The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (30 page)

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When the Darby Collection numbered seventy-five pieces and the walls of the Gallery in Bedford Square were packed as tight as they could hold. Mr. Darby felt that the time was ripe for action. He was now in a position to back his plan for the reform of the National Gallery with a definite offer to carry it instantly into effect. It would be impossible now for the Trustees to plead that the idea, though admirable in theory, was impracticable. He desisted, therefore, from the labour of collecting and cataloguing, arranged for the Descriptive Catalogue to be printed and tastefully
bound, and went to Hastings for a few days of rest and change of air.

At Hastings, as he walked on the sea-front or sat listening to the band, he allowed his invention to toy with the letter he would presently write to the Director of the National Gallery, for he had ascertained from an elderly gentleman at the Savershills' that it was to the Director that he must address himself. ‘My Dear Sir'—Mr. Darby was sitting now in a hired deck-chair in the enclosure round the bandstand. He was dressed in a smartly cut double-breasted grey flannel suit and a soft felt hat, also grey. His spectacles reflected the summer sky. ‘My Dear Sir, It has long been a matter of … serious …' He scowled at the word
serious
, turned it over, scowled at it again and forthwith discarded it. ‘It has long been a matter of
grave,'
that was the word, ‘of grave concern to me that our National Gallery should so grossly …'
Grossly
was perhaps a little strong. He must be careful not to alienate the Director at the outset. ‘… so sadly? ‘Sadly was on the other hand a little weak. Better remodel the phrase.' … should
set so little store by
our glorious national artistic heritage.' He woke with a start from his meditations. Something had struck him sharply on the knee. It was the lady in the chair next to him who had dropped her sunshade. ‘I
beg
your pardon,' she said.

‘Not at all! Not at all! ‘replied Mr. Darby with a polite little bow, and bending to the left he fumbled between the chairs, recovered the parasol and restored it to the lady. She smiled her thanks through the crash of the band. Mr. Darby, crimson from the exertion, gleamed affably back at her and then resumed his reverie.

‘Dear Sir, I trust you will forgive the intrusion of one who … ah … who considers himself… or rather, who
holds
himself… second to none in his … his admiration … enthusiasm … in his
zeal
‘—that's the word—' his zeal for our glorious national artistic heritage. It has long been a matter of grave concern …' Charming thing that, and the band was playing it very well, really very well indeed. So much feeling! Very passionate things, those Indian Love
Lyrics! Mr. Darby sighed a reflective sigh. He felt that his past life had been full of heartrending farewells and hopeless passions. ‘Pale hands I loved beneath the something-or-other, Where are you now? ' he carolled inaudibly to the band's accompaniment. ‘Where are you now? Ah, where indeed? ‘he asked himself with a wistful shake of the head, forgetting that, as a matter of cold fact, he had had neither the opportunity nor any particular desire to love pale hands. ‘Dear Sir, A genuine concern for the art of England prompts me to … Bless my soul, what a ridiculous pup, a cross, surely, between a Pom and a Pekinese: a Pekeranian, one might call it.' Mr. Darby chuckled to himself at the brilliant invention. The pup paddled up to him and stood staring at him with its head on one side as if it suspected him of being a relation. Mr. Darby shook his head at it. ‘You're a Pekeranian,' he whispered. The pup dropped its tail, gave a single half-aggressive, half-cowardly yap and trotted away from him with its ears back. ‘What was it? Yes, a genuine concern … urges me … prompts me to … to … ah … a genuine concern …'

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The upshot of these meditations and of the bracing air of Hastings was that Mr. Darby, on his return to Bedford Square, spent a laborious morning in composing the following letter to the Director of the National Gallery:

‘My Dear Sir, I am desirous, on conditions which I should like to discuss with you, of presenting to the Nation my collection of masterpieces of the English School. The collection is housed at the above address.

‘I am
                            ‘Yours faithfully
                                                                  ‘W. JAMES DARBY.'

It may appear to those who have never attempted literary composition that this document is a ludicrously small result
of four days of claustration and concentrated thought. Nothing could be more fallacious. Simplicity and directness can be achieved only by the most intense and complicated labour, and to the epicure of style it will be obvious that this letter of Mr. Darby's is the precious distillation of a whole flower-garden of eloquence. How many fine phrases and dazzling adjectives had perished that this quintessential gem should come into being! Mr. Darby's study at the end of that laborious morning was strewn knee-deep with a viewless litter of verbs, adverbs, participles (past and present), protases and apodoses, among which the discerning might even have detected here the fragment of a paraprosdokion, there a ruthlessly discarded aposiopesis.

The Director, doubtless a man of taste, must have appreciated the quality of Mr. Darby's letter, for he went to the trouble of polishing his reply to at least an equal degree. ‘Dear Sir,' he wrote,

‘I have to acknowledge with thanks your letter of today's date. A representative of the National Gallery will have pleasure in calling at your house at any hour suitable to you to inspect the pictures to which you refer. Perhaps you will kindly let me know if eleven o'clock on Friday next will be convenient.

‘I am, dear sir,
               ‘Yours very truly,
                                              ‘WILFRED MONTGOMERY,
                                                                               ‘Director.'

Mr. Darby considered this communication carefully as he sat over his breakfast. For a moment he was surprised that the Director should treat the matter so lightly and especially that he should propose to send a representative to view the pictures instead of coming himself. For a moment, but no longer. For one of Mr. Darby's perspicacity the reason was not far to seek. Obviously Sir Wilfred Montgomery had realized all that lay behind Mr. Darby's intention. The threat to the old misguided
status quo
had not escaped him;
doubtless he felt that his very position as Director hung in the balance. Small wonder then that he showed no disposition to receive Mr. Darby's proposal with open arms.

‘Well, my friend,' said Mr. Darby, nodding gravely at Sir Wilfred Montgomery's letter which he had propped against the teapot, ‘we shall see! We shall see!'

Meanwhile he despatched a note to Sir Wilfred, to say that eleven o'clock on Friday would suit him perfectly.

‘
N
aturally, I don't deny,' said Mr. Darby, in the course of a short preliminary conversation with Mr. Roden, the representative of the National Gallery, who had just been shown into the smoking-room, ‘I don't deny that the Italians and the Dutch are all very well in their way, but I think you will agree that, when we compare them with the best of our British artists, they lose something of their … ah … supremacy.'

Mr. Darby's spectacles gleamed challengingly at Mr. Roden. He had already announced to him the conditions upon which he offered his gift.

Mr. Roden, in the circumstances, thought it best to parry. ‘I can see, Mr. Darby,' he said politely, ‘that you are an enthusiast.'

‘And you too, I hope, are an enthusiast, Mr. Roden.'

‘Oh, certainly I am.'

‘For the British School?'

‘Well,' said Mr. Roden, looking down from his attenuated, slightly stooping six feet at the compact little gentleman who hardly reached to his shoulder, ‘Well, my own particular preference is for the Florentines.'

‘The Florentines? You prefer a foreign school to our own?'

Mr. Roden could hear from Mr. Darby's tone that he was pained and shocked. ‘I have a great admiration for the British School,' he said, ‘and I should certainly class Constable and Turner among the world's great artists, but I think we must regretfully admit that we cannot compete with the great Florentines.'

‘
I
don't admit it,' said Mr. Darby with some feeling, ‘not for a moment. As Englishmen I feel we have no right to admit it.'

‘Are you speaking now as a patriot, Mr. Darby, or as a critic?'

‘I trust,' replied Mr. Darby solemnly, and Mr. Roden felt that if the little man had been wearing a hat he would, as he spoke the words, have raised it, ‘I trust I always speak as a patriot.'

Mr. Roden bowed. ‘Your feelings do you great credit, sir. And now, might I … er …?'

‘By all means,' said Mr. Darby, much mollified. ‘Let us go at once to the Gallery.'

Important and talkative he ushered Mr. Roden across the hall and down the corridor to the doors of the Gallery. ‘Here we are! ‘he said, flinging them open and immediately following Mr. Roden into the room.

They stood for a moment while Mr. Roden underwent the revelation. Mr. Darby did not interrupt him: he was waiting for an exclamation of amazement. But no exclamation came. Tall, pale, and apathetic, Mr. Roden surveyed the gallery: he appeared to be as little moved as if he were surveying a railway station. Really, these officials!

‘There is a catalogue, if you would care to … ah … consult it,' Mr. Darby remarked at last, indicating a table near the doors.

‘Thank you. Perhaps later!'

‘In any case,' explained Mr. Darby, ‘all the pictures are labelled, so you'll have no difficulty.'

Together they approached
No
. ι.
Portrait of a Young Lady by Romney
. ‘I picked it up,' said Mr. Darby, ‘in Greenwich. It was my first … ah … acquisition. Observe, Mr. Roden, the natural elegance of the pose. Now can you show me a Romney to beat that in the National?'

For a moment Mr. Roden did not reply. Then with some hesitation he said: ‘I'm sorry to say, Mr. Darby, that it's not a Romney.'

‘Not
a Romney? ‘Mr. Darby stared up at Mr. Roden open-mouthed, aghast, incredulous.

‘Were you led to suppose that it was?' asked Mr. Roden.

Mr. Darby did not reply: he could not at the moment have trusted himself to do so.

‘I can assure you, Mr. Darby,' Mr. Roden went on, ‘that no reputable critic would pass it for a moment.'

‘It was certainly sold to me as a Romney,' said Mr. Darby hotly; ‘that is to say, it was labelled Romney and my own … ah … knowledge …'

‘I hope you didn't give a large figure for it.'

‘No!' said Mr. Darby reflectively, ‘No! not a particularly large figure.'

‘One has to be extremely careful,' Mr. Roden explained. ‘There are so many copies and fakes about. It is always safer to take an expert opinion before buying.'

‘Might I ask,' said Mr. Darby, ‘why you doubt its … ah …'

‘Its authenticity? I have no doubt, Mr. Darby. I can assure you with absolute certainty that the picture was not painted by Romney.'

Of course Mr. Darby could not accept a totally unsupported dogmatic statement of that kind. For a moment he felt inclined to ask Mr. Roden if, by any chance, he had ever taken the opportunity of looking at the Romneys in the National Gallery. (Anyone who had even a cursory memory of a portrait there whose name Mr. Darby did not at the moment recollect, could hardly fail to be struck by the close resemblance.) But his natural politeness checked him, and he merely replied, with a certain detachment in his tone: ‘I should like to know how you are so sure.'

‘Have you ever made a careful study of Romney's technique?' asked Mr. Roden.

Mr. Darby shied at the curious word. ‘I am familiar with the Romney portraits in the National Collection,' he said.

‘And does it not strike you, as it struck me directly I glanced at it,' said Mr. Roden, ‘that this painting has nothing of Romney's particular method?' Mr. Darby did not reply and Mr. Roden added politely: ‘But if you don't agree with me, Mr. Darby, why not take another opinion? After all, I am not here to trouble you with my views, but, by your
kind permission, to inspect your pictures on behalf of the National Gallery.'

He moved on to the next picture, but Mr. Darby did not follow him. He remained blinking sadly at
No
. 1.
Portrait of a Young Lady by Romney
. He stood there for perhaps a minute, and—so stimulating is the effect of art on a sensitive mind—gradually his spirits and his confidence were restored. Obviously, quite obviously the judgment of this dry official was not worth much. It would be tiresome and unprofitable to follow him round and Mr. Darby determined to abandon him. ‘Forgive me if I leave you,' he said, turning to Mr. Roden who was already five pictures away, ‘I must be getting on with some work.'

‘By all means, sir,' Mr. Roden replied. ‘Shall I find you in the room … er … where …?'

‘In the smoking-room, yes! ‘said Mr. Darby, and turning on his heel he made for the door, taking up on the way and carrying off with him in righteous resentment the pile of blue-bound catalogues which lay on the table.

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It was perfectly obvious, as Mr. Darby told himself afterwards, that, once his back was turned, this Mr. Roden had given only the most casual glance at the remainder of the Darby Collection, for he joined Mr. Darby in the smoking-room less than ten minutes later.