The Helping Hand

When Lady Anstey’s book on Giovanni da Empoli was published, Mr Henderson found in it much that needed forgiveness. His friend did not write as charmingly as she talked: a horrid slime of culture oozed over her style, her criticisms were affected, her enthusiasms abominable. This he could have forgiven; but how could he forgive the subject-matter? The dear lady had appropriated, without acknowledgement, facts and theories for which he, and he alone, was responsible. He had studied Giovanni da Empoli for years, and the premature fruit of his labours now lay upon the breakfast table—a little apple-green book, four shillings net, being one of Messrs Angerstein’s series of Pocket Painters.

Mrs Henderson, a devoted wife, was turning over the leaves with a smile upon her face, for she was pleased that the words of Lady Anstey had been printed on such heavy paper. She knew nothing of the shameful plagiarism, her interest in art being sympathetic rather than intelligent: she was always glad when her friends and her husband got on in it, just as she was glad when her son got on at school.

“What a long list of books she has read to write it!” she observed. “Did you know she could read German? And when did she go to Italy? Wasn’t Empoli the place you made us go to—the dirty hotel where we had to hunt the chickens out of the bedroom window?”

“Yes,” replied Mr Henderson, remembering with anguish the nights at Empoli which he had spent and Lady Anstey had not.

“Why did we go there? I’ve forgotten.”

“I had things to look up in the archives.” He held up the newspaper as a screen.

“I think you look up too much. Here’s Lady Anstey who a little time back knew no more about Italian art than I do, and yet look! I wish you’d write a little book like this. I’m sure you could do it.”

“I haven’t the knack of putting things brightly.” He never said all he thought about the Pocket Painters and similar editions, believing that anything which induces people to look at pictures has its value.

“Yes: I dare say it’s all superficial and wrong.”

He answered with some animation, “What makes you think so?”

“Because I mistrust new theories—not that I should have known there was a theory. But she says there is one in the preface.”

“Giovanni da Empoli,” said Mr Henderson eagerly, “is one of the great puzzles of the Quattrocento. It is highly probable from internal and external evidence that many pictures attributed to other painters should be given to him.”

“Cut your bread and butter, dear, do not bite it,” said Mrs Henderson to their son.

“If we take one of the Pieros in the National Gallery, the portrait in the Poldi-Pezzoli at Milan, the so-called Baldovinetti at Naples, and the cassoni attributed to Pesellino, we notice in all a certain—”

“‘Empoli is a quaint old town not untinged with the modern spirit,’”

interrupted their son, who was reading out of Lady Anstey’s book in the nasal twang that is considered humorous by the young. “‘Here in 1409’—

then a long note saying why not in 1429—”

“Exactly,” said his father.

“‘—in 1409 young Giovanni was born, here, when not on his travels, he lived, and here he died in 1473. Our painter never married. Of his six children four—’”

“Don’t read at meals, dear,” said his mother, taking the book. “This is a great surprise to me and a great pleasure. I never thought Lady Anstey had it in her.”

No more she had. The book was the work of Mr Henderson. He had no one to blame but himself. Lady Anstey had said, “I want to write a book about Giovanni da Empoli: tell me everything you know,” and he had told her, cautiously at first in barren statements, then, as he grew warm, infusing the facts with life, till at last the whole theory stood up before her delighted eyes. “Tell it me again,” she said, for she was not quick at following, and he had told it her again and she had made notes of it, and he had placed his own notes at her disposal.

He reminded himself that facts are universal property, and it is no matter who gives them to the world. But ideas—should there not be some copyright in ideas? He had only meant to stimulate Lady Anstey, not to equip her. However, she had Virgil on her side, and Molière and Shakespeare, and all the ancient Greeks who had taken everything and said nothing to anybody, and splendid fellows they were.

She was perfectly open when they next met, greeting him with “And here is someone else to whom I owe more than I can say.” For her book was a success, and Messrs Angerstein had asked her to do one on Botticelli.

“I’m so glad he’s been of use,” said Mrs Henderson, imagining herself to be engaged in conventional civilities. “I never knew he had studied the man.” For Mr Henderson had decided to bear his burden in silence, and neither to his wife nor to anyone else did he give one hint of his mortification. He had in him something of the saint, and knew it would be wrong as well as undignified to repine.

“And now tell me all about Botticelli,” said Lady Anstey. But Mr Henderson told very little about Botticelli. He regarded Lady Anstey with frozen admiration, almost with terror, as a being devoid of conscience and consciousness. They continued great friends, but he saw her as seldom as possible.

Her book, in spite of its popular form, made a considerable impression in artistic circles, and she was soon drawn into the congenial and lucrative

atmosphere of controversy. In a fortunate hour Sir William Magnus disagreed with her, and a duel ensued, conducted with courtesy on his side and spirit on hers. Wisely refraining from venturing into new fields, she contented herself with repeating the statements she had made in her book.

Mrs Henderson, who always followed anything personal, was able to write her a hearty letter of congratulation on her victory.

Mr Henderson did not write. The triumph of his theory gave him no pleasure, for it had triumphed in a mangled form. Lady Anstey had wielded it fairly well, but she had missed all the subtleties, she had spoiled the purity of its outline. Yet she had not spoiled it enough to justify his publishing it anew, under his own name.

He suffered a good deal, though he trained himself to laugh at the irony of the situation. He would like to have found someone to laugh with, but all his friends were embroiled on one side or the other, and he could not trust them to keep silent. As for his wife, she did not believe in irony. Meanwhile the book ran through several editions, and there was a rumour that the Powers that Be in the National Gallery were troubled, and meditated changing the label on the Piero della Francesca.

By the time Professor Rinaldi came to England, Mr Henderson was tired of laughing and needed sympathy. Rinaldi, whom Mrs Henderson called the Italian, was a man of great learning and artistic insight, who had become so disgusted with controversies over beauty that he had left Rome and retired to the curatorship of a small provincial gallery. There he lived, or as others said rotted, studying continually because he could not help it, but avowing his intention of never publishing again.

Here was a man to whom Mr Henderson could speak freely. They were old friends, and he determined to pay him a visit in London.

“Do,” said Mrs Henderson, “and I will finish off the spring-cleaning.”

Mr Henderson left on the Thursday, and Mrs Henderson turned out the dining-room. On Friday she did the drawing-room. On Saturday she began

at her husband’s study, and came across a pasteboard box labelled Giovanni da Empoli.

Recognizing the name, she opened it and read on the top sheet inside:

“Reasons for believing G. to be born in 1409.” A strange impulse moved her, and she went for Lady Anstey’s book. It gave identical reasons.

Then in one moment the loving wife became a student of art. All Saturday she sat with the book and the papers before her, and discovered that they coincided, not here and there but everywhere. The last paper in the box was a letter from Lady Anstey saying “Many thanks for loan of notes, which have been most acceptable.”

All Sunday she thought over the revelation, all Monday and all Tuesday she acted on it. Mr Henderson returned on the Wednesday.

He was looking more cheerful than she had seen him for weeks. “The world is ruled by irony,” he observed, and smiled, as if he found the rule easy to bear.

“And how is the Italian?” she asked, rather ill at ease.

“As fine as ever. ‘A little less imagination in archaeology and a little more in art’ was his advice to Sir William yesterday.”

The word “art” gave her an opening, and she exclaimed, “Yes indeed!

Yes indeed! Yes indeed!”

“Why this enthusiasm?”

“You dear thing!” she cried, embracing him; “you’re too good to be alive!”

“What have I done?” he asked, looking grave.

“I’ve found you out—that you wrote Lady Anstey’s book—that she took all your facts and ideas and never said a word. And all these months you’ve let her talk and become famous and make money. I do admire and love you for it—but do be glad I’m different!”

“What have you been doing?” he said sternly.

“Nothing rude—don’t be cross. I only let it out in the course of conversation, or put it in a letter if I was writing one.”

“And to whom have you written?”

“Oh, not to Lady Anstey: to Lady Magnus about the vacuum-cleaner, and one or two more. And yesterday I met the editor of the Dudley and he was horrified. Don’t be angry—no, I don’t mind if you are angry; it’s simple justice I want; she shall not pick your brains and no one know; you shall have the credit for your own theory.”

“Unfortunate,” said Mr Henderson. “Professor Rinaldi has just proved to me that the theory in question is wrong, that the facts are wrong, that the book is wrong, that I am wrong. Unfortunate.”

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