The Shadow Portrait (6 page)

Phil stretched his neck as they passed by one of the Vanderbilt mansions and was informed by Grebb that the Vanderbilt family had spent fifteen million on four mansions along Fifth Avenue. “Those Vanderbilts have built a lot of fancy buildings here in New York, including the Grand Central Terminal you arrived at.” They passed the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, which was one of the most impressive buildings Phil had ever seen. A little farther down, Grebb said, “See that place?” He waved at a square building that was heavily ornamented. “That’s Madame Restell’s place.” Grebb gave Phil a sly look and said, “She helps girls that have gotten into trouble.”

“An abortionist?”

“I reckon. That ain’t what it’s called around here, so much, but that’s what she does.”

Finally they passed Delmonico’s Restaurant, and Grebb said, “It’d take your war pension to eat in that place, but they sure got some fine grub. We turn up there—off on Broadway.” They made an oblique turn where Broadway angled off of
Madison Square, and two blocks away Grebb said, “There it is. That’s the art institute.”

Phil looked eagerly toward the building, which was not as impressive, of course, as the massive homes and churches on Fifth Avenue. It was, however, to his knowledge, the best art school in New York. He said quickly, “I guess I’ll get out here and try to find a room close by.”

“Anything round here is going to be pretty pricey,” Grebb advised him. “I can take you to some cheaper parts of town if you like.”

For a moment Phil hesitated, then he said, “I guess that might be a good idea.”

“I could take you over to the Seventh Ward down on the East River. It ain’t fancy, but I make out there,” Grebb said.

“I think that’ll suit me fine.”

The next hour was a revelation to Phil. He had seen poverty in Europe, but what he saw in the deteriorated tenement house section of the Seventh Ward was frightening. He listened as Grebb informed him of how the tenements were built.

“The fronts of these houses, you see, were pretty nice at one time, but the rich folks moved away. Families comin’ in from Italy and Germany had to have some place, so they took these big, fancy houses and divided them up into little apartments—lots of apartments. And then behind them, where the yards were, they added other buildings, so that the people in the back don’t have no yard or nothin’. Sometimes just an air shaft between buildings. So many people crowded in here that the whole place got run down real fast. It’s pretty rough, Phil.”

Phil cringed at the thought of families living in such cramped, squalid conditions. Finally, after they’d driven around some more, Phil found a neighborhood he thought looked more inviting down on Nassau Street. He figured it was at least two miles back north to the art institute, but he was healthy and strong and knew the exercise would do him good. Getting out of the cab, he handed Grebb one dollar
and added two bits, saying, “You’ve been a big help, Harry. Thanks a lot.”

“Watch out for these city slickers! They can skin a frog, and he won’t even know he’s been skinned.”

Grinning at the tall man, Phil waved, then turned and began walking up the street, looking for “Room to Let” signs. Finally spotting a brownstone that looked more promising than some of the others, he climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. The landlady who opened the door was short and dumpy, with iron gray hair and a pair of sharp, dark eyes that took him in carefully and with obvious suspicion. But when he offered to pay in advance she grew more cheerful.

“I’m Mrs. Brown,” she said. “I have to be a little bit careful. Not everybody who comes here is upright and honest. You never know who you can trust.”

“I’ll try to behave myself, Mrs. Brown.”

“Are you a Christian man, Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. I’d like to invite you to our church, Calvary Baptist. It’s very close.”

“I’d be glad to come and visit,” Phil said at once. He followed her to the second floor, where she showed him the available space. It was actually a tiny apartment, with a sitting room and a bedroom. Both rooms were small, and only the sitting room had a window, covered with a dingy curtain. All the walls were a dirty light green, and the dull wood floor was covered with dark spots, as if it had not been cleaned for years. The furnishings were, Phil thought,
basic:
a broken-down brown couch, two high-backed chairs upholstered in a tattered chintz, a single heavy table holding an old brass lamp, a small pine bed, a bedside table whose marble top was cracked down the middle, and a tall chest of drawers with knobs missing.

“The bath is right down the hall, Mr. Winslow. You’ll have to furnish your own towels, you understand.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Brown.”

After the landlady had left, Phil opened his suitcase, unpacked his few belongings into the chest of drawers, and hung the one nice suit he had brought on a peg on the wall. He had shipped his art supplies, and they would not arrive for several days. He was not all that anxious to begin, anyway. He sat down on the bed and stared at his dingy surroundings.
Well, here I am in New York. I wonder if I will fare any better here than in London or Paris.
Pulling off his shoes, he stretched out, closed his eyes, and went to sleep fully dressed.

To Phil’s surprise his painting supplies arrived shortly after he had settled into his rooms. He had spent the time until then wandering the streets of New York and had already decided on what his first painting would be. The most spectacular building in the city was a “skyscraper,” the term having first been applied to tall buildings a few years earlier. It was the elevator that made such buildings possible, and of all the New York skyscrapers, the Flatiron Building was the most striking. Its jutting wedge shape rose twenty stories straight up into the sky without a break, except for the symmetrically arranged windows on each floor. Something about the structure fascinated Phil, as it did the whole nation. Perhaps it was because all the buildings he had ever seen were square, and this wedge-shaped skyscraper reminded him of slices of pie stacked one upon another.

Early on the day after his supplies arrived, he set out with his palette, box of paints and brushes, and his folding easel and chair. Seating himself firmly in front of the wedge, as far back as he could get, he quickly sketched out the building. Soon a small crowd had gathered around him. It amused him, for in Paris painters were so common that people paid them no more attention than if they were a mailbox or a signpost. Now he was constantly bombarded with opinions such as, “I think you ain’t makin’ it tall enough, mister,” or, “Look,
you ain’t got enough windows in it. You want me to count the stories for you?”

Phil answered all their questions, rather enjoying the novel experience. It was a refreshing thing to be admired, and obviously those who gathered around felt he was doing something worthwhile.

One young man, no more than seventeen, stayed for a long time. Finally, Phil turned and smiled at him. “You ever do any painting?”

“Me? Oh, I used to try a little, but I never done stuff like that.”

“Here.” Phil handed him the brush. “Why don’t you give me a hand?”

The young man, who had large innocent blue eyes and a thatch of tow-colored hair, was astonished. “Why, I’d mess it up!”

“No you won’t. Just have a try at it.”

Phil stood back and watched, and the small gathering of onlookers egged the young man on until finally he stepped forward and began adding some of the pigment that formed the windows on one side of the wedge. “Why, you’re doing just fine,” Phil said as he watched the young man. “You’ve got a real touch for it.”

“Do you really think so, mister?”

“Sure. You ought to keep up with your painting.”

“I will! That’s just exactly what I’ll do!”

After his morning’s work, Phil picked up his supplies and headed back to his rooms, feeling he had been an encouragement to somebody. As he made his way through the crowds, he thought,
Maybe I didn’t do that young fellow any favor. Most artists never make a dime off of what they do.

He slept well that night, and the next day he rose and dressed, his mind on the art institute. He wore a pair of Levi’s, faded through many washings and with the cuffs a little ragged, and a pale blue cotton shirt, also limp and loose fitting. He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. “I
don’t know if I look eccentric enough for an artist.” But then, maybe artists in New York City were more uppercrust, he thought. He wondered if he should be wearing a top hat and tails instead. He had written a letter to the institute and had been invited to come for a “visit”—which Phil understood to mean that they would refuse to admit him if he had no talent.

He took four of his smaller paintings, wrapped them in brown paper, and tied a string around them. The sun was shining, but he felt some apprehension, despite the beautiful morning. When he arrived at the art institute, he stood for a moment outside and took a deep breath.
Well,
he thought,
I can always punch cows if this doesn’t work out.
He had felt exactly this way when he had arrived in London, but his determination had brought him through that, he reminded himself. So, squaring his shoulders, he moved ahead and entered the building. He stood and looked around at what was obviously a reception area. A heavyset man with rosy cheeks and hazel eyes was sitting behind a desk reading a book.

“My name’s Winslow,” Phil said to the man. “I’d like to see Mr. William Crumpler.”

“Right over there. Second floor. Take the stairs,” the man said, barely lifting his eyes.

“I don’t know Mr. Crumpler.”

“You see a man that looks like a bulldog, that’s him.” Grinning at the brief and amusing description, Phil ascended the stairs to a large studio filled with students sitting at their easels. After scanning the room, he had no trouble identifying Mr. Crumpler. His face indeed resembled that of a bulldog, with broad jowls that drooped, an undershot jaw, and a flushed complexion. The portly man was standing over a young woman seated at her canvas. He was gesticulating wildly, and his voice carried clearly across the room, where at least a dozen other students were busy working on their canvases.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Miss Warwick. If you don’t practice, you’ll never become a painter!”

As Phil approached and stood to one side waiting, he heard the woman’s clear reply. “Why, Bill, I don’t care whether I ever make any money painting or not. I just do it because I like to irritate you.”

Crumpler glared at her, then shook his head. “You’re wasting your time here. Why don’t you go somewhere else? You can afford to.”

The woman was wearing a white smock and turned to examine the newcomer instead of answering her instructor. She had long blond hair tied up on her head with a green band, which matched her green eyes. She was quite stunning to look at, despite the austere whiteness of her smock, and she smiled at Phil in a pouting way that suggested an easy familiarity with men.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re new.”

Taken aback by her attention, Phil stammered, “Why, yes . . . yes, I am. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Turning toward the man standing beside her, he inquired, “Are you Mr. Crumpler?”

“I’m Crumpler. What’s your name?”

“Phil Winslow. I wrote some time ago and—”

“Yes. I have your letter. What makes you think you’re an artist?”

Phil was startled by the suddenness of Crumpler’s attack, but he met the man’s steady gaze and answered this time without hesitation. “The pictures I paint, sir.”

“Let me see them.”

“You mean here? Now?”

“You want a private audience? Maybe they’re no better than Miss Warwick’s pictures, but then you probably don’t have as much money as she does. I don’t need any more loafers here. I’ve seen too many come through here as it is. A waste of my time, they are. Just let me see the pictures!” he snapped.

Feeling intimidated by the man’s bluntness and the stares from the other students, Phil untied the string and lifted the first painting out.

“Put it on that easel right there!” Crumpler commanded.

When Phil had done so, Crumpler came and stood right in front of it. He stared at it as if it were an enemy, and Phil remained silent. He did turn to face the woman once, who winked merrily at him, and her lips curled upward in a smile.

The painting was of a fisherman on the docks of London. He was an old man with his face seamed and weather-beaten by years of toil at sea. He was sitting on a stool making repairs on his net, his eyes cast down. Phil had wanted to catch the impression of fading strength that comes to men who work hard for years. The strength was still there—at least he thought so—but he had been unhappy with the background.

“You think this is good?”

“It’s better than some I’ve done,” Phil answered.

“It’s adequate,” Crumpler said. “Let me see the rest.”

One by one Crumpler studied the pictures. One was a landscape, another a scene of an impoverished street in London’s East End. Phil had been appalled by the poverty he had seen there and had made the focal point of the painting some ragged children who were skinny and vacant eyed with hunger.