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Storm Of London

<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> A few days after this animated discussion at Lady Carey’s, there were to be seen dashing along Pall Mall numerous chariots which halted at the ex-Walton Club, where also fair ladies were alighting from their wheeled couches (these had been designed by Sinclair at Lionel’s suggestion). There were also public conveyances of a practical and artistic shape, made to accommodate several passengers in a comfortable posture. The fastidious designer could not conceal his satisfaction at the disappearance of advertisements, which formerly had distracted his æsthetic mind, and roused his indignation at the public’s gullibility. The Walton was filling fast. Everyone interested in the future of art was there, as Lord Somerville had promised to give an address on the Royal Academy; and the telephones had been kept going by friends and acquaintances of his, inviting their friends to attend the meeting. Who was that throwing the reins to his groom and jumping out of his chariot? A familiar face. Of course, it was H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum, so well known to every shoe-black. He had been the very first Royal Prince to apply to the Committee of Social Guides and was now the mentor of Mrs Webster. It was only natural that the eldest of the Princes should make the first move, for rulers still they were, if only in name and amongst themselves. The other members of the august family had rushed zealously into the arena, and they were all enjoying the work. Here was Montagu Vane walking up the steps and entering through the swing doors at the same time as H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum who occasionally, when Mrs Webster gave him time to breathe, instructed the dilettante in the art of knowing who was who. Vane had not yet adopted a chariot; when he was not going far from home he walked, on other occasions he would ask his friend Mowbray to give him a lift; for Lord Mowbray had greatly improved in the handling of the ribbons. He had lately attached to his service a young member of the Royal Family, for he could endure no one lower than a scion of royalty as his constant companion through life! Lord Petersham, his hand on old Watson’s shoulder, was slowly mounting the steps. Watson had lost his insular swagger, while his lordly companion was daily forgetting his love of party politics as he learnt more of humanity. Since they were no more beholden to each other for liberal cheques, and introductions into Society, the two men understood each other better. On their heels rushed Tom Hornsby; he was here, there and everywhere, witty Tom; raillery was still his weapon, but he appeared very old-fashioned to his contemporaries, whilst his satirical outbursts seemed now more antiquated than the <cite>Tatler</cite> or <cite>Spectator</cite> of Georgian civilisation. There, with his nonchalant demeanour, came along George Murray, who had, a few days previously, begged his publishers to destroy his last MS., as he wished to observe the turn of events before bringing out his next novel. The hall was full, but not over-crowded. The Parliamentarians and many of the members in the Upper House still kept away in the country, where, unconsciously, they did some good work in the resuscitation of rural life. It was remarkable what the so-called leading classes could do now that the greatest incentive to snobbery had been torn from their backs. But Danford had always prophesied as much to his pupil. Groups were forming in the spacious hall; in one corner were Mrs Archibald, Lady Carey and Montagu Vane; whilst in one of the large bow windows overlooking the garden was Hornsby, feverishly expounding some State paradox to Lord Mowbray and a few more ex-club men. Men came in, bowed to each other—even when they did not recognise each other—for politeness and courtesy had been found to be the best policy; women lay down on large couches carved in the walls, talking gaily to one another, without any superciliousness. Simplicity and graciousness was the order of the day. Many said that they could not do otherwise than be natural: “It is by force that we are simple, not by taste.” But never mind what caused this transformation, the point at least was gained: very often the scoffer who hurls a stone at a new edifice, in course of time sees his very weapon help to build that which he intended to destroy. That is the irony of Fate. “You will never convince me that this kind of democracy can last,” said Mrs Archibald to Danford, as the latter accompanied Lionel. “I think it is most infra dig. of our Royal Family to forget who they are and to lose the little bit of prestige which they possessed. The lowest urchin in the street looked up to our Royalty. Do you believe anything good can come of their vulgarising themselves as they do?” “It was quite natural that the lower classes should have looked up to their rulers,” replied Dan, “for they had, for centuries, told them to do so. As you know, madam, the power of gross credulity is great in the British nation, therefore they will only believe you to be their equals when you repeatedly tell it to them.” “I always thought, Mr Danford”—Vane’s voice was pitched unusually high—“that you were cut out for a missionary, and possessed the necessary gifts to set right all social wrongs.” “My dear Mr Vane,” replied the buffoon, “there often is a gospel wrapped up in a howling joke. My long experience at the Tivoli and other Music Halls taught me my Catechism more exhaustively than my early attendance at Sunday Schools.” “Somerville is mounting the platform,” remarked George Murray to a group of Royal Academicians Silence soon reigned, enabling the clear, ringing voice of the lecturer to be heard. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new plan to submit to you.” (“Hear! hear!”) “A plan which suggested itself to me after my first visit, this season, to the Royal Academy. I was struck by the attitude of the public, and noticed group after group passing scornfully in front of portraits, historical subjects, and war pictures. In fact, very few were the pictures that attracted any attention at all. Then I observed that landscapes aroused a good deal of attention on the part of the dissatisfied crowds, and that pictures representing the human form in its Edenic attire were the object of their closest observation. I was filled with wonderment at the evolution of a public who the preceding year had rushed to gaze at pictures by Sargent, Orchardson, Collier, Alma Tadema, and the rest. As I strolled through the rooms I saw many a woman blushing as she came in front of a portrait of an over-dressed woman; men with downcast eyes hurried away from the pictures of our so-called great men in their military uniforms or in any other garments. My first determination on leaving the place was to have my portrait removed; and, strange to say, the committee did not in any way oppose my wish, as many had thought fit, like me, to have their likenesses taken away. This is a great sign of the present evolution towards true art. I do not for one moment expect our artists—who have already made their names—to approve at once of my reform; but in time they may come to see their past errors, as already one step towards the reform of art has been taken by closing the doors of the Royal Academy.” (Here there were murmurs amongst the minority of malcontents.) “Yes, I heard this very morning that this would be the last day of the exhibition; the President having resolved to take this ominous resolution to punish the public, and teach them a lesson. We must, all of us, bear this well in mind: that art cannot any longer, in our new mode of life, be the means of obtaining wealth or position, and that nature is the sole guide and model which is to lead the artist to artistic eminence. As to painting garments from memory, the mere notion of such a sartorial nightmare ought to make the true artist shudder with horror. I therefore propose that a committee should be organised, similar to the one appointed for the reform of public monuments, to judge of the pictures which, in future, shall be sent to the Academy. The name of the artist would only be submitted to the committee after the picture had been accepted or rejected. The name of the person who had sat for the portrait would equally remain unknown, until the majority of the members on the committee should have recognised whom it was. The subject of an historical picture would likewise remain unrevealed, until the majority of members had been able to guess the subject when they looked at the picture—I see a few R.A.’s at the end of the hall, laughing and whispering. I quite understand their mirth, for they are looking forward to mystifying the committee, whose members are often sadly lacking in historical knowledge. I can only advise those gentlemen at the end of the hall to develop a keener sense of discrimination in the choice of their subjects, before they attempt to represent on wood, or copper—for there is no canvas—an historical incident, without the aid of local colour or garments. Our stage was reformed the day that Nature held up her mirror and showed man as God had made him; fiction said her last word when the high pressure of our abnormal civilisation suddenly collapsed, and allowed man and woman to look into each other’s eyes, and for the first time realise the abnormal condition of their former lives. The same evolution awaits plastic art and the painter’s avocation, for if a committee cannot tell, by looking at a picture, what the subject is, they will have to retire so as to learn how to observe and how to remember. Likewise, if an artist is unable to paint his subject without the trapping of garment, the sooner such an exponent of art takes to some other means of expressing his thoughts, the better. The aim of art, in our present civilisation, is to be useful, either in the material or the abstract world; and to be useful one must be clear and true—I hear someone saying that I am limiting art most shamefully; I think it is Mr Vane. No, I beg his pardon, truth and lucidity do not limit art. Had Mr Vane said that my new plan would limit the number of artists he would no doubt have been nearer the truth. We need only a very few artists, just as we need very few writers, and you will soon see that vanishing of clothes and upholstery will reduce their number. Now, I want to propose that a branch should be added to this committee, whose work should be to judge the past works hanging in our numerous galleries, more especially those of our English artists who have won fame. Let us take as one example out of thousands, ‘The Huguenots’ by Millais. Have a perfect copy drawn of it, without the clothes which cover the figures, and let this picture be shown to a committee of historians unacquainted with the picture, and ask them to tell you what is ailing these three souls at war with each other. I defy the committee to tell you. The incidental feud which tortures these three souls is merely anecdotal, and not an eternally human conflict. How few of our standard works would be comprehended without the external label which makes the subject intelligible. But those few, who would escape the public’s condemnation, would be sufficient to stimulate our young artists who are penetrated with a true and disinterested love of art. As to the rest who cannot learn the lesson taught them by nature, let them put their cerebral energy to other uses, either industrial or scientific. We are going fast towards the time, when, as Prudhon said, ‘The artist must at last be convinced of this, that there is no difference between an artistic creation and an industrial invention.’ “Instead of limiting art by subjecting its productions to truth and lucidity, I believe that we shall give a more powerful impetus to artistic expression. Our new mode of life will inevitably create in us new sentiments, and more simple morals, even new sensations, which will inevitably develop in us new modes of expressions; so that a greater display of facial expressions will forcibly be followed by a richer scale of artistic execution. Besides which, we cannot take all the credit to ourselves in this reform of art; the public has given us a lesson by scorning the false manifestations of art, which inadequately represent his present condition. We cannot stop the reform, for the current is too strong and we must go with it.” (Cheers and applause.) “I believe Mr Sinclair has a few words to say to you, for which he has this morning begged me to ask your indulgence, though I feel sure he does not in any way need it.” Lionel left the platform, shook hands with several men who had gathered round him, and joined the group which included Lady Carey and Mrs Archibald. Sinclair took the position vacated by Lionel, and leaning indolently against the table spoke as in a reverie:— “I have come to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, of the death of the art critic.” Every head turned towards him; one could have heard a pin drop. Sinclair seemed to wake suddenly from his meditation at the sound of his own voice, and began earnestly to address his audience. “I hope you will take it well from me, for you know how wedded I was to my profession. But if I have come here this day to tell you of the total decomposition of the critic, it is only after having maturely reflected over, and analysed my past career. The eclipse of journalism, the judicious weeding of publishers’ lists, have worked a transformation in our conception of art, be it plastic, dramatic or lyric, and we are now asking ourselves what caused the feverish infatuation for one particular author, painter or musician? But we find it next to impossible to answer. Real talent certainly was not sufficient to force the market, nor did the eulogies of critics help to boom a work which was distasteful to the public. On the other hand, no anathema showered at the head of a despised author ever stopped the sale of his inferior work.” (Laughter—many heads looked round the hall to see if the much-abused author was there.) “The critic did not guide the artist, nor did he teach the public what it had to admire or condemn. The public was a hydra with many heads and many judgments; from the <cite>Letters of Elizabeth</cite> to Herbert Spencer’s <cite>Ethics</cite>, it devoured all, for its appetite was varied though at times unhealthy. I am sorry to say that the only achievement of the critic was to make the public believe he was leading it. It was indeed very clever of him to convince the hydra of his own importance, and as long as it lasted it was well and good; but the reign of the critic was ephemeral, for at every corner the public is having its revenge now. The masses disdainfully pass in front of pictures we extolled, hiss the plays we boomed, and roar at the music we admired. We coaxed the public, and conciliated the fashionable centres of Society so as to solidify our position and fill our purses; we blinded the many-headed hydra, stuffed cottonwool in its ears, and anæsthetised its power of appreciation into believing that we were indispensable to the development of art. The irony of it is, that it is that very public which is giving us a colossal lesson. Changed surroundings have altered the standard of art; and the hydra is giving us tit for tat. We have nothing else to do but to retire cheerfully. My dear friends, I come to you to cry, Peccavi, and to beg for your forgiveness for past errors of judgment. We have no need to dog the artist’s footsteps when there exists no longer any stimulus to inferior work, and when the reign of saleable art is over. The era of the artist-his-own-critic is at hand. Let the artist fight his battle with the hydra; best of all, leave the artist to fight his own battle with his own conscience, for the latter will prompt him to do only that which is necessary for the happiness of himself and others.” “What about Sargent?” broke in the clarion voice of Hornsby, who was standing at the end of the hall, close to the President of the Academy. “Ah! mea culpa,” solemnly uttered Sinclair, “when you come to Sargent, you touch the depth of artificiality—if such a thing can be said. But our past Society was the age of tragic frivolity, and Sargent was the Homer of that modish <cite>Odyssey</cite>. He illustrated the law of natural selection by making garments the main feature in his portraits. Under his brush the inner souls of his models withered away, while artificial surroundings and vestments emphasised in his pictures a condition of spurious passions and morbid excitability. Run through, mentally, the gallery of Sargent’s portraits, and you will see their anatomy wither under the robe of Nessus. He endowed flounces, feathers and ribands with Medusa-like ferocity; and the Laocoon is not more fatally begirded, nor are his limbs more piteously crushed by snakes, than are these frail women’s hearts muffled and hidden by clouds of lace and chiffon. Do you remember that youth whom he immortalised a few years ago? That heir to great properties on whose fatuous brow was stamped the mark of the symbol of militarism? That diagonal mark of white skin on a sunburnt forehead is a painted satire. Kipling gave us a high-flavoured philippic on Tommy Atkins; to Sargent was entrusted the mission of immortalising the Tommy of the upper classes. Like a faithful chronicler, Sargent intended to hand down to posterity the biography of Society as he saw it—that is to say—the living product of artificial environment. Hogarth was a dramatic historian of the unbridled passions of a brutal Society. Disrobe the figures of the <cite>Mariage à la Mode</cite>, or of the <cite>Rake’s Progress</cite>, and I believe the committee, which my friend Lord Somerville wishes to appoint to judge our past works of art, will easily be able to guess at a glance what tragedy is breaking the hearts of these ungentle personages. Sargent is the satirist of a clothed Society. His models would exist no longer were you to divest them of their meretricious furbelows; for their garments are the parts which help to form the aggregate of their psychology, and without their frills and trimmings, they would merely be marionettes stuffed with sawdust and held together with screws.” (Murmurs from several groups. The President of the Academy leaves the hall.) “The end of Society was nigh, when it could only boast of a School of Athens in which a Socrates was a tailor, Aspasia a Court dressmaker, and Diogenes an upholsterer. Plato and Aristotle’s philosophy did not more potently influence the world of thought of their epoch, than did the unappealable decretals of a Paquin, and the arbitrary ukase of a Poole.” The small minority of malcontents were endeavouring to stop the lecturer, whose clear voice managed to drown the hisses and the groans. He silenced them all. “We must have the courage to face this, for since the late cataclysm, we have been suddenly placed on a platform from which we are able to clearly view our past civilisation; and we can see that formerly we had no sense of objectivity, and that what we erroneously termed the modern world was but the heaping together of complexities and incongruities. Do you remember that perfect short story by Balzac, <cite>The Unknown Masterpiece</cite>? It is the story of an artist who jealously hides the picture he is painting from any intruding eye. He alone enters his sanctum, and there for hours he works at this great work. One day, some profane creature enters the studio, irreverently lifts the curtain which covers the canvas, and sees—nothing. Blurrs, daubs, uncertain design, in fact, confusion is all he can detect. This is what we have been doing for centuries; we daubed and smudged our social work for want of a proper perspective; we created a huge monstrosity just as this artist produced an incomprehensible picture, because he, and we, could not judge our production from the standpoint of another. I have digressed from my subject, and wandered far away from what was the purpose of this address. Let me conclude by telling you that the miserable efforts of the critic are futile in the new era of—art for art’s sake.” Sinclair, on his way across the hall, was dazed by the thunderous applause which greeted him on his passage. The group of A.R.A.’s had left the hall, no doubt to ponder these weighty questions in solitude, and with the exception of Vane, Mowbray, Mrs Archibald and their small group, the whole audience was acquiescent. “I never would have believed it of you, old man,” sneered Vane. “What is to become of us, when men like you, who kept the public taste in check, give up the game?” “My dear Montagu, that is just what we did not do. We played hide-and-seek with the many-headed hydra, and it has collared us now, and our game is up. On the day when you see the triviality of our past, as I do, you will act as I act, and you will say what I have said.” “My dear fellow”—Vane shook his head wisely—“that is quite impossible unless I become a Goth. I am one of those who never alter; but, the day you recognise your folly, you will find me the same as ever, ready to welcome you as our critic in all matters of art.” And he passed on. “Ever the same, incorrigible; I dare not think what his end will be.” And Sinclair turned his steps towards the window where Eva and Gwen were sitting. “I always told you, darling Eva, that Sinclair would be brought unconsciously to understand the right purport of life on the day when he realised the true meaning of art.” Gwen pressed Eva’s hand. “Sinclair the fastidious, the cynic, is no more, and the man whom you honoured with your love and trust is coming to claim you.” Eva laid her head on her friend’s shoulder, as she watched Sinclair, who was coming towards them. “Mr Danford,” said Lady Carey, who was reclining in another window, “you have just arrived in time. Do tell us who that is going on to the platform? I am so short-sighted.” The little satirist briskly turned on his heels and looked at the thick-set, purple-faced man who was besieging the platform. “Why, that is ex-General Wellingford!” “What, the man who bungled so disastrously the early part of our African campaign?” inquired Lady Carey. “The very same, madam,” answered Danford. “I am off,” suddenly exclaimed Lionel. “The old fellow does not interest me in the least. Besides, there is nothing more to be said about the African campaign since our troops have had to return from South Africa, leaving the country and the people to themselves. Au revoir, Lady Carey. Are you staying, Mowbray?” “I think it is our duty as loyal subjects to listen to what the head of our army has to say,” stiffly replied Lord Mowbray. “Come along then, Dan.” The two men left the window, and passed through the crowd who were loudly discussing the subject of art reform. As they came to the next bow window, Lionel saw Gwen and Eva engrossed in a lively conversation with Sinclair. Lionel stopped, and laying his hand on Danford’s arm said, “I shall not disturb them. When a man has found one of the rings that form the chain of life, he must be left to rivet it without any interference.” They passed into the vestibule. “What is to be done with the War Office?” the rough voice of the ex-general suddenly hushed the buzzing causerie; and these portentous words reached the ears of Lionel and Danford as they swung the doors open, and passed out. “Ha! ha! ha!” Danford held his sides, convulsed with laughter. “Even the ex-hero of civilised warfare is puzzled at what is to be done with his obsolete bag of tricks!” “Poor Mowbray will lose another illusion,” remarked Lionel, and the two men walked up toward St James’s Park. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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