The Merciless Ladies Read Online Free Page B

sort of an exchange system between pupils of the Grasse School and the Ecole des Beaux Arts. He was working five nights a week washing dishes in a restaurant and had saved a few pounds: he hoped it would be enough. He wanted to be back for Christmas: in spite of the lure of Paris, London was the place where everything happened, the only place he really wished to be, to live, to work. He had ‘ sold’ two portraits to friends and had one or two other small successes. With an optimism rare in him, he saw himself as able to make some sort of a living in a year or two. When was I coming to Town so that we could share a flat?
    Chance, I said, was a fine thing, and I meant it with all conviction; for what he said was absolutely true: to a young man working on a provincial newspaper, or indeed to anyone interested, however peripherally, in the arts and in letters, London was the only place to be. Post-war London had, it seemed to me, everything – except the job to keep me there.
    Before I left, Paul introduced me to a dozen of his friends; young, lively, talkative, knowing about the things that ‘ mattered’, admirably emancipated. And two pretty girls who had an eye for him. One of them was called Olive Crayam. That meant nothing to me at the time. I went home terribly discontented, envious of his life, though it was clear that it was still the monthly supplement from ‘the old man’ that enabled him to exist.
    Although on that visit there were obvious signs that his work was maturing, I was absolutely dumbfounded to hear that one of his paintings was to be in the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. In a single year he had made the step from total obscurity to being among those who counted. It was, of course, the portrait of M. Becker himself – now in the Columbus gallery of Fine Art, Ohio. That M. Becker had consented to sit was a sufficient guide to what he thought of his pupil.
    In those days the importance of art and literature rated much higher than they do today. Well-known authors were invited to contribute centre-page articles on current topics; their opinions were sought and their opinions were news. Similarly the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition never opened without a full two pages in the quality newspapers, devoted to illustration and comment. And Paul Stafford’s portrait (of a well-known teacher with a following), well hung, and the work of a newcomer, attracted a lot of attention. John Grey, writing in the Morning Post , went over the top about it.
    â€˜There is about this work the decided accent of a young man born to paint portraits, born to draw from each sitter perhaps the one unforgettable and vital impression which is waiting to be set down. Mr Stafford has a remarkable future.’
    Others were more cautious but the over-all impression was that a new talent had arrived.
    Sir Laurence Bright, who made a fortune out of army belts during the war, wrote a rather pedestrian autobiography which, published at his own expense, soon sank from sight. But I came across a second-hand copy on a bookstall the other day, and in it he mentions his visit to Burlington House that year and his reactions to Paul’s picture. He wrote to the unknown artist, and suggested that he might commission him to paint the writer’s twin daughters. Paul was then in Paris, so replied that he would be willing to do this on his return, and a price and date were agreed without their ever having met.
    Sir Laurence goes on:
    â€˜Mr Stafford arranged to be in Hertford by the 9.30 train, and sent my chauffeur to fetch him from the station. I and my daughters, too conventionally, expected to meet a youngish man, perhaps bearded, with a pale sensitive face, a velvet jacket, a glowing black bow tie. Instead a clumsy, ill-dressed youth of twenty-one was shown into the drawing-room. He might more properly have been an apprentice engineer or an omnibus driver. My first thought was that Mr Stafford was