# The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 12/Told in the Studios

Illustrations by Paul Hardy.
Layout 4
Told in the Studios.
By "Rita."
STORY THE THIRD—"NOT A MODEL."
HE third artist had not yet spoken.
He had always been somewhat of a mystery since he had been among them. By birth a Swede—by right of domicile and long residence almost as English as an Englishman, Helsinborg was already well known in art circles as a man of great genius. Pitiless, almost to cruelty, in the scathing truths he set forth upon his canvas, he was more feared than admired, even by those who praised him most loudly. He had only rented his studio for six months, as he was engaged upon a sea piece, representing a wreck on the Cornish coast.
It was finished now, and on the morrow he was to send it away for exhibition. As Norman Druce ended his story, he glanced up at the group who were regarding him expectantly.
"I fear there is nothing among my sketches worth speaking about," he said, and lifted a large portfolio from the floor as he spoke. "But you can see and select for yourself," he added, handing the case to Denis O'Hara.
"He emptied the portfolio."
The young Irishman seized it eagerly, and, sweeping the table clear from those it already contained, he emptied the portfolio of its contents, while the two other men drew near, and looked over his shoulder.
For a few moments there was silence, broken here and there by disjointed sentences and exclamations. At last Denis, still acting as spokesman, turned to the silent figure by the fire, and held out a sketch. "We have selected this," he said.
The artist looked at it a moment. A dark shadow seemed to flit over his usually pale, impassive face.
"Was that among them?" he asked, hoarsely. "I had no idea;—I mean," resuming his usual composure, "the sketch is not mine, I only copied it from a friend's picture."
"But it has a story," said Jasper Trenoweth, quietly. The eyes of the two men met. Little as they had seen of each other, little as they knew of each other's history or life, yet both seemed to recognise instinctively that in that history and life there lived the memory of some tragic past, something that for both had turned the sunshine to darkness—the joy to pain.
"Yes," said Helsinborg gravely, "there is a story a—somewhat painful and tragic one. I am not sure that I ought to tell it; but perhaps it will not matter now, the actors in the drama are both dead."
He laid the sketch down gently, almost reverently; but the dark shadow on his face seemed to grow darker, and the firm mouth seemed a little tremulous.
​"The picture," he said, "shows you an almost empty room, bare of everything save an easel, on which stands a picture. At the foot of the easel lies a woman, stretched on the bare floor—dead. It is called 'Not a model.' As far as I know, this is the story of it.
"When I was young and unknown, and fame was still a dream, I was staying in Paris with a friend, a countryman of my own, and a member of my own profession. We were young, we were enthusiasts, we were very poor, we worked hard, and I think we were very happy. It so easy to be happy when one has youth, and strength, and hope; when life is full of dreams, and all is innocent and beautiful, and its mysteries have no menace, and its hopes no disillusion. Such a time is very brief. The gods perchance envy us, and soon draw the veil aside and show us that happiness is a myth, and innocence a dream, and love but an illusion, and fame the breath of envy forced to distil its gold, and only valuing what it purchases by weight of the world's coinage. And in that world there seems no truth, and no honour, only corruption and vileness. Men's lives and days are spent in greed and selfishness, and all noble dreams, and high endeavours, and all loveliness and purity and simplicity of life are of no account. But in the days I speak of we two dreamers and enthusiasts believed still in such things as honesty and purity, in unsullied fame and noble aims that the world must acknowledge and reverence. We were fools, you say; no doubt. But we did not know it then, and so were happy, though poor, and often even hungry and shelterless. But we always dreamed that dream of the world's acknowledgment, of the triumphs of success. We did not know that success meant the chicanery of knaves, the puff and clamour and brazen advertisement that gold alone could command, the endless subterfuge and tricks by which man outwitted man in the race, the prostitution of the highest gifts for the base wages of popularity. No, we did not know that then, and we were so unwise as to labour still in the cause of all that is divine and beautiful and God-given in art, believing the world would accept such teaching. We were rightly served. We starved. For myself I cared but little for hardships and troubles. I was strong, and had been reared by a hardy race; but he, my friend, was different. Less robust of frame, less capable of endurance; and, as money grew scarce and winter approached, I grew uneasy and fearful for his strength. To make matters worse, he fell in love. The girl was certainly lovely enough to make any folly excusable. She was an actress, playing small parts in a small theatre—a shallow, soulless thing, but beautiful as a dream; and my friend believed in her, and worshipped her with all the ardour of his nineteen years. Just when his love fever was at its height a sudden stroke of luck befel him. Some wealthy aristocrat saw a picture he had sold to a Jew dealer for a few francs. Struck by its merit, he took the trouble of tracing out the artist. He gave him a commission, and promised more, if satisfied. The ardent and enthusiastic nature of the youth leaped, in fancy, to the most impossible heights of success. The gold he touched seemed as an inexhaustible mine, and he clenched his madness by marrying the actress, and taking rooms furnished and fitted up in far too luxurious a style for their joint income. I remained in the old garret, painting as I had always painted—hoping as I had always hoped. I felt somewhat lonely at first, for I missed Christian terribly. I knew he would drift away from me, it could not be otherwise. Women's friendships seem rather cemented than interfered with by marriage; but a man loses his friend when that friend becomes a husband. I did not like the girl, and I felt she did not care for Christian as he did for her. But I said nothing, I only kept apart and waited. I had not long to wait. Christian took to dropping into the garret as of old; he seemed to need sympathy and companionship. His gay spirits were gone, a settled melancholy was visible in face and manners. His work was neglected, the commission which his wealthy patron had given him was still unfinished, and all the ardour and excitement he had been wont to bring to the design and execution of any work seemed lost and forgotten. I grew seriously uneasy, the more so as the usual frank confidence between us had changed to reserve and sullenness on his part, and he would tell me nothing of his troubles. Well, I won't dwell upon this part of the story. The end came to his love dream. He woke up one day to find he had been tricked and deceived. The girl whom he loved so madly repaid him by forsaking him at the first breath of poverty. She went off one day with the wealthy patron, leaving him no word of farewell, asking no forgiveness—flitting like ​ "He could only sit and brood." the soulless butterfly she was to the sunshine and brightness offered by wealth. He came back to the old bare garret, and the old hard life. He could not work, he could only sit and brood listlessly day after day, or break out into passionate fits of rage and despair. At last he became very ill. I nursed him back to life; but when he rose from that bed he was utterly changed. Aged as if by years; sad, hopeless, embittered. That was a woman's work. How often and how successfully she has done it! I got him away from Paris at last, and we came to England. I had a little money, and I worked—not for art's sake, but for his—at those popular trifles which have no merit save that they 'sell.' That word had only the merit of necessity for me; but it was another's necessity, and I worked for him, and still hoped. Years passed. Success came slowly and grudgingly to both of us. We lived together, and tried to believe we were content, and had won something better than the fairy promise of our youth, and the illusions of its dreams of fame. One day Christian confided to me that he was unable to procure a satisfactory model for the picture he was engaged upon for the next Academy. It was to be a very large one, the subject was ambitious and needed careful treatment; and, as I listened to his difficulty, I agreed that it would be almost hopeless to expect from any professional model such a combination of qualities as he desired.
"'Suppose you advertise,' I said. 'State exactly what you require—it is sure to be answered.'
"After some consideration, he decided to do so. Needless to say, he had many answers and applications; but none were suitable. That evening, however, as we were sitting at work, making the most of the brief daylight left to us, a knock came at the studio door. It was opened, on our invitation, by a woman, who stood hesitating a moment as if she did not like to enter.
"'Pray come in,' I said, laying down my brush. 'What is it we can do for you?'
"'I—I saw your advertisement,' she said. Her voice was low and hurried, and she spoke with a foreign accent. 'I am not a model; but if I could serve—if I could suit you——'
"Her face was veiled; I could only see the flash of dark eyes, the loose masses of dusky hair.
"'It is my friend who requires a model,' I said. 'It is not necessary that you should have sat professionally before. It is expression he desires, and—'
"'Oh,' she cried, clasping her hands with a passionate gesture. 'That surely would not be difficile. I have been actress—comédienne—chanteuse. I think it is in me to express what monsieur desires.'
"Christian came forward then and looked at her. I thought his face seemed strangely pale in the waning light of the sunset. The woman threw back her veil. I started as I looked. Young as was the face, great as once might have been its beauty, it was painfully haggard and lined, marred by suffering and passion, bearing only too plainly the stamp of sin and evil living. Christian looked at her silently for a moment. He asked no questions, only bent ​on her that searching, steady gaze which seems to reach the soul. Whether it reached hers, whether any memory came back to her as she met those cold stern eyes, I cannot tell. She did not speak, only stood there as it mesmerised into silence or fear.
"'You will do,' said Christian, suddenly. 'Your face is all I want; the history of sin, and wasted years, and suffering, and retribution. Come here to-morrow at two o'clock. Your terms?'
"'That is for monsieur to decide,' she said low and faintly.
"He named a sum that to me seemed extravagant, but I said nothing. As for the woman, she dropped her veil, and, with a murmured, 'Adieu, messieurs,' glided from the room.
"You will do."
"I wondered what fleeting memory, what ghost of the past that brief glance had recalled, but the reality evaded me again and again. She came the next day, and for many days after, and every time I saw her the same vague uneasiness, the same fleeting memory troubled my mind. My friend alone said nothing, but worked steadily, doggedly on, and she was singularly reticent for one of her sex and profession. I thought she seemed afraid of Christian, and I wondered that he, who was usually so courteous and gentle to women, should be always so brusque and stern to her. Well, the picture grew and approached completion, and the memory that had so long haunted me took at last a deeper shadow of certainty. I did not speak of it, I dared not; but it seemed to me impossible that Christian should not know whom he was using as a model. Was there—I asked myself—some purpose beneath that pretence of ignorance, some surer vengeance to be achieved by this utter ignoring of a woman whose life now was reaping the fruits of its own ill deeds in the past. The day of the last sitting came. When he at last made the signal of dismissal, she came over and looked timidly at the easel.
"'May I see it?' she asked; 'the picture, I mean.'
"'Certainly,' he said coldly, and stepped aside so that she might face the picture as it stood there in the full light. I watched her, wondering and fascinated. She looked at it a long, long time; her face was very pale, her great eyes had a sombre, vengeful look.
"'What do you call it?' she said at last.
"He smiled, as he wiped his brushes in a cool, indifferent fashion. Had he no thought, no regret, no fear for that living, passionate piece of womanhood, whose very soul and secrets he seemed to have laid bare ​on that canvas, as pitilessly as a vivisector uses his victim.
"'I call it,' he said, '"Retribution." Do you like the title?'
"She only looked at him, drawing her shawl closely round her still beautiful figure; a shudder shook her from head to foot.
"'You are very merciless,' she said, and turned away; then paused, and looked back ere she reached the door. 'Take care, she said, 'that I too may not be as merciless—that I too may not have revenge.'
"He made no sign of hearing. Calmly, indifferently as ever, he went on wiping his brushes and putting them aside for the day.
"As the door closed, I turned to him. 'Christian,' I said, 'don't you know who she was? How could you keep up that pretence of ignorance and indifference?'
"'I have known all along,' he said, 'who she was; but that woman died years ago—for me. This, this poor painted ghost has no name and no existence in my life, or memory. Why should she?'
"And you used her—'
"I used her to tell her own story to anyone who looks on—this,' he said, pointing to the picture. 'Fate gave me a better revenge than I could have demanded.'
"'It seems cruel,' I said, looking at the canvas, where the living story of the living woman spoke out in merciless fidelity.
"'No,' he said, it is only just.' He left the studio then, but I remained for long, studying every detail of that work of his, whose subject he had chosen with no thought that the real heroine should also be the model.
"At his feet knelt a woman." "It was simple; but it told a story, as all his pictures did. A room luxurious, but not pretentious. In the middle of the room stood a man. His face was half averted; but the figure—and the slight glimpse of that stern and handsome profile were eloquent with a determination as strong as death—relentless as justice. At his feet knelt a woman, her face agonised, despairing; the young haggard misery of it haunted one despite oneself. The loosened masses of dark hair swept the ground. Her clasped hands, her strange, imploring eyes, her parted lips that seemed tremulous with life, all spoke out appeal—appeal for mercy—for forgiveness; while on the face, with its lost youth and its feverish passions and haggard beauty, was stamped indelibly the history of a past where she had wronged, and he suffered.
"The gesture of his outstretched hand that thrust her aside as some loathsome evil thing, the mute disgust and stern relentlessness of his whole attitude spoke out like a living voice. One heard it, and wondered what could have been the wrong that never would bring her forgiveness; yet, even while wondering, seemed to guess the truth. I looked at it until my eyes grew dim. So many years, and yet his wrecked youth, his wasted love had brought him vengeance. How deep a hold that one brief passion must have taken on his life and memory; even now, at this distance of time, it could arm him with strength to teach others the lesson he had learnt in the first years of youth and faith. I turned away at last. In some vague way I felt sorry for the woman whose vanished beauty, and evil life, and sore need, had left her at the mercy of ​the man she had first wronged, the man who held the power to give her story to the world, even as he had shown it to herself. Calmly, coldly, with merciless fidelity, with never one word or hint of consciousness as to who she was, the artist had completed his study. The wronged husband spurned the guilty wife as remorselessly as she had once forsaken him. It was just—he had said so; but I found it in me to wish that justice were less cruel.
"It was still early next morning when Christian came to my room.
"'I find I have mislaid my key of the studio,' he said. ‘'Will you lend me yours?'
"'I am just going there,' I answered. 'We may as well walk together.'
"The studio was but a short distance from where we lived. To this day I remember that morning—the soft air, the budding green of the trees, the scent of spring flowers. Ah! if human life could but renew itself as nature does! . . . But I must hasten on. We reached the studio. I stopped in some consternation.
"'Why, Christian,' I said, 'your key is in the lock! How careless!'
"He looked disturbed.
"'I have no recollection of leaving it there,' he said; 'and you were the last to come away, you remember.'
"'True,' I said, 'and I certainly closed and locked the door as usual.'
"We spent no more time in words. A vague presentiment of evil oppressed us. In silence we hurried into the room. My first glance was for the picture. It stood there in the full glare of the morning light, tragic, wonderful as ever. But on the bare wooden floor beneath I saw outstretched a woman's prostrate figure. We sprang forward. A cry of horror burst from Christian. Face downwards on the floor she lay, half veiled by masses of loosened hair, her hand clasping a sharp and shining blade; her face, as he raised it, white and calm, set in the frozen peace of death.
"We raised her, and laid her on the couch, but even as we did so we knew that there was no hope. Her life's history had ended here, where its first chapter of retribution had been written by the man she had wronged.
"When the first shock of horror was over, and the medical verdict had been pronounced, I noticed that on the table there were some sheets of paper, closely written, and placed together. They were not addressed, but I drew Christian's attention to them, feeling certain they were meant for him. He read them silently, sadly, perhaps with something of regret at last. When he had finished, he folded them together, and turned to me.
"'You can guess, of course,' he said. 'She came here determined to destroy that picture; full of hatred and revenge. She writes here of all that was in her heart from the moment that she saw herself on that canvas. Some softer feeling, however, seems to have stolen over her as—as she wrote—some memory of our youth, our love—for she did love me, just for a brief space, as well as it was in her to love anyone. She leaves off abruptly, as you see. I think she must have gone over to the picture for one more look. The knife was in her grasp. Whether she faltered in intent, or whether, as the doctor says, the heart's action suddenly ceased under the effects of fierce excitement, we shall never know. There she lies—powerless now to plead for or receive forgiveness.'
"'You would not grant forgiveness, Christian,' I said sadly, as I covered the calm, dead face; 'yet, you see, it was not in your hands to give—retribution.""
The speaker paused, and looked round at the grave and silent circle.
"That is all," he said, "only Christian did not send that picture for exhibition. It stood from that day in his studio, in a recess veiled by a heavy curtain. I think no one save he or I, ever lifted that curtain, or knew the history it hid from all the world, whose praises he has won, whose fame is his, at last, when he neither needs, nor knows of it."
Finis.