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Authors: Willa Cather
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“Jymes”—“but of course we make exceptions in the case of pynters. Lydy Elling Treffinger ’erself is on the Continent, but Sir ’Ugh’s orders was that pynters was to ’ave the run of the place.” He selected a key from his pocket and threw open the door into the studio which, like the lodge, was built against the wall of the garden.
MacMaster entered a long, narrow room, built of smoothed planks, painted a light green; cold and damp even on that fine May morning. The room was utterly bare of furniture—unless a step-ladder, a model throne, and a rack laden with large leather portfolios could be accounted such—and was windowless, without other openings than the door and the skylight, under which hung the unfinished picture itself. MacMaster had never seen so many of Treffinger’s paintings together. He knew the painter had married a woman with money and had been able to keep such of his pictures as he wished. These, with all of his replicas and studies, he had left as a sort of common legacy to the younger men of the school he had originated.
As soon as he was left alone, MacMaster sat down on the edge of the model throne before the unfinished picture. Here indeed was what he had come for; it rather paralysed his receptivity for the moment, but gradually the thing found its way to him.
At one o’clock he was standing before the collection of studies done for
Boccaccio’s Garden
when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Pardon, sir, but I was just about to lock up and go to lunch. Areyou lookin’ for the figure study of Boccaccio ’imself?” James queried respectfully, “Lydy Elling Treffinger give it to Mr. Rossiter to take down to Oxford for some lectures he’s been a-giving there.”
“Did he never paint out his studies, then?” asked MacMaster with perplexity. “Here are two completed ones for this picture. Why did he keep them?”
“I don’t know as I could say as to that, sir,” replied James, smiling indulgently, “but that was ’is way. That is to say, ’e pynted out very frequent, but ’e always made two studies to stand; one in water colours and one in oils, before ’e went at the final picture,—to say nothink of all the pose studies ’e made in pencil before he begun on the composition proper at all. He was that particular. You see ’e wasn’t so keen for the final effect as for the proper pyntin’ of ’is pictures. ’e used to say they ought to be well made, the same as any other h’article of trade. I can lay my ’and on the pose studies for you, sir.” He rummaged in one of the portfolios and produced half a dozen drawings. “These three,” he continued, “was discarded: these two was the pose he finally accepted; this one without alteration, as it were.
“That’s in Paris, as I remember,” James continued reflectively. “It went with the
Saint Cecilia
into the Baron H—’s collection. Could you tell me, sir, ’as ’e it still? I don’t like to lose account of them, but some ’as changed ’ands since Sir ’Ugh’s death.”
“H—’s collection is still intact, I believe,” replied MacMaster. “You were with Treffinger long?”
“From my boyhood, sir,” replied James with gravity. “I was a stable boy when ’e took me.”
“You were his man, then?”
“That’s it, sir. Nobody else ever done anything around the studio. I always mixed ’is colours and ’e taught me to do a share of the varnishin’; ’e said as ’ow there wasn’t a ’ouse in England as could do it proper. You aynt looked at the
Marriage
yet, sir?” he asked abruptly, glancing doubtfully at MacMaster, and indicating with his thumb the picture under the north light.
“Not very closely. I prefer to begin with something simpler; that’s rather appalling, at first glance,” replied MacMaster.
“Well may you say that, sir,” said James warmly. “That one regularkilled Sir ’Ugh; it regular broke ’im up, and nothink will ever convince me as ’ow it didn’t
MacMaster entered a long, narrow room, built of smoothed planks, painted a light green; cold and damp even on that fine May morning. The room was utterly bare of furniture—unless a step-ladder, a model throne, and a rack laden with large leather portfolios could be accounted such—and was windowless, without other openings than the door and the skylight, under which hung the unfinished picture itself. MacMaster had never seen so many of Treffinger’s paintings together. He knew the painter had married a woman with money and had been able to keep such of his pictures as he wished. These, with all of his replicas and studies, he had left as a sort of common legacy to the younger men of the school he had originated.
As soon as he was left alone, MacMaster sat down on the edge of the model throne before the unfinished picture. Here indeed was what he had come for; it rather paralysed his receptivity for the moment, but gradually the thing found its way to him.
At one o’clock he was standing before the collection of studies done for
Boccaccio’s Garden
when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Pardon, sir, but I was just about to lock up and go to lunch. Areyou lookin’ for the figure study of Boccaccio ’imself?” James queried respectfully, “Lydy Elling Treffinger give it to Mr. Rossiter to take down to Oxford for some lectures he’s been a-giving there.”
“Did he never paint out his studies, then?” asked MacMaster with perplexity. “Here are two completed ones for this picture. Why did he keep them?”
“I don’t know as I could say as to that, sir,” replied James, smiling indulgently, “but that was ’is way. That is to say, ’e pynted out very frequent, but ’e always made two studies to stand; one in water colours and one in oils, before ’e went at the final picture,—to say nothink of all the pose studies ’e made in pencil before he begun on the composition proper at all. He was that particular. You see ’e wasn’t so keen for the final effect as for the proper pyntin’ of ’is pictures. ’e used to say they ought to be well made, the same as any other h’article of trade. I can lay my ’and on the pose studies for you, sir.” He rummaged in one of the portfolios and produced half a dozen drawings. “These three,” he continued, “was discarded: these two was the pose he finally accepted; this one without alteration, as it were.
“That’s in Paris, as I remember,” James continued reflectively. “It went with the
Saint Cecilia
into the Baron H—’s collection. Could you tell me, sir, ’as ’e it still? I don’t like to lose account of them, but some ’as changed ’ands since Sir ’Ugh’s death.”
“H—’s collection is still intact, I believe,” replied MacMaster. “You were with Treffinger long?”
“From my boyhood, sir,” replied James with gravity. “I was a stable boy when ’e took me.”
“You were his man, then?”
“That’s it, sir. Nobody else ever done anything around the studio. I always mixed ’is colours and ’e taught me to do a share of the varnishin’; ’e said as ’ow there wasn’t a ’ouse in England as could do it proper. You aynt looked at the
Marriage
yet, sir?” he asked abruptly, glancing doubtfully at MacMaster, and indicating with his thumb the picture under the north light.
“Not very closely. I prefer to begin with something simpler; that’s rather appalling, at first glance,” replied MacMaster.
“Well may you say that, sir,” said James warmly. “That one regularkilled Sir ’Ugh; it regular broke ’im up, and nothink will ever convince me as ’ow it didn’t
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