The Impoverished Artist
by Kirsten Stalker
Genre: Historical
Swearwords: None.
Description: It's 1912 and Tom Barker, a struggling painter, has been invited to dine with his wealthy patrons, the Johnsons, in Glasgow's West End. Mrs Johnson has an ulterior motive for inviting Tom to her house that evening and instructs her housemaid Gertie to help execute a cunning plan. Gertie reluctantly obliges, but her sympathy, and ultimately her loyalty, rests with Tom.
Swearwords: None.
Description: It's 1912 and Tom Barker, a struggling painter, has been invited to dine with his wealthy patrons, the Johnsons, in Glasgow's West End. Mrs Johnson has an ulterior motive for inviting Tom to her house that evening and instructs her housemaid Gertie to help execute a cunning plan. Gertie reluctantly obliges, but her sympathy, and ultimately her loyalty, rests with Tom.
The evening of January 4th, 1912 was frosty and bitterly cold. Tom Barker shivered as he walked the four miles from his rented room in Bridgeton to the Johnsons' house in the West End of Glasgow. He was a tall man with a large frame but little flesh. Now in his early fifties, his long hair was still black but his bushy beard, which reached to his chest, was flecked with gray. Crossing the bridge over the river Kelvin, Tom reflected on the friends, perhaps better described as patrons, who had invited him to dinner this evening. From time to time, the Johnsons had purchased one of his turbulent seascapes or primitive still lifes and they had commissioned a portrait of themselves. For the most part, Tom enjoyed his evenings with the Johnsons, their warm, comfortable house, the excellent food and drink, the lively conversation, the interest they took in his work - what were his latest subjects? Had any galleries agreed to exhibit a painting? It would have been indelicate to ask if he had sold any pictures recently.
Duncan Johnson was a successful lawyer, a partner in a well-respected firm just off Sauchiehall Street. Although his profession required him to spend many hours in the office, he rather liked his colleagues and friends to think of him as a cultured person. Mr Johnson frequented the theatre, the concert hall and the art gallery. It was at one of the private views he was regularly invited to that Mr Johnson first met Tom. Isabella Johnson, a petite woman who wore her black hair in a bun and had a tendency towards exaggerated facial expressions, enjoyed accompanying her husband to such events. Having no children, she filled her days with church activities and philanthropic projects. From time to time, she took a person under her wing and couldn't help thinking that some had indeed benefited from her assistance.
Mrs Johnson had invited Tom to dinner that evening with three aims in mind: first, to enjoy his conversation, which was always informative and stimulating; secondly, she thought he could do with fattening up and thirdly, she had hatched a plot with Gertie, her housemaid. The plot centred on Tom's jacket, a garment which he seemed to wear constantly, despite it being stained and soiled and, Mrs Johnson believed, in need of a good clean. She thought it a shame that Tom, who may have been from a modest background but was clearly a person with creative skill and heightened sensibility, should present himself in this way. It gave an unfortunate impression and would not help him in the business of gaining commissions or attracting potential buyers among the well-to-do denizens of the West End whom he might run into at social gatherings. Mrs Johnson believed Tom must be oblivious to the sorry state of his jacket because he was too absorbed in his painting to think of mundane matters. Not having a wife - and perhaps not even a housekeeper! - there was no-one to see to such things for him. Mrs Johnson would not have dreamt of raising this sensitive issue with Tom directly since that would be highly embarrassing to both of them. No, she had an alternative plan, to be acted out this evening.
Gertie Jenkins was 20 years old. She occupied a bedroom in the basement of the house. She was glad she didn't have to share with Mrs Keith, the cook: some of her friends, working for other families, didn't have the luxury of a room to themselves. In her childhood, Gertie had shared a bed with her two sisters while her brothers had to make do with sleeping on a couch. Their parents slept in a bed in a recess of the kitchen, with only a thin curtain for privacy. When Gertie's father could get work, it was usually in the shipyards: her mother laboured long hours in the 'room and kitchen', waging a constant battle against grime. Gertie, as the oldest child, had been expected to help with household tasks and look after her younger siblings: her parents thought this was good preparation for domestic service. Gertie had worked for the Johnsons for six years now and, despite some teething difficulties, soon satisfied her employers. She knew better than to show her surprise that two households, not more than a mile apart, could be so very different.
Now Tom was approaching the crescent where the Johnsons lived, a little out of breath from the effort of walking up the hill. He passed through the garden gate and paused outside the imposing porticoed entrance to the house. He rang the door bell and Gertie soon answered. She was very surprised to see that Tom wasn't wearing a coat on such a cold night but it was not her place to voice opinions.
"Come in, Sir" and, stepping aside, she held open the door. "Mr and Mrs Johnston are waiting for you in the drawing room."
This was a rather dark, wood-panelled room, perhaps holding more furniture than its dimensions comfortably allowed - bookcases running the length of one wall, numerous armchairs, two sofas and a sedan, a piano and stool, occasional tables displaying potted plants and, above the fireplace, a large gilt framed mirror. As Gertie showed in the guest, Duncan Johnson rose to his feet, hand outstretched.
"Ah, here you are, Mr Barker! Good to see you again. Come and stand by the fire. Will you have a sherry to start or a glass of gin?" Tom accepted the latter and turned his attention to his hostess.
"How are you, Mrs Johnson? It's kind of you to invite me here again." The conversation moved on to the weather; the fact that a leap year had just begun and whether this would encourage any bold ladies to make a proposal of marriage on February 29th and what about Robert Scott's daring expedition to the South Pole? Would he and his men return home safely?
At 8.00pm, Gertie entered the drawing room once more to announce that dinner was served. Isabella Johnston rose to her feet.
"Shall we go through?" and, smiling at Tom, she led the way across the hall and into the dining room.
It was a large room, designed to cater for many more than three people. A long mahogany table formed the centrepiece, and a warm fire blazed in the hearth. Two bay windows looked out onto the front garden, their red damask curtains closed. The carpet was green wool, and a Persian rug lay between the table and the sideboard. The wallpaper displayed a pattern of cream and gold fleurs de lis. Several paintings hung on the walls including, over the fireplace, Tom's portrait of the Johnsons. A variety of ornaments and a clock were ranged along the mantelpiece.
Gertie set out three bowls of soup. Mr Johnson said grace and discussion turned to the Great Exhibition held in the West End Park, very near the Johnson's house, the previous year.
"Very important for Glasgow," said Mr Johnson. "It reminds people all over the civilised world that Britain has a great empire and that Glasgow sits at the heart of that empire."
"The Indian Pavilion was magnificent," added his wife. "That beautiful fountain, the statues representing all the countries under our sovereignty, and they even served up Indian curries!" Tom shuffled uneasily in his seat: he did not share his patrons' fondness for things imperial. Luckily, at that moment, Gertie appeared with plates of fish and a dish of vegetables, creating an opportunity for diversion.
"My compliments to Mrs Keith: the soup was delicious," said the guest.
Gertie barely acknowledged this remark; she was feeling nervous about having to put her mistress's plan into action, and now was the moment to do so. She hadn't liked the sound of it from the start, especially when she learnt the part she was expected to play. Having served the second course, she picked up from the sideboard the decanter of wine intended to accompany the fish. As she approached Tom's chair, Gertie tripped on the Persian rug, stumbled and lost hold of the decanter, causing the wine to spill out and run down the back of Tom's jacket.
"Oh my goodness Sir, I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me! I must have lost my footing on the rug. Please forgive me, ma'am," she added, looking at her mistress. That lady had jumped to her feet and rushed round to help Tom to his.
"Oh Mr Barker, I cannot apologise enough! Gertie, you clumsy girl. Whatever has got into you?" Tom, looking shocked and embarrassed, did his best to remain seated.
"Please don't worry, don't agitate yourself on my behalf. There's no lasting harm done."
"We must ensure there is not," replied Mrs Johnson. "We'll clean your jacket in the laundry here and return it to you as soon as possible." There was a slight note of triumph in this speech although Mrs Johnson did her best to suppress it.
"Oh no, not at all! I wouldn't dream of putting you to that trouble," protested Tom, a tone of alarm now entering his voice. "I will deal with it in the morning."
"Oh but we insist, don't we Duncan? That is the least we can do," Mrs Johnson appealed to her husband. He had not been party to her plan - she knew he would not approve of it - and had been keeping out of the melee so far, partly due to the compromised situation he suddenly found himself in as host, and partly because he considered this a 'domestic' matter. However, now he supported his wife's efforts to recompense their guest for the damage caused by their careless housemaid.
"Yes, absolutely old chap, Gertie will take your jacket. You can borrow one of mine in the meantime."
Tom was clearly reluctant to go along with this proposal but his jacket was very wet and he felt he had little choice. It being impolite for a gentleman to remove his jacket in company, in a public room, Mrs Johnson almost ushered her guest into the hallway, directing Gertie to show Tom to a dressing room upstairs and fetch Mr Johnson's spare dinner jacket.
"Please come this way, sir," said Gertie and a silent Tom slowly followed the maid up the rather grand staircase, along a corridor and into a windowless dressing room of red and cream striped wallpaper, a wardrobe and chest of drawers.
"I'm very sorry to put you out like this," Gertie was still apologising, quite sincerely. She knew that gentlemen should be attended to by a valet, not a young housemaid like her, but still she stepped behind Tom and reached up to help him out of his jacket. He in turn moved a step forward and, half turning towards Gertie but not looking at her, asked in a resigned voice,
"Can you keep a secret, Gertie?"
She was wondering how to reply to this unexpected question when Tom took off his jacket. Gertie almost gasped at what she saw underneath. Tom wasn't wearing a shirt or even a vest. Instead, he had wrapped a sheet of newspaper round his torso in an effort to keep out the cold and compensate for the clothes he could not afford to buy. His long beard had, until now, spared his blushes. Artist and maid exchanged a brief embarrassed glance and, in that moment, Gertie knew she would not betray Mr Barker's secret to her mistress.
Thanks to Robert Adam for inspiration, and Kathleen Amoore and Juliet Wilson for comments.
Duncan Johnson was a successful lawyer, a partner in a well-respected firm just off Sauchiehall Street. Although his profession required him to spend many hours in the office, he rather liked his colleagues and friends to think of him as a cultured person. Mr Johnson frequented the theatre, the concert hall and the art gallery. It was at one of the private views he was regularly invited to that Mr Johnson first met Tom. Isabella Johnson, a petite woman who wore her black hair in a bun and had a tendency towards exaggerated facial expressions, enjoyed accompanying her husband to such events. Having no children, she filled her days with church activities and philanthropic projects. From time to time, she took a person under her wing and couldn't help thinking that some had indeed benefited from her assistance.
Mrs Johnson had invited Tom to dinner that evening with three aims in mind: first, to enjoy his conversation, which was always informative and stimulating; secondly, she thought he could do with fattening up and thirdly, she had hatched a plot with Gertie, her housemaid. The plot centred on Tom's jacket, a garment which he seemed to wear constantly, despite it being stained and soiled and, Mrs Johnson believed, in need of a good clean. She thought it a shame that Tom, who may have been from a modest background but was clearly a person with creative skill and heightened sensibility, should present himself in this way. It gave an unfortunate impression and would not help him in the business of gaining commissions or attracting potential buyers among the well-to-do denizens of the West End whom he might run into at social gatherings. Mrs Johnson believed Tom must be oblivious to the sorry state of his jacket because he was too absorbed in his painting to think of mundane matters. Not having a wife - and perhaps not even a housekeeper! - there was no-one to see to such things for him. Mrs Johnson would not have dreamt of raising this sensitive issue with Tom directly since that would be highly embarrassing to both of them. No, she had an alternative plan, to be acted out this evening.
Gertie Jenkins was 20 years old. She occupied a bedroom in the basement of the house. She was glad she didn't have to share with Mrs Keith, the cook: some of her friends, working for other families, didn't have the luxury of a room to themselves. In her childhood, Gertie had shared a bed with her two sisters while her brothers had to make do with sleeping on a couch. Their parents slept in a bed in a recess of the kitchen, with only a thin curtain for privacy. When Gertie's father could get work, it was usually in the shipyards: her mother laboured long hours in the 'room and kitchen', waging a constant battle against grime. Gertie, as the oldest child, had been expected to help with household tasks and look after her younger siblings: her parents thought this was good preparation for domestic service. Gertie had worked for the Johnsons for six years now and, despite some teething difficulties, soon satisfied her employers. She knew better than to show her surprise that two households, not more than a mile apart, could be so very different.
Now Tom was approaching the crescent where the Johnsons lived, a little out of breath from the effort of walking up the hill. He passed through the garden gate and paused outside the imposing porticoed entrance to the house. He rang the door bell and Gertie soon answered. She was very surprised to see that Tom wasn't wearing a coat on such a cold night but it was not her place to voice opinions.
"Come in, Sir" and, stepping aside, she held open the door. "Mr and Mrs Johnston are waiting for you in the drawing room."
This was a rather dark, wood-panelled room, perhaps holding more furniture than its dimensions comfortably allowed - bookcases running the length of one wall, numerous armchairs, two sofas and a sedan, a piano and stool, occasional tables displaying potted plants and, above the fireplace, a large gilt framed mirror. As Gertie showed in the guest, Duncan Johnson rose to his feet, hand outstretched.
"Ah, here you are, Mr Barker! Good to see you again. Come and stand by the fire. Will you have a sherry to start or a glass of gin?" Tom accepted the latter and turned his attention to his hostess.
"How are you, Mrs Johnson? It's kind of you to invite me here again." The conversation moved on to the weather; the fact that a leap year had just begun and whether this would encourage any bold ladies to make a proposal of marriage on February 29th and what about Robert Scott's daring expedition to the South Pole? Would he and his men return home safely?
At 8.00pm, Gertie entered the drawing room once more to announce that dinner was served. Isabella Johnston rose to her feet.
"Shall we go through?" and, smiling at Tom, she led the way across the hall and into the dining room.
It was a large room, designed to cater for many more than three people. A long mahogany table formed the centrepiece, and a warm fire blazed in the hearth. Two bay windows looked out onto the front garden, their red damask curtains closed. The carpet was green wool, and a Persian rug lay between the table and the sideboard. The wallpaper displayed a pattern of cream and gold fleurs de lis. Several paintings hung on the walls including, over the fireplace, Tom's portrait of the Johnsons. A variety of ornaments and a clock were ranged along the mantelpiece.
Gertie set out three bowls of soup. Mr Johnson said grace and discussion turned to the Great Exhibition held in the West End Park, very near the Johnson's house, the previous year.
"Very important for Glasgow," said Mr Johnson. "It reminds people all over the civilised world that Britain has a great empire and that Glasgow sits at the heart of that empire."
"The Indian Pavilion was magnificent," added his wife. "That beautiful fountain, the statues representing all the countries under our sovereignty, and they even served up Indian curries!" Tom shuffled uneasily in his seat: he did not share his patrons' fondness for things imperial. Luckily, at that moment, Gertie appeared with plates of fish and a dish of vegetables, creating an opportunity for diversion.
"My compliments to Mrs Keith: the soup was delicious," said the guest.
Gertie barely acknowledged this remark; she was feeling nervous about having to put her mistress's plan into action, and now was the moment to do so. She hadn't liked the sound of it from the start, especially when she learnt the part she was expected to play. Having served the second course, she picked up from the sideboard the decanter of wine intended to accompany the fish. As she approached Tom's chair, Gertie tripped on the Persian rug, stumbled and lost hold of the decanter, causing the wine to spill out and run down the back of Tom's jacket.
"Oh my goodness Sir, I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me! I must have lost my footing on the rug. Please forgive me, ma'am," she added, looking at her mistress. That lady had jumped to her feet and rushed round to help Tom to his.
"Oh Mr Barker, I cannot apologise enough! Gertie, you clumsy girl. Whatever has got into you?" Tom, looking shocked and embarrassed, did his best to remain seated.
"Please don't worry, don't agitate yourself on my behalf. There's no lasting harm done."
"We must ensure there is not," replied Mrs Johnson. "We'll clean your jacket in the laundry here and return it to you as soon as possible." There was a slight note of triumph in this speech although Mrs Johnson did her best to suppress it.
"Oh no, not at all! I wouldn't dream of putting you to that trouble," protested Tom, a tone of alarm now entering his voice. "I will deal with it in the morning."
"Oh but we insist, don't we Duncan? That is the least we can do," Mrs Johnson appealed to her husband. He had not been party to her plan - she knew he would not approve of it - and had been keeping out of the melee so far, partly due to the compromised situation he suddenly found himself in as host, and partly because he considered this a 'domestic' matter. However, now he supported his wife's efforts to recompense their guest for the damage caused by their careless housemaid.
"Yes, absolutely old chap, Gertie will take your jacket. You can borrow one of mine in the meantime."
Tom was clearly reluctant to go along with this proposal but his jacket was very wet and he felt he had little choice. It being impolite for a gentleman to remove his jacket in company, in a public room, Mrs Johnson almost ushered her guest into the hallway, directing Gertie to show Tom to a dressing room upstairs and fetch Mr Johnson's spare dinner jacket.
"Please come this way, sir," said Gertie and a silent Tom slowly followed the maid up the rather grand staircase, along a corridor and into a windowless dressing room of red and cream striped wallpaper, a wardrobe and chest of drawers.
"I'm very sorry to put you out like this," Gertie was still apologising, quite sincerely. She knew that gentlemen should be attended to by a valet, not a young housemaid like her, but still she stepped behind Tom and reached up to help him out of his jacket. He in turn moved a step forward and, half turning towards Gertie but not looking at her, asked in a resigned voice,
"Can you keep a secret, Gertie?"
She was wondering how to reply to this unexpected question when Tom took off his jacket. Gertie almost gasped at what she saw underneath. Tom wasn't wearing a shirt or even a vest. Instead, he had wrapped a sheet of newspaper round his torso in an effort to keep out the cold and compensate for the clothes he could not afford to buy. His long beard had, until now, spared his blushes. Artist and maid exchanged a brief embarrassed glance and, in that moment, Gertie knew she would not betray Mr Barker's secret to her mistress.
Thanks to Robert Adam for inspiration, and Kathleen Amoore and Juliet Wilson for comments.
About the Author
Perth-born Kirsten Stalker recently retired from an academic post in social science and has been attending creative writing workshops for fun.