Reprise (15 page)

“I met Miss Mallow on Bond Street the other day,” she mentioned casually.

“What a treat for you,” he said in a sardonic voice. “And did Miss Mallow deign to inquire how we go on?”

“I didn’t give her the chance. I cut her dead. No, don’t glare, gudgeon! I didn’t make an issue of it. Merely I stopped to look in a window and admire an extremely ugly bonnet when I saw her approach.
She
knew what I was about, but no one watching would have been able to say I snubbed her.”

This was acceptable to Dammler. Not one inch out of his way would he go to conciliate her. She was all in the wrong, and she would be the one to give in. He wouldn’t even ask Hettie how she looked, and Hettie, her heart hardened against the girl, would not tell him she looked miserable. It occurred to him about this time, however, that he might see her on Bond Street himself with no loss of dignity, and to this end he began to go on the strut at the hour when females were likely to be seen perusing the shops. He haunted the bookstores and libraries, deeming them the likeliest spots to attract her, but saw instead copies of her novel, sitting on the shelves, laughing at him.

Once he met Clarence and nodded to him. This was sufficient encouragement for Elmtree, who was finding life dull without his former great friends to visit, to draw up for a chat. “I see the arm is all better. Glad to see it. What a day it was when we had that little duel, eh, Dammler? I often think of it--but keep it mum, of course!”

“It was a day best forgotten.”

“I should say so. I have put it out of my mind long ago. I am very busy with my painting. I am still working in the old style--Rembrandt. I am looking about for a model. You wouldn’t know of anyone who would like to pose for me?”

“What sort of person do you mean?”

“I was thinking of that little filly that is in your play. The one that Exxon has got tucked away in a corner. His cousin, I believe. Cybele someone told me her name is."

Dammler found to his surprise that it was still possible to smile. The image of Clarence turning Cybele into one of his mud-brown hags was too ludicrous to consider without a smile. How he would love to see such a picture! But Clarence worked in his home, and to be sending the likes of Cybele there was impossible. “She ain’t his cousin, Clarence,” he said, laughing, and using the first name against all his best intentions of being standoffish.

“Eh? Lives with him--must be some relation.”

“She doesn’t quite share his ancestral roof. His wife wouldn’t like it. She is his mistress, they tell me at Drury Lane. Exxon picked her up the very night
Shilla
opened.”

Clarence’s jaw fell open. “Exxon is not an artist! What does he mean, setting up a mistress?”

“He means to cut us out, I guess. You artists aren’t the only gents up to such tricks. In any case you could not well have Cybele to Grosvenor Square to paint her. Not the thing.”

“Very true, Wilma would take it amiss. She is very straight-minded about such carryings on. Where did Rembrandt paint his mistress, I wonder.”

“I don’t know about Rembrandt, but the fellows nowadays have a studio discrete from their homes, where they do the deed. If it is such a highflyer as Cybele you have in your eye, you’d better open up an atelier.”

“Eh?”

“A studio, I mean.” He said it as something to say, with no thought Clarence would actually do it. Nor did Clarence’s own thoughts head in this direction as yet. He only shook his head sadly.

“I am surprised at Exxon,” was his comment. A sad comment, though he knew no more of the man than that he was old, and a lord.

“Yes, and
I
am surprised at Cybele.” Cybele was but an excuse to prolong the conversation, to work it around to other women. “How is your sister?” he asked, determined not to inquire after the niece.

“She is bored to flinders. She says she won’t pose for another picture until after the new year."

“Is there no one else who might pose for you?” he asked, as well as bringing the conversation to Prudence without mentioning her name.

“Sir Alfred promised to make up one of a group for a large painting, but I’m not sure I will tackle ‘The Night Watch’--it is a great unwieldy thing, when all’s said and done.”

“You always excelled at painting women. Young women,” Dammler forged on, still withholding the name.

“Aye, I do have a certain knack for a young girl, but if she is his mistress I can’t ask her home. Well, I’m off, Dammler. Glad to see you’re all better. Prudence will be glad to hear it.”

Then he was gone, just as the talk got around to the one subject of interest to Dammler. He recalled the conversation to find hidden traces relating to Prudence in it, with very poor success. She was still at Grosvenor Square--that’s all he knew for sure.

Clarence too thought of their talk; he seldom thought of anything else for two days. He must set up a studio-- an atelier. How had he not done so, all these years? What interesting specimens he might paint, if he didn’t have to choose people that might come into his own home. Derelicts--drunken creatures for instance were dandy subjects, and fallen women. There was nothing so interesting to paint as a woman with a shade of sin about her. Rembrandt, Rubens, all the chaps painted harlots. Why, way back in the days of the Bible wasn’t Mary Magdalene herself a prime subject? It was his duty as an artist to record on canvas for posterity the flush of today’s harlotry. Posterity would take the notion there wasn’t a fallen woman in the country but Emma Hamilton, made to look like a little doll by Romney, if he didn’t attend to it.

Without further ado, and without a word to Wilma or Prudence, he went to a real estate agent’s office and hired an upper-story room on Bond Street, not far south of Oxford. The ladies saw without protesting that all his painting paraphernalia was being toted away, and soon learned from Sir Alfred what Clarence was up to. They were delighted. No more standing with a broom or mop in the hands for hours at a stretch. No more having to admire his brown blotches. No more lectures on chiaroscuro. It was a blessed relief.

When the atelier was ready for use, Clarence began to look about for a suitable model. Who he really wanted was Cybele, but she was taken, so he must find a substitute. If a man was after a looker, Dammler was the chap to see, and before many hours he was sitting in the saloon on Berkeley Square, waiting for Dammler to come to him.

Dammler’s spirits soared to hear Elmtree was waiting for him. It was a rapprochement. He would be invited to Grosvenor Square for dinner. He hastily considered whether he ought to give in and go, when still Prudence had made no personal overture. Perhaps there would be a letter. He was smiling in anticipation when he entered the saloon.

“Mr. Elmtree--Clarence, how kind of you to come," he said, extending his hand. He would relent.

“Not at all. We people in the arts, the creative few, ought to keep in touch. In fact, it is on the subject of art that I am come,” he said, dispersing hope in Dammler’s breast. He had forgotten all about the idea of a studio, but the conversation turned to it now.

“Yes, you recall you suggested that I ought to set up a discreet little studio, and I have done it, just as you advised.”

“I didn’t advise you to! I only mentioned others..."

“Just so. I ain’t slow to take a hint. I have got a discreet little room on Bond and put my things in it. What I want now is a model, and I want you to recommend one for me. One of your ladies, what?" he laughed roguishly.

“I don’t have any ladies!” Dammler answered, chagrined, and wondering if the old fool had been telling Prudence some story that he had.

“Eh? What about Cybele? I mean to say, you must have replaced her.”

“No! No, I didn’t! I am not in the petticoat line at all these days, Clarence,” he said earnestly.

“What of the fillies in your play? Surely one of them would be happy to pick up a few pounds posing for me."

“You want me to find a professional model for you? Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly. A looker is what I want. A good looking young girl--any of your harem girls will do.”

"Oh but they are actresses. They don’t pose for artists.”

“They don’t act in the daytime.”

“It is just a
model
you want, Clarence? You aren’t thinking of--of anything else?” he asked carefully.

“Oh ho, I see what you are up to, rascal! As to that,
che sera sera,
as the dagoes say. But it is a model I want, right enough,” he added as he saw the frown on his host’s face. “Can you recommend someone?”

“I am not in the business of whore-mongering.”

“Had Cybele right in your rooms at Albany.”

“Yes, and I had a cheese in my pantry, but I am not a cheese merchant! I might provide you a model,
not
a mistress. I want that perfectly clear...”

Clarence saw no distinction. What he wanted was a woman of the sort who wouldn’t balk at posing without necessarily all her clothes on. What was the point in painting a harlot if you didn’t show a spot of shoulder or ankle, or even the beginning of a breast? How was posterity to know she was a fallen woman and not a wife? “Exactly!” he said.

“I’ll ask if any of the girls are interested in posing. Will you have a chaperone present?”

“What for?”

“For propriety’s sake.”

“There will be gawkers in and out all the time. The studio will be full of people. Sir Alfred makes himself quite at home there, and I hope you will too.”

This sounded public enough to satisfy Dammler the model would be subjected to no worse than having a very poor likeness taken. It also opened up a possible avenue of bumping into Prudence, and he agreed. “I imagine your family are anxious to get a look at the studio.”

“They are burning with curiosity, both of them. But I didn’t let them help me, or they’d be hanging curtains and wanting to put cushions on the chairs. I might as well warn you, the place is not stylish at all. Have you found the ateliers in other countries to be stylish?” he asked, not quite sure he had done right to make the place as austere as possible.

“I generally found the more serious the artist, the less note he took of his surroundings.”

This suited Clarence right down to the ground. He was glad he hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to have the chairs painted. Lovely, rackety things they were.

The next afternoon Dammler offered the job to one of the worldly creatures at Drury Lane, who could well handle a Clarence Elmtree, and the deal was set. He got in touch with Elmtree at the studio, and agreed to bring the girl himself to show her the route and make the introduction. Both were satisfied with the arrangement.

Chapter Twelve

Prudence had thought
it was Clarence’s presence that hindered her own work. Since he had abandoned Leonardo for Rembrandt, his customers had fallen off. Mrs. Hering, for instance, was not at all eager to pose any longer. When her mother was not doing it, the job fell to herself. With Clarence away for the better part of the day, she would get busy and finish up her latest work. But inspiration was lacking. She sat for hours at a stretch looking at the walls, the paper, the mirror, where she saw a sorrowful face, turning paler by the day. She should get out and take some air.

She went abovestairs to get her bonnet and pelisse. She wore a bonnet chosen for her by Dammler when they were hardly more than acquaintances. It was the prettiest one she owned, and had been insanely expensive, bought at Mademoiselle Fancot’s shop. She remembered well the day they had gone together to buy it, and she had, for the first and last time in her life, chosen two bonnets in one day. It had lost its luster. A pretty black affair with a red rose tipping over the brim, but the rose was becoming frayed at the edges. It no longer made her look distinguished, yet it was her best bonnet. New gowns she had got for her trousseau; the bonnets were still to be purchased, due to a lack of funds. She ought to buy a new one. That’s what she would do. Go down to Mademoiselle Fancot and buy a new, fabulously expensive chapeau to cheer her up. Maybe she would even see Dammler while she was out.

She’d take a stroll along Bond Street, wearing the new hat.

In the studio, Dammler observed that Sir Alfred was sitting in the watcher’s seat with a cigar in his hand, waiting impatiently for the female to arrive. The paints were out, the brushes ready, Elmtree in his smock with a copy of Rembrandt’s ugly Saskia as Flora propped up before him, the real model if the truth were allowed to be stated.

While Dammler was noticing that Saskia looked about eight months pregnant in the likeness, Clarence outlined his preparations. “I brought this silk curtain from the guest room to use as a gown. Of course it isn’t a gown, but I have this runner to pull around the waist to hold it on, and I can get the sheen of the material well enough from the curtain. It will need a nice impasto to give the luster. I picked up this necklace at the Pantheon--glass beads, but it will give the effect I want. I have my walking stick here with flowers wrapped around it for her to hold, and I’ll get the actual big bouquet for her hand later, when I get down to the hands. Today I mean to do the head.” He glanced at the picture of Saskia.

“Odd, she is wearing an ostrich plume on her head. She is supposed to be Flora. That means flower, does it not, Dammler?”

“Yes, I think that is a bit of vine around her head, with one frond sticking up,” he explained.

“Looks for the world like an ostrich plume to me.”

The model arrived and was sent behind a screen to drape herself in the dusty silk curtain, and hang about her throat the glass beads. She was a vivacious woman, currently wearing the jet black tresses that distinguished the cast of
Shilla.
She was a trifle thin-faced, bearing not the slightest resemblance to Saskia’s fair complexion and fullness of figure. All this lack of likeness was nothing to Clarence. She would do admirably, except that she required a weed for her hair, a weed that looked like an ostrich plume. None of his own weeds would do the trick. It must stick up, and bend just so over the head, like Saskia’s. Weed after weed was put in her hair, only to tumble over her eyes in the most obstinate manner.