GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

Mary locked gratefully at him, and said, “Do, papa. Let Mr Herbert write. It cannot possibly do any harm; and it will be no trouble to you.”

“I do not object to the trouble” said Mr Sutherland. “I have taken the trouble of coming up to London, all the way from Windsor, solely for Charlie’s sake. However, Herbert, perhaps you could manage the affair better than I. In fact, I should prefer to remain in the background. But then your time is valuable—”

“It will cost me only a few minutes to write the necessary letters — minutes that would be no better spent in any case. I assure you it will be practically no trouble to me.”

“There, papa. Now we have settled that point, let us go on to the National Gallery. I wish we were going to your studio instead.”

“You must not ask for that yet,” said Herbert earnestly. “I promise you a special private view of The Lady of Shalott on Thursday next at latest.”

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Sir — In answer to your letter of the 12th instant, I am instructed by Miss Wilson to inform you that Mr. Jack was engaged here for ten months as professor of music and elocution. At the end of that period he refused to impart any further musical instruction, to three young ladies who desired a set of finishing lessons. He therefore considered himself bound to vacate his post, though Miss Wilson desires me to state expressly that she did not insist on that course. She has much pleasure in testifying to the satisfactory manner in which Mr. Jack maintained his authority in the school. He is an exacting teacher, but a patient and thoroughly capable one. During his stay at Alton College, his general conduct was irreproachable, and his marked personal influence gained for him the respect and good wishes of his pupils. —

I am, sir, your obedient servant,

Phillis Ward, F.C.P., etc.

14 West Precinct, Lipport Cathedral, South Wales.

Sir — Mr. Owen Jack is a native of this town, and was, in his boyhood, a member of the Cathedral Choir. He is respectably connected, and is personally known to me as a strictly honorable young man. He has musical talent of a certain kind, and is undoubtedly qualified to teach the rudiments of music, though he never, whilst under our guidance, gave any serious consideration to the higher forms of composition — more, I should add, from natural ineptitude than from want of energy and perseverance. I should be glad to hear of his obtaining a good position. —

Yours truly,

John Burton, Mus. Doc,

(These were the replies to the inquiries about Mr Jack.)

On Thursday afternoon Herbert stood before his easel, watching the light changing on his picture as the clouds shifted in the wind. At moments when the effect on the color pleased him, he wished that Mary would enter and see it so at her first glance. But as the afternoon wore it became duller; and when she at last arrived, he felt sorry he had not appointed one o’clock instead of three. She was accompanied by a tall lad of sixteen, with light blue eyes, fair hair, and an expression of irreverent good humor.

“How do you do” said Herbert. “Take care of those sketches, Charlie, old fellow. They are wet.”

“Papa felt very tired: he thought it best to lie down for a little,” said Mary, throwing off her cloak and appearing in a handsome dress of marmalade-colored silk. “He left the arrangements with Mr Jack to you. I suspect the dread of having to confront that mysterious stranger again had something to do with his fatigue. Is the Lady of Shalott ready to be seen?”

“The light is bad, I am sorry to say,” said Herbert, lingering whilst Mary made a movement towards the easel.

“Don’t push into the room like that, Mary,” said Charlie. “Artists always have models in their studios. Give the young lady time to dress herself.”

“There is a gleam of sunshine now,” said Herbert, gravely, ignoring the lad. “Better have your first look at it while it lasts.”

Mary placed herself before the easel, and gazed earnestly at it, finding that expression the easiest mask for a pang of disappointment which followed her first glance at the canvas. Herbert did not interrupt her for some moments. Then he said in a low voice: “You understand her action, do you not?”

“Yes. She has just seen the reflexion of Lancelot’s figure in the mirror; and she is turning round to look at the reality.”

“She has a deuce of a scraggy collar-bone,” said Charlie.

“Oh, hush, Charlie,” cried Mary, dreading that her brother might roughly express her own thoughts. “It seems quite right to me.”

“The action of turning to look over her shoulder brings out the clavicle,” said Herbert, smiling. “It is less prominent in the picture than it would be in nature: I had to soften it a little.”

“Why didn’t you paint her in some other attitude?” said Charlie.

“Because I happened to be aiming at the seizure of a poetic moment, and not at the representation of a pretty bust, my critical young friend,” said Herbert quietly. “I think you are a little too close to the canvas, Miss Sutherland. Remember: the picture is not quite finished.”

“She can’t see anything unless she is close to it,” said Charlie. “In fact, she never can get close enough, because her nose is longer than her sight. I don’t understand that window up there above the woman’s head. In reality there would be nothing to see through it except the sky. But there is a river, and flowers, and a man from the Lord Mayor’s show. Are they up on a mountain?”

“Charlie, please stop. How can you be so rude?”

“Oh, I am accustomed to criticism,” said Herbert. “You are a born critic, Charlie, since you cannot distinguish a mirror from a window. Have you never read your Tennyson?”

“Read Tennyson! I should think not. What sensible man would wade through the adventures of King Arthur and his knights? I one would think that Don Quixote had put a stop to that style of nonsense. Who was the Lady of Shalott? One of Sir Lancelot’s, or Sir Galahad’s, or Sir Somebody else’s young women, I suppose.”

“Do not mind him, Mr Herbert. It is pure affectation, He knows perfectly well.”

“I don’t,” said Charlie; “and what’s more, I don’t believe you know either.”

“The Lady of Shalott,” said Herbert, “had a task to perform; and whilst she was at work upon it, she was, on pain of a curse, only to see the outer world as it was reflected by a mirror which hung above her head. One day, Sir Lancelot rode by; and when she saw his image she forgot the curse and turned to look at him.”

“Very interesting and sensible,” said Charlie.

“Why mightn’t she as well have looked at the world Straight off out of the window, as seen it left handed in a mirror? The notion of a woman spending her life making a Turkey carpet is considered poetic, I suppose. What happened when she looked round?”

“Ah, I see you are interested. Nothing happened, except that the mirror broke and the lady died.”

“Yes, and then got into a boat; rowed herself down to Hampton Court into the middle of a water party; and arranged her corpse in an attitude for the benefit of Lancelot. I’ve seen a picture of that.

“I see you do know something about Tennyson. Now, Miss Sutherland, what is your honest opinion?”

“I think it is beautiful. The coloring seemed rather dull to me at first, because I had been thinking of the river bank, the golden grain, the dazzling sun, the gorgeous loom, the armor of Sir Lancelot, instead of the Lady herself. But now that I have grasped your idea, there is a certain sadness and weakness about her that is very pathetic.”

“Do you think the figure is weak?” said Herbert dubiously.