The Horses' Mouth, page 22
And of course Mother and I never got our money back. Even when Ranken began to draw an income. He didn’t pay any debts. He thought the whole world couldn’t pay him enough to make up for its injustice to him. He went on spending everything he could raise on new models. But we went on lending money to Jenny. Because she was devoted. All of us danced on Ranken’s string because Jenny was devoted. It made me so hot even to remember it that my head began to fry. And I shouted at Nosy, ‘Here, what do you think you’re after? Didn’t I tell you to go home?’
‘Oh yeyes,’ said Nosy, alarmed. ‘It was all my own f-fault.’
‘And haven’t I told you a hundred times not to come chasing after me—let me alone, and get on with your job.’
‘Oh yeyes,’ said Nosy, looking as if he was longing for a rabbit hole into which to dive.
‘And haven’t I told you that if you don’t win that scholarship next month, you deserve to be pushed down the nearest drain?’
‘Oh yeyes,’ said Nosy, so terrified that he had shrunk down about half size, except the nose, which was double, being full of anxiety.
‘Then git-go,’ I roared, ‘and never let me see you again till next year.’
‘B-but you will come and say something to Mother?’ said Nosy. And, in fact, I saw that I had made a little mistake. Nosy was frightened all right, out of his wits, but not out of his character. Which was just the same, only more so. Devoted and pig-headed. As if hammering made it tougher.
‘You see,’ said he greatly excited, ‘it would make such a lot of difference if you spoke for me. Because Mother knows you’re a famous artist.’
‘Then she knows wrong. How does she know?’
‘I told her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Mr. Plant told me first.’
‘If you don’t get that scholarship your parents ought to throw you out. After all they’ve done for you. And you ought to be shot for a fool, which is worse than murder. Only four more years scratching at the books and a nice government job for the rest of your life. Four years half work in exchange for fifty or sixty of no work on a regular income and a pension after. Made for life. Not another worry in the world.’
‘But I can’t be a government official—I want to be an artist.’
‘Do what you like when you get that job. But make sure of it first. How can you be an artist without money? Why, look at me. I’ve been painting for fifty years, and at this moment I don’t even possess brushes or paint. No, you can’t go in for art without money from somewhere. Art is like roses—it’s a rich feeder.’ I talked quite brilliantly for a long time. But at the end of it, there was Nosy, with his red watery eyes, and his ugly face looking so ugly, and worried and miserable and obstinate and devoted, that I couldn’t resist him, and I let him take me back to his home.
Neat little terrace house with a little front garden. Fifteen feet by ten. With four beds about the size of frypans and a piece of crazy paving just big enough to stand on.
Nosy had a key and took me in. Parlour in chintz with a good mahogany table. Bookcase of Dickens and Thackeray. Couple of French bronzes on the mantelpiece. Gilt clock. Brass grate. Pictures—family enlargements. Death of Nelson. Trade union card with religious and royal emblems. Mr. Barbon came in. Middle-sized walrus with a squeezed up face and a head like a wedge of cheddar. Forget-me-not eyes in a couple of tit nests. A bit stooped. Blue suit with tight sleeves. About 1912. Hands like coal grabs. ‘How do you do, sir? It is very kind of you to come.’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘I know your time is valuable.’ ‘Not a bit.’ ‘A famous gentleman like you, sir.’ ‘Not just yet.’ ‘But it’s about my boy, Harry. My Minnie is a bit worried. You know how it is with mothers, and Harry’s the youngest.’ ‘I know. I’ve had two boys myself.’ ‘Oh yes,’ he said, not noticing what I’d said. ‘Oh yes, it’s hard on the mother. Our eldest went into the Air Force—got killed in an accident.’ ‘A lot of accidents everywhere. Babies drinking out of kettles, children going under lorries.’ ‘Yes sir, we’re not the only ones. We oughtn’t to complain, really. But of course you know what mothers are.’ ‘I know, I’ve had two.’ ‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said, not hearing a word I said. ‘Yes, of course, but Harry being the youngest, and he’s been such a good son. Clever too. All his teachers thought no end of Harry. They said he was sure of a scholarship. This next September. An Oxford one. It would make the boy’s fortune, you might say.’
And he went on telling me what a nice, clever good boy Harry was. And how he had always been his mother’s comfort. But now she was worrying. I knew what women were.
Somebody came in at the front door, and Mr. Barbon turned himself out of his chair and turned himself out of the door. Like a crane on a turntable. His arms were long enough. Going up and down. And the hands closing from all round like iron grabs. The door handle disappeared quite slowly, but you expected to see it come right off. Soft muttering outside like an old-fashioned donkey engine. And a woman’s voice saying that she wouldn’t, and she didn’t. Mrs. Barbon came in. Small and soft, neat nose and smooth white hair. Pretty face once but too short in the neck. She gave me a look as if she would like to poison me, and Mr. Barbon said, ‘This is Mr. Jimson, Mother,’ gave her a little push to make her do the polite. But she went back a bit and said, ‘So you said,’ keeping her eyes on me. Barbon swung round one of his grabs and pulled her sleeve. ‘Mr. Jimson is a friend of Harry’s, Mother. He’s the famous artist.’ ‘So you say, Tom. Do leave me alone.’ ‘Perhaps we’d better sit down,’ said Mr. Barbon. ‘I don’t want to sit down,’ said Mrs. Barbon; and then she said to me, ‘I think you might have let the boy alone, Mr. Johnson. Instead of spoiling his chances.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs. Barbon.’ ‘No, you don’t care. Now you’ve got hold of him. You just turn him round your finger how you like. Ruining his whole life and breaking his father’s heart.’ ‘Well, Mrs. Barbon, I didn’t——’ ‘And I may as well tell you I think a lot of artists ought to be stopped. The government ought to do something about it.’ Well, I was sorry for the poor girl. It was a terrible thing for her to see her only darling suddenly fly off to the devil, just when he was going to make her proud and happy for her old age. Who would be a mother? ‘I quite agree, Mrs. Barbon,’ I said, ‘it’s a bad business.’ ‘Then why do you go on at it for?’
‘But, Mother,’ said old Barbon.
‘Please let me say one word, Tom. Without interrupting all the time. I think it’s a shame, Mr. Johnson, or whatever your name is. I think that a decent man ought to be ashamed to get hold of a boy like Harry who anybody can see is not fit to look after himself and young for his age and keep him running about on his errands when he might be doing his work and working up an honest Christian job and a proper life.’
‘Quite right, Mrs. Barbon. I——’
‘Because you’d better know I don’t call this a proper job for anyone that respects himself or wants to respect himself.’
‘Quite true, Mrs. Barbon. I’ve advised Harry several times to——’
‘It isn’t a job at all. It’s a mean swindle by lazy good-for-nothings and won’t-works.’
‘I told Harry several times,’ I said, ‘that he ought to be working for his scholarship.’
‘And what sort of living will he make as an artist?’
‘None at all,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose he has any talent whatever.’
‘That’s all you know about it,’ said Mrs. Barbon. ‘He took the art prize only last year and he got two bronze medals from the Art Society,’ crushing me for my blindness to Nosy’s genius.
‘Even then, Mrs. Barbon, an artist’s life is very uncertain. It would be far better for the boy to get his scholarship first.’
‘Then why have you stopped him working all these weeks—his masters say he spends half his time dodging round your studio or going to galleries and looking at pictures.’
‘I didn’t know——’
‘And then last night—never coming home at all.’
‘I was taken ill, and he very kindly——’
‘All I can say is that if you want him, you’d better take him,’ said Mrs. Barbon, trembling all over. ‘I don’t want any more to do with a son of mine that goes about with such people and breaks his father’s heart.’
‘But, Mother,’ said old Barbon.
‘Will you be quiet, Tom. I know you want to smooth everything down and smooth it up as if it didn’t matter. But I say, it does matter if the boy ruins his whole life and turns into a nasty dirty swindler and good-for-nothing and breaks your heart after all you’ve done for him.’
‘But, M-mother,’ said Nosy, going over to her, ‘it’s not t-true that artists are s-s-swindlers.’
‘Do let me alone, Harry,’ said the woman, closing her eyes as if exhausted by unreasonable interruptions. ‘What do you know about it? Of course, nothing I say will make any difference—I know that already. You’ll just go your own way. And treat your poor father like dirt. I don’t mind. So if you don’t choose to give any kind of explanation, Mr. Johnson, or even say you’re sorry for what you’ve done, perhaps you would go and leave us alone. As for Harry, he can go with you if he likes. But if he does, I don’t want him back again.’
‘But, Mother——’ said old Barbon. Mrs. Barbon then left the room, shutting the door behind her very carefully, and Mr. Barbon apologized for her. ‘She’s a bit upset, Mr. Jimson. Harry being the only one left. And, of course, we don’t really feel like that about artists. It’s an honourable trade. Only we were wondering if Harry would do any good at it.’
‘Probably not, Mr. Barbon. Very few people do any good at any of the arts. And I haven’t seen any sign of genius in Harry. What he wants to do is to get his scholarship. That’s safe.’
‘S-s-safe,’ said Nosy, hissing like a snake.
Mr. Barbon then thanked me very politely for my visit and I came away. And Nosy came with me. But I gave him a lecture about the way he was treating his mother. ‘She’s right,’ I said. ‘If you go on like this, you’ll ruin your own life and hers. You’re breaking her heart as it is.’
But Nosy only looked more obstinate. What did he care about breaking his mother’s heart? Not much more than a runaway horse cares for a shop window. Which he doesn’t see, anyhow.
‘B-but she’s so unreasonable,’ he said. ‘If nobody is allowed to be an artist, art would stop.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ I said. ‘You can’t stop art. You just try, that’s all. You’ll always have amateurs. That is, everybody.’
‘But are they any g-good?’
‘Yes, the professional ones are good, the others are awful.’
‘How do you become a professional amateur?’
‘You give all your time to the job, and even then it’s not enough.’
‘Then what’s the d-difference?’
‘A big difference. The amateur has cash in the bank and goes on having it when he’s a professional. That’s what I tell you. Get some cash in the bank and then you can go in for art and be as bad as you like. You’ll still be happy. Because the worse you are, the better pleased you’ll be with yourself, and you’ll be able to afford a nice little wife and nice little babies and nice little parties and nice little friends, and you’ll get into some nice little society and get a whole lot of nice little compliments from all the other nice people.’
‘But I don’t want to be s-s-safe,’ said Nosy.
‘That’s because you’ve had too much of safety. But it’s not so safe as you think—safety. And when you’ve lost it, you can’t get it back. Run along now and get down those books. And I tell you what, I’ll teach you all about art.’
‘What?’ said Nosy.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You get that scholarship and I’ll teach you all about art. That is, all that one person can teach another, which isn’t much.’
‘You really mean it, Mr. Jimson?’
‘On my honour. Or I’d better say, on your honour.’
The boy seized me by both hands. ‘Oh, Mr. Jimson, how c-can I thank you?’
‘We’ll see about that when you’ve had your instruction. Now, off you go, and tell your ma I sent you.’
He turned away and actually ran towards home.
25
I turned up Ellam Street and made for Elsinore. My job, I thought, is to get that picture out of Mrs. Coker’s grip—to get her out of the studio. Sir William must see the thing soon or he’ll forget all about it.
And I was worried about the picture itself. Of course, a picture is always a worry. It’s worse than a child for getting itself into trouble, and breaking your heart. But my recollection of the Fall was that Eve’s legs were all wrong. You don’t want a lot of agitation in the rising lines when the horizontal planes are so active. As far as I remember, I thought, those legs are too rococo for a landscape which ought to be as massive as rocks. Original forms. Solid ideas.
On the other hand, it seemed to me that the general organization was not bad. I had a feeling at the back of my notions that it would be better than I expected. I must have a look at the thing, I thought, if it costs me a black eye.
Now the truth was that, though I had sent letters to Mrs. Coker every day, and even managed, on one dark evening, to put three rats through a side window, I hadn’t yet taken the last decisive step. My idea was, if she wouldn’t go by persuasion, to remove my picture and then take the windows and door off, and possibly some of the roof. Make a ruin of the place. And when she had been blown out, and rained out, I would go back again. I’d often lived in ruins before.
And I had formed, by careful observation, a pretty good idea of Mrs. Coker’s habits. She went shopping at any time she fancied, and she was usually away for an hour. So I only had to watch her off the premises, and then get to work with a screwdriver. And it had better be today, I thought, if I’m going to sell the Fall. I have no time to waste. I must close with the Professor at once before he gets thrown out again, or his Sir William has a fit. And the Fall will certainly need touching up, even if I pass those legs.
But I had bad luck. I waited there all that afternoon by the Eagle, and still Mrs. Coker remained in garrison. I saw her now and then empty a bucket into the dustbin or throw a piece of coal at a cat, but she did not go shopping. Then it began to rain chandeliers in the afternoon sun; big drops which went through the thin spots in my overcoat like shot through blotting paper. And when I was trying to take cover against the side wall, down came young Barbon, fizzing like a ginger beer bottle. He annoyed me. ‘What the hell,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you swear to go home and leave art alone and do some real work?’
‘Oh, but Mr. Jimson, I did work. And you know it’s my holidays now. Since last week.’
‘Holidays? The only chance you’ll ever get to do your own job. As it ought to be done. My boy Tom always worked in the summer holidays. It’s the best time to work because there’s no masters to waste your time.’
‘I d-did work, Mr. Jimson. But I saw you going down Greenbank, and I thought you were going to paint on the Fall.’
‘I wish I could paint on the Fall,’ I said. ‘But I have to wait till my lady guest goes out before I can even see the damn thing.’ And like a fool I told him all about the Cokers. I am always inclined to talk too much to ugly boys, because they are so modest and so keen on everything and because they ask such a lot of questions. Of course, as soon as I explained the case to young Barbon, he got so excited that he could hardly speak. He was so sympathetic that I wanted to jump into the river. I like a little sympathy in the right place, but a lot of sympathy always makes me feel as if I had lost my clothes and didn’t know where to hide. And when I had explained my plan for removing the doors and windows he rushed off to borrow a hatchet and screwdrivers and wanted to start at once. I had to tell him that this matter was more serious than that. ‘There mustn’t be any violence,’ I said, ‘or the thing wouldn’t be legal. First we have to take formal possession, and then we can remove the doors and windows. That is the way bailiffs do it. But we must establish possession first so that if Mrs. Coker calls in the police, we shall be able to make them think we thought we were on the right side of the law. We’ve got to have a case.’
But Nosy went on getting so excited and stammered so much that I could hardly speak. And so I began to get in a state and I should have ended in committing some foolish crime if Mrs. Coker, about five o’clock, hadn’t come out in her bonnet, with a string bag and Cokey’s umbrella, and hurried away to the shops.
Nosy and I were at work in less than a minute. Nosy started on the windows outside with the screwdriver. But I went in to get the picture down. And there was Cokey in a blue pinafore like a landslide, perched on the side of a chair and knitting a pair of baby’s drawers. ‘Hullo, Cokey,’ I said. ‘How are you now?’
‘I wish I wasn’t anything or anywhere either. You better look out, Mr. Jimson.’
‘Your mother’s off to the shops. I saw her this minute.’
‘Yes, but she might come back. She’s got a way of coming back. Especially since last week. What did you go and write those letters for?’
‘Why does she think that I wrote them?’ I said. For I was annoyed. Women are so unreasonable. They’re always jumping to conclusions.
‘Well, you did. Didn’t you?’
‘Your mother had better be careful making statements like that. Which she couldn’t prove. They’re slander.’
