold to ask her to sit -for him. She made no reply and did not come. - -Very well then: he would not budge. He would only approach Mitchell -again through the "top-knots," who lived in a portion of Mitchell's -world that had hitherto been closed to him. It promised new adventure, -and he was so eager for it that he would not enter upon any other -outside his work. - -The days went by and he began a portrait of his mother, with which he -intended to make his first appearance at an important exhibition. -Golda sat dressed in her best on the throne, and tried vainly to -soothe him as he cursed and stamped and wept over his difficulties: - -"I can't do it! I can't do it!" he wailed. "I'm a fool, a blockhead, a -pig! If I could only do one little thing more to it I could make it a -great picture." - -"You are always the same," said Golda. "In Austria, when you were a -little boy, the soldiers made you a uniform like their own. They used -to call you the Captain, and they saluted you in the street, only they -forgot to give you any boots, and when the soldiers marched by, you -stamped and roared because you were not allowed to go with them, and I -could not make you understand that you were not a real captain." - -"But I am a real artist," he growled. "You'll never make me understand -that I am not a real artist." - -"Nothing good was ever done in a hurry," said she. "If you run so fast -you will break your head against a wall." - -"I shall paint many portraits of you, for I shall never be satisfied. -You may as well sit here with your hands folded as over there in the -kitchen. If I'm not careful your hands will grow all over the picture. -I have put such a lot of work into them." - -Then for a long time he was silent, and both were lost in a dreamlike -happiness--to be together, alone with his work, bound together in his -delight as they used to be when he was a child before the invasion of -their peace. - -He went to the door in answer to a knock and found Morrison standing -there with some flowers in her hands. - -"Oh!" he said awkwardly, holding the door. "Won't you come in? Please. -I am painting my mother." - -Golda's eyes lighted with pleasure on the fresh-looking girl and her -flowers. - -"She is like a flower herself," she thought, and indeed the girl -looked as though she were fresh from the country. - -She held out her hand to Golda, who stood up on the throne and bobbed -to her, then folded her hands on her stomach and waited patiently for -the lady to break the awkwardness that had sprung up between the three -of them. Mendel could do nothing. He looked from one to the other and -felt, with a little tremor of horror, the gulf that separated the two. - -At last Morrison said to Golda:-- - -"I am very glad to see you, though I feel I know you quite well from -the drawings he has done of you." - -Golda broke into inarticulate expressions of the delight it was to her -to see any of her son's friends, and saying that she would have a -special tea sent up, she edged towards the door and slipped out. - -"Why didn't you come before?" asked Mendel, when he had heard the door -bang. "I sent you a telegram. I wanted to paint your portrait, and now -I have begun something else." - -"I didn't want to come," replied she, "but something Mitchell said -made me want to come." - -"What did he say?" - -"He told me about Kessler, and I thought it was a shame. I thought it -was a horrible shame that you should be treated like that, as if -anything mattered but your work." - -Her voice rather irritated him. Her accent was rather mincing and -precise, and between her sentences she gave a little gasp which he -took for an affectation. - -"Why did Mitchell tell you that?" - -"He tells me a great deal about you, and he was really upset by your -letter." - -"Was he? Was he?" - -Mendel had no thought but for Mitchell. He longed to go to him, to -embrace him, to tell him that all was different now. He blurted it all -out to the girl. - -"We were so happy, the four of us together. Every evening we met and -we were like kings. Everything that we wanted to do we did. We had -money and success and all such foolish things, and we worked hard, all -of us. There were not in London four young men like us, and I was free -of the terrible people who wanted to turn me into an ordinary -successful painter--a portrait painter. I tell you, I have never had a -commission in my life that was not a failure. I only wanted to be -young and to work, for I had never been young before. And then -suddenly, out of nothing, my friends turned on me and told me I was a -Jew and uneducated, and ought to treat them with more respect. Why? -The Jews are good people, and what do I want with education? Can books -teach me how to paint? I tell you the Jews are good people." - -Tea was brought up on a lacquer tray--bread, jam, and cake. They were -both hungry and fell to with a will, hardly speaking at all. - -When they had finished they began to talk of pictures and of the lives -of the painters, and he told her stories of Michael Angelo and -Rembrandt: how Michael Angelo never took his boots off, and was never -in love in his life; and how Rembrandt was practically starved to -death. Then he showed her reproductions of Cranach and Dürer, whom at -the time he adored, and they bent over them, the chestnut head and the -curly black together. Gradually she led him on to tell of his own -life, and he began at the beginning in Austria, holding her -spell-bound with his vivid, picturesque talk. - -"It makes me feel very quiet and dull," she said. "I don't think I -ever regarded places outside England as real, somehow. There was just -home and London, and London seemed to be the end of everything. All -the trains stop there, you know." - -"Where is your home?" he asked. - -"In Sussex. It is very beautiful country." - -"How did you come to the Detmold?" - -"A girl at home had been there, and at school they said I was no good -at anything but drawing. Indeed, I was sent away from two schools, and -at home I was such a trouble that mother decided I must do something -to earn my living. So I was sent up to the Detmold. I had my hair down -my back then." - -"I remember," said he. "In a plait." - -She smiled with pleasure at that. - -"Yes," she said. "In a plait. I lived in a hostel, where they bullied -me because I was so untidy and was always being late for meals. At -home, you know, there were only my brothers, and my mother could never -keep them in order, and I was always treated as if I was a boy too. -. . . And I think that's all." - -She ended so lamely that his irritation got the better of him, and he -jumped to his feet. It seemed to him that his view of the "top-knots" -was confirmed. They were simply negligible. He was baffled, and stood -staring down at her. Was she no more interested in herself than that? -Comparing the smooth monotony of her life with his, he waxed -impatient, and told himself he was a fool to have invited her to come -to him. - -He began to study her face with a view to painting it, and he was -absorbed and fascinated by it. The lines of her cheek and of her neck -made him itch to draw them. - -"Yes," he said, "I must paint you. I can do something good. I'm sure I -can." - -"I wanted to ask if you would mind my painting you," she said. - -He was aghast at her impudence. She, a slip of a girl, a "top-knot," -paint the great Kühler! - -She saw how horrified he was and added hastily:-- - -"Of course, I won't insist if you don't like sitting." - -She rose to go and he begged her to stay. - -"Don't go yet," he said with sudden emotion. "I don't want you to go. -Somehow I feel as if you had been sitting there always and I don't -want you to go. If you don't want to talk you needn't, but you must -stay. I could see that my mother liked you at once, and she always -knows good people. You made her happy about me. It was like sunshine -to her when you came in, and I shall be wretched if you go, for I -don't know what to think about you." - -"I know what I think about you." - -"What do you think?" - -"You have made me feel that London isn't just a place where the trains -stop." - -And she began to tell him about her home and the river where she -bathed with her brothers, the woods where in spring there were -primroses and daffodils, and in summer bluebells. - -"Opposite the house," she said, "is a hill which is a common, all -covered with gorse in the summer, and the hot, nutty smell of it comes -up and seems to burn your face. There are snakes on the common--vipers -and adders and grass-snakes. From the top you can see the downs, and -beyond them, you know, is the sea. On moonlight nights it is glorious, -and I nearly go mad sometimes with running in and out of the shadows. -I believe I did go mad once, for I sat up on the top of the hill and -sang and shouted and cried, all by myself, and I felt that my heart -would break if I did not kiss something. The gorse was out, and I -buried my face in the dewy yellow flowers. . . . I often think the -woods are like churches on Easter Day. . . . And then when I get home -and it is just a house and I am just a girl living in it, you know, it -all seems wrong somehow." - -Mendel sat on the floor trying to puzzle out this mysterious rapture -of hers. He had never heard of gorse or of downs, but he could -recognize her emotion. He had had something like it the first time he -saw a may-tree in blossom, and he had hardly been able to bear it. He -had rather resented it, for it had interfered with his work for a day -or two, and he could not help feeling that there was something -indecent about an emotion with which he could do nothing. - -"Yes," he said heavily; "it must be very pretty." - -She shivered at the grotesqueness of his words as she sank back into -her normal mood of happy diffidence. His face wore an expression of -black anger as he darted quick, furious glances at her. Here was -something that he did not understand, something that defied his -mastery, and when she smiled he thought it was at himself, and this -strange power that had been behind her appeared to him as a mocking, -teasing spirit. Let it mock, let it tease! He was strong enough to -defy it. Sweep through a green girl it might, but he was not to be -caught by it. He knew better. In him it had tough simplicity to deal -with and a will that had broken the confinement of Fate, the limits of -a meagre religion, to bend before no authority but that of art. . . . -He was rather contemptuous, too. Nothing as yet had resisted his -genius, and he felt it within him stronger than ever, a river with a -thousand sources. Block one channel and it would find another. Stop -that and it would find yet another. - -Yet here he knew was no direct, no open menace, only the intolerable -suggestion that there were other streams, other sources, and the -suggestion had come from this foolish, empty girl. - -"I will not have it," he said half aloud. - -"What did you say?" she asked. - -"Nothing. I was thinking--I was thinking that there is nothing so good -as London. They tried to send me to Italy, but I know that there is -nothing so good as London for life, and where life is, there is art. I -don't want your pretty places and your pretty feelings. I want to go -through the streets and to see the girls in the evening leaving the -shops, and the men in their bowler-hats looking at the girls and -wanting them, and the fat men in their motor-cars, and the bookstalls -on the railway stations, and the public-houses with their rows of -bottles and the white handles of the beer machines, and the plump -barmaids, and the long, straight streets going on for ever with the -flat houses on either side of them, and the markets and the -timber-yards and the tall chimneys. It all fills your mind and makes -patterns and whirling thoughts that take a spiral shape, going up and -up to mysterious heights. I want all that, and nothing shall take it -from me, do you hear?" - -He turned on her ferociously, as though she were trying to rob him. - -"And inside it all is something solid," he went on. "Do you know that -my father never loved but one woman in all his life? That's what Jews -are. They know what's solid. If they have to stay in the filth to keep -it, then they'll stay in the filth. And because I'm a Jew I'm not to -be caught with your pretty things and your little fancies. I shall -paint the things I understand, and I'll leave the clouds and the -rainbows and the roofs and chimneys to fools like Mitchell." - -Morrison sat very meekly while he talked. She hung her head and -twitched her fingers nervously. She was elated by his passion, but she -too had her dreams and was not going to surrender them. His strength -had given her confidence in them and in herself, and she was filled -with a teasing spirit. - -"Jews aren't the only people who are solid," she said. "You see men in -buses and trains whom an earthquake wouldn't move, and I'm sure, if an -earthquake happened, my mother would be left where she was, reading -the Bible." - -Mendel replied:-- - -"In a thousand years my mother will be just as she is now." - -Morrison stared at him and began to wonder if he was not a little mad. -He added simply:-- - -"I feel like that." - -And she was relieved and thought he was the only sane person she had -ever met in her life. - -"Will you let me come again?" she asked. - -"I am going to paint you," he said; "I am going to paint you as you -are. You won't like it." - -"I shall if you make me solid," she answered. "And you need flowers in -this dark room. You must let me send you some." - - - -BOOK TWO - -BOHEMIA - - - -I - -THE POT-AU-FEU - -AT the exhibition, the portrait of Golda created no small stir. The -critics, who, since Whistler, had been chary of denouncing new-comers, -had swung to the opposite extravagance and were excessively eager to -discover new masters. The youth of this Kühler made him fair game, for -it supplied them with a proviso. They could hail his talent as that of -a prodigy without committing themselves. - -"The portrait of the artist's mother," wrote one of them, "has all the -essentials of great art, as the early compositions of Mozart had all -the essentials of great music. Here is real achievement, a work of art -instinct with racial feeling, and therefore of true originality. No -trace here of Parisian experiments. This picture is in the direct line -from Holbein and Dürer." - -Mendel took this to mean that he was as good as Holbein and Dürer, and -accepted it not as praise but as a statement of fact. The picture was -bought by a well-known connoisseur, who wrote that he was proud to -have such a picture in his collection. - -"Now," thought the proud painter, "my career has really begun." - -For once in a way he regarded his success with his father's eyes and -much as Moscowitsch would have regarded the successful coup in -business for which he was always vainly striving. The hectic gambling -spirit introduced by Hetty Finch had disappeared, and though he still -devoted his leisure to Mitchell, their adventurousness was tempered by -the tantalization of the "top-knots," Morrison and Clowes. To -counteract the disturbing effect of their coolness, Mendel became very -Jewish and hugged his success, gloating over it rather like a cat over -a stolen piece of fish. - -Morrison's indifference to the buzz about his name was especially -maddening, because he wished to prove to her that in painting dwelt a -joy beside which her trumpery little ecstasy in woods and flowers was -nothing, nothing at all. He wished to convince himself that he had not -been really disturbed by her first visit to his studio. Only the shock -of novelty he had felt, and by his success, by his triumphant work, he -had obliterated it. . . . She was nothing, he told himself, only a raw -girl, smooth and polished by her easy life, good for nothing except to -be made love to by such as Mitchell. - -Love? They called it love when a young man clasped a maiden's hand, or -when they kissed and rode together on the tops of buses! These -Christians were rather disgusting with all their talk of love. He had -heard more talk of it in three years of contact with them than in all -his life before, and Weldon and others had talked of love in -connection with Hetty Finch. - -Disgusting! - -And now here was Mitchell babbling of his love for Morrison. When -Mendel wanted to talk of pictures and art and the old painters who had -worked simply without reference to success, Mitchell kept dragging him -back to Morrison, her simplicity, her extraordinary childlike -innocence, her love of beauty, her generous trustfulness, her queer -sudden impulses. - -"What has such a girl as that to do with art or with artists?" said -Mendel furiously. "An artist wants women as he wants his food, when he -has time for them." - -"Gawd!" says Mitchell, trotting along by his side; "you don't know -what you are talking about. I tell you I never believed all that trash -about a young man being redeemed by a virtuous girl until now." - -"It's nonsense!" shouted Mendel; "nonsense, I tell you. It must be -nonsense, because it didn't matter to you whether it was Clowes or -Morrison, and for all I know, it may be both." - -"Clowes is a jolly nice girl too," replied Mitchell, "but she's more -ordinary. I never met anyone like Morrison before. I can't make her -out, but she does make me feel that I am an absolute rotter. It is her -fresh enjoyment of simple things that disturbs me and makes me see -what a mess I've made of my life. Once an artist loses that, he is -finished." - -They had been reading Tolstoi on "What is Art?" and their young -conceit had been put out by it. Must their extraordinary powers -produce work accessible to the smallest intelligence? Mendel had been -greatly influenced by that theory in his portrait of his mother, while -Mitchell's energy had been paralysed so that he could produce nothing -at all. - -"Yes," Mitchell went on, "I know now what Tolstoi means. He means that -love can speak direct to love, and, by Jove! it is absolutely true. -Brains are only a nuisance to an artist. Look at Calthrop! He hasn't -got the brains of a louse. Of course, that is why painters are such an -ignorant lot. I must tell my father that when he goes for me for not -reading." - -"But Tolstoi liked bad artists!" grumbled Mendel. "And my mother does -not like some of my best things. As for my father, he wants a painted -bread to look as if he could eat it: never is he satisfied just to -look at it. His love and my love are not the same and cannot speak to -each other." - -"You should see more of Morrison, and then you would understand," -rejoined Mitchell. - -Mendel felt that Mitchell was slipping away from him, and all this -Christian talk of love was to him a corrosion upon his imagination and -his nervous energy, blurring and distorting everything that he valued. -There were many things that he hated, and yet because he hated them -their interest for him was consuming. Issy's wife, for instance, and -her squalling children; his father's bitter tongue; and Mitchell's odd -self-importance. - -He repeated:-- - -"Tolstoi liked bad artists." - -"You can't settle a big man like Tolstoi just by repeating phrases -about him." - -"I can settle him by painting good pictures," retorted Mendel. "I -don't paint pictures to please people." - -"Then why do you paint?" - -"I don't know. To be an artist. Because there is a thing called art -which matters to me more than all the love and all the women and all -the little girls in the world." - -"Ah!" sighed Mitchell. "You'll soon think differently. I shall never -do another stroke of work without thinking of Greta standing on Kew -Bridge and looking up the river at the boats with their white sails." - -"Will you be quiet?" cried Mendel; "will you be quiet with your little -girls and white sails?" - -Mitchell seemed to be slipping away from him, and he dreaded the -thought of being left alone with his success, which was blowing a bulb -of glass round him, so that he felt imprisoned in it, and wherever he -looked could see nothing but reflections of himself, Mendel Kühler, -painting his mother, and his father, and old Jews and loaves and -fishes for ever and ever. While he clung to Mitchell he knew that he -could not be so encased, but Mitchell demanded that he should go out -with him into a world all glowing with love, with rivers of milk and -honey and meadows pied with buttercups and daisies; to stand on airy -bridges and gaze at innocent little girls and white sails. The -contemplation of this world revolted him, and he stiffened himself -against it. Better the smells and the dirt than such fantastical -stuff. His gorge rose against it. - -To wean Mitchell from his amorous fancies he pretended that he was -tired and wanted a holiday, and together they went down to a village -on the South Coast near Brighton. There it was almost as it had been -in the beginning. For a fortnight they were never out of each other's -company. They slept in one bed and shared each other's clothes, -paints, and money. They sketched the same subjects, took tremendous -walks, and in the evening they talked as though there were no London, -no Paris Café, no exhibitions, no dealers, no critics, nothing but -themselves and their friendship and their artistic projects. Mendel -was supremely happy. Never had he known such intimacy since the days -of Artie Beech. - -But Mitchell was often depressed and moody. He had letters every day, -and every evening he wrote at great length. - -One morning he had a letter which he crumpled up dramatically and -thrust into his trousers pocket. - -"Gawd!" he said. "That's put the lid on it. I'm done for." - -"What is it?" asked Mendel, aghast. - -"I'll tell you when we get back to London. We must go back this -afternoon. Eight o'clock in the Pot-au-Feu." - -The Pot-au-Feu was a little restaurant in Soho which Mitchell, Weldon, -and some others had endeavoured to render immortal by decorating it -with panels. In a room above it lived Hetty Finch. - -Mendel's thoughts flew to her, a figure of ill omen. He had not seen -her for some time, and had imagined that she had so successfully got -all she wanted and was so thoroughly established in her composite -profession that she had no time for the younger artists. He had heard -tales about her, and fancied she would succeed in hooking one of the -older men for a husband. - -He said:-- - -"Why do you want to go back to that beastly place? Here it is good. I -could stay here for six months." - -"Gawd!" said Mitchell dismally. "'Tis life. There's absolutely no -getting away from it. Everything is swallowed up and nothing is left." - -He became very solemn and added:-- - -"If anything happens to me, Kühler, I want you to go to Greta Morrison -and tell her that through everything I never forgot my happiness with -her." - -"Happen!" cried Mendel. "What can happen?" - -"I'll tell you to-night," replied Mitchell gloomily, "at the -Pot-au-Feu." - -And not another word did he say, neither during their morning's work, -nor during lunch, nor in the train, nor in the taxi-cab that took them -to Soho. - -"You wait outside," said Mitchell mysteriously. - -Mendel waited outside and paced up and down, oppressed with the idea -that his friendship with Mitchell was at an end. He was left helpless -and exposed, for all that had been built on the friendship had come -toppling down, and with it came the extra personality he had developed -for dealing with the Detmold and the polite world--the Kühler who had -assiduously learned manners and phrases, vices and enthusiasms, as a -part to be played at the Paris Café and in the drawing-rooms of the -languid ladies who were interested in art and artists. Hetty Finch -went with it, for she had been an adjunct of that personality. . . . -He was glad to be rid of her, and shook her off, plucked her out of -his mind like a burr that was stuck upon it. - -After a quarter of an hour or so Mitchell came out more mysterious -than ever, took his arm and led him into the restaurant, which was -hardly bigger than an ordinary room. Full of vigour and health as he -was, Mendel felt an enormous size in it, as though he must knock over -the tables and thrust his elbows through the painted panels. Madame -Feydeau, the proprietress, greeted him with a wide smile and said she -had missed him lately. At his table was the goggle-eyed man who dined -there every night with his newspaper open in front of him. Weldon and -a girl with short hair were sitting in uncomfortable silence, both -with the air of doing a secret thing. Near the counter, with its -dishes of fruit and coffee-glasses, was Hetty Finch, rather drawn and -pinched in the face and very dark under the eyes. - -Mendel was filled with impatience. She had no business to be sitting -there, for he had disposed of her, and she made everything seem -fantastic and unreal. He shook hands with her and sat at the table. -Mitchell took the chair next to Hetty and talked to her in an -undertone, while her eyes turned on Mendel with a frightened, -inquiring expression. - -"All right," he said, as though he had understood her question. "I -know when to hold my tongue." - -Mitchell went on whispering, and every now and then he bowed his head -and clenched his fists, as though he were racked with inexpressible -emotions. He too had become fantastic. Mendel knew that he was -play-acting, and with a sickening dread he went back over all he knew -of Mitchell, recognizing this same play-acting in much that he had -accepted as genuine. Yet he would not believe it, for Mitchell was his -friend, and therefore never to be criticized. - -Would neither of them speak? Food was laid before him, and he ate it -without tasting it. Mitchell led Hetty away to another table and -talked to her impressively there. Then he brought her back and went on -with his whispering. - -Coffee was laid before Mendel, and he drank it without tasting it. - -At last Hetty said, in a loud voice that rang through the room:-- - -"No. I will take nothing from you. I ask nothing from you, not a -penny." - -"By God," said Mitchell, hanging his head, "I deserve it." - -Hetty turned to Mendel and asked him sweetly to buy her a bottle of -wine, as she needed something to pick her up. - -"You are a devil," she said, "sitting there as though nothing had -happened. But I always said you were a devil and no good. I always -said so, but I have my friends and can be independent." - -"Don't be a fool," said he roughly. "You'll have a short run, and -you'd better find something to fall back on while you can." - -"Get your hair cut!" she replied. "I know which side my bread's -buttered, and the old men aren't so sharp as the young ones. You've -got a fool's tongue in your clever head, Kühler, and a fool's tongue -makes enemies." - -"Shut up!" he said. "And you leave Mitchell alone. He hasn't done you -any harm." - -"Ho! Hasn't he?" she cried. - -Mitchell groaned, and, giving a withering glance at the two of them, -Hetty gathered up her vanity-bag and gloves and walked out of the -restaurant. - -"She's a slut!" said Mendel. "She always was a slut and always will -be." - -"Gawd!" cried Mitchell. "It was you let her loose on the town, and I -shall never hold up my head again. I shall never be able to face my -people. I shall just let myself be swallowed up in London. . . . But I -shan't trouble any of my friends. When I'm a pimp I shan't mind if you -look the other way. After all, it isn't so far to fall. There's not -much difference between the ordinary artist and a pimp." - -"What has she done to you?" cried Mendel furiously. "Why do you let -yourself be put down by a drab like that?" - -"She's not a drab," said Mitchell, in a curious thin of protest. "She -is the mother of my child." - -Mendel brought his fist down on the table with a thump, so that the -cups jumped from their saucers. - -"She is what?" - -"The mother of my child," said Mitchell, burying his face in his -hands. "I have offered to marry her, to make an honest woman of her, -but she refuses, and she will take nothing from me. Gawd! How can I -ever face Morrison again? How can I face my mother?" - -"Rubbish! Rubbish! Rubbish!" cried Mendel. "Why you? Why not -Weldon--why not Calthrop?" He saw the goggle-eyed man listening -eagerly and lowered his voice. "A drab like that deserves all she -gets. She takes her risks, and I'll say this for her, that she does -not complain. She's clever enough to know how to deal with it. . . ." - -He wanted to say a great deal more, but realized that Mitchell, intent -upon his own emotions, was not listening to him. Also, through the -fantastic atmosphere, he began to be aware of a reality powerful and -horrible. Against it Hetty seemed to be of no account, and Mitchell's -excitement was palpably false. - -This reality had been called into being by no one's will, and -therefore it was horrible. - -"I shall have to disappear," said Mitchell. - -Mendel did not hear him speak. His own will was aroused by the -devastating reality. Because it was physical he exulted in it, and his -will struggled to master it. He could not endure his friend's -helplessness and he wanted above all to help him, to make him see that -this thing was at least powerful; evil and ugly, perhaps, but much too -vital to be subdued or conquered by fantasy and theatrical emotions. -He found Mitchell bewildering. Sentimentality always baffled him, for -it seemed to him so superficial as to be not worth bothering about and -so complicated as to defy unravelling. He knew that Mitchell was -horrified and afraid, and that it was natural enough, but fear was not -a thing to be encouraged. - -He said:-- - -"Hetty knows perfectly well that she can manage it better without -you." - -"I know," replied Mitchell. "That's what makes me feel such an awful -worm." - -Mendel lost all patience. If a man was going to take pleasure in -feeling a worm, there was nothing to be done with him. He called the -waiter, paid the bill, and stumped out of the Pot-au-Feu leaving -Mitchell staring blankly at the goggle-eyed man. - -* * * * * - -A few days later he met Edgar Froitzheim leaving the National Gallery -as he entered it. - -"Oh! Kühler," said Froitzheim. "The very man I wanted to see. I am -very proud about the picture--very proud. But I wanted to see you -about young Mitchell. He is a friend of yours, isn't he? He is -behaving very badly to a young model. Such a pretty girl. Hetty Finch. -You know her? She is in trouble through him, and he refuses to do -anything for her. I'm told he has Nietzschean ideas. I sent for the -girl. It is a very sad story and I have raised a subscription for her: -fifty pounds to see her through. . . . Do try and bring Mitchell to -reason." - -"I'll do what I can," replied Mendel, and he walked on to pay his -daily homage to Van Eyck and Chardin, who were his heroes at the time. - -That evening at the Paris Café he heard of another subscription having -been raised for Hetty, and Calthrop growled and grumbled and said he -had given her twenty pounds. - -Mendel reckoned it up and he found that she was being paid for her -delinquency more than he could hope to receive for many months of -painful work. - -As he finished his calculation he was amazed to see Mitchell come in -with Morrison, whom he had declared he could never face again, and -when Mendel rose to go over and join them she gave him only a curt -little nod which told him plainly that he was not wanted. - - - -II - -LOGAN - -ONCE again Mendel decided that Mitchell, and with him London life, had -fallen away from him. The Paris Café could never be the same again, -and he plunged into despair, and thought seriously of accepting a -Jewish girl with four hundred pounds whom a match-maker offered to -him. Four hundred pounds was not to be sneezed at. It would keep him -going for some years, so that he need not think of selling his -pictures, which he always hated to part with. And the girl was just -bearable. - -The figure delighted his father and mother, for it showed them the -high opinion of their wonder-son held among their own people. - -It was terrible to him to find that he had very little pleasure in his -work, which very often gave him excruciating pain. He took it to mean -that he was coming to an end of his talent. Night after night he sat -on his bed feeling that he must make an end of his life, but always -there was some piece of painting that he must do in the morning, -painful though it might be. - -He had letters from Mitchell, but did not answer them, and at last -"the schoolboy," as Golda called him, turned up, gay and smiling and -rather elated. - -"I've discovered a great man," he said with the awkward, jerky gesture -he used in his more eloquent moments. "Absolutely a great man. Reminds -me of Napoleon. Wonderful head, wonderful! His name is Logan--James -Logan--and he wants to know you. He is a painter, and absolutely -independent. He comes from the North--Liverpool or one of those -places. I haven't seen his work, but I met him at the Pot-au-Feu the -other night. He asked me if I was not a friend of yours, as he thought -he had seen me with you. He said: 'Kühler is the only painter of -genius we have.' I spent the evening with him. I never heard such -talk. It made the old Detmold seem like a girls' school. . . . Hallo! -Still-life again? What a rum old stick you are for never going outside -your four walls!" - -"What I paint is inside me, not outside," said Mendel, trembling with -rage at Mitchell looking at his work before he had offered to show it. - -"Will you come and see Logan?" - -"No. I am sick of painters. I want to know decent people." - -"But I promised I would bring you, and he admires your work. He is -poor too, as poor as you are." - -"Can't he sell?" - -"It isn't that so much as that he doesn't try. He says he had almost -despaired of English painting until he saw your work." - -"How old is he?" - -"A good deal older than us. Twenty-six, I should think." - -"Why don't you just stick to me?" asked Mendel. "What more do you -want? Why must you always go off on a new track? First it's Hetty -Finch, then it's Morrison, and now it's this new man. We were happy -enough by ourselves. Why do you want anything more? I don't." - -"You're used to living on dry bread. I'm not. I want butter with mine, -and jam, if I can get it." - -"Then get it and don't bother me to go chasing after it. I want to -work." - -"Oh, rot! All that stuff about artists starving in garrets is out of -date. It only happened because they couldn't find patrons, but -nowadays there are dealers and buyers. . . . Just look at the money -you are making." - -"Then why is this Logan poor?" - -"He isn't known yet. He doesn't know the artists because he never went -to a London school. He was doing quite well in the North, but threw it -all up because he couldn't stand living in such a filthy town. He had -a teaching job somewhere in Hammersmith, but he threw that up because -he wanted his time to himself." - -"That sounds as if painting means something to him." - -"Do come and see him." - -"Oh! very well." - -"I'll send him a wire and we'll go to-night." - -They dined at the Pot-au-Feu, and later made the expedition to -Hammersmith, where they came to a block of studios surrounded by a -scrubby garden. These studios were large and well-kept and did not -tally with the description of Logan's poverty. Still less did the -inside give any sign of it. There was a huge red-brick fireplace, -surmounted by old brass and blue china, with great arm-chairs on -either side of it: there were Persian rugs on the floor; two little -windows were filled in with good stained glass, which Mendel knew to -be costly; there were two or three large easels; and the walls were -hung with tapestry. The whole effect was deliberately and preciously -rich. - -Logan, who had admitted them to this vast apartment, rushed back at -once to a very large easel on which he had a very small canvas, and -fell to work on it with a furious energy, darting to and fro and -stamping his right foot rather like the big trumpet man in a German -band. He was a medium-sized, plumpish man, with a big, strongly -featured face, big chin, and compressed lips, and long black hair -brushed back from a round, well-shaped brow. He frowned and scowled at -his work. A woman came out of a door and crossed the studio behind -him. He hurled his palette into the air so that it sailed up and fell -with a crash among the brass pots, and barked:-- - -"How can I work with these constant interruptions? Damn it all, an -artist must have peace!" - -He flung his arms behind his back and paced moodily to and fro, with -his head down and his lips pursed up _à la_ Beethoven. He extended the -sphere of his pacing gradually so that he came nearer and nearer to -Mendel, yet without noticing him. Mendel was tremendously excited and -impressed with the man's air of mystery and force. It was like -Calthrop, but without his awkwardness. Mitchell in comparison looked -puny and absurdly young. - -Nearer and nearer came Logan, and at last he stopped and fixed Mendel -with a baleful stare, and swung his head up and down three times. - -"So you are Kühler?" he said. - -Mendel opened his lips, but to his astonishment no sound came out of -them. So desperately anxious was he not to cut a poor figure before -this remarkable man, and not to seem, like Mitchell, pathetically -young. - -"Good!" said Logan. "Shake hands." And he crushed Mendel's thin -fingers together. "What I like about you," he went on, "is your sense -of form. Design is all very well in its way, but quite worthless -without form." - -Mendel, whose work was still three parts instinctive, could not attach -any precise meaning to these expressions, but he was well up in the -jargon of his craft and could make a good show. - -"Art," said Logan, "is an exacting mistress. Shall we go and have a -drink?" - -He put on his hat and led the two marvelling youngsters to a -public-house, where he became a different man altogether. The -compression of his lips relaxed, his eyes twinkled and his face shone -with good humour, and he made them and the barmaid and the two or -three men who were shyly taking their beer roar with laughter. He had -an extraordinary gift of mimicry, and told story after story, many of -them against himself, most of them without point, but in the telling -exceedingly comic. Mendel sat up and bristled. It was to him half -shocking, half enviable, that a man, and an artist, should be able to -laugh at himself. - -"If you'll give me free drinks for a month," said Logan to the elderly -barmaid, "I'll paint your portrait. Are you married? . . . No? I'll -paint you such a beautiful portrait that it will get you a husband -inside a week." - -"I'm not on the marrying lay," said the barmaid. - -"Terrible thing, this revolt against marriage," replied Logan, "and -bad luck on us artists. I'm always getting babies left on my -doorstep." - -"What do you do with them?" said Mendel, believing him, and astonished -when the others roared with laughter. - -"I keep the pretty ones and sell them to childless mothers. Ah! Many's -the time I've gone through the snow, like the heroine in a melodrama -taking her child to the workhouse." - -"Oh! go on," tittered the barmaid. - -"Certainly," said Logan. "Come along." - -As they left the public-house he took Mendel's arm and said:-- - -"You have to talk to people in their own language, you know." - -"Yes," replied Mendel, though this was precisely what he knew least of -all. - -"Why don't you go on the stage?" asked Mitchell. - -"I have thought of it. I think I might do well on the halls. There's a -life for you! On at eight in Bethnal Green:-- - - My old woman's got a wart on her nose; - How she got it I will now disclose. - -Off again in a motor-car to the Oxford:-- - - My old woman's got a wart on her nose. - -Off again to Hammersmith or Kensal Rise:-- - - My old woman's got a wart on her nose. - -My God! What a life! But I love the halls. They are all that is left -of old England!" - -His parody of the low comedian was so apt and his voice had such a -delicious roll that Mendel could not help laughing, and he began to -feel very happy with the man. - -Logan swung back to his serious mood and gripped Mendel's arm tighter -as he said:-- - -"You have a big future before you. Only stick to it. Don't listen to -the fools who want you to paint the same picture over and over again -with a different subject. There's more stuff in that one little -picture of yours than in all the rest of the exhibition put together." - -"Do you think so?" said Mendel, fluttering with excitement. - -"I was amazed when I heard you had been to the Detmold with its -Calthrop and all the little Calthrops." - -Both the youngsters were silent on that. They had often abused the -Detmold, but with a profound respect in their hearts, and both had -done their full share of imitating Calthrop. - -When they reached the studio Mitchell suggested going, but Logan would -not hear of it. He dragged them in and produced whisky and soda, and -kept them talking far into the small hours. His bouncing energy kept -Mendel awake and alert, but Mitchell was soon exhausted and fell -asleep. - -"Shall we put him out of the way?" said Logan suddenly. "No one would -know, and the river is handy. He is too clean, too soft, and there are -too many like him. They are in the way of real men like you and me." - -Mendel was appalled to find that he could not defend his friend. All -the discontents of his waning friendship came rushing up in him and he -began to babble violently. - -"He is a liar and a coward, and he will never be an artist because he -is too weak. He is not true. He is not good. I have trusted him with -my secrets and he tells. He is always ashamed of me because of my -clothes and because I have not been to Public School, and he is -jealous because when we meet women they like me. He is soft and -deceitful with them, but I am honest, and they like that. I wanted him -to be my friend, but it is impossible." - -"He is an Englishman," said Logan sepulchrally, with the air of a -Grand Inquisitor. - -"Aren't you an Englishman?" - -"No, Scotch and French. These Englishmen have no passions, unless they -are mad like Blake. . . . No, no. We'll drop Mitchell overboard. We'll -make him walk the plank, and fishes in the caverns of the sea shall -eat his eyes." - -Logan was beginning to assume enormous proportions in Mendel's eyes. -It seemed that there was nothing the tremendous fellow did not know. -He began to talk of genius and the stirring of the creative impulse, -and he gave so powerful an account of Blake that Mendel began to see -visions of heaven and hell. Here was something which he could -acknowledge as larger than himself without self-humiliation, and, -indeed, the larger it loomed the more swiftly did he himself seem to -grow. It was such a sensation as he had not known since the days -before his rapture with Sara. All that had intervened fell away. That -purity of passion returned to him and, choosing Logan for its object, -rushed upon him and endowed him with its own power and beauty. Logan -talking of Blake was to Mendel's innocence as rare as Blake, and he -adored him. - -"I had almost given up art," said Logan; "I had almost given it up as -hopeless. How can there be art in a despiritualized country like this, -that lets all its traditions rot away? I was just on the point of -tossing up whether I should go on the stage or take to spouting at the -street corners; for when a country is in such a condition that its -artists are stifled, then it is ripe for revolution. I am instinctive, -you know, like Napoleon. I feel that we are on the threshold of -something big, and that I am to have my share in it. I used to think -it would happen in art, but I despaired of that. It seemed to me that -art in this country could go doddering on for generations, and then I -thought it needed a political upheaval to push it into its grave. But -when I saw your work, I said to myself: Here is the real thing, alive, -personal, profound, skilled. I began to hope again. And now that I -have met you I feel more hopeful still, and, let me tell you, like -most painters, I don't find it easy to like another man's work." - -Mendel was fired. Trembling in every limb, he said:-- - -"It has been the dream of my life to find a friend who would work with -me, think with me, go with me, share with me, not quarrelling with me -because I am not this, that, and the other, but accepting me as I -am--a man who has no country, no home, no love but art." - -"That," said Logan, with a portentous scowl and a downward jab of his -thumb, "is what I have been looking for--some one, like yourself, who -was absolutely sincere, absolutely single-minded and resolute. The -spirit of art has brought us together. We will serve it together." - -They shook hands like young men on the stage, and Logan fetched a deep -sigh of relief. - -Mitchell woke up, saying:-- - -"Gawd! I've been asleep. Have you two been talking? Gawd! It's two -o'clock." - -"I'll walk home with you," said Logan. "We can keep to the river -nearly the whole way by going from side to side." - -So they walked while the tide came up, sucking and lapping, while the -red dragons' eyes of the barges came swinging up on it, moving up and -down in a slow, irregular rhythm. It was very cold and the sky was -thickly powdered with stars, whose pin-prick lights were reflected in -the smooth water. - -Upon the dome of the young artist's vision that had before been black -with infinite space, stars shone with a tender light. He was in -ecstasy, and seemed to be skimming above the ground, hardly touching -it with his feet. This long walk was like an exquisite dance, while -Logan's rollings were like a pipe. . . . Often he sank into a dream -that he was upon a grassy hill in a mountainy place, he and his -friend, who played upon a pipe so mournfully yet gaily while he -danced, and from the trees fell silvery dewdrops and the songs of -birds, which turned into pennies as they reached the ground and rolled -away down the hill. - -Both he and Logan were relieved when Mitchell, who had interrupted -them with inappropriate remarks, turned aside at Vauxhall and vanished -into London. - -"So much for Mitchell," said Logan. "You and I need sterner stuff. You -and I are sprung from those among whom life is lived bravely and -bitterly, and we have no use for its parasites. You and I will only -emerge from the bitterness on condition that we can make of life a -spiritual thing, for we are of those who seek authority. Life has none -to offer us now, for all the forms of life are broken. Neither above -us nor below is there authority, neither in heaven nor in hell. We -must seek authority within ourselves, in the marriage of heaven and -hell, in the consummation of good and evil, the two poles of our -nature. It is for us, the artists, to bring them together, to liberate -good and evil in ourselves, that they may rush to the consummation. We -are the priests and the prophets, and we must in no wise be false to -our vision." - -Mendel could not fit all this in with his mood and his delicious -dreams, and when it brought him back to his sober senses, he could not -see what it had to do with painting. However, Logan put things right -by saying:-- - -"You are a poet. You are like Heine. I can see you with your little -Josepha the pale, the executioner's daughter. God rot my soul! It is -years since I had such inspiration as you have given me. I think there -must be Jewish blood in me, for I can certainly understand you through -and through, and you have waked something in me that has always been -asleep. Oh! we shall paint bonny pictures--bonny, bonny pictures." - -"You must come to see me every day," said Mendel, "and every night we -will go out together, and I must introduce you to my mother, for she -too has good words." - -Logan smacked his lips as they entered the grimy streets near -Spitalfields. - -"Pah!" he said; "that's life, that is, good dirty life. I was littered -in a farm-yard myself and I like a good smell. . . . Can you put me up -to-night? I don't mind sleeping on the floor." - -"You can have my bed," said Mendel, "and I will sleep downstairs on my -brother's sofa. Please--please. Do sleep in my bed." - -Logan accepted the offer and asked Mendel to stay with him while he -undressed. He was unpleasantly fat, but strong and well-built. - -He stayed for a long time in front of the mirror. - -"See that bulge on the side of my head?" he said as he turned. - -Mendel looked, and sure enough his head had a curious bulge on its -right side. - -"I had rickets when I was young," said Logan, "and my skull must have -got pushed over. I expect that's what makes me what I am--lop-sided. I -need you to balance me." - -He got into bed, and Mendel, reluctant to leave him, sat at his feet -and devoured him with his eyes. - -"Surely, surely, now," he thought, "all is perfect now. No more -disturbances, no more Mitchells, no more Hettys, and I shall do only -what I really wish to do." - -He stole out into his studio, which was faintly lit from the street -below, and it was as though it were filled with some vast spiritual -presence, and he imagined how he would work, urged on by this new -energy that came welling up through all that he could see, all that he -could know, all that he could remember. - - - -III - -LOGAN SETS TO WORK - -IN the morning he was awakened by his sister-in-law, Rosa, shaking him -and saying:-- - -"Mendel! Mendel! What are you doing on the sofa? Wake up! Wake up! -There is some one in your studio." - -The house was ringing with Logan's voice chanting the _Magnificat._ -Mendel ran upstairs and found him in bed with a box of cigarettes and -the New Testament, that fatal book, on his knees. - -"Hello!" he said. "I hope I didn't wake you up. I have been awake for -a couple of hours looking at your work. I hope you don't mind. There's -a still-life there that's a gem, as good as Chardin, and even better, -for there's always something sentimental about Chardin--always the -suggestion of the old folks at home, the false dramatic touch, the -idea of the hard-working French peasant coming in presently to eat the -bread and drink the wine. I think it's time you were written up in the -papers. It's absurd for a man like you to have to wait for success. -There's no artistic public in England, so you can't be successful in -your own way. The British public must have its touch of melodrama. To -accept a man's work it must first have him shrouded in legend. He must -be a myth. His work must seem to come from some supernatural source." - -"I'll just run over and tell my mother you are here," said Mendel. "I -always have breakfast there, and then go for a walk while the studio -is dusted." - -"Right you are! I'll be up in half a jiffy. Can I have a bath?" - -"No. There's no bath." - -"Very well; I can do without for once." - -Mendel ran round to Golda and told her of the wonderful man who was in -his studio, and he described the adventure of the previous evening. -Golda looked scared and said:-- - -"What next? What next? Good people sleep in their own beds." - -"But this man is an artist and he talks like a book." - -"Talk is easy," said Golda. "But it takes years to make a friend." - -However, when Logan was brought to her she was polite to him and -rather shy. He told her that fame was coming to her son faster than -the wind. - -"Too fast," said she. - -"It can never come too fast," replied Logan. "The thirst for fame is a -curse to an artist. Let it be satisfied and he is free for his work. I -know, for I was very famous in my own town. I sickened of it and ran -away. . . . I must congratulate you on letting your son follow his -bent. I had to quarrel with my own people to get my way. I haven't -seen them since I was fourteen." - -"Not your mother?" said Golda, greatly upset. - -Logan saw that he had made an awkward impression and hastened to put -it right by saying lugubriously:-- - -"My mother is dead. She forgave me." - -He allowed that to sink in and was silent for a minute or two. Then he -chattered on gaily and asked Golda to come and see him, and bragged -about his studio and his work and his friends, and of a commission he -had to decorate a large house in a West End square. He talked so fast -that Golda understood very little of what he said, but she never took -her eyes off him, and when he said good-bye, Mendel noticed that she -did not bob to him as she did to Mitchell and Morrison and his other -polite friends. He took that to mean that she accepted Logan as a -person above these formalities. - -For an hour they walked through the streets and squares of the East -End, Mendel proud to display the vivid scenes he intended later on to -make into pictures. - -When they returned to the studio Logan insisted on seeing all the -pictures and drawings again. - -"Are you in touch with any dealer?" he asked. - -"Cluny has a few pictures and a dozen drawings. He never does anything -with them." - -"Hum!" said Logan. "Dealers are mysterious people. They can only sell -things that sell themselves. By the way, I am giving up my studio in -Hammersmith. It is too far away. I shall come nearer in. Hammersmith -was all very well while I needed isolation, but that is all over now." - -"Where shall you go to?" - -"Bloomsbury, I think. I like to be near the British Museum. Do you go -to the British Museum? I must show you round. It is no good going -there unless you know what to look for. By the way, I came out without -any money last night. Can you lend me five pounds?" - -Mendel wrote a cheque and handed it to him shamefacedly. - -"I want to pay a bill on my way home," said Logan. "I hate being in -debt, especially for colours." - -"I get my colours from Cluny," said Mendel, "and he sets them against -anything he may sell." - -The irruption of money had depressed him, and he began to realize that -he was very tired. The springs of Rosa's sofa had bored into him and -prevented his getting any real sleep. - -He was not sorry when Logan went, after making him promise to meet him -at the Pot-au-Feu for dinner. - -* * * * * - -He had a model coming at eleven, but when she arrived he sent her -away. He was sore and dissatisfied. The studio seemed dark and dismal, -and he could not get enough light on to his work. He took it right up -to the window, but still there was not enough light, and his picture -looked dull and dingy. His nerves throbbed and he was troubled in -spirit, for now his old dreams of painting quietly among his own -people while fame gathered about his name had suddenly become childish -and pathetic. He was ignorant, futile, conceited, a pigmy by the side -of the gigantic Logan, who would not wait upon the world, but would -compel its attention and shape it to his will. What had he said -artists were? Priests and prophets? . . . How could a man prophesy -with a painting of a fish? - -Downstairs he heard Issy come in for his dinner, and there was the -usual snarling row because Rosa cooked so vilely. Mendel compared -Issy's life and his own: Issy working day in, day out, earning just -enough to keep himself alive. Why did he go on with it? Why did he -keep himself alive? Why did he not clear out, like Harry? There was no -pleasure in his life, neither the time nor the money for it. . . . A -wretched business. - -But was it less wretched than this business of painting? There was -more money in painting, and that was all anybody seemed to think of. -People wanted the same picture over and over again, and if he -consented to please them, his life would be just as poor a thing as -Issy's, except that he would have pleasure, and, through his friends, -an occasional taste of luxury. At best he could be polite and -gentlemanly, like Mitchell, bringing no more to art and getting no -more out of it than a boyish excitement, as though art were a game and -could give no more than a sensation of cleanliness, like a hot bath. - -No, it would not do. It would not do. - -It was a lie, too, to say that the Jews only cared about money. When -they were overfed, like Maurice Birnbaum, they were like all the other -overfed people, but when they were simple and normal they were better -than the others, because they had always a sense of mystery and did -not waste themselves in foolish laughter. - -That was where Logan was true. He could laugh, because all the -Christians laugh, but when it came to solemn things he could talk -about them as though he were not half ashamed. Mitchell, for instance, -always shied away from the truth. Why was he afraid of it? The truth, -good or bad, was always somehow beautiful, invigorating, and -releasing. All the pleasant things that Mitchell cared about Mendel -found stifling. Nothing, he knew, could make life altogether pleasant, -and all the falsehoods which were used in that attempt were -contemptible. They strangled impulse and frankness, and without these -how could there be art? - -In his unhappy dreams Logan appeared like a figure of Blake, immense, -looming prophetic, beckoning to achievement and away from the chatter -and fuss of the world of artists. - -Yet behind Logan there was still the figure of Mitchell, young and -gay, and the idea of Mitchell led to the idea of Morrison. - -There were some withered flowers on his painting-table, the last she -had sent him. None had come since that evening in the Paris Café when -she had nodded curtly to show him that he was not wanted. - -He would not be thrust aside like that. He knew himself to be worth a -thousand Mitchells. Logan had said that Mitchell was rubbish, and not -even in the eyes of a slip of a girl would Mendel have Mitchell set -above himself. Not for one moment was it tolerable. He would keep -Morrison to her promises and make her come to have her portrait -painted, and he would find out what there was in her that made him -remember her so distinctly and so clearly separate her from all other -girls. Somehow the thought of her cooled the intoxication in which he -had been left by Logan. She offered, perhaps, another way out of his -present state of congestion and dissatisfaction. Very clearly she -brought back to his mind the thrilling delight with which he had -worked as a boy, and that was true, truer than anything else he had -ever known. . . . Ah! If he could only get back to that, with all the -tricks and cunning he had learned. - -He would get back to it some day, but he must fight for it; with Logan -he would learn how to fight. Logan would lay his immense store of -knowledge before him, and give him books to read, and teach him how to -be so easy and familiar with ideas, which at present only frothed in -his mind like waves thinning themselves out on the sea-shore. - -He wrote an impassioned and insolent letter to Morrison commanding her -presence at his studio and informing her that he was worth a thousand -of her ordinary associates, and that she had hurt him, and that girls -ought not to hurt men of acknowledged talent. This letter cost him a -great deal of pain and time, because he was careful not to make any -slip in spelling or grammar. It was more a manifesto than a letter, -and he wished to do nothing to impair its dignity. - -And all the time he was puzzled to know why he should care about her -at all. He was prepared to throw everything--his success, the Detmold, -his friends--to the winds to follow Logan, but Morrison he could not -throw away. - -He decided at last not to send the letter but to go himself, and he -went to the Detmold just as the light was fading and he knew she would -be leaving. - -She had gone already, but he met Clowes, who, he knew, lived with her. -He pounced on her and said:-- - -"You must come to tea with me." - -"I'm afraid I . . ." - -"You must! You must!" - -She saw he was very excited and she had heard stories of his bursting -into tears when he was thwarted. In some alarm she consented to go -with him. - -He led her to a teashop, a horrible place that smelt of dishwater and -melted butter, made her sit at a table, and burst at once into a -tirade:-- - -"You are Morrison's friend. Will you tell me why she has avoided me? -She came to my studio once and she said she would come again. She sent -me flowers for three weeks, but she has sent no more." - -"She--she is very forgetful," said Clowes, who was longing for tea but -did not dare to tell him to turn to the waitress, who was hovering -behind him. - -"But she nodded to me as if she had hardly met me before," said -Mendel. - -"She is very shy," said Clowes, framing the word "Tea" with her lips -and nodding brightly to the waitress. She added kindly:-- - -"I don't think sending flowers means much with her. She gives flowers -to heaps of people. She is a very odd girl." - -"Does she give flowers to Mitchell?" he asked furiously, coming at -last with great relief to the consuming thought in his mind. - -"Yes," said Clowes. "She is very unhappy about Mitchell and that Hetty -Finch affair." - -"Has he told her then?" - -"Yes." - -"Why did he tell her?" - -"I'm sure I don't know." - -"I'll tell you," cried Mendel. "I'll tell you. To make himself -interesting to her, because he is not interesting. He is nothing. And -I will tell you something more. He has been telling her things about -me to excuse himself. Now, hasn't he? . . . I can see by your face -that he has." - -Clowes could not deny it, and she found it hard to conceal her -distress. She was unused to intimate affairs being dragged out into -the open like this, and her modesty was shocked. She had a pretty, -intelligent face, and she looked for the moment like a startled hare, -the more so when she put her handkerchief up to her nose with a -gesture like that of a hare brushing its whiskers. - -"Very well, then," Mendel continued; "you can tell her you have seen -me, and you can tell her that I shall come to explain myself. I hide -nothing, for I am ashamed of nothing that I do. I have no need to -excuse myself. I am not a gentleman one moment and a cad the next. And -you can tell Morrison that if I see her with Mitchell again I shall -knock him down." - -"Do please drink your tea," said Clowes. "It is getting cold." - -Mendel gulped down his tea and hastened to add:-- - -"I am not boasting. He is bigger than I am, but I know something about -boxing. My brother was nearly a prizefighter." - -Clowes began to recover from her alarm, and his immense seriousness -struck her as very comic. - -"Did you know that Greta has cut her hair short?" - -"Her hair?" cried Mendel. "Her beautiful hair?" - -"Yes. She looks so sweet, but the boys call after her in the streets. -All the girls are wild to do it." - -"Her hair? Her beautiful hair? Why?" - -"Oh! she got sick of putting it up. She is like that. She suddenly -does something you don't expect." - -"But she must look terrible!" - -"Oh no. She looks too sweet. And if all the boys at the Detmold wear -their hair long, I don't see why the girls shouldn't wear theirs -short." - -"My mother had her head shaved when she married," said he, "and she -wore a wig." - -"Why did she do that?" - -"It is the custom. The woman shows that she belongs wholly to her -husband and makes herself unattractive to all other men." - -"What a horrible idea!" - -"It is a beautiful idea. It is the idea of love independent of -everything else. That is why I thought Morrison must have some reason -for cutting her hair." - -"When you know Greta, you will know that she doesn't wait for -reasons." - -"Why does she like Mitchell?" - -"She likes nearly everybody." - -"But she writes to him." - -"Of course she does," said Clowes, rather bored with his persistence. - -"But she doesn't write to me." - -"You don't write to her. You can't expect her to fall at your feet." - -As she said this Clowes realized his extraordinary Orientalism. She -could see him holding up his finger and expecting a woman to come at -his bidding, and for a moment she was repelled by him. But she was a -kind-hearted creature and felt very sorry for him, for he seemed so -utterly at sea and was obviously full of genuine and painful emotion. - -He detected her repulsion at once and perceived the effort she made to -conquer it, and was at once grateful to her, for, as a rule, when that -happened, people let it swamp everything else. - -She said:-- - -"I'll tell Greta what you have said to me, and I am sure she will be -very sorry to have hurt you." - -"I only want her to come and sit for her portrait. It is very -important to me, because I want to try new subjects and there is some -lovely drawing in her face." - -"But you mustn't knock Mitchell down. He is quite a nice boy, really, -only a little wild." - -"He is rotten," said Mendel dogmatically. - -* * * * * - -He felt better, and until dinner-time he prowled about Tottenham Court -Road and Soho, a region of London that he particularly loved--a -vibrant, nondescript region where innumerable streams of vitality met -and fused, or clashed together to make a froth and a spume. It was -like himself, chaotic and rawly alive, compounded of elements that -knew no tradition or had escaped from it. He felt at home in it, and -elated because he was also conscious of being superior to it, yet -without the dizzy sense of superiority that assailed him among his own -people, while he was never shocked and humiliated, as he was sometimes -in sedate and prosperous London, by being made suddenly to realize his -external inferiority. He loved the shop-girls hurrying excitedly from -their work to their pleasure, and he sometimes spoke to them in their -own slang, sometimes went home with them. . . . They always liked him -because he never wasted time over silly flirtatious jokes or pretended -to be in love with them. His interest and curiosity, like theirs, were -purely physical, and his passion gave them a delicious sense of -danger. - -* * * * * - -Logan was waiting for him at the Pot-au-Feu. There was no one else in -the restaurant but the goggle-eyed man in his corner. Logan was -sitting Napoleonically with his arms on the table and his chin sunk on -his chest, with his lips compressed. - -He nodded, but did not get up. - -"Sorry if I'm late," said Mendel. "I went for a walk. I couldn't work -to-day. My sister-in-law's sofa--I feel as if I had been beaten all -over." - -"That's the walk home," said Logan. "I'm used to it. The hours I've -spent walking about this infernal London! I've slept on the -Embankment, you know." - -"No?" - -"Yes. I've been as far down as that, though I'm not the sort of man -who can be kept down. Did you know that Napoleon was out-at-elbows for -a whole year?" - -"No; I don't know much about Napoleon." - -"Ah! You should. I read every book about him I can lay hands on. -Gustave!" - -The waiter came up and Logan ordered a very special dinner with the -air of knowing the very inmost secrets of the establishment. He -demanded orange bitters before the meal and a special brand of -cigarette. - -"My day hasn't been wasted," he said. "I've been to Cluny's and I -asked to see your stuff. The little man there looked astonished, but I -told him people were talking of no one else but you, and quite -rightly. I talked to him from the dealer's point of view, and assured -him that there was a big boom in pictures, coming, and that he had -better be prepared for it with a handful of new men. I didn't let him -know that I was a painter, but I got him quite excited, and I did not -leave him until he had hung a picture and two drawings." - -"Which picture?" - -"The one of your mother's kitchen. It is one of your best. To-morrow -three men will walk into Cluny's and they will admire your work. On -the day after to-morrow a real buyer will walk in." - -Mendel's eyes grew larger and larger. Was Logan a magician, that he -could direct human beings into Cluny's shop and conduct them straight -to his work? - -Logan laughed at his amazement. - -"Lord love-a-duck!" he said, "you're not going to sit still and wait -for commercial fools to discover that you know your job. At my first -exhibition in Liverpool I put on a false beard and went in and bought -one of my own pictures, just to encourage the dealer and the timid -idiots who were too shy to go and ask him the price of the drawings. -It worked, and this is going to work too. When I've warmed Cluny up -into selling you, then I'm going to make him sell me. If you don't -mind we'll have our names bracketed,--Kühler and Logan. People will -believe in two men when they won't in one. As for three, you've only -got to look at the Trinity to see what they'll believe when they get -three working together. . . . Oh! I forgot you were a Jew and brought -up to believe in One is One and all alone." - -He laughed and gave a fat chuckle as he mimicked the little man in -Cluny's cocking his head on one side and pretending to take in the -beauties of Mendel's work as they were pointed out to him. - -"I have enjoyed myself," said Logan. "By God! I wish there were a -revolution. I'd have my finger in the pie. Oh! what lovely legs -there'd be to pull--all the world's and his wife's as well. But it -won't come in my time." - -Under Logan's influence Mendel began to enjoy his food, which he had -always treated as a tiresome necessity before. He sat back in his -chair and sipped his wine and crumbled up his bread exactly as Logan -did; and he had a delicious sense of leisure and well-being, as though -nothing mattered very much. And, indeed, when he came to think of it, -nothing did matter. He had years and years ahead of him, and here was -good solid pleasure in front of him, so that he had only to dip his -hands in it and take and take. . . . - -After the dinner Logan ordered cigars, coffee, and liqueurs, and -Mendel felt very lordly. The restaurant had filled up, and among the -rest were Mitchell and Morrison. - -Mendel turned, gave them a curt nod, and could not restrain a grin of -satisfaction as he thought that score was settled. He leaned forward -and gave himself up to the pleasure of Logan's talk. - -"What I contend," said Logan, "is this--and mind you, I let off my -youthful gas years ago. I've been earning my living since I was -fourteen, so I know a little of what the world's like. I've been in -offices and shops, and on the land, in hotels, on the railway, on the -road as a bagman, from house to house as a tallyman, and I know what -I'm talking about. The artist is a free man, and therefore an outlaw, -because the world is full of timid slaves who lie in the laps of -women. If an artist is not a free man, then he is not an artist. And I -say that if the artist is outlawed, then he must use any and every -means to get out of the world what it denies him. One must live." - -"That's true," said Mendel. - -"You may take it from me that there is less room in the world now for -artists than ever there was. In the old days you chose your patron and -he provided for you, as the Pope provided for Michael Angelo, and you -devoted your art to whatever your patron stood for, spiritual power if -he happened to be a pope, secular power if he happened to be a duke or -a king. But, nowadays, suppose you had a patron--say, Sir Julius -Fleischmann--and he kept you alive, what on earth could you devote -your art to? You could paint his portrait, and his wife's portrait, -and all his daughters' portraits, but they'd mean nothing; they'd just -be vulgar men and women. No. Art is a bigger thing than any power left -on the earth. Money has eaten up all the other powers, and only art is -left uncorrupted by it. Art cannot be patronized. It cannot serve -religion, because there is no religion vital enough to contain the -spirit of art. There is nothing left in the world worthy of such noble -service, and therefore art must be independent and artists must be -free, because there is no honourable service open to them. They must -have their own values, and they must have the courage of them. The -world's values are the values fit for the service of Sir Julius -Fleischmann, but they are not fit for men whose blood is stirring with -life, whose minds are eager and active, men who will accept any -outward humiliation rather than the degradation of the loss of their -freedom." - -"I met Sir Julius Fleischmann. Once," Mendel said. "He subscribed for -me when I went to my first School of Art. They wanted to send me to -Italy, but I refused, because I knew my place was here in London. -There's more art for me in the Tottenham Court Road than in all the -blue skies in the world." - -"Quite right, too!" cried Logan. "That shows how sound an artist's -instinct is. He knows what is good for him because he is a free man. -The others have to be told what is good for them because they don't -know themselves and because, however unhappy they are, they don't know -the way out. When you and I are unhappy we know that it is because we -have lost touch with life, or because we have lost touch with art; -either the flesh or the spirit is choked with thorns, and we set about -plucking them out. When it is a question of saving your soul, what do -morals matter?" - -Mendel had heard people talk about morals, and he knew that his own -were supposed to be bad; but he was not certain what they were. Rather -timidly he asked Logan, who gave his fat chuckle and replied:-- - -"Morals, my son? No one knows. They change about a hundred years after -human practice. They are different in different times, places, and -circumstances, and Sir Julius Fleischmann, like you and me, has none, -because he can afford to do without them. . . . Well, I've done a good -day's work and we've had a good dinner, and I must get back to my -beautiful bed--unless you'd like to go to a music-hall." - -Mendel was loath to let his friend go, and, weary though he was, he -said he would like the music-hall. Logan bought more cigars and they -walked round to the Oxford and spent the evening in uneasy and flat -conversation with two ladies of the town, one of whom said she knew -Logan, though he swore he had never seen her before. When they were -shaken off, he told Mendel mysteriously that she was a friend of a -woman of whom he went in terror, who had been pursuing him for a -couple of years. - -"Terrible! Terrible!" he said. "Like a wild beast. They're awful, -these prostitutes, when they fall in love. It eats them up, body and -soul." - -And he went on talking of women, and from what he said it appeared -that he was beset by them. He described them lurking in the street for -him, forcing their way into his studio, clamouring for love, love, -love. - -"It makes me sick," he said. "I never yet met a woman who knew how to -love. If a man has an enthusiasm for anything outside themselves, they -plot and scheme with their damnable cunning to kill it. They want the -carcase of a man, not the lovely life in it. And if they're decent -they want babies, which is almost worse if you're hard up. No, boy; -for God's sake don't take women seriously. If you can't do without -them, hate 'em. They'll lick your boots for it. They feed on hatred, -and will take it out of your hand." - -He talked in this strain until they reached the Tube station in -Piccadilly Circus. It was unusually empty, and by the booking-office -was standing a very pretty girl, big and upstanding. She had a wide -mouth and curious slanting eyes, plump cheeks and a roguish tilt to -her chin. She was well and neatly dressed, and Mendel judged her to be -a shop-girl. - -"That's a fine lass," said Logan. "Good-night, boy. I'll see you -to-morrow and tell you about Cluny's." - -"Good-night," said Mendel, still loath to see his friend go, and he -suffered a pang of jealousy as he saw Logan go up to the girl, raise -his hat, and speak to her. She started, blushed, and smiled. They -stopped and talked together for a few moments, and then moved over -towards the lift. - -Mendel waited and watched them, Logan talking gaily, the girl smiling -and watching him intently through her smile. With her eyes she took -possession of him, and Mendel was filled with misgiving when he heard -Logan's fat chuckle and the rustle and clatter of the gate as the lift -descended. It reminded him oddly of the Demon King and the Fairy Queen -in a pantomime he had once seen with Artie Beech, whose father used to -get tickets for the gallery because he had play-bills in his shop -window. - - - -IV - -BURNHAM BEECHES - -FOR Greta Morrison as for Mendel, London life had been opened up -through Mitchell. He had been friendly and kind to her when everybody -else had been harsh, fault-finding, and indifferent. Her first year -and a half at the hostel had been a period of misery, for the girls -and women there regarded her as odd, vague, and careless, and thought -it their duty to impose on her the discipline she seemed to need, for -they knew nothing of her suffering through her ambition and her work. - -Like Mendel, she had been overwhelmed by her inability to adapt -herself easily to the Detmold standard of drawing, for it was against -her temperament and her habit of mind to be precise, and drawing had -always been to her rather a trivial thing, though extremely pleasant -for the purposes of the caricatures in which her teasing humour found -an outlet. All her girlhood had been thrillingly happy in the -execution of large allegorical designs, through which she sought to -express her delight in the earth--the immense serene power of which -she became profoundly aware as she lay in the bracken at home and -gazed out over the rich valley or up into the marvellous, quivering -blue sky, through which she felt that she was being borne without a -sound, without a tremor, irresistibly. Nothing could shake that loving -knowledge in her, and it hurt her that her mother's cold, self-centred -religion, which made her demand a fussy, sentimental attention from -her children, forbade all expression of it in her daily life. Her -brothers, revolting against the sentimentality exacted of them, -treated all tenderness as ignoble rubbish, and in her rough-and-tumble -with them Greta was hardened and forced into independence. She had to -play their games with them and to suffer the same tortures of -knuckle-drill, brush, dry-shave, and wrist-screw. But all their -swagger seemed to her rather fraudulent; and because they laughed at -her allegorical designs she decided that men were inferior beings. -When they laughed at her designs it was to her as though they laughed -at the beauty she had tried to express in them, and the sacrilege -enraged her more than her mother's petulance, for they were young and -strong and full of life, and they should not have been blind. It was -against them that she first found relief in caricature, and as they -went through their Public Schools and were more and more compressed -into type, she pilloried them, and, as a consequence, even when she -was a young woman, big and fine, with the tender, delicate bloom of -seventeen upon her, she had to submit to the indignity of -knuckle-drill, brush, dry-shave, and wrist-screw. - -She was filled with a horror of men, and especially Public School men, -for they seemed to her entirely lacking in decency, humility, and -honesty. They pretended to be so fine and ignored everything that was -finer than themselves. Her brothers' foolish love-affairs disgusted -her and made her suppress in herself every emotion that tried to find -its way to a good-looking boy or young man. She was not shy of them or -afraid of them, but she would not encourage in them what she so -detested in her brothers. - -During her first year in London she devoted herself heart and soul to -her work. There were two or three families who were kind to her as her -mother's daughter, but their ways were her mother's, and she only -visited them as a duty, and to break the monotony of the school and -the hostel. - -Her encounter with Mitchell took place at the time when Mendel's -influence on him had set him in revolt against his Public School -training. On the other hand, the sight of the abyss of poverty into -which Mendel descended so easily had set him reeling. He was shrewd -enough to know that Hetty Finch was using him as a ladder to get out -of it, and that there was a real danger of her kicking him down into -it. In a state of horrible confusion he plunged at the most obvious -outlet, the "pure girl" of the tradition of his upbringing. - -He made no concealment of it, but turned to Morrison with a childlike -confidence that touched her. She was feeling lonely, disappointed, and -dissatisfied with herself and was glad of his company. It was a change -from the woman-ridden atmosphere of the hostel. - -By way of making their relationship seemly he introduced her to his -family, where as the pure young girl who was to save their hope from -wild courses she was a great success. - -"First sensible thing you've done, my boy," said Mr. Mitchell, that -great man, a journalist who had been a correspondent in a dozen wars. -"A pure friendship between a boy and a girl has a most ennobling -influence--most ennobling." - -"She is truly spiritual," sighed Mrs. Mitchell, "the type who -justifies the independence of the modern girl, whatever the Prime -Minister may say." - -"That scoundrel!" cried Mr. Mitchell. "That infamous buffoon who has -not a grain of Liberalism left in his toadying mind!" - -"My dear," said Mrs. Mitchell, "we were talking about little Miss -Morrison." - -"Well," answered Mr. Mitchell, "we took our risk when we let the boy -be an artist and we can be thankful it is no worse. Did I tell you, my -love, that I am going off to the Cocos Islands to-morrow?" - -"Indeed, my dear? Then you will not be able to come to my meeting." - -"No, I hear it is worse than the Congo." - -"Oh dear! oh dear! I don't know what the world is coming to. The more -civilized we get in one part of the world, the worse things are in -another part. I declare such horrible things seem to me to make it -quite unimportant whether we get the vote or not." - -"When you have a Tory Government calling itself Liberal," said Mr. -Mitchell very angrily, "it means that neither reform at home nor -justice abroad can receive any attention. The country has gone to the -dogs, and I thank God I spend most of my time out of it." - -"And poor Humphrey suffers. I'm sure I am a good mother to him, but I -cannot be a father as well. I'm thankful to say he seems to be -dropping that Jewish friend of his. He is a genius, of course, and -quite remarkable, considering what he comes from; but with Jews it can -never be the same, can it?" - -"No, my love," said Mr. Mitchell; "one would never dream of drinking -out of the same glass, would one? Still, I must say, the Jews in -England are much better than they are anywhere else, which seems to -show that they can respond to decent treatment and thrive in the air -of liberty." - -Both Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell had a platform manner of speaking, and as -Morrison was not a subject that suited it, she was soon dropped; but -in the end they came back to her, and agreed that she was a nice, shy -little girl, and that she had no idea of marrying their only son, or -anyone else, for that matter. - -She was much impressed with them, for she had never met important -people before, and she was given to understand that they were very -important. They seemed to have their fingers on innumerable reforms -which were only suppressed by the stupidity of the Government. -Directly the Government was removed, as of course such idiots soon -would be, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell would raise their fingers and, hey -presto! women would have votes, the slums would be pulled down, -maternity would be endowed, prostitutes would be saved, prisons would -be reformed, capital punishment abolished, the working classes would -be properly housed, every able-bodied man who wished it should have -his small holding, the railways would be nationalized, site values -would be taxed, divorce would be made easy and free from social taint, -and education would be made scientific and thorough. In the meantime, -as the Government did not budge, Mr. Mitchell went to the Cocos -Islands and Constantinople to procure evidence of horrors abroad and -Mrs. Mitchell addressed meetings on the subject of horrors at home. - -Morrison was impressed. The contrast between these people who thought -of everything and everybody but themselves and her own home, where -nothing was thought of but the family, the Church, and the Empire, -shocked her into thinking and gave her a sense of liberation. It made -human beings more interesting than she had thought, and she began to -see that they did not, as she had heedlessly accepted that they did, -fit infallibly into their places, and that vast numbers had no places -to fit into. She herself, she saw, did not fit into any place, and -that she had been squeezed, like paint out of a tube, out of her home -for no other reason than that she was a woman, and there was only just -enough money to establish the boys. However, she could not quite -swallow Mrs. Mitchell's view that men had deliberately, coldly, and of -set purpose ousted women from their rightful share in the sweets of -life. - -She had a period of despair as these revelations sank into her mind -and she had to digest Mrs. Mitchell's awful facts and statistics about -the night-life of London. Life seemed too terrible for her powers, -but, as she soon began to see how comic Mrs. Mitchell was, she pulled -herself together and found that she was strengthened by the -experience, and when Mitchell confessed the awful doings of his past, -she felt immeasurably older than he, and was thankful she was a woman -and did not expect such things of herself. For she could never quite -take his word for all he said. She knew her brothers too well to -accept his plea of passionate necessity. - -"Gawd!" he used to say. "When I think of my past I feel that I must go -on my knees and worship your purity." - -His absurdity made her blush, but she liked him. He was clever and had -read much under his father's guidance, poetry and modern English -fiction mostly, and when she went to tea with him in his studio he -used to read aloud to her, Keats and Shelley and Matthew Arnold. - -"I think I only like poetry," she said once, "when it makes pictures. -When it doesn't do that it seems to me just words, and it doesn't seem -to matter how nice they sound." - -"Gawd!" he said. "That's like Kühler. He says nothing makes such -pictures as the Bible, and he is always quoting that about: 'At her -feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: where he fell, there he lay -down.' And he says it must be the words, because his own Hebrew Bible -never gave him anything like the same--er--vision of it." - -Once he had begun to talk of Mendel she would not let him leave the -subject. - -"Do you think he's a genius?" she would ask. - -"Gawd! I don't know. He says he is a genius, and I suppose time will -show whether it is true or not. But why do you want to talk of him?" - -"I don't know. I'm interested. Perhaps because he is different." - -"Well, you've had tea with him. That is about as much as is good for -you. If you were my sister I wouldn't let you know him." - -"Why not?" - -"My dear girl, there are certain things in life that a young girl -ought never to know." - -"What things? Is there anything worse than what your mother talks -about at her meetings? Girls know all about that nowadays, and it is -no good pretending we don't." - -"Talking about them is one thing, coming in contact with them is -another. Kühler is a Jew, and he comes from the East End, where they -don't have any decent pleasures. He's infernally good-looking in a -hurdy-gurdy sort of way. Gawd! Women look at him and off they go." - -"But he cares for poetry and the Bible and he loves pictures. . . ." - -"It doesn't seem to make any difference." - -During this talk he had begun to find Morrison extraordinarily pretty -and lovable, and he said tenderly:-- - -"Won't you take off your hat and let me see your beautiful hair?" - -She refused, and asked him more about Mendel, and in exasperation at -the unintended snub he told her the true story of Hetty Finch, not -concealing his own share in it, but implying that Mendel's terrible -immorality had corrupted him and led to his downfall. - -The story was received in silence. - -At last she said:-- - -"And what is going to become of Hetty Finch?" - -"That's the extraordinary part of it," said Mitchell. "She has found -someone to marry her." - -He leaned against the mantelpiece and dropped his head in his hands -and groaned. - -"Gawd!" he said. "If it weren't for you I don't know what would become -of me." And he was so moved by his own thoughts that tears trickled -down his nose and made dark spots on the whitened hearth. - -"I can't ask you to marry me," he said mournfully. "I'm unworthy, but -I want to be your friend." - -She made no reply, and he was forced to ask rather lamely:-- - -"Will you be my friend?" - -"Of course." - -"Always?" - -"How can I promise that?" she said. - -It was then that he took her to the Paris Café, where, all in a -turmoil through her new knowledge of men and women, she hardly knew -what she was doing, and gave Mendel the curt nod which had so -disgruntled him. - -* * * * * - -Every summer the Detmold students went for a picnic, either up the -river, or to a Surrey common, or to one of the forests in the vicinity -of London. This year Burnham Beeches was chosen. Two charabancs met -the party at Slough, and though Mendel tried very hard to sit next to -Morrison, he was outmanoeuvred by Mitchell, and had to put up with -Clowes. - -"I wish you wouldn't glare at Mitchell so. You make me quite -uncomfortable," said she. - -"He is telling her lies about me," growled Mendel. - -"Don't be absurd," protested Clowes. "He is not talking about you at -all." She felt rather cross with him because he was spoiling her -pleasure, and because she had wanted to sit next someone else, and she -added: "People aren't always talking about you, and if anybody does -it's the models, and that's your own fault." - -"How beastly!" he said. - -"I don't blame them. They haven't any other interest." - -"I didn't mean that. I meant this country. It is so flat and dull, -regular railway scenery. What a place to choose for a picnic!" - -"Wait until you get to the woods! We're going to a place called Egypt. -Don't you think that's romantic? Though it reminds me more of Oberon -and Titania than of Anthony and Cleopatra." - -He looked blank, and she explained:-- - -"Shakespeare, you know." - -"I've never read Shakespeare." - -"Oh! you should." - -"I've tried, but I can't understand him. I suppose it's because I'm -not English. It seems ridiculous to me, all those plots and murders." - -"But the fairies in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'!" - -"I haven't read it; but what do you want with fairies? A wood's a -wood, and there's quite enough mystery in it for me without pretending -to see things that aren't there." - -"But it's nice to pretend," said Clowes rather lamely, almost hating -him because he seemed so wrong in the country. She knew people like -that, people she was quite fond of in London, but in the country they -were awful. - -The charabancs swung through Farnham Royal and they came in sight of -the woods, brilliant under a vivid blue sky patched with huge, heavy -white clouds. Birds hovered above the trees, and as they turned out of -the street of seaside bungalows and along the sandy lane leading to -Egypt, they put up rabbits and pheasants. - -The art students looked bizarre and almost theatrical in the woods, -with the long-haired young men and the short-haired girls, many of -them wearing the brightest colours. Mendel hated the lot of them, -giggling girls and bouncing boys, and he recognized how inappropriate -they all were and how he himself was the most inappropriate of them -all. He felt ashamed, and wanted to go away and hide, to crawl away to -some hole and gaze with his eyes at the beauty he could not feel. -There were too many trees, as there were too many people. . . . What a -poor thing is a man in a crowd which makes it impossible to share his -thoughts and emotions with anyone! And how bitter it is when he is -full of thoughts and emotions! It is all so bitter that the crowd must -do foolish, inappropriate things not to feel it, not to be broken up -by it. . . . Yet the others seemed happy enough. The old Professors -were beaming and pretending to be young. Perhaps they enjoyed it more -than anyone because they did not want to be alone, or to steal away -with a coveted maid, as some of the young men were doing even now. -. . . Had Mitchell stolen away with Morrison? Horrible idea! No. There -he was, putting up stumps for cricket. - -Cricket! How Mendel loathed that fatuous game, the kind of -inappropriate foolish thing the crowd always did! How he dreaded the -swift hard ball that would hurt his hand or his shins! How humiliated -he felt when he was out: and how he raged against the frantic -excitement he could not help feeling when he hit the ball and made a -run. One run seemed to him a larger score than anyone else could -possibly make, and when he made a run and was on the winning side he -always felt that he had won the match. In the field, no matter where -he was placed, he went and stood by the umpire, because he had noticed -that the ball rarely went that way. - -He had to field now, and he went and stood by the umpire. Mitchell -came swaggering in. He hit a lovely four, a three, a two. The fielders -changed at the over, but Mendel stayed where he was. The ball came -near him. He picked it up and threw it as hard as he could at -Mitchell's head. Fortunately he missed, and there was a roar of -laughter. - -"I say, I mean to say," said one of the Professors, "we are not -playing rounders or--or baseball." - -And there was more laughter. - -Mitchell hit a three, a two, a lost ball (six), a four, and then he -skied one. The ball went soaring up. With his keen sight Mendel could -see it clearly shining red against the hot sky. With an awful sinking -in his stomach he realized that it was coming down near him. It was -coming straight to him. It would fall on him, hurt him, stun him. Then -he thought that if he caught it Mitchell would be out. He never lost -sight of the ball for a moment. If he caught it Mitchell would be out. -He moved back two paces, opened his hands, and the ball fell into -them. - -"Oh! well caught, indeed! Well caught!" - -Mitchell walked away from the wicket swinging his bat in a deprecating -fashion. After all, one does not expect miracles even in cricket. - -"Beautiful, beautiful ball!" thought Mendel, fondling it with his -still tingling hands. "You came to me like a lark to its nest, and you -shone so red against the sky, you shone so red, so red!" - -His dissatisfaction vanished. The crowd was a nice beast after all. It -was at his feet. At no one else had it shouted like that. . . . The -woods were very beautiful, with the bracken nodding under the trees, -and the branches swaying, and the soft winds murmuring through the -leaves, through which the trees seemed to breathe and sigh and to envy -the moving wind while they were condemned to stay and grow old in one -spot. Very, very sweet were the green and yellow and blue lights -hovering and swinging through the woods, dappling the trunks of the -trees, weaving an ever-changing pattern on the carpet of moss and dead -leaves, and the tufted bracken that sometimes almost looked like the -sea, full of a life of its own. Surely, surely there were fish -swimming in the bracken. - -Starting out of his dreams, he saw Morrison at the wicket, very -intent, with a stern expression on her face. He knew she was -desperately anxious to score. - -She was most palpably stumped with her second ball, but the umpire -gave her "not out," amid general applause, for she was a favourite. - -She lashed out awkwardly at the next ball, which came on the leg side. -It came towards Mendel at an incredible speed. He put his foot on it, -picked it up, pretended it had passed him, and tore towards the trees -in simulated pursuit; and he remained looking for it in the bracken -while Morrison ran four, five, six, seven, eight, and just as some one -cried "Lost ball!" he stooped, pretended to pick it up, and threw it -back to the bowler. - -He himself was bowled first ball, but, as it turned out, Morrison's -side won by three runs. - -She was bubbling over with happiness, and after tea she came over to -him and said:-- - -"I say, Kühler, that _was_ a good catch." - -He folded his arms and cocked his chin and looked down his nose as he -said:-- - -"Oh! yes. I can play cricket." - -"You made a blob," she said with a grin. - -"A catch like that," he answered, "is enough for one day. I have seen -many words written in the papers about a catch like that. Even -Calthrop does not have so many words written about his pictures." - -"I shall hate to go back to London after this," she said. "I didn't -know there was anything so beautiful near London." - -"There is Hampstead," he said. - -"I've never been there," she replied. - -"Will you let me take you to Hampstead? It has lilies and water." - -"Oh yes," she said eagerly. "Do let us go into the woods now before we -start. I'm sure there must be lovely places." - -He followed her, first looking round to see what had become of -Mitchell, whom he saw standing with a scowl on his face, a foolish -figure. - -"Don't talk!" said Morrison. "I'm sure it is lovely through here." - -She led the way through a grove of pines into a beech glade, at the -end of which they found a dingle, where they stood and gazed back. - -"Oh, look!" she cried. "Look at the pine stems through the sea-green -of the beeches. Purple they are, and don't they swing?" - -"I like the wind in the trees," said Mendel. - -He saw that there were tears in her eyes, and he caught some of her -ecstasy. But he could not understand it at all and it hurt him -horribly. She was wonderful and beautiful to him, the very heart of -all that loveliness, the song of it, its music and its mystery. - -"She is only a little girl," he said to himself very clearly, stamping -out the words in his mind, so that it was as though someone else had -spoken to him. - -The ecstasy grew in her, and with it the pain in him. She swayed -towards him and fell against his breast and raised her lips to him. He -stooped and almost in terror just touched them with his. - -He was a sorry prince for a sleeping beauty, for he was afraid lest -she should awake. - - - -V - -HAPPY HAMPSTEAD - -ON the morning of the day fixed for their expedition to Hampstead -Heath she sent him roses--yellow roses. He took them across to his -mother and gave them to her, saying:-- - -"I do not need flowers. I am happy." - -Golda laughed at him, and said:-- - -"You are a big little man since you made the catch at the cricket." - -"I don't know what it is, but I am happy. It is no longer surprising -to me that there are happy people in the world, and I think the -Christians are not all such fools to wish to be happy. I am only -astonished that they are happy with such little things." - -"It is nothing," said Golda. "They are not truly happy; they are only -hiding away from themselves." - -"But I am finding myself," cried Mendel. "I shall no more paint fishes -and onions. I shall paint only what I feel, and it will be beautiful. -I am so clever I can paint anything I choose." - -"Go to your work now," said Golda. "You can boast as much as you -please when the King has sent for you and told you you are the -greatest artist in England. Go to your work." - -He went back to his studio and there found a letter from Logan, giving -his new address in Camden Town, and another from Mitchell, asking him -why he was so unfriendly. This he answered at once:-- - -"You are no longer my friend. You have despised and injured me. -Superior as I am to you, you have thought it your part as a gentleman -to try to keep me in my place. You have treated me as a kind of -animal. You cannot see that as an artist I am the equal of all men, -the highest and the lowest. My own poor people I do not expect to know -this, but of an educated man I do expect it. You cannot see this, and -I count you lower than the lowest, and as such I am prepared to know -you, and not otherwise. I have changed completely. I no longer believe -in the Detmold or in Calthrop or in any of the things I reverenced as -a student. I prefer the Academy, for it does not pretend to be -advanced, and is honest though asleep. I am no longer a student. I am -an artist. You will always be an art student, and so I say good-bye to -you, as one says good-bye to friends on a station-platform. The train -moves and all their affectionate memories and longings cannot stop it. -The train moves and I am in it, and I say good-bye to you without even -looking out of the window." - -This done, he sat down to work at a portrait of his father and mother, -with which he was designing to eclipse his first exhibiting success. -It seemed to him important that it should be finished. Hearing Issy -come in, he shouted to him to come and sit instead of his father, who -had given out that he was unwell and was indulging in a sleeping bout. - -Issy came shambling in, pale, tired, and unhappy. He sat as he was -told, and said:-- - -"I wish Harry would come back; the business is being too much for me." - -"Oh! I shall soon be rich and then I'll help you." - -"There's not much help for me," said Issy. "I'm like father. There's -always something against me to keep me down. It seems funny to me that -people will give you so much money for something they don't really -want." - -"Come and look at it," said Mendel. - -Issy obeyed. - -"I don't think it's really like them. Why should anybody buy them who -doesn't know them?" - -He spoke so heavily and dully that Mendel found it hard to conceal his -irritation. When Issy had gone back to his chair, he asked:-- - -"What do you live for, Issy?" - -"Live?" said Issy, mystified. - -"Yes. What do you like best in the world?" - -"Playing cards. Playing cards. Every day there's work and every night -there's Rosa, and on Saturday I play cards. Yes. I play cards; and, of -course, you are always something to think about." - -"What do you think about me?" - -"Oh! You will be rich and famous, and you will be able to choose among -all the girls with money. It is like having a play always going on in -the family. But I would rather play cards, and Rosa is not so bad as -you all say she is. I am not a good husband to her, for I have moods -and I cannot talk to her, for I cannot talk to anyone. What is there -to say? She has her children, and she only wants more because she is a -fool. It is not her fault." - -"That'll do, Issy. I've got all I want. I can't get any more from you. -Some day I'll teach you how to be happy." - -"Oh!" said Issy, with a sly leer. "I know how to be happy. I can't see -why anyone should want to have father and mother hanging on their -walls." - -He slunk away. - -How depressing he was! Poor old Issy! as much a part of the street as -the doors and windows of the houses. He might move a hundred yards to -another exactly similar street, but he would always be the same. It -was not his fault. Mendel knew the depths of devotion of which his -brother was capable. It was devotion to his mother that kept him -living round the corner, devotion to his father that tied him to the -unprofitable business. The name of Kühler had attained the dignity of -a brass-plate on the front door, and he would die rather than see it -removed, at any rate in his father's lifetime. - -For the first time Mendel faced his circumstances squarely. With -something of a shock he thought of the family arriving at Liverpool -Street and never in all these years moving more than half a mile away -from it, and that in this amazing London, with its trains and buses to -take you from end to end of it in a little over an hour. His mother -had never been west of the Bank. She did not even know where -Piccadilly Circus was, or the Detmold, or the National Gallery, or the -Paris Café, or Calthrop's studio, or any other important centre of -life. Liverpool Street she knew, and outside Liverpool Street were the -sea and Austria. . . . When there were no little happenings at home -she would always fall back on Austria and the troubled days at the -inn, and the soldiers who used to come in and ask to see the beautiful -baby before they thought of ordering drinks, and her rich uncle who -used to supply the barracks with potatoes and was so mean that he -refused to give her any when she had not a penny in the world, and the -neighbours who used to bring food so that the beautiful baby should -not starve. . . . They stayed where they were, stormily passionate, -yet with no sense of confinement, while he was drawn off into the -swiftly moving whirligig of London, going from house to house, studio -to studio, café to café, atmosphere to atmosphere, and all his -passionate storms were spent upon nothing, were absorbed in the -general movement, leaving him, tottering and dazed, in it, yet alien -to it, discovering no soul in it all and losing the clear knowledge of -his own. - -Surely now that was ended. She had sent him the yellow roses, and he -had given them to his mother to join the two whom he loved. They must -have touched her face before they came to him, and Golda had buried -her face in them. - -Impatiently he awaited the time for him to go to the Detmold. He put -on a clean collar and a black coat, but then he remembered how the old -Jews whom he asked to sit for him always put on clean clothes and -clipped their beards, under the impression that he wanted to -photograph them. In his clean collar and black coat he felt as though -he were going to the photographer's or to a wedding, and remembering -how he had been dressed when he saw her for the first time on the -stairs, he took out an old black shirt, a corduroy coat and trousers, -and a red sash. - -He could not bring himself to wear the red sash. It reminded him of -Mitchell, who had been with him when he bought it. - -* * * * * - -It had been very hot. The walls and the pavements gave out a dry, -stifling heat. The smell of the street outside came up in waves--a -smell of women and babies, leather and kosher meat. He must wait for -the cool weather, he thought, before he asked her to the studio again. - -"She is only a little girl," he said to himself. "She is pretty, but -she is only a little girl. I will tell her that she must not see -Mitchell again, because he is not true. I will paint her portrait, and -then I will not see her again, because she is only a little girl." - -He sat in the window with the clock in front of him, and directly it -said half-past four he clapped his hat on his head, seized the -silver-knobbed stick which at that time was an indispensable part of -an artist's apparel, and bolted as though he were late for a train. - -* * * * * - -She was waiting for him. He took off his hat, but in his nervousness -he could not speak, and as he could not remember which side of a lady -he ought to walk, he bewildered her by dodging from one side to the -other with a quick, catlike tread, so that she did not hear him, and -whenever she turned to speak to him he was not there. - -"Wasn't it a good picnic!" she said enthusiastically. "It's the best -picnic I've ever been to." - -"They are usually pretty good," he said lamely. "I think we'd better -go by bus." - -They mounted a bus and sat silently side by side. - -When they stopped by the Cobden statue he said:-- - -"A friend of mine has just taken a studio in Camden Town. His name is -Logan." - -"Was he at the Detmold?" - -"No." - -That settled Logan for her. She began to feel anxious. Was the -afternoon going to be a failure? Why could she never, never get the -better of her shyness? She wanted to make him happy because, on the -whole, people had been beastly to him and said such horrid things -about him. She wanted him to feel for himself, and not only through -her, that the world was a very wonderful place, a place in which to be -happy. He was so stiff and different, so taut and tightly strung up, -that lounging, loose-limbed Mitchell seemed graceful compared with -him. Yet there was something unforgettable about him, and he had -always had for her the vivid romantic reality of the beautiful young -men on the stage, who were creatures of a delicious, absurd world -which she would never enter and never wished to enter: a world where -young men opened their arms and young women sank into them and were -provided with happiness for ever and ever. Her vigour rejected this -world, for she knew and lived in a better, but all the same it had its -charm and its curious reality. . . . - -She was not shy because she had kissed him. That had passed with the -shifting light through the trees and the clouds in the sky. It had -been vivid and true for that moment, but it had perished and fallen -away like a drop of water, like a rainbow. - -He remembered it. As he sat by her side and could feel the warm life -in her, it became terribly actual to him, the cool contact of her -lips, and he was glad when the bus reached the yard with the painted -swing-boats and he need no longer sit by her side. He had begun to -feel subservient to her, and he would not have that. What Rosa was to -Issy, what Golda was to his father, that should a woman be to him, for -it was good and decent so. . . . He was almost sorry he had come. He -was painfully shy, and knew that she was suffering under it. - -He walked so fast that she was hard put to keep up with him, but she -swung out and would not be beaten, and managed his pace without losing -her breath. Over to the wooded side of the Heath he took her, and -stopped under a chestnut-tree. - -"Shall we sit down?" he said. "Or would you like to go on walking?" - -"I'd like to sit down," she answered. "I love walking, but I can't -talk at the same time." - -He sat down at once, without waiting for her to choose a spot. - -"This grass is nice and cool," he said. - -It was wet, but he had no thought for her thin cotton frock. - -She sat a couple of yards away from him on the short turf and plunged -her arm into the long, cool grass. Then she lay on her stomach and -plucked a blade of grass and chewed it. - -"Thank you for sending me the roses. I gave them to my mother." - -"I liked your mother." - -"She liked you. She said: 'That is a good girl.' She is very quick at -guessing what people are like." - -"I'm glad she liked me." - -Once again conversation died away, but she seemed content to lie there -with her arms in the cool grass. Their round slenderness fascinated -him. Her short hair hung over her face, so that he could only see the -tip of her chin. - -Suddenly he asked her:-- - -"Do you send flowers to Mitchell?" - -"Yes," she said, and her head was lowered so that the tip of her chin -was hidden by her hair. - -He said nothing, but he too lay on the grass, flat on his stomach, -with his head on his arms. His heart began to thump, and, though he -tried to control it, it would not be still. Without raising his head -he said, in a choking voice that astonished him:-- - -"My father fainted for love of my mother. When he heard her name he -fainted away." - -She said nothing, only in the long grass her fingers were still. Her -white hands in the grass fascinated him, held his eyes transfixed, the -green blades coming up through the white fingers that were so still. -He stared at them as though they were some strange flower, and for him -they had nothing to do with her at all. He drew himself near to them, -never taking his eyes off them--white and green, white and green and -pink at the finger-tips. He must touch them. They were cool, soft, and -firm, soft as the petals of a rose. - -He grasped them like a child seizing a pretty toy, but when they were -in his grasp he was no longer like a child. A single impulse thrilled -through all his body and made it strong even as a giant. With one easy -swing of his arm he pulled her to him, held her with a vast -tenderness, and held her so, gazing into her face. Her lips parted, -and he kissed them. . . . - -It was she who first found words:-- - -"Oh Mendel! I do love you." - -He was amazed at his own strength, at his own tenderness. . . . So -that was a kiss! And this, this, this was love! It was incredible! How -sweet and easy were his emotions. He was as free and light as the wind -in the leaves. - -She had slipped from his arms, but she was singing through all his -veins, she and no other, she and nothing else in the world. And he was -in her, perfectly, beautifully aware of her body and of the ecstasy in -it, of the tree above them, of the dove-coloured clouds, of the cool -green grass, of the yellow earth crumbling out of the mound yonder, -and of the ecstasy in them all. - -So for many moments they lay in silence, until as suddenly as it had -come his strength left him, and he broke into a passionate babble of -words:-- - -"You must not send flowers to Mitchell, because he cannot love you and -I can. He knows nothing, and I know a great deal. I know women and the -ways of women, for many have loved me, but I have loved none but you. -No woman has been my friend except my mother. I did not look for any -woman to be like my mother. I am not an Englishman who can love with -pretty words. I love, and it is like that tree, growing silently until -it dies. It has stolen on me as softly as the night, and I sink into -it as I sink into the night, to sleep. It is as though the dark night -were suddenly filled with stars and all the stars had become flowers -and poured their honey into my thoughts. When your white hands were in -the grass they were like flowers and they seemed to belong to me, as -all beautiful things belong to me because I can love them." - -She came nearer to him and laid her hand on his, and she said:-- - -"I am very, very happy." - -And she laughed and added:-- - -"I _was_ glad when you made that catch." - -He was beyond laughter. For him laughter was for trivial things. She -had stopped the flow of his thoughts, the rush of his emotions up into -his creative consciousness. Wave upon wave of passion surged through -him, racked him, tortured him, tossing his soul this way and that, -threatening to hurl it down and smash it on the hardness of his -nature. He set his teeth and would not wince. If she could laugh she -could know nothing of that. She was shallow, she was young. . . . Was -it because he was a Jew that he seemed so old compared with her? . . . -What was it she lacked that she could laugh and leave him to the -torment she had provoked? - -But she was aware of the curious blankness that had come over his end -of their twilight silence, and she suffered from it, thinking: "Am I -an awful woman? Can I give nothing?" And she turned to him to give, -and give all the rare treasures of her soul, of her heart, to lay them -before him for his delight. But what she had already given had let -loose a storm in him that blotted out all the beauty of the scene, all -the loveliness of their love, the gift and the taking of it, and left -him with only the dim light of her purity. - -Soon the storm passed and they had nothing but an easy delight in each -other's company, each turning to each as to a warm fire by which to -laugh and talk and make merry. - -He told her stories of his childhood, of his brothers and his father, -and Mr. Kuit, the thief, who had bought him his first suit; of his -childish joy in painting, and there he stopped short. Of his misery he -was unable to speak. - -"You do believe in yourself," she said. - -"Why not?" he replied; "I am a man. When I hold my hands before my -eyes they are real. They are flesh and blood. I must believe in them. -And I am all flesh and blood. I must believe." - -"And everything else is real to you." - -"Everything that I love is real. And what I do not love I hate, so -that is real too." - -They wandered about the Heath until night came and the stars shone, -and then they plunged into the glitter of London, where all people and -things were deliciously fantastic and comic, flat and kinematographic, -as though, if you walked round to the other side, you would discover -that they were painted on one side only. It gave them the glorious -illusion of being the only two living people in the world, for they -and only they had loved since the world began, and all the other -lovers were only people in a story, living happily ever after or -coming to an end of their love, neither of which could happen to them -because they were, always had been, and always would be in love. - -They dined at the Pot-au-Feu, where they encountered Mitchell, who had -the effrontery to come and speak to them. He was very friendly and -spoke as though nothing had happened. They told him they had been to -Hampstead and recommended him to try it when he found London too -stuffy. - -When he had gone away, Morrison said:-- - -"I am going away soon." - -"Going away? But you mustn't go away." - -"I have to go next week. My mother has fits of anxiety about my being -in London every now and then, and she drags me off home. She has got -one of them now. She can't see that if any harm were going to happen -to me it would have happened during my first year, when I didn't know -anything and was very lonely. I don't think I'm very real to her, -somehow." - -She gave a little shiver of distaste at the thought of going home. - -"But you mustn't go away," said Mendel. "I want you, always." - -"And I want to be with you, but if I refused to go home now, I should -have to go for always, for I should have no money." - -He was plunged into a dejected silence, and with hardly a word more he -took her home. - -* * * * * - -They had a whole week of this warm happiness. He abandoned every other -thought, every other pursuit, every other friend. He put aside his -work to paint her portrait, and she came every day to his studio. At -night he hardly slept at all for his longing for the next day to come -and bring her to his studio, that now seemed immense, airy, ample even -for such a giant as he felt. . . . He adored her even when she -laughed, even when she teased him. He even learned occasionally to -laugh at himself. It was worth it to see the amazing happiness he gave -her. - -One morning as he was painting her, he said:-- - -"I can't believe you are going away." - -"It is true, more's the pity." - -"But you are not going, for I will marry you." - -He said this in a matter-of-fact tone as he went on with his painting. -The picture was coming on well and he was pleased with it. He stepped -back and looked at it from different angles. It seemed a long time -before she made the expected matter-of-fact reply, and he looked up at -her. She was hanging her head and plucking at her skirt nervously. She -heard him stop in his work, and she replied:-- - -"I don't . . . think . . . I want to marry you, Mendel. I don't . . . -think . . . I want to marry anybody." - -"I'm making plenty of money and I can get commissions for portraits. I -could make it up with Birnbaum. We could go to Italy together." - -"Don't make it harder for both of us, Mendel. . . . I don't want . . . -to marry." - -"You will go back home, then?" - -"Please . . . please . . ." she implored him. - -A fury began to rise in him. He stamped his foot on the ground and -struck his brush across the picture. He made a tremendous effort to -recover himself, but before he could say another word she had slipped -through the door and was gone. He darted after her, and reached the -front-door just in time to see her running as hard as she could down -the street and round the corner. - -Just as he was, in his shirt-sleeves, hatless and collarless, he went -in to see his mother. He was white-hot with rage, and he walked up to -her and looked her up and down as though he were trying to persuade -himself that she was to blame. - -"What do you think the news is now?" - -Golda put her hand to her heart and looked at him fearfully as she -shook her head. - -"I've been refused," he said, "refused by the Christian girl." - -"Refused!" cried Golda, who had never heard of such a thing as a girl -refusing to marry a rich young man. - -"Yes. I proposed to her and she refused." - -"The Christians are all alike," said Golda. "They keep themselves to -themselves, and you must do the same." - -She took a smoked herring from the cupboard and cut it into portions. - -"And when your time for marrying comes you must look among the Jews, -for the Jews are good people. No Jewish girl would serve you a trick -like that. Jewish girls know that they must marry and they are good. -But she is young, and you are young, and you will both forget." - - - -VI - -CAMDEN TOWN - -FROM the magnificent studio in Hammersmith to two rooms in Camden Town -Mr. James Logan removed his worldly goods, a paint-box, half-a-dozen -canvases, two pairs of trousers, three shirts, a "Life of Napoleon" in -two volumes, and a number of photographs of famous pictures. The -magnificent studio had been lent to him by the mistress of its owner, -who had returned unexpectedly from abroad, and Mr. James Logan's -departure from it was hurried, but unperturbed. - -"In my time," he said, "I have kept Fortune busy, but her tricks leave -me unmoved. She will get tired of it some day and leave me alone." - -All the same he did not relish the change. He was nearly thirty and -had tasted sufficient comfort to relish it and to prize it. Also he -could not forget the ambitions with which he had come to London five -years before. In the North he had won success by storm, and he could -not understand any other tactics. He was an extraordinary man and -expected immediate recognition of the fact. Upon his own mind his -personality had so powerful an effect that he was blind to the fact -that it did not have a similar effect upon the minds of others. Women -and young men he could always stir into admiration, but men older than -himself were only affronted. He knew it and used to curse them:-- - -"These clods, these hods, these glue-faced ticks have no more sap in -them than a withered tree. They hate me as a mule hates a stallion, -and for the same reason. May God and Mary have mercy on what little is -left of their souls by the time they come to judgment!" - -He cursed them now as he laid his trousers on the vast new double-bed -he had bought and went into his front room to arrange his easel and -canvas for work. Whatever happened to him he would go on painting, -because he saw himself like that, standing as firm as a rock before -his easel, painting, while the world, for all he cared, went to rack -and ruin. What else could happen to a world that refused to recognize -its artists? - -Painting was truly a joy to him. He loved the actual dabbling with the -colours, laying them out on his palette, mixing them, evolving rare -shades; he loved the fiery concentration and absorption in the making -of a picture; the renewed power of sight when he turned from a picture -to the world; the glorious nervous energy that came thrilling through -his fingers in moments of concentration; the feeling of the -superiority of this power to all others in the world. And so, whatever -happened, he turned to his easel and painted. Love, debt, passion, -quarrels, all the disturbances of life came and went, but painting -remained, inexhaustible. So he had been happy, free, unfettered, gay, -avoiding all responsibility because it was his formula that the -artist's only responsibility is to his art. - -He was doubly happy now because he knew he had made an impression on a -young man whose sincerity and vigour of purpose he could not but -respect. He was himself singularly impressionable, and like a sponge -for sucking up the colour of any strong personality. And Mendel had -the further attraction for him that he was pure London, of the -shifting, motley London that Logan, as a provincial, adored. This -London he had touched at many points, but never through a strong -living soul that had, and most loyally acknowledged, London as its -home. - -Logan's visit to Mendel in the East End had been one of the great -events of his life. Through it he had found his feet where he had been -floundering, though, of course, happily and excitedly enough. - -He told himself that now he was going to settle down to work, to the -great productive period of his life, such as was vouchsafed to every -real artist who was tough enough to pay for it in suffering. He would -rescue Mendel's genius from the Detmold and the ossified advanced -painters, and together they would smash the English habit of following -French art a generation late, and they would lay the foundations of a -genuine English art, a metropolitan art, an art that grew naturally -out of the life of the central city of the world. - -Logan always worked by programme, but hitherto he had changed his -programme once a week. Now he was sure that this was the programme of -his life. It would be amended, of course, by inspiration, but its -groundwork was permanent. He was enthusiastic over it. . . . Of -course, this was what he had always been seeking, and hitherto he had -been fighting the London which absorbed the talents of the country, -masticated them, digested them, and evacuated them in the shape of -successful painters for whom neither life nor art had any meaning, or -in the shape of vicious wrecks who crawled from public-house to -public-house and died in hospitals. - -It was time that was stopped. It was time for London to be made to -recognize that it had a soul, and this generation must begin the task, -for never before had a generation been so faced with the blank -impossibility of accepting the work, thought, and faith of its -predecessor. Never had it been so easy to slip out of the stream of -tradition, for never had tradition so completely disappeared -underground. - -"'He that hath eyes to see, let him see,'" quoth Logan, and he hurled -himself into his work, dancing to and fro, squaring his shoulders at -it as though the picture were an adversary in a boxing-match. - -* * * * * - -At half-past four he laid down his brushes and began to arrange the -room, pinning photographs on the walls, and unpacking certain articles -of furniture, as a rug, a great chair, and mattresses to make a divan, -which he had bought that morning. Every now and then he ran to the -window, threw up the sash, and looked up and down the street. - -At last with a tremor of excitement he leaned out and waved his hand, -shut the window, and ran downstairs. In a moment or two he returned -with the girl of the Tube station. She was wearing the same clothes, -with the addition of a cheap fur boa, and she panted a little from the -run upstairs with him. - -"I'm glad you came," he said. "I was afraid you wouldn't." - -"Oh! It's not far from where I live," she said. "But you are in a -mess." - -"I've only just got in. I would have asked you to my old place, but I -had to leave." - -"So you're a nartist," she said. "I thought you were something funny." - -"Funny!" snorted Logan. "I call a shop-walker funny; or a banker, for -that matter, or a millionaire. An artist is the most natural thing to -be in the world. . . . Take your hat and gloves off and give me a -hand, and then we'll have tea." - -"Oh! I love my tea." - -"I know all about tea. I get it from a friend of mine in the City. I -know how to make it, too." - -They worked together, arranging, dusting, keeping deliberately apart -and eyeing each other surreptitiously. He liked her slow, heavy, -indolent movements, and she exaggerated them for him. She liked his -quick, firm, decisive actions, and he accentuated them for her; and -she liked his thick, black hair and his strong hands. - -He picked up the great chair and held it at arm's-length. - -"Oo! You are strong," she said. - -"I could hold you up like that." - -"I'd like to see you try," and she gave a little giggle of protest. - -"I will if I don't like you," said he, "and I'll let you drop and -break your leg." - -She went off into peals of laughter, and he laughed too. - -"It's such a jolly day," he said. "It only needed you to come to make -everything perfect." - -"What made you speak to me the other night?" she asked. - -"I liked the look of you." - -"But I'm not that sort, you know." - -"It isn't a question of being that sort. I wanted to speak to you, and -that was enough for me. Sit down and have some tea." - -The kettle was boiling, and he had already warmed the pot. He measured -out the tea carefully, poured the water onto it, and gave her a blue -china cup. He produced an old biscuit-tin containing some French -pastry, and then sat on the floor while she consumed the lot. - -It gave him great pleasure to see her eat, and he liked her healthy, -childish greed. She had the face of a spoiled child, a very soft skin, -and plump, yielding flesh. He liked that. It soothed and comforted him -to look at her, while at the same time he was irritated by her inward -plumpness and easiness. - -"You've always had a good time," he said. - -"Oh yes! I've seen to that." - -"You're not a London girl." - -"No; Yorkshire." - -"I'm from Lancashire." - -"Eeh! lad," she said, her whole voice altering and deepening into an -astonishingly full note, "are ye fra' Lancashire? Eeh! a'm fair -clemmed wi' London. Eeh! I am glad ye coom fra' Lancashire." - -"What are you doing in London?" - -"I'm working in Oxford Street, though not one of the big shops." - -"Like it?" - -"M'm! Well enough." - -"Of course you don't, handing out laces and ribbons----" - -"'Tisn't laces and ribbons. It's corsets." - -"Corsets, then, to women who haven't a tenth of your looks or your -vitality." - -"It can't be helped if they have the money and I haven't, can it?" - -"Money doesn't matter. What's money to you, with all the rich life in -you? Money cannot buy that, nor can it buy what will satisfy you." - -"And what's that?" - -"Love and freedom." - -"Ooh! you are a talker." - -"I'm not flirting with you. I haven't got time for that." - -He laid his hand on her foot, which was covered with a thin cotton -stocking. She did not move it. - -"You needn't stare at me like that," she said, with a curious -thickness in her voice. - -"I can't help staring," he answered, "when I mean what I say." He -pressed his lips together and scowled, and shook her foot playfully. -There was an exhilarating pleasure in startling and mastering her by -directness. It was like peeling the bark off a stick. The thin layers -of affectation came off easily and cleanly, leaving bare the white -sappy smoothness of her innocent sensuality. - -"I do mean what I say," he added. "Why should we beat about the bush? -I asked you to come to-day because I wanted you. You came because you -knew I wanted you." - -"You asked me to tea." - -"All right. And you'll stay to dinner. People have made love to you -before." - -"Well, no . . . yes. . . . Not like . . ." - -"Don't tell lies," he said. "You saw me at the station long before I -saw you, and you wanted me to see you. That was why you stayed at the -booking-office." - -"You were with such a pretty boy," she said. - -"Boy! You're not old enough to care for pretty boys." - -"But he _was_ pretty." - -"Be quiet!" he said, kneeling by her side. "You may want me to take -weeks over making all sorts of foolish advances to you, but I'm not -going to waste time. I've wasted too much time over that sort of -rubbish. We both know what we want and you are going to stay with me." - -"No." - -"I say yes." - -"No." And she sprang to her feet and walked to the door. There she -turned. He had picked up her gloves. - -"Will you give me my gloves, please?" - -"No." - -"Will you give me my gloves?" - -"No." - -"Then I shall go without them." - -"Very well. Good-bye." - -"If I stay, will you promise not to talk like that?" - -"I don't want you to stay under those circumstances." - -"You're an insulting beast." - -"Not at all. I honour your womanhood by not pretending that it isn't -there." - -"Will you give me my gloves?" - -She ran across and tried to snatch them out of his hand. He gripped -and held her, and she gave a wild laugh as he kissed her. - -She clung to him as he let her sink back into the great chair. She lay -with her eyes closed and her lips parted while he sat and poured -himself out another cup of tea. His hand was shaking so that he -spilled some tea on his new rug. - -"That's all right," he said. "I'll give you a week to get used to me, -and if at the end of that time you don't like me, you can go." - -"I haven't any friends," she said in a low voice, "and you get sick of -girls and the shop. You get sick of going out in the evening up and -down the streets and into the cinemas, and finding some damn fool to -take you to a music-hall. Such a lot of people and nobody to know." - -"There's a lot of fun in living with an artist," he said. "You meet -queer people and amusing women, and you wouldn't find me dull to live -with." - -"I felt queer as I came near the house," she said, "as though I knew -something was going to happen. I feel very queer now." - -"That's love," said Logan grimly. "Love isn't what you thought it -was." - -"You must let me go now." - -"When will you come again?" - -"Never." - -"Oh yes, you will." - -"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! I'm not going to be flummoxed by the -like of you." - -"But you are," he said. "You poor darling!" - -He took her hand and stroked it tenderly. - -"Don't you see that you are flummoxed by something that is stronger -than both of us? I'm shaken by it, and I'm whipcord. We're poor -starving people, God help us! and we can save each other. We knew we -could do it at once, when we met. . . . If I said all the pretty -things in the world it wouldn't help. We're too far gone for that. -When you're starving you don't want chocolates. . . . I'm only saying -what I know. It is true of myself. If I have made a mistake about you, -I am sorry. You can go. . . . Have I made a mistake?" - -For answer she turned towards him, gazed at him with glazing eyes, -raised her arms, and drew him into them. - -* * * * * - -A week later Nelly Oliver dined with Logan and Mendel at the -Pot-au-Feu. They had a special dinner and drank champagne, for it was -what Logan called the "nuptial feast." - -Oliver, as they called her, was flushed with excitement, and kept on -telling Mendel that he was the prettiest boy she had ever seen. She -called Logan "Pip"--"Pip darling," "Pip dearest," "Pipkin" and -"Pipsy"--because she said he was like an orange-pip, bitter and hard -in the midst of sweetness. - -"Pip says you're a genius," she said to Mendel. "What does he mean?" - -Mendel disliked her, though he tried hard to persuade himself that she -was charming. He was baffled by the solemnity with which Logan was -taking her, for she seemed to him the type made for occasional solace -and not for companionship. Exploring her with his mind and instinct, -she seemed to him soft and pulpy, not unlike an orange, and if she and -Logan were to set up a common life, then he would be like a pip -indeed. . . . How could he explain to her the nature of genius? Can -you explain the night to an insect that lives but an hour in the -morning? - -"I don't know," he said brusquely. - -Logan was dimly aware that his friend and his girl were not pleasing -each other, and he set himself to keep them amused. He succeeded -fairly well, but his humour was forced, for he was under the spell of -the girl and the thought of the adventure to which she had consented. -She knew it, and was loud and shrill and triumphant, continually -setting Mendel's teeth on edge, for the purity of his instinct was -disgusted by the blurring and swamping of life by any emotion, and the -quality of hers was not such as to win indulgence. - -"Logan will tell you what genius is," he said. - -"She'll find that out soon enough if she lives with me," growled Logan -a little pompously. - -Oliver put her head on one side and looked languishingly at Mendel as -she drawled:-- - -"It's a pity you haven't got a nice girl. Then there would be four of -us." - -"Don't be a fool!" snapped Logan. "What does he want with girls at his -age?" - -Oliver's lips trembled and she pouted in protest. - -"I only thought it would be nice to round off the party. When you're -in love you can't help wanting everybody else to have some too." - -Mendel was torn between dislike of her and admiration of Logan's -masterful handling of the problem of desire. . . . No nonsense about -getting married or falling in love. He saw the woman he wanted and -took her and made her his property, and the woman could not but -acquiesce, as Oliver had done. In a dozen different ways she -acknowledged Logan's lordship, even in her deliberate efforts to -exasperate him. Their relationship seemed to Mendel simple and -excellent, and he envied them. How easy his life would become if he -could do the same! What freedom there would be in having a woman to -throw in her lot with his! It would settle all his difficulties, -absolve him from his dependence on his family, and deliver him from -the attentions of unworthy women. - -"How shall we dress her?" asked Logan. - -Mendel took out his sketch-book and drew a rough portrait of Oliver in -a gown tight-fitting above the waist and full in the skirt. - -"I should look a guy in that," she said. "It's nothing like the -fashion." - -"You've done with fashion," said Logan. "You've done with the world of -shops and snobs and bored, idiotic women. You're above all that now. -In the first place there won't be any money for fashion, and in the -second place there's no room in our kind of life for rubbish. You're a -free woman now, and don't you forget it, or I'll knock your head off." - -"But it's a horrible, ugly dress," said Oliver, almost in tears. - -"It's what you're going to wear. I'll buy the stuff to-morrow and make -it myself. What colour would you like?" - -"I won't wear it." - -"Then you can go back to your shop." - -"You know I can't. I've said good-bye to all the girls." - -"Then you'll wear the dress." - -"I shan't." - -"For God's sake don't quarrel," said Mendel. "One would think you had -been married for ten years. Let her wear what she likes until she -wants some new clothes." - -"Highty Tighty! Little boy!" sang Oliver. "You talk as though I were a -little girl." - -"You behave like one," snapped Mendel, and her face was overcast with -a cloud of malignant sulkiness. - -* * * * * - -They went on to a music-hall, where Logan and she sat with their arms -locked and their shoulders pressed together, whispering and babbling -to each other. - -Mendel sat bolt upright with his arms folded, staring at the stage but -seeing nothing, so lost was he in the contemplation of the strange -turn of affairs by which the adventure which had promised to lead him -straight to art had deposited him in a muddy little pool of life. He -would not submit to it. He would not surrender Logan and all the hopes -he had aroused. Prepared as he had been to follow Logan through fire, -he would not shrink when the way led through the morass. Friendship -was to him no fair-weather luxury, and nothing but falsehood or -faithlessness in his friend could make him relinquish it. - -He told himself that Logan would soon tire of it, that Oliver would go -the way of her kind. She was, after all, better than Hetty Finch, -since she had a capacity for childish enjoyment. - -She revelled in the sentimental ditties and the suggestive humours of -the comedians, pressed closer and closer to Logan, and grew elated and -strangely exalted as the evening wore on. And as they left the -music-hall she gripped Mendel's arm and brought her face close to his -and whispered:-- - -"Do wish me luck, Kühler. Give me a kiss for luck." - -He kissed her and mumbled: "Good luck!" - -"Come and see us to-morrow," she said. "We shall be all right -to-morrow." - -"Oh, come along!" cried Logan, dragging her away; and Mendel stood in -the glaring light of the portico and watched them as, arm in arm, they -were swallowed up in the crowd hurrying and jostling its way home to -the dark outer regions of London. - -He had an appalling sense of being left out of it. Everything passed -and he remained. He lived in a circle of light into which, like moths, -came timid, blinking, lovable figures, and he loved them; but they -passed on and were lost in the tumultuous, heaving darkness of life, -into which alone he could not enter. . . . Did he desire to enter it? -He did not know, but he was hungry for something that lay in it, or, -perhaps, beyond it. - - - -VII - -MR. TILNEY TYSOE - -LOGAN with Oliver was more startling and exhilarating than before. He -was filled with a ferocious energy, and his programme was distended -with it. - -He said to Mendel:-- - -"She's an inspiration. I have found what I was seeking. You have given -me the inspiration of art. Through you I shall reach the heights of -the spirit. She has given me the inspiration of life, and through her -I shall plumb the very depths of humanity. She is marvellous. All the -exasperation of modern life is in her, all the impatient brooding on -the threshold of new marvels. You think she is stupid, I know, but -that is only because she has in herself such an immense wealth of -instinctive knowledge of life that she does not need to judge it by -passing outward appearances. I am amazed at her, almost afraid of her. -Something tremendous will come out of her. . . . By God! It makes me -sick to think of all the dabbling in paint that goes on, not to speak -of all the dabbling in love. Love? The word has become foolish and -empty. I don't wish to hear it uttered ever again. . . . I swear that -if it doesn't come out in paint I shall write poetry. Oh! I can feel -the marrow in my bones again, and my veins are full of sap. . . . But -I want to talk business." - -"Business?" said Mendel, who had been upset and bewildered by this -outburst. - -"Yes. I want you to approve my programme, for you must have a -programme. It is all very well to work by the light of inspiration. -That can work quite well as far as you yourself are concerned, but -what about the public? what about the other artists?--damn them! We're -going to burst out of the groove, but we must have a good reason for -doing so." - -"Surely it is reason enough that one can't work in it." - -"Not enough for them. They must be mystified and impressed. They must -be unable to place us. They must feel that we are up to something, but -they must be unable to say what it is." - -"I don't care what they say," said Mendel. - -"But you must care. When we have carried out the programme, then you -can do as you like, but till then we must pull together. We must do it -for the sake of art. We must make a stand, not to found a school or to -say that this and no other style of drawing is right, but to assert -the sacred duty of the artist to paint according to his vision and his -creative instinct." - -This was coming very near to Mendel's own feeling, and he remembered -the torture he had been through to learn the Detmold style of drawing, -and how some virtue had gone out of his work in the effort. - -"It is the artist's business," said Logan, "to create out of the life -around him an expression of it in form." - -"I agree," said Mendel. - -"Accurate imitation is not necessarily an expression, is it? You know -it isn't. A picture must be a created thing. It must have a life of -its own, and to have that it must grow through the artist's passion -out of the life around him. It is all rubbish to look back, to talk of -going back to the Primitives or the Byzantines or Egypt. You can learn -a great deal from those old people about pictures, but you cannot -learn how to paint your own pictures from them, because you can only -live in your own life and your own time, and if you are a good artist -your work will transcend both. . . . Now, tell me, where is the work -that is expressing the glorious, many-coloured life of London, where -is the work that does not give you a shock as you come to it out of -the street, the thrilling, vibrant street, making you feel that you -are stepping back ten, twenty, fifty years? . . . Why has life -outstripped art?" - -"I don't know," said Mendel, whose head had begun to ache. - -"It has not only outstripped it," continued Logan. "It has begun to -despise it." - -The postman knocked, and Mendel ran downstairs in feverish expectation -of a letter from Morrison, to whom he had written imploring her to -come again, or, if not, at least to let him have her address in the -country. There was no letter for him, and as soon as he returned with -a blank, disappointed face, Logan went on:-- - -"People collect pictures as they collect postage-stamps, to keep -themselves from being bored. Naturally they despise pictures, and they -despise us for accepting those conditions. They are intolerable, and -we must make an end of them. We are in a tight corner, and we should -leave no trick and twist and turn untried to get out of it. If we do -not do so then there will be no art, as there is no drama, no music, -and no literature, and there will be no authority among men, and -humanity will go to hell. It is on the road to it, and the artists -have got to stop it." - -Mendel had not heard a word. He sat with his head in his hands -thinking of Morrison, and hating her for the blank misery in which she -had plunged him. - -"Humanity," said Logan cheerfully, "is fast going to hell. It likes -it; and, as the democratic idea is that it should have what it likes, -not a finger, not a voice is raised to stop it. Everything that stands -in the way--ideals, decency, responsibility, passion, love--everything -is smashed. Nothing can stop it unless their eyes are opened and their -poor frozen hearts are thawed." - -"What did you say?" asked Mendel, having half-caught that last phrase. - -"We must try to stop it," said Logan. "We may be smashed and swept -aside, but we must try to stop it. . . . I've been to see Cluny -to-day. He has sold all your things except one drawing." - -"I know," replied Mendel, who had received an amazing account which -showed about two-thirds of his earnings swallowed up in colours, -brushes, frames, and photographs. He knew, but he was not interested. -He was unhappy and restless and felt completely empty. - -"We passionate natures," said Logan, striding up and down like -Napoleon on the quarter-deck of the _Bellerophon_--"we passionate -natures must take control. We must be the nucleus of true fiery stuff -to resist the universal corruption. We must be dedicated to the wars -of the spirit." - -"I've got a splitting headache," said Mendel. "Do you mind not talking -so much? The important thing for a painter is painting. What happens -outside that doesn't matter." - -"You think so now," said Logan, "but you wait. You'll find that -painting won't satisfy you. You will want to know what it is all for, -and one of these days you will be thankful to me for telling you. -. . . Cluny has taken on some of my things, and he has agreed to our -having an exhibition together. What do you say to that?" - -"So long as I sell I don't care where I exhibit. Exhibitions are -always horrible. They always make pictures look mean and -insignificant." - -"You are in a mood to-day." - -"I tell you," cried Mendel in a fury--"I tell you I know what art is -better than anybody. It touches life at one point, and one point only, -and there it gives a great light. If life is too mean and beastly to -reach that point, so much the worse for life. It does not affect art, -which is another world, where everything is beautiful and true. I know -it; I have always known it. I have lived in that world. I live in it, -and I detest everything that drags me away from it and makes me live -in the world of filth and thieves and scoundrels. Yes, I detest even -love, even passion, for they make a fool and a beast of a man." - -"Young!" said Logan. "Very young! You'll learn. . . . But do be -sensible and control your beast of a temper. Never mind my programme -if it doesn't interest you. Will you accept Cluny's offer? It is worth -it, for it will make you independent." - -"How much does he want?" - -"A dozen exhibits each." - -"Oh! very well." - -"And will you come and dine to-night with my fool of a patron, Mr. -Tilney Tysoe?" - -"I don't want to know fools. I know quite enough already." - -"But I've promised to take you. . . . He adores Bohemians, as he calls -us, and he buys pictures." - -"Does he give you good food?" - -"Some of the best in London." - -"All right." - -"Meet us at the Paris Café at seven-thirty. Don't dress. Tysoe would -be dreadfully disappointed if you didn't turn up reeking of paint. It -would be almost better not to wash." - -"Is Oliver going?" - -"Yes. Do you mind?" - -"No. . . . No." - -* * * * * - -It was an enormous relief to Mendel when Logan went. His enthusiasm -was too exhausting, and it was maddening to have him talking of -success and the triumph of art and the wars of the spirit when life -had apparently reached up and extinguished the light of art -altogether. For a brief moment, for a day or two, it had almost seemed -to him that life and art were one, that everything was solved and -simple, that he would henceforth only have to paint and pictures would -flow from his brush as easily as song from a bird. This illusion had -survived even the blow of Morrison's departure. He believed that it -was enough for him to have had that hour of illumination, and that, if -go she must, he could do without her. The flash of light had been the -same, magnified a thousand times, as the inspiration that set him at -work on a picture and then left him to wrestle with the task of -translating it into terms of paint. She had appeared to him exactly in -the same visionary way, an image shining in truth and beauty, an -emanation from that other world, and he had thought he would at worst -be left with the terrible ordeal of translating the vision into paint. -. . . But when he looked at his pictures they oppressed him with their -lifelessness and dark dullness, and the idea of painting disgusted -him. It was even an acute pain, almost like a wound upon his heart, to -handle a brush. He could not finish the portrait of his father and -mother, and, at best, he could only force himself to paint -flower-pieces. - -He was incapable of deceiving himself. He had never heard of devout -lovers sighing in vain, and he had no sources of comfort within -himself. Never had he shrunk from any torment, and this was so cruel -as to be almost a glory, except that it meant such a deathly stillness -and emptiness. He could not understand it, and he knew that it was -past the comprehension of all whom he knew, even his mother. But he -set his teeth and vowed that he would understand it if it took years. -. . . A little girl, a little Christian girl! How was it possible? - -There was some relief in the thought of her, but very little. She was -still too visionary, and when he tried to think of her in life, by his -side, it was impossibly painful. - -Where was she? Why did she not write? Her silence was like ice upon -his heart. . . . What kind of place did she live in? Among what -people? How was he to imagine her? . . . To think of her among the -trees or under the chestnut-tree was to be torn with impulses that -could find no outlet; desires for creation that made painting seem a -sham and a mockery. - -So keen, and fierce, and deep was his suffering that death seemed a -little thing in comparison. When he tried to think of death he knew -that it was not worth thinking of, and he was ashamed that the thought -should have been in his mind. - -He knew that he must understand or perish. To say that he was in love -was hopelessly inadequate. He knew how people were when they were in -love. They were like Rosa, like animals, stupid and thick-sighted, -with a thickening in their blood. But he was possessed with a -clairvoyance that made everything round him seem transparent and -flimsy, while thought crept stealthily, like a cat on a wall, and -emotion was confounded. - -* * * * * - -For days he had hardly left his studio, and it was only with the -greatest effort that he could bring himself to join Logan at the Paris -Café. He felt weak, and the streets looked very strange, clear and -bright, as they do to a convalescent. As he entered the café it seemed -years since he had been there, ages since he had sat there trembling -with excitement as he waited for the great Calthrop to come in. He -remembered that excitement so vividly that something like it came -rushing up in him, and he clutched at it for relief. . . . Calthrop -was there with his little court of models and students. Mendel found -himself laughing nervously as he stood and waited for the great man to -recognize him. Calthrop looked up and nodded to him. He was wildly, -absurdly delighted. He rushed over to Logan and Oliver and shook them -enthusiastically by the hand. - -"Isn't it a splendid place?" he cried. - -"Have something to drink," said Logan. "You've been overworking." - -"You must say it's a splendid place," insisted Mendel, "or I shall go -home. Just by that table where Calthrop is sitting is where I was -arrested." - -"Oh, which is Calthrop?" asked Oliver eagerly. - -"The big man over there," said Mendel. "I was arrested just there, and -I had to go on my knees to the manager to make him allow me to come -here again. I had to apologize to him. At the time it was the greatest -tragedy of my life." - -He had forgotten his dislike for Oliver in his elation at finding -himself gay again, and he chattered on of the days when the café had -seemed to him a heaven full of heroes. Oliver listened to him like a -child. She loved stories, and she leaned forward and drank in his -words, and she appeared to him as a very beautiful woman, desirable, -intoxicating. Yet because Logan was his friend he would not envy him, -but rejoiced in his possession of this rare treasure, a woman who -could deliver up to him all the warm secrets of life. And he could not -help saying so, and telling them how happy it made him to be with -them. - -Logan and Oliver glanced at each other, and their hands met in a -fierce grip under the table. Mendel could not see more than their -glance, but the meeting of their eyes sent a flame like a white-hot -sword darting at his heart. The sharp pain released him, and sent him -shooting up into a wilder gaiety. - -He felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning with a start, he saw Mr. -Sivwright, his first master, standing above him. He rose and shook -hands. - -"I am glad to see you," said Mr. Sivwright. "I've been meaning to -write to you, but I've been away, out of London." - -Mendel introduced him to his friends and asked him to sit down. - -"I can't stop a moment," said Mr. Sivwright. "I'm very busy. I have -just started a club for artists--opens at eleven. These absurd closing -hours, you know. I hope you'll join. It has been open a week. Great -fun, and I want some frescoes painted. . . . I'm very proud of your -success, Kühler. I feel I had my hand in it." - -He produced a prospectus and laid it on the table, bowed awkwardly to -Oliver, and with a self-conscious swagger, as though he felt the eyes -of all in the café upon him, made his way out. - -"Who's that broken-down tick?" asked Logan. - -"Sivwright," answered Mendel. "He taught me when I was a boy. He's a -very bad artist, and he thinks art ended with Corot. I learned to -paint like Corot. Really! I used to go with him to the Park and weep -over the trees in the twilight: I never thought I should see him -again." - -"Oh! people bob up," said Logan. "We go on getting longer in the -tooth, but people recur, like decimals." - -"Would you like to go to his club?" asked Mendel. "It says 'Dancing.' -I feel like dancing." - -"Oh! I love dancing," said she. - -Logan assumed his air of mysterious importance and said it was time to -go to Tysoe's. - -"We're twenty minutes late," he said; "Tysoe would be dreadfully put -out if we were punctual." - -As Mendel had plenty of money they took a taxi-cab. - -* * * * * - -Mr. Tilney Tysoe was an idealist, and he had no other profession. He -was a very tall man with a long cadaverous face, great bulging, watery -eyes, and extraordinarily long hands, which hung limply from his -wrist, except when he was excited, when they shot up with extreme -violence, and carried his arms with them into a gesture so awkward -that he had to find relief from it in a shrug. He was devoted to the -arts, had a stall at the opera, a study full of books, and several -rooms full of pictures. An artist was to him a great artist, a book -that pleased him was a great book, and his constant lament was over -the dearth of great men in public life. It gave him the keenest -delight to see Logan, unkempt, wild-haired, shaggy, violent and -brusque, enter his daintily furnished drawing-room, and his eyes -passed eagerly to Oliver, looking just as she ought to have done, the -mistress of a Bohemian. - -"Delighted! Delighted!" he said as he coiled his long white hand round -Mendel's workmanlike paw. "My wife, I regret to say, is away. She will -be so sorry to have missed you. Like me, she is tired of the shallow, -artificial people we live among. We both adore sincere, real people. I -adore sincerity. Sincerity is genius." - -"That is true," said Logan in a sepulchral voice that made Mendel -jump. "At least, where you find sincerity, you may be sure that genius -is not far behind." - -"I bought a picture of yours the other day, Mr. Kühler," said Tysoe. -"I am ashamed to think how little I gave for it, but works of art are -priceless, are they not?" - -"Mine are," said Mendel, overcoming his disgust and beginning to enjoy -the game. - -"You think so," rejoined Tysoe with an undulation of his long body. -"And why shouldn't you say so? You are sincere and strong. You must -force your talent upon an ungrateful world." - -A man-servant announced dinner, and Tysoe gave his arm to Oliver and -led her downstairs, while Logan put his hand on Mendel's shoulder and -said with a chuckle:-- - -"Be sincere." - -Mendel began at once with the soup, as though he had been wound up. - -"I have won every possible prize for painting and drawing, and the -first picture I exhibited was the sensation of the year in art -circles." - -"I remember it," said Tysoe. - -"Like my friend Logan, I am profoundly dissatisfied with the state of -art in England, and though I am not an Englishman I have sufficient -love for the country to wish to do my share in redeeming it. The first -essential is a new technique, the second essential is a new spirit, -and the third essential is sincerity." - -"Wonderfully true!" cried Tysoe. "Have some sherry. Wonderfully true! -Now, take the ordinary man. He might feel all that, but would he dare -to say it? No. That is why I, as an idealist, delight in the society -of artists. You know where you are with them. Facts are facts with -them." - -"I do like this sherry wine," said Oliver, beginning to feel very -comfortable in the warm luxury of the dining-room. - -Logan kicked her under the table. - -Feeling that more was expected of him, Mendel wound himself up again -and went on:-- - -"Logan and I are going to hold an exhibition together. It will make a -great stir, that is, if London is not altogether dead to sincerity. We -think it is time that independence among artists was encouraged. Art -must not be allowed to stop short at Calthrop----" - -He stopped dead as he realized that the wall opposite him held half a -dozen drawings by Calthrop. Logan rushed in:-- - -"Among real artists there is no rivalry. Art is not a competition. It -is a constellation, like the Milky Way." - -"Ah! La Voie Lactée!" cried Tysoe, dropping into French, as he -sometimes did when he was moved. "Quite so! La Voie Lactée!" - -"At home in Yorkshire," said Oliver, "there are sometimes two big -stars hanging just over the top of the moors, and they say it means -love or death if you see it at half-past nine." - -Logan took charge of the conversation, frowning at Mendel and Oliver -as though they were naughty children. He described the masterpiece he -was painting, and Tysoe said:-- - -"I'm sure I shall like that. It sounds big and forceful, like -yourself. Do let me have a look at it before anyone else sees it." - -Then he added:-- - -"I saw a charming still-life of yours once. A melon, I think it was. -What has become of it?" - -"It was sold, I fancy," replied Mendel, who had never painted a melon -in his life. - -"Ah! A pity. I wanted some little thing for a wedding-present. No one -I care about very much, so it must be a little thing." - -"He has two or three little things just now," said Logan. "If you sent -a messenger-boy round to his studio he would let you see them." - -And suddenly Mendel could keep the game up no longer. He began to feel -choked by the stuffy, empty luxury of the room, with its excess of -plate and glass and flowers and furniture and pictures. His head -seemed to be on the point of bursting. He must get out--out and away. -He wanted to laugh, to scream with laughter, to shout, to die of -laughter, anything to shake off the oppressive folly of his host. And -he began to laugh, to shake and heave with it. He suppressed it, but -at last he burst out with a roar and rushed from the room. - -"Overworked," said Logan imperturbably. "That's what it is. The poor -devil hasn't learned sense yet. It's work, work, work with him, all -the time. He thinks of nothing but his art, you know. Never has, ever -since he was a boy. . . . He'll be a very great genius, and I shall be -left far behind." - -"Not you," said Tysoe, "not you. I know no man in whom I have greater -faith than you." - -"Do you think him as good as all that?" said Oliver eagerly. "I'm -always telling him Kühler's not a patch on him." - -Meanwhile Mendel had taken refuge in the lavatory, where he shouted -and shook and cried with laughter. When he had recovered himself he -crawled back to the dining-room muttering inaudible apologies. - -"I'm sorry," he said. "I've not been myself lately." - -"You mustn't overdo it," said Tysoe kindly. "You have plenty of time. -You need be in no hurry to overtake Logan. He is entering upon -maturity. Your time will come." - -Mendel felt disturbed. He had not thought of Logan seriously as a -painter, certainly not as a rival or a colleague. Logan was his -friend. That Logan painted was incidental. It irritated him to have to -sit and listen to him holding forth about painting. He had always -liked Logan's talk, but had never really connected it with his work. -It was just talk, like reading, or going to the cinema--a sop, a drug, -soothing and pleasant when he was in the mood for it, maddening when -he was not. - -It was as though a spring had been touched, releasing his -intelligence, which had always been kept apart from his work. For the -first time he felt, though never so little, detached from it, while at -the same moment the awful inward pressure of his emotional crisis was -relaxed. He was happier, and less wildly gay, and he began to realize -that he had astonishingly good food in front of him, good wine in -plenty, delicious fruits to come, and fragrant coffee brewing there on -the sideboard among bright-hued liqueur bottles. . . . There was no -need to listen to Logan. There was pleasure enough in eating and -drinking and watching Oliver, and thinking how good it would be to -dance with her, and perhaps with others--little women whom he would -hold in his arms and feel them yield to every movement that he made. -. . . - -He was left alone with Oliver after dinner, while Logan and Tysoe -retired to the study. - -"You've made him very happy," he said rather unsteadily. - -"Oh, yes!" said she. "It was like a Fate, wasn't it? I always had a -feeling that I wasn't like other girls. I always thought something out -of the way would happen to me, though I never thought of anything like -this." - -"You mustn't tell me about him," said Mendel. - -"I must tell someone or I shall die. He's so extraordinary. He says -it's something deeper than love, and I think it must be." - -"You must not talk about it," he said. - -"It makes all the stuff he talks about seem silly. I don't understand -it, do you?" - -She lay back in her chair and swung her foot, with her eyes fixed on -the door waiting for Logan to return. - -Mendel's dislike of her sprang up in him again, and he was a little -afraid of her: of her big, fleshy body, so full now of little -trickling streams of pleasure; of her eyes, watching, watching, with -the strange, glassy steadiness of the eyes of a bird of prey. . . . He -decided that he would not dance with her. He would dance with the -others--the little, harmless, pretty fools. - -To reassure himself he told himself that Logan was happy, and strong -enough to resist the growing will in this woman. - - - -VIII - -THE MERLIN'S CAVE - -LOGAN had cajoled twenty pounds out of Mr. Tysoe, who stood on his -doorstep, dangling his long hands, while his admired guests crept into -a taxi-cab. He swung from side to side:-- - -"I have had a most delightful evening--most charming, most inspiring." - -Inside the cab Logan waved the cheque triumphantly and Oliver tried to -snatch it from him. They had an excited scuffle, which ended in a -kiss. - -"What's the matter with the man?" asked Mendel. - -"He's just a fool," replied Logan, "a padded fool. His only virtue is -that he does really think me a wonderful fellow, and he is kind. But -how I hate such kindness, the last virtue, the last refuge of the -decrepit! It is a perfume, a herb with which they are embalmed." - -"I thought he was a very nice old gentleman," said Oliver. - -"He seemed to me," said Mendel, "the kind of man who thinks of nothing -but women all day long." - -"Hit it in once!" cried Logan. "A parrot will not do more for an -almond than he will for a commodious drab. He could take a nun and by -force of living with her and surrounding her with every luxury turn -her into a whore, because she would in time become only another -luxury. That is what men grow into if they lose the spirit of freedom. -. . . Where are we going to?" - -"I told the man to go to Sivwright's club. It is called The Merlin's -Cave." - -* * * * * - -The club proved to be a cellar filled with little tables. There was a -commissionaire at the door and a book had to be signed. The rack of -the cloakroom contained several silk-lined overcoats and opera-hats. - -"It's going to be damned expensive," said Logan. - -"I'll pay," replied Mendel. "It's my fault." - -Two tall young men in immaculate evening dress had entered just after -them. They gave out an air of wealth and cleanliness and made Logan -and Oliver look common and shabby. Mendel hated the two young men. -What had they done to look so well-fed and unruffled? Obviously they -had only to hold out their hands to have everything they wanted put -into them. . . . They looked slightly self-conscious and ashamed of -themselves, and wore a look of alarmed expectancy as they went -downstairs. - -Why did they come there if they were ashamed? and why did they expect -an Asmodean lewdness of an artists' club, they for whom the -flesh-markets of the music-hall promenades existed? - -"Real swells, aren't they?" said Oliver, overawed. - -The strains of a small orchestra came floating up the stairs. - -"Come on," said Mendel, "I want to dance." And he caught her by the -wrist and dragged her downstairs. - -A girl was standing on a table singing an idiotic song with a -syncopated chorus which a few people took up in a half-hearted -fashion. The sound of it was thin and depressing. - -"The same old game," said Logan. "Playing at being wicked. Why can't -they stick to their commercial beastliness? I should be ashamed to -bring any woman into this. I am ashamed." He half rose from his chair. - -"Oh! don't go," pleaded Oliver, who was entranced with her first sight -of what she called a gay life. It was to her like a stage spectacle. -"Oh! there's that Calthrop; I suppose all those odd women with him are -models." - -Calthrop was surrounded by admiring students, among them Morrison, -sitting prim and astonished and obviously amazed to find herself where -she was. Mendel began to tremble, and his heart beat violently, as he -stared at her--stared and stared. - -She had lied to him then! She had not had to go home! She could strike -him down and then come to amuse herself at such a place as this! - -Was she with Mitchell? No, Mitchell was not among the satellites. - -How strange she looked! a wild violet in a hot-house. He waited for -her to glance in his direction, but she seemed to be absorbed in the -singer and in the song, and every now and then she smiled, though -obviously not at the song--at something that amused her or pleased her -in her thoughts. She could smile then and be happy, and all his wild -emotions had made no invasion into her life. . . . No; she would not -look in his direction. Perhaps she had seen him come in and refused to -see him. - -Would the dancing never begin? The dancing took place on a slightly -raised floor. If he danced there she would have to see him. - -He found a warm hand placed on his leg, and turning he saw Jessie -Petrie, a model, with whom he had danced at the studios and at the -Detmold. - -"I thought I was never going to see you again," she said, "and -Mitchell said you had gone mad." - -"Do I look it?" he asked. - -"No. You look bonnier than ever. I'm on my own again now. Thompson has -gone to Paris. He says the only painters are there. I think he's going -mad, because he paints nothing but stripes and triangles. And he _was_ -such a dear. . . . I'm feeling awfully lonely because Tilly has gone -to Canada. Samuelson gave her the chuck and she went out to her cousin -in Canada, who had always been wanting to marry her. . . . Are you -still down in Whitechapel? I do hate going to see you there. Why don't -you move up to the West End? I could come and live with you then, for -I do hate being at a loose end." - -She was adorably pretty, dark, with eyes like damsons, lovely red -lips, touched up with carmine, and a soft white neck that trembled as -she spoke like the breast of a singing bird. - -"Oh! who do you think I saw the other day? Hetty Finch! She has a flat -and a motor-car, but I don't believe she is married." She looked -suddenly solemn as she added: "The baby's dead." Then she rattled on: -"Isn't she lucky? But she's an awful snob. Would hardly speak to me!" - -"She's a beast of a woman." - -"What do you think of this place? I suppose if the swells come it'll -be a success, but they do spoil it." - -"Yes," said Mendel. "They spoil everything. When do they begin to -dance?" - -"They've nearly finished the programme. They have to have a programme -to make people eat and drink." - -"Let's have some champagne." - -He called the waiter and ordered a bottle. - -"Been selling lately?" - -"No," he said; "but I want to dance. Do you hear? I want to dance." - -"Dancing," Logan threw in, "is the beginning of art. It is too -primitive for me, or I'm too old." - -A thin-faced long-haired poet mounted the table and read some verses, -which the popping of corks and the clatter of knives and forks -rendered inaudible. The poet went on interminably, and at last someone -began drumming on the table and shouting "Dance! Dance! Dance!" The -poet stuck to it. Bread was thrown at him and the shouting became -general. - -At last the orchestra struck up through the poet's reedy chanting, -couples made their way to the stage, and the dancing began. Morrison -still sat prim and preoccupied. Mendel put his arm round Jessie's -waist, his fingers sank into her young, supple body, and he lifted her -to her feet and rushed with her over to the stage. The whole place was -humming with life, beating to the chopped rhythm of the vacant -American tune. - -"I do love dancing with you," said Jessie, as he swung her into the -moving throng of brilliantly dressed women and black-coated men, so -locked together that they were like one creature, a strange, grotesque -quadruped. And Jessie so melted into him, so became a part of him, -that he too became another creature, an organism in the whirling -circle supported and spun round by the music. It was glorious to feel -his will relaxing, to feel the lithe, soft woman in his arms yield to -every impulse, every movement. He danced with a terrific -concentration, with a wiry collected force that made Jessie feel as -light as a feather. - -"Oo! That was lovely," she said when the music stopped. "You do dance -lovely." - -"It was pretty good," said Mendel. "But wait until they play a waltz." - -"I want to dance with you," cried Oliver. "You said I should dance -with you." - -And she had the next dance with him; but there was no lightness in -her, only a greedy fumbling after sensation. - -"This is awful!" thought Mendel, never for a moment losing himself, -and all the while conscious of Morrison sitting there unmoved: of -Morrison, whom he was trying to forget. Oliver seemed to envelop him, -to swallow him up. He was conscious of holding an enormous woman in -his arms and her contact was distasteful. The dance seemed endless. -Would the music never stop? . . . One, two, three. . . . One, two, -three. . . . It was like a dancing class with the fat Jewesses at -home. . . . And all the time he was conscious of Morrison's big blue -eyes staring at him. Would she never stop her damnable smiling? - -He returned Oliver to Logan shamefacedly, as though he were paying a -long-standing debt. - -Jessie returned from her other partner to him. - -"Oh! It isn't anything like the same," she said; "and that is such a -lovely tune to dance to." - -Now that the dancers were warmed up they refused to allow any -intervals. They had their partners and were unwilling to stop. The -orchestra was worked up into a kind of frenzy, and Mendel and Jessie -were whirled into an ecstasy. They abandoned the conventional steps -and improvised, gliding, whirling, swooping suddenly through the -dancers. Sometimes he picked her up and whirled her round, sometimes -his hands were locked on her waist and she bent backwards--back, back, -until he pulled her up and she fell upon his breast, happy, panting, -deliriously happy. - -* * * * * - -Morrison sat watching. She was trembling and felt very miserable. She -had been brought there by Clowes, who had been unable to resist the -flattery of Calthrop's invitation. All these people seemed to her to -be pretending to be happy, and she was oppressed with it all. She had -not seen Mendel until he mounted the stage, and then her heart ached. -She remembered the etched phrases of his letter to her. She had -written to him, but nothing she could express on paper conveyed her -feeling, her sense of being in the wrong, and her deep, instinctive -conviction of the injustice of that wrong. . . . He had placed her in -the wrong by talking of marriage so prematurely. As she looked round -the room she was oppressed by all the men: great, hulking creatures, -clumsy, cocksure, insensible, spinning their vain thoughts and vainer -emotions round the women as a spider spins its threads round a caught -fly. . . . She had often watched spiders dealing with the booty in -their webs, and Calthrop reminded her of a spider when he looked at -Clowes and laid his hand on her shoulder or fingered her arm. And -Clowes lay still like a caught fly and suffered it. . . . Morrison was -in revolt against it all. She was full of sweet life, and would not -have it so treated. Her prudery was not shocked, for she had no -prudery. The men might have their women so, if the women liked it, but -never, never would she be so treated. - -It was because she had been able to sweep aside the sticky threads of -vanity with Mendel that the ecstasy of the woods and the Heath had -been possible. - -As she watched him now, she knew that he was different from all the -others. He had brought an exaltation into the face of the common -little girl who was his partner. He was giving her life, not taking it -from her. - -Yet to see him made her unhappy. The music was vulgar, the people were -vulgar, and he had no true place among them. But how he enjoyed it -all! - -She shook with impatience at herself. It was hateful to be outside it, -looking on, looking on. A young student had pestered her to dance with -him. She turned to him and said:-- - -"I want to dance, please." - -Delighted, he sprang to his feet, gave her his arm, and whirled her -into the dance. - -* * * * * - -Slowing down to take breath, Mendel looked in her direction. She was -gone! A black despair seized him, a groan escaped him; he hugged -Jessie tight against his body and plunged madly into the dance. - -The musicians had been given champagne. The violinist began to -embroider upon the tune and the 'cellist followed with voluptuous -thrumming chords. - -Jessie gave little cries of happiness to feel the growing strength in -Mendel's arms, the waxing power of his smooth movements. She gave -little cries like the call of a quail, and he laughed gleefully every -time she cried. He could feel the force rising in him. It would surely -burst out of him and break into molten streams of laughter, leaving -him deliciously light, as light and absurd as dear little Jessie, who -was swinging on the music like a dewdrop on a gossamer. . . . If only -the music would last long enough! He would be as tremulous and light -as she, and while that lightness lasted he could love her and taste -life at its highest point--for her. . . . She was aware of his desire, -and swung to it. It was like a wind swaying her, thistledown as she -was; like a wind blowing her through the air on a summer's day. O that -it might never end, that the sky might never be overcast, that the -rain might never come and the night might never fall. . . . Terrible -things had happened to Jessie in the night, and she was happy in the -sun. - -Mendel was past all dizziness. The room had spun round until it could -spin no more, and then it had unwound itself, making him feel weak and -giddy. He was very nearly clear-headed, and every now and then he -caught a glimpse of Logan sketching and of Oliver, sitting with a -sulky pout on her lips and tears in her eyes because she wanted to -dance and knew she had made a failure of it. - -"Lovely! lovely! lovely!" sighed Jessie. - -"You are like the white kernel of a nut," said Mendel, "when the shell -is broken." - -"Do let me come and sit for you," she said. "I won't want anything -except my dinner." - -"Better keep to the dancing," he answered, as he spun her round to -stop her talking. - -She began to stroke his neck and to press her face against his breast. -At the same moment he saw Morrison among the dancers. He slowed down -and then stopped dead. The music rose to an exultant riot of sound. - -"Please, please!" cried Jessie, clinging to him; but he had forgotten -her. - -Morrison and her partner swept past him, and he watched them go the -full circle. She saw him standing, and as she approached broke away -from her partner. - -"Why aren't you dancing with me?" he said, shaking with eagerness to -hear her speak. - -"I'm no good at dancing," she said. "I don't enjoy it." - -"Who brought you here? Calthrop?" - -"He brought Clowes and me. . . . You mustn't stop dancing. Your -partner. . . ." - -"Please, please!" cried Jessie, stamping her foot; "the music is going -to stop." - -"Wait a moment," he said, turning to Morrison. "Are you going home?" - -"The day after to-morrow." - -"I must see you." - -Before she could reply her partner, who had lost his temper, seized -her and made her finish the dance, and when it was over he marched her -back to Calthrop's party, and he never left her side again. - -Mendel returned to Logan and Oliver, to find them impatient to go. The -end of an evening always found them in this impatient mood. - -"It all bears out what I say," said Logan. "All this night-club -business. People have to go mad in London before they can taste life -at all." - -"Do you mind if I come home and sleep on your sofa?" asked Mendel. "I -can't face my studio to-night." - -"Why don't you take Jessie home with you?" said Logan; "I'm sure she'd -like to." - -Mendel winced, and Jessie's lips began to tremble. She was still -suffering from the sudden end to her happiness. She looked at him, -almost hoping that he was going to make reparation to her. - -"You know I can't," he said; "I live in my brother's house and he is a -respectable married man." - -He knew he was in for a terrible night of reaction and desperate blind -emotion; at the same time he did not wish to hurt Jessie more than he -had done. - -"I'll take you home in a cab," he said. "But I won't stay, if you -don't mind. I'm done up. If you and Oliver walk half way, Logan, we -ought to be there about the same time." - -Jessie was appeased. A little kindness went a long way with her, and -she hated to be a nuisance to a man. - -When the cab stopped outside the door of her lodgings she flung her -arms round Mendel's neck and kissed him, saying:-- - -"You are a darling, and I would do anything in the world for you." - -"You shall come and sit for me," he replied. "Good-night!" - -"Good-night!" - -* * * * * - -Good-night! A night of tossing to and fro, of hearing terrifying -noises in the darkness, of hearing Logan and Oliver in the next room, -of shutting his ears to what he heard, of fancying he heard someone -calling him . . . her voice! Surely she had called him, and the ache -and the torment in his flesh was the measure of her need of him. . . . -Strange, blurred thoughts; gusts of defiance and revolt; glimpses of -pictures, subjects for pictures, colours and shapes. . . . His -mother's hands clutching a fish and bringing a knife down on to it. -There was a blue light on the knife. It would be very hard to get that -and to keep it subordinate to the blue in the fish's scales. . . . His -father and mother, eternally together, in an affection that never -found any expression, harsh and bitter, but strongly savoured, like -everything else in their lives. . . . Issy and Rosa, much the same as -Logan and Oliver, and to them also he had to shut his ears. . . . The -goggle-eyed man at the Pot-au-Feu. . . . London, London, the roaring -fiery furnace of London in which he was burning alive, while flames of -madness shot up above him. . . . Music. . . . There was a music in his -soul, a music and mystery that could rise with an easy power above all -the flames. . . . What did it matter that his body was burned, if his -soul could rise like that up to the stars and beyond the stars to the -point where art touched life and gave out its iridescent beneficent -light? . . . Life, flames, body, stars, all might perish and fade -away, but the soul had its knowledge of eternity and could not be -quenched. . . . Eternal art, divine art, the world of form, shaped in -the knowledge of eternity, wherein life and death are but a day and a -night. . . . Sickening doubt of himself, sinking down, down into -eternity to be a part of it, never to know it, never to see the light -of art, lost to eternity in eternity. . . . He sat up in the middle of -the night and imagined himself back in the one room in Gun Street, -looking at the recumbent bodies of his family, lost in sleep, huddled -together in degradation. . . . It would have been better to have gone -home with Jessie. She would have given him rest and sleep. . . . No, -no, no! . . . She was going away the day after to-morrow. He must see -her before she went, with her big blue eyes and short chestnut hair. -She had stopped in the middle of the dance. She had broken away from -her partner, and on Hampstead Heath she had said "I love you." - - - -IX - -"GOOD-BYE" - -LOGAN came in early in the morning to make tea. He shut the door -carefully and came and sat on Mendel's sofa. - -"She says you hate her," he said. - -"I?" answered Mendel. "No. I. . . . What can make her say that? -Because I didn't dance with her? I had Jessie. You ought to have -danced with her." - -"I'm glad she didn't dance. It might make her break out. Women are -very queer things. You never know where they will break out. . . . You -make love to them, touch a spring in them, and God knows where it may -lead you. . . . You're not in love with that mop-haired girl, are -you?" - -"What if I am?" - -"She's just a doll-faced miss. You're taken with the type because -you're unused to it. For God's sake don't take it seriously. You're -much too good to waste yourself on women. She'll drive you mad with -purity and chivalrous devotion and all the other schoolgirl twaddle. -Leave all that to the schoolboy English. It's all they're good for. -They've bred it on purpose to be the mother of more schoolboys. It is -the basis of the British Empire. But what is the British Empire to you -or any artist? Nothing." - -"I don't want to talk about it," said Mendel. - -"She won't marry you," said Logan. "She won't live with you. She'll -give you nothing. She'll madden you with her conceited stupidity and -wreck your work. . . . What you want is what every decent man -wants--to take a woman and keep her in her place, so that she can't -interfere with him. That's what I've done, and it's made a man of me, -but I'm not going to let her know it. She'd be crowing like an old hen -that has laid an egg. . . . No farmyard life for me, thanks." - -Oliver bawled for her tea and Logan hastened to make it, and -disappeared into the bedroom. - -Mendel got up and dressed, feeling eager for the day. The sun shone in -through the window and filled the room with a dusty glow, making even -the shabby bareness of the place seem charming. - -"It is a good day," he said to himself. "I shall work to-day." And he -was annoyed at not having his canvas at hand. - -On an easel stood the picture which Logan had described to Tysoe, a -London street scene with a group of people gazing into a shop window. -It was a clever piece of work, very adroit in the handling of the -paint and pleasing in colour, but Mendel had an odd uncomfortable -feeling of having seen it before, and yet he knew that the technique -was novel. Yet it was precisely the technique that seemed familiar. -Certain liberties had been taken with the perspective which, though -they were new to him, did not surprise him. - -Logan came in dressed and said that Oliver would not be a minute. She -appeared in a dressing-gown. - -"Well?" she said; "none the worse for last night?" - -"No, thanks," said Mendel. "Why should I be? I enjoyed it." - -"Did Logan tell you we were going to Paris?" - -"No. He said nothing about it." - -"I'm dying to go to Paris. He says they understand the kind of thing -we had last night in Paris." - -"You're not going for good, are you?" asked Mendel. - -"No. Just a trip. I want you to come too. We'll see some pictures and -have a good time. I can't speak a word of French, but they say English -is good enough anywhere." - -"Yes, I'd like to go," said Mendel. "I want a change, before I settle -down to working for the exhibition. Is that picture going to be in -it?" - -"Yes. Do you like it?" - -"I like it. It seems to me new. Stronger than most things. All these -people going in for thin, flat colour and greens and mauves make me -long for something solid." - -"I'm going to show that and a portrait of Oliver." - -"I want my breakfast," said she. - -"Oh! shut up. We're talking. . . . I've just begun the portrait. No -psychological nonsense about it. It's just the head of a woman in -paint. I don't want any damn fool writing about my picture: she is -wiser than the chair on which she sits and the secrets of the -antimacassar are hers. A picture's a picture and a book's a book." - -"I do want my breakfast," sang Oliver. - -Logan went livid with fury. - -"Be silent, woman," he said. - -"I shan't, so there. I want my breakfast." - -"Why the hell don't you get the breakfast then?" - -"Because you said you would." - -Logan began to prepare the breakfast--rashers of bacon and eggs. - -"You don't mind eating pork?" he asked Mendel. - -"No. I like it, but I never get it at home." - -"Fancy Jews being still as strict as that!" said Oliver. "Just like -they were in Shakespeare's time." - -"Just as they were in the time of Moses and Aaron," said Mendel. "They -don't alter except that they haven't got a country to fight for." - -"Thank God!" said Logan, "or there'd be a bloody mess every other -week. Fancy a Jewish Empire, with you sent out, like David, to hit the -Czar of Russia or Chaliapine in the eye with a stone from a sling. -Think of your sister-in-law luring the Kaiser into a tent and knocking -a nail through his head. I wish she could, upon my soul I do!" - -"I think we should only be led into captivity again," said Mendel. -"Our fighting days are over, and someone told me the other day that -many of the most advanced artists in Paris are Jews." - -"If they were all like you," said Logan, "I shouldn't mind. But I'm -afraid they're not. The Jews have got all the money and they keep the -other people fighting for it, and charge them a hell of a lot for guns -and uniforms to do it with. Oh! there are Christians in it too, but -they have to be nice to the Jews to be allowed to share the spoils. I -don't wonder the Jews left the Promised Land when they found the world -was inhabited by fools who would let them plunder it." - -"There's not much plunder in my family," said Mendel. - -* * * * * - -After breakfast he declared that he must go, and Logan announced that -he would walk with him to enjoy the lovely sunny day. Oliver wanted to -come too, but he told her to stay where she was, and he left her in -tears. - -"She's got a bad habit of crying," he said, "and she must be broken of -it. She cries if I don't speak to her for an hour. She cries if I go -out without telling her where I am going. She cries if I curse and -swear over my work, and if I am pleased with it she cries because I am -never so happy with her. . . . I feel like hitting her sometimes, but -it isn't her fault. She hasn't settled down to it yet. She says I -don't love her when she knows she never expected to be loved so much. -And she can't get used to it." - -"Why don't you paint her crying?" asked Mendel maliciously. - -"By Jove! I will," cried Logan. "Damned interesting drawing, with her -eyes all puckered up. . . . But it's a shame on a day like this to be -out of temper with anything. Lord! How women do spoil the universe, to -be sure! Do they give us anything to justify the mess they make of it? -. . . Women and shopkeepers. I don't see why one should have any mercy -on either of them. I have no compunction in stealing anything I want. -Shopkeepers steal from the public all the little halfpennies and -farthings of extra profit they exact." - -He led Mendel into a picture shop and asked for a reproduction of a -picture by Van Tromp, and when the girl retired upstairs to ask about -that non-existent artist, he turned over the albums and helped himself -to half a dozen reproductions, rolled them up, and put them in his -pocket. When the girl came down and said they were out of Van Tromps, -he said:-- - -"I'm sorry. Very sorry to trouble you." - -When they were out of the shop he chuckled, and was as elated over his -success as Mr. Kuit had been over his exploits. - -"Oh! I should be an artist in anything I did," he said. "I don't -wonder thieves can't go straight once they get on the lay. If I -weren't a painter I should be a criminal." - -He walked with Mendel as far as Gray's Inn, and there left him, saying -he had another picture-buying flat to go and see, and after that he -must pay a visit to Uncle Cluny and keep him up to the mark. He was in -fine fettle, and went off singing at the top of his voice. - -Mendel bought some flowers on the way home because he wished always to -have flowers, even if she were to send no more. - -He was sure of himself to-day. He was in love and glad to be in love. -Surely it could have no worse suffering than that through which he had -passed, and if it did, well, so much the worse for him. . . . He was -glad it had happened. His father would not be able to sneer at him any -more, as he was always sneering at Issy and Harry--Harry, who had -deserted his father and mother for the sweetbreads of Paris. (Jacob -always called sweetmeats sweetbreads.) He had a bitter, biting tongue, -had Jacob, and the habit of using it was growing on him. Mendel knew -that he had deserved many of his sneers, but now they could touch him -no longer. His life, like his art, now contained a passion as strong -as any Jacob had known in his life, and stronger, because it was -wedded to beauty, to which Jacob was a stranger. - -He was able to work again at his picture of his father and mother. He -could make something of it now, he knew, because he could understand -his father and appreciate the strength in him which had kept his -passion alive through poverty and a life of constant storms and -upheavals. He remembered his father knocking down the schoolmaster, -and the soldier in the inn with the heavy glass. Oh yes! Jacob was a -strong man, and he had nearly died of love for Golda, the beautiful. - -He worked away with an extraordinary zest, and he knew that it was -good. As he grew tired during the afternoon he was overcome with a -great longing for her to see it, just to see it and to say she liked -it. It would not matter much if she did not understand it, so long as -she saw it and liked it. - -He turned to the roughly sketched portrait of her to ask her if she -liked it, and as he did so the door opened and she came in. Her arms -were full of flowers, so that her face was resting in them, her dear -face, the sweetest of all flowers. - -"You said . . . you must see me, so I brought you these to say -good-bye." - -"Do come in and see my picture. It is nearly finished." - -"Oh! It is good," she said shyly. - -"I thought you'd like it. I wanted you to like it. Do stay a little -and talk." - -She sat down and looked about the studio, puckering up her eyebrows -nervously and making her eyes very round and large. - -"You never told me how old you are," he said nervously. - -"I'm nineteen." - -"I'm twenty. Just twenty. How long are you going away for?" - -"I don't know. Until the winter, I expect." - -"What will you do there in the country? It is important that you -should tell me, because I must know how to think of you. What shall -you do? Is it a big house? Are you--are you rich?" - -"No. It is not a very big house. My mother is fairly well off, but I -have four brothers, and they all have to go to Oxford and Cambridge. -. . . There's a good garden, and I shall spend a lot of time in that, -digging and looking after the flowers. And I shall try and do some -work. There's a big barn I can have for a studio." - -"A big barn. Yes. Are your brothers nice men?" - -"Two of them." - -"And there's a river and a common. May I write to you?" - -She was silent for a long time, and then she said:-- - -"No. Please don't." - -His happiness vanished. It was as though a hole had opened in the -floor and swallowed it up. - -"Why not?" he asked. "Why not?" - -She shrank into herself for a moment, but shook off her cowardice and -answered:-- - -"I don't want to hurt you." - -"You said you loved me. You can do what you like with me!" - -"You're so different," she said. "Too different." - -"From what? From whom? Go on, go on!" - -She loved his violence and gained courage from it. - -"You mustn't think it mean of me. I don't care a bit what people say, -but I don't want to hurt you--in your work, I mean. It isn't all that -I think and mean, but it is a part of it, a little part of it. People -are furious at our being seen together. It began at the picnic. We -were seen walking over the Heath. Clowes told me. She can't bear it. -She's a good friend. . . . It hurt me when she told me, and I knew -that I must tell you. It isn't only old women. It is all the important -people, who can hurt your work." - -"Nobody can hurt my work." - -"But they can. They are saying your work is bad, all the people who -said it was so good only last year, all the people who believed in -you. And it's all through me. It's my fault." - -She began to weep silently. He was unmoved by the sight of it, so -appalled was he by the sudden devastation of his life. Suffering -within himself he knew, but hostility from without he had not had to -face. . . . Many little slights were explained--men who had given him -an indifferent nod, men who had apparently not seen him in the street. -In the surprise of it he was blind even to her. It was like a -sandstorm covering him up, filling with grit every little chink and -crevice of his being. He snorted with fury and contempt. - -He shook himself free of the oppression of it. This was nothing to do -with her; it was not what he wanted from her--the gossip and -tittle-tattle, the sweepings of the studios. The models sickened him -of that. . . . So it was his turn now. Well, other men had survived -it. - -"That isn't why you want to say good-bye." - -"No. I'm not pleading to you to let me off, or anything like that. I -believe in you more than in anybody else, more than I do in myself. -. . . I don't believe in myself much." - -It had all seemed clear to her before she had come. He would -understand how wrong and twisted the whole thing had become. They -would suffer together and they would see how useless such suffering -was in a world of beauty and charm and youth, and they would part -because they had to part. He would understand, even if she could not -rightly understand, for he was strong and simple and direct, and free -of the soft vanity of youth. - -But he did not understand. He was angry and domineering. - -"Why do you say all this?" he said heavily, floundering for words. -"What does it mean? Nothing at all. You belong to me. You gave up -Mitchell because I said you must. Have you given up Mitchell?" - -"Yes." - -"Very well then. Nothing else matters. If I want a thing I will break -through a Chinese wall to get it. Nothing can stop me, because when I -want a thing it is mine already. I want it because it is mine -already." - -He was making it impossible for her--impossible to go, impossible to -stay, impossible to say anything. - -Outside in the street the heavy drays went clattering by on the stone -setts. When they had passed there came up the shrill cries of children -playing in the street, the drone of a Rabbi taking a class of boys in -Hebrew. On the hot air came the smell of the street--a smell of women -and babies and leather and kosher meat. - -"I know the way of women," he said. "My mother has been my friend -always. But I do not know your ways. I only know that I love you. You -are mine as that picture is mine, and you cannot take yourself from -me." - -"I don't want to take myself from you," she said, half angry, half in -tears. "I want to make you understand me." - -"What is there to understand? Do I understand my pictures?" he cried. -"Do you want no mystery? How can there be life without mystery? I -don't expect you to understand. I only want you to be honest and true -to me. . . . I conceal nothing. I am a Jew. I live in this horrible -place. My life is as horrible as this place. You know all that, all -there is to know, and you love me. You cannot alter me. You cannot -change my nature. . . ." - -"Don't say any more," she said. "It only becomes worse with talking." - -"What becomes worse?" - -She could not answer him. She could not say what she felt. The woods, -the Heath, and--this; the rattle and smell of the street, the -dinginess of the studio, the dinginess of his soul--the dinginess and -yet the fire of it. On the Heath he had been like a faun, prick-eared -and shaggy, but wild and free as her spirit was wild and free. Here he -was rough, coarse, harsh, and tyrannical. She could feel him battering -at her with his mind, searching her out, probing into her, and she -resented it with all the passion of her modesty. She gathered up all -her forces to resist him. - -"You are terrible! Terrible!" she cried. "Don't you see that it must -be good-bye?" - -"I say it must not," he shouted. "I say it is nonsense to talk of -good-bye, when we have just met, when the kiss is yet warm on our -lips. For a kiss is a holy thing, and I do not kiss unless it is holy. -I say it is not good-bye." - -"I say it is and must be," she said. "You are terrible. You hurt me -beyond endurance." - -"And why should you not be hurt? Am I to have all the pain? I want to -share even that with you." - -"It is impossible," she said dully, unable to share, or deal with, or -appreciate the violence of his passion, and falling back on the -mulishness which had been developed in her through her tussles with -her brothers. Through her mind shot the horrible thought:-- - -"We are quarrelling--already quarrelling." - -To her he seemed to be dragging her down, defiling her. His eyes were -glaring at her with a passion that she took for sensuality, because it -came out of the dinginess of his soul. And he was stiffening into an -iron column of egoism, on which she knew she could make no impression. -She knew, too, that her presence was aggravating the stiffening -process. . . . She felt caught, trapped, and she wanted to get away. -Love must be free--free as the wind on the heath, as the blossom of -the wild cherry. Love must have its blossoming time, and he was -demanding the full heat of the summer. . . . She must get away. - -"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand. - -He took her hand and pulled her to him. - -"No! No! No!" she cried. "No! Good-bye! Good-bye!" - -She turned away and was gone. - -Unable to contain his agony, he flung himself on his bed and sobbed -out his grief. - -"She is mine!" he moaned. "She is mine, and she cannot take herself -from me." - -And when his tears were shed he began to think of the other women who -had come to him without love, so easily, so gratefully, some of them, -and this little girl who loved him could tear herself away--at a -fearful cost. He knew that. But if she could tear herself away, if she -could say good-bye, what could she know of love? - - - -X - -PARIS - -MENDEL was able to finish his portrait of Jacob and Golda, but only at -the cost of painful and bitter labour. He was torn two ways: longing -to finish it, yet dreading the end of it, for he could not see beyond -it. Every picture he had painted had brought with it the certain -knowledge that it would lead to a better, that he was advancing -further on the road to art. But there was a finality about this -picture. It was an end in itself. It was not like most of his work, -one of a possible dozen or more. A certain stream of his feeling ended -in it and then disappeared, leaving him without guide or direction. - -Therefore, when the picture was ended he found himself besottedly and -uncontrollably in love and in a maddeningly sensitive condition, so -that any sudden glimpse of beauty--the stars in the night sky, a -girl's face in the train, flowers in a window-box--could set him -reeling. More than once he found himself clinging to the wall or a -railing, emerging with happy laughter from a momentary lack of -consciousness. In the street near his home he found a lovely little -girl, of the same type as Sara, but more beautiful. Graceful and -lively she was, fully aware of her vitality and charm, and she used to -smile at him when he went to meet her as she came out of school, or -stood and watched her playing in the street. - -At last he asked her shyly if she would come to his studio that he -might draw her. She consented and came often. She would chatter away, -and, studying her, he was astonished at her womanishness, and he was -overwhelmed when she said one day:-- - -"You don't want to draw me. You only want to look at me." - -He was thrust back into the thoughts he had been avoiding. If this -child knew already so frankly why he was attracted to her, why could -not that other? Why did she seem to insist that he should regard her -with the emotions with which he approached a work of art? A work of -art could yield up its secret to the emotions, but she could only -deliver hers to love dwelling not in any abstract region, but here on -earth, in the life of the body. . . . He often thought of her with -active dislike, because she seemed to him to be lacking in frankness. -If she were going to cause so much suffering, as she must have known -she would with her good-bye, then she must have her reasons for it. -What did she mean with her neither yes nor no? With women there should -be either yes or no. A refusal is unpleasant, but it could be -swallowed down with other ills; and there were others. But this girl, -this short-haired Christian, blocked his way, and there were no others -except as there were cabs on the street and meals on the table. - -For a time he avoided Logan and Oliver. He knew that Logan would -despise him for his weakness in setting his heart on a girl who ran -away from him, for he knew and admired the tremendous force with which -his friend had hurled himself into his life with the girl of the -station, constantly wooing and winning her afresh and urging her to -share his own recklessness. He admired, too, Logan's insistence on an -absolute separation of his art and his life with Oliver, who was never -for one moment admitted to his mind. Rather to his dismay, but at the -same time with a wild rush of almost lyrical impulse, Mendel, finding -himself with no other emotion than that of being in love, set himself -to paint love. He worked with an amazing ease, painting one picture -one day and covering it with another the next, feeling elatedly -convinced that everything he did was beautiful, yet knowing within -himself that he was in a bad way. - -He avoided Logan, but Logan needed him, and came to tell him so. - -"It is all very well for you to shut yourself up," he said, "but I -can't live without you. You know what Oliver is to me, but it is not -enough. The more satisfying she is on one plane, the more I need on -the other the satisfaction that she cannot give me. Women can't do it. -They simply can't, and it is no good trying. If you try, it means -making a mess of both love and art. She is jealous? Very well. Let her -be jealous. She enjoys it, and it helps her to understand a man's -passion." - -"I can't stand it when you talk in that cold-blooded way about women." - -"I'm not cold-blooded," said Logan, astonished at the adjective. - -"I sometimes think you are, but I am apt to think that of all English -people," replied Mendel, wondering within himself if that did not -explain Morrison. "Yes. I often wonder what you would be like if you -were in an office, wearing a bowler hat, and going to and fro by the -morning and evening train." - -"Why think about the impossible?" laughed Logan. "Anyhow, I'm not -going to let you shut yourself up. I want to go to Paris, and I can't -face three weeks alone with Oliver. Twenty-one days, sixty-three -meals. No. It can't be done." - -"Yes, I'll go to Paris," thought Mendel. "I will go to Paris and I -will forget." - -"You must come," urged Logan. "Madame at the Pot-au-Feu has given me -the name of a hotel kept by her sister-in-law. Very cheap. Bed and -breakfast, and, of course, you feed in restaurants. . . . You want -digging out of your hole. I don't know why, but you seem to have -insisted more on being Jewish lately. It is much more important for -you to be an artist and a man. I regard you as a sacred trust. I do -really. You are the only man in England for whom I have any respect, -and I need you to keep me decent." He added: "I need you to keep me -alive, for, without you, Oliver would gobble me up in a month." - -He seemed to be joking, but Mendel could not help feeling that he was -at heart serious, and he had the unpleasant sinking of disgust which -sometimes seized him when he thought of Logan and Oliver together. He -could not account for it, and the sensation gave him a sickly pleasure -which made him weaker with Logan than with anybody else. Besides, -Logan often bewildered him, and he could not tolerate his inability to -grasp ideas except through a mad rush of feeling, and he hated the -fact that while Logan's mind seemed to move steadily on, his own -crumbled to pieces just at the moment when it was on the point of -absorbing an idea. - -For these reasons he consented to go to Paris. The three weeks should -consolidate or destroy a friendship which had remained for him -distressingly inchoate. Deep in his heart he hoped that it would -become definite enough and strong enough to drive out his -indeterminate love. To be in love without enjoying love was in his -eyes a fatuous condition, undignified, vague, a kind of cuckoldry. - -* * * * * - -Oliver was aflame with excitement over the trip to Paris. She spoke of -it with an almost religious exaltation. As usual, her emotion was -entirely uncontrolled, became a physical tremulation, and she reminded -Mendel of a wobbling blanc-mange. - -The plan was to have a fortnight in Paris and a week at Boulogne, for -bathing and gambling at the Casino. - -No sooner had he left London than Mendel felt his cares and anxieties -fall away from him, and he began to wish he had brought Jessie Petrie. -He proposed to wire for her from Folkestone, but Logan pointed out -that Oliver could not stand women and was jealous of them. - -"She'd say Jessie was making eyes at me," he said. "And if she made -eyes at you she'd be almost as bad." - -In that Mendel could sympathize with Oliver. He was himself often -suddenly, unreasonably, and violently jealous of other men over women -for whom he did not care a fig. - -He set himself to be nice to Oliver, and she in her holiday mood -responded, so that on the boat and in the Paris train Logan was sunk -in a gloomy silence, and in the hotel at night, in the next room, -Mendel could hear him storming at her, refusing to have anything to do -with her, threatening to go home next day unless she promised to keep -her claws, as he said, off Kühler. She promised, and they embarked -further upon their perilous voyage in search of an unattainable land -of satiety. - -* * * * * - -Their hotel was near the Montparnasse station, and they discovered a -café in the Boulevard Raspail which was frequented by artists and -models, one or two of whom Mendel recognized as former habitués of the -Paris Café. They were soon drawn into the artist world, and except -that he went to the Louvre instead of to the National Gallery for -peace and refreshment, Mendel often thought he might just as well be -in London. There was the same feverish talk, the same abuse of -successful artists, the same depreciation of old masters, but there -was more body to the talk, and sometimes a Frenchman, finding speech -useless with this shy, good-looking Jew, would make himself clear with -what English he could muster and a rapid, skilful drawing. For the -most part, however, he had to rely on Logan's paraphrase, until one -day in the Boulevard St. Germain he ran into that Thompson, lamented -by Jessie Petrie, the painter of stripes and triangles. - -Thompson was a little senior to Mendel at the Detmold, had hardly -spoken to him in the old days, but was now delighted to meet a -familiar London face. - -"I _am_ glad!" he said. "Come and see my place. How are they all in -London--poor old Calthrop and poor old Froitzheim? I should have -killed myself if I'd stayed in London; nothing but talk and women, -with work left to find its way in where it can. Here work comes first. -I suppose they haven't even heard of Van Gogh in London?" - -Mendel had to confess that he had never heard of Van Gogh. - -"A Dutchman," explained Thompson, "and he cut off his ear and sent it -to Gauguin. Ever heard of Gauguin?" - -"No. But a man doesn't make himself a great artist by cutting off his -ear." - -"Van Gogh was a great artist before that. He killed himself: shot -himself in his bed, and the doctor found him in bed smoking a pipe. He -was quite happy, for he had done all he could." - -That sounded more like it to Mendel, more like the deed of a warrior -of the spirit. - -"I'll show you," said Thompson, and they went round the galleries. - -Mendel's head was nearly bursting when he came out. The riotous -colour, the apparent neglect of drawing and abuse of form, the entire -absence of tone and atmosphere, shocked him. He resented the wrench -given to all his training, and he took Thompson to the Louvre to go -back to Cranach and the early Italians. Thompson would not hear of -them, and insisted on his spending over an hour with Poussin. - -"I can see nothing in them. Good painting, good drawing, but dull, so -dull! The flat, papery figures mean nothing." - -"They mean everything to the picture," said Thompson, "and you have no -right to go outside the picture. Poussin kept to his picture, and so -must you if you are to understand him." - -"I can see all that," said Mendel, "but he is dull. I can't help it, -he bores me." - -"It is pure art." - -"Then I like it impure." - -"You don't really. But you are all like that when you first come from -London. You think that because a thing is different it must be wrong. -Have you come over alone?" - -"No. I'm with a man called Logan and his girl. He is a great painter, -or he will be one. Anyhow, he is alive and has ideas." - -"Does he know about Van Gogh?" - -"No; but he says the next great painter must come from England." - -"Pooh! Whistler!" said Thompson in a tone of vast superiority. "Nous -sommes bien loin de ça." - -"Please don't talk French," said Mendel. "I don't understand a word." - -"Whistler had good ideas," continued Thompson. "It is a pity he was -not a better artist." - -Mendel was beginning to feel bored. He did not understand this new -painting for painting's sake, and did not want to understand it. To -change the subject he said:-- - -"I nearly brought Jessie Petrie with me." - -"I wish you had. She is a dear little girl, and I nearly sent for her -the other day, but I've no use for the model now. It is perfectly -futile trying to cram a living figure into a modern picture." - -"I don't see why, if you can paint it." - -"Really," said Thompson, "I don't see what you have come to Paris for, -if you haven't come to learn something about painting. One wouldn't -expect you to understand Picasso straight off, but anyone who has -handled paint ought to be able to grasp Van Gogh." - -"He is trying for the impossible," grunted Mendel. "The important -thing in art is art. I've come to Paris to have a good time." - -"Oh! very well," said Thompson. "Why didn't you say so before? I'll -show you round." - -* * * * * - -Mendel took Thompson round to his hotel and up to Logan's room, where, -entering without knocking, they found Logan kneeling on the floor with -Oliver in a swoon in his arms. He had opened her blouse at the neck -and unlaced her corsage. - -Mendel thought Oliver looked as though she was going to die, and his -first idea was to run for the doctor. - -"She'll come round," said Logan. "It's my fault. I was brutal to her. -. . ." He nodded to Thompson. "How do you do?" and he covered up -Oliver's large bosom. - -She came to in a few moments, opened her eyes slowly, rolled them -round, and came back to Logan, on whom she fixed a gaze of devouring -love. She put up her arms and drew his head down and kissed his lips. - -Mendel drew Thompson out into the corridor. - -"She was shamming," he said. - -"I don't think so," replied Thompson. "What has happened? Does he -knock her about?" - -"Not that I know of. They've not been together very long. They can't -settle down." - -"She's a fine woman," said Thompson. - -* * * * * - -They were called in again and found Oliver sitting up on the bed -eating chocolates. She greeted Thompson with a queenly gesture, and -clapped her hands when Mendel told her they were going out to see the -sights. - -"I'm sick of artists," she said. "I have quite enough of them in -London. I wish to God you weren't an artist, Logan. You'd be quite a -nice man if you worked for your living." - -"Don't talk rubbish," mumbled Logan, who was subdued and curiously -ashamed of himself. "If I were like that I should have a little -dried-up wife and an enormous family, and you wouldn't have a look -in." - -"And a good job too!" cried Oliver, in her most provoking tone. "A -good job too! I'd find someone who had a respect for me." - -"D'you find Paris a good place to work in?" Logan turned to Thompson. - -"I never knew the meaning of work till I came here. Ever heard of -Rousseau?" - -"Oh, yes," said Logan. - -"I don't mean the writer, I mean . . ." - -"I know, I know," said Logan nonchalantly. He could never admit -ignorance of anything. - -"A great painter," cried Thompson eagerly. "A very great painter. I -tell you he brought Impressionism up sharp. They had overshot the -mark, you know. Manet, Monet: they had overshot the mark." - -Oliver began to scream at the top of her voice. - -"Shut up!" said Logan. "You'll have us turned out." - -"I don't care," she replied. "I don't care. I can't stand all this -talk about painting." - -"What do you want us to talk about?" said Mendel, tingling with -exasperation. "Love? Three men and one woman can't talk about love." - -"Well, I didn't come to Paris to sit in a dirty bedroom talking about -pictures. I want to go out to see the streets and the shops and the -funny people." - -"For God's sake take us somewhere," said Logan. - -* * * * * - -Thompson, having ascertained that they had plenty of money, took them -to Enghien by the river. Oliver was happy at once. She wanted to be -amused and to be looked at, and as she was bouncing and rowdy she had -her desire. - -She made Logan play for her at the little horses, but, as she did not -win, she was soon bored with it. Logan was bitten and could not tear -himself away. Mendel stayed with him and she disappeared with -Thompson. - -"I'm bound to win if I go on," said Logan. "There's a law of chances, -you know, and I've always been lucky at these things. . . . It is so -exciting, too." - -He changed note after note into five-franc pieces, lost them all, and -at last began to win a little; won, lost, won. - -Mendel dragged him away from the table, protesting:-- - -"Come along. I have had enough. Do come along. We haven't had a chance -to talk for days, and I hate these rooms with all the flashy, noisy -people. . . . We can come back here and find the others. Let us go and -find some fun that we can share, for this is deadly dull for me. -Besides, we don't want to be stranded without money." - -"But I'm winning. My luck is in." - -He rushed back to the tables and lost--twice, upon which he allowed -himself to be persuaded, and they went out into the air and sat on a -terrace by the lake. Mendel produced cigarettes and they smoked in -silence for some time. Logan looked pale and worn and was obviously -smouldering with excitement. - -"How amazingly different everything looks here," he said. "In London I -always feel as though I had a thumb pressing into my brain. Everybody -seems indifferent and hostile and everything I do is incongruous. I -feel almost happy here. I should like to stay here. I told her so and -she began to cry. I knocked her down. I couldn't stand her crying any -more. I knocked her down and she fainted." - -"She was shamming," thought Mendel, seeing vividly the scene in the -bedroom. "He did not hurt her. She was shamming." - -"I feel a brute," said Logan, "and yet I'm glad. I'm tremendously -glad. I want to sing. I want to get drunk. I'm tremendously glad. It -has settled something. I'm her master. She was getting on my nerves. -She won't do that any more. Ha! Ha!" - -"Why don't you get rid of her?" asked Mendel. "Leave her here. Come -back with me to-morrow." - -"Don't be a silly child," said Logan patronizingly. "I love her. I -couldn't live without her now, not for a single day. I could no more -do without her than I could do without the clothes on my back. I tell -you she's an inspiration. If she left me I should lay down my brush -for ever. She's a religion--all the religion I've got." - -"I can't imagine stopping my work for any woman," said Mendel. - -"Ah! that's because you don't know what a woman can mean. You can't -know while you are young." - -Mendel's nerves had been throbbing in sympathy with his friend, but -suddenly all that place was filled with a soft, clear light and a -bright music, the colour and the scent of flowers, the soft murmur of -flowing water, the whisper of the wind in leafy trees, and his heart -ached and grew big and seemed to burst into a thousand, thousand -rivulets of love, searching out every corner of his senses, cleansing -his eyes, sharpening his hearing, refining every sense, so that the -scene before him--the white tables, the white-aproned waiters, the -green trees, the soft evening sky, the softer reflection of it in the -water--was exquisite and magical and full of a mysterious power that -permeated even Logan's brutal revelation and made it worthy of beauty. -. . . And this mysterious power he knew was love, and she, the girl -for whom it had arisen from the depths, was far away in England, -thinking of him, perhaps, regretting him, perhaps, but knowing nothing -of the beauty she had denied. . . . - -Mendel was astonished to find tears in his eyes, trembling on his -lashes, trickling down his cheeks. - -"What a baby you are!" said Logan. "You can't have me all to -yourself." - -His divination was true. Lacking its true object, Mendel's love had -concentrated upon his friend, with whom he longed to walk freely in -the enchanted world of art, to be as David and Jonathan. Indeed, -Logan's state of torment was to him as a wound got in battle, over -which he gave himself up to lamentation, so single and deep and pure -that it obscured even the impulse of his love. He longed to rid his -friend of this devouring passion that was consuming him and thrusting -in upon his energy, but because his friend called it love, he -respected it and bore with it. - -"How good it is, this life out of doors!" exclaimed Logan, lolling -back in his chair. - -"I don't know," replied Mendel. "I think it is too deliberate, too -organized. I prefer London streets. There is nothing in the world to -me to compare with London streets. Nature is too beautiful. A tree in -blossom, a garden full of flowers, a round hill with the shadow of the -clouds over them, move me too much. Left alone with them I should go -mad. I must have human nature if I am to live and work. I only want -nature, just as I only want God, through human nature." - -"By Jove! you hit the nail on the head sometimes, my boy. That is true -for all of us. It is what I meant when I said that Oliver was a -religion to me." - -"I don't mean women or individuals," protested Mendel. "I mean human -nature in the lump. It may be very poor stuff, stupid and foolish and -vulgar, but it is all we've got, and one lives in it and through it." - -"That is all very well while you are young," said Logan, "but you have -to individualize it when you are older. One person becomes a point of -contact. You can't just float through humanity like an apparition." - -Mendel had lost the thread of his argument, though not his confidence -in its truth. - -"That is not what I meant," he said, "and I don't see how a person -could be just a point of contact." - -"All I know is that Oliver is such a point of contact to me, and I -know that unless art is inspired with some such feeling as you have -described, all the technical skill and all the deft trickery in the -world won't make it more than a sop for fools or an interesting -survival of mediĉvalism. That is why I think you are going to be so -valuable. You have so little to unlearn. You have only to shake off -the most antiquated religion in the world and you can look at life and -human nature without prejudice, while I have constantly to be -uprooting all sorts of prejudices in favour of certain ways of living, -morally and socially." - -Mendel was beginning to feel comfortable and easy, for while his mind -worked furiously he could rarely express what he thought, and Logan in -his talk often came near enough to it to afford him some relief and to -urge him on to renewed digging in the recesses of his mind. It was a -vast comfort to him to find that there were other vital thoughts -besides that of Morrison, and that for ecstasy he was not entirely -dependent upon her. Warmed up by his confidence in Logan, he resolved -to tell him about the girl and the vast change she had wrought in his -life. - -"I used to think," he said, "that if I stayed among my own people I -could work my way through the poverty and the dirt and the Jewishness -of it all to art. When she came I knew that it was impossible. She had -something that I needed, something that the Jews do not know, or never -have known. It is not my poverty that denies it to me, for if the poor -Jews do not know a good thing, the rich Jews certainly do not, for the -rich Jews are rubbish who stroke the Christians with one hand and rob -them with the other. It is something that she knows almost without -knowing it herself." - -Logan smiled. - -"I am not a fool about her," cried Mendel. "She is not particularly -beautiful to me. There is only one line in her face that I think -beautiful, from the cheek-bone to the jaw. I am not a fool about her, -but I had almost given the Christian world up in despair. It seemed to -me so bad, so inhuman, so hollow, so full of plump, respectable -thieves. The simple thieves and bullies of my boyhood seemed to me -infinitely preferable. And I had met some of the most important people -in the Christian world: all empty and callous and lascivious. And the -unimportant people were good enough, but dull, so dull. . . . Then -comes this little girl. She is like Cranach's Eve among monkeys. She -becomes at once to me what Cranach's wife must have been to him. He -painted her as child, girl, and woman. The chattering apes matter to -me no more. The Christian world is no longer empty. It is still -lascivious and greedy, soft and ill-conditioned, puffy and stale, but -it is suddenly full of meaning, of beauty, of a joy which, because I -am a Jew, I cannot understand." - -"Give it up," growled Logan, "give it up. Paint her portrait and let -her go. You are a born painter. To a painter women are either -paintable or nothing. For God's sake don't go losing yourself in -philosophy." - -"It is not philosophy!" cried Mendel indignantly. "It is what I feel." - -"It will probably end in a damned good picture," retorted Logan. "Why -not be content with that?" - -"Because it will not answer what I want to know, and because I feel -that there is something in the Jews, the real Jews, that she does not -understand either. And she is not a fool. She has a mind. She has a -deep character. She is strong, and she can get the better of me. She -is secret and she is cruel." - -Logan gave his fat chuckle. - -"She is just an English girl with all the raw feeling bred out of her. -She is true to type: impulsive without being sensual, kind without -being affectionate; and she would let you or any man go to hell rather -than give up anything she has been brought up to believe in or admit -to her life anything that was strange, unfamiliar, and not good form, -like yourself. . . . Give it up, give it up. You are only taking it -seriously because you have been irresistible so far and it is the -first setback you have received." - -"I will not give it up," said Mendel, setting his teeth. Then he -laughed because the lights had gone up and the scene was gay and -amusing, and he wanted to plunge into the merry crowd of Parisians and -pleasure-seekers, to move among them and to come in contact with the -women, to watch the men strutting to please them, to delight in the -procession of excited faces, to taste the flavour of humanity which is -always and everywhere the same, rich, astonishing, comforting, -satisfying in its variety. - -Oliver and Thompson returned with their hands full of trinkets, toys, -and pretty paper decorations which they had bought or won at games of -chance and skill. She sat on Logan's knee and insisted on wreathing -him with paper streamers, which he removed as fast as she placed them -on his head. - -"Do! do!" she cried. "Do let go for once and let us all be gay. Oh! I -do love this place, with the band playing, and the lights in the -water, and the wonderful deep blue sky. Why don't we have a sky like -that in London? Do let us come here every year for the summer. -Thompson says painters have to come to Paris if they want to be any -good." - -"I've been telling her about Van Gogh," said Thompson. - -"So that's what's gone to your head!" growled Logan, patting her -cheek. "He's been talking to you about painting, has he?" - -"Yes. He's is a nice man, and doesn't treat me as if I was a perfect -fool." - -She darted a mischievous glance at Mendel, who started under it as -though he had been stung. He was horrified at the depth of his dislike -of her, and he remembered with disgust her full, coarse bosom exposed -as she lay in her calculated swoon. . . . How good it had been while -she was gone with that fool Thompson, who suited her so perfectly, -that chattering ape, with his talk of Van Gogh and Gauguin and -"abstract art," who stood now coveting her with shining eyes and -fatuously smiling lips. - -"I'm not good enough for some people," she said. "When I come into the -room there is silence." - -"Oh, shut up!" said Logan. "Let's go and have dinner and get back to -Paris. I'm sick of this cardboard place, where there is nothing but -pleasure." - -They had an excellent dinner, during which Oliver never stopped -chattering and Mendel never once opened his lips. His thoughts were -away in England, in his studio with his work, and in the country with -Morrison, and he struggled to bring them together in his mind. How -could Logan love Oliver and keep her apart from his work? Two such -passions must infallibly seek each other out and come to grips. They -must come together or be flung violently apart. . . . Passions were to -him as real as persons; they had individualities, needs, desires; they -were entities insisting upon their right to existence; they must -express themselves, must make their impression upon the circumambient -world. - -He became critical of Logan, though he hated to be so. Logan stood to -him for adventure and freedom, independence and courage. It was -incomprehensible to him that Logan should take Oliver seriously. She -was the woman for a holiday, for a wild outburst of lawlessness, not -for the morning and the evening and the day between. - -"Oh, do cheer up, Kühler! You are like a death's-head at a feast." - -He looked at her with a piercing glance which silenced her. No: she -was no holiday woman. She was the woman for a drab, drudging life, -with no other colour or joy in it than her own animal warmth. She was -like Rosa, made for just such a dreary, simple, devoted fool as Issy. -What could she do with a strong passion? She could only absorb it like -a sponge, and nothing could kindle her. Just a drab; just a sponge. - -Thinking so, his dislike of her grew into a hatred so passionate that -he desired to know more of her, to watch her, to beget a clear idea of -her. He went and sat by her side and teased her, while she teased him -and told him he was the prettiest boy she had ever seen. - -"That night in the Tube I thought you were the prettiest boy I ever -saw, and I was quite disappointed when Logan came to speak to me -instead of you." - -"I would never have taken you from the shop," he said. "I would have -taken you to my studio, and perhaps I would have painted you, but I -would have sent you back to the shop." - -"I wouldn't have gone, so there!" she said. "What would you have done -then?" - -"I should have turned you out." - -"Oh! Would you? Filthy brute! If I'm good enough for one thing I'm -good enough for another. Do you hear that, Logan? He would have turned -me out!" - -"You leave Kühler alone," said Logan. "You'll never understand him, if -you try for a thousand years." - -"Turned me out?" muttered Oliver. "Heuh! I like that. He'd turn me out -and get another girl in! I'll not have any of those tricks from you, -Logan." - -"You can talk about them when I begin them," he replied. - -She turned from Mendel to Thompson and soon had him soft in her -snares. - -"She would like to do that with me," thought Mendel, "and she hates me -because she knows she cannot." - -* * * * * - -They returned to Paris by bus all sleepy and a little drunk. Oliver -leaned her head on Logan's shoulder and dozed, smiling to herself, -while Thompson, sitting by her side, fingered her sleeve. - -They were carried far beyond the point where they should have -descended, and finding themselves on the boulevards, they woke up to -the liveliness of the Parisian night, and Oliver refused to go home. - -Thompson suggested the cabarets, and they went from one dreary vicious -hole to another until they came on one where a party of Americans were -doing in Paris as the Parisians do. They had brought on a number of -_cocottes_ from the Bal Tabarin, and were drinking, shouting, dancing. -Thompson led Oliver into the mêlée, and soon she was drinking, -shouting, dancing with the rest. - -Mendel was horrified and disgusted. There was no zest in the riot. It -was a piece of deliberate, cold-blooded bestialization. He trembled -with rage, and turned to Logan, who was sitting with a sickly smile on -his face:-- - -"You ought not to let her," he cried--almost moaned. "If she were my -woman I would not let her. I would kill any man who laid hands on her -like that. She is not a prostitute. I would not let my woman be a -prostitute." - -But Logan did not move. He sat with his sickly smile on his face. He -was drunk and could not move. - -Unable to bear the scene any longer, Mendel rushed away, jumped into a -taxi, and drove back to the hotel, swearing that he would go back to -London the next day. He would write and tell Logan that he must get -rid of Oliver or no longer be his friend. She was a poisonous drab. -She would be the ruin of his friend. - -An hour or two later Logan came back. He was very white, and his hair -was dank, and there was a cold sweat on his face. - -"My God!" he said, "Kühler! Are you awake? I don't know where she is. -I went to sleep. I was so tired, and there was such a row with those -blasted Americans. I went to sleep and awoke to find a nigger shaking -me and the place empty. . . . Where does Thompson live? Do you know?" - -"Off the Boulevard Raspail. I went there to look at his rubbishy -pictures. I think I could find the way. Are you going to kill him?" - -"I want to find her," said Logan. "I must find her. It is killing me -to think of her lost in Paris. I must find her. I can't sleep without -her. I must find her." - -He hardly seemed to know what he was saying. - -"Come along then," said Mendel. "I think I can find where Thompson -lives." - -It was not far. They walked along the deserted boulevard under the new -white, florid buildings, and turned into an impasse. - -"That's it," said Mendel. "Impasse. I remember that. A tall, thin -house with a big yellow door. Here it is." - -They knocked until the yellow door swung mysteriously open and then -ran upstairs to the top floor. - -Thompson came blinking into the passage. - -"Where's Oliver? Where's Logan's girl?" - -Mendel put up his fist to hit him in the eye. - -"I put her into a taxi and sent her home. The Americans took us on to -another place. They were a jolly lot. A terrific place they took us -to. There were negresses dancing and a South Seas girl who said -Gauguin brought her back. . . . Oliver's all right. I put her in a -taxi and sent her back." - -"You're a liar!" shouted Logan. "She's in there." - -He rushed in, while Mendel put his arms round Thompson and laid him -neatly on the floor. In a moment Logan was out again. - -"You're a shocking bad painter," he said to Thompson, "but she isn't -there." - -They left the house and walked slowly back to the hotel. Logan clung -to Mendel's arm, saying:-- - -"It's my fault. She said if ever I knocked her about she'd clear out. -Do you mind walking about with me? I couldn't go to bed. I couldn't -sleep." - -All night they walked about; going back to the hotel every half hour -to see if she was there, talking of anything and everything, even -politics, to keep Logan's mind from the fixed horrible idea that had -taken possession of it. They saw the sun come out, and the workers -hurrying along the streets, and the waiters in the cafés push up the -heavy iron shutters that had only been pulled down an hour or two -before, and the market women with their baskets, and the tramcars -glide and jolt along, the shops open and the girls go chattering to -their work through the long, leisurely Parisian day. - -They returned at eight and had breakfast. At half-past nine Oliver -appeared, smiling and serene. - -"We did have fun last night! You missed something, I tell you." - -"Where have you been?" cried Logan. "I've been looking for you all -night." - -"What a fool you are! I can look after myself." - -"Where have you been?" - -She faced him with a bold stare and said:-- - -"I got home about half-past two, and I took another room, partly -because I didn't want to disturb you, and partly--you know why." - -"What number was your room?" - -"Forty-four." - -From where they sat Mendel could see the keyboard in the concierge's -lodge. There were only forty rooms in the hotel. - -"Have you had breakfast?" asked Logan, forcing himself to believe her. - -"Hours ago. In bed," she replied. "I paid for it and the bed." - -"Why did you do that?" he snapped. - -She caught Mendel's eyes fixed on her, eager to see her trapped, and -she smiled insolently as she replied:-- - -"I thought it would be a good joke if I let you think I had been out -all night. But you look such a wreck that I don't think you could see -a joke. . . . What are we going to do to-day?" - -"We are going home," said Logan. - - - -BOOK THREE - -THE PASSING OF YOUTH - - - -I - -EDWARD TUFNELL - -A WRETCHED journey home, a miserable journey. There had been a high -wind, leaving a heavy swell, and Mendel shared the feelings of his -brother-in-law, Moscowitsch, concerning the sea. It made him ill, and -he never wished to see it again. - -Oliver sat with her eyes closed while Logan held her hand and -whispered to her. The boat was crowded, for it was the first to make -the crossing for two days. Detestable people, detestable sea, -detestable evil-smelling boat! . . . How lightly they had undertaken -the trip to Paris! Only seven hours! But what hours! - -Mendel's disgust endured until they reached London. This was home to -him, and never, never again would he travel. The discomfort of it was -too odious, the shock to his habits too great. In London he did at -least know what to avoid, while in Paris there was no knowing when he -might be plunged into a dreary, glittering place full of prostitutes -and Americans. - -He was glad to part with Logan and Oliver. They had so much to settle -with each other that he felt he was an unnecessary third. Paris had -done violence to their relationship. They had gone there light of -heart; they had returned oppressed and entangled. . . . And in London -it was raining; but that was good, because familiar. It was good to go -out into the friendly streets and to see them shining like black -rivers, and to see the people hurrying under their dripping umbrellas -and the women with their skirts up to their knees. - -He seemed to have been away a very long time, and yet Paris seemed -very far off too, an unreal memory, like a place of which he had read -or seen in photographs. He was glad when he mounted a bus and knew -that it was bearing him towards his own people. - -Golda was very excited. She had had a letter from Harry, who had seen -his brother in Paris, but had been too shy to speak to him because of -his friends. - -"You should have gone to see your brother," she said. - -"How could I?" asked Mendel. "I did not know where he was." - -"You speak Yiddish. You could have found him. He has done very well, -but he is coming home to us. He does not like to live away from his -people, and he says England is best." - -And Mendel thought that England was indeed best. For him, then, -England meant his mother's kitchen, with its odd decorations from -Tottenham Court Road, its dresser crammed with gilded china and -fringed with cut green paper, its collection of his early pictures, -almost all hanging crooked, and the hard wooden chair in which Golda -sat all day long with her hands on her stomach, dreaming and brooding -of her life, which through all her hardships had been sweet because of -her beautiful child whom everybody loved and spoiled, as she herself -loved and spoiled him because he was not like other children. England -was best because it could contain that peace and that beauty, and -there was nothing in England to harm it or in envy to destroy it. - -Mendel could understand his brother wanting to come back to it; for -he, too, from all his adventures, returned to its simplicity for -strength and comfort. - -Moscowitsch came in with a Jewish paper. He was in a terrible state of -anger and hatred. His eyes flashed and his nostrils quivered as he -read out how a Jew in Russia had been accused of killing a Christian -boy for his blood, and how over a thousand Jews had been massacred on -the instigation of the police. - -"It grows worse and worse," he said. "The Jews do not kill. It is the -Christians who lust for blood. It is the Christians who are so wicked -and dishonest that, when they must be found out, they say it is the -Jews, or that the Jews are more wicked than they. It is impossible. -But England is good to the Jews. England must send soldiers to Russia -or the Jews will be all murdered." - -"Yes, it is bad in Russia," said Golda, nodding her head. "But life is -bad everywhere for good people. Only in England one is left alone." - -"Well, Mr. Artist!" said Moscowitsch genially. "Made your fortune -yet?" - -"No," replied Mendel; "but I have been to Paris for my holidays and I -stayed in a hotel. Three of us spent twenty pounds." - -"So?" said Moscowitsch, impressed. "Have you made it up with the -Birnbaum, then?" - -"No." - -"That is not the way to get on, to quarrel with money." - -"If he wants money," said Golda, "he can always get it. What more do -you want? There are some letters for you, Mendel." - -He opened his letters, and had the satisfaction of telling Moscowitsch -that he was asked to paint a portrait for thirty pounds. - -"Who is it?" asked Moscowitsch. "A lord?" He had an idea that only -lords had their portraits painted by hand. - -"That's better," he said. "That's better than painting those pictures -that nobody wants. You paint what they ask you and you'll soon make -your fortune, and be able to give your mother dresses covered with -beads and tickets for the theatre and china ornaments. And you can be -thankful you don't live in Russia. They wouldn't let you be an artist -there. If you became a student they would send you off to Siberia and -you would die in the snow." - -It was the first time Moscowitsch had spoken to him since the breach -with Birnbaum, and Mendel was at his ease with him again, and glad to -be with his people. He knew that Moscowitsch was greatly attached to -Golda, and had more than once urged his being taken away from his -painting and put to some useful trade. - -"Oh! I shall very soon succeed," he said boastfully. "This is only a -beginning. You keep an eye on that paper of yours. You will find -something else to read besides what Russia does to the Jews. You will -see what England does for a Jew when he has talent and honesty." - -"They made Disraeli a lord," said Moscowitsch. - -"I shall be something much better than a lord." - -"They only make painters R.A." - -"I shall be much better than that," said Mendel. - -"It is like old times," laughed Golda, "to hear him boasting." - -Mendel opened another letter. It was an invitation to become a member -of an exhibiting club which considered itself exclusive. - -"I have been invited to become a member of a club." - -That settled Moscowitsch. A club to him was proof of success and -social distinction. He and his wife had made the acquaintance of a -member of the music-hall profession who had two clubs, and they -counted him a feather in their caps. To have a member of a club in the -family was almost overwhelming, and he forgot the sorrows of the Jews -in Russia. - -* * * * * - -The portrait commission was from Edward Tufnell, who had lately -married and had been adopted as a candidate for Parliament for a -northern constituency. Good earnest soul that he was, he regarded -himself as responsible for launching Mendel upon the world, and once -he had assumed a responsibility he never forgot it. Nothing made any -difference to him. He had heard tales of the boy's wildness, but he -accepted responsibility for that too, read up the histories of men of -genius for precedent, and acknowledged the inevitability of the flying -of sparks from the collision of a strong individuality and the habits -of the world. - -He had always intended to give his protégé a lift, and had tried in -vain to badger his father and his uncle, partners in a huge woollen -manufactory, into having their portraits painted. They preferred to -sink their money in men with reputations. He did not see how Mendel -could acquire a reputation except by giving him work to do. On the -other hand, he shrank from what he considered the vanity of having his -own portrait painted, but his charmingly pretty wife gave him the -opportunity he desired. - -Therefore he invited Mendel to his house in the dales to stay until -the picture was finished. - -A day or two later and Mendel was in the train, being whirled North -through the dull, rolling Midlands and the black, smirched valleys of -the West Riding. The gloomy sky filled him with terror. At first he -thought there was going to be a storm, but there seemed to be no life -in the sky, and its strangeness oppressed him. The people in the train -spoke a language which seemed almost as foreign as French, and when -the train darted through forests of smoking chimney-stacks and he -looked down into the grimy, trough-like streets, he was dismayed to -think that here were depths of misery compared with which the East End -was as a holiday ground. This, too, was England, and he had said that -England was best. He remembered Jews in the East End who had fled from -the North and said they would rather go back to Russia than return to -the tailoring shops and the boot factories. So this vile, busy -blackness was the North! - -For some mysterious reason it made him think of Logan and Oliver, and -the thought of them filled him with an added uneasiness. He had not -thought of them once since the trip to Paris, and now he felt bound to -them, and that they were a weight upon him. They stood out vividly -against the murky, lifeless sky. He could see them standing hand in -hand, smiling a little foolishly, and a physical tremor shot through -him as he thought of the contact of their two hands, thrilling -together, pressing together, to tell of their terrible need of each -other. . . . This man and this woman. Mendel was haunted by the images -of all the couples he knew, and they passed before him like a shadowy -procession of the damned, all hand in hand, across the lifeless sky, -all shadowy except Logan and Oliver, and then two others, his father -and his mother; but they were not hand in hand. They were seated side -by side, like two statues, and behind them the lifeless sky broke and -opened to show the infinite blue space beyond the clouds. - -He had changed at the darkest of the chimneyed towns, and the shabby -local train went grinding and puffing through a tunnel into a vast -green valley. At the first station he saw Edward Tufnell on the -platform. He had changed a good deal, and was no longer the lanky, -earnest youth of the Settlement, but his eyes still had their steady, -serene expression and their sunny, beautiful smile. - -He flung up his hand as he saw Mendel, smiled, and came fussily, as -though he were meeting the Prime Minister himself. He insisted on -carrying Mendel's bag and canvases and made him feel small and young -again, as he used to when he went trotting along by Edward's side on -his way to the French class. - -"It's a long journey," said Edward. "You must be tired." - -"Oh no! I don't mind any journey as long as I don't have to cross the -sea." - -"It is only two miles now." - -They climbed into a dogcart and drove, for the most part at a walk, up -a long, winding road that crept like a worm along the flanks of a huge -hill. - -"Glorious country!" said Edward. "I love it. The South doesn't seem to -me to be country at all--just a huge park. One is afraid to walk on -the grass. But here there is room and freedom. One understands why the -North is Liberal." - -"It is too big for me," replied Mendel. "But then I can't get used to -the country. I'm not myself in it. I feel in it as though I were on -the edge of the world and in danger of falling off. Yes. The country -seems dangerous to me, and I could never walk along a road at night." - -"How odd that is!" laughed Edward. "If I am ever afraid it is in the -town. The vast masses of people do really terrify me sometimes, when I -think of governing them all." - -"They can look after themselves," said Mendel simply. - -Over the shoulder of the hill they came on a grey stone house with a -walled garden. Edward turned in at the gate, flicked his horse into a -trot up the steep drive, and drew up by the front door, in which was -standing a dainty little lady in a mauve cotton gown and a wide -Leghorn straw hat. - -"Here he is, my dear!" said Edward. "My wife, Kühler." - -"I'm so glad you could come," said the little lady. "My husband has -told me so much about you." - -"Not half what he could tell if he only knew," thought Mendel. - -"I'm afraid it is a very long way for you to come," she said, leading -him into the house while Edward drove round to the stables. "It is -very good of you. We are very quiet here, but you can do just as you -like, and I shall always be ready for you when you want me." - -She had a very charming voice that seemed to bubble with happiness, -and she had the air of being surprised at herself for being so happy. -The house was pervaded with her atmosphere, fragrant and good, and -every corner seemed to be full of surprise, every piece of furniture -looked astonished at finding itself in its place--so perfectly in its -place. This fragrant perfection was the more amazing as the outside of -the house was more than a little grim, and the hill behind it was dark -and ominous, while several of the trees were blasted and chapped with -the wind. - -Mendel had never seen such a house, and when Edward took him up to his -room he almost wept with delight at the comfort and sweetness of it -all. There was a fire burning in the grate, by the side of which was a -huge easy chair. Flowered chintz curtains were drawn across the -windows, and the same gay chintz covered the bed. On the -wash-hand-stand was a shining brass can of hot water. There were books -by the bedside, the carpet was of a thick pile, and the furniture was -old and exquisite. . . . He was filled with delight and gratitude. - -"Yes," he thought, "England is best! Comfortable England." - -And when Edward showed him the big tiled bathroom he had a shiver of -dismay, and thought what a dirty, uncouth fellow he was to come among -these exquisite people. - -* * * * * - -Mary Tufnell put him at his ease at once and encouraged him to talk -about himself. He was frank and gay and amusing, and told her about -his adventures and many of his troubles, and even ventured once or -twice upon scabrous details. - -"He is a darling," she said to Edward. "But how he must have suffered. -He is such a boy, but sometimes he seems to me the oldest person I -have ever met." - -"You must remember that he is a Jew," said Edward. - -"He doesn't let you forget it," replied she. - -* * * * * - -The portrait was begun the next day. Mendel took a business-like view -of his visit. He was there to paint and to make thirty pounds. Every -moment that his hostess could spare he seized upon. He painted her in -her mauve cotton and Leghorn hat and would not talk while he worked. - -When the light was gone he was ready for any entertainment they might -propose. He did not find either of them particularly interesting, and -their unfailing kindness wearied him not a little. They were so -invariably good in every thought, word, and deed. It seemed impossible -for them to fail. There was no combination of circumstances which they -could not surmount with their smiling patience. . . . He thought of -them as two people walking along on either side of a road, smiling -across it at each other. Nothing joined them. They had never met. -There had been no collision. He had overtaken her on the road and had -taken her step, her pace. . . . They had just that air. Dear Edward -had fallen in with her by the wayside, and she had smiled at him and -he was content and held for life. To their mutual grave astonishment -she would have children, and her smile would become a little sad, and -with the children she would be an ideal to Edward, like the little -Italian Madonnas of whom he had so many photographs all over the -house. And between them on the road would march the brave procession -of life--kings and beggars, priests and prostitutes, artists and -peasants, chariots, and strange engines of peace and war; but they -would see nothing of it: they would see only each other, and they -would smile and go smiling to the grave. - -Mendel was at his ease with them and very happy, but suddenly out of -nowhere there would arise, as it were, a great stench that pricked his -nostrils and set him longing for London. And he would think of Logan -and Oliver and ache to be with them, so that he knew that he was bound -to them in the flesh. They were embarked upon a great adventure in -which he must be with them to the end, for Logan was his friend, with -whom he must share even the deepest bitterness. With Edward he could -share nothing at all, for Edward was absurdly, incredibly innocent, -content to smile by the wayside. - -He wrote to Logan and Oliver and told them how he was longing to be -with them, and how the country filled him with childish fears, and how -Paris seemed a thousand miles away and its adventures a thousand years -ago. And he was hurt because they did not at once reply. - -He received two letters one morning. Logan wrote telling him he ought -not to waste his time over portraits, and that he must come back to -London soon, because the autumn was to see their triumph: nothing -about himself, nothing about Oliver. Mendel was disappointed: nobody -ever really answered his letters, into which he flung all his feeling. - -His other letter was from Morrison. His first letter from her. He knew -her hand, though he had never seen it before--round, big, simple. He -kept her letter until his day's work was done, and then he went into -the garden to read it. There was an arbour at the end of a mossy walk -which led to a crag above a little waterfall. Out of the crag grew a -mountain ash, brilliant in berry. This was the most beautiful spot in -the garden, and so he chose it for reading the letter. - -"I want you to forgive me for being so foolish. I want to try again. I -hate being beaten, and I think it was only my stupidity that beat me. -I have been thinking of you all the time, and I have been troubled -about you. What people said had nothing at all to do with it. I admire -you more than I can say, and I have been very foolish. - -"It has been a lovely summer. I have been working hard and feel -hopeless about it. Please don't ask to see my work. While I am at it I -am wondering all the time what you are doing. - -"I am to be allowed to come back to London in October. There is no -reason why you should not write to me." - -She was there with him, by his side, under the glowing rowan-tree, -gazing down at the little white waterfall dashing so merrily down into -the pebbled beck. She was there with him, and his blood sang in his -veins and his mind began to work, pounding along as it had not done -these many weeks. . . . Weeks? Years--more than a lifetime. - -He went back to his picture and thought it very, very bad. Edward and -his wife came in and looked at it dubiously. - -"Of course," said Edward, "it is a very jolly picture, but I don't -think you have caught all her charm." - -"But the painting of the hat is wonderful," said Mary. - -"What do I care?" thought Mendel. "It is you--you as you are, smiling, -eternally smiling over your little clean, comfortable happiness, three -parts of which you have bought, with your servants and your flowers -and your bathroom." - -In a day or two he was being whirled back to London, shouting every -now and then from sheer exuberance--thirty pounds in his pocket, -October to look forward to: October, when London shook off its summer -listlessness; October, when She would return; and until October he -would run with his eyes on the trail of the burning, creeping passion -that bound him to Logan and Oliver. - - - -II - -THE CAMPAIGN OPENS - -HE reached London in the afternoon, and as soon as it was evening went -to Camden Town to find Logan. Only Oliver was in. She was sitting in -the window smoking. There had been a tea-party, and the floor was -littered with cups, plates of bread and butter and cakes, fragments of -biscuit, some of which had been trodden on. - -Mendel surveyed this litter ruefully, and he said:-- - -"Why don't you wash up?" - -"Logan said he would. I washed up after breakfast. I'm not a servant, -and he keeps on promising to have someone in to help." - -"Will you wash up if I help you?" - -"No, thanks. Logan's got to do it." - -"Who has been to tea?" - -"Oh! A funny lot. Some of Logan's fools who think he is a great man." - -"He is a great man," said Mendel. - -"Heuh! You try living with him. What's the good of being a great man -if you don't make any money? It's all very well for Calthrop to live -like a pig. He makes money and can do what he likes." - -"If you don't like it you can always clear out." - -"Where to? Eh? To go the round of the studios and oblige people like -you? Not much! It isn't as if I was married to him. I can't make him -keep me. Besides, he wouldn't let me go. If I went he would run after -me. I suppose you hadn't thought of that, Mr. Kühler. You don't know -what it is to care for anybody. I'd like to see some one play you and -play you, and then turn you down. That would teach you a lesson, that -would." - -"What's the matter with you?" - -"I'm not going to stand it any longer," she said. "I'm not going to be -put on one side like dirt while you go on with your conceited talk. -You're both so conceited you don't know how to hold yourselves. I'm a -woman, and I stand for something in the world. A woman is more -important than the biggest picture that was ever painted." - -"It depends upon the woman." - -"All right, then. _I'm_ more important. You talk about Logan keeping -me. He can consider himself damned lucky I stay with him." - -"Oh! you're both in luck," snapped Mendel, and he sat down and refused -to say another word. - -Oliver began to whistle and then to hum. She fidgeted in her chair. -She thought she had come off rather well in the sparring match. She -had been dreading Mendel's return, for since the Paris adventure she -had been asserting herself, as she called it, beating Logan down, -bewildering him with her extraordinary sweetness and cajolery and -sudden outbursts of fury. Both had agreed to bury the memory of the -last night in Paris, but the thoughts of both were centred upon it. -She rejoiced that she had served him out, but she had been stirred to -a degree that alarmed her. Her former condition of lazy sensual -security had been broken, and she dreaded Logan's jealousy. She knew -that she was not his equal in force, but she set herself to overcome -him with cunning. His force would spend itself. She knew that. She -must then bind him fast with tricks and lures, rouse the curiosity of -his senses and keep it unsatisfied. - -She had succeeded wonderfully. Logan crumbled and turned soft and -sugary under her arts, and only one impulse in him resisted her--his -love for Mendel; and through that love his passion for art. Therefore -she dreaded and hated Mendel's return. - -Presently she ceased to hum. She thought suddenly that perhaps it had -been a mistake to meet Mendel with hostility. - -"I say, Kühler, do give us one of your cigarettes. These are awful -muck." - -He threw his cigarette-case over to her. - -"Did you have a good time up North?" - -"Yes." - -"I come from there, you know. Logan was furious with you for going. He -is really very fond of you, you know." - -"I don't need you to tell me that." - -"He's very excited just now. He keeps talking about the artistic -revolution and the twentieth century, and all that, you know. He has -been reading a book called 'John Christopher,' and keeps on reading it -aloud until I'm sick of it. I believe he thinks he is like -Christopher, though I'm sure he's not, because Christopher could never -see a joke. It is all about women, one after another, just left -anyhow. It doesn't sound like a story to me at all." - -"It sounds true," said Mendel, not paying much attention to what she -said. - -To his intense relief Logan came in with a frame under his arm. - -"Hullo!" he said. "Got back? How did you like the swells?" - -"They were good people," replied Mendel, "and wonderfully peaceful. I -don't think I appreciated it enough while I was there, but it seems -very clear and beautiful to me now." - -"Portrait any good?" - -"No." - -Logan put down his frame and without a word to Oliver proceeded to -wash up the tea-things. She stayed in her chair in the window and -hummed. - -To Mendel his friend seemed altered. He had lost his good-humour and -something of his happy recklessness, and he was more concentrated and -full of a wary self-consciousness. - -He came out of the bedroom when the washing up was done and flung -himself on the divan, stretched himself out, and said:-- - -"I'm tired; done up. Lord! What fools there are in the world! No more -portraits for you, my boy; at least, not this side of thirty. Ten -years good solid work ahead of you." - -He laughed. - -"I told Cluny he must hurry up or you would slide off into -portrait-painting. Dealers hate the mere sound of the word. He is -going to hurry up. I've played you for all I am worth, and Cluny is in -my pocket. Oh! I'm a man of destiny, I am." - -A snort and a giggle came from Oliver. Logan sat up. - -"Leave the room!" he said. - -"Shan't." - -"Leave the room. I want to talk to Kühler." - -"Talk away then. I shan't listen." - -Logan walked over to her, seized her by the arms, and pushed her into -the bedroom and locked the door. It was done very quickly and -dexterously, as though it were a practised manoeuvre. - -"I'm finding out how to treat her," he said. "Quiet firmness does the -trick." - -He met Mendel's eyes fixed on him in horrified inquiry and turned -sharply away. - -"It isn't as bad as it looks," he said. "The fact is, women aren't fit -for liberty and an artist ought to have nothing to do with them. But -what can a man do? . . . What were we talking about?" - -"Cluny." - -"Oh yes! He wants the exhibition to be the first fortnight in -November. Can you be ready by then? It must be a turning-point in art, -the beginning of big things. I know myself enough to realize that it -is doubtful if I shall ever be a great creative artist, but I shall be -the Napoleon of the new movement--the soldier and the organizer of the -revolution in art. And it won't be confined to art; it will spread -through everything. Art will be the central international republic -from which the commonwealths which will take the place of the present -vulgar capitalistic nations will be inspired. What do you think of -that for an idea?" - -"Stick to art," said Mendel. "I know nothing about the rest." - -"Do you remember my saying that the music-hall was all that was left -of old England? I did not know how true it was. England has become one -vast music-hall, with everybody with any talent or brains scrambling -to top the bill. It runs through everything--art, politics, the press, -literature, social reform, women's suffrage, local government; and the -people who top the bill can't be dislodged, just like the poor old -crocks on the halls, who come on and give the same show they were -giving twenty years ago, and get applause instead of rotten eggs -because the British public is so rotten with sentiment and so stupid -that it can't tell when a man has lost his talent. Please one -generation in England and its grandchildren will applaud you, though -everything about you is changed except your name. The result is, of -course, that no talent is ever properly developed. A man reaches the -point where he can please enough people to make a living, and he -sticks there. Now, I ask you, is that a state of things which a -self-respecting artist can accept?" - -"No," said Mendel. "No." - -"Well. It has to be altered. And who is to alter it if not the -painters, who are less in contact with the general public than any -other artists? Painters had a comfortable time last century, living on -the North-country municipal councils, but that is all over and we are -reduced to poops like Tysoe. There are any number of them, if one only -took the trouble to dig them up, but they're no good. I've lived on -them for the last ten years, and they're no good. You might as well -squeeze your paints into the sink and turn on the tap for all the -flicker of appreciation you get out of them. Then there are the snobs, -the semi-demimondaines of the political set; but they are a seedy lot, -with the minds and the interests of chorus-girls. You might whip up a -little excitement at Oxford and Cambridge, but it would only vanish as -soon as the young idiots came in contact with London and fell in love. -. . . No. Behind the scenes of the music-hall is no good. We must make -a direct onslaught on the general public. They must be taught that -there is such a thing as art and that there are men devoted to the -disinterested development of their talents--men who have no desire to -top the bill or to make five hundred a week; men who recognize that -art is European, universal, the invisible fabric in which human life -is contained, and are content, like simple workmen, to keep it in -repair." - -"I don't know," said Mendel, "if my brother-in-law Moscowitsch is -typical, but he regards art which does not make money as a waste of -time." - -"Oh! He is a Jew and uneducated. That's where Tolstoi went so wrong. -He confused the simplicity of art with the simplicity of the peasant, -the dignity of the unsophisticated with the dignity that is achieved -through sophistication. It may seem absurd to talk of bringing about -anything so big through little Cluny, but it is not only possible, it -is inevitable. The staleness of London cannot go on, and Paris seemed -just the same to me. Stagnation is intolerable. There must come a -movement towards freedom and a grander gesture, and the only free -people are the painters. They are the only people whose work has not -become servile and vulgarized. Through them lies the natural outlet. -. . . Oh! I have been thinking and thinking, and I thank God we met -before you had been spoiled by success or I had been ruined by my -rotten swindling life--though that has had its advantages too, and I -can meet the dealers on their own ground, and if necessary advertise -as impudently as any of the music-hall artists." - -Oliver began to hammer on the door. He went and unlocked it and let -her in. - -"You can talk as much as you like now," he said. "I've said my say." - -"I heard you," she replied, "talking to Kühler as if he was a crowd in -Hyde Park." - -Mendel was lost in thought. He was baffled by this association of art -with things like politics and music-halls, which he had always -accepted as part of the world's constitution but essentially -unimportant. He had no organized mental life. His ideas came direct -from his instincts to his mind, and were either used for immediate -purposes or dropped back again to return when wanted. However, he -recognized the passionate nervous energy that made Logan's words full -and round, and he was glad to have him so accessible and so eager and -purposeful. On the whole, it did not matter to him why Logan thought -his work so important. No one else thought it so, and certainly no one -else had taken so much trouble to help it to find recognition. Logan -seemed to promise him public fame, and that would delight and reassure -his father and mother more than anything else. They treasured every -mention of his name in the newspapers, pasted the cuttings in a book, -and produced it for every visitor to the house. - -Struggling for ideas with which to match Logan's, he became -instinctively aware that his friend's enthusiasm was deliberate, not -in itself faked, but artificially heated. Behind it lay a deeper -passion, from which he was endeavouring to divert the energy it -claimed. - -Sitting between Logan and Oliver, Mendel could almost intercept the -current of feeling that ran between them. It offended him as an -indecency that they should have so little control over themselves as -to reveal their condition of mutual obsession. . . . It reminded him -of his impression of the police-court, where the secret sores of -society were exposed nakedly, and queer, helpless, shameless, -unrestrained creatures were dealt with almost like parcels in a shop. -And again he had the sensation of being bound to them, of being -confined with them in that little room, of a dead pressure being upon -him, until he must scream or go mad. - -He looked at them. Did they not feel it too? Logan was lying back with -his hands beneath his head and his lips pressed together and a scowl -on his face, looking as though his thoughts and his destiny were -almost, but, of course, not quite too much for him. Oliver was looking -out of the window with her hands on her hips, humming. She laughed and -said:-- - -"I'd sooner live with an undertaker than an artist. He would be up to -a bit of fun sometimes, and he'd do his work without making such a -fuss about it." - -"There's an undertaker at the corner of the next street. You'd better -ask him to take you on." - -"As a corpse?" asked Mendel, exploding and spluttering at what seemed -to him a very good joke. The others turned and looked at him solemnly, -but neither of them laughed, and gradually his amusement subsided and -he said lamely:-- - -"I thought it was very funny." - -"Oh! for goodness' sake let's go and have something to eat," said -Oliver. "You're turning the place into a tomb with your silence. One'd -think you were going to be crowned King of England instead of just -holding a potty little exhibition." - -"He is going to be crowned King of Artists," said Mendel, making -another attempt at a joke. - -"By God!" said Logan, "they'd kill me if they knew what I was like -inside. Do you ever feel like that, Kühler, that all the birds in the -cage would peck you to death for having got outside it? I do. I never -see a policeman without feeling he is going to arrest me." - -"I used to feel like that sometimes," replied Mendel, "until I was -arrested and realized that policemen are just people like anybody -else. The man who arrested me was a very nice man." - -"Oh! I'm sick of your feelings," cried Oliver, "and I want my dinner." - -"All right," said Logan, reaching for his hat; "we'll go to the -Pot-au-Feu and afterwards to the Paris Café and fish for critics. I -shall nobble one or two swells through Tysoe. We'll pick up the more -crapulous and lecherous at the café, and Oliver shall be the bait. So -look your prettiest, my dear. . . . Let's have a look at you." - -He lit the gas and made her stand beneath it. - -"You'll do," he said, patting her cheek. "Come along." - -He put his arm through hers. She gave a wriggle of pleasure and -pressed close to him. - -Mendel followed them downstairs with an omen at his heart. He felt -sure that something violent would happen. - -* * * * * - -But nothing violent did happen. The evening was extraordinarily -light-hearted and pleasant. Logan was his old self again, cracking -jokes, mimicking people almost to their faces, giving absurd -descriptions of his interviews with dealers and buyers, and concocting -a burlesque history of his life. Mendel had never laughed so much -since he was at the Detmold. His sides ached, and he was hard put to -it to keep his countenance when at the café Logan caught two critics -and told them that they must make no mistake this time: their -reputations were at stake, nay, the reputation of art criticism was at -the cross-roads, and art was on the threshold of its greatest period, -and criticism should be its herald, not its camp-follower. - -"You fellows," said Logan, "use your brains, you are articulate. We -are apt to get lost in paint, in coloured dreams of to-morrow and the -spaces of the night. We lose touch with the world, with life. We are -dependent on you--even the greatest genius is dependent on you. You -are the real patrons of art. The herd follows you. Criticism must not -shirk its duty. The kind of thing that happened with Manet, with -Whistler, ought not to happen again." - -The two critics were unused to such treatment from painters. Oliver -used her eyes upon them, detached one of them into a flirtation and -left the other to Logan's mercies. Logan's blood was up. Here was a -game he dearly loved, talking, bullying, hypnotizing another man out -of his individuality. He invented monstrously, outrageously--concocted -a whole new technique of painting, the discovery of which he ascribed -to Mendel's genius, and ended up by saying that painting should be to -England what music had been to Germany, a national and at the same -time a universal art. - -The critic had drunk enough to take it all seriously, and he promised -to call and see the work of both painters. His colleague, on the other -hand, made arrangements to take Oliver out to tea and won her promise -to come and see him at his flat. - -"That's all right," said Logan, as they left the café at closing time. -"They will remember our names. They will forget how they came to know -them and they will write about us." - - - -III - -SUCCESS - -IT was all very well for Logan to talk about modern England being a -music-hall, but his methods were almost identical with those of the -publicists whom he decried. The greater part of his energy went to -find a market for his wares, leaving very little for the production of -the wares themselves. Because he was excited and busy and full of -enthusiasm, he took it for granted that he was in a vigorous condition -and that his vision of the future of art would be expressed in art. He -talked volubly of what he was doing and what he intended to do, even -while he worked, and his nerves were so overwrought that he contracted -a horror of being alone. Though Oliver jeered at him as he worked he -would not let her go out, and when once or twice she insisted, he -could not work, and went round to see Mendel and prevented his working -either. - -Mendel knew nothing of markets and dealers and the relation of art to -the world and its habits and institutions. He was carried off his feet -by his friend's torrential energy, believed what he said, wore his -thoughts as he would have worn his hat, and lived entirely for the -exhibition which was to do such wonders for him. Twelve exhibits were -required of him. He would have had forty-eight ready if he had been -asked for them. When he missed the delight and the pure joy he had had -in working, he told himself that these emotions were childish and -unworthy of a man, and a nuisance, because they would have prevented -him from knowing clearly what he wanted to do. He dashed at his canvas -with a fair imitation of Logan's manner, slung the paint on to it with -bold strokes, saying to himself: "There! That will astonish them! That -will make them see what painting is!" - -And every now and then he would remember that he was in love. He must -paint love as it had never been painted before. - -For his subject he chose Ruth in the cornfield, but very soon tired of -painting ears of corn, so he left it looking like a square yellow -block, and painted it up until it resembled a slice of Dutch cheese. -Only when he came to Ruth's face and tried to make it express all the -love with which his heart was overflowing did he paint with the old -fastidious care, but even that could not keep him for long, and he -returned to his corn, the shape of which had begun to fascinate him, -and he wanted somehow to get it into relation with the hill on which -it was set. But he could do nothing with it, and had to go back to -Ruth and love. - -The effect was certainly startling and novel, and Logan was -enthusiastic. - -"That's it," he said. "The nearest approach to modern art is the -poster, which is not art, of course, because it is not designed by -artists. But it does convey something to the modern mind, it does jog -it out of its routine and habitual rut. Now, your picture wouldn't do -for a poster. It is too good, but it has the same kind of effect. -Stop! Look! Listen! Wake up, and see that there are beautiful women in -the world and blue skies, and love radiant over all! This woman has -nothing to do with what you felt for your wife when you proposed to -her, or with what the parson said when the baby died: she is the woman -the dream of whom lives always in your heart, although you have long -forgotten it. She is the beauty you have passed by for the sake of -peace and quiet and a balance at your bank." - -"Do you think it is a good picture?" asked Mendel. - -"I think it is a good beginning. Two or three more like that and there -will be a sensation. There will have to be policemen to regulate the -crowd." - -Mendel caught his mood of driving excitement and really was convinced -that he had broken through to a style of his own, and to the beginning -of something that might be called modern art. - -He was a little dashed when, after Logan had gone, he fetched his -mother over to see it, and all she could find to say was:-- - -"You used not to paint like that." - -"No, of course not," he said impatiently. "The old way was limited, -too limited. It was all very well for painting the life down here, -just what I saw in front of me. This picture is for an exhibition, all -by myself with one other man." - -"Logan?" asked Golda dubiously. - -"Yes. It is a great honour to give a private exhibition like that at -my age. It is most unusual. This is the beginning of a new style. I'm -beginning a new life." - -"You are not going away?" said Golda in a sudden panic that he was to -be snatched away from her. - -"I should never go away until you gave your permission," he said. "I -am not so very different from Harry that I want to go away and leave -my people." - -"I never know what will come of that painting of yours." - -"Success!" he said jestingly. "And fame and money, and beautiful -ladies in furs and diamonds, and carriages and motor-cars, and fine -clothes and rings on everybody's fingers." - -"I would rather have you seated quietly in my kitchen than all the -gold of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba," said Golda. - -"Then please like my picture." - -"I don't like it." - -"Then _say_ you like it." - -"I don't like it." - -"I shall wipe it out then." - -"Your new friends will like it." - -"_I_ like it," he said. "I don't think it is a very good picture, but -it means something to me." - -And he longed for Morrison to come and see it, for it was the first -picture that had directly to do with her. The portrait of her was -hardly more than a drawing. What he called an "art student" might have -done it, but this Ruth, he felt, was the beginning of his work as an -artist, and he thought fantastically that when Morrison saw it she -would see that he was to be treated with respect and would fall in by -his side, and they would live happily, or at least solidly, ever -after. - -"Solid" was his great word, and he used it in many senses. It conveyed -to his mind the quality of which he could most thoroughly approve. If -a thing, or a person, or an action, or an emotion were what he called -"solid," then it was a matter of indifference to him whether it was in -the ordinary sense good or bad. He was perfectly convinced that if -Morrison could only be brought to reason, then his life would solidify -and he would be able to go on working in peace. - -Meanwhile he was anything but solid. His work, his life, his ideas, -his ambition had all melted under Logan's warm touch and were pouring -towards the crucial exhibition. Mendel looked forward to it -feverishly, because it was to put an end to his present condition, in -which he was like a wax candle, luminous, but fast sinking into -nothingness. If only he could reach the exhibition in time, the wind -of fame would blow out the flame that was reducing him and he would be -able to start afresh . . . But all the time as he worked words of -Logan's rolled in his mind, and had no meaning whatever, except that -they made him think of music-halls and motor-buses and women's legs in -tights and newspapers and electric sky-signs spelling out words letter -by letter. Out of this hotch-potch pictures, works of art, were to -emerge. They were to take their place in it and, according to Logan, -reduce it to order. But how was it possible? . . . In the quiet, -ordered, patriarchal world of the Jews a rare nature might arise, but -in that extraordinary confusion nothing rare could survive. Beauty -could never compete on equal terms with women's legs in tights and -electric sky-signs; it could never produce an impression on minds -obsessed and crammed to overflowing with the multitudinous excitements -of the metropolis. - -Mendel was convinced that Logan was right, that beauty must emerge to -establish authority, and he thought of himself as engaged in a combat -with a huge, terrible monster. Every stroke of his brush was a wound -upon its flanks and an abomination the less. Yet he loved all the -things against which he was fighting, because they made the world gay -and stimulating and wonderful. He could see no reason why he should -change the world. It was full enough of change already. Why, in his -own time, the electric railways and the motor-buses had brought an -amazing transformation in the life of the East End. No one now worked -for such little wages as his father had done at the stick-making, and -the life of the streets had lost its terrors and dangers. The young -men had better things to do than to fight each other or to pelt old -Jews with mud, and there was no reason to suppose that such changes -would stop where they were. - -However, he had Logan's word for it, and Logan had given art a new -importance in his eyes. He could not think it out himself without -getting hopelessly confused, and there was nothing for it but to go on -with his work. - -Other relief he had none. He had written three ardent letters to -Morrison, telling her, absolutely without restraint, of his love and -his need for her, and she had not replied. He was too much hurt to -write again, and as he worked he began to hate love, being in love, -and the idea of it. He persuaded himself that it was a weakness, and -he had ample reason for thinking so, when he compared his loose -condition with his old clear singleness of purpose. What chiefly -exasperated him in this indefinite unsuccessful love of his was that -it exposed him to the passion, every day growing more furious, between -Logan and Oliver. It made his own emotions seem fantastic, with the -most vital current of his being pouring out in a direction far removed -from the rest of his life, apparently ignoring the solid virtues of -his Jewish surroundings and the elated vigour of his career among the -artists. - -"It will not do!" he told himself. "I will not have it! What is this -love? Just nonsense invented by people who are afraid of their -passions. A lady indeed? _Is_ she? A lady is only a woman dressed up. -She must learn that she is a woman, or I will have nothing to do with -her." - -And sometimes he could persuade himself that he had driven Morrison -from his thoughts. He finished the portrait of her from memory and was -convinced that it was the end of her. It was a good picture and pretty -enough to find a buyer, and there it ended. He had got what he wanted -of her and could pluck her out of his thoughts. - -Logan said it was a very fine picture, a real piece of creation. - -"And if that doesn't make them see how damned awful their Public -School system is in its effect on women, I'll eat my hat. You've had -your revenge, my boy. You have shown her up. Why don't you call it -_The Foolish Virgin_? Of all the mischievous twaddle that is talked in -this mischievous twaddling country the notion of love is the worst. -You can't love a woman unless you live with her, and a woman is -incapable of loving a man unless he lives with her. By Jove! We'll -hang it and my portrait of Oliver side by side in the exhibition, and -I'll call mine _The Woman who Did._" - -"I won't have them side by side," said Mendel. "I want our pictures -kept separate. I don't want it said that we are working together." - -"But we _are_ working together." - -"Yes. But along our own lines. We're only together really in our -independence. You said yourself that we didn't want to found a -school." - -"That's true," replied Logan, "but I don't see why we shouldn't have -our little joke." - -"I don't joke with art," said Mendel grimly, and that settled the -matter. - -It was the first time he had set his will against his friend's, and he -was surprised to find how soft Logan was. Surely, then, it was he who -was the leader, he who was blazing the new trail for art. . . . He had -to bow to the fact that Logan had a programme while he had none. -However, having once asserted his will, he became critical, and was -not again the docile little disciple he had been. - -Logan wanted to draw up a manifesto for the catalogue, to enunciate -the first principles of modern art, namely, that a picture must have -(_a_) not merely a subject, but a conception based on but not bounded -by its subject; (_b_) form, meaning the form dictated by the logic of -the conception, which must of necessity be different from the logic -dictated by the subject, which would lead either to the preconceptions -and prejudices of the schools or to irrelevant and non-pictorial -considerations. All this was set out at some length, and appended were -a number of maxims, such as:-- - -"In art the important thing is art. - -"Abstraction precedes selection. - -"Art exists to keep in circulation those spiritual forces, such as -ĉsthetic emotion, which are denied in ordinary human communications. - -"Photography has released art from its ancient burden of -representation," etc., etc. - -With the spirit of this manifesto Mendel was in agreement, though he -could make but little of its letter. He refused to agree to it because -so much talk seemed to him unnecessary. - -"If we can say what we mean to say in paint, then we need not talk. If -we cannot say it in paint, then we have no right to talk." - -"You'd soon bring the world to a standstill," said Logan, "if you -limited talk to the people who have a right to it. It is just those -people who never open their mouths. I think it is criminal of them, -just out of shyness and disgust, to give the buffoons and knaves an -open field." - -"All the same," grunted Mendel, "I am not going to agree to the -manifesto. People will read it and laugh at it, and never look at the -pictures. You seem to think of everything but them. I wonder you don't -set up as a dealer." - -"You're overworking," said Logan, "that's what you are doing. And -directly the exhibition is open I shall pack you off to Brighton." - -* * * * * - -Already a week before the opening they began to feel that the eyes of -London were upon them. They crept about the streets half-shamefacedly -like conspirators, relaxed and wary, waiting for the moment when their -triumph should send their shoulders back and their heads up, and they -would march together through a London which owed its salvation to -them. Not since his portrait had appeared in the Yiddish paper had -Mendel been so defiant and so morosely arrogant. - -He was ill with excitement and could not do a stroke of work. Every -minute of the day he spent with Logan and Oliver, to whom Tysoe was -often added. He dined with them at the Pot-au-Feu, took them all out -to lunch and tea at places like Richmond and Kew, had them to his -house, and was squeezed by the approaching success to buy Logan's two -largest pictures before the public could have access to them. - -"They are masterpieces!" he cried, swinging his long hands, "absolute -masterpieces! You don't know how much good it does me to be with you -two. Absolutely sincere, you are! That's what I like about you. -Sincere! One looks for sincerity in vain everywhere else. Sincerity -has vanished from the theatre, the novel, music, poetry. I suppose it -is democracy--letting the public in behind the scenes, so that they -see through all the tricks." - -"An artist isn't a conjurer!" said Mendel. - -"That is just what artists have been," cried Logan, "and they can't -bluff it out any more." - -"Exactly!" gurgled Tysoe, who when he was roused from his habitual -weak lethargy lost control of his voice, so that it wobbled between a -shrill treble and a husky bass. "Exactly! That's what I like about you -two. No bluff, no tricks. You do what you want to do and damn the -consequences. Ha! ha!" - -So ill was Mendel just before the exhibition that Logan refused to -allow him anywhere near it, and insisted that they should both go to -Brighton, leaving Oliver to go to the private view and spy out the -land. - -Oliver protested. She wanted to go to Brighton. - -"You shall have a new dress and a new hat," said Logan. "You must go -to the private view like a real lady. Cluny doesn't know you, and you -must go up to him every now and then and ask him in a loud voice what -the prices are. You might even pretend to be a little deaf and make -him speak clearly and distinctly." - -The idea tickled Mendel so that he began to laugh, could not stop -himself, and was soon almost hysterical. - -"What's the matter with you?" asked Oliver, shaking him. - -He gasped:-- - -"I--I was laughing at the idea of your being a real lady. Ha! ha! ha!" - -She gave him a clout over the head that sobered him. Logan pounced on -her like a tiger. - -"You devil!" he said. "You she-devil! Don't you see the poor boy's -ill?" - -"What's that to me?" she screamed, with her head wobbling backwards -and forwards horribly as he shook her. "It's n-nothing t-to m-me!" - -She caught Logan by the wrist and sent him spinning, for she was -nearly as strong as he. - -"Go to Brighton!" she shouted. "I don't care. I'll be glad to be rid -of you both. You won't find me here when you come back, that's all, -you and your little hurdy-gurdy boy! You only need a monkey and an -organ to make you complete. Why don't you try it? You'd do better at -that than out of pictures." - -Logan could not contain himself. His rage burst out of him in a howl -like that of a wind in a chimney, a dismal, empty moan. He stood up, -and the veins on his neck swelled and his mouth opened and shut -foolishly, for he could find nothing to say. - -"You slut, you squeezed-out dishclout, you sponge!" he roared at last. -"Clear out, you drab! Clear out into the streets, you trull! Draggle -your skirts in the mud, you filth, you octopus! Sell the carcase that -you don't know how to give, you marble!" - -She flung up her hands and sank on to her knees, and let down her hair -and moaned:-- - -"O God! O God! O God!" - -Logan's fury snapped. - -"For God's sake! For God's sake!" he said. "What has come over us? Oh, -God help us! What are we doing? What are we coming to? Nell! Nell! I -didn't know what I was saying!" - -He went down on his knees beside her, and Mendel, who had been numbed -but inwardly elated by the storm, could not endure the craven -surrender, the cowardly reconciliation, and he left them. - -Out in the street he stood tottering on the curb, and spat into the -gutter, with extreme precision, between the bars of a grating. - -* * * * * - -At Brighton, whither they went next day, Logan explained himself. - -"It is extraordinary how near love is to hate, and how rotten love -becomes if hate is suppressed--stale and tasteless and vapid." - -"Are you talking about yourself and Oliver?" asked Mendel. - -"Yes." - -"Then please don't. I don't mind what happens between you and her so -long as it doesn't happen in front of me." - -"I'm sorry," said Logan; "but it can't always be prevented. I don't -see the use of pretence." - -"Neither do I. But some things are your own affair, and it is indecent -to let other people see them." - -"Oh, a row's a row!" said Logan cheerfully. "And one is all the better -for it." - -"But if a woman treated me like that I should never speak to her -again." - -"Love's too deep for that. You can't stand on your dignity in love." - -"I should make her understand once and for all that I would not have -it." - -"Then she would deceive you. If you played the tyrant over a girl like -Oliver she would deceive you." - -Mendel stared and his jaw dropped. Had Logan forgotten the night in -Paris? Was he such a fool as to pretend he did not know, could not see -that the whole liberation of frenzy in Oliver dated from that night? -. . . Oh, well! It was no affair of his. - -To change the subject he said:-- - -"We ought to get the press-cuttings to-morrow. I wonder if we shall -sell the lot? It's a good beginning, having tickets on your two." - -"I bet we sell the lot in a week. Oliver has two of the critics in her -pocket. What do you say to giving a party in honour of the event? We -can afford to forgive our enemies now, and there's a social side to -the movement which we ought not to neglect." - -Mendel made no reply. They were sitting on the front. The smooth, -glassy sea, reflecting the stars and the lights of the pier, soothed -and comforted him. Brighton was to him like a part of London, and he -sank drowsily into the happy fantasy that he was being thrust out of -the streets towards the stars and the vast power that lay beyond them. -He was weary of the streets and the clamour, and he wanted peace and -serenity, rest from his own turbulence, the peace which has no -dwelling upon earth and lives only in eternity. - -"How good it would be," he said suddenly, "if one could just paint -without a thought of what became of one's pictures." - -"That's no good," replied Logan. "One must live." - -* * * * * - -The first batch of cuttings arrived in the morning. They were brief, -for the most part, quite respectful and appreciative. Mendel learned, -to his astonishment, that he was influenced by Logan, and one critic -lamented that a promising young painter, who could so simply render -the life of his race, should have been infected with modern heresies. -There was no uproar, neither of them was hailed as a master, and Logan -in more than one instance was dismissed as an imitator of Calthrop. - -"Calthrop!" said Logan, gulping down his disappointment and disgust. -"Calthrop! Oh well, it is good enough for a beginning. It would have -been very different if you had let me print the manifesto. The swine -need to be told, you know. They want a lead. . . . We'll wait for the -Sunday papers." - -* * * * * - -London was curiously unchanged when they returned. Mendel was half -afraid he would be recognized as they came out of Charing Cross -Station, but no one looked at him. The convulsion through which he had -lived had left people going about their business, and he supposed that -if an earthquake happened in Trafalgar Square people would still be -going about their business in the Strand. - -They were eager for Oliver's account of the private view, and took a -taxi-cab to Camden Town. She was wearing her new dress and was quite -the lady: shook hands with Mendel and asked him haughtily in a mincing -tone how he was. From all these signs he judged that the exhibition -had been a success. - -"Quite a lot of people came," she said. "Real swells. There were two -motor-cars outside." - -"Yes," said Logan. "Tysoe agreed to leave his car outside for a couple -of hours to encourage people to go in." - -"Kühler's picture of the girl with short hair sold at once," she said. - -His pleasure in this news was swallowed up in his dislike of hearing -Morrison spoken of by her. - -"All your drawings but one are gone, Logan. I listened to what people -said. They wanted to know who you were, and Cluny said you had a great -reputation in the North. People laughed out loud at Kühler's _Ruth_, -and I heard one man say it was only to be expected. He said the Jews -can never produce art. They can only produce infant prodigies." - - - -IV - -REACTION - -LOGAN made nearly two hundred pounds out of the exhibition and Mendel -over a hundred. His family rejoiced in his triumph. A hundred pounds -was a good year's income to them. They rejoiced, but it was an -oppression to him to go back to them and to talk in Yiddish, in which -there were no words for all that he cared for most. Impossible to -explain to them about art, for they had neither words nor mental -conceptions. Art was to them only a wonderful way of making money, a -kind of magic that went on in the West End, where, once a man was -established, he had only to open his pockets for money to fall into -them. - -Up to a point he could share their elation, for in his bitter moments -he too was predatory. If the Christian world would not admit him on -equal terms he had no compunction about despoiling it. - -The words "infant prodigy" stuck in his throat, and with his family it -seemed indeed impossible that the Jews could produce art. How could -they, when they had no care for it? And how had he managed to find his -way to it? . . . Going back over his career step by step it seemed -miraculous, and as though there were a special providence governing -his life--Mr. Kuit, the Scotch traveller, Mitchell, Logan, all were as -though they had been pushed forward at the critical moment. And for -what? Merely to exploit an infant prodigy with a skilful trick? . . . -He could not, he would not believe it. The pressure that had driven -him along, the pressure within himself, had been too great for that, -just to squeeze him out into the open and to fill his pockets with -money. There was more meaning in it all than that, more shape, more -design. - -Yet when he considered his work he was lacerated with doubt. It ended -so palpably in the portrait of his father and mother, and he knew that -he could never go back to that again. An art that was limited to Jewry -was no art. Among the Jews no light could live. They would not have -it. They would snuff it out, for it was their will to dwell in dark -places and to wait upon the illumination that never came, as of course -it never would until they looked within themselves. - -Within himself he knew there was a most vivid light glowing, a spark -which only needed a breath of air upon it to burst into flame. He was -increasingly conscious of it, and it made him feel transparent, as -though nothing could be hidden from those who looked his way. What was -there to hide? If there was evil, it lived but a little while and was -soon spent, while that which was of worth endured and grew under -recognition. - -Thence came his devotion to Logan, who simply ignored everything that -apparently gave offence to others and saluted the rare, rich activity. -It was nothing to Logan that he was a Jew and poor and uneducated: he -was educated in art, and what more did he want? Logan was a friend -indeed, and had proved it over and over again. He would take his -doubts to Logan and they would be healed, but first he must go to the -exhibition, the thought of which made him unhappy and uneasy. - -Cluny received him with open arms:-- - -"A most successful exhibition. A great success. I hope you will let me -have some of your work by me. A most charming exhibition. There was -only one mistake, if I may say so: the _Ruth._" - -Mendel walked miserably through the rooms. All Logan's pictures were -in the best light: his own were half in shadow. - -"Mr. Logan has the making of a great reputation," said Cluny, "a very -great reputation." - -"Oh, very clever!" said Mendel, suddenly exasperated more by Logan's -pictures than by the dealer. - -Indeed, "very clever" was the right description for Logan's work. It -attracted and charmed and tickled, but it did not satisfy. The -pictures gave Mendel the same odd sense of familiarity as the picture -in Camden Town had done, and turning suddenly, his eye fell on his own -unhappy _Ruth_. The figure was shockingly bad. He acknowledged the -simpering sentimentality of the face. And he had been trying to paint -love! But in spite of the figure, the picture held him. It was to him -the matrix of the whole exhibition. Wiping out of consideration his -own early drawings, it explained and accounted for every other piece -of work. The least dexterous of them all, it had freshness and -vitality and a certain thrust of simplification which everything else -lacked. It was "solid," and worth all Logan's pictures put together. - -"Very good prices," said the dealer. "Very good indeed." - -Mendel paid no attention to him. He wanted to study his _Ruth_, to -find out its precise meaning for him, and, if possible, in what -mysterious part of his talent it had originated. - -It had made him feel happy again and had restored his confidence. He -was serenely sure of himself, without arrogance. He was almost humble, -yet tantalized because he could not think of a whole picture in the -terms of that one piece of paint. He remembered the strange excitement -in which he had conceived it, the almost nonchalance with which he had -executed it. And to think that not a soul had seen it! The fools! The -fools! - -He was ashamed to be seen looking so intently at his own work. The -next day he was back again and told Cluny that it was not for sale. - -"I don't think it's a seller, Mr. Kühler," said Cluny. - -"It's not for sale," repeated Mendel. - -He went every day and had no other thought. He wandered about in a -dream, not seeing people in the streets, not hearing when he was -spoken to. - -On the fifth day as he entered Cluny's he began to tremble, and he -fell against a man who was coming out. The blood rushed to his heart -and beat at his temples. He knew why it was. The air seemed full of an -enchantment that settled upon him and drew him towards the gallery. He -knew he was going to see her, and she was there with Clowes, standing -in front of his _Ruth._ Clowes was laughing at it, but Morrison, with -brows knit, obviously angry, was trying to explain it. - -"I'm trying to explain the cornfield to Clowes," she said. "Do come -and help me." - -"I can't explain it myself," he said, marvelling at the ease of the -meeting. At once he and she were together and Clowes was out of it, -like a dweller in another world. - -"I don't think you ought to do things you can't explain," said Clowes. - -"Then you are wiping out Michael Angelo, and El Greco, and Blake, and -Piero." - -"Yes," said Mendel. "You are wiping out inspiration altogether." - -"Oh! if you think you are inspired I have nothing more to say," -replied Clowes rather tartly. She had felt instinctively that Mendel -and Morrison would meet at the gallery, and was annoyed all the same -that it had happened. She knew how they were regarded, and she herself -did not approve. Morrison knew how impossible it was, and Clowes -thought she ought not to allow it to go on. - -Clowes also recognized how completely she was out of it, and she made -excuses and left them. - -"You are the only one who likes it," he said. - -"I don't like it, but I know that it isn't bad. It isn't good either, -but it is real and it is you." - -"I want no more than that," he said, "from you." - -In his mind he had prepared all sorts of reproaches for his meeting -with her, but they fell away from his lips. He could only accept that -it was good and sweet and natural to be with her. - -He told her quite simply how he had come to paint the picture, and how -he had tried to paint his love for her. She smiled and shook away her -smile. - -"I'm glad it isn't anything like that really," she said. - -"I tried to tell you what it was like when I wrote to you." - -"Yes." - -That was all she could say. She had been very unhappy, often -desperately wretched, because her instinct fought so furiously against -the idea of love with him whom she loved. - -"The picture has made me very happy," she added. "It means that what I -have been wanting to happen to you has happened. You _are_ different, -you know. I can talk to you so much more easily." - -He suggested that they should walk in the Park and spend the day -together, and she consented, glad that all the reproaches and storms -she had dreaded should be so lightly brushed away. - -* * * * * - -Happy, happy lovers, for whom nothing can defile the heavenly beauty -of this earth; happy, from whom Time streams away, bearing with it all -the foolish, restless activity of men; happy, for whom the pomps and -vanities of the world are as though they had never been! Thrice happy -two, who in your united spirit bear so easily all the beauty, all the -suffering, all the sorrow in the world, and bring it forth in joy, the -flower of life that cometh up as a vision, fades, and sheds its seed -upon the rich, warm soil of humanity. Emblem of immortality for ever -shining in the union of spirits, in the enchantment of two who are -together and in love. - -* * * * * - -So happy were they that they wandered for the most part in silence -through the avenues and over the grassy spaces of the Park. - -Of the two, she had the better brain, and, indeed, the stronger -character. She had been toughened in the struggle to break out of the -web of hypocrisy and meaningless tradition of gentility in which her -family was enmeshed, and the freedom she had won was very precious to -her. She kept it as a touchstone by which to measure her acquaintance -and her experience, and, using it now, she realized that there were -two distinct delights in being with Mendel on this tender autumn day; -one tempted her with its promise of furious joys and wild, baffling -emotions. It seduced her with its suggestion that this way lay -kindness, the gift to him of his desire, peace, and satisfaction. But -behind the suggestion of kindness lay a menace to her freedom, which, -being so much more precious than herself, she longed for him to share, -as in the keen happiness of that day he had done. That was the other -delight, more serene and more rare, infinitely more powerful, and she -would not have it sacrificed to the less. The gift of herself to which -she was tempted must mean the blending of her freedom with his, for -without that there would be no true gift, only a surrender. - -She could not think it out or make it clear to herself, but she knew -that it was surrender he was asking, and she knew that if she -surrendered she would be no more to him in a little while than the -other women of passage with whom his life was darkened. - -Ought she not then to tell him, to keep him from living in false -hopes? She persuaded herself that she ought, but she did not wish to -spoil this delicious day. It was such torture to her when he blazed -out at her and he became ugly with egoism. - -"Of course," he said, "the _Ruth_ makes all the difference. I can't -let you go now, because you are the only one who has really understood -my work. I am almost frightened of it myself, and it makes me feel -desperately lonely when I think of all I shall have to go through to -get at what it really means." - -"No. If you want me like that I don't want you to let me go," she -said, "for it is so important." - -"Yes," he said. "It may mean an entirely new kind of picture, for I -don't know anybody's work that has quite what is hammering away in my -head to get out. It must be because you love me that you can feel it -when no one else can. Even to Logan it is only like a superior -poster." - -How adorable he was in this mood of simplicity and humility! She could -relax her vigilance, and sway unreservedly to his mood and give him -all that he required of her, her clearness, her sensitive purity. - -"You are like no other woman in the world to me," he went on. "You -fill me with the most wonderful joy, like a Cranach or a Dürer -drawing. I can forget almost that you are a woman, so that it is a -most wonderful surprise that you are one after all. You are the only -person in the world whom I can place side by side with my mother." - -"You don't know what it is to me," she said, "to have a friend so -strong and frank as you are." - -He put out his hand and laid it on her arm wonderingly, as if to -satisfy himself that she was really there, much as on his first visit -to Hampstead he had touched the grass. - -"I think I shall live to be very old," he said, "and you will be just -the same to me then as you are now." - -"Oh, Mendel!" - -"Say that again!" he said, but she could not speak. Her eyes were -brimming with tears and she hung her head. She longed to take him to -her arms and to fondle him, to make him young, to charm away the -pitiful old weary helplessness that he had. Reacting from this mood in -her, which he did not understand and took for the first symptoms of -surrender, he became wild and boastful, and clowned like a silly boy -to attract her attention. - -Her will set against him. She could not endure the sudden swoop from -the highest sympathy to the gallantry of the streets, and when he was -weary of his tricks she tried to bring him to his senses by asking him -suddenly:-- - -"Is Logan a nice man?" - -"He is my best friend. He has wonderful ideas and energy like a -steam-engine, and he has suffered too. He is not like the art students -who expect painting pictures to be as easy as knitting. He could have -been almost anything, but he believes that art is the most important -thing of all. He has made a great difference to me, by teaching me to -be independent. . . . I will take you to see him one day." - -"I should like to meet him, because he has made a great difference in -you." - -"He steals." - -That gave Morrison a shock, for Mendel seemed to be stating the fact -as a recommendation. - -"Yes. When he has no money he steals. I went with him once and we -stole some reproductions." - -She was sorry she had mentioned Logan. Mendel was a different creature -at once. Their glamourous happiness was gone. Logan seemed to have -stalked in between them and the purity of their delight withered away. - -He felt it as strongly as she, but thought she was deliberately -escaping from him, that she was fickle and could not stay out the -day's happiness. Women, he knew, were like that. They gave out just as -the best was still to come. - -It was dusk and they were in a lonely glade. He pounced on her and -drew her to him:-- - -"I want you to kiss me." - -"No--no!" - -"Yes--yes--yes! I say you shall. I will not have you let it all slip -away." - -"Don't! Don't!" she said, in a passion of resentment. He was spoiling -it all. How could he be so crude and insensible after this matchless -day? - -At last he was convinced of her anger. - -"I don't understand you," he said. "Don't you want anything like -that?" - -"It has spoiled the day for me," she answered, "or almost, for nothing -could really spoil it." - -She walked on and he stood still for a moment. Then he ran after her. - -"Did you . . . did you hate me then?" - -"No, I didn't hate you. I hated myself more because I can't say what I -feel." - -"If you don't love me like that," he said, "I love you all the same. I -must see you often--always. I can't live, I can't work, if you don't -let me see you. . . . No. That isn't true. I shall work whatever -happens." - -How she loved his honesty! He was making no attempt to creep behind -her defences. They had baffled him, and he counted his wounds -cheerfully. - -"If you don't love me like that," he went on excitedly, "it doesn't -make any difference. You are my love all the same. You are in all my -thoughts, in every drop of my blood, and you can do with me as you -will. If you don't love me like that I will never touch you. I can -understand your not wanting to touch me, because I am dirty. I am -dirty in my soul. I will never touch you. I promise that I will never -touch you, and what you do not like in me you shall never see. . . ." - -She broke down, and burst into an unrestrained fit of weeping. Why -could she not make clear to him, to herself, what she felt so clearly? -. . . Oh! She knew she ought to tell him to go, to spare him all the -suffering that he must endure, but also she knew by the measure of her -need for him how sorely he must need her. Their need of each other was -too profound, too strong, too passionate, easily to find its way to -surface life, nor could it be satisfied with sweets too easily -attained. . . . She must wait. To leave him or to surrender to him -would be a betrayal of that high mystery wherein they had their -spiritual meeting. - -"I shall win," she said to herself, "I shall win. I know I shall win." - -And she amazed him with her sudden lightness of heart. She laughed and -told him how solemnly Clowes was taking it all, and how the -loose-tongued busybodies were talking. . . . As if it mattered what -they said! He mattered more than all of them, because they took easily -what was next to hand and grew fat on it, while he fought his way -upward step by step and was never satisfied, and would fight his way -always step by step with bloody pains and suffering. - -"Oh, Mendel!" she cried; "I'm so proud--so proud of you." - -She was too swift for him. He came lumbering after her, puzzled, -amazed, confounded at finding in this girl something that was so much -more than woman, something that could actually live on the high level -of his creative thought, something as necessary to his thought as dew -to the grass and the ripening corn. - - - -V - -LOGAN GIVES A PARTY - -THE impulse to take his doubts to Logan endured, and was aggravated by -the wretchedness into which Mendel was plunged by Morrison's return -and her powerful effect upon his life. He raged against himself as an -idiot and a fool for taking her seriously and for believing that she -could realize his work when as yet he understood it so little himself. -If it was love, then have the love-making and get it over. If she -refused, then let her go! What did she mean by slipping away just when -the day's happiness began to demand utterance, closeness, intimacy, -the promise of the dearest and most comfortable joys? - -He knew that he was deceiving himself, that she could do just as she -liked and it would make no difference, but he also knew that he -mistrusted her. In his heart he suspected her of being one of those -who like to pretend that life can be all roses and honey, that there -can be summer without winter, day without night. . . . Just a pretty -English girl, he called her, and, in his most bitter moods, he -regarded himself as caught; and in that there was a certain sardonic -satisfaction. It seemed appropriate that, having known many women -without a particle of love for them, he should be in love with a woman -who did not wish to have anything to do with him. - -When he told Logan about it, that experienced individual smoked three -cigarettes and was silent for ten minutes by the clock. - -"It won't do," he said; "give it up. You're in love with her. Oh yes! -You were bound to have your taste of it, being so young. But, for -God's sake, keep it clear of your work. I know it is very delightful -and all that, and like the first blush of spring, and that she seems -to understand everything. First love is always the same. She seems to -understand, but so do the violets in the woods, and the apple-blossom -in an orchard, and the singing birds on a spring morning. They all -seem to understand everything. Life is solved: there are no more -problems, and the rarest flower of all is the human heart. Yet the -violets and the apple-blossoms fade and the birds sing no more: the -spring passes and the summer is infernally hot and stale, and winter -comes at last. So it is with love and women. Nothing endures but art, -and that they are physically incapable of understanding. My God! Don't -I know it? A picture of mine means no more to Oliver than my boot -does--rather less, because my boot is warmed with the warmth of my -body. That's all _she_ understands." - -He looked down at the boots and fidgeted with his hands. - -"Yes. That's all _she_ understands," he repeated. - -He was very haggard, and he looked up at Mendel as though he were -trying to say something more than he could get into words; but Mendel -was preoccupied with his own perplexities, and Logan's appealing -glance was lost upon him. - -"I'm older than you," Logan continued, "and of course it is difficult -for me to say anything that will be of any use to you, but a man like -you ought not to let life get in his way. It isn't worth it. Life is -only valuable to you as a condition of working. Nothing in it ought to -be valuable for its own sake. Do you hear? You ought never to have -anything in your life that you couldn't sacrifice--couldn't do -without." - -He seemed to be rather thinking aloud than talking, and something -indescribably solemn in his voice made Mendel shiver. He had hardly -heard what Logan was saying and, thinking he must be in a draught, he -looked towards the window. - -Logan went on:-- - -"She'll be back in a moment. We don't often get the opportunity to -talk like this. She has begun to read books, and thinks she knows -about pictures now. She won't leave us alone. That damned critic has -been stuffing her up and she reads all his articles." - -He made a grimace of weary disgust. - -"I care about you, Kühler, almost more than I do about myself, which -is saying a good deal. Don't let this love business get mixed up with -your work, especially if, as you say, it is Platonic--that is the -worst poison of all--almost, almost. . . . Still, I'd like to see the -girl. Bring her to the party. We might join up and make a -quartette--if she can stand Oliver. Women can't, as a rule. They don't -like full-blooded people of their own sex." - -"She wants to know you," replied Mendel half-heartedly. "I'm always -talking to her about you." - -"All right," said Logan. "Bring her to the party." - -Downstairs the front door slammed and Logan gave a nervous start. His -whole aspect changed. He lost the drooping solemnity that had come -come over him and was stiff, quick, and alert, and prepared to be -droll, as he was when it was a question of humbugging Tysoe and Cluny. - -Oliver came in with a bottle of wine under each arm. She was in very -good spirits and looking remarkably handsome. - -"Hello, Kühler!" she cried. "How do you like being a success? We're -full of beans. We're going to take a house. Did Logan tell you?" - -"No," said Mendel. "I hadn't heard of it." - -"Well, it's true. We've done with the slums and being poor and all -that. We're going to have a house and I'm going to have a servant, and -I shall have nothing to do all day but eat chocolates and read novels -and have people to tea." - -"So you're going to be a real lady." - -"Yes. I'm going to wear a wedding-ring, and we're going to give out -that we're married, so that Mrs. Tysoe can call on me." - -"You're not going to do anything of the kind," snapped Logan. - -"I am. I don't see why I should have a beastly time just because you -won't marry me, setting yourself up against the world and saying you -don't believe in marriage." - -"I don't want to be more tied to you than I am," said Logan, -endeavouring to adopt a reasonable tone. - -He was curiously subdued, and never took his eyes off her. Mendel had -the impression that they must recently have had a quarrel. Logan was -endeavouring to placate her, but she was constantly aggressive. She -seemed to have gained in personality and to be possessed of a definite -will. She was no longer shrouded in the mists of sensuality, but stood -out clearly, a figure of such vitality that Mendel could no longer -keep his lazy contempt for her. Almost admirable she was, yet he found -her detestable. He thought she should be thanking her lucky stars for -having found such a man as Logan; she should be taking gratefully what -he chose to give her, instead of setting herself up and putting -forward her own vulgar needs. If a woman threw in her lot with an -artist, she ought to revel in her freedom from the petty interests and -insignificant courtesies that made the lives of ordinary women so -humiliating. - -What was she up to? He knew that there was a deeper purpose in her, -something very definite, for which she had been able to summon up her -raw vitality. He could understand Logan being fascinated. If he had -been in love with the woman he would have been the same, and his mind -would have been swamped by sensual curiosity. - -Before, he had always been rather mystified to know what Logan saw in -the woman, but now the infatuation was comprehensible to him. His mind -played about it with a strange delight, and he was even envious of -Logan to be consumed in the heart of that mystery upon whose fringes -he himself was held. And he thought that if he brought Morrison to see -them he would be able to understand her better, and might even be able -to place his finger on the weak place in her armour. - -"You two do give me the pip," said Oliver. "You sit there as glum and -silent as though you were in church. Taking yourselves too seriously, -I call it." - -Still in his forbearing tone Logan said:-- - -"We talk of things which are very hard to understand." - -"Oh, give it up!" she said. "Leave all that to folk with brains and -education. Why can't you just paint without talking about it? You'd -get twice as much work done." - -"Because, don't you see, unless you're a blasted amateur, you can't -paint without rousing all sorts of questions in your mind--questions -that don't seem to have anything to do with painting; but unless you -attempt to answer them there's no satisfaction in working." - -"Oh, cheese it!" she said; "I know what the critics look for, and it -has nothing to do with brains. It is like being in love." - -"Who told you that?" asked Logan with sudden heat; but before she -could answer him Mendel had exploded:-- - -"It is nothing at all like being in love. That is what all the beastly -Christians think of--being in love. And they want art always, always -to remind them of that--how they have been, are, or will be in love, -as they call it. And what they call being in love is nothing but a -filthy lecherous longing, which is a thousand miles beneath love, and -twenty thousand miles beneath art, which is so rare, so noble, so -beautiful a mystery that only those whom God has chosen can understand -it at all; for while you are in this state of longing you can -understand, you can feel nothing at all except a hungry delight in -yourself and your own sticky sensations. What can women know of art? -It needs strength and will, and women have neither; they have only -obstinate fancies." - -When he had done he was so astonished at himself that he gasped for -breath. Logan and Oliver, gaping at him, seemed ridiculous and little. -Talking to them was a waste of breath, because when she was there -Logan was not himself, but only a kind of excrescence upon her -monstrous vitality. The room seemed to stink. It was airless and -reeking with sex. He must get out and away, under the sky, among the -trees, upon his beloved Hampstead. . . . Without another word he -stalked away. - -"Well! I never!" exclaimed Oliver. "Is Kühler in love?" - -"Oh! shut up!" said Logan wearily. - -* * * * * - -For the party the room was cleared and a pianola was hired. The guests -were invited to bring their own glasses and drink, and also any -friends they liked. The result was that half the habitués of the Paris -Café turned up, including Jessie Petrie, Mitchell, and Thompson, who -was over for a short time from Paris, very important and mysterious -because he had something to do with a forthcoming exhibition of Modern -French Art which was to knock London silly. And there was a rumour -that Calthrop himself was coming. - -Oliver wore a new evening dress, which she had insisted on buying -because she was very proud of her bust and arms. The dress was of -emerald green silk and she looked very lovely in it--"Like a water -nymph," said Logan, and he went out and bought her a string of red -corals to give the finishing touch. - -"You won't have much of this kind of thing when we move," he said. "It -is to be farewell to Bohemia. I'm going to settle down to work. I've -taught Kühler a thing or two, but he has taught me how to work." - -"Damn Kühler! I hate him," said Oliver. - -"You can hate him as much as you choose. It won't hurt him or me. I'm -not a Hercules, and my work and you are about as much as I can -manage." - -"You're a nice one to be giving a party. You talk as though you would -be in your grave next week." - -"It is a farewell party." - -"'Farewell to the Piano,'" laughed Oliver. "That was the last piece I -learned when I had music lessons." - -Mitchell was among the first to arrive. He had been ill, and looked -washed-out and unwholesome. There was very little of the Public School -boy left in him. - -"Is Kühler coming?" he asked nervously. - -"I expect so," answered Logan. "Do you know how to manage a pianola?" - -"Yes. We've got one at home." - -"You might play it then, to keep things going until they liven up." - -Mitchell was placed at the pianola, and was still there when Mendel -arrived with Morrison. - -"I'm very glad to meet you," said Logan. "Kühler has talked about you -so often." - -"Yes," said Morrison. - -"I hope you don't mind a Bohemian party. They are a mixed lot." - -"No," said Morrison. - -"Good God!" thought Logan. "Not a word to say for herself!" - -Mendel introduced her to Oliver, who looked her up and down -superciliously--this little schoolgirl in her brown tweed coat and -skirt. - -"I'm sorry I didn't dress," said Morrison. "I didn't know." - -She shrank from the big, fleshy woman, who made her feel very unhappy. -Yet she wanted to be fair. She had heard Mendel storm and rage against -Oliver and she hated to be prejudiced. It distressed her not to like -anybody, for she found most people likeable. She tried to be -amiable:-- - -"I'm so glad the exhibition was such a success. Everybody is talking -about it." - -"Oh! yes, yes," said Oliver vacantly. Obviously she was not listening. -She had eyes only for the men, and she bridled with pleasure when she -attracted their attention. - -Morrison was glad to escape to a corner, where she could watch the -strange people and be amused by them, their attitudes and gestures and -queer, conceited efforts deliberately to charm each other. - -She blushed when she saw Mitchell at the pianola, and thought she had -been rather foolish and weak to allow Mendel to bully her into -dismissing him from her acquaintance, and she was relieved when she -saw Mendel take in the situation and go up to Mitchell and tap him on -the shoulder and enter into eager discussion of the pianola. She was -less happy when she saw Mendel take Mitchell's place, and Mitchell -make a bee-line for herself. - -An astonishing change came over the music, which got into Mendel's -blood. It was maddening, it was glorious to feel that he had all that -wealth of sound in his hands. He knew nothing of music, and it was -almost pure rhythm to him, and he wished to beat it out, to accentuate -it as much as possible. The machine confounded him every now and then -by running too fast or too slow, but he soon learned to pedal less -violently, and then he was gloriously happy and drunk with excitement. - -Astonishing, too, was the change in the company. Everybody began to -talk and to laugh, and space was cleared in the middle of the room, -and Clowes and a young man from the Detmold began to dance. Jessie -Petrie and Weldon joined them, and soon the room was full of whirling, -gliding couples. - -Said Mitchell to Morrison:-- - -"I didn't expect to find you here. Are you going to dance?" - -"No. I like watching." - -He sat on the floor by her side, and, hanging his head, he said -woefully:-- - -"So Kühler's won! Gawd! He always gets what he wants. There's no -resisting him." - -"Don't be absurd," said Morrison. "I hear you've been ill." - -"Yes. I've been going to the dogs, absolutely to the dogs. I had to -pull up. . . . I didn't know you knew Logan; but, of course, as he's -so thick with Kühler----!" - -"I met him for the first time to-night. What do you think of his -work?" - -"Flashy!" said Mitchell. "Very flashy. . . . Will you let me come and -see you again?" - -"I'd rather not, if you don't mind." - -"Why do you dislike me so much?" - -"I don't dislike you. I can't trust you not to be silly." - -"Gawd! I bet I'm not half so silly as Kühler!" - -"He is never silly!" - -"Ah! Now you're offended!" - -She turned away from him and refused to speak again. His -half-flirtatious, half-patronizing manner offended her deeply, and was -far more of an affront to her than Logan's almost open scorn of her as -a little bread-and-butter miss. She wished Mendel would leave the -pianola, but he was enthralled and could not tear himself away. He -played the same tune over and over again, or went straight from one to -another, swaying to and fro, beating time with his hands, swinging his -head up and down. - -Mitchell went very red in the face and slipped away. Presently she saw -him dancing with Oliver. - -After a few moments she found Logan by her side, and he said kindly:-- - -"I'm afraid you are not enjoying yourself much." - -"Oh yes!" she gasped, in a frightened voice. - -"I was thinking you were not used to this kind of thing." - -"Oh yes! I often go to parties in people's studios." - -"I remember, I saw you at the Merlin's Cave one night." - -"Yes, I remember. I didn't enjoy that a bit. It all seemed such a -sham." - -"So it was," said Logan. "So is most of this. These people aren't -really wicked, though they like to pretend they are. I don't dance -myself. I'm too clumsy. Clog-dancing I can do, but not dancing with -anybody else. . . . But perhaps I am keeping you----?" - -"Oh no! I'm very happy looking on." - -"Kühler's worth watching, isn't he?" - -This was said with such insolent meaning that Morrison wilted like a -sensitive plant. She managed to gasp out "Yes," and went on asking -wild, pointless questions, with her thoughts whirling far removed from -her words. - -Why were all these people so impertinent, with their trick of plunging -into intimate life without waiting for intimacy? She felt that in a -moment Logan would be telling her all about himself and Oliver by way -of luring her on to discuss Mendel. That she had no intention of -doing, with him or with any one else. - -"She's just a shy little fool," thought Logan, "and hopelessly, -hopelessly young." - -"I'm unhappy!" thought Morrison, and it seemed to her foolish and mean -to be so. Her loyalty resented her weakness. She owed it to Mendel to -enjoy herself and to share as far as she could his friends. But there -was in the atmosphere of that gathering something that repelled her -and roused the fighting quality in her, something indecent, something -that hurt her as the picture of the flayed man in the anatomy book -hurt her. - -Mendel was playing a wild rag-time tune. - -"I think I'd like to dance to this tune. You must dance with me. I -don't think you ought to be out of your own party," she said to Logan, -who caught her up in a great bear's hug, trod on her toes, knocked her -knees, pressed his fingers so tight into her back that she could -hardly bear it, and at last, as the music ceased, deposited her by -Mendel's side. - -"It is a marvellous thing, this machine," he said. "I should like to -go on at it all night. Have you been dancing? You look hot. You said -you weren't going to dance." - -"I made Logan dance. He nearly killed me!" - -"How did you get on?" - -"Not--not very well." - -"You don't like him?" - -Jessie Petrie came running up: "Kühler, Kühler!" she cried. "Do, do -dance with me!" - -He was very angry with Morrison for daring not to like Logan, for -making up her mind in two minutes that she did not like him. He gave -her a furious glance as Weldon took his place and started a waltz, put -his arms round Jessie's waist, and swung into the dance. - -"Oh, Kühler!" said Jessie in her pretty birdlike voice, "I heard the -most awful story about you the other day." - -"Do be quiet!" he grunted. "Dance!" - -But he was out of temper, out of tune, and the music he had been -crashing out on the pianola was thudding in his head, so that he could -not respond either to the music of the waltz or to Jessie's eagerness. - -"Isn't it funny Thompson being back in London? I don't like him a bit -now. You have spoiled me for everybody else. Do you want me to come on -Friday as usual?" - -"Do be quiet." - -"What's the matter? You aren't dancing at all nicely and you haven't -looked at me once this evening." - -"No; don't come on Friday." - -"Not----?" - -Her voice was shrill with pain. - -"No. That's all over." - -She hung limp in his arms and her face was a ghastly yellow. She -muttered:-- - -"Take me out. . . . I think I'm going to faint." - -He half-carried her into the passage, where she sat on the stairs and -began to cry. Neither of them noticed Clowes and the young man from -the Detmold sitting above them. - -"Don't cry!" he said roughly; "what have you got to cry about?" - -"I never thought you only wanted me for that." - -"You came to me. I didn't ask you to come." - -"But I do love you so. I only want you to love me a little." - -"I don't know how to love a little. When I love it is with the whole -of me, and it is for always." - -"But can't we be pals, just pals? We've been such pals." - -"I'm sick to death of it all," he said violently, "sick to death. -You're the best girl in London, Jessie, but it's no good--it's no -good." - -Clowes and the young man ostentatiously and with a great clatter went -higher up the stairs, but neither Jessie nor Mendel heard them. The -pain and the shame they were suffering absorbed them. - -"I never thought," said Jessie, "it was near the end. I've always -known when it was near the end before. It is like being struck by -lightning." - -Mendel was silent. He could do nothing. There was nothing to be said. -Jessie had consoled him, comforted him, but she had only made his -suffering worse. By the side of Morrison she simply did not exist, and -it had been a lie to pretend that she did. That lie must be cut out. - -"I never thought you only wanted me for that," she repeated, and began -to move slowly down the stairs. At the bend she stopped and looked up -at him, gave a little muffled cry, and moved slowly down into the dim -lobby of the house. - -Mendel gripped the banisters with both hands and shook them until they -cracked. - -"How horrible!" he muttered to himself; "how horrible!" - -Upstairs, Clowes was boiling with rage. She lost all interest in her -young man, and as soon as Mendel had returned to the room she raced -downstairs, almost sobbing, and saying to herself:-- - -"That settles you, Master Kühler! That settles you!" - -She darted across to Morrison, who had taken refuge in a corner, -seized her by the hand and whispered:-- - -"Greta! Greta! I've just heard the most frightful thing. I couldn't -help overhearing it and I ought not to tell anybody, but you ought to -know. Kühler and Petrie! It must have been going on for months. He -broke with her in the most cold-blooded way. It was heart-rending. I -can't bear it. Oh! these men, these men!" - -Morrison clenched her fists and her eyes blazed. - -"Don't tell me any more!" she said. "Don't tell me any more!" - -"I want to go home," whispered Clowes. "It is a dreadful party. That -awful green woman spoils everything. It is like a nightmare to me now. - -"It wouldn't be fair to go without telling him," said Morrison. "It -wouldn't be fair." - -"But you can't think of him after that," protested Clowes. "Oh! good -gracious! There's Calthrop coming in. It is getting worse and worse." - -Calthrop swung into the room with his magnificent stride. As usual, -his entrance created a dramatic sensation. Logan, who had always -decried his work, leaped to meet him and Mendel stood shyly waiting -for his nod. . . . Whom would the great man speak to? That was the -question. . . . He fixed his eyes on Oliver and strode up to her. - -"You're the best-looking woman in the room," he said. "Do you like -cinemas?" - -"I adore them," said Oliver, with an excited giggle. - -"Now, now's the chance!" whispered Clowes. "We can slip away now, -before they begin drinking." - -"I must tell him," replied Morrison, and, summoning up all her -courage, she went up to Mendel and asked if she could speak to him. He -went out with her, trembling in every limb. - -"I am going," she said. "I have just heard something. Clowes overheard -you and Jessie Petrie. She ought not to have told me. I don't know -what I feel about it. Very wretched, chiefly. Please don't try to see -me." - -"I have told you what I am again and again," he said. - -"Yes. You are very honest, but it is hard for a girl to imagine these -things. Please, please see how hard it is and let me be." - -"Very well," he answered, feeling that the whole world had come to an -end. "Very well." - -She called Clowes, who had stayed just inside the door, and together, -like little frightened children, they crept downstairs. - -"Good-bye love!" said Mendel. "My God, what rubbish, what folly, what -nonsense! Love and a Christian girl! That's over. That's finished. I -am outside it all--outside, outside, outside. Oh! Dark and vile and -bitter, and no sweetness anywhere but in my own thoughts!" - -Inside the room someone began to sing:-- - - I want to be, I want to be, - I want to be down home in Dixie. . . . - -Oh! the mad folly of these Christians, with their childish songs, -their idiotic pleasures, their preposterous belief in happiness. . . . -Happiness! They ruin the world to satisfy their childish longing, and -all their happiness lies in words and foolish songs. . . . The rhythm -of the pianola tunes began to beat in his head, and another deeper -rhythm came up from the depths of his soul and tried to break through -them. It was the same rhythm that always came up when he had reached -the lowest depths of misery. It came gushing forth like water from the -rock of Moses, and crept through his being like ice, up, up into his -thoughts, bringing him to an intolerable agony. - -In the room glasses clinked. He turned towards the light and plunged -into the carouse. - - - -VI - -REVELATION - -THREE weeks later the exhibition of Modern French Art was opened in an -important gallery in the West End. It roused indignation, laughter, -scorn, and made such a stir in the papers that public interest was -excited and the exhibition was an unparalleled success. People from -the suburbs, people who had never been to a picture gallery in their -lives, flocked to see the show, and most of them, when they left, -said: "Well, at any rate we've had a good laugh." - -Mendel never read the papers and knew nothing at all about it. These -three weeks had been a time of blank misery for him. He could not -work. His people set his teeth on edge. He could not bear to see a -soul, for he could not talk. When he met friends and acquaintances, -not a word could he find to say to them. There was nothing to say. -They were living in a world from which he had been expelled. More than -once he was on the point of going to his father and asking to be taken -into the workshop, since the only possible, the only bearable life was -one of hard manual labour, which left no room for spiritual activity, -none for happiness, and very little for unhappiness. - -He found some consolation in going to the synagogue. His mother was -delighted, but the religion was no comfort to him. What pleased him -was to see the old Jews in their shawls and the women in their beaded -gowns, praying each in their separate parts of the building--praying -until they wept, and abasing themselves before the Lord. What woe, -what misery they expressed! All the year round was this dismal -wailing, and there was only happiness on the day that Haman was -hanged. . . . It seemed good and decent to him that the sexes should -be separate before the Lord, as they should be separate before the -holy spirit that was in them. They should meet in holiness, hover for -a moment above life, then sink back into it again to gather new -strength. So love would be in its place. It could be gathered up and -distilled. It would not be allowed to spread like a flood of muddy -water over life, which had other passions, other delights, other -glorious flowerings. - -It had been a great day for him when, in a little shop near his home, -he had come on a pair of wooden figures rudely carved by -savages--African, the shopman said they were. Rudely carved, they were -not at all realistic, but admirably simplified, the man and the woman -sitting side by side, naked. The man was wearing a little round bowler -hat, while the woman was uncovered. They had the spirit and the idea -that he most loved--the idea of man and woman sitting side by side, -bound in love, unfathomably deep and unimaginably high, until one -should follow the other to the grave. - -He showed them to Golda, and told her they were she and his father. - -"What next will you be up to?" she said. "Why, they are blackamoors." - -"They are you and my father," he said, caressing the figures lovingly. - -"I wish you would put the thought of that girl out of your head," she -said tenderly. "It is making you so ill and so thin, and I dare not -think what your father will say when he knows you are drinking again." - -"Mother," he said, "when did you begin to love me?" - -"When you were born," she said. - -"Yes, yes. I know, as a cow loves its calf. But I mean _love_, for you -do not love the others the same as me." - -"You were not so very old when it came to me that you were different." - -"But it is more now that I am a man?" - -"Of course." - -That settled his mind on the point that had been bothering him. -Everywhere among the Christians love--the love that he knew and -honoured--seemed to be lost in a soft, spongy worship of the mother's -love for her child. The woman seemed to be wiped out of account -altogether except as a mother. It seemed that she was not expected to -love, and she was left by herself with the child, with the man looking -rather foolish all by himself, seeing his strong, beautiful masculine -love absorbed and given to the senseless little lump of flesh in the -woman's arms. It was like discarding the flower for the seed, like -denying the wonder of spring for the autumn fruit. - -"If that is your Christian love," he said to himself, "I will have -none of it." - -He studied the Madonnas in the National Gallery, and they confirmed -his impression of the weakness of Christian love, that left out the -strong, vital love of a man for a woman, of a woman for a man. He -characterized it as womanish, and could not see that the ideal had -served to save women from male tyranny. Moreover, most of the pictures -struck him as shockingly bad, which confirmed his notion that the -ideal that inspired them was rotten. - -He could not test his ideas by his experience with Morrison, for he -dared not think of her at all. When his mother spoke of her, it had -been like a sharp knife through his heart. . . . Yes. _That_ was love, -and it could not be bothered with the idea of children. If they came, -it would make room for them, but it was not going to be robbed by -them. Its object was the woman, and it detested any idea that got -between it and her. . . . Yet when this love for Morrison stood -between himself and his love for art, he hated her almost as -violently. Sometimes he thought that he would kill her, because she -stood there smiling. She was always smiling. She could be happy; she -could so easily be happy. . . . - -* * * * * - -Logan came to fetch him to go to the exhibition. - -"I don't want to go to the exhibition. I don't want to see other -people's pictures. I want to paint my own." - -"What are you working at?" - -"Nothing." - -"What's the matter?" - -"Sex." - -"Oh! That's always the matter with everybody." - -"But I've thought of something." - -"What?" - -"Women don't love their children." - -Logan roared with laughter, and he went on laughing because he enjoyed -it. It was long since he had laughed so easily. - -"Most of them do," he said. "Even if they've hated having them." - -"They don't," said Mendel. "It's instinct just to gloat over them, -just as one gloats over a picture one has just finished, however bad -it may be. It has cost you something, and there is something to show -for it. It is quite blind and stupid, like an animal. It is like lust. -It is neither true nor false. It just _is_, chaotic and half-created. -Love is a human thing. Love is the most human thing there is. When a -clerk marries a girl because he wants a woman, I don't call that love. -He is only making himself comfortable. There is a little more dirt in -the world, that is all." - -Logan laughed uncomfortably. - -"Please listen," said Mendel. "I have been nearly mad this last -fortnight, ever since the party. All my life seems to have broken its -way into my mind, and I don't know when I shall be able to get it out -again. It is very important that I should talk, and I have no one -really to talk to except you. I am very lonely because I am a Jew and -people do not understand me, or rather they think they understand me -because I am a Jew. They think all Jews are the same. It is very -rarely that I feel I am accepted as a man with thoughts, feelings, -tears, laughter, tastes, bowels, senses like any other man." - -"I know," said Logan sympathetically. - -"How can you know? You have only to live in a world that is ready-made -for you. I have to make mine as I go, step by step." - -"That isn't because you are a Jew, but because you are an artist. It -is the same for all of us." - -"It can't be the same, for the ordinary world is not utterly foreign -to you. You do not find that which you were brought up to believe, the -wisdom you sucked in with your mother's milk, completely denied. . . . -I tell you, love is all wrong, and because love is all wrong, art is -all wrong, everything is wrong, and so is everybody. Everybody is -living with only a part of himself, so that the cleverest people are -the worst and most mischievous fools. I tell you, there are times in -your West End when I can hardly breathe because people are such fools. -If you are successful, they smile at you. If you are not successful, -they look the other way. . . . Oh! I know it does not matter, but it -makes success a paltry thing, and when you have lived for it and -hungered for it, what then? What are you to do when it is like sand -trickling through your fingers?" - -"You can't stop it," said Logan. "You can't throw it away. You can -only go on working, come what may." - -"Yes," replied Mendel dubiously, and grievously disappointed. He had -so hoped to squeeze out his twisted, tortured feelings into words, but -at a certain point Logan failed him and seemed to shy at his thought. -To a certain quality of passion in himself Logan was insensible. Where -his own passion began to gain in clear force and momentum, swinging -from the depths of life to the highest imagination, only gaining in -strength as the ascent grew more arduous, Logan's remained in an -exasperated intensity. - -"I'm sorry," said Mendel. "Talking is no use. I've found my way out of -as bad times as this, and shall again. It is no good talking. I will -sit as silent as the little figures there, and in time I shall know -what I must do." - -"You want taking out of yourself," muttered Logan irritably. "Come and -see Thompson's show." - -* * * * * - -As successful artists they entered the gallery self-consciously and -rather contemptuously. That did not last long. There were many people -sniggering at the Van Goghs and the Picassos, but Mendel's thoughts -flew back to a still-life he had painted of a blue enamel teapot and a -yellow matchbox years ago. He had painted them as he had seen them, in -raw, crude colour, but the picture had been so derided, and he had -been so scornfully reminded that there were no brilliant colours in -nature, that he had painted the same subject over again with a very -careful rendering of what was called "atmosphere." - -Here were crude colours indeed--almost, in many cases, as they came -from the tubes, and as for drawing, there was hardly a trace of it, -yet in the majority of the pictures there was a riotous freedom which -rushed like a cleansing wind through Mendel's mind, and it seemed to -him that here was the answer to many of his doubts--not a clear vision -of art, but a roughly indicated road to it. It was absurd to sit -cramping over rules and difficult technicalities when the -starting-point of art lay so far beyond them. There was much rubbish -in the show, but the works of Cézanne and Picasso were undeniably -pictures. They were not flooded with a clear loveliness, like the -pictures of Botticelli or Uccello, but they had beauty, and lured the -mind on to seek another more mysterious beauty beyond them. - -The two friends went through the exhibition in silence. As they left, -Mendel asked:-- - -"Well! what did you think of it?" - -"We're snuffed out," replied Logan despondently. - -"Not I!" cried Mendel. "I'm only just beginning." - -"I don't understand it yet. It has made my eyes and my head ache. At -first it seemed to me too cerebral to be art at all, but there's no -denying it, and it has to be digested. In a way it is what I have -always been talking about. It has to do with the life we are living, -which may not be much of a life, but it is ours and we find it good. -It has not been a plunge into another world, like a visit to the -National Gallery, but into some reality a little beyond this -extraordinary jumble and hotch-potch of metropolitan life." - -"It is painting," said Mendel. "That is enough for me. And they are -not afraid of colour. Why should they be? The colours are there: why -not use them? I'm going to." - -And he went home and dashed off a savage mother with a green face -thrusting a straw-coloured breast into the gaping red lips of a child. - -So much for maternity and the Madonnas! He knew how a man loved his -mother, and it was not in that milky way, setting her above nature, -she who was tied and bound to natural, instinctive, animal life. If a -man loved his mother, it was because with her it was the easiest thing -in the world to be intimate and frank and honest and without pretence -of any kind. - -His mother was marvellous to him because she was his dearest friend, -not because she had given him suck. That was a fact like any other, -and facts were not marvellous until more and more light was thrown on -them from the mind, for in the murk and muddle of human life they were -distorted. - -For Mendel this was the wildest and rarest adventure yet. It was a -flinging of his cap over the windmills, and with it he had the sense -of losing all his troubles, all his perplexities. Nothing for the time -being seemed to matter very much. He had always been denied colour, -and here he had the right to use it because it had been used by other -men rightly. In the world of art, or rather of artists, he had always -been a sort of Ishmael, ever since he had outgrown being a prodigy, -and here was a new world of art where he could be free. . . . True, he -had seen the same things in Paris and had not thought much of them, -but so much had happened since then, and he had passed through the -greatest crisis of his life. - -Always after his crises he expected to find himself, and now he -thought he had surely done so. He would be entirely free, completely -independent. - -For three weeks he lived between his studio and the gallery, studying -these strange new vibrant pictures and experimenting with their -manners as now this, now that painter influenced him. Picasso baffled -him altogether. These queer, violent, angular patterns actually hurt -him, and he was repelled by their intellectual intensity. Gauguin he -found too easy, Van Gogh too incoherent. It was when he came to -Cézanne that he was bowled out and reduced to impotence and all the -egoistic excitement oozed out of him. - -He was not so free then. Here was an art before which he must be -humbled and subdued if he was to understand it at all. He abandoned -his experiments and made no attempt to work at all, but bought a -reproduction of Cézanne's portrait of his wife and spent many days -poring over it. It held him and fascinated him, and yet it looked -almost like the unfinished work of an amateur who could not draw. Of -psychological interest the picture was bare. It was just a portrait of -a woman at peace, with her hands folded in her lap, bathed in a -serenity beyond mortal understanding, though not beyond mortal -perception, since a man had rendered it in paint. It released directly -the swift, soaring emotion which, though it was roused in him by many -pictures and by some poetry--passages in the Bible, for instance--was -quickly entangled in sensual pleasure and never properly set free. -Here, the more he gazed the more that emotion, pure, disinterested, -unearthly, rushed through him, exploring all the caverns in his -imagination and delivering from them new powers of perception. He -felt, as he told Logan afterwards, like a tree putting out its leaves -in the spring. - -And yet he could not tell how this miracle was accomplished. No words -could explain it--abstraction, composition, design, none of these -words helped at all. It was not so much the doing of the thing, the -art of the painter, as the setting out of the woman on the canvas -without reference to anything in heaven or earth, or any idea, or any -emotion or desire. It was enough that she was a woman, not especially -beautiful, not particularly remarkable. So perfect a vision had no -need to be tender or affectionate or sensual, or to call in aid any of -the emotions of life. It needed no force but the rare religious -ecstasy which has no need of ideas or common human feelings, and this -vision of a woman gave Mendel a new appreciation of life and love and -art. It gave human beings a new value. It was enough that they were -alive and upon the earth with all that they contained of good and -evil. They were in themselves wonderful, and there was no need to -worry about whence they came or whither they were going, or what was -their relation to God and the universe. In each man, each woman was -enough of God and of the universe to keep them poised for their little -hour. - -What, then, was love? What but the sense of being poised, of being -borne up by God, an intimation that could only be won through contact -with life at its purest. And beyond that again lay a further degree of -purity which could only find expression in art, since life, even at -its rarest, was too gross. - -Often Mendel kissed his reproduction reverently and hugged it to his -bosom, thinking childishly that some of its spirit could enter into -him by contact. He whispered to it:-- - -"I love you. You are my truth and my joy rising up through life, even -from its very depths, and shaking free of it at last into pure, serene -beauty. You weigh neither upon my senses nor upon my thoughts, but, -following you, they are joined together to become a high sense which -can know deliverance." - -Followed days of a supreme delight. He wandered through the streets -seeing all men and all women and all things as wonderful, since -through them all flowed this lovely spirit which in the few men here -and there could find its freedom and its expression in form. - -Through Thompson he met a journalist who was writing a book about the -new painting, and from him he learned the little that was known about -Cézanne: how he worked away experimenting unsuccessfully until he was -middle-aged, and then withdrew from the world of artists in Paris, to -live the life of a simple country bourgeois and to paint the vision -which he had begun to divine: and how he painted out in the fields, -leaving his canvases in the hedges and by the wayside, because not the -painting but the expression of his spirit and the solution of his -problem mattered to him: and how he never sold a single picture, never -attempted to sell them. - -Such, thought Mendel, should the life of an artist be. But how was it -possible if life would not let him alone, but was perpetually dragging -him down into the mud? What mud, what filth he had had to flounder -through to get even so far as he had! - -And already he began to feel that he was slipping back. He could not -accept that knowledge of the spirit vicariously, but must fight for -his own knowledge of it in direct contact with life. To endeavour to -escape from life was to isolate himself, to lose the driving force of -life from darkness into the light, to dwell in the twilight of -solitude armed only with his puny egoism and the paltry tricks of -professional painting. He felt that at last he knew his desire, but in -no wise how to attain it. Cézanne had had a wife: that had settled one -of the torments of life. He had had ample means: that had absolved him -from the ever-present difficulty of money. - -These considerations relieved Mendel from another weighty puzzle. -Perhaps if Cézanne had had to please other people and not only his own -spirit, he would have cared more for his craft and for the quality of -his paint. . . . All the same, it was good to have pictures reduced to -their bare essentials, relieved of ornament and trickery, and yet -retaining their full pictorial quality. - -* * * * * - -Shortly after the party Logan and Oliver had moved to a little cottage -on Hampstead Heath, just below Jack Straw's Castle. Mendel went to see -them there and met Logan on the Spaniard's Road. He was in a -deplorable condition. His right eye was blackened, his nose was bloody -and scratched, the lobe of his ear was torn and his forehead was -purple with bruises. - -"What on earth have you been doing to yourself!" asked Mendel. - -"I've had a fight," said Logan glibly. "The other night on the Heath I -came on a man beating a girl. I went for him. He was a huge lout of a -man. We had a terrific tussle, and just as I was getting him down the -girl went for me and scratched my face." - -"If you lived where I do," said Mendel, "you would know better than to -interfere." - -"Oh! I enjoyed it," said Logan. "I couldn't stand by and see it done." - -They ran down the grassy slope to the cottage, where they found Oliver -entertaining Thompson and her critic. She had a slight bruise over her -right eye, and Mendel thought:-- - -"Why does he lie? Why should he lie to me? I should think no worse of -him for beating her. If I could not shake her off I should kill her." - -He was filled with a sudden disgust at the household, which in his -eyes had become an obscene profanation. - -The talk was excited, and formerly he would have found it interesting. -Thompson was full of the triumph of the exhibition and its success in -forcing art upon the public. He spoke glibly of abstraction and -cubing, and it was clear that they only delighted him as new tricks. - -Oliver took part in the conversation. She had picked up the jargon of -painters and made great play with the names of the new masters. To -hear her talking glibly of Cézanne and saying how he had shown the -object of pictorial art to be pattern filled Mendel's soul with -loathing. He could not protest. What was the good of protesting to -such people? . . . If only Logan had not been among them! He wanted to -talk to Logan, to tell him what this new thing meant, to make him see -that he must give up all thought of turning art back upon life, -because life did not matter so very much. It could look after itself, -while the integrity of art must at all costs be maintained. - -However, when Thompson said that the artist was now free to make up a -picture out of any shapes he liked, Mendel could not contain himself, -and said:-- - -"The artist is no more free than ever he was. He does not become free -by burking representation. He is not free merely to work by caprice -and fantasy. He is rather more strictly bound than ever, because he is -working through his imagination and cannot get out of it merely by -using his eyes and imitating charming things. If he tries to get out -of it by impudent invention, then pictures will be just as dull and -degraded as before." - -"'I am Sir Oracle,'" said the critic, "'and when I ope my lips let no -dog bark.'" - -"You can bark away," cried Mendel, "but you must not complain if a man -loses patience with you and kicks you back into your kennel." - -"Just listen to the boy!" cried Oliver. "Success has turned his pretty -little head. Just listen to him teaching the critics their business!" - -Mendel gave her a furious look of contempt and left the room and the -house. Logan came running after him. - -"I say, old man," he said, "you mustn't mind what she says. Those damn -fools have stuffed her head up with their nonsense and she hasn't the -brains of a louse." - -"If it was my house, I would kick them out." - -"They are good fellows enough." - -"Good fellows! When they make her more idiotic and blatant than she -is!" - -"I can't think what made you so angry. There was nothing to flare up -about. You are so touchy." - -Mendel was walking at a furious pace. Logan was out of condition and -had to beg him to go more slowly. - -"I'm all to bits," said Logan. "That row----" - -"Why do you tell lies? It was she who mauled you. Why do you tell lies -to me? I have never told lies to you about anything. You have always -jeered at women and said they can know nothing about art, and yet you -let her talk. . . . Why don't you leave her?" - -"We're very fond of each other," replied Logan. "It has gone too deep. -We hate each other like poison sometimes, but that only makes it--the -real thing--go deeper." - -"I can't bear it," said Mendel; "I can't bear it. It was bad enough -when she kept quiet, but now that she gives herself airs and talks, I -can't stand it. I hate her so that I feel as if the top of my head -would blow off. . . . Perhaps there was nothing much in what she said. -Perhaps it was only a slow growing detestation coming to a head. But -there it is. It is final. I have tried to like her, to be decent to -her, to make allowances for her, but it is impossible." - -"You don't mean you are not going to come to see us again?" - -"Yes. That is what I do mean. She doesn't exist for me any longer. If -I met her in a café or in the streets she would be all right. She -would be in her place. There would be some truth in her. In connection -with you she is a festering lie." - -"She can't settle down to it," replied Logan lamely, ashamed of his -inability to defend Oliver from this onslaught. Defence would be quite -useless, for he knew that Mendel would detect his untruth. If only -Mendel were a little older, if only he could have grown out of youth's -dreadful inability to compromise. - -"She can't settle down," Logan continued. "She is a creature of -enormous vitality and she has no life outside herself, no imagination. -Can't you see that her vitality has no outlet? I don't know, but it -seems to me appalling to think of these modern women with their -independence, and nothing at all to do with it. They won't admit the -authority of the male, and they have broken out of the home. A lot of -them refuse to have children. I feel sorry for them." - -"Don't go on talking round and round the subject," cried Mendel -wrathfully. He was really alarmed and pained as he saw himself being -carried nearer and nearer to a breach with his friend. "I can't feel -sorry for her and I don't. She is ruining you. You never laugh -nowadays. You are always more dead than alive, and I cannot bear to -see you with her. I cannot bear even to think of you with her." - -"For God's sake, don't talk like that!" muttered Logan, quickening his -pace to keep up, for Mendel was flying along. - -"You must either give her up or me," said Mendel. - -"Don't say that!" pleaded Logan; "don't say that! I can't get on -without you. I don't see how I can get on without you. All the -happiness I have ever had has come through you. Every hope I have is -centred in you. If you go, life will become nothing but work, work, -work, with nobody to understand. Nobody. . . . And I have been so full -of hope. All this new business has made such a stir and has brought -such life into painting that I had begun to feel that anything was -possible. There might be even a stirring of the spirit to stem the -tide of commercialism. You know what my life has been--one long -struggle to find a way out of the pressure of vulgarity and sordid -money-making, out of sentimentality and pretty lying fantasy, out of -the corruption that from top to bottom is eating up the life of the -country. You know that when I met you I had almost given up the -struggle in despair. One man alone could not do it. But two men -could--two men who trusted and believed in each other. . . . You were -very young when I first met you, but you have come on wonderfully. It -has been thrilling for me to watch the growth of your mind and the -strengthening of your character. You are the only man I ever met who -could really stand by himself. . . . It isn't easy for me to say all -this, but I must tell you what your friendship has meant to me." - -The more Logan talked, the more he divulged his feelings, his very -real affection, the more Mendel's mind was concentrated on the one -purpose, to get him away from Oliver. - -"You must give her up," he said. - -"I can't," gasped Logan. - -They stood facing each other, Mendel staring into his friend's eyes -that looked piteously, wearily, miserably out of his haggard, battered -face. He could not endure it, and he could not yield to the entreaty -in Logan's eyes. - -He turned quickly and ran to a bus which had stopped a few yards in -front. He rushed up the steps and was whirled away. Unable to resist -turning round, he saw Logan standing where he had left him, with his -head bowed, his shoulders hunched up, a figure of shameful misery. - -After some minutes of numbness, of trying to gather up the threads -snapped off by his astonishment at the quickness of the affair, Mendel -began to tremble. His hands and his knees shook, and he could not -control them. It was only gradually that he began to realize how -strong his feelings had been, and how great the horror and the shock -of knowing through and through, without blinking a single fact, the -terrible relationship that bound Logan and Oliver--tied together in an -insatiable sensuality, locked in a deadly embrace, like beasts of prey -fighting over carrion: a furious, evil conflict over a dead lust. -. . . At the same time he knew that he was bound with them, that in -their life together he had his share, and that it was dragging him -down, down from the ecstatic exaltation he had perceived in his new -friend, Cézanne, a friend who could never fail, a friend upon whom no -devastation could alight, a friend through whom he could never be -clawed back into life. - -By the time he reached home he was completely exhausted, and begged -his mother to make him a cup of strong tea. - -"What is it now?" Golda asked. "What is the trouble? There is always -something new, and I think you will never be a man. For a man expects -trouble and does not make himself ill over it." - -"I have quarrelled with Logan," said Mendel, dropping with relief into -Yiddish as a barrier against the outer world, in which terrible things -were always happening. - -"A good job too!" said Golda; "a good job too! He was no good to you. -He only made you do the work that nobody likes. Now you can go back to -the old way, and Mr. Froitzheim and Mr. Birnbaum will be pleased with -you again. . . . You had better give up your friends. You are like a -woman, the way you must always be in love with your friends. . . . But -it is no good. Men will always fall in love, and then it is over with -friendship. . . . Friends are only for moments. They come and -disappear and come again. It is foolish to think you can keep them. -. . . Is your head bad?" - -"Pretty bad." - -"You have not been drinking again?" - -"No. I've been leading a decent life. I expect it doesn't suit me." - -"Rubbish. . . . Rosa says the Christian girl has been to see you." - -He leaped to his feet. - -"Didn't she stay? Didn't you make her stay? What did she say? How did -she look? Did she leave no message?" - -Golda smiled at him. - -"You had better go and see," she said. - -He darted from the room and across to his studio panting with -excitement, persuading himself at every step that she was there, -waiting for him, perhaps hiding to tease him, for she was a terrible -tease. - -By the time he reached his studio he was so convinced that she was -there that he hardly dared open the door. He pushed it open very -gently and peered in. The room was empty, but he felt sure that she -was there. He peeped round the corner into his bedroom. She was not -there. He had to believe it, and came dejectedly back into the studio. - -On his painting-table were autumn flowers daintily arranged in the old -jug he used for a vase. He buried his face in them. She was there! She -was there in the sweetness and fragrance of the flowers. - - - -VII - -CONFLICT - -MORRISON had fought bravely through her storms and difficulties. She -frightened Clowes with the violence of her efforts and the terrible -strain she inflicted on her vitality. There were times when she -thought the simplest way would be to cut adrift from all her old -associations and to throw in her lot with Mendel, to give him his -desire and so save him from the terrible life he was leading. But that -was too drastic, too simple. She could only have done it on a great -impulse, but always her deepest feelings shrank from it, and without -her deepest feelings she could not go to him, for they were engaged -most of all. . . . She felt cramped and confined, as though her love -were a cord wound round and round her limbs, and she could not, she -would not go to him bound. He must release her; she must compel him to -release her. If it took half her lifetime she would so compel him. Her -will was concentrated upon him. She would not have their love droop -from the high sympathy it had known, nor should it be torn from it by -his savage strength and the adorable violence of his passion. Neither, -on the other hand, would she turn back from him. That would be to deny -her freedom which she had bought so dearly. She had thought her -freedom would give her the easy joy of flowers and clouds and birds, -and she still believed in that easy joy, but it lay beyond the tangled -web of this love for the strange, dark, faunlike creature whom she had -found in the woods. If she turned back, if she denied the urgent -emotions that drove her on, she had nothing to turn to but the old -captivity, the life where all difficulties were arranged for, where -all roads led to marriage, where men could only talk to women in a -half-patronizing, half-flirtatious way that led to a ridiculous -meeting of the senses, then to an engagement, and so to church. To -that she would never, never return. She had fought her way out of it. -She had learned to live by herself, within herself, to wrestle with -her thoughts and emotions and to get them into shape. (It had been at -a great cost to her external tidiness and orderliness, but that too -she hoped to tackle in time.) She had won all this, and she had found -a glorious outlet in work. So far as she had gone she had been -successful, and she was ambitious, terribly ambitious, to show that a -woman could do good work. - -And then there was the dark side of Mendel's life--Logan, Oliver, -Jessie Petrie. At the thought of it she shuddered, but her honesty -made her confess that it made no difference to her central feeling. It -had shocked her, outraged her, roused her to a fury of jealousy, but -that she would not have. She fought it down inch by inch until she had -it so well in control that, whenever it reared its head, she could -crush it down. - -Many a tear had it cost her, but she insisted that she must -understand. - -When she cut her hair short, she found, to her horror, that it was -taken by many men as a sign that she was open to their advances, and -all sorts and conditions of men had found to their astonishment that, -although she was an artist and lived an independent life, she was -immovable, and when it came to argument she was more than a match for -them. - -Again, she had had the confidence of more than one of the models, and -she knew how they courted their own disasters. If there was to be any -question of blame, the women must share it with the men. - -She had no thought of blaming Mendel, but she hated to have that -underworld in contact with the world which it was her whole desire to -keep beautiful. It was no good pretending that the underworld was not -there, but if she could have her way she would keep a tight control -over it, and suppress it as she suppressed her jealousy, that other -source of ugliness. If she could only, somehow, find an entrance to -Mendel's life, not only to his rare moments, but to the life that went -on from day to day, she would suppress it, she would cut it out and -throw it away. She thought of it almost as a surgical operation, or as -cutting a bruise out of an apple, for all her thoughts of life were as -simple as herself, and life too was simple in her eyes. Anything that -threatened to complicate it she expunged. - -After a time she discovered that it was no good hoping to understand -so long as she regarded the dark aspect of Mendel from outside his -life. She must find her way inside it and see how it looked there. -That was hard. - -Clowes could not help her at all. To Clowes it was simply -unintelligible that men could do these things. They bewildered her, -and her only way out of it was to suppose that men were like that, and -the less said about it the better. She was really very annoyed with -Morrison for worrying over it, and she was disappointed. She had hoped -that the unfortunate adventure would be over and that Morrison would -wait tranquilly for her affections to be engaged by someone who -was--presentable. . . . Still, there was no accounting for this -strange, impulsive creature, though it was a pity she should throw -away her growing popularity with people who were, after all, -important, both in themselves and by their position; for Morrison's -frank charm carried her to places where Clowes would have given her -eyes to be seen. Clowes was baffled by her friend, but she would not -abandon her. She was often bored with her, often exasperated, and more -than once she said:-- - -"Well, if you like these wild people so much, why don't you take the -plunge and join them? You are wild enough yourself." - -"I'm not wild in that way," replied Morrison. "And I know that if I -did do it it would be wrong." - -And she returned to her task of labouring to understand Mendel. She -carried the idea of him wherever she went, and was sometimes able to -call up a clear image of him, and she was fearful for him because he -seemed to her so helpless, so much a stranger in a strange land, so -easily caught up in any strong current of feeling or enthusiasm. . . . -She, too, often felt outside things, but she so much enjoyed being a -looker-on. She loved to watch the race among the young artists, and -she longed for Mendel to win. It was right that he should win, because -he was so much the best of them all. He had taken the lead. It had -looked as though he must infallibly win, and then Logan had appeared -and he had stumbled in his stride. - -Yet this had never been satisfying. She had no right to turn Mendel -into a figure on a frieze, to see him in the flat, as it were, and it -was in revolt against this conception that she had agreed to go with -him to Logan's party, which had been so disastrous. . . . Had she not -been cowardly to run away? But what could she do, what else could she -do, when confronted so suddenly with the appalling fact? - -A week before the party Mendel had insisted on lending her "Jean -Christophe" volume by volume. She had read the first without great -interest. The friendship between the two boys struck her as silly and -sentimental and not worth writing about, and she had read no further. -However, when she found that Mendel was becoming a fixed idea, to -escape from it she took up the second volume, and was enthralled by -the tale of Christophe's love for Ada, thrilled by the sudden scene of -his assault on the peasant girl in the field, and with a growing sense -of illumination followed his life as it passed from woman to woman, -finding consolation with one, relief with another, comfort with -another, comradeship with yet another, and the physical relationship -slipped into its place and was never dominant. And Christophe, too, -had had women of passage because his vitality was so abundant that it -could not be contained in his being. It must be always flowing out -into art or into life, taking from life more and more power to give to -art. . . . With Gratia she was out of patience. Gratia was altogether -too complacent an Egeria. Morrison thought she could have given -Christophe more than that. - -She made Clowes read the book, but Clowes found it no help. That was -in a story, this was actually happening in London; and besides, the -book had a rhapsodic, dreamlike quality that smoothed away all -ugliness, all difficulties. In life things were definitely ugly, and -it was no good pretending they were anything else. - -"Anyhow," said Morrison, "I'm going on." - -"You are going to see him again?" - -"Yes, I will not be beaten. If I were married to him I should put up -with everything, and I don't see why not being married should make any -difference." - -Clowes threw up her hands and said:-- - -"Well, if you come to grief, don't blame me." - -"I'm not going to come to grief," said Morrison. "I'm going to -win--I'm going to win." - -It was then that she went out and bought the flowers. Her courage -nearly failed her as she approached the door in the little slummy -street. Suppose he should be angry with her for running away, and -contemptuous of her cowardice! His anger and contempt were not easy -things to face. - -She was relieved, therefore, when the dirty little Jewish servant -opened the door and told her Mendel was out. She handed in the flowers -shyly and went away without a word. - -* * * * * - -Mendel wrote to thank her for the flowers, but said nothing about -going to see her or about what he was doing. She thought he must be -contemptuous of her, though it was not like him to be so stupid as not -to respond to a direct impulse. On the other hand, he had always tried -to impose his authority on her, and she was not going to do his -bidding. Either he must take her on her own level or not at all. She -would make him understand that she too was driving at something, and -that love was to her not an end in itself, much though she might -desire love and its freedom. He had always made her feel that he -regarded love as sufficient for her. She must curl up in it and be -happy while he went on with his work. Against that all the free -instinct in her cried out. A woman was not a mere embryo to be -incubated in a man's passion, hatched out into a wife and a helpmate. -. . . When she tried to imagine what life with him would be like, she -shivered until she thought what life with him might be if she could -bring to it all her force and all her freedom. - -At last she began to think that perhaps it was her own fault for not -having left a note or a message with the flowers, which might be -regarded only as a token of sentimental forgiveness. She knew how -easily he was sickened by any sign of Christian -sentimentality--"filthy gush" as he called it. . . . To safeguard -against that and to have done with it once and for all, she wrote to -him and told him that she had been reading "Jean Christophe," and that -it had helped her to understand both his sufferings and his need of -what in an ordinary foolish vain man would have to be condemned. - -To this letter he did not reply, and she determined that she would go -and see him. She would take Clowes, in case things had become -impossible and their sympathy had somehow been undermined and -destroyed. Even if it were, she would not accept or believe it, and -she would fight to restore it. A vague intuition took possession of -her by which she surely knew that something strange, perhaps even -terrible, was happening to him, and she felt that he needed her but -did not know his need. - -It required some persuasion to take Clowes down to Whitechapel. She -declared that she would stand by her friend whatever happened, but -that she did not wish to be personally mixed up in it. It would, she -said, make her in part responsible for whatever happened, and she did -not think she could bear it. However, Morrison explained that she only -wanted her there in case things were impossible, and that, if they -were not, she could make good her escape as soon as she liked. On that -Clowes consented and they journeyed to the East End. - -The little Jewish servant said that Mr. Mendel was engaged. Would she -go up and see if he would soon be disengaged? She ran upstairs and -came down in a moment to ask if they would wait, and to their -surprise, darted past them, along the street, beckoned to them to -follow, and led them to Golda's kitchen. Golda bobbed to them, dusted -chairs for them to sit on, and, not knowing enough English to be able -to talk to them, went on with her ironing. When she had finished that, -she shyly produced an album and showed them all the photographs of -Mendel since he was a baby. - -* * * * * - -Meanwhile, in his studio Mendel was in agitated conversation with Mr. -Tilney Tysoe, who had arrived half an hour before, wagging his hands, -rolling his enormous eyes, almost demented by the lamentable news he -had to tell. Logan had left Oliver! - -"When?" asked Mendel. - -"A few days ago," said Tysoe. "The poor fellow came round to me one -night after dinner. You know, he often drops in in the evening. Such a -splendid fellow, so sincere, such a force! And his admiration for you -is very touching. He came in and raved like a madman and said terrible -things--oh, terrible things! He told me that I was a fool and did not -know a picture from my foot, and he denounced himself as a scoundrel -and a thief and a liar. He wanted me to destroy all the pictures I had -bought from him, and said they were not worth the stretchers of the -canvas they were painted on. . . . Oh! it was terrible, terrible! He -said that for years he had been pulling my leg, and had got such a -taste for it that he had begun to pull his own leg, and he went on to -say that his soul was rotten with lies; and then he broke into a -torrent of wild, splendid stuff that made my spine tingle. I assure -you, I could not contain my enthusiasm. . . . Oh! he is a splendid -fellow. . . . I can't remember it all very well, but he said that love -is impossible in the world as it is, and that everybody is living in -hate. It sounded most true--most true--though you know I adore my -wife. . . . He said that humanity has tried aristocracy and failed, -and it has tried democracy and failed. It has swung from one extreme -to the other and found satisfaction in neither, and now it must bend -the two extremes together so as to get the electric spark which can -illumine life, and also to create a circle in which life can be -contained. Of course, I haven't got it at all clear, but it was most -inspiring--most inspiring. Certainly life is very unsatisfactory, and -it must be maddening for artists, maddening, though of course it -should drive them on to make a mighty effort. We are all looking to -the artists nowadays, especially since that wonderful exhibition." - -"Yes, yes," said Mendel impatiently; "but what about Logan?" - -"He told me you had quarrelled with him. Such a pity! Dear me! dear -me! You were such a splendid pair, so sincere. He said it was -irrevocable. But, you know, 'The falling out of faithful friends -renewing is of love.' Have you read the Oxford 'Book of Verse'? A -storehouse of poetry. . . . I came to see you for that reason. -Quarrels ought not to be irrevocable. . . . I have been to see Oliver -too. Poor girl! poor girl! I am keeping their little nest at Hampstead -for them. . . . I told Logan he ought to marry her. Of course, I know, -artists have their own view on that subject, but there is a great deal -to be said for marriage. Most people are married, you know, and a -woman who is not married must feel out of it. Nothing to do with -morality, of course, but you know what women are. They can't bear even -their clothes to be different, and, after all, marriage is only a -garment which we wear for decency's sake." - -"But where is Logan?" - -"That I don't know," said Tysoe. "Oliver said he would be here. She -said it was your fault that they had quarrelled. . . . Poor girl! So -pretty too! . . . I thought if you made it up with Logan, then he -could make it up with her and we should all be happy again. We might -have a nice little dinner of reconciliation at my house." - -"It is no use, no use whatever," said Mendel. "Logan might go back to -her, but he will never come back to me. We have gone different ways, -not only in life, but in our work." - -"You won't make it up?" asked Tysoe plaintively. - -"No," answered Mendel. "I should like to, but it is impossible. It is -very good of you to try to intervene. Logan was my friend. He is no -longer the same man. He is altered, he is changed, he is done for." - -"Nothing could ruin a man like that. It is disastrous, it is terrible -that he should lose his friend and the girl he loves at one stroke. -Kühler, I implore you, I entreat you, if he comes to see you, you will -not refuse him." - -"If he comes I will see him, certainly," said Mendel. - -"Ah! That is all I want," said Tysoe, beaming hopefully. - -"But he will not come." - -"We shall find a way. We shall find a way. . . . Ah! superb!" he -added, catching sight of Mendel's green-faced _Mother._ "Ah! The new -spirit at work in your art. Colour! What you have always wanted! . . . -How--how much?" - -"Ten pounds," said Mendel. - -"May I take it with me? I will send you my cheque." - -Mendel wrapped the picture up in brown paper and gave it him, told him -he must go, thanked him for his kindness, and with unutterable relief -watched him go shambling down the stairs. - -* * * * * - -It was very certain that Logan would not come. There could be nothing -but futile suffering for both of them, and Logan would know that as -well as he. Logan knew himself better than most men, and he must have -felt the finality of that parting in the street. The breach was final -and irrevocable, for Oliver was definitely a part of Logan, as much a -part of him as his hand or his eyes, and Mendel hated Oliver with a -pure, simple, immovable passion. He saw in her embodied the natural -enemy of all that he loved: order, decency, honesty, art, and beauty. -He would have liked to blot out all trace of her everywhere, but she -lived most intensely in his mind. She existed for him hardly at all as -a person, but as an evil, fixed will set on the destruction of Logan, -of friendship, of art, of love, of beauty, of everything that lived -distinctly and clearly and with a flame-like energy. She existed to -drag all down into the glowing ashes of lust and lies. There were -times when she became symbolical of that Christian world that had made -him suffer so intensely. In her was the only discernible will of that -world in which everything was losing shape and form, every flame was -dying down, and everything, good and bad, was being reduced to ashes. - -"Good and bad?" thought Mendel. "I don't know what they mean. I know -what is false and what is true. What is false I hate. What is true I -love. That woman is a lie and I hate her, and I wish she were dead." - -Logan might hate her too, but he would always try, always hope to love -her, always waste himself in trying to kindle her lust into a passion. -The fool, the weak fool! Let her rot; let her drop down to her own -level, where she could be decently a beast of prey, marked out to be -shunned except by those who were her natural victims. Logan was too -good: but if there was so much good in him, might not something be -done? . . . No. Only Logan's own will could save him. Nothing could be -done for him except out of pity: and who wants pity? Leave that to men -like Tysoe, the kindly, emasculate fools of the world. - -Yet Mendel knew that he was bound to Logan. At first he thought it -must be by pity, but it was deeper than that. There was not much -capacity for pity in Mendel. Ruthless with himself, he could see no -reason why others should be spared what he himself was ready to -endure. He had never thought that others might be weaker than he. -Logan, for instance, with ten years' more experience behind him, had -always seemed infinitely stronger. - -And so Logan had left Oliver! There must have been a terrible row. -. . . Oh, well, he would go back to her. There would be no end to the -affair, there could be no end unless Logan were strong enough to stand -by himself. But when had he ever tried to do that? Even in his work he -borrowed here and there. Mendel was sure now that all Logan's work had -grown out of his own, and was often, by some amazing sleight of mind, -an anticipation of his own ideas. That explained a good deal: his -growing sense that Logan was really his enemy, and was cramping and -thwarting him, a sense that endured even after the quarrel. It was -strong upon him now. Tysoe had brought Logan vividly to his mind and -made him feel impotent, possessed by a vision of art but unable to -move a step towards it, rather dragged further and further away from -it. He was ashamed when he thought of how often he had excitedly -followed Logan's lead, only to come now to this discovery that he was -brought back to his own inchoate ideas. . . . He was reminded oddly of -the journalist who had interviewed him after his first success and had -produced so grotesque a parody of his innocently conceited remarks. - -A tap at the door reminded him of the "two young ladies" who were -waiting to see him. He rushed eagerly to the door and flung it open, -thinking to find healing and refreshment in the sight of Morrison. -Only Clowes was standing there, and in his disappointment her face -seemed to him so foolish and flabby and idiotic that his impulse was -to shut the door. . . . He would bang the door in her face and it -would shut out the Christian world for ever. It did not want him, and -he did not want it, for it was full of lies. . . . Then he heard a -footstep on the stairs and Morrison appeared. - -"Come in," he said. "Come in." - -"I can't stay long," said Clowes nervously. - -"All right," he replied. - -Morrison reached the top of the stairs, and he stood looking at her. - -"How are you?" - -"I'm very well." - -She was horrified at the change in him. He looked so tragic and drawn. - -"Clowes can't stop long," she said. "But I'll stop, if I may. I should -like to." - -"I'm afraid I haven't got anything to show you. I haven't been working -lately." - -"It seems to be a pretty general complaint," said Clowes. "Everybody -is so upset by the French pictures. I should like to shake that -Thompson until his teeth rattled. He is so pleased with himself." - -"He's an awful man," muttered Mendel. "He seems to think he told -Cézanne and Van Gogh how to do it. There seems to be a whole army of -men ready to take the credit of a thing when someone else has done it. -I suppose they are all talking like mad." - -"What is so astonishing is that these things are actually selling, and -people who never sold a picture in their lives dab a few straight -lines on a picture and off it goes." - -Mendel laughed. - -"I've just sold one," he said. "I came straight back from the -exhibition and painted it. They sell just as if they were a new kind -of toy that is all the rage." - -So they kept up a cheerful rattle of conversation until Clowes said -she really must go. No; she would not have tea, but she hoped Mendel -would come to tea with her one day. - -He saw her to the front door and ran upstairs again, three steps at a -time. - -"Now, then," he said, "what have you come for, and why did you bring -her?" - -"In case there was nothing to be said and this visit was another -failure. I'm sick of failure; aren't you?" - -"I didn't answer your letter. I thought it was all over." - -"But I told you what had made me change." - -"It was nothing to do with that. Everything seemed all over, and I'm -not sure even now that it isn't." - -"I knew something was happening to you. What is it?" - -"I've quarrelled with Logan." - -She was silent for a moment or two, and then she said:-- - -"I'm so glad." - -"You didn't like him. Why?" - -"I thought him second-rate." - -"He isn't that. He has a good mind, and he was a good friend." - -"Are you so sure of that?" - -"Of some things in him--of his affection, for instance--I am as sure -as I am of myself." - -She smiled at him. - -"Yes. That is saying a good deal. But why did you quarrel?" - -"It was over his woman." - -"Oh yes!" - -"He has left her." - -"Has he been to see you?" - -"No. It was a friend of his. I don't know what will happen. They are -bound to come together again. Perhaps they will go through life like -that--parting and coming together again. I can't get it out of my -head. I shall never forget it. It is like my father knocking a drunken -soldier down with a glass. I never forget that, though it was -different. That was just something that I saw. This is in my own life. -I feel as though it had somehow happened through me. I was with him -when he met her, you know, and his whole life changed when he met me. -Perhaps he wasn't meant to take things seriously. . . . I didn't write -to you because I didn't want to drag you into it. But I'm glad you've -come. I'm glad you've come. . . . You know, it was beginning to be a -horror with me that Logan would come in at that door, looking like a -poor, battered, broken little Napoleon, and I should have to tell him -that I was not his friend. . . . You know, he was something vital and -living in my work, but Cézanne has kicked him out. He was only my -friend really in my work, and if that goes everything goes. I couldn't -explain it to him, for he wouldn't understand. He used to laugh at me -for talking about my work to you. I'm afraid I told him more about you -than I ought to have done, but, you see, he was my friend. He laughed -at everything. He ought to have been a very happy man, the way he -laughed at everything." - -He placed in her hands his reproduction of Cézanne's portrait of his -wife. - -"That's better than Cranach," he said. - -"But why is her mouth crooked?" asked Morrison, puzzled by the picture -and by his setting it above Cranach. - -"I don't know," replied Mendel, "but Cézanne knew when he did it." - -And he tried to explain the making of the picture, but she could not -understand it. However, she could understand and love his enthusiasm, -and they were both happy, talking rather aimlessly and often relapsing -into silence. - -"I never can make out," he said, "why you are more wonderful to me -than anybody else. Directly I am with you, I am not so much happy as -free. Even if I am miserable and you don't make me any happier, I want -you with me. . . . You mustn't go away again." - -"No. I don't want to go away." - -"Why need you actually go? Why shouldn't you stay here now? Stay with -me. Don't go. Don't think of going. I want you always with me. . . . -If you don't like the place we will find another studio and go there. -And if you want to be married we can get married at once. I have -nearly a hundred pounds in the bank." - -He knelt by her side and held her knees in his two hands. She took his -face in her hands and said gently:-- - -"You mustn't talk like that, Mendel. Please don't think I don't love -you because I don't want you to talk like that. It is the first thing -to come into your mind, but with me it is almost the last thing. I -want love to be very, very beautiful before it comes to me. I want -love to be as beautiful to me as that picture of Cézanne's is to you. -Do you understand me?" - -He sprang to his feet and turned away from her. - -"No, I don't!" he shouted; "no, I don't!" - -He was wildly angry. Her words had acted like salt upon his raw -feelings. - -"No, I don't understand you. You want love to be like art. You want to -mix love up with art. Love belongs to life. Love is rich and ripe and -warm. You want it to be like the dew on the grass. It can't be!--it -can't be! Love bursts out of a man's body into his soul, and you want -it to live in his soul and to leave him with an impotent, cold body. -You want me to bend to your woman's will, for you know I cannot break -away from you. You are with your soul like Oliver with her body. You -are with your love like Oliver with her lust, and Logan and I are a -pair--a miserable, broken pair." - -"Oh!" she cried, hiding her face in her hands. "You are wrong, wrong, -hideously wrong. You have understood nothing at all. Your mind has -rushed away with you. For God's sake be quiet for a little, to see if -we can't get it straight." - -His desire was to batter down her opposition, yet he could not but -realize that she was too strong, and that he would only do grievous -and useless harm. He controlled himself, therefore, and was silent. At -last he grunted:-- - -"Can't you make me see what you mean?" - -"It isn't a thing I could say in cold blood," she said. - -He moved towards her, but she held up her hands to ward him off. - -"No, no!'" she almost whispered. "That only makes my heart grow colder -and colder until it aches." - -"Do you mean that you--don't--want me?" - -"Foolish, foolish, foolish!" she said. "If you loved me one tenth part -as much as I love you, you would know what I mean." - -"I don't," he said simply. "I don't, honestly I don't. Perhaps you are -so beautiful to me that I am blinded with it." - -Of the truth of her feeling against him he had no doubt, but though he -laboured bitterly to understand it, he could make nothing of it. He -was driven back on his simple need for her. - -"Very well," he said; "if it makes you feel like that for me to touch -you, I never will. Only don't talk of loving me more than I love you. -It isn't true." - -"Yes. It was silly of me to say that," she agreed. "It isn't true." - -"What do you want, then?" - -"I want to share as much of your life as I can." - -"It is a bleak, grimy business, a good deal of it." - -"I want to share it." - -"There is a good deal in it that will horrify you." - -"I must get used to that. . . . When I am in London I want you to -promise that you will see me at least once a week." - -"There are seven days in the week. Let it be seven times." - -She laughed at that. - -"And some day," she went on, "I want to take you down into the -country." - -He began to suspect her of wanting to meddle with his work. - -"I don't want the country," he rapped out. "I am a Londoner. All the -life I care about is in the streets and in the houses, in the -restaurants and the shops, and the costers' barrows and the cinemas -and the picture galleries. That is why I live here, because I love the -coarse, thrumming vitality all round me." - -"But _I_ want the country," she said, "and you should know the life -_I_ love." - -For a moment it seemed to him that the key to the mystery she talked -of was in his hands. He clutched at it and it evaded him, but his -idolatry of her was shaken, and he began dimly to see her as a -creature like himself, with feelings, thoughts, desires, and a will. -There was no doubt at all about the will, and he had to recognize it. - - - -VIII - -OLIVER - -THEN began a period of quiet, happy friendship for them both. Mendel -was astonishingly amenable to many of her disciplinary suggestions and -allowed her to cut his hair (though not without thinking of Delilah), -and when she ordered him to get some new clothes he went off -obediently to a friend of Issy's and had a suit made--West End style -at East End prices. - -"You will soon have me looking like a Public School gentleman," he -said. - -"Never!" she replied. "You will never move like one--thank goodness." - -"Why thank goodness?" - -"Because they walk about as though they owned the earth and the -fatness thereof, as though the earth existed for them to walk about on -it without their needing even to look at it to see how beautiful it -is." - -"That's like Logan," he said. "He used always to be railing against -the English. He said they had no eyes, only stomachs. But I think the -English must be the nicest people in the world, for there is no place -like London for living in." - -Indeed, they both thought there could be no place like London. Once or -twice a week they dined together at the Pot-au-Feu and went on to a -party or to a music-hall or to the cinema, which he adored. He said it -gave him ideas for pictures and that there were often wonderful -momentary pictures thrown on the screen. - -"The cinema does what the bad artists have been trying to do for -generations. It is a great relief to have it done by a machine. The -artist need not any more try to be a machine. There is no need for him -now to please the public. He can leave all that to the machine and go -straight for art. The few decent people will follow him, and what more -does he want? Art is not for the fools. . . . Logan was wrong. He -wanted art to go to the people. That is all wrong. The people must -come up to art. When they are sick of the machine, art is there, ready -for them." He added naïvely, "I shall be there, waiting for them." - -He loved especially the dramas, when they were not clogged and -obscured with sentimentality. The simple values that governed them, -the triumph of virtue and the downfall of evil, appealed to him as -solid, as related to a process, a drama, that went on in himself, and, -he supposed, in everybody else. It worried and annoyed him when -Morrison made fun of these values and jeered at them. - -"But things don't work like that," she protested. - -"I think they do," he said. - -"Good people are often crushed," she replied, "and bad people often -have things all their own way." - -"But it is inside people that it happens like that. False people have -their souls eaten away with lies, and true people have free, happy -souls like yours. Being rich or poor, or what you call good or bad, -has nothing to do with it. Yes. It is inside people that it happens -like that, and I am more often the villain than the hero inside -myself." - -"It seems absurd to me, and I can't think why you should take it -seriously." - -"It is because you are so idiotically good. You have only one side to -your nature. You are like a heroine in your Dickens." - -"I'm not. I'm sure I'm not. I'm bad-tempered and mean and unjust." - -"You don't even know how bad I am. You have no more idea of what my -life is like than a rose has of an onion's." - -"I don't like onions." - -"That's the trouble. You don't like the smell of onions, and so you -don't eat them. Very poor people live on bread and onions and they -find them good. I have no patience with you. You want to be a rose -growing in a sheltered English garden." - -"I don't. I don't want anything of the kind." - -"A wild rose, then; and you have no right to want such a life. You are -not a flower. You are a human being, and you can't have a sheltered -life, or a summer hedgerow life, because you have truth and falsehood -in you, and if you will not live for the truth you will die for the -falsehood. That is why cinemas are good and theatres are rotten. All -the plays are false, because they have forgotten truth and falsehood -and are all about being rich or poor, or old or young, or married or -unmarried, and in the worst plays of all they are about people -pretending to be children so as to get out of the whole thing. I hate -you sometimes when you seem to be trying that game of refusing to be -grown up, denying your own feelings and letting men love you and -pretending you don't know what it is all about." - -"I never do that," she cried indignantly. - -"I'm not so sure," he said, unable to resist the temptation to press -home the advantage he had won in rousing her out of her placid -happiness. "I'm not so sure. There are too many girls do that." - -"I don't. I may have done it. But I have never done it with you. It is -a wicked lie to say anything of the kind." - -"You can't blame me if I catch at any idea that will help me to -understand you." - -"You never will, if you go grubbing about with your mind." - -"Oh! my mind is no good, is it? Then take your hands off my feelings. -They'll understand you right enough." - -"No. They won't." - -"Why not?" - -"Because they're blind." - -"Good God! What am I to do, then?" - -"Wait." - -"How long?" - -"Till you can see." - -"I never shall see more than I do now. If you love me, why don't you -love me as I am?" - -"I do. But you don't know what you are--yet, and you don't know what I -am." - -"I know what I want." - -"It isn't what I want." - -"If you knew at all what I wanted, you would want it too." - -"What is it?" - -"Love." - -"You've got it." - -"You don't call this love?" - -"I do." - -"Then I don't. It is just playing the fool--wasting time." - -"It isn't wasting time. We are much better friends than we were." - -"I don't want to be friends. I've had enough of friends. They have -never done me any good. It's a silly, thin kind of happiness at best." - -"It is better than no happiness at all, which the other would be." - -"How can you say that?" he cried, revolted. "How can you say that? -Every thought, every dream I have is centred on it. It is such -happiness that my imagination, is baffled by it." - -"Please let us stop talking about it. We are only getting horribly at -cross-purposes." - -He had learned when it was wise to stop, but he needed every now and -then the assurance that her serene confidence was shot with doubt. -Once or twice when he had tried to thrust her back on her doubts she -had flared up, and had fought tooth and nail, declaring that she would -never see him again. And, as he knew she meant it, he yielded, and -said that any sacrifice was better than that. - -On her part, as she came more nearly to see his point of view, she was -often shaken and tempted to admit that he was right. There was no -looseness or formlessness about his ideas. He lived in a world that -apparently made room for everything, a world in which he stood solidly -on his feet while the waves of life broke upon him, and he only -absorbed into himself that which his passions needed. It was a plain, -simple world, where good and evil were equally true, and, apparently, -largely a matter of chance--a world in which he was gloriously -independent. But was he free? Sometimes she thought that he was -amazingly free. His only prejudice seemed to be against pink, fleshy -young men who had to do nothing for a living--young men like her -brothers, for instance, of whom she had drawn an amusing series of -caricatures showing the effect of introducing Mendel to them. . . . -Sometimes she wondered if her own longing for freedom was not just her -ignorance, just a craven desire to escape from knowing anything about -life, to remain an amused but fundamentally indifferent onlooker. And -when she had to face the suffering she inflicted on him, then she was -often moved to cry out within herself:-- - -"Oh! Take me, take me! Have your will. It will make an end of it all, -and you will pass on and forget me, but you will no longer suffer -through me." - -But she could not bend her own will, which insisted that the treasure -she desired lay through him, and that he needed it even more than she. -It was because of his need that he clung to her through all his -suffering and exasperation. . . . Why, why was he so blind that he -could not see it? Why could he, who was so sure and so strong, not see -what was to her so clear through all her vacillation and all the -confusion of her idealism? . . . She tried to make him read English -poetry, but he could make little of it, and said none of it was worth -the Bible. He declared that Shelley wrote romantical nonsense, because -men could never be made perfect, and it was cruelly absurd to try -it--like dressing a monkey up in human clothes. And he countered by -making her read "Candide." - -"When you have been through as much as Cunegonde," he said, "I'll -believe in your purity." - -"It isn't purity that I'm fussing about." - -"What is it, then?" - -"Don't let us begin it all over again." - -They found common ground in Blake, whom Mendel consented to read -because Blake was the only English painter who had had any idea of art -at all. - -Blake brought them much closer together, and their tussles were -sharper, but less futile and exasperating. - -"Why don't you take a lesson from Mrs. Blake?" he asked, after they -had read the Life. - -"What? And sit and hold your hand? You'd turn round and hit me." - -"I believe I would," he laughed. "By Jove! I believe I would." - -* * * * * - -He was not easy for her to handle. It was like playing with high -explosives, save that she was not playing. - -She said to him once, when they had come very near the intimacy she -desired:-- - -"I believe you would understand me if only you could let go." - -"How can I let go," he roared, "when I feel that you are weighing and -judging and criticizing every word I say, every thing I do?" - -And she was silent for a long time. It was a new and dreadful idea, -that she was hemming him in by making him feel that she was judging -him. It was so far from her intention that she protested:-- - -"I am not judging you. I accept you just as you are." - -"Accept!" he grumbled. "Accept! When you keep me at arm's-length!" - -"I go as far as we can, then it breaks down." - -"What breaks down?" - -"I don't know what to call it. Sympathy, if you like." - -"Oh! then if it breaks down it isn't any good, and we may as well give -it up for ever. I will learn to shuffle along without you." - -"I won't shuffle. I refuse to hear of your shuffling." - -"Then you want to know what to do?" - -"What?" - -"Take your place by my side, walk along with me like a sober, decent -woman." - -"But I want to fly with you, hand in hand." - -She was elated, exalted. Her eyes shone and she glowed with excitement -and hope. Surely he would understand now! Surely she had found words -for it at last! - -"That's rubbish," he said. "Men aren't birds, and they are not angels. -If you want to fly, go up in an airyoplane. That's another machine -like the cinema. It relieves human beings of another mania." - -She turned away to hide the tears that had gushed to her eyes. Why did -he waste his strength? Why did he keep his force from entering into -his imagination? - -That evening was most miserable for her, and she was glad when it came -to an end. - -* * * * * - -To add to her difficulties he was making himself ill over his work, -which, as he said, had gone completely rotten, and he did not scruple -to ascribe it to her. He would spend a delightful happy evening with -her and feel that his difficulties were over, that in the morning he -would be able to make a beginning upon all the ideas that were so -jumbled and close-packed in his head. But in the morning he would be -dull and nerveless, and though he might work himself up into a frenzy, -yet he could produce nothing that was any good. His work was easier, -and even a little better, after the evenings when they almost -quarrelled. - -Again and again he told himself that he could not go on, that life was -as thick and heavy as the air before a thunderstorm. Often he thought -that this density, this opaqueness, with which he was surrounded, -meant that he must quarrel and break with her once and for all. It -would nearly kill him to do it, but if it must be done, the sooner the -better. Perhaps it was wrong for him to have anything to do with the -Christian world at all. No single friendship or relationship that he -had had in it had been successful or of any profit to him. Little by -little his peace of mind had been taken from him. Everything had been -taken from him, even, now, his work. . . . That he would not have. He -set his teeth and stuck to it, every day and all day, but the few -pictures he turned out did not sell. Cluny would not have them, and -they were rejected by the exhibitions, even by the club of which he -was a member. - -Of all this he said not a word to a soul, not even to Morrison, not -even to Golda. His money was dwindling. That put marriage out of the -question. Fate, or the ominous pressure of life, or whatever it was, -played into Morrison's hands. - -Every now and then, unable to endure this pressure, he plunged into -excesses. There seemed to be no other way out. The Christian world -refused him. He no longer belonged to his own people. Their poverty -disgusted him. People had no right to be so poor as that, to have no -relief from the joyless daily grind for bread. . . . It was the fault -of the Christians who prayed to the Lord for their daily bread and -stole it from each other because they had forgotten that it was not -given them except in return for daily work. - -That was the one strand of sympathy he had left with his -father--Jacob's absolute refusal to receive his daily bread from any -other hands than his own, and his almost crazy refusal to let Issy and -Harry go out and work for other masters. They could work for their -father because he had authority over them, but other masters had no -authority except what they bought or stole. - -But a talk with Harry decided Mendel that his people's way, the Jewish -way, was no longer his. - -Harry was bored. He had bouts of boredom when he could not endure the -workshop and refused to go near it, however great the pressure of -business might be. Like his father, he said:-- - -"I want nothing." - -"Very well then," said Mendel; "you've got nothing. What are you -grumbling at?" - -"But there _is_ nothing." - -"Then it is easy to want nothing and you should be satisfied." - -"That's it. It is too easy. Work, work, work. Play, play, play. How -disgusting it all is!" - -"Why didn't you stay in Paris?" - -"I could not bear to be away from the people." - -"But if they give you nothing?" - -"They have nothing to give. Nothing but old Jews who believe and young -Jews who cannot believe and are nothing." - -"It is the same everywhere. The Christians do not believe either." - -"But they are fools and can make themselves happy with their cinemas -and their newspapers and their forward women." - -"I thought you liked women, Harry." - -"I don't like women who like me. . . . I don't want to marry, I don't -want anything. I shall see the old people into their graves, and then -I don't know what I shall do. You are the only one I know who has -anything to live for or any life in him." - -"I have little enough." - -"Oh God! don't you start talking like me, or we shall all go to the -cemetery at once." - -"All right, Harry. I'll keep you going. I'll keep you astonished." - -His brother's despondency helped Mendel on a little, but what a mean -incentive to work, to astonish his poor ignorant family! - -Very soon there came a terrible day when he had to tell them that he -had not a penny in the world and that he was a failure. It would have -gone hardly with him but for Harry, who espoused his cause, saying -dramatically that he believed in his young brother as he believed in -God, and that Mendel should not be stopped for want of money. And he -went upstairs and came down with his savings, nearly thirty pounds. - -"Don't be a fool!" said Jacob. "He will only spend it on drink and -women." - -"He is a genius," said Harry simply, and Issy, fired by his brother's -example, said he had saved ten pounds and he would add that. Together -they shouted Jacob down when he tried to raise his voice, until at -last he produced his cash-box and gave Mendel a ten-pound note, -saying:-- - -"If the Christians are liars when they say they believe in you, we are -not. You must learn that the Christians are all liars and you must -show them that you are the greatest artist in the world." - -"I'll show them," mumbled Mendel. "Yes, I'll show them." - -* * * * * - -He returned to his work with a better determination to succeed, but he -felt more barren than ever, and had nothing to work with but his will. -Into that he gathered all his force and determined to go back and pick -up the thread of his work at the point where Logan had broken into the -weaving of it. He would paint yet another portrait of his mother, and -then he would choose a subject from among the life of the Jews. He -would start again. The Jews believed in him; he would glorify them, -although he no longer believed in but only admired them. When he came -to look at them clearly, they were squat and stunted, because he could -only look at them from a superior height. . . . He turned over his -early work, and studied it carefully, but he could not recover his -childish acceptance of that existence. - -For some weeks he did not go near Morrison and frequented the Paris -Café, where he felt hopelessly out of it. No one spoke to him. Hardly -a soul nodded to him. Night after night he sat there despondently, -conjuring up the exciting evenings he had spent there. They were like -ashes in his mouth. - -* * * * * - -One night, to his amazement and almost fear, someone slipped into the -seat at his side. It was Oliver. She laid her hand on his knee and -said:-- - -"You look pretty bad, Kühler. Anything wrong?" - -"Much as usual. How are you? What'll you drink?" - -"Kümmel's mine," she said. - -He ordered two Kümmels. - -"I'm all right. How are you?" - -"I've told you how I am," he said testily. - -"All right, all right!" she said, "I haven't been here for a long -time. I wish you'd come and see me, Kühler. We never did get on, but -I'd like to have a talk about old times." - -"Old times!" he said. "It seems only yesterday." - -"It's nearly a year since I saw you. Logan came back, you know. Mr. -Tysoe was so good. He kept on the house for me. Wasn't it good of -him?" - -The waiter brought the Kümmel. She drank hers off at a gulp, and -said:-- - -"It is like old times to see you, Kühler. I _am_ glad." - -"Go on about Logan." - -"He went back to that Camden Town place, you know, and we didn't see -each other for nearly two months. It was awful. I couldn't sleep at -nights, and I knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He never slept, you -know, when we had had one of our hells and I wouldn't speak to him. -He! he!" she gasped and giggled nervously at the memory. - -"Go on," said Mendel. He was icy cold. All the strange oppression that -was brooding in his life seemed to gather into a thick snowy cloud -about his head and to fit it like a cap of ice. "Go on." - -"Mr. Tysoe gave me money. Wasn't it good of him? He used to see Logan. -Not very often--just occasionally. Logan was painting a wonderful -portrait of me, in my green dress and the corals he gave me. . . . -See: I always wear them, even now." - -She thrust her hand into her bosom and produced the string of corals. - -"I lived all alone and refused to see anyone. I got so thin, all my -skirts had to be taken in. I knew Logan was jealous, so I didn't see -anyone, and when I heard about the portrait I knew he would come back. -So I used to wear the green dress every evening and wait for him till -twelve, one, two, three in the morning, all alone, in that little -cottage on the Heath. . . . My, I _was_ tired, I can tell you. But I -never was one for getting up in the morning. . . . At last, one night, -he came. He walked in quite quietly, as though nothing had happened. -He had brought the picture with him. My word, it _is_ good. You'd love -it. He had offers for it, but he wouldn't sell it. He said a funny -thing about it. He said: 'It's literature. It isn't art.' So he -wouldn't sell it. . . . We had a glorious time--a glorious time! It -was better even than the beginning." - -She stopped to linger over the memory, and she drew her hand -caressingly along her thigh. - -"Go on," said Mendel, to break in upon her heavy silence. - -"He had plenty of money. He sold everything he did. There were one or -two society ladies, the cats! Common property, I call them." - -"So it broke down again," said Mendel. - -"Yes. He got---- You know what he could be like. Sometimes I thought -he was going off his head, and I often wonder if he wasn't a bit -touched. . . . I haven't seen him since. I wondered if you had seen -him." - -"No. I haven't seen him. He doesn't come back to me." - -"Mr. Tysoe hasn't seen him. Cluny has some of his things, but won't -say a word. I think he must have left London." - -"I should think so," said Mendel wearily, suddenly losing all -interest. "I should think so." - -"I've left Hampstead. I'm living over the Pot-au-Feu, I'm working as a -model. Don't forget me, and if you hear of Logan, do let me know, and -come and have a talk over old times." - -She had caught sight of an acquaintance smiling at her and went over -to him, for all the world, as Mendel thought, like a fly-by-night. - -He half ran, half staggered out of the place, saying to himself:-- - -"I must see Morrison. I must see her at once." - -* * * * * - -He tried to see her next day, but Clowes told him she had gone to the -country. - -"I insisted on her going, she was looking so pale. You know when she -feels lonely she won't eat. When she is miserable she gets so shy that -she can't even go into a shop. . . . I have taken a cottage in the -country, just outside London. Two rooms, two shillings a week. Isn't -it cheap? So I packed her off there two days ago." - -"When will she be back?" - -"I don't know. When she is tired of being alone. She said she wanted -to be alone." - -"I want to see her. It is a very important for me to see her." - -"I won't have you making her ill," said Clowes. - -"I must see her. Will you give me her address, so that I can write to -her?" - -Clowes gave him the address, and he wrote saying that life was -intolerable without her. - -* * * * * - -Morrison did not need his letter, and, indeed, it only reached the -cottage after she had left. She knew he needed her. Never for an -instant was his image absent from her mind, and at night, when she lay -awake, she could have sworn she heard a moaning cry from him. No wind -ever made a sound like that. - -There was a pouring rain and a howling wind, but she walked the four -miles to the station and sent him a wire telling him to meet her at -the station in London. He received it just in time and was on the -platform. - -He took her in his arms and kissed her. - -"What is the matter?" - -"Did you get my letter?" - -"No. But I knew. What is it?" - -"I don't know. My work, I think. I met Oliver last night. It upset me. -But I wanted you for my work. It is like a knife stuck through my -brain. I wanted to be with you, just to see you and to hear your -voice. Nothing else. That part of me feels dead. . . . Oliver is -living over the Pot-au-Feu, where Hetty Finch used to be. I wonder -what's become of her. I expect she has found a millionaire by now. -. . . We'll have the evening together. We'll dine at the Pot-au-Feu. -We might meet Oliver, but I can't think of any other place." - -"We'll dine with Clowes, if you like." - -"No; I want to go to the Pot-au-Feu." - -"Very well. Are you very tired? Your voice sounds tired." - -"I'll be all right now I am with you. Mr. Sivwright asked me to go to -the Merlin's Cave to-night. He has to shut it up. I thought I wouldn't -go, but I want to go, if you will come with me." - -"It might cheer us up, and you love dancing." - -They both thought of the night when he had danced with Jessie Petrie. - -"I'm painting a picture of a Jewish market. I want you to see it." - -"I'm glad you've gone back. I'm sure it is right." - -"What are you doing?" - -It was the first time he had asked after her work and a glow of -happiness overcame her. - -"Oh! I . . . I'm doing a landscape--just a road running up a hill with -some houses on top." - -"Like Rousseau. He was good at roads." - -"Mine's just painting. It isn't abstract." - -"You can't paint without being abstract," he said irritably. "Even -Academicians can't really imitate, but they abstract without using -their brains. You can't really copy nature, so what's the good of -trying?" - -"You can suggest." - -"Then it's a sketch and not a picture." - -"Perhaps mine is only a sketch," she said rather forlornly, because -she had been rather hopeful of her work. - -They went back to his studio, where he showed her his studies and -drawings for the new picture. She saw that he was working again with -his old love of his craft. - -They dined at the Pot-au-Feu, and had it all to themselves because the -weather was so bad. There were only the goggle-eyed man in the corner -with his green evening paper and Madame Feydeau and Gustave, the -waiter. - -Over the dinner Mendel waxed very gay and gave her a very comic -description of the scene when he had gone to his family to confess his -failure. He had a wonderful power of making them comic without -laughing at them. - -"They are wonderful people," he said. "They know what is sense and -what is nonsense. If you gave them the biggest problem in the world -they would know what was true in it and what was false. They are -always right about politics and public men. But when it comes to art, -they are hopeless." - -"But they believe in you." - -"Because I belong to them. They believe in themselves. . . . My mother -was quite sound about Logan. She said it could not go on. I thought it -was for ever. I've been thinking about Logan. He could never be -himself. He was always wanting to be something--something big. I -thought he was big for a long time. But he's just a man. I don't think -Cézanne was ever anything but just a man. It makes one think, doesn't -it? All these people who are written about as though they were -something terrific, all trying to be something more than they -are--just men. And then a quiet little man comes along and he is -bigger than the lot of them, because he has never tried to blow -himself out, but has given himself room to grow." - -She had never known him so gentle and tender and wise, and if he had -wanted to love her she would not have denied him. She trusted him so -completely. And he looked so ill and tired. But he only wanted to be -with her, and to talk to her and to hear her voice. - -After dinner they went to a cinema to fill in time, and he shouted -with laughter like a boy, threw himself about, and stamped his feet at -the comic film. And she laughed too, and took his hand in hers and -held it in her lap. - -"That was good!" he said. "I think I should like to be a cinema actor. -If I get really hard up I shall try it. I might be a star, if I could -learn to wear my clothes properly and could get my hair to lie down in -a solid shiny block." - -"I'll go with you. I'm sure I could roll my eyes properly." - -"Come along," he said. - -It was still raining hard, so they took a taxi to the Merlin's Cave, -though it was not half a mile away. - -Everything was the same, even to the two rich young men who entered -just after them. They signed the book, and then, hearing the music, -Mendel seized Morrison by the wrist and dragged her down the stairs. - -The place was astonishingly full. Nearly all the tables were occupied, -and they had to take one between the orchestra and the door. Calthrop, -Mitchell, Weldon, Jessie Petrie, everybody from the Paris Café was -there. Oliver was sitting with Thompson and the critic. In a far -corner Clowes was sitting with the young man from the Detmold. There -were models, male and female, all the strange people who for one -reason or another had lived in or on the Calthrop tradition. In the -middle of the room were two large tables which Sivwright had packed -with celebrities--authors, journalists, editors, actors, and -music-hall comedians. They were being fed royally, as became lions, -and there were champagne bottles gleaming on the tables. Tall young -soldiers in mufti began to arrive with chorus-girls who had not -troubled to remove their make-up. - -"It's a gala!" said Mendel. - -Oliver saw him, and beamed and raised her glass. He rose and bowed -with mock solemnity. - -Dancing had not begun. Apparently the lions were to sing for their -supper. - -An author read a short play, which he explained had been suppressed by -the censor. To Mendel it sounded very mild and foolish. It was a -tragedy, but no one was moved; the audience much preferred the -music-hall comedian, who followed with a song about a series of -mishaps to his trousers. - -The same reedy-voiced poet recited the same poem as before, and the -same foolish girl sang the same foolish song, and it looked as though -the programme would never end. - -Mendel was irritated and bored, and called for champagne. - -"Waiter!" - -But the waiter did not hear him. - -"You don't want any champagne," said Morrison. - -"Waiter!" - -The door by them opened and Logan slipped in. He was almost a shadow -of his old self. The plump flesh had gone from his face, which was all -eyes and bones. He looked famished. His eyes swept round the room, -and, fastening on Oliver, lit up with a gleam of satisfaction. He was -like a starving man looking at a nice pink ham in a shop window. He -moved swiftly towards her, but stopped on seeing the men she was with -and swerved to a table a few yards behind her. From where Mendel was -sitting it looked as though he were peering over her shoulder, an -evil, menacing face. - -Mendel shivered, and his eyes suddenly felt dry and hot, as though -they were being pushed out of his face. His throat went dry, and when -he tried to call the waiter he could make no sound. The waiter met his -eyes and came. - -"Champagne!" said Mendel. - -"Very good, sir. One bottle?" - -"Half-a-bottle," said Morrison. - -"One bottle," roared Mendel. - -A young artist, who knew them both slightly, hearing the order, came -and sat with them. - -The dancing began. - -"Come and dance," said Morrison. - -"No, I don't want to dance. That was Logan who came in. He hasn't seen -me yet." - -"Which is Logan?" asked the young artist. "He's done some good things. -Someone told me the other day he had softening of the brain." - -"Rubbish!" said Mendel. "They say that of every man who makes a -success, as though it needed something strange to account for it. It's -either softening of the brain, or consumption, or three wives, or he -is killing himself with drink. They talk as though art itself were -some kind of disease." - -Logan had seen Mendel, and their eyes met. Mendel felt that Logan was -looking clean through him, looking at him as a ghost might look at a -man whom he had known in life, fondly, tenderly, icily through him, -without expecting him to be aware of the terrible scrutiny. But Mendel -was aware of it, and it chilled him to the marrow. Logan gave no sign, -but stared and stared, and presently turned his eyes away without a -sign, without a tremor. It was like turning away the light of a -lantern. He turned his eyes from Mendel to Oliver in one sweep. No one -else but those two seemed to exist for him, and Mendel felt that he no -longer existed. And more than ever Logan looked as if he were peering -over Oliver's shoulder with those staring, piercing eyes of his from -which the soul had gone out. Only the glowing spark of a fixed will -was left in them to keep them sane and human. - -Mendel began to drink. The orchestra behind him sent the rhythm of a -waltz thumping through him. But it went heavily, without music or -tune. One--two--three. It was like having molten lead poured on the -nape of his neck, threatening to jerk his head off his spine. From -where he sat he could not see the dancing-floor, except reflected in a -mirror opposite him. . . . Oh! it was a gay sight and a silly It had -nothing to do with him. He could see nothing but Oliver with the grim, -haggard face looking over her shoulder. He gulped down a glass of -wine. That was better. It made things bearable. He poured out another -glass of wine. - -"I think there is more in the Futurists than the Cubists," said the -young artist. - -"In art," said Mendel, turning on him savagely, "there is neither past -nor present nor future; there is only eternity. You try to make a -group out of that, and see how you will get on. You can put that at -the head of your manifesto and your group would melt away under it -like the fat on a basted pigeon." - -He put out his hand for his glass, but Morrison had taken it and was -drinking. - -"You'll make yourself drunk," he said, taking it from her gently. - -"I finished it all," she said, with an unhappy smile. "I didn't want -you to drink it, and you looked so tragic I knew it would be bad for -you." - -The young artist crept away. Mendel took Morrison's hand and gripped -it. - -"I'm glad you are with me," he said. "Look at Logan!" - -Never taking his eyes off Oliver, Logan had begun to move towards her -with his hand in his breast pocket. He had nearly reached her, with -his eyes glowing almost yellow under the electric light, when he -changed his mind, swung round, and went to another table and sat with -his head down, biting his nails. - -The dancing was fast and furious, and this time it was the flute which -played an obbligato, thin, fantastic, and comic, real silvery fun, -like a trickle of water down a crag into a pool in sunshine. - -Thompson went to the dancing-floor with a girl in fancy dress--a -columbine's costume. That seemed to relieve Logan, who jumped to his -feet, walked quickly round to Oliver, bent over her, and spoke to her. -Her face wore an expression of amazed delight. Her eyes were drawn to -his, and though she shrank under them, she seemed to go soft and -flabby: she could not resist them. There was no menace in Logan now, -only an attitude of fixed mastery, an air of taking possession of her -once and for all, of knowing that at last he would get the longed-for -satisfaction. - -They spoke together for a little longer, then she rose and put her -hand up and caressed his cheek and neck as though it hurt her to see -them so thin--as though, indeed, she refused to believe what her eyes -told her. - -They walked past Mendel and Morrison without seeing them. Mendel -gripped Morrison's hand until she felt that the blood must gush out of -her nails. Logan opened the swing-door for Oliver, devouring her with -his burning eyes, in which there was a desperate set purpose of which -he seemed to be almost weary. So frail he looked, as if but a little -more and he would loose his hold even on that to which he clung. And -Oliver smiled at him with a malicious promise in her eyes that he -should have his will, that his hold should be loosened and his -weariness come to an end. Clearly she knew that he had no thought -outside herself. - -And outside the two of them Mendel had no thought. His mind became as -a tunnel down which they were moving, and soon they were lost to his -sight and he was left to wait. There his thoughts stopped, while he -waited. - - - -IX - -LOGAN MAKES AN END - -ALL night long he paced up and down his studio. His thoughts would not -move, but went over and over the scene in the Cave, and probed vainly -in the darkness for the next move. When he heard footsteps in the -street he hung out of the window, making sure that it must be Logan -come for him. But no one stopped at the door, and soon within himself -and without was complete silence, save for his footsteps on the floor -and the matches he struck to light cigarette after cigarette, though -he could not keep one of them alight. - -His imagination rejected the facts and refused to work on them. The -scene in the Cave had left an impression upon his retina, like that of -the cinema--just a plain flat impression containing no material for -his imagination. And yet he knew that he was deeply engaged in -whatever was happening. - -With his chin in his hands he leaned out of his window and watched the -dawn paint the eastern sky and the day wipe out the colours. Doors -were opened in the street. Windows were lit with the glow of the -fires, and the day's activity had begun, but he had no share in it, -for he knew that this day was like no other. For him it was a day lost -in impenetrable shadow, and he could not tell what should take him out -of it. And still he expected Logan would come. - -He heard Rosa get up and go downstairs and light the fire and bawl up -to Issy to jump out of his bed, filthy snoring sluggard that he was. -He heard the voices of the children and the baby yelling. . . . How -indecent, how abominable it was to cram so many people into one small -house! - -At the usual time he went over to his mother's kitchen for breakfast, -and gulped down his tea, but made no attempt to eat. Golda looked at -him reproachfully, but said nothing, for she saw that he was in some -deep trouble. - -After breakfast, as usual, he went for his walk down through -Whitechapel almost as far as Bow Church and back. - -In his studio when he returned he found a policeman, who said:-- - -"Mr. Mendel Kühler?" - -"Yes." - -The policeman handed him a letter from Logan who had scrawled:-- - -"I believe in you to the end." - -To the end? - -"Is he dead?" asked Mendel. - -"Next door to it," said the policeman. "The woman's done in." - -"Where?" - -"At the Pot-au-Feu, Soho." - -"Where is he now?" - -"Workhouse infirmary. If you want to see him the police will raise no -objection." - -"Thank you," said Mendel. - -He asked the direction and set out at once. - -The workhouse was a dull grey mass of buildings, rising out of a dull -grey district like an inevitable creation of its dullness, and it -seemed an inevitable contrast to the Merlin's Cave, so that it was -right that Logan should walk out of the glitter into it. This was the -very contrast that Mendel's imagination had been vainly seeking, and -now, with the violence of a sudden release, his thoughts began to work -again. . . . Oliver was dead. That was inevitable too. But why? - -Logan had surrendered to her. They would go home from the Merlin's -Cave to the Pot-au-Feu, to Hetty Finch's room. He would surrender to -her absolutely, because she had willed his destruction and could not -see that his destruction meant her own. She wanted recognition, -acknowledgment that her vitality was more important than anything else -in the world, and she had brought Logan to it. There had been a cold, -set purpose in his eyes last night--an intellectual purpose. The -equation was worked out. She could have what she wanted, at a price. -She could destroy the will and the desire of a man, but not his mind, -not his spirit, which would still be obedient to a higher will, and -that would break her as she had broken. - -Very bare and grim was the waiting-room in which Mendel had to bide -until the nurse came for him. Its walls were of a faded green, dim and -grimy, and when the door was opened as people went in or out, there -was wafted in a smell of antiseptics. But as his thoughts gathered -force the room seemed to be filled with a great light, which revealed -beauty in the poor people waiting patiently to see their sick. They -became detached and pictorial, but he could not think of them in terms -of paint. His mind had begun to work in a new way, and he felt more -solid, more human, more firmly planted on the ground, as though at -last he was admitted to a place in life. It mattered to him no more -that he was a Jew and strange and foreign to the Christian world. -There were neither Jews nor Christians now. There were only -people--tragic, wonderful people . . . He even forgot that he was in -love. All his mind was concentrated upon Logan, who was now also -tragic and wonderful, a source of tragedy and wonder, and his whole -effort was to discover and to make plain to himself his share in the -tragedy: not to weigh and measure and to wonder whether at one point -or another he could have stopped it. Nothing could have stopped it. - -There was no room for judgment in this tragic world. - -A nurse came to fetch him. - -She said:-- - -"He is very weak, but he will be strong enough to know you. Don't -excite him." - -She led him into the bare, white ward, across which the sun threw -great shafts of light, to Logan's bedside. At the head of the bed a -policeman was sitting with his helmet on his knees, staring straight -in front of him. He turned his eyes on Mendel, who thought he looked a -very nice man, something amusingly imperturbable in this racking world -of tragedy. - -He stood by the bedside and looked down at Logan, in whose face there -was at last the noble, conquering expression at which, through all his -foolish striving, he had always aimed. His brow was strong and -massive, his mouth relentless as Beethoven's, his nose sharp and -stubborn, and there was something exquisite and sensitive in the drawn -skin about his eyes. From his white brow his shock of black hair fell -back on the pillow. - -His hand was outside the grey coverlet. Mendel took it in his. Logan -opened his eyes, and into them came an expression of almost -incredulous surprise, of ecstatic, intolerable happiness. He had -wakened out of his dream into his dream, to be with Mendel, to have -gone through the very depths to be with Mendel. His hand closed tight -on his friend's and his lids drooped over his eyes. - -He opened them again after a few moments and said:-- - -"You!" - -The nurse placed a chair for Mendel, and he sat down and said:-- - -"How are you feeling?" - -"Pretty weak. I dreamed of your coming, but I didn't really believe -it. . . . I've done it, you know." - -"Yes." - -"What are you doing?" - -"I've painted another portrait of my mother. A good one, this time. -She is sitting in a wooden chair as she always sits, with her hands -folded on her stomach. And I am planning a picture of a Jewish market, -something bigger than I have attempted yet." - -"I see. Good--good. . . . We must work together. We can do it now." - -"Yes," said Mendel, rather mystified. It was very strange to have -Logan talking like that, as though he were going back to the first -days of their friendship. - -"It is such peace," said Logan; and indeed he looked as if he were at -peace, lying there so still and white, with the hard strain gone from -his eyes, in which there was none of the old roguish twinkle, but an -expression of pain through which there shone a penetrating and most -tender light. - -"Peace," murmured Logan again. "Tell me more. There is only art." - -"There is nothing else," answered Mendel, carried away on the impulse -of Logan's spirit and understanding what he meant when he said "we." -Life, the turbulent life of every day, the life of desire, was broken -and had fallen away from him, so that he was living without desire, -only in his enduring will, which had lost patience with his desires -and had destroyed them. - -Through Mendel trembled a new and strange elation. He recognized that -his friendship with Logan was just beginning, and that he was absolved -from all share in the catastrophe, if such there had been. And from -him too the turbulent life of desire fell away, and he could be at one -with his friend. There was no need to talk of the past--it was as -though it had never been. - -He described the design he had made for his picture: two fat old women -bargaining, and a strong man carrying a basket of fruit on his head. - -"A good beginning," said Logan. "I . . . I could never get going. I -was always overseen in my work." - -"Overseen!" said Mendel, puzzled by the word. - -"Yes. I was always outside the picture, working at it. . . . Too . . . -too much brains, too little force." - -"I see," said Mendel, for whom a cold finger had been put on one of -his own outstanding offences against art. For a moment it brought him -to an ashamed silence, but Logan's words slipped so easily into his -understanding and took up their habitation there, that he was -powerless to resent or to attempt to dislodge them. - -"Overseen," Logan repeated, with an obvious pleasure in plucking out -the weeds from their friendship, in the fair promise of which he found -peace and joy. "That was the trouble. It couldn't go on. . . . City -life, I think. Too much for us. Things too much our own way. . . . -Egoism. . . ." - -"I know that I am feeling my way towards something and that it is no -good forcing it," said Mendel. - -An acute attack of pain seized Logan, and he closed his eyes and was -silent for a long time, with his brows knit in a kind of impatient -boredom at having to submit to such a thing as pain. - -"They've been very good to me," he said. "Given me everything as if I -were really ill." - -He sank back into pain again. - -Mendel looked across at the policeman with a feeling of irritation -that he should be there, a typical figure of the absurd chaotic life -which had fallen away, a symbol of the factitious pretence of order -which could only deceive a child. - -"Can't you leave me alone with him?" he whispered. - -The policeman shook his head. - -"No, sir." - -"You mustn't worry about outside things," said Logan, with an effort. -"We _are_ alone. . . . Have you found a new friend?" - -"No." - -"You will. Better men than I have been. . . . Do you see that girl -still?" - -"Yes." - -"She was the strongest of us." - -"How?" - -Logan made no answer, and gave a slight shake of impatience at -Mendel's not understanding him. - -"Something," he said, "that I never got anywhere near. . . . I . . . I -was overseen in that too." - -The blood drummed in Mendel's temples. Logan's cold finger went -probing into his life too, and showed him always casting his own -shadow over his passions. In love it was the same as in art. . . . It -was very odd that, with every nerve at stretch to understand Logan and -how he had been brought to smash the clotted passion of his life, it -should only be important to understand himself, and that he should be -able to understand so coldly, so clearly, so easily. - -And now the presence of the policeman became a relief. It was a -guarantee that the whole visible world would not be swept away by the -frozen will in Logan, which was like a floe of ice bearing everything -with it, nipping at Mendel's life, squeezing it up high and dry and -bearing it along. He felt that if the policeman were to go away he -would be drawn down into the doom that was upon Logan, into the valley -of the shadow, even while the good sun came streaming in through the -tall windows. . . . He had lost all the emotional interest which had -kept him awake through the night. . . . It had been simple enough. -There had been himself, Logan and Oliver, three people, living in -London the gay, reckless life of artists in London, a city so huge -that men and women could do in it as they pleased. Oliver and he had -hated each other, and Logan had had to choose between them. He had -chosen wrongly and had put an end to his misery in the only possible -way. - -Mendel fought back out of the shadow--back to the policeman, and the -sick men lying in the rows of beds, and the dead man lying in the bed -which had just been surrounded by a screen, and the simple, wonderful -people in the waiting-room downstairs, and the sun streaming through -the windows, and the teeming life outside in London--wonderful, -splendid London, the very heart of the world. . . . It was well for -Logan to lose sight of these things. He was a dying man. But Mendel -was alive, never more alive than now, in face of the shadow of death, -and he would not think the thoughts of a dying man unless they could -be shaped in the likeness of life. He gathered together all his -forces, summoned up everything that urged him towards life and towards -art, and of his own strong living will plunged after Logan, no longer -in obedience to Logan's frozen purpose, but as a friend giving to his -friend the meed that was due to him. - -He took Logan's hand and pressed it, and chafed it gently to make it -warm, and Logan smiled at him, and an expression of anguish came into -his face as the warmth of his friend wrapped him round, penetrated -him, thawed and melted his purpose, with which he had lived for so -many empty, solitary days until it had driven him to make an end. The -coldness in his friend touched Mendel's heart and was like a stab -through it, and he felt soon a marvellous release, as if his blood -were flowing again, and it seemed that the weaknesses on which Logan -had laid his finger were borne down with him into the shadow. - -Mendel remembered Cézanne's portrait of his wife, and how he had -intended to tell Logan that it had made him feel like a tree with the -sap running through it to the budding leaves in spring. - -He told him now, and added:-- - -"It doesn't matter that I did not understand you in life." - -"No," said Logan. "Don't go away!" - -"I'll stay," replied Mendel; "I'll stay." - -Then he was in a horrible agony again, as the marvellous clarity he -had just won disappeared. Logan knew what he was doing, that he was -taking with him all the weaknesses and vain follies which had so -nearly brought them both to baseness, and Mendel knew that Logan must -continue as a powerful force in his work; but he crushed the rising -revolt in himself, the last despairing effort of his weakness, and -gave himself up to feeding the extraordinary delight it was to the -poor wretch, lying there with his force ebbing away, to give himself -up to a pure artistic purpose such as had been denied him in his -tangled life. Through this artistic purpose Logan could rise above the -natural ebbing process of his vitality, which sucked away with it the -baseness and the folly he had brought into his friend's life. He could -rejoice in the contact of their minds, the mingling of their souls, -the proud salute of this meeting and farewell. It was nothing to him -that he was dying, little enough that he had lived, for he knew that -he had never lived until now. - -The nurse came and said the patient must rest. - -"Don't go away!" pleaded Logan. - -"I'll wait," said Mendel, patting his hand to reassure him. - -"Half-past two," said the nurse as she followed Mendel out. "What a -remarkable man!" she added. "What a tragedy! I suppose the girl was to -blame too." - -"Blame?" said Mendel, rather dazed at being brought back to customary -values. "Blame?" - -* * * * * - -He went down to the dingy waiting-room and sat there subdued, -cowering, exhausted. He felt very cold and miserable. It was so -terrible waiting for a thing that had happened. The physical fact -could make no difference. . . . Logan had made an end, a very complete -and thorough end. . . . Oh! the relief of it, the relief of having -Logan for his friend at last, of having seen him freely and fully -tasting at last his heart's desire, of being himself brought up to -that level, that pure contact with another human being, for which he -had always longed. . . . That desire in both of them had been violated -and despoiled, God knows how. Lies? Lust? Profanation of the holy -spirit of art? . . . What words could describe the evil that -everywhere in life lay in wait for the adventurous, letting the -foolish and the timid, the faint of heart and the blind of soul, go -by, and waiting for strong men who walked with purpose and a single -mind? - -* * * * * - -At half-past two the nurse came to fetch him. - -"He is very weak now," she said. - -Logan's face wore a noble gathering serenity. He was too weak to talk -much, and only wanted Mendel to hold his hand and to talk to him about -art, about pictures "they" were going to paint, and about pictures -they had both loved: Cranach, Dürer, Uccello, Giotto, Blake, Cézanne. - -"Good men, those," said Logan. "Good company." - -"Good, decent, quiet little men." - -"We shall do good things." - -His hand closed more tightly on Mendel's, who surrendered himself to -the force of the ebb in his friend, felt the cold, salt waves of death -close about him and drag him out, out until Logan was lost, and with a -frightful wrench all that was dead in himself was torn away, and he -was left prostrate upon the fringes of his life. . . . He became -conscious to find himself leaning over Logan, gazing at his lips, with -his own lips near them, waiting for the breath that would come no -more. - -It was finished. Logan had made an end. - -Turning away, Mendel saw through the window the lovely grey-blue sky, -fleecy with mauve-grey clouds heaped up by the driving -wind--beautiful, beautiful. . . . - - - -X - -PASSOVER - -IT was many days before Mendel could take up his work again. His mind -simply could not express itself in paint. - -His first clear thought as he emerged from the numbness of the crisis -was for Morrison, and to her he wrote, telling her what had happened, -describing in minute detail his experience in the hospital, and adding -that he was without the least wish to see her, and would write to her -if his life ever became again what it had been before Logan's violent -end. - -It seemed to him that Logan had claimed him, that he was destined to -go through life with Logan, a dead man, for sole companion, and always -behind Logan was the ominous and dreadful shadow of Oliver, from whom -he had thought to escape those many months ago. - -His isolation was complete. It seemed that he had not a friend in the -world, and there was not a soul towards whom he could move or wished -to move. He could only rake over the ashes of the dead past and marvel -that there had ever been a flame stirring in them. And as he raked -them, he thrust into them much that only a short while ago had been -living and delightful. - -What had happened? Youth could not be gone while he was yet so young, -but he felt immeasurably old, and, in his worst condition, outside -Time, which took shape as a stream flowing past him, bearing with it -all his dreams, loves, aspirations, hopes, thoughts. When he tried to -cast himself into it, to rescue these treasured possessions, he was -clutched back, thrown down, and left prostrate with his eyes darkened -and the smell of death in his nostrils. - -Sometimes he thought with terror that he had plunged too far, had -given too much to Logan, had committed some obscure blasphemy, had -been perhaps "overseen" even in that moment when the weakness and all -that was dead in him had been wrenched away. And he said to himself:-- - -"No. This is much worse than death. It is foolish to seek any meaning -in death, for death is not the worst." - -It was no good turning to his people, for he knew that he was cut off -from them. They were confined in their Judaism, from which he had -broken free. That was one of the dead things which had been taken from -him. - -His mother could not help him, because she could not endure his -unhappiness. The pain of it was too great for her, and he had to -invent a spurious happiness, to pretend that he was working as usual, -though with great difficulty, and that, as usual, he was out and -about, seeing his friends. And in a way this pretence gave him relief, -though he suffered for it afterwards. He suffered so cruelly that he -was forced by it into making an effort to grope back into life. - -He was able to take up his work again, and the exercise of his craft -soothed him, though it gave him no escape. The conception of his -market picture was dead. It was enclosed in Judaism, from which he was -free. Yet he had no other conception in his mind, and he knew that any -picture he might paint must spring from it. So he clung to the dead -conception and made studies and drawings for its execution. - -Some of these drawings he was able to sell to Tysoe, who worried him -by coming to talk about Logan and was nearly always ashamed to leave -the studio without buying. Mendel was saved from borrowing of his -people, which had become repugnant to him now that he no longer -belonged to them. - -It was through Tysoe's talk that he was able to push his way through -the tragedy of Logan and Oliver back to life. Tysoe insisted that the -cause of it was jealousy, but Mendel knew that Logan was beyond -jealousy, and, piecing the story together, he saw how Oliver had set -herself to smash their friendship because it fortified in her lover -what she detested, his intellect, which, because she could not satisfy -it, stood between him and his passion for her. If anyone was -responsible it was she, for she had tried to smash a spiritual thing -and had herself been smashed. . . . And Mendel saw that had he tried -to smash the relationship between Logan and Oliver he too would have -been broken, for that also was a spiritual thing, though an evil. And -he saw that, but for Morrison, he must have tried to smash it. His -obligation to her had given him the strength to resist, to make his -escape. Oliver had triumphed, evil had triumphed, and she and Logan -were dead and he had to grope his way back to life, and if he could -not succeed in doing that, then she and evil would have triumphed -indeed, and what was left of him would have to follow the dead that -had gone with Logan. - -He sought the society of his father and of the old Jews, the friends -of the family, and was left marvelling at their indifference to good -and evil. They knew neither joy nor despair. They had yielded up their -will to God, upon Whom, through fair weather and foul, their thoughts -were centred. They lived in a complete stagnation which made him -shudder. Their lives were like stale water, like unmoved puddles, from -which every now and then their passions broke in bubbles, broke -vainly, in bubbles. Nothing brought them any nearer to the God upon -Whom their thoughts were centred, and only Time brought them any -nearer to the earth. - -And yet Mendel loved them in their simple dignity. They had a quality -which he had found nowhere in the Christian world, where men and women -had their thoughts centred on the good, leaving evil to triumph as it -had triumphed in Oliver. . . . She had wanted good. With all the power -of her insensate passion, her blind sensuality, she had wanted love, -the highest good she could conceive. . . . But these old Jews were -wiser: they wanted God, Whom they knew not how to attain. Yet God was -ever present to them. - -In Mendel, too, this desire for God became active and kindled his -creative will. He plunged into his work with a frenzy, but soon -recognized that he was committing the old offence and was "overseen." -. . . Yet how shall a man approach his God if not through art? - -"Something is lacking!" cried Mendel desperately. "Something is -lacking!" - -His imagination flew back to that last sublime moment of friendship -with Logan, but it lacked warmth. It seemed that he could not take it -back into life with him, or that until he had established contact with -life its force could not be kindled. . . . Oh! for sweet, comfortable -things--flowers, and rare music, a white, gleaming tablecloth, and -good meats! - -He thought, with envy, of Edward Tufnell and his wife going along the -road on either side smiling at each other, so happily smiling. And -then he thought with more satisfaction of the old Jews. They were the -wiser and the more solid. They walked in the middle of the way, and -good and evil went on either side and neither could attain them. . . . -His thoughts swung between those two extremes like a pendulum, and out -of the momentum thus created grew a force in his mind which began to -find its way towards the God he was seeking. But it was only in his -mind. His force, his passion, were left slumbering in the hypnotic -sleep imposed on them by the tragedy. - -Yet the mental impulse kept him working in a serene ecstasy. He could -make the design for his picture, and simplify his figures into a form -in which he knew there was some beauty, or at least that it could hold -beauty and let no drop of it escape. - -He could return then to his normal life, and made Golda very happy by -joking with her and spending many evenings in her kitchen. - -"You should take a holiday," she said. "You look tired out." - -"I will," he said, "when the spring comes. I am going to be an artist, -but I am afraid it will not mean carriages and horses and the King -commanding his portrait to be painted." - -* * * * * - -He had the very great joy of beginning to understand Cézanne's delight -in the intellectual craft of painting and to see why he had neglected -the easier delights of handicraft and the mere pleasure of the eye. -But the more he understood, the harder it became to finish his -picture. He slaved at it, but there was still no beauty in it. - -He would not surrender. It would have been so easy to slip back to -fake a pictorial quality. He had only to go to the National Gallery to -come out with his head buzzing with ideas and impressions. He had only -to go into the street to have a thousand mental notes from which to -give his work a human and dramatic quality. - -He stuck to it and slaved away until he was forced to give in. - -"You devil!" he said, as he shook his fist at the picture. "You empty -jug!" - -But there was some satisfaction in it, unfinished failure as it was, -and he wanted Morrison to see it. - -He wrote and asked her to come. - -* * * * * - -She and Clowes were in the country, painting, and they wired to him to -come and stay with them for a week. Clowes wrote to tell him that she -could put him up in the farm of which her cottage was a part. - -With her letter he went racing over to see his mother. - -"I'm going away," he said, "I'm going away to the country. The -Christian girl has a house in the country and I am going to stay in -it." - -"You will have fresh air and new milk to make you well again," cried -Golda, scarcely able to contain her joy at seeing him once more his -happy, elated, robustious self. "You will be well again, but you -should have done with that nonsense about the Christian girl. A -sparrow does not mate with a robin, and a cock robin is what you are." - -"Yes. I'm a robin," said Mendel, and he whistled blithely, -"Tit-a-weet! tit-a-weet! tit-a-weet! I shall go on the halls as a -whistler. Tit-a-weet! and I shall make three hundred pounds a week. -Tit-a-weet! tit-a-weet!" - -Golda laughed at him till the tears ran, so happy was she to have him -come back to her. - -"It is not nonsense about the Christian girl," he said. "She is going -to turn me into a Public School gentleman, and I shall bring her to -see you, so that you can know for yourself that it is not nonsense." - -"It is not the girl who is nonsensical, but you." - -"Tit-a-weet!" - -"I will bake her a Jewish bread and you shall take it to her. Yes. -Bring her to me and I will thank her for bearing with you." - -"Tit-a-weet! Tit-a-weet!" - -"Cock robin!" - -* * * * * - -His luggage consisted of a brown-paper parcel, a paint-box and two -canvases. - -Morrison met him at the station. She was glowing with health and good -spirits and began to tease him at once about his luggage, of which she -insisted on taking charge. - -"It's the loveliest little cottage!" she said; "only two rooms. . . . -I hope you don't mind walking along the road. There is another way -through the fields, but I daren't try to find it; besides, it goes -through the woods, and I don't want you to see any woods before you -have been to mine. I don't believe there'll be room for you in the -cottage. You'll have to sit in the garden and have your meals handed -out to you, among the chickens and the pigs." - -"Pigs?" said Mendel, "I want to draw pigs. Marvellous animals!" - -"These are the most marvellous pigs that ever were." - -So they chattered in a growing glee as they walked along the winding -road up into the hills. They were unwilling to let their deep thoughts -emerge until they had been caught up in the beauty of the place, the -serene lines of the comfortable folding hills, the farmsteads tucked -in the hollows, the rich velvet plough-lands, the blue masses of -woods, the gorse-grown common, and the single sentinels the trees, and -the hedges where the birds sang and twittered, Tit-a-weet! tit-a-weet! -. . . And over the hills hung the wide sky, vast and open, with great -clouds that seemed to be drawn from the edge of the earth and sent -floating up and up to show how limitless was the space above the -earth. - -For the first time Mendel had no sting of anger at the exhilaration in -the English girl, no desire to pluck her out from the surroundings of -the lovely English country in which it seemed to be her desire to lose -herself. She was one with the rich fields and the mighty trees and the -singing birds in the hedges, and when his heart sang Tit-a-weet, he -knew it for a comic Cockney note. It was he who was at fault, not she, -and she was the very comfort he had come to seek. - -The farmer's wife received him with a kindly pity--the poor, pale -London foreigner--and told him he must have plenty of good plain -country food, plenty of milk, plenty of fresh air. - -"I do the cooking for Miss Clowes," she said, "and if you'll excuse my -saying so, the young ladies take a deal of tempting." - -Mendel thought her a wonderful woman, his room a wonderful room, the -cottage a wonderful cottage, and the place the finest in the world. -The air was rare and buoyant and he had never felt so free and so -strong. His life in London looked to him like a bubble which he could -break with a touch or with a puff of his breath. But he was reluctant -to break it yet, for the time had not come. - -The girls showed him their work and he praised it, and began to talk -of his own picture. Clowes led him on to explain what she called the -modern movement, which she could not pretend to understand. - -Conversation that first evening was all between Clowes and Mendel, -while Morrison sat silent, curled up on the floor by the fire, gazing -into it, sometimes listening, sometimes dreaming, sometimes shaking -with a happy dread as she thought how near she was to her heart's -desire. It had been for so long her central thought that she would -take him down to the country and get him away from the terrible -pressure of London upon his spirit, so that she could see released in -him, perhaps slowly, perhaps painfully, what she loved--the vivid, -clear vitality. And now she had won. She had him sitting there within -reach, with good, faithful Clowes, and already she could feel the new -glow of health in him. Almost she could detect a new tone in his -lovely rich voice. . . . Sometimes, as she gazed into the fire, her -eyes were clouded with tears. It seemed so incredible that she could -have won against the innumerable enemies, invisible and intangible, -against whom action had been impossible, even if she had known what to -do. - -She had been happy enough with Clowes in this place, but now she could -not help a wickedly ungrateful desire that Clowes should be spirited -away. - -* * * * * - -Clowes absented herself in the day-time, but Mendel had very little -energy, and for the most part of the day sat by the fire brooding over -the bubble of his London life, which he knew he must break with a -touch. Often Morrison sat with him, and neither spoke a word for hours -together. - -On the fifth day, when the sun shone so that it was wicked to be -indoors, Morrison suggested lunch in the woods. Clowes excused -herself, but Mendel agreed to go with her, and the farmer's wife -packed them a basket of food. They set out gaily, over the common, up -the rolling field green with winter corn, down through the jolly -farm-yard full of gobbling turkeys and strutting guinea-fowl, under -the wild cherry-trees to the woods, where in a clearing they made a -fire, and Morrison, declaring that she was a gipsy, sang the only song -she could remember, "God Save the King," and told his fortune by his -hand. He was to meet a dark woman who would make a great change in his -life, and money would come his way, but he must beware of the Knave of -Clubs. - -Entering into her mood, he insisted that they must act a Wild West -cinema drama, and he rescued her from Indians and a Dago ravisher, and -in the end claimed her hand from a grateful father; and so hilarious -did they become that the cinema drama turned into an opera, and he was -Caruso to her Melba. In the end they laughed until they were -exhausted, and decided that it was time for lunch. - -* * * * * - -After they had eaten they were silent for a long time, and at last, -rather to her surprise, she found herself beginning to explain to him -that this was love, this the heaven at which she had been aiming, the -full song whereof they had played the first few notes as boy and girl -at the picnic and again in the dewy grass on the Heath. And she told -him quite simply that she had loved him always, from the time when -they had met on the stairs at the Detmold, and even before that, -though she could not remember clearly. And she told him that love -dwelt in the woods and the hedgerows, in the sweet air and the song of -the birds, not only in the springtime but in the harsh winter weather -and in the summer heat of the sun. . . . - -"Oh, Mendel," she said, "I have been wanting you to know, but it -seemed that you would never know while you looked for love in the heat -and the dust of London." - -And he as simply believed her. It was lovely there in the woods, among -the tall grey-green pillars of the trees, with the pale yellow -sunlight falling on the emerald of the moss and the russet of the dead -bracken, and the brilliant enamel of the blackberry leaves. He was -overcome with his exquisite delight, and she, to comfort him, held him -in her arms, her weary shaggy faun, so bitterly conscious of his own -ugliness. She soothed him and caressed him, and won him over to her -own serene joy, which passed from her to him in wave upon wave of -flooding warmth, melting the last coldness in his soul, healing the -last wounds upon his spirit. - -He roused himself, flung up his head, and began to whistle:-- - -"Tit-a-weet!" - -And he looked so comical that she laughed. - -"That isn't anything like a bird," she said. - -"It is. It is very like cock robin." - -To their mutual amazement it seemed entirely unnecessary to discuss -the future or the past, and the present demanded only happy silence. -Here in the enchantment of the woods was love, and it was enough. - -While they stayed in the woods they hardly talked at all, but as they -walked home he became solemn and said, as though it pained and puzzled -him:-- - -"We are no longer young." - -"We shall never be anything else," she protested, for she was pained -by the change in his mood. - -"Youth passes," he said. - -And her exhilaration died in her, for she knew she had touched his -obstinacy. He saw her droop and was sorry, and began to whistle and to -laugh, but she could not be revived. She had thought to have secured -him, to have made him safe with the charm of love for ever, but she -was sure now that the hardest of all was yet to come. - -In the evening, as they sat by the fire in the little white room, -Mendel and Clowes talking and Morrison curled up on the floor gazing -into the coals, he suddenly ceased to hear Clowes' voice, and saw very -clearly the bubble of his life in London before him--Mr. Kuit, Issy, -Hetty Finch, Mitchell, Logan and Oliver--Logan and Oliver leaving the -Merlin's Cave and going out into the street and walking home to the -Pot-au-Feu, up the narrow, dark stairs to Hetty Finch's room. . . . He -put out his hand to touch the bubble and it broke, and with a -shuddering, gasping cry he heard Clowes saying:-- - -"On the whole I don't think all this modern stuff can be good for -anything but decoration." - -And he began to think of his own picture, which was full of life. -Wherever he picked up the design he could follow it all round the -picture, and through and through it, beyond it into the mystery of -art, and out of it back into life. It was poised, a wonderful, lovely -created thing, with a complete, unaccountable, serene life of its own. -The harsh, gloomy background of London fell away, and in its place -shone green hills and a clear blue sky, fleecy with mauve-grey clouds. -. . . - -Following the clouds, he came easily back to life again, to the two -girls sitting in this wonderful snug cottage, and he was overwhelmed -by a feeling that he was sharing their comfortable happiness on false -pretences. It was not to him the perfectly satisfying wonder they so -obviously wished it to be for him, and at last he could not contain -himself, and burst out:-- - -"You must not expect me to be happy. I cannot be happy. I will swing -up to it as high as ever you like, but I must swing back again. -Happiness is not life, love is not life, any more than misery is life. -If I stay in happiness I die as surely as if I stay in misery. I must -be like a pendulum. I must swing to and fro or the clock will stop. -. . . I can't make it clear to you, but it is so. What matters is that -the clock should go. Jews understand, but they forget that they are -the pendulum and they do not live at all. Jews are wonderful people. -They know that what matters is the impulse of the soul. It matters so -much to them that they have forgotten everything else. And those who -are not Jews think of everything else and forget the impulse of the -soul. But I know that when I swing from happiness to unhappiness, from -good to bad, from light to dark, then a force comes into my soul and -it can move up to art, and beyond art, into that place where it can be -free. . . . Don't, please, misunderstand me." He addressed himself -frankly to Morrison, who dropped her head a little lower. "In love I -can no more be free than I can in misery. I will swing as high on one -side as I will on the other, and then I can be free." - -Morrison folded her hands in her lap and her hair fell over her face. -Mendel got up, said good-night, and went over to the farm. - -"Well," said Clowes uneasily, "I really think he must be a genius." - -Morrison made no reply, and presently Clowes went upstairs to bed, -leaving her with her hair drooping over her face, staring into the -glowing fire. - -"I must learn my lesson," said Morrison to herself. "I must learn my -lesson." - -She was so little trained for misery, but this was misery enough. But -she sat and brooded over it, and summoned up all her strength for the -supreme effort of her will, not to be broken and cast down in the -swing back from love. She had taught him to surrender himself to love; -she must learn to surrender herself to misery, to swing as high on one -side as on the other. - -For many, many hours she wrestled with herself and broke down fear -after fear, weakness after weakness, until she was utterly exposed to -the enemies of love and knew that she could be with Mendel through -everything. She took out from her paint-box his letter describing the -scene in the hospital, which had shocked and horrified her before, and -now read and re-read it until she had lived through all the story and -could understand both Logan and Oliver. - -At last, when she could endure no more, relief came, a new vision of -love, no longer lost in the woods or in any earthly beauty, but a -clear light illuminating men and women and the earth upon which they -dwell. And in her soul, too, the upward impulse began to thrill, and -with a sob of thankfulness she lay on her bed fully clothed and went -to sleep. - -* * * * * - -She was not at all disturbed when Mendel said in the morning that he -must go back to London to work on his picture. It was right. Their -happiness was too tremulous. There was plenty of time for them to take -up their ordinary jolly human lives, plenty of time now that they were -no longer young. - -She walked with him to the station, and on the way they laughed and -sang, and he whistled and talked breathlessly about his picture. - -"My mother says a cock robin can never mate with a sparrow," he said. -"I promised I would take you to see her." - -"I should love to come, for I love your mother." - -"I would like you to see the Jews as they are," he said, "so simply -serving God that their souls have gone to sleep." - -As they stood on the platform she said:-- - -"Mendel, I did . . . begin to understand last night, and it has made -you and your work more important than anything else in my life." - -He gripped her fiercely by the arm. - -"Come to London, now," he said. - -"Not now." - -"Soon." - -"Very soon." - -He got into the train, and as it carried him off she could not bear -him to go, and, forgetting all the other people, she ran as hard as -she could along the platform, and stood at its extremity until the -train disappeared round the corner of the embankment, and even then -she called after him:-- - -"Mendel! Mendel!" - - - -_Transcriber's Note_ - -This transcription is based on the British edition published by T. -Fisher Unwin in 1916. Scans of this edition are available through the -Hathi Trust Digital Library at: - - http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/100597585 - -As an additional resource, the American edition published by George H. -Doran in 1916 was also used. Scans of this edition are posted by the -Internet Archive at: - - https://archive.org/details/mendelstoryofyou00canniala - -The right margins of several page scans of the Unwin edition available -through the Hathi Trust were cut off, so the Doran edition was used to -correct for the missing text. No attempt was made to list all these -corrections. - -The following changes to the text were noted: - --- Cover: The cover image is from the Doran edition. - --- p. 20: what you want, that you shall have. . .--Added an additional -period at the end of the sentence in keeping with the Doran edition. - --- p. 20: "These children have only to go out into London and all will -be given to them,"--Changed the comma to a period. - --- p. 42: their voices seemed to him to come from very far away, The -unheaval had stunned him, had destroyed his volition and paralysed his -dreams.--Changed the comma after "away" to a period and "unheaval" to -"upheaval" in keeping with the Doran edition. - --- p. 48: "That'll do. That'll do," said Moscowitch.--Changed -"Moscowitch" to "Moscowitsch" for consistency. - --- p. 84: "No," said the Professor." I don't know what that is. It -certainly isn't drawing."--Changed the closing quotation mark after -"Professor" to an opening quotation mark before "I". - --- p. 84: and he says: "I mean to say, that isn't drawing.--Changed -the opening double quotation mark to an opening single quotation mark. - --- p. 116: You may renember her--glorious chestnut hair, big blue -eyes, but as shy as a little mouse.--Changed "renember" to "remember". - --- p. 139: And then when I get home and it is just a house and I am -just a girl living it it--Changed the first "it" after "living" to -"in". - --- p. 158: hair brushed back from a round, well shaped brow.--Inserted -a hyphen between "well" and "shaped". - --- p. 184: as they went through their Public Schools and were more and -compressed into type--Inserted the word "more" between "and" and -"compressed" in keeping with the Doran edition. - --- p. 189: "But he cares for poetry and the Bible and he loves -pictures. . ."--Added an additional period at the end of the sentence -in keeping with the Doran edition. - --- p. 216: finding some dam fool to take you to a music-hall--For -consistency and in keeping with the Doran edition, changed "dam" to -"damn". - --- p. 217: When you're starving you don't want chocolates. . .--Added -an additional period at the end of the sentence in keeping with the -Doran edition. - --- p. 234: He says its something deeper--Changed "its" to "it's". - --- p. 245: No, no, no! . . . .--Deleted the fourth period in keeping -with the Doran edition. - --- p. 266: "What has happened?" Does he knock her about?"--Deleted the -closing quotation mark after "happened?" - --- p. 271: "That is all very well while you are young " said -Logan--Inserted a comma between "young" and the closing quotation -mark. - --- p. 290: the furniture was old and exquisite. . .--Added an -additional period at the end of the sentence in keeping with the Doran -edition. - --- p. 297: and through that love his passion for art--Added a period -at the end of the sentence. - --- p. 298: Cluny."--Inserted an opening double quotation mark at the -beginning of the sentence. - --- p. 316: "O God! O God! O God!'--Changed the closing single -quotation mark to a closing double quotation mark. - --- p. 341: You said you were'nt going to dance.--Changed "were'nt" to -"weren't". - --- p. 344: "Yes You are very honest--Added a period after "Yes". - --- p. 351: "You can't stop it," said Logan--Added a period at the end -of the sentence. - --- p. 358: "If it was my house, I would kick them out.'--Changed the -closing single quotation mark to a closing double quotation mark. - --- p. 380: "What do you want, then?--Added a closing double quotation -mark at the end of the sentence. - --- p. 397: "Then it's a sketch and not a picture.'--Changed the -closing single quotation mark to a closing double quotation mark. - --- p. 414: clouds heaped up by the driving wind--beautiful, -beautiful. . .--Added a fourth period at the end of the sentence. - -In the original text, section breaks within a chapter are indicated -with space between paragraphs. 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