The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories Read online

  "Georgie," she said, "what has he done to himself? The thing's dead. It's smooth. It's - oh! its damnable."

  "Portrait of a Lady in Pink Satin?" I suggested.

  "Exactly. And yet the technique's perfect. And the care! There's enough work there for sixteen pictures."

  "Too much work?" I suggested.

  "Perhaps that's it. If there ever was anything there, he's killed it. An extremely beautiful woman in a pink satin dress. Why not a colored photograph?"

  "Why not?" I agreed. "Do you suppose he knows?"

  "Of course he knows," said Mrs. Lemprière scornfully. "Don't you see the man's on edge? It comes, I daresay, of mixing up sentiment and business. He's put his whole soul into painting Isobel, because she is Isobel, and in sparing her, he's lost her. He's been too kind. You've got to - to destroy the flesh before you can get at the soul sometimes."

  I nodded reflectively. Sir Rufus Herschman had not been flattered physically, but Everard had succeeded in putting on the canvas a personality that was unforgettable.

  "And Isobel's got such a very forceful personality," continued Mrs. Lemprière.

  "Perhaps Everard can't paint women," I said.

  "Perhaps not," said Mrs. Lemprière thoughtfully. "Yes, that may be the explanation."

  And it was then, with her usual genius for accuracy, that she pulled out a canvas that was leaning with its face to the wall. There were about eight of them, stacked carelessly. It was pure chance that Mrs. Lemprière selected the one she did - but as I said before, these things happen with Mrs. Lemprière.

  "Ah!" said Mrs. Lemprière as she turned it to the light.

  It was unfinished, a mere rough sketch. The woman, or girl - she was not, I thought, more than twenty-five or -six - was leaning forward, her chin on her hand. Two things struck me at once: the extraordinary vitality of the picture and the amazing cruelty of it. Everard had painted with a vindictive brush. The attitude even was a cruel one - it had brought out every awkwardness, every sharp angle, every crudity. It was a study in brown - brown dress, brown background, brown eyes - wistful, eager eyes. Eagerness was, indeed, the prevailing note of it.

  Mrs. Lemprière looked at it for some minutes in silence. Then she called to Everard.

  "Alan," she said. "Come here. Who's this?"

  Everard came over obediently. I saw the sudden flash of annoyance that he could not quite hide.

  "That's only a daub," he said. "I don't suppose I shall ever finish it."

  "Who is she?" said Mrs. Lemprière.

  Everard was clearly unwilling to answer, and his unwillingness was as meat and drink to Mrs. Lemprière, who always believes the worst on principle.

  "A friend of mine. A Miss Jane Haworth."

  "I've never met her here," said Mrs. Lemprière.

  "She doesn't come to these shows." He paused a minute, then added: "She's Winnie's godmother."

  Winnie was his little daughter, aged five.

  "Really?" said Mrs. Lemprière. "Where does she live?"

  "Battersea. A flat."

  "Really," said Mrs. Lemprière again, and then added: "And what has she ever done to you?"

  "To me?"

  "To you. To make you so - ruthless."

  "Oh, that!" he laughed. "Well, you know, she's not a beauty. I can't make her one out of friendship, can I?"

  "You've done the opposite," said Mrs. Lemprière. "You've caught hold of every defect of hers and exaggerated it and twisted it. You've tried to make her ridiculous - but you haven't succeeded, my child. That portrait, if you finish it, will live."

  Everard looked annoyed.

  "It's not bad," he said lightly, "for a sketch, that is. But, of course, it's not a patch on Isobel's portrait. That's far and away the best thing I've ever done."

  He said the last words defiantly and aggressively. Neither of us answered.

  "Far and away the best thing," he repeated.

  Some of the others had drawn near us. They, too, caught sight of the sketch. There were exclamations, comments. The atmosphere began to brighten up.

  It was in this way that I first heard of Jane Haworth. Later, I was to meet her - twice. I was to hear details of her life from one of her most intimate friends. I was to learn much from Alan Everard himself. Now that they are both dead, I think it is time to contradict some of the stories Mrs. Lemprière is busily spreading abroad. Call some of my story invention if you will - it is not far from the truth.

  When the guests had left, Alan Everard turned the portrait of Jane Haworth with its face to the wall again. Isobel came down the room and stood beside him.

  "A success, do you think?" she asked thoughtfully. "Or - not quite a success?"

  "The portrait?" he asked quickly.

  "No, silly, the party. Of course the portrait's a success."

  "It's the best thing I've done," Everard declared aggressively.

  "We're getting on," said Isobel. "Lady Charmington wants you to paint her."

  "Oh, Lord!" He frowned. "I'm not a fashionable portrait painter, you know."

  "You will be. You'll get to the top of the tree."

  "That's not the tree I want to get to the top of."

  "But, Alan dear, that's the way to make mints of money."

  "Who wants mints of money?"

  "Perhaps I do," she said smiling.

  At once he felt apologetic, ashamed. If she had not married him she could have had her mints of money. And she needed it. A certain amount of luxury was her proper setting.

  "We've not done so badly just lately," he said wistfully.

  "No, indeed; but the bills are coming in rather fast."

  Bills - always bills!

  He walked up and down.

  "Oh, hang it! I don't want to paint Lady Charmington," he burst out, rather like a petulant child.

  Isobel smiled a little. She stood by the fire without moving. Alan stopped his restless pacing and came nearer to her. What was there in her, in her stillness, her inertia, that drew him - drew him like a magnet? How beautiful she was - her arms like sculptured white marble, the pure gold of her hair, her lips - red, full lips.

  He kissed them - felt them fasten on his own. Did anything else matter? What was there in Isobel that soothed you, that took all your cares from you? She drew you into her own beautiful inertia and held you there, quiet and content. Poppy and mandragora; you drifted there, on a dark lake, asleep.

  "I'll do Lady Charmington," he said presently. "What does it matter? I shall be bored - but after all, painters must eat. There's Mr. Pots the painter, Mrs. Pots the painter's wife, and Miss Pots the painter's daughter - all needing sustenance."

  "Absurd boy!" said Isobel. "Talking of our daughter - you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn't seen you for months."

  "Jane was here?"

  "Yes - to see Winnie."

  Alan brushed Winnie aside.

  "Did she see the picture of you?"

  "Yes."

  "What did she think of it?"

  "She said it was splendid."

  "Oh!"

  He frowned, lost in thought.

  "Mrs. Lemprière suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think," remarked lsobel. "Her nose twitched a good deal."

  "That woman!" said Alan, with deep disgust. "That woman! What wouldn't she think? What doesn't she think?"

  "Well, I don't think," said Isobel, smiling. "So go on and see Jane soon."

  Alan looked across at her. She was sitting now on a low couch by the fire. Her face was half turned away, the smile still lingered on her lips. And at that moment he felt bewildered, confused, as though a mist had formed round him, and suddenly parting, had given him a glimpse into a strange country.

  Something said to him: "Why does she want you to go and see Jane? There's a reason." Because with Isobel, there was bound to be a reason. There was no impulse in Isobel, only calculation.

  "Do you like Jane?" he asked suddenly.

  "She's a dear," sai
d Isobel.

  "Yes, but do you really like her?"

  "Of course. She's so devoted to Winnie. By the way, she wants to carry Winnie off to the seaside next week. You don't mind, do you? It will leave us free for Scotland."

  "It will be extraordinarily convenient."

  It would, indeed, be just that. Extraordinarily convenient. He looked across at Isobel with a sudden suspicion. Had she asked Jane? Jane was so easily imposed upon.

  Isobel got up and went out of the room, humming to herself. Oh, well, it didn't matter. Anyway, he would go and see Jane.

  Jane Haworth lived at the top of a block of mansion flats overlooking Battersea Park. When Everard had climbed four flights of stairs and pressed the bell, he felt annoyed with Jane. Why couldn't she live somewhere more get-at-able? When, not having obtained an answer, he had pressed the bell three times, his annoyance had grown greater. Why couldn't she keep someone capable of answering the door?

  Suddenly it opened, and Jane herself stood in the doorway. She was flushed.

  "Where's Alice?" asked Everard, without any attempt at greeting.

  "Well, I'm afraid - I mean - she's not well today."

  "Drink, you mean?" said Everard grimly.

  What a pity that Jane was such an inveterate liar.

  "I suppose that's it," said Jane reluctantly.

  "Let me see her."

  He strode into the flat. Jane followed him with disarming meekness. He found the delinquent Alice in the kitchen. There was no doubt whatever as to her condition. He followed Jane into the sitting room in grim silence.

  "You'll have to get rid of that woman," he said. "I told you so before."

  "I know you did, Alan, but I can't do that. You forget, her husband's in prison."

  "Where he ought to be," said Everard. "How often has that woman been drunk in the three months you've had her?"

  "Not so very many times; three or four perhaps. She gets depressed, you know."

  "Three or four! Nine or ten would be nearer the mark. How does she cook? Rottenly. Is she the least assistance or comfort to you in this flat? None whatever. For God's sake, get rid of her tomorrow morning and engage a girl who is of some use."

  Jane looked at him unhappily.

  "You won't," said Everard gloomily, sinking into a big armchair. "You're such an impossibly sentimental creature. What's this I hear about your taking Winnie to the seaside? Who suggested it, you or Isobel?"

  Jane said very quickly: "I did, of course."

  "Jane," said Everard, "if you would only learn to speak the truth, I should be quite fond of you. Sit down, and for goodness sake don't tell any more lies for at least ten minutes."

  "Oh, Alan!" said Jane, and sat down.

  The painter examined her critically for a minute or two. Mrs. Lemprière - that woman - had been quite right. He had been cruel in his handling of Jane. Jane was almost, if not quite, beautiful. The long lines of her were pure Greek. It was that eager anxiety of hers to please that made her awkward. He had seized on that - exaggerated it - had sharpened the line of her slightly pointed chin, flung her body into an ugly pose.

  Why? Why was it impossible for him to be five minutes in the room with Jane without feeling violent irritation against her rising up in him? Say what you would, Jane was a dear but irritating. He was never soothed and at peace with her as he was with Isobel. And yet Jane was so anxious to please, so willing to agree with all he said, but alas! so transparently unable to conceal her real feelings.

  He looked round the room. Typically Jane. Some lovely things, pure gems, that piece of Battersea enamel, for instance, and there next to it, an atrocity of a vase hand painted with roses.

  He picked the latter up.

  "Would you be very angry, Jane, if I pitched this out of the window?"

  "Oh! Alan, you mustn't."

  "What do you want with all this trash? You've plenty of taste if you care to use it. Mixing things up!"

  "I know, Alan. It isn't that I don't know. But people give me things. That vase - Miss Bates brought it back from Margate - and she's so poor, and has to scrape, and it must have cost her quite a lot - for her, you know, and she thought I'd be so pleased. I simply had to put it in a good place."

  Everard said nothing. He went on looking around the room. There were one or two etchings on the walls - there were also a number of photographs of babies. Babies, whatever their mothers may think, do not always photograph well. Any of Jane's friends who acquired babies hurried to send photographs of them to her, expecting these tokens to be cherished. Jane had duly cherished them.

  "Who's this little horror?" asked Everard, inspecting a pudgy addition with a squint. "I've not seen him before."

  "It's a her," said Jane. "Mary Carrington's new baby."

  "Poor Mary Carrington," said Everard. "I suppose you'll pretend that you like having that atrocious infant squinting at you all day?"

  Jane's chin shot out.

  "She's a lovely baby. Mary is a very old friend of mine."

  "Loyal Jane," said Everard smiling at her. "So Isobel landed you with Winnie, did she?"

  "Well, she did say you wanted to go to Scotland, and I jumped at it. You will let me have Winnie, won't you? I've been wondering if you would let her come to me for ages, but I haven't liked to ask."

  "Oh, you can have her - but it's awfully good of you."

  "Then that's all right," said Jane happily.

  Everard lit a cigarette.

  "Isobel show you the new portrait?" he asked rather indistinctly.

  "She did."

  "What did you think of it?"

  Jane's answer came quickly - too quickly:

  "It's perfectly splendid. Absolutely splendid."

  Alan sprang suddenly to his feet. The hand that held the cigarette shook.

  "Damn you, Jane, don't lie to me!"

  "But, Alan, I'm sure, it is perfectly splendid."

  "Haven't you learned by now, Jane, that I know every tone of your voice? You lie to me like a hatter so as not to hurt my feelings, I suppose. Why can't you be honest? Do you think I want you to tell me a thing is splendid when I know as well as you do that it's not? The damned thing's dead - dead. There's no life in it - nothing behind, nothing but surface, damned smooth surface. I've cheated myself all along - yes, even this afternoon. I came along to you to find out. Isobel doesn't know. But you know, you always do know. I knew you'd tell me it was good - you've no moral sense about that sort of thing. But I can tell by the tone of your voice. When I showed you Romance you didn't say anything at all - you held your breath and gave a sort of gasp."

  "Alan -"

  Everard gave her no chance to speak. Jane was producing the effect upon him he knew so well. Strange that so gentle a creature could stir him to such furious anger.

  "You think I've lost the power, perhaps," he said angrily, "but I haven't. I can do work every bit as good as Romance - better, perhaps. I'll show you, Jane Haworth."

  He fairly rushed out of the flat. Walking rapidly, he crossed through the Park and over Albert Bridge. He was still tingling all over with irritation and baffled rage. Jane, indeed! What did she know about painting? What was her opinion worth? Why should he care? But he did care. He wanted to paint something that would make Jane gasp. Her mouth would open just a little, and her cheeks would flush red. She would look first at the picture and then at him. She wouldn't say anything at all probably.

  In the middle of the bridge he saw the picture he was going to paint. It came to him from nowhere at all, out of the blue. He saw it, there in the air, or was it in his head?

  A little, dingy curio shop, rather dark and musty looking. Behind the counter a Jew - a small Jew with cunning eyes. In front of him the customer, a big man, sleek, well fed, opulent, bloated, a great jowl on him. Above them, on a shelf, a bust of white marble. The light there, on the boy's marble face, the deathless beauty of old Greece, scornful, unheeding of sale and barter. The Jew, the rich collector, the Greek boy's head. He saw them all.


  "The Connoisseur, that's what I'll call it," muttered Alan Everard, stepping off the curb and just missing being annihilated by a passing bus. "Yes, The Connoisseur. I'll show Jane."

  When he arrived home, he passed straight into the studio. Isobel found him there, sorting out canvases.

  "Alan, don't forget we're dining with the Marches -"

  Everard shook his head impatiently.

  "Damn the Marches. I'm going to work. I've got hold of something, but I must get it fixed - fixed at once on the canvas before it goes. Ring them up. Tell them I'm dead."

  Isobel looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or two, and then went out. She understood the art of living with a genius very thoroughly. She went to the telephone and made some plausible excuse.

  She looked round her, yawning a little. Then she sat down at her desk and began to write.

  Many thanks for your cheque received today. You are good to your godchild A hundred pounds will do all sorts of things. Children are a terrible expense. You are so fond of Winnie that I felt I was not doing wrong in coming to you for help. Alan, like all geniuses, can only work at what he wants to work at - and unfortunately that doesn't always keep the pot boiling. Hope to see you soon.

  Yours,

  Isobel

  When The Connoisseur was finished, some months later, Alan invited Jane to come and see it. The thing was not quite as he had conceived it - that was impossible to hope for - but it was near enough. He felt the glow of the creator. He had made this thing and it was good.

  Jane did not this time tell him it was splendid. The color crept into her cheeks and her lips parted. She looked at Alan, and he saw in her eyes that which he wished to see. Jane knew.

  He walked on air. He had shown Jane!

  The picture off his mind, he began to notice his immediate surroundings once more.

  Winnie had benefited enormously from her fortnight at the seaside, but it struck him that her clothes were very shabby. He said so to Isobel.

  "Alan! You who never notice anything! But I like children to be simply dressed - I hate them all fussed up."

  "There's a difference between simplicity and darns and patches."

  Isobel said nothing, but she got Winnie a new frock. Two days later Alan was struggling with income-tax returns. His own passbook lay in front of him. He was hunting through Isobel's desk for hers when Winnie danced into the room with a disreputable doll.