mr. potts lived in berners street, on the second floor of a rambling big old-fashioned house, which in its palmy days had been inhabited by people of distinction; and in which it was rumoured in the art-world that the great mr. fuseli had once lived, and painted those horrors which sprung from the nightmare consequent on heavy suppers of pork-chops. but these were the days of its decadence, and each of its floors had now a separate and distinct tenant. the ground-floor was a kind of half showroom, half shop, held by mr. lectern, the great church-upholsterer. specimens of stained-glass windows, croziers, and brass instruments like exaggerated beadles'-staves, gilt sets of communion-service, and splendidly-worked altar-cloths, occupied the walls; the visitor walked up to the desk at which mr. lectern presided between groves of elaborately-carved pulpits and reading-desks, and brazen eagles were extending their wings in every available corner. on the first-floor mdlle. stetti gave lessons to the nobility, gentry, and the public in general in the fashionable dances of the day, and in the magyar sceptre-exercises for opening the chest and improving the figure. mdlle. stetti had a very large connection; and as many of her pupils were adults who had never learned to dance while they were supple and tender, and as, under the persevering tuition of their little instructress, they gambolled in a cumbrous and rather elephantine manner, they earned for themselves many hearty anathemas from mr. potts, who found it impossible to work with anything like a steady hand while the whole house was rocking under the influence of a stout stockbroker doing the "changes," or while the walls trembled at every bound of the fourteen-stone lady from islington, who was being initiated into the mysteries of the gavotte. but charley potts' pipe was the only confidant of his growled anathemas, and on the whole he got on remarkably well with his neighbours; for mr. lectern had lent him bits of oak furniture to paint from; and once, when he was ill, mdlle. stetti, who was the dearest, cheeriest, hardest-working, best-tempered little creature in existence, had made him broths and "goodies" with her own hand, and when he was well, had always a kind word and a smile for him--and, indeed, revelled in the practical humour and buffoonery of "_ce farceur_ pott." for mr. potts was nothing if not funny; the staircase leading to his rooms began to be decorated immediately after you had passed mdlle. stetti's apartments; an enormous hand, sketched in crayon, with an outstretched finger, directed attention to an inscription--"to the halls of potts!" just above the little landing you were confronted by a big beef-eater's head, out of the mouth of which floated a balloon-like legend--"walk up, walk up, and see the great potts!" the aperture of the letter-box in the door formed the mouth in a capital caricatured head of charley himself; and instead of a bell-handle there hung a hare's-foot, beneath which was gummed a paper label with a written inscription "tug the trotter."
three days after the gathering at the titian sketching-club, mr. potts sat in his studio, smoking a pipe, and glaring vacantly at a picture on an easel in front of him. it was not a comfortable room; its owner's warmest friend could not have asserted that. there was no carpet, and the floor was begrimed with the dirt of ages, and with spilt tobacco and trodden-in cigar-ash. the big window was half stopped-up, and had no curtain. an old oak-cabinet against the wall, surmounted by the inevitable plaster torso, and studies of hands and arms, had lost one of its supporting feet, and looked as though momentarily about to topple forward. a table in the middle of the room was crowded with litter, amongst which a pewter-pot reared itself conspicuously. over an old sofa were thrown a big rough inverness-cape, a wideawake hat, and a thick stick; while on a broken, ragged, but theatrically-tawdry arm-chair, by the easel, were a big palette already "set," a colour-box, and a sheaf of brushes. mr. potts was dressed in a shepherd's-plaid shooting coat, adorned here and there with dabs of paint, and with semi-burnt brown patches, the result of the incautious dropping of incandescent tobacco and vesuvians. he had on a pair of loose rough trousers, red-morocco slippers without heels, and he wore no neckcloth; but his big turned-down shirt-collar was open at the throat. he wore no beard, but had a large sweeping austrian moustache, which curled fiercely at the ends; had thin brown hair, light blue eyes, and the freshest and healthiest of complexions. no amount of late hours, of drinking and smoking, could apparently have any effect on this baby-skin; and under the influence of cold water and yellow soap, both of which he used in large quantities, he seemed destined to remain--so far as his complexion was concerned--"beautiful for ever,"--or at least until long after madame rachel's clients had seen the worthlessness of pigments. looking at him as he sat there--his back bent nearly double, his eyes fixed on his picture, his pipe fixed stiffly between his teeth, and his big bony hands clasped in front of him--there was no mistaking him for anything but a gentleman; ill-dressed, slatternly, if you like; but a true gentleman, every inch of him.
the "trotter" outside being tugged with tremendous violence, roused him from his reverie, and he got up and opened the door, saying, as he did so, "why didn't you ring? i would, if i'd been you. you're in the bell-hanging line, i should think, by the way you jerked my wire. hollo, bowker, my boy! is it you? what's the matter? are you chivied by a dun on the staircase, or fainting for a pull at the pewter, that you come with such a ring as that? bring your body in, old man; there's a wind here enough to shave you."
mr. bowker preceded his friend into the room, looked into the pewter-pot, drained it, wiped his beard with a handkerchief; which he took out of his hat, and said, in a solemn deep voice: "potts, my pipkin, how goes it?"
"pretty well, old man, pretty well--considering the weather. and you?"
"your william _se porte bien_. hallo!" glancing at the easel, while he took a pipe from his pocket and filled it from a jar on the table; "hallo! something new! what's the subject? who is the spanish party in tights? and what's the venerable buffer in the clerical get-up of the period putting out his hand about?"
"oh, it's a scene from _gil blas_, where the archbishop of grenada discharges him, you know."
"no, i don't, and i don't want to hear; your william, dear boy, has discovered that life is too short to have anything explained to him: if he don't see it at first, he let's it pass. the young party's right leg is out of drawing, my chick; just give your william a bit of chalk. there--not being a patient at the orthopaedic hospital--that's where his foot would come to. the crimson of the reverend gent's gown is about as bad as anything ive seen for a long time, dear boy. hand over the palette and brushes for two minutes. your william is a rum old skittle; but if there's one thing he knows about, it is colour." and charley, who knew that, with all his eccentricity, mr. bowker, or "your william," as he always spoke of himself; was a thorough master of his art, handed him what he required, and sat by watching him.
a fat bald-headed man with a grizzled beard, a large paunch and flat splay feet, badly dressed and not too clean, mr. bowker did not give one the idea of ever having been an "object of interest" to any one save the waiter at the tavern where he dined, or the tobacconist where he bought his cavendish. but yet there had been a day when bright eyes grew brighter at his approach, tiny ears latticed with chestnut-hair had eagerly drunk in the music of his voice, gentle hands had thrilled beneath his touch. he had bright blue eyes himself then, and long hair, and a slim figure. he was young mr. bowker, whose first pictures exhibited at somerset house had made such a sensation, and who was so much noticed by sir david wilkie, and for whom mr. northcote prophesied such a future, and whom mr. fuseli called a "coot prave poy!" he was the young mr. bowker who was recommended by sir thomas lawrence as drawing-master to the lovely young wife of old mr. van den bosch, the dutch banker and financier long resident in london. he was "that scoundrel bowker, sir," who, being wildly romantic, fell head-over-ears in love with his pupil; and finding that she was cruelly ill-treated by the old ruffian her husband, ran away with her to spain, and by that rash act smashed-up his career and finally settled himself for ever. old van den bosch got a divorce, and died, leaving all his money to his nephews; and then william bowker and the woman he had eloped with returned to england, to find himself universally shunned and condemned. his art was as good, nay a thousand times better than ever; but they would not hear of him at the royal academy now; would not receive his pictures; would not allow the mention of his name. patrons turned their backs on him, debts accumulated, the woman for whom he had sacrificed everything died,--penitent so far as she herself was concerned, but adoring her lover to the last, and calling down blessings on him with her latest breath. and then william bowker strove no more, but accepted his position and sunk into what he was, a kindly, jolly, graceless vagabond, doing no harm, but very little good. he had a little private money on which he lived; and as time progressed, some of his patrons, who found he painted splendidly and cheaply, came back to him and gave him commissions; but he never again attempted to regain his status; and so long as he had enough to supply his simple daily wants, seemed content. he was a great favourite with some half-dozen young men of charley potts's set, who had a real love and regard for him, and was never so happy as when helping them with advice and manual assistance.
charley watched him at his work, and saw with delight the archbishop's robe gradually growing all a-glow beneath the master's touch; and then, to keep him in good-humour and amused, began to talk, telling him a score of anecdotes, and finally asking him if he'd heard anything of tommy smalt.
"tommy smalt, sir?" cried bowker, in his cheery voice; "tommy smalt, sir, is in clover! your william has been able to put tommy on to a revenue of at least thirty shillings a-week. tommy is now the right-hand man of jacobs of newman street; and the best judges say that there are no ostades, jan steens, or gerard dows like tommy's."
"what do you mean?--copies?"
"copies! no, sir: originals."
"originals!"
"certainly! original tenierses, of boors drinking; wouvermanns, not forgetting the white horse; or jan steens, with the never-failing episode;--all carefully painted by tommy smalt and his fellow-labourers! ah, jacobs is a wonderful man! there never was such a fellow; he sticks at nothing; and when he finds a man who can do his particular work, he keeps him in constant employment."
"well, but is the imposition never detected? don't the pictures look new?"
"oh, most verdant of youths, of course not! the painting is clobbered with liquorice-water; and the varnish is so prepared that it cracks at once; and the signature in the corner is always authentic; and there's a genuine look of cloudy vacancy and hopeless bankruptcy about the whole that stamps it at once to the connoisseur as the real thing. tommy's doing a 'youth's head' by rembrandt now, which ought to get him higher pay; it ought indeed. it's for a manchester man. they're very hot about rembrandts at manchester."
"well, you've put me up to a new wrinkle. and jacobs lives by this?"
"lives by it! ay, and lives like a prince too. mrs. j. to fetch him every day in an open barouche, and coachman and footman in skyblue livery, and all the little j.'s hanging over the carriage-doors, rendering newman street dark with the shadow of their noses. lives by it! ay, and why not? there will always be fools in the world, thank heaven!--or how should you and i get on, charley, my boy?--and so long as people will spend money on what they know nothing about, for the sake of cutting-out their friends, gaining a spurious reputation for taste, or cutting a swell as 'patrons of the fine-arts,'--patrons indeed! that word nearly chokes me!--it's quite right that they should be pillaged and done. no man can love art in the same manner that he can love pancakes. he must know something about it, and have some appreciation of it. now no man with the smallest knowledge would go to jacobs; and so i say that the lords and railway-men and cotton-men who go there simply as a piece of duff--to buy pictures as they would carpets--are deuced well served out. there! your william has not talked so much as that in one breath for many a long day. the pewter's empty. send for some more beer, and let's have a damp; my throat's as dry as a lime-burner's wig."
charley potts took up the pewter-measure, and going on to the landing outside the door, threw open the staircase-window, and gave a shrill whistle. this twice repeated had some effect! for a very much-be-ribboned young lady in the bar of the opposite public-house looked up, and nodded with great complaisance; and then charley, having made a solemn bow, waved the empty quart-pot three times round his head. two minutes afterwards a bare-headed youth, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, crossed the road, carefully bearing a pasteboard hat-box, with which he entered the house, and which he delivered into mr. potts' hands.
"good boy, richard i never forget the hat-box; come for it this evening, and take back both the empty pewters in it.--it would never do, bowker, my boy, to have beer--vulgar beer, sir--in its native pewter come into a respectable house like this. the pious parties, who buy their rattletraps and properties of old lectern down below, would be scandalised; and poor little mossoo woman stetti would lose her swell connection. so caroline and i--that's caroline in the bar, with the puce-coloured ribbons--arranged this little dodge; and it answers first-rate."
"ha--a!" said mr. bowker, putting down the tankard half-empty, and drawing a long breath; "beer is to your william what what's-his-name is to thingummy; which, being interpreted, means that he can't get on without it. i never take a big pull at a pewter without thinking of our geoff. how is our geoff?"
"our geoff is--hush! some one coming up stairs. what's to-day? friday. the day i told the tailor to call. hush!"
the footsteps came creaking up the stairs until they stopped outside charley potts' door, on which three peculiar blows were struck,--one very loud, then two in rapid succession.
"a friend!" said charley, going to the door and opening it. "pass, friend, and give the countersign! hallo, flexor! is it you? i forgot our appointment for this morning. come in."
it was, indeed, the great model, who, fresh-shaved, and with his hair neatly poodled under his curly-brimmed hat, entered the room with a swagger, which, when he perceived a stranger, he allowed to subside into an elaborate bow.
"now then, flexor, get to work! we won't mind my friend here; he knows all this sort of game of old," said charley; while flexor began to arrange himself into the position of the expelled secretary of the archbishop.
"ay, and i know m. flexor of old, that's another thing!" said bowker, with a deep chuckle, expelling a huge puff of smoke.
"do you, sir?" said flexor, still rigid in the gil-bias position, and never turning his head; "maybe, sir; many gents knows flexor."
"yes; but many gents didn't know flexor five-and-twenty years ago, when he stood for mercutio discoursing of queen mab."
"lor' a mussy!" cried flexor, forgetting all about his duty, parting the smoke with his hand and bending down to look into william's face. "it's mr. bowker, and i ought to have knowed him by the voice. and how are you, sir? hearty you look, though you'yve got a paucity of nobthatch, and what ''ir you 'ave is that gray, you might be your own grandfather. why, i haven't seen you since you was gold-medallist at the 'cademy, 'cept once when you come with mrs.----"
"there, that'll do, flexor! i'm alive still, you see; and so i see are you. and your wife, is she alive?"
"o yes, sir; but, lord, how different from what you know'd her! none of your wenuses, nor dalilys, nor nell gwyns now! she's growed stout and cumbersome, and never sits 'cept some gent wants a mrs. primrose in that everlastin' wicar, or a old woman a-scoldin' a gal because she wants to marry a poor cove, or somethin' in that line; and then i says, 'well, jane, you may as well earn a shillin' an hour as any one else,' i says."
"and you've been a model all these years, flexor?"
"well, no sir--off and on; but ive always come back to it. i was a actor for three years; did grecian stators,--ajax defyin' the lightnin'; slave a-listenin' to conspirators; boy a-sharpenin' his knife, and that game, you know, in a cirkiss. but i didn't like it; they're a low lot, them actors, with no feelin' for art. and then iwas a gentleman's servant; but that wouldn't do; they do dam' and cuss their servants so, the gentlemen do, as i couldn't stand it; and i was a mute."
"a mute!--what, a funeral mute?"
"yes, sir; black-job business; and wery good that is,--plenty of pleasant comp'ny and agreeable talk, and nice rides in the summer time on the 'earses to all the pleasant simmetries in the suburbs! but in the winter it's frightful! and my last job i was nearly killed. we had a job at 'ampstead, in the debth of snow; and it was frightful cold on the top of the 'eath. it was the party's good lady as was going to be interred, and the party himself were frightful near; in fact, a reg'lar screw. well, me and my mate had been standin' outside the 'ouse-door with the banners in our 'ands for an hour, until we was so froze we could scarcely hold the banners. so i says, i won't stand no longer, i says; and i gev a soft rap, and told the servant we must have a drop of somethin' short, or we should be killed with cold. the servant goes and tells her master, and what do you think he says? 'drink!' he says. 'nonsense!' he says; '_if they're cold, let 'em jump about and warm 'emselves_,' he says. fancy a couple of mutes with their banners in their 'ands a-jumpin' about outside the door just before the party was brought out. so that disgusted me, and i gev it up, and come back to the old game agen."
"now, flexor," said charley, "if you've finished your biography, get back again."
"all right, sir!" and again flexor became rigid, as the student of santillane.
"what were we talking of when flexor arrived? o, i remember; i was asking you about geoff ludlow. what of him?"
"well, sir, geoff ludlow has made a thundering _coup_ at last. the other night at the titians he sold a picture to stompff for two hundred pounds; more than that, stompff promised him no end of commissions."
"that's first-rate! your william pledges him!" and mr. bowker finished the stout.
"he'll want all he can make, gentlemen," said flexor, who, seeing the pewter emptied, became cynical; "he'll want all he can make, if he goes on as he's doin' now."
"what do you mean?" asked bowker.
"he's in love, mr. ludlow is; that's wot i mean. that party--you know, mr. potts--as you brought to our place that night--he's been to see her every day, he has; and my missis says, from what she 'ave seen and 'eard--well, that's neither 'ere nor there," said flexor, checking himself abruptly as he remembered that the keyhole was the place whence mrs. flexor's information had been derived.
charley potts gave a loud whistle, and said, "the devil!" then turning to bowker, he was about to tell the story of the wet night's adventure, but william putting up his finger warningly, grunted out "_nachher!_" and charley, who understood german, ceased his chatter and went on with his painting.
when the sitting was over, and flexor had departed, william bowker returned to the subject, saying, "now, charley, tell your william all about this story of geoff and his adventure."
charley potts narrated it circumstantially, bowker sitting grimly by and puffing his pipe the while. when he had finished, bowker never spoke for full five minutes; but his brow was knit, and his teeth clenched round his pipe. at length he said, "this is a bad business, so far as i see; a devilish bad business! if the girl were in geoff's own station or if he were younger, it wouldn't so much matter; but geoff must be forty now, and at that age a man's deuced hard to turn from any thing he gets into his head. well, we must wait and see. i'd rather it were you, charley, by a mile; one might have some chance then. but you never think of any thing of that sort, eh?"
what made charley potts colour as he said, "welt--not in geoff's line, at all events?"
william bowker noticed the flush, and said ruefully, "ah, i see! always the way! now let's go and get some beef or something to eat: i'm hungry."
