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The Pot-Boiler: Part I · The Hermit and the Wild Woman, and other Stories

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Section twenty four of The Hermit and the Wild Woman and Other Stories by Edith
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Wharton. His LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The pot Boiler,
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Part one. The studio faced north, looking out over a dismal reach of
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roofs and chimneys and rusty fire escapes hung with heterogeneous garments. A crust of
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dirty snow covered the level surfaces, and a December sky with more snow in
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it lowered over them. The room was bare and gaunt, with blotched walls
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and a stained, uneven floor. On a divan lay a pile of properties
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limp draperies, an Algerian scarf, a moth eaten fan of peacock feathers.
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The janitor had forgotten to fill the coalscuttle over night, and the cast iron
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stove projected its cold flanks into the room like a black iceberg ned. Stanwell,
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who had just added his hat and greatcoat to the miscellaneous heap on the
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divan, turned from the empty stove with a shiver. By jove, this
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is a little too much like the last act of Boem, he said,
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slipping into his coat again. After a vain glance at the coalscuttle much solitude
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and a lively habit of mind had bred in him the habit of audible soliloquy.
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And having flung a shout for the janitor down the seven flights dividing the
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studio from the basement, he turned back, picking up the thread of his
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monolog exactly like boam, Really, that crack in the wall is much more
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like a stage crack than a real one, Just the sort of crack Mungold
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would paint if he were doing a humbled interior. Mungold, the fashionable portrait
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painter of the hour, was the favorite object of the younger men's irony.
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It only needs Kate Aaron to be born in dying, Stanwell continued with a
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laugh, much more likely to be poor little Caspar, though he concluded his
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neighbor across the landing, the little sculptor, Caspar Iran, humorously called Gasper
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on account of his bronchial asthma, had lately been joined by a sister,
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Kate Ran, a strapping girl fresh from the country, who had installed herself
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in the little room off her brother's studio, keeping house for him with a
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chafing dish and a coffee machine. To the mirth and envy of the other
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young men in the building. Poor little Gaspar had been very bad all the
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autumn, and it was surmised that his sister's presence, which he spoke of
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growlingly as a troublesome necessity devaulved on him by the inopportune death of an aunt,
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was really an indication of his failing ability to take care of himself.
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Kate Arran took his complaints with unfailing good humor, darned his sock, brushed
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his clothes, fed him with steaming broths and foaming milk punches, and listened
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with reverential assent to his interminable disquisitions on art. Every one in the house
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was sorry for little Gasper, and the other fellows liked him all the more
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because it was so impossible to like his sculpture. But his talk was a
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bore, and when his colleagues ran in to see him, they were apt
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to keep a hand on the door knob and to plead a pressing engagement.
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At least they had been till Kate came, but now they began to show
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a disposition to enter and sit down. Caspar, who was no fool,
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perceived the change, and perhaps detected its cause. At any rate, he
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showed no special gratification at the increased cordiality of his friends, and Kate,
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who followed him in everything, took this as a sign that guests were to
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be discouraged. There was one exception, however, Ned Stanwell, who was
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deplorably good mate, had always lent a patient ear to Caspar, and he
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now reaped his reward by being taken into Kate's favor before she had been a
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month in the building. They were on confidential terms as to Caspar's health,
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and lately Stanwell had penetrated farther even to the inmost recesses of her anxiety about
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her brother's career. Caspar had recently had a bad blow in the refusal of
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his magnum opus a vast allegorical group by the commissioners of the Minneapolis Exhibition.
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He took the rejection with Promethean irony, proclaimed it as the clinching proof of
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his ability, and abounded in reasons why, even in an age of such
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crass artistic ignorance, a refusal so egregious must react to the advantage of its
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object. But his sister's indignation, if as glowing was a shade less hopeful.
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Of course Caspar was going to succeed. She knew was only a question
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of time, but she paled at the word and turned imploring eyes on Stanwell.
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Was there time enough? It was the one element in the combination that
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she could not count on, And Stanwell, reddening unto her look of interrogation
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and cursing his own glaring robustness, would affirm that of course, of course,
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of course, by everything that was wholly, there was time enough,
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with the mental reservation that there wouldn't be even if poor Caspar lived to be
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a hundred Bosta you yelling for the shanitor, mister Stanwell inquired an affable voice
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through the doorway, and Stanwell, turning with a laugh, confronted the squat
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figure of a middle aged man in an expensive fur coat, who looked as
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if his face secreted the oil which he used on his hair. Hello,
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Shepson, I should say, I was yelling. Did you ever feel such
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an atmosphere that fool has forgotten to light the st o come in? But
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for heaven's sake, don't take off your coat? Mister Shepson glanced about the
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studio with a look which seemed to say that, where so much else was
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lacking, the absence of a fire hardly added to the general sense of destitution.
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Well, you ain't as well fixed as mister Mungold ever been to his
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studio, mister Stanwell, the most exquisite blush hangings and a gas fire choost
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as natural. Oh hang it, Shepson, Do you call that a studio?
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It's like a manicure's parlor or a beauty doctor's by George broke Off Stanwell.
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And that's just what he is, a beauty doctor. Yes, Oh
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well, you wouldn't see, murmured Stanwell mentally storing his epigram for more appreciative
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ears. But you didn't come just to make me envious of Mungold's studio,
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did you? And he pushed forward a chair for his visitor. The latter,
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however, declined it with an affable motion of gourse, not of gorse
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nod. But mister Mungold is a sensible man. He makes a lot of
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money, you know, Is that what you came to tell me, said
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Stanwell, still humorously. My goodness, No, I've us downstairs looking at
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Holbrook's stained to class, and I shoes thought i'd step up a minute and
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take a beep at your work. Much obliged, I'm sure, especially as
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I assume that you don't want any of it. Try as he would,
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Stanwell could not keep a note of eagerness from his voice. Mister Shepson caught
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the note and eyed him shrewdly through gold rimmed glasses. Tell vealvell, I'm
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not prepared to commit myself shoes. Let me take a look round, fill
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you with the greatest pleasure, and I'll give another shout for the coal.
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Stanwell went out on the landing, and mister Shepson left to himself, began
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a meditative progress about the room. On an easel, facing the improvised days,
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stood a canvas on which a young woman's head had been blocked in.
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It was just in that happy state of semi evocation when a picture seems to
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detach itself from the grossness of its medium and live a wondrous moment in the
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actual and the quality of the head in question, A vigorous, dusky youthfulness,
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a kind of virgin majesty, lent itself to this illusion of vitality.
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Stanwell, who had re entered the studio, could not help drawing a sharp
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breath as he saw the picture dealer pausing with tilted head before this portrait.
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It seemed, at one moment so impossible that he should not be struck with
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it, at the next so incredible that he should be. Chepsen cocked his
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parrot eye at the canvas with a desultory v's dat, which sent a twinge
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to the young man. That oh, a a sketch of a young lady,
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stammered Stanwell, flushing at the imbecility of his reply. It's miss Iran,
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you know, he added, the sister of my neighbor here the sculpture
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sculpture. There's no market for modern sculpture except tombstones, said Chepsen, disparagingly,
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passing on as if he included the sister's portrait in his condemnation of her
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brother's trade. Stanwell smiled, but more at himself than Shepson. How could
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he ever have supposed that the gross fool would see anything in his sketch of
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kate Aran. He stood aside, straining after detachment, while the dealer continued
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his round of exploration, waddling up to the canvases on the walls, prodding
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with his stick at those stacked in corners. Prying and peering sideways like a
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great bird rummaging for seed, he seemed to find little nutriment in the course
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of his search for the sounds. He emitted expressed a weary distaste for misdirected
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effort, and he completed his round without having thought it worth while to draw
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a single canvas from its obscurity. As his visits always had the same result.
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Stanwell was reduced to wondering why he had come again. But Shepson was
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not the man to indulge in vague roamings through the field of art, and
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it was safe to conclude that his purpose would in due course reveal itself.
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His tour brought him at length face to face with the painter, where he
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paused, clasping his plump gloved hands behind his back and shaking an admonitory head.
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Glever, very glever. Of course, I suppose you'll let me know
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when you want to sell anything. Let you know, gasped Stanwell, to
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whom the room grew so glowingly hot that he thought, for a moment the
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janitor must have made up the fire. Shepson gave a dry laugh. Well,
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it doesn't strike me that you want to now doing this kind of thing,
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you know. Oh, and he swept a comprehensive hand about the studio,
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Ah, said Stanwell, who could not keep a note of flatness out
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of his laugh. See here, mister Sdanwell, what do you do it
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for? If you do it for yourself and the other fellows? Well,
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and'ud only don't ask me round I sell pictures, I don't theorize about them.
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Then you' ought to sell gum to me with what my customers want.
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You can do it. You're smart enough, you can do most anything.
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There's that portrait of Gladys Glide that you showed at the Fake Club last autumn,
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that little thing in de Romney style. That us a little shem now,
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exclaimed Shepson, whose pronunciation became increasingly Semitic in moments of excitement. Stanwell
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Stared called upon a few months previously to contribute to an exhibition of skits on
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well known artists. He had used the photograph of a favorite music hall star
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as the basis of a picture in the pseudohistorical style affected by the popular portrait
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painters of the day. That thing, he said, contemptuously, how on
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earth did you happen to see it? I see everything, returned the dealer
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with an oracular smile. If you've got it here, let me look at
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it please. It cost Stanwell a few minutes search to unearth his skit,
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a clever blending of dash and sentimentality in just the right proportion to create the
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impression of a powerful brush subdued to mildness by the charms of the sitter.
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Stanwell had thrown it off in a burst of imitative frenzy, beginning for the
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mere joy of the satire, but gradually fascinated by the problem of producing the
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requisite mingling of attributes. He was surprised now to see how well he had
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caught the note, and Shepson's face reflected his approval. By George D's something
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like the dealer ejaculated like what like, mungold, Stanwell laughed, like business,
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like a big order for a portrait. Mister Stanwell, that's what it's
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like, cried Shepson, swinging round on him. Stanwell's stare widened. An
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order for me? Why not accidents vill happen, said Shepson jocosely. The
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fact is, missus Archer Millington wants to be bainted, you know her style.
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While she prides herself on her likeness to little Gladys. And so then
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she saw that picture of yours at the fake show. She made a note
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of your name, and the utter day she sent for me, and she
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says, mister Shepson, I'm tired of mungold. All my friends are done
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by mungold. I want to break away and be original. I want to
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be done by the bainter that did Gladys glide. Shepson waited to observe the
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result of this overwhelming announcement, and Stanwell, after a momentary halt of surprise,
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brought out laughingly. But this is a mungold? Is this what she
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calls being original? Shoost exactly, said Shepson, with unexpected acuteness. That's
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what they all want, something different from what all their friends have got.
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But Shoo's like it all the same. That's the public all over. Missus
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Millington don't want a mungold because everybody's got a mungold. But she wants a
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picture that's in the same stial because that's this styal and she's afraid of any
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other. Stanwell was listening with real enjoyment. Ah, you know you're public,
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he murmured, Well, you do too, or you couldn't have painted
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that, the dealer retorted. And I don't say they're wrong, mind that.
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I like a pretty picture myself, and I understand the way they feel.
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They're willing to let Sergeant take Liberty's victum because it's like being punched into
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ribs by a king. But if anybody else baints them, they want to
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look as sweet as an obituary. He turned earnestly to Stanwell. The thing
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is to attract their notice. Once you got it, they won't give you
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dime to sleep. And that's why I'm here to day. You've attracted missus
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Millington's notice. And once you're hung in that new ball room, that's where
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she wants you in a big gold panel, wants you're dare why you'll be
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like the Pianola, no home complete without you. And I ain't going to
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charge you any commission on the first job. He stood before the painter,
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exuding a mixture of deference and patronage, in which either element might predominate as
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events developed. But Stanwell could see in the incident only the stuff for a
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good story. My dear Shepson, he said, what are you talking about?
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This is no picture of mine. Why don't you ask me to do
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you a coorrat at once I hear there's a great demand for them still in
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the West, or in Arthur's shrecker. I can do shracker as well as
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mungold, he added, turning around a small canvas at which a paint pot
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seemed to have been hurled with violence from a considerable distance. Shepson ignored the
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allusion to Cora, but screwed his eyes at the picture. Ah, Shracker,
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Well, the shrecker's dial would take first rate if you were a foreigner,
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But for goodness sake, don't try it on missus Millington. Stanwell pushed
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the two skits aside. Oh you can trust me, he cried humorously.
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The pearls and the eyes very large, the extremities very small. Isn't that
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about the size of it. That's it, that's it. And the check
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as big as you want to make it, Missus Millington vaunts. The picture
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finished in time for her first party in the new ball room, and if
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you rushed the job, she won't stickle at an extra thousand. Will you
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come along with me now and arrange for your first sitting? He stood before
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the young man urgent, paternal, and so imbued with the importance of his
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mission that his face stretched to a ludicrous length of dismay when Stanwell, administering
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a good humored push to his shoulder, cry gaily, my dear fellow,
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it will make my price rise still higher. When the lady hears I'm too
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busy to take any orders at present, and that I'm actually obliged to turn
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you out now because I'm expecting a sitter. It was part of Shepson's business
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to have a quick ear for the note of finality, and he offered no
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resistance to Stanwell's friendly impulsion. But on the threshold he paused to murmur,
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with a regretful glance at the denuded studio. You could have done it,
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mister Stanwell. You could have done it. End of Section twenty four