Helen Vardon's confession
As Miss Tallboy-Smith bustled away, Mr. Hawkesley put in his claim.
“I don’t see,” said he, “why I should be left out in the cold. I’ve
got a collection, too; and I think it would really interest Miss
Finch, for she tells me she has seen very little modern pottery. Won’t
you bring her to see it, Mrs. Otway?”
Again I accepted gladly, with Peggy’s consent. My scheme was working
rapidly towards a successful conclusion, and I felt that I could push
it forward energetically; for that very morning I had received a
letter from Dr. Thorndyke returning the agreement and denouncing it as
legally worthless and utterly opposed to public policy.
“As to fixing a date,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “I suggest that we all
adjourn to my rooms now. Come and have a cup of tea with me and then
we can look over the crockery. How will that do?”
It suited Peggy and me quite well, and we said so.
“And you, Davenant?” asked Mr. Hawkesley.
“Well, I had one or two cathedrals to finish,” was the reply; “but
they must wait. Art is long--deuced long, in my case. Yes, let us
adjourn and combine crockery and tea--which, as Pepys reminds us is a
‘China drink,’ and therefore appropriate to the occasion.”
On this, we sallied forth and made our way to the Strand, where we
chartered a couple of hansoms to convey us to Dover Street,
Piccadilly, where Mr. Hawkesley had his abode in one of those fine,
spacious, dignified houses that one finds in the hinterland of the
West End of London. His rooms were on the first floor, and when we
arrived there by way of a staircase which would have allowed us to
walk up four abreast, we were received by a sedate and impassive
gentleman, whose appearance and manner suggested a Foreign Office
official of superior rank.
“Would you let us have some tea, please, Taplow?” said Mr. Hawkesley,
addressing the official deferentially. Mr. Taplow opened a door for
us, and having signified a disposition to accede to the request,
departed stealthily.
As we entered the large, lofty room, well lighted by its range of tall
windows, I looked about me curiously, for I was instantly struck by
the absence of pottery among its ornaments. The available wall-spaces
were occupied by important pictures--all modern; the mantelpiece and
other suitable surfaces supported statuettes of marble or
bronze--again all modern. But of ceramic ware there was not a trace,
with the single exception of a small framed cameo relief. Rather did
the apartment suggest the abode of a furniture collector, for one side
of the room, opposite the windows, was occupied by a range of
armoires, or standing cupboards, mostly old French or Flemish.
“You don’t favour the glass case, I notice, Hawkesley,” said Mr.
Davenant.
“No,” was the reply. “They are well enough for public museums, but
they are unlovely things. And one doesn’t want to look at one’s whole
collection at once. I like to take the pieces out singly and enjoy
them one at a time. You see, each piece is an individual work. It was
the product of a separate creative effort, and ought to be enjoyed by
a separate act of appreciation.”
“You seem, Mr. Hawkesley,” said I, “to have a preference for modern
work. Do you think it is as good as the old?”
“I think,” he replied, “that the best modern work is as good as any
that was ever done. Of course, I am not speaking of commercial stuff.
That is negligible in an artistic sense. I mean individual work, done
under the same conditions and by the same class of men as the old
craft work. That is quite good. The pity is that there is so little of
it. But I am afraid the supply is equal to the demand.”
“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Davenant, “that that is partly the fault
of the modern craftsman? Of his tendency to confine himself to fine
and elaborate, and therefore costly, productions? Of course, the old
work was not cheap in the modern factory sense of cheapness. The
pottery and china that was made at the Etruria works or those of Bow
or Chelsea was by no means given away. But the prices were practicable
for every day purposes, whereas modern studio pottery is impossible
for domestic use. And the same is true of other craftwork, such as
book-binding, fine printing, textiles, metal work, and so on. If the
modern craftsman caters only for the collector and ignores the
utilitarian consumer, he can’t complain at being ousted by commercial
production.”
Here the arrival of Mr. Taplow with the tea arrested what threatened
to prove a too-interesting discussion. I should have liked to continue
it--on another occasion; at present, my desire was rather to “cut the
cackle and get to the hosses.” Accordingly, while the tea was being
consumed, I rather studiously obstructed any revival of the debate by
keeping up a conversation of a general and somewhat discursive
character; and as soon as we appeared to have finished I introduced
the subject of Ceramics.
“Is that plaque on the wall a Wedgwood cameo?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Hawkesley replied. “That is an example of Solon’s
wonderful _pâte-sur-pâte_ work. It is done with white porcelain slip
on a dark, coloured ground. Come and look at it.”
We all rose and gathered round the plaque while Mr. Hawkesley
descanted on its beauties; which were, indeed, evident enough.
“It is lovely work,” said he; “so free and spontaneous. The Wedgwood
reliefs look quite stiff and hard compared with these of Solon’s. I
have some of his vases with the same kind of decoration, and we may as
well look at those first.”
He wheeled a travelling turn-table towards a fine Flemish armoire of
carved oak, and opening the latter, displayed a range of pieces of
this beautiful work, at the sight of which Peggy’s eyes glistened. One
after another they were carefully placed on the turn-table, viewed
from all points, admired, discussed and replaced. The other contents
of the armoire were less important works--mostly French--but all
received respectful attention. The next receptacle, a French armoire
of carved walnut, was devoted to modern stoneware by the Martin
Brothers, Wells and other individual workers, concerning which our
host was specially enthusiastic.
“There,” said he, placing on the turn-table a wonderful Toby jug of
brown Martin ware, “Show me any old salt-glaze ware that is equal to
that! Look at the modelling! Look at the beautiful surface and the
quality of the actual potting! And then go and look at the stuff in
the shop windows. Just good enough for the slavey to smash.”
“Well,” Mr. Davenant remarked, “you can’t say that she doesn’t
appreciate its qualities and do justice to them. If former generations
had been as energetic smashers as the present, collectors of old stuff
would have had to seek their treasures in ancient rubbish-heaps.”
“Yes, that is a fact,” agreed Mr. Hawkesley, as we moved on to the
next cupboard. “When domestic pottery was more valuable it got more
respectful treatment. Now this cupboard is only partly filled. I keep
it for the work of one artist whose name I don’t know. I’ve shown you
some of the ware, Mrs. Otway, but it may be new to Miss Finch.”
As he unlocked the door my heart began to thump, and I cast an anxious
eye on Peggy. For I knew what was coming, but I didn’t know how she
would take it. At the moment she was looking at the closed door with
pleased expectancy. Then the door swung open, and in a moment she
turned pale as death. For one instant I thought she was going to
faint, and so, apparently, did Mr. Davenant, for he made a quick
movement towards her. But the deadly pallor passed, and was succeeded
as rapidly by a crimson flush; but her quick breathing and the
trembling of her hand showed how great the shock had been.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hawkesley, all unconscious, was glancing over the row
of vases, jars and bowls, and expatiating on the peculiar beauties of
the “mystery ware.” The pieces were separated into two groups; the
works in pure inlay and those combining the inlay with slip decoration
and embossed ornament; and one of the latter he presently lifted from
its shelf and placed on the turn-table.
“Now, isn’t that a lovely jar, Miss Finch?” said he. “And doesn’t it
remind you of the beautiful St. Porchaire, or Oiron ware?”
Peggy gazed at the jar with an inscrutable expression as she slowly
rotated the turn-table. “It is somewhat like,” she agreed; “at least,
the method of work is similar.”
“Oh, don’t give my favourites the cold shoulder, Miss Finch,” said Mr.
Hawkesley. “I think I prize my pieces of this ware more than anything
that I have. It is so very charming and so interesting. For, you see,
it is real pottery; I mean that, beautiful and precious as it is, it
is quite serviceable for domestic purposes, whereas much of the studio
pottery is made for the gallery or the cabinet.”
“You haven’t discovered yet where it is made, I suppose?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Its origin is still a mystery and something of a
romance--which may be one reason why I am so devoted to it. I often
speculate about the potter, and invent all sorts of queer theories
about him.”
“As for instance?”
“Well, sometimes I fancy that he may be in debt to this dealer--that
he may have had advances or loans and be unable to pay them off and
get free. It is quite possible, you know. Then, sometimes I have
thought that he may be one of those poor creatures who drink or take
drugs, and that the dealer may keep him slaving in some cellar for his
bare maintenance and his miserable luxuries. But I’ve given that idea
up. This work is too sane and reasonable and painstaking for a
drunkard or drug-taker. But, whoever and whatever he is, I wish I
could find him out, and thank him for all the pleasure that he has
given me, and help him to get a proper reward for his labour, which I
am sure he does not.”
“I don’t know why you are so sure,” said Mr. Davenant. “This ware is
pretty expensive, isn’t it?”
“Not if you consider that each piece is an individual work on which a
great deal of time and labour has been expended. The price that I paid
Goldstein for this particular piece was seven guineas, which wouldn’t
represent very high remuneration if the artist had the whole of it.”
“Seven guineas, Mr. Hawkesley!” exclaimed Peggy, incredulously.
“Yes, Miss Finch; and I should say very cheap at the price.”
I glanced at Peggy with malicious satisfaction, for her cheeks were
aflame with anger and the light of battle was in her eyes.
“What a shame!” she protested. “How perfectly scandalous! The
grasping, avaricious wretch! To charge seven guineas for a piece that
he bought for fifteen shillings!”
For a few seconds there was an awesome silence. Peggy’s exclamation
had fallen like a thunderbolt, and the two men gazed at her in
speechless astonishment; while she, poor Titmouse, stood, covered with
blushes and confusion, looking as if she had been convicted of
pocketing the spoons.
“You actually know,” Mr. Hawkesley said, at length, “that Goldstein
gave only fifteen shillings for that jar?”
“Yes,” she stammered faintly, “I--I happen to have--to be
aware--that--that was the amount paid----”
She broke off with an appealing glance at me, and I proceeded to “put
in my oar.”
“It’s no use, Peggy. The cat is out of the bag--at least her head is,
and we may as well let out the rest of her. The fact is, Mr.
Hawkesley, that this ware is Miss Finch’s own work.”
I now thought that Mr. Hawkesley was going to faint. Never have I seen
a man look so astonished. He was thunderstruck.
“Do you mean, Mrs. Otway,” he exclaimed, “that Miss Finch actually
makes this ware herself?”
“I do. It is her work from beginning to end. She does the potting, the
decorating, the firing and the glazing. And she does it without any
assistance whatever.”