Source:http://lang.nagoya-u.ac.jp/~matsuoka/index.html
Only to the few and the very
fortunate of men is it granted to earn a livelihood by the exertion of their
best powers. Men in general owe sustenance to the meaner of their faculties,
often enough to the basest possibility that is in them; and, even so, find the
effort no light one. As a singular instance of something between the two, of a
man who found his profit in the cultivation of a mere amiable weakness, without
fatigue, and without sense of degradation, take Lambert Wellaway.
At the age of
five-and-twenty he was a master in a boarding-school, and loathed his calling.
Possibly, under very favourable circumstances, he might have made a good
teacher; he had a vein of studious inclination, a faculty for the lucid
exposition of his knowledge, a pleasant manner, an
alluring sportiveness of intellect; but, in the
school, these gifts were wasted. The large, noisy classes made his head ache;
average brainless boyhood was a horror to him; he had not the least power of
discipline, and was wont to declare in bitterness that his post demanded the
qualities, not of a teacher, but of a drill-sergeant. Yet, how otherwise
support himself? Of course, he had thought of literature
-- who has not? But Lambert Wellaway did not overrate
his endowment; he was wise enough to judge of his chances as an author by the
inertia that opposed him whenever he sat down to write. Indolence had a great
part in his temperament; a book, a sunny corner, and entire tranquillity,
formed his ideal of supportable existence. When the inevitable came to pass,
and his headmaster suggested to him that their engagement was for the advantage
of neither, Wellaway could feel nothing but relief.
He went away to his people in the country, and mused on things in general as he
idled about the fields.
His walk one
day led him by a stream-side path, along a leafy little valley, and here he
came upon a middle-aged man, who was painting a picture -- a serious picture in
oils, a large canvas, the artist very business-like in his costume and
attitude. Much interested, but afraid to linger, Wellaway
threw a glance at the work, and passed on. He noticed, however, that the artist
gave him a very friendly look, and so, on his return in half-an-hour's time, he
slackened pace as he drew near again, viewing the canvas more boldly than
before. A civil greeting rose to the lips of both men: Wellaway
halted.
'How very
beautiful! Pray allow me to watch your work for a moment.'
He spoke with
perfect sincerity, honestly admiring the picture, and delighted at the
opportunity of conversing with a genuine painter. It surprised him when he saw
the face of the middle-aged man flush with boyish gratification.
'You like it?
Really? I'm very glad. I -- I rather thought that I
had -- had got the effect. Very difficult, this plein
air work. The water just there -- yes, under the willow -- doesn't quite
satisfy me.'
The artist
had a very deep yet soft voice, and spoke nervously. His utterance was not
altogether that of an educated man, and his lack of self-possession, a certain uncouthness in his bearing, excited Wellaway's wonder. Young, inexperienced, fastidious, he had
imagined that an artist must of necessity be
distinguished by every kind of refinement The longer they talked, the more
plainly it appeared that the painter had no very bright intelligence, and that
he was very defective in grace of manner. But Wellaway's
interest seemed to flatter him profoundly; be showed an eagerness to detain the
young man, to strike up a friendship with him. He mentioned that he was staying,
alone, at a little inn not far away, and:
'If you're
living about here, you might look me up -- if you have time in the evening. I
should like to show you some little things I have with me -- trifles --
water-colours. My name is Paddy, but' -- he laughed -- 'I'm not an Irishman.
Perhaps one of my ancestors was; I don't know.'
Wellaway gladly
promised to call that very evening, and kept his word. He found Mr. Paddy
sitting in the inn's best room, with cigars and strong waters on the table. The
artist received him with almost excessive cordiality; they were soon talking
like old acquaintances. When Mr. Paddy opened a portfolio, Wellaway
tried to examine the sketches and finished water-colours with a critical eye;
for already he suspected that the painting he had liked so much at the first
glance was not, in truth, of great artistic value. All unskilled in the matter,
he now felt his doubts irresistibly confirmed; these small things seemed to him
decidedly commonplace. Another might have suffered embarrassment; not so Wellaway. To speak smoothly, pleasingly, was in his very
nature not only did he shrink from giving pain, in such a case as this, by
silence or scanted applause, but it positively gratified him to be the cause of
gratification.
'Delightful!
A charming little thing that. How wonderfully you have got the sky! Yes, that's
one of the best; a really exquisite thing!'
Mr. Paddy
drank in the praise as though at every pore; his eyes danced with joy; an
infantile slobbering appeared at the corners of his mouth; he fidgeted hither
and thither, his hands tremulous in sheer delight. All the time, he kept
swallowing great draughts of whisky-and-water, and a gentle rubescence
tinged the end of his soft unshapely nose.
They
exchanged confidences. Having spoken frankly of his own affairs, Wellaway learnt that his friend was no artist by profession,
but a retired man of business, who from youth upwards had conceived himself
born to be a painter. Mr. Paddy had a small estate in a delightful part of
Gloucestershire; was married, but childless. In the summer-time he wandered
extensively, with elaborate apparatus; his aim was to make a gallery of English
landscape.
'I don't
exhibit. To tell the truth, I don't think it quite fair to the men who have to
sell pictures. I do sell, now and then, privately, but always for some
charitable purpose -- something of that kind, you know. I tell you what it is, you must come over to my place and spend a day or two --
a week or two. Now, will you? I mean it -- do, indeed!'
Why not? Wellaway accepted the invitation, and, in a week's time, he
arrived as a guest at Mr. Paddy's house. Here another surprise awaited him.
Mrs. Paddy was not at all the sort of person he had imagined. At least ten
years younger than her husband, handsome, good-naturedly supercilious, this
lady seemed to lead a perfectly independent life, and to take no interest
whatever in the doings of her spouse. When Wellaway
spoke to her of Mr. Paddy's paintings, she smiled, uttered an 'Ah -- yes,' and
changed the subject. Of actual disagreement between them there was no sign;
they went their several ways with complete decorum, neither seeming to desire
anything else.
Having come
for a week, Lambert Wellaway remained Mr. Paddy's
guest for nine years.
Both would
have been astonished had any one hinted to them that the situation was other
than honourable. Wellaway called himself a 'secretary,'
and saw no reason to doubt that his services merited their reward; in truth,
the one and only service he rendered to his patron was that of unwearying flattery. For this Mr. Paddy had languished: in Wellaway he found a priceless stimulant, which soon became
a necessity of life. His artistic hobby had yielded him but a doubtful, troublous satisfaction, yet he could not abandon it. Though
more than moderately obtuse, he had learnt that his acquaintances considered
him a bore of the first magnitude: be was ever seeking for new friends who
would admire his pictures, receive them as presents, and, chief point, hang
them conspicuously in their houses. In the nature of things it grew more and
more difficult to satisfy this craving for admiration, since, however vain, Mr.
Paddy stood upon his social dignity, and the praise of boors had little savour
for him. Such a man as Wellaway, educated, well-bred,
who could practise adulation without a trace of vulgar obsequiousness, appealed
to his very heart. And Wellaway himself never found
the position burdensome. owing to those happy
characteristics of his, the inability to tell a disagreeable truth, and the
pleasure he took in pleasing. He deemed himself a favourite of fortune. At
thought of the past, he shuddered; forward he never desired to look. He lived
in a luxurious home associated with agreeable persons, travelled amid the
pleasantest scenes. It had come about insensibly by repeated prolongation of
his visit; perhaps he could hardly have said at what moment he changed his
quality of guest for that of permanent inmate. Really, an
ideal state of things.
Then Mr.
Paddy died, and his testament bequeathed to Mr. Wellaway
a very comfortable little income. Mrs. Paddy, having a separate estate, took
the matter quite reasonably and with much good-nature.
(Provided by Mitsuharu Matsuoka, Nagoya University, Japan,
on 8 November 1997.)