‘It's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality,' he said.
‘I'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others,' retorted Philip acidly.
But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and enclosing a note of introduction to the massière of a school. Philip read the letter to Mrs Carey and told her he proposed to start on the first of September.
‘But you haven't got any money?' she said.
‘I'm going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery.'
He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might fetch a considerable sum.
‘It's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch,' said Aunt Louisa.
Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases.
‘I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot, and that'll keep me till I'm twenty-one.'
Mrs Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope.
‘What's this?' he asked.
‘It's a little present for you,' she answered, smiling shyly.
He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack bulging with sovereigns.
‘I couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. It's the money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.'
Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.
‘Oh, my dear, I can't take it,' he said. ‘It's most awfully good of you, but I couldn't bear to take it.'
When Mrs Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her husband and for Philip. In the course of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the ‘nest-egg'.
‘Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been extravagant, and there's only that left. But it'll make me so happy if you'll accept it.'
‘But you'll want it,' said Philip.
‘No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don't think I shall live very much longer now.'
‘Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're going to live for ever. I can't possibly spare you.'
‘Oh, I'm not sorry.' Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. ‘At first, I used to pray to God that He might not take me first, because I didn't want your uncle to be left alone, I didn't want him to have all the suffering, but now I know that it wouldn't mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. He wants to live more than I do, I've never been the wife he wanted, and I daresay he'd marry again if anything happened to me. So I should like to go first. You don't think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I couldn't bear it if he went.'
Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him humbly all the same.
‘You will take the money, Philip?' she said, gently stroking his hand. ‘I know you can do without it, but it'll give me so much happiness. I've always wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a child of my own, and I've loved you as if you were my son. When you were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that I could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and then it was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a great artist you won't forget me, but you'll remember that I gave you your start.'
‘It's very good of you,' said Philip. ‘I'm very grateful.'
A smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.
‘Oh, I'm so glad.'
XL
A FEW DAYS later Mrs Carey went to the station to see Philip off. She stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears. Philip was restless and eager. He wanted to be gone.
‘Kiss me once more,' she said.
He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The train started, and she stood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her handkerchief till it was out of sight. Her heart was dreadfully heavy, and the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long. It was natural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and the future beckoned to him; but she—she clenched her teeth so that she should not cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God would guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and good fortune.
But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in his carriage. He thought only of the future. He had written to Mrs Otter, the massière to whom Hayward had given him an introduction, and had in his pocket an invitation to tea on the following day. When he arrived in Paris he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin Quarter. He had taken a room at the Hôtel des Deux Écoles, which was in a shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient for Amitrano's School, at which he was going to work. A waiter took his box up five flights of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater part of which was taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is connected with the good King Louis Philippe. The wallpaper was discoloured with age; it was dark grey, and there could be vaguely seen on it garlands of brown leaves. To Philip the room seemed quaint and charming.
Though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out, made his way into the boulevard and walked towards the light. This led him to the station; and the square in front of it, vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with the yellow trams that seemed to cross it in all directions, made him laugh aloud with joy. There were cafés all round, and by chance, thirsty and eager to get a nearer sight of the crowd, Philip installed himself at a little table outside the Café de Versailles. Every other table was taken, for it was a fine night; and Philip looked curiously at the people, here little family groups, there a knot of men with odd-shaped hats and beards talking loudly and gesticulating; next to him were two men who looked like painters with women who Philip hoped were not their lawful wives; behind him he heard Americans loudly arguing on art. His soul was thrilled. He sat till very late, tired out but too happy to move, and when at last he went to bed he was wide awake; he listened to the manifold noise of Paris.
Next day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion de Belfort, and in a new street that led out of the Boulevard Raspail found Mrs Otter. She was an insignificant woman of thirty, with a provincial air and a deliberately ladylike manner; she introduced him to her mother. He discovered presently that she had been studying in Paris for three years and later that she was separated from her husband. She had in her small drawing-room one or two portraits which she had painted, and to Philip's inexperience they seemed extremely accomplished.
‘I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well as that,' he said to her.
‘Oh, I expect so,' she replied, not without self-satisfaction. ‘You can't expect to do everything all at once, of course.'
She was very kind.
She gave him the address of a shop where he could get a portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal.
‘I shall be going to Amitrano's about nine tomorrow, and if you'll be there then I'll see that you get a good place and all that sort of thing.'
She asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt that he should not let her see how vague he was about the whole matter.
‘Well, first I want to learn to draw,' he said.
‘I'm glad to hear you say that. People always want to do things in such a hurry. I never touched oils till I'd been here for two years, and look at the result.'
She gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece of painting that hung over the piano.
‘And if I were you, I would be very careful about the people you get to know. I wouldn't mix myself up with any foreigners. I'm very careful myself.'
Philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd. He did not know that he particularly wanted to be careful.
‘We live just as we would if we were in England,' said Mrs Otter's mother, who till then had spoken little. ‘When we came here we brought all our own furniture over.'
Philip looked round the room. It was filled with a massive suite, and at the window were the same sort of white lace curtains which Aunt Louisa put up at the vicarage in summer. The piano was draped in Liberty silk and so was the chimney-piece. Mrs Otter followed his wandering eye.
‘In the evening when we close the shutters one might really feel one was in England.'
‘And we have our meals just as if we were at home,' added her mother. ‘A meat breakfast in the morning and dinner in the middle of the day.'
When he left Mrs Otter Philip went to buy drawing materials; and next morning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem self-assured, he presented himself at the school. Mrs Otter was already there, and she came forward with a friendly smile. He had been anxious about the reception he would have as a nouveau, for he had read a good deal of the rough joking to which a newcomer was exposed at some of the studios; but Mrs Otter had reassured him.
‘Oh, there's nothing like that here,' she said. ‘You see, about half our students are ladies, and they set a tone to the place.'
The studio was large and bare, with grey walls, on which were pinned the studies that had received prizes. A model was sitting in a chair with a loose wrap thrown over her, and about a dozen men and women were standing about, some talking and others still working on their sketch. It was the first rest of the model.
‘You'd better not try anything too difficult at first,' said Mrs Otter. ‘Put your easel here. You'll find that's the easiest pose.'
Philip placed an easel where she indicated, and Mrs Otter introduced him to a young woman who sat next to him.
‘Mr Carey—Miss Price. Mr Carey's never studied before, you won't mind helping him a little just at first, will you?' Then she turned to the model. ‘La Pose.'
The model threw aside the paper she had been reading, La Petite République, and sulkily throwing off her gown, got on to the stand. She stood, squarely on both feet, with her hands clasped behind her head.
‘It's a stupid pose,' said Miss Price. ‘I can't imagine why they chose it.'
When Philip entered, the people in the studio looked at him curiously, and the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now they ceased to pay any attention to him. Philip, with his beautiful sheet of paper in front of him, stared awkwardly at the model. He did not know how to begin. He had never seen a naked woman before. She was not young and her breasts were shrivelled. She had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead untidily, and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss Price's work. She had only been working on it two days, and it looked as though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from constant rubbing out, and to Philip's eyes the figure looked strangely distorted.
‘I should have thought I could do as well as that,' he said to himself.
He began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly downwards, but, he could not understand why, he found it infinitely more difficult to draw a head from the model than to draw one from his imagination. He got into difficulties. He glanced at Miss Price. She was working with vehement gravity. Her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious look in her eyes. It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on her forehead. She was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold hair; it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from her forehead and tied in a hurried knot. She had a large face, with broad, flat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks. She had an unwashed tone, and you could not help wondering if she slept in her clothes. She was serious and silent. When the next pause came, she stepped back to look at her work.
‘I don't know why I'm having so much bother,' she said. ‘But I mean to get it right.' She turned to Philip. ‘How are you getting on?'
‘Not at all,' he answered, with a rueful smile.
She looked at what he had done.
‘You can't expect to do anything that way. You must take measurements. And you must square out your paper.'
She showed him rapidly how to set about the business. Philip was impressed by her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm. He was grateful for the hints she gave him and set to work again. Meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there came in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip and nodded across him to Miss Price.
‘You're very late,' she said. ‘Are you only just up?'
‘It was such a splendid day, I thought I'd lie in bed and think how beautiful it was out.'
Philip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark seriously.
‘That seems a funny thing to do, I should have thought it would be more to the point to get up and enjoy it.'
‘The way of the humorist is very hard,' said the young man gravely.
He did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his canvas; he was working in colour, and had sketched in the day before the model who was posing. He turned to Philip.
‘Have you just come out from England?'
‘Yes.'
‘How did you find your way to Amitrano's?'
‘It was the only school I knew of.'
‘I hope you haven't come with the idea that you will learn anything here which will be of the smallest use to you.'
‘It's the best school in Paris,' said Miss Price. ‘It's the only one where they take art seriously.'
‘Should art be taken seriously?' the young man asked; and since Miss Price replied only with a scornful shrug, he added: ‘But the point is, all schools are bad. They are academical, obviously. Why this is less injurious than most is that the teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. Because you learn nothing . . .'
‘But why d'you come here then?' interrupted Philip.
‘I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price, who is cultured, will remember the Latin of that.'
‘I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr Clutton,' said Miss Price brusquely.
‘The only way to learn to paint,' he went on, imperturbable, ‘is to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for yourself.'
‘That seems a simple thing to do,' said Philip.
‘It only needs money,' replied Clutton.
He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the corner of his eye. He was long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed to protrude from his body; his elbows were so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the arms of his shabby coat. His trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on each of his boots was a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to Philip's easel.
‘If Mr Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I'll just help you a little,' she said.
r /> ‘Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour,' said Clutton, looking meditatively at his canvas, ‘but she detests me because I have genius.'
He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshaped nose made what he said very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh, but Miss Price grew darkly red with anger.
‘You're the only person who has ever accused you of genius.'
‘Also I am the only person whose opinion is of the least value to me.'
Miss Price began to criticize what Philip had done. She talked glibly of anatomy and construction, planes and lines, and of much else which Philip did not understand. She had been at the studio a long time and knew the main points which the masters insisted upon, but though she could show what was wrong with Philip's work she could not tell him how to put it right.
‘It's awfully kind of you to take so much trouble with me,' said Philip.
‘Oh, it's nothing,' she answered, flushing awkwardly. ‘People did the same for me when I first came, I'd do it for anyone.'
‘Miss Price wants to indicate that she is giving you the advantage of her knowledge from a sense of duty rather than on account of any charms of your person,' said Clutton.
Miss Price gave him a furious look, and went back to her own drawing. The clock struck twelve, and the model with a cry of relief stepped down from the stand.
Miss Price gathered up her things.
‘Some of us go to Gravier's for lunch,' she said to Philip, with a look at Clutton. ‘I always go home myself.'
‘I'll take you to Gravier's if you like,' said Clutton.
Philip thanked him and made ready to go. On his way out Mrs Otter asked him how he had been getting on.
‘Did Fanny Price help you?' she asked. ‘I put you there because I know she can do it if she likes. She's a disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she can't draw herself at all, but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful to a newcomer if she cares to take the trouble.'
On their way down the street Clutton said to him: