By Edith Wharton
June 1908
I had always thought Jack Gisburn rather a cheap genius—though a good fellow enough—so it was no great surprise tome to hear that， in the height of his glory， he had dropped hispainting， married a rich widow， and established himself in avilla on the Riviera. （Though I rather thought it would havebeen Rome or Florence.）
“The height of his glory”—that was what the women calledit. I can hear Mrs. Gideon Thwing—his last Chicago sitter—deploring his unaccountable abdication. “Of course it’s goingto send the value of my picture ‘way up’； but I don’t thinkof that， Mr. Rickham—the loss to Arrt is all I think of.” Theword， on Mrs. Thwing’s lips， multiplied its RS as though theywere reflected in an endless vista of mirrors. And it was notonly the Mrs. Thwings who mourned. Had not the exquisiteHermia Croft， at the last Grafton Gallery show， stopped mebefore Gisburn’s “Moon-dancers” to say， with tears in hereyes： “We shall not look upon its like again”？
Well！—even through the prism of Hermia’s tears I felt ableto face the fact with equanimity. Poor Jack Gisburn！ Thewomen had made him—it was fitting that they should mournhim. Among his own sex fewer regrets were heard， and in hisown trade hardly a murmur. Professional jealousy？ Perhaps. Ifit were， the honour of the craft was vindicated by little ClaudeNutley， who， in all good faith， brought out in the Burlingtona very handsome “obituary” on Jack—one of those showyarticles stocked with random technicalities that I have heard（I won’t say by whom） compared to Gisburn’s painting. Andso—his resolve being apparently irrevocable—the discussiongradually died out， and， as Mrs. Thwing had predicted， theprice of “Gisburns” went up.
It was not till three years later that， in the course of a fewweeks’ idling on the Riviera， it suddenly occurred to me towonder why Gisburn had given up his painting. On reflection，it really was a tempting problem. To accuse his wife wouldhave been too easy—his fair sitters had been denied the solaceof saying that Mrs. Gisburn had “dragged him down.” ForMrs. Gisburn—as such—had not existed till nearly a year afterJack’s resolve had been taken. It might be that he had marriedher—since he liked his ease—because he didn’t want to goon painting； but it would have been hard to prove that he hadgiven up his painting because he had married her.
Of course， if she had not dragged him down， she had equally，as Miss Croft contended， failed to “lift him up”—she hadnot led him back to the easel. To put the brush into his handagain—what a vocation for a wife！ But Mrs. Gisburn appearedto have disdained it—and I felt it might be interesting to findout why.
The desultory life of the Riviera lends itself to such purelyacademic speculations； and having， on my way to MonteCarlo， caught a glimpse of Jack’s balustraded terraces betweenthe pines， I had myself borne thither the next day.
I found the couple at tea beneath their palm-trees； andMrs. Gisburn’s welcome was so genial that， in the ensuingweeks， I claimed it frequently. It was not that my hostess was“interesting”： on that point I could have given Miss Croftthe fullest reassurance. It was just because she was NOTinteresting—if I may be pardoned the bull—that I found herso. For Jack， all his life， had been surrounded by interestingwomen： they had fostered his art， it had been reared in the hothouseof their adulation. And it was therefore instructive tonote what effect the “deadening atmosphere of mediocrity” （Iquote Miss Croft） was having on him.
I have mentioned that Mrs. Gisburn was rich； and it wasimmediately perceptible that her husband was extracting fromthis circumstance a delicate but substantial satisfaction. It is， asa rule， the people who scorn money who get most out of it； andJack’s elegant disdain of his wife’s big balance enabled him，with an appearance of perfect good-breeding， to transmuteit into objects of art and luxury. To the latter， I must add， heremained relatively indifferent； but he was buying Renaissancebronzes and eighteenth-century pictures with a discriminationthat bespoke the amplest resources.
“Money’s only excuse is to put beauty into circulation，” wasone of the axioms he laid down across the Sevres and silver ofan exquisitely appointed luncheon-table， when， on a later day，I had again run over from Monte Carlo； and Mrs. Gisburn，beaming on him， added for my enlightenment： “Jack is somorbidly sensitive to every form of beauty.”
Poor Jack！ It had always been his fate to have women saysuch things of him： the fact should be set down in extenuation.
What struck me now was that， for the first time， he resented thetone. I had seen him， so often， basking under similar tributes—was it the conjugal note that robbed them of their savour？
No—for， oddly enough， it became apparent that he was fondof Mrs. Gisburn—fond enough not to see her absurdity. It washis own absurdity he seemed to be wincing under—his ownattitude as an object for garlands and incense.
“My dear， since I’ve chucked painting people don’t say thatstuff about me—they say it about Victor Grindle，” was hisonly protest， as he rose from the table and strolled out onto thesunlit terrace.
I glanced after him， struck by his last word. Victor Grindlewas， in fact， becoming the man of the moment—as Jackhimself， one might put it， had been the man of the hour. Theyounger artist was said to have formed himself at my friend’sfeet， and I wondered if a tinge of jealousy underlay the latter’smysterious abdication. But no—for it was not till after thatevent that the rose Dubarry drawing-rooms had begun todisplay their “Grindles.”
I turned to Mrs. Gisburn， who had lingered to give a lump ofsugar to her spaniel in the dining-room.
“Why HAS he chucked painting？” I asked abruptly.
She raised her eyebrows with a hint of good-humouredsurprise.
“Oh， he doesn’t HAVE to now， you know； and I want him toenjoy himself，” she said quite simply.
