The Unbearable Bassington HTML version

Chapter X
The Rutland Galleries were crowded, especially in the neighbourhood of the tea-buffet,
by a fashionable throng of art-patrons which had gathered to inspect Mervyn Quentock’s
collection of Society portraits. Quentock was a young artist whose abilities were just
receiving due recognition from the critics; that the recognition was not overdue he owed
largely to his perception of the fact that if one hides one’s talent under a bushel one must
be careful to point out to everyone the exact bushel under which it is hidden. There are
two manners of receiving recognition: one is to be discovered so long after one’s death
that one’s grandchildren have to write to the papers to establish their relationship; the
other is to be discovered, like the infant Moses, at the very outset of one’s career.
Mervyn Quentock had chosen the latter and happier manner. In an age when many
aspiring young men strive to advertise their wares by imparting to them a freakish
imbecility, Quentock turned out work that was characterised by a pleasing delicate
restraint, but he contrived to herald his output with a certain fanfare of personal
eccentricity, thereby compelling an attention which might otherwise have strayed past his
studio. In appearance he was the ordinary cleanly young Englishman, except, perhaps,
that his eyes rather suggested a library edition of the Arabian Nights; his clothes matched
his appearance and showed no taint of the sartorial disorder by which the bourgeois of the
garden-city and the Latin Quarter anxiously seeks to proclaim his kinship with art and
thought. His eccentricity took the form of flying in the face of some of the prevailing
social currents of the day, but as a reactionary, never as a reformer. He produced a gasp
of admiring astonishment in fashionable circles by refusing to paint actresses - except, of
course, those who had left the legitimate drama to appear between the boards of Debrett.
He absolutely declined to execute portraits of Americans unless they hailed from certain
favoured States. His “water-colour-line,” as a New York paper phrased it, earned for him
a crop of angry criticisms and a shoal of Transatlantic commissions, and criticism and
commissions were the things that Quentock most wanted.
“Of course he is perfectly right,” said Lady Caroline Benaresq, calmly rescuing a piled-
up plate of caviare sandwiches from the neighbourhood of a trio of young ladies who had
established themselves hopefully within easy reach of it. “Art,” she continued,
addressing herself to the Rev. Poltimore Vardon, “has always been geographically
exclusive. London may be more important from most points of view than Venice, but the
art of portrait painting, which would never concern itself with a Lord Mayor, simply
grovels at the feet of the Doges. As a Socialist I’m bound to recognise the right of Ealing
to compare itself with Avignon, but one cannot expect the Muses to put the two on a
“Exclusiveness,” said the Reverend Poltimore, “has been the salvation of Art, just as the
lack of it is proving the downfall of religion. My colleagues of the cloth go about
zealously proclaiming the fact that Christianity, in some form or other, is attracting shoals
of converts among all sorts of races and tribes, that one had scarcely ever heard of, except
in reviews of books of travel that one never read. That sort of thing was all very well
when the world was more sparsely populated, but nowadays, when it simply teems with