its envelope and handed it to Sir Richard.
“This is yours, Sir Richard. Do with it as you will. I didn’t come here to bargain. I came with one simple purpose—to find a beautiful way to show great paintings by great artists. I wanted them to hang where people could see them—yes, my people—Americans—I wanted to share the paintings with them instead of having them locked away in a vault like so much gold bullion. I suppose you wonder why—”
“Please, gentlemen,” interrupted Kate, “your tea!”
“Yes, yes,” Lady Mary exclaimed, her voice shrill with excitement. “Draw your chairs up to the table and let us partake of—of—”
“One of the most civilized of all pursuits,” David Holt said gallantly, raising his cup toward her as he would have raised a glass of champagne in toast.
They drew their chairs up to the table. Kate moved around, offering them milk and sugar.
“Yes,” Sir Richard said, stirring the sugar in his cup but looking at John Blayne, “I think you have made us wonder why.”
John looked around the great hall—first at the tapestried walls, then at the faces of the people drawn up to the table. “Perhaps it’s because I feel some sort of guilt, though I do not expect you to understand what I mean. My father is a wealthy man. His fortune was made in ways that—well, that seemed best to him. My mother was a different sort of person altogether …” He hesitated.
“A charming woman,” David Holt said reminiscently.
“I think,” John Blayne went on, “that I want to make a return of some sort for all that he …”
“Does your father know about this idea of yours?” Sir Richard asked.
“Of course, Sir Richard, and he thinks it sheer folly. But, to be quite honest with you, my father and I have rarely agreed on anything. We quarrel at least every other day.”
“There!” Philip Webster spluttered.
“But, when I reminded him that since I was administering the Foundation—and he had asked me to, mind you—I must do things my own way.”
“But why this way, pray?” Sir Richard demanded. “To spite your father, perhaps—because he wants to build something of his own?”
John Blayne got up from the table, walked away restlessly and as restlessly back again. “I don’t want to spite my father—I’m fond of him, and we both loved my mother in our different ways. No, I want the castle because it’s the right idea. Great paintings can only live in an harmonious atmosphere. Our museums are crowded. I want my museum—well, harmonious. There’s an old Chinese saying—Lao-tse, I think. Someone asked him if a certain task was being done properly and he said, ‘The way is a way, but it is not the eternal way.’ This castle—it’s stood in England for a thousand years. It’ll stand there in Connecticut for thousands more when we are all dead—the paintings safe forever and living for the joy of the generations we’ll never see. Can you understand how deeply I feel about buying something as beautiful as this castle, this bit of England? I’m English myself, by ancestry.”
Lady Mary nodded as if, against her will, she understood. Kate, too, nodded but the men remained grim-faced.
“I remember how my mother bought the paintings. She didn’t know about art at first—she could only feel it. Then as she grew to love it, she began to understand and to know. One day she bought a Fra Angelico from an old Italian in Venice—he was using it as a board to display his fish. She didn’t know it was valuable—only that it was beautiful. She never did care about the money value—that was one of those things my father couldn’t possibly understand. She told me—it was one of the last things she ever said—‘John, take care of my treasures.’ And I will take care of them, I want them to be —not only for the sake of my mother, but for the sake of the artists who created them. My mother understood those artists—she knew what they wanted to say. She’d
“This is yours, Sir Richard. Do with it as you will. I didn’t come here to bargain. I came with one simple purpose—to find a beautiful way to show great paintings by great artists. I wanted them to hang where people could see them—yes, my people—Americans—I wanted to share the paintings with them instead of having them locked away in a vault like so much gold bullion. I suppose you wonder why—”
“Please, gentlemen,” interrupted Kate, “your tea!”
“Yes, yes,” Lady Mary exclaimed, her voice shrill with excitement. “Draw your chairs up to the table and let us partake of—of—”
“One of the most civilized of all pursuits,” David Holt said gallantly, raising his cup toward her as he would have raised a glass of champagne in toast.
They drew their chairs up to the table. Kate moved around, offering them milk and sugar.
“Yes,” Sir Richard said, stirring the sugar in his cup but looking at John Blayne, “I think you have made us wonder why.”
John looked around the great hall—first at the tapestried walls, then at the faces of the people drawn up to the table. “Perhaps it’s because I feel some sort of guilt, though I do not expect you to understand what I mean. My father is a wealthy man. His fortune was made in ways that—well, that seemed best to him. My mother was a different sort of person altogether …” He hesitated.
“A charming woman,” David Holt said reminiscently.
“I think,” John Blayne went on, “that I want to make a return of some sort for all that he …”
“Does your father know about this idea of yours?” Sir Richard asked.
“Of course, Sir Richard, and he thinks it sheer folly. But, to be quite honest with you, my father and I have rarely agreed on anything. We quarrel at least every other day.”
“There!” Philip Webster spluttered.
“But, when I reminded him that since I was administering the Foundation—and he had asked me to, mind you—I must do things my own way.”
“But why this way, pray?” Sir Richard demanded. “To spite your father, perhaps—because he wants to build something of his own?”
John Blayne got up from the table, walked away restlessly and as restlessly back again. “I don’t want to spite my father—I’m fond of him, and we both loved my mother in our different ways. No, I want the castle because it’s the right idea. Great paintings can only live in an harmonious atmosphere. Our museums are crowded. I want my museum—well, harmonious. There’s an old Chinese saying—Lao-tse, I think. Someone asked him if a certain task was being done properly and he said, ‘The way is a way, but it is not the eternal way.’ This castle—it’s stood in England for a thousand years. It’ll stand there in Connecticut for thousands more when we are all dead—the paintings safe forever and living for the joy of the generations we’ll never see. Can you understand how deeply I feel about buying something as beautiful as this castle, this bit of England? I’m English myself, by ancestry.”
Lady Mary nodded as if, against her will, she understood. Kate, too, nodded but the men remained grim-faced.
“I remember how my mother bought the paintings. She didn’t know about art at first—she could only feel it. Then as she grew to love it, she began to understand and to know. One day she bought a Fra Angelico from an old Italian in Venice—he was using it as a board to display his fish. She didn’t know it was valuable—only that it was beautiful. She never did care about the money value—that was one of those things my father couldn’t possibly understand. She told me—it was one of the last things she ever said—‘John, take care of my treasures.’ And I will take care of them, I want them to be —not only for the sake of my mother, but for the sake of the artists who created them. My mother understood those artists—she knew what they wanted to say. She’d
Similar Books
