The Triumph of Art . .

Free Lance, Volume V, Issue 239, 28 January 1905, Page 16

The Triumph of Art . .

THE aiti.st sat pufhng in his ea>> clian, mopping his foiehead, and slonlj, a erv &)o\\lj, iegainingh<s bieath. He had brought about a captuie at last, after inani tutile attempts, and not a tew undignified escapades, lucre was nothing wncLictive in the ai tint's lidtuic'j but he'wajs enjoying a ie\iew ot a long sene^ of outiaget>, coupled with the contemplation of a, tpeedy and adequate retribution. He lecognjscd, too, with gnin satisfaction, that he had secured the curly-headed one, the most danng and lesomceful of the whole gang. Tlie aitist iiad foi a lo.ig time been an enthusiast in the cultnation of fruit. Hh hobby took second place only to hi^ woik m hi-» estiinatoa. and his reputation as a pioducer of prize peaches thieatencd to nval In ~ fame as apiodiucei of canvasses Unfoitiunatelv fame brings its penalties, and the stoiy of his* achievement-* had not taken long to reach the eager ears of the small boys Hereaftei war had been declared between the art lot and a di,-iieput-able section of the youth of the village Tins was the fir^t victory for the co]our> of the artist, and it struck deep at the opposing foice.s. A long list of pievious i even ben, of torn clothes, barked slims, and public hilarity, made this first favourable turn of the wheel doubly sweet for the artist. He would make his victory a deceive one. The ourlv-headed boy was the life and soul of the attack , his daring amounted to positive impudence , the artist leeallcd to mind having been hit on the noise with one of his own pippins by this belf-same boy. When he had finished with the curly-headed boy the latter would have >such a harrowing tale to tell that the oichaid would know luni and his colleagues no more. The artist 1 o>e, and took a neat bamr boo cane f1 om a nail on the wall. He had purchased that cane a month ago, and- for one long month it had hung there, ldlv mocking him. Well, every doer has h.l/5 day ' The prisoner stood by the door, evemg his captor furtively a slip of a boy w it.li a big shock of golden curls and the face of a baby but for the defiant expression in Ins eve> and the sullen droop of the mouth. Of tears or pleading there was no sign. The artist contemplated his prize playing with his came the while "Well," he sad at last, in a tone that waX mennt to be withenne "we meet aera.Mi List time we had the ijleapui c, I tore mv troupers, and you threw an apple at my head." The boy answered no word 1 "Why don't you say it was the other boys' fault? That, I understand, is what gentlemen of your class fall back on as a la&t lesouice." "I guess I ain't a chicken," answered the boy. "'Ain't the fhvt 'ldm' Ive 'ad." The artist paused. That was pluck, and he liked pluck above all things. But his heart was hardened, and 1 his intentions swerved 1 not. He grasped the cane more nrnily. The boy's back seemed to go up, his dirty little fists were clenched tagliter. The artii&t contemplated him.. His mmd had wandeired from stolen fruit and attendant tribulation, and he wa,b viewing the btrange little figure from a purely aitistic standpoint. Ceitainly the boy was picturesque , hib childish face, with its sullen, dogged expression, Ins quaint, tattered clothes, the unconscious pose of defiance, mingled with despair, he had taken up — all combined to make a picture that would leadily appeal to the artistic eve. He was dressed in an aid tatteied shut and a pair of men's tiouser^ hacked short at he knee, and clinging to his small fiame by half a pair of braces. He might have been a cherub fallen fi om his high estate, and become a. sinful, fruit-stealing urchin The artist <=«t down. 'Bv Jove'" he said. Wash him, feed him cure him of swearing and dress him in an Eton suit, and every lady m the pla.ee would want to kiss him." The boy manifested no interest in these remarks The artist rose agann. The boy's back went up a little higher, his hands weie clenched firmer, but his hour had not yet onme. The artist crossed over to his easel, selected a canvas, put it in position, and 1 took up his palette. "In half-an-hour." he said "I'm goang to give you the bier^est hiding you h.aveever had in your life." Then he started to paint as if his life were at stake on the is^ue. "Don't move from there, or I'll flog yotu till you can't stand," he added, as his brush travelled from the canvas to his paJette. The boy remained 1 motionless, wonderful to relate, for fifteen minutes. When he showed signs of restlessness the artist resorted to more dreadful threats. They kept it up till the light began to fade, and then, the artist went to the window, threw it up, took up the cane

once inoie, and advanced towards* the boy. ymck aa thought, the latter cu\ed tlnough hjLb oapuji't. legs, sprang at the window, and disappeared from Mght. rhe aiti&t safe m his chair and smaJed ac he heard the shrill derisive yells die away m the disx.aiu.ee. "I thank I managed that rather nicely," he mused. ' Wonder if the little beggar thought I opened that window for the sake of fr&Ji an?" Then he crossed over to his easel, and smiled again. • I'll call it 'A Rogue at Bay,' " he said. The artibt had to wait six weeks for a second sitting. It is difficult to obtain, your model when, in order to secure ' the correct pose and expression," you have to catch him in the act of stealing your fiurt. In time, how ever, the windows' of the studio were once more fastened, the door was once more looked, a,nd once moie the artist sat puffing m his easy chair .surveying his prisoner. That was at 9 a.m. , at 11 the artist considered he had finished, as far as the model was concerned. He threw down his brushes. The boy, who bad remained stationai y under pain of quadrupled chastisement at the end, prepared for the w orst. But, the artist only saad • "Now, what do you say to some lunch? I expect you're rather fond of ginger-beer and cakes?" The boy, somewhat taken aback, admit/ted a weakness in that direction. "But, first of all," went on the artist, "I want your opinion of this picture. Don't be frightened. See here!" He unlocked the door, and threw the cane out into the garden. The boy, reassured, walked over to the easel, and scrutinised' the picture critically, his hands in has pockets, his head on. one side. ''Am't bad," he commented. Under the influence of ginger-beer and oake&the boy opened out. He asked questions by the score, laughed a shrill, merry little laugh, joked, told anecdotes in a vernacular that positively appalledi the artist, and sang music-hall baUlads in a piping voice, imitating to perfection the peculiar pronunciation and mannerisms of the original artists. His entertainer vowed he had never met with such entertaining after-dinner company. When they parted, the artist put two half-crowns in the grubby hand. "Look here," he said, "I have decided to retire from active service; in short. I have bought a bull-dog, and am going to have broken bottles put on my brick wall so the next time you want some of mv fruit you had better come to my studio door and ask for it." The next tame the artist painted the boy the latter posed as a chorister with an angelic smile and a hymn-book. Since then he has appeared in many capacities, from Cupad to a crossingsweeper. Since "A Rogue at Bay" appeared at the Royal Academy there has been quite a demand foi the artist's charming boy studies, and speculation is rife as to the identity of the model, which he seems to use in all his pictures. Some say it is his son, others his little brother, and there is a rumour current that it is the nephew of a well-known author. Only a privileged few know the real facts of the matter. — Charles R Allen, in the "Ota,eo Witness."