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

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  Section twenty eight of The Hermit and the Wild Woman and Other Stories by Edith
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  Wharton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The pot Boiler,
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  Part five, Shepson took up his hat with a despairing gesture. Well,
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  I give you up. I give you up, he said, don't yet,
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  protested Stanwell from the divan. It was winter again, and though the
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  janitor had not forgotten the fire, the studio gave no other evidence of its
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  master's increasing prosperity. If Stanwell spent money, it was not upon himself.
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  He leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette
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  between his lips, while Shepson paced the dirty floor, or halted impatiently before
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  an untouched canvas on the easel. I tell you what it is, mister
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  Stanwell. I can't make you out, he lamented last Vindu. You got
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  a start that would have kept most men going for years. After making that
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  hit VI missus Millington's picture, you could have painted half the town. And
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  here you are sitting on your divan and saying you can't make up your mind
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  to take another order. Well, I can only say that if you take
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  much longer to make it up you'll find some other chap has cut in and
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  got your job. Missus van Orley has been waiting since last August, and
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  she dells me you haven't even answered her letter. How could I? I
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  didn't know if I wanted to paint her. My goodness, don't you know
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  if you want three thousand dollars? Stanwell surveyed his cigarette. No, I'm
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  not sure I do, he said. Shepsen flung out his hands, ask
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  more den But do it quick, he exclaimed. Left to himself, Stanwell
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  stood in silent contemplation of the canvas on which the dealer had riveted his reproachful
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  gaze. It had been des to reflect the opulent image of Missus Alpheus van
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  Orley, but some secret reluctance of Stanwell's had stayed the execution of the task.
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  He had painted two of Missus Millington's friends in the spring, had been
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  much praised and liberally paid for his work, and then declining several recent orders
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  to be executed at Newport, had surprised his friends by remaining quietly in town.
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  It was not till August that he hired a little cottage on the New
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  Jersey coast and invited the Rans to visit him. They accepted the invitation,
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  and the three had spent together six weeks of seashore idleness, during which Stanwell's
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  modest rafters shook with Caspar's denunciations of his host's vinality, and the brightness of
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  Kate's gratitude was tempered by a tinge of reproach. But her grief over Stanwell's
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  apostasy could not effaced the fact that he had offered her brother the means of
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  escape from town, and Stanwell himself was consoled by the reflection that but for
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  Missus Millington's portrait, he could not have performed even the strifling service for his
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  friends. When the Arrans left him in September, he went to pay a
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  few visits in the country, and on his return a month later to the
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  studio building, he found that things had not gone well with Caspar. The
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  little sculpture had caught cold, and the labor and expense of converting his gigantic
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  offspring into marble seemed to hang heavily upon him. He and Kate were living
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  in a damp company of amorphous clay. Monster's unfinished witnesses to the creative frenzy
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  which had seized him after the sale of his group, and the doctor had
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  urged that his patient should be removed to warmer and drier lodgings. But to
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  uproot Caspar was impossible, and his sister could only feed the stove and swaddle
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  him in mufflers and felt slippers. Stanwell found that during his absence, Bungold
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  had reappeared, fresh and rosy from a summer in Europe, and as prodigal
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  as ever. Of the only form of attention which Kate could be counted on
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  not to resent the game, and Champagne reappeared with him, and he seemed
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  as ready as Stanwell to lend a patient ear to Caspar's homilies. But Stanwell
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  could see that even now Kate had not forgiven him for the cupids. Stanwell
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  himself had spent the early winter months in idleness. The sight of his tools
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  filled him with a strange repugnance, and he absented himself as much as possible
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  from the studio. But Jepson's visit roused him to the fact that he must
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  decide on some definite course of action. If he wished to follow up his
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  success of the previous spring, he must refuse no more orders. He must
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  not let Missus van Orley slip away from him. He knew there were competitors
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  enough ready to profit by his hesit, and since his success was the result
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  of a whim, a whim might undo it. With a sudden gesture of
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  decision, he caught up his hat and left the studio. On the landing,
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  he met Kate Aran. She too was going out, drawn forth by
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  the sudden radiance of the January afternoon. She met him with a smile which
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  seemed the answer to his uncertainties, and he asked abruptly if she had time
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  to take a walk with him. Yes, for once she had time for
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  mister Mungold was sitting with Caspar and had promised to remain till she came in.
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  It mattered little to Stanwell that Mungold was with Caspar as long as he
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  himself was with Kate, and he instantly soared to the suggestion that they should
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  prolong the painter's vigil by taking the elevated to the park. In this too,
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  his companion acquiesced. After a moment of surprise. She seemed in a
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  consenting mood, and Stanwell argued, well, from the the park was clothed
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  in the double glitter of snow and sunshine, they roamed the hard white alleys
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  to a continuous tinkle of sleigh bells, and Kate brightened with the exhilaration of
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  the scene. It was not often that she permitted herself such an escape from
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  routine, and in this new environment, which seemed to detach her from her
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  daily setting, Stanwell had his first complete vision of her to the girl.
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  Also, their unwonted isolation seemed to create a sense of fuller communion, for
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  she began presently as they reached the leafless solitude of the Ramble, to speak
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  with sudden freedom of her brother. It appeared that the orders against which Caspar
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  had so heroically steeled himself were slow in coming. He had received no commission
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  since the sale of his group, and he was beginning to suffer from a
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  reaction of discouragement. Oh, it was not the craving for popularity. Stemley
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  Well knew how far above that he stood. But it had been exquisite,
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  yes, exquisite, for him to find himself believed in understood. He had
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  fancied that the purchase of the group was the dawn of a tardy recognition and
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  now the darkness of indifference had set in again. No one spoke of him,
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  no one wrote of him, no one cared. If he were in
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  good health, it would not matter. He would throw off such weakness.
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  He would live only for the joy of his work. But he is losing
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  ground. His strength is failing, and he is so afraid there will not
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  be time enough left, time enough for full recognition, she explained. The
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  quiver in her voice silenced Stanwell. He was afraid of echoing it with his
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  own. At length, he said, Oh, more, orders will come.
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  Success is a gradual growth. Yes, real success, she said,
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  with a solemn note, in which he caught and forgave a reflection on his
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  own facile triumphs. But when the orders do come, she continued, will
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  he have strength to carry them out? Last winter, the doctor thought he
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  only needed work to set him up. Now he talks of rest instead.
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  He says, we ought to go to a warm climate. But how can
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  Caspar leave the group? Oh? Hang, the group let him chuck the
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  order, cried Stanwell. She looked at him tragically. The money is spent,
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  she said. He colored to the roots of his hair. But ill
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  health, ill health excuses everything. If he goes away, now he will
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  come back good for twice the amount of work in the spring. A sculptor
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  is not expected to deliver a statue on a given day, like a package
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  of groceries. You must do as the doctor says. You must make him
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  chuck everything and go. They had reached a windless nook above the lake,
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  and pausing in the stress of their talk, she let herself sink on a
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  bench beside the path. The moon encouraged him, and he seated himself at
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  her side. You must take him away at once, he repeated urgently.
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  He must be made comfortable, he must both be free from worry. And
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  I want you to let me manage it for you. He broke off,
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  silenced by her rising blush, her protesting murmur, Oh stop, please,
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  let me explain. I'm not talking of lending you money. I'm talking of
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  giving you myself. The offer may be just as unacceptable, but it's of
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  a kind to which it's customary to accord it a hearing. I should have
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  made it a year ago the first day I saw you, I believe,
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  but that then it wasn't in my power to make things easier for you.
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  But now you know I've had a little luck since I've painted Missus Millington.
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  Things have changed. I believe I can get as many orders as I choose.
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  There are two or three people waiting. Now, what's the use of
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  it all if it doesn't bring me a little happiness? And the only happiness
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  I know is the kind that you can give me. He paused, suddenly
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  losing the courage to look at her, so that her pained murmur was framed
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  for him in a glittering vision of the frozen lake. He turned with a
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  start and met the refusal in her eyes. No, really, no,
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  he repeated. She shook her head silently. I could have helped you.
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  I could have helped you, he sighed. She flushed distressfully, but kept
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  her eyes on his. It's just that, don't you see, she reproached
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  him. Just that, the fact that I could be of use to you,
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  The fact that, as you say, things have changed since you painted
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  Missus Millington. I haven't seen the later portraits, but they tell me,
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  oh, they're just as bad. Stamwell jeered. You've sold your talent and
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  you know it. That's the dreadful part. You did it deliberately, She
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  cried with passion. Oh deliberately, he interjected, and you're not ashamed you
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  talk of going on. I'm not ashamed I talk of going on. She
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  received this with a long, shuddering sigh and turned her eyes away from him.
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  Oh why, why, why, she lamented. It was on the
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  tip of Stamwell's tongue to answer that I might say to you what I am
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  just saying now, But he replied instead, a man may paint bad pictures
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  and be a decent fellow. Look at Mungold after all. The adjuration had
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  an unexpected effect. Kate's color faded suddenly, and she sat motionless with a
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  stricken face. There's a difference, she began at length, abruptly, the
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  difference you've always insisted on. Mister Mungold paints as well as he can.
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  He has no idea that his pictures are less good than they might be.
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  Well, so he can't be accused of doing what he does for money,
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  of sacrificing anything better. She turned on him with troubled eyes. It was
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  you who made me understand that. When Caspar used to make fun of him,
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  Stamwell smiled, I'm glad you still think me a better painter than mungold.
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  But isn't it hard that for that very reason I should starve in a
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  hole? If I painted badly enough, you'd see no objection to my living
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  at the Waldorf. Ah, don't joke about it, she murmured, don't
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  triumph in it. I see no reason to at present, said Stamwell dryly.
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  But I won't pretend to be ashamed when I'm not. I think there
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  are occasions when a man is justified in doing what I've done. She looked
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  at him solemnly. What occasions? Why when he wants money? Hang it?
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  She drew a deep breath. Money, money, Has Caspar's example been
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  nothing to you? Then? It hasn't proved to me that I must starve
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  while Mungold lives on truffles. Again, her face changed, and she stirred
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  uneasily, and then wrote to her feet, there is no occasion which can
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  justify and artists sacrificing his convictions, she exclaimed. Stanwell rose too, facing
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  her with a mounting urgency, which sent a flush to his cheek. Can't
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  you conceive such an occasion? In my case? The wish I mean to
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  make things easier for Caspar, to help you in any way, you might
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  let me. Her face reflected his blush, and she stood gazing at him
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  with a wounded wonder. Caspar and I you imagine we could live on money
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  earned in that way? Stanwell made an impatient gesture. You've got to live
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  on something or he has, even if you don't include yourself. Her blush
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  deepened miserably, but she held her head high. That's just it, That's
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  what I came here to say to you. She stood a moment, gazing
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  away from him at the lake. He looked at her in surprise. You
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  came here to say something to me, Yes, that we've got to live
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  on something. Caspar and I as you say, And since an artist cannot
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  sacrifice his convictions, the sacrifice must I mean. I wanted you to know
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  that I have promised to marry mister mungold. Mungold Stanwell cried with a sharp
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  note of irony, but her white look checked it on his lips. I
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  know all you are going to say, she murmured, with a kind of
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  nobleness which moved him, even through his sense of its grotesqueness. But you
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  must see the distinction, because you first made it clear to me. I
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  can take money earned in good faith. I can let Caspar live on it.
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  I can marry mister Mungold, because though his pictures are bad, he
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  does not prostitute his art. She began to move away from him slowly,
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  and he followed her in silence along the frozen path. When Stanwell re entered
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  his studio, the dusk had fallen. He lit his lamp and rummaged out
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  some writing materials. Having found them, he wrote to Shepson to say that
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  he could not paint Missus van Orley and did not care to accept any more
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  orders for the present. He sealed and stamped the letter and flung it over
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  the banisters for the janitor to post. Then he dragged out his unfinished Head
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  of kate Aran, replaced it on the easel, and sat down before it
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  with a grim smile. End of Section twenty eight.