She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier's for luncheon.
‘It served her right,' said Lawson, when Philip told him what had happened. ‘Ill-tempered slut.'
Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming.
‘I don't want other people's opinion of my work,' he said. ‘I know myself if it's good or bad.'
‘You mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your work,' answered Clutton dryly.
In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her accustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight of her. But she got up at once and came towards him.
‘Are you trying to cut me?' she said.
‘No, of course not. I thought perhaps you didn't want to be spoken to.'
‘Where are you going?'
‘I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I've heard so much about it.'
‘Would you like me to come with you? I know the Luxembourg rather well. I could show you one or two good things.'
He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologize directly, she made this offer as amends.
‘It's awfully kind of you. I should like it very much.'
‘You needn't say yes if you'd rather go alone,' she said suspiciously.
‘I wouldn't.'
They walked towards the gallery. Caillebotte's collection had lately been placed on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to examine at his ease the works of the impressionists. Till then it had been possible to see them only at Durand-Ruel's shop in the Rue Lafitte (and the dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter an attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it was not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where you might see pictures of world-wide reputation. Miss Price led Philip straight up to Manet's Olympia. He looked at it in astonished silence.
‘Do you like it?' asked Miss Price.
‘I don't know,' he answered helplessly.
‘You can take it from me that it's the best thing in the gallery except perhaps Whistler's portrait of his mother.'
She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took him to a picture representing a railway station.
‘Look, here's a Monet,' she said. ‘It's the Gare St Lazare.'
‘But the railway lines aren't parallel,' said Philip.
‘What does that matter?' she asked, with a haughty air.
Philip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked up the glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extent of her knowledge. She proceeded to explain the pictures to him, superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters had attempted and what he must look for. She talked with much gesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new, listened with profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshipped Watts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the affected drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities. Their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions of art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here was something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a higher life. He was puzzled.
At last he said: ‘You know, I'm simply dead. I don't think I can absorb anything more profitably. Let's go and sit down on one of the benches.'
‘It's better not to take too much art at a time,' Miss Price answered.
When they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken.
‘Oh, that's all right,' she said, a little ungraciously. ‘I do it because I enjoy it. We'll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you like, and then I'll take you to Durand-Ruel's.'
‘You're really awfully good to me.'
‘You don't think me such a beast as the most of them do.'
‘I don't,' he smiled.
‘They think they'll drive me away from the studio; but they won't; I shall stay there just exactly as long as it suits me. All that this morning, it was Lucy Otter's doing, I know it was. She always has hated me. She thought after that I'd take myself off. I daresay she'd like me to go. She's afraid I know too much about her.'
Miss Price told him a long, involved story, which made out that Mrs Otter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had scabrous intrigues. Then she talked of Ruth Chalice, the girl whom Foinet had praised that morning.
‘She's been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She's nothing better than a street-walker. And she's dirty. She hasn't had a bath for a month, I know it for a fact.'
Philip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various rumours were in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was ridiculous to suppose that Mrs Otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidly virtuous. The woman walking by his side with her malignant lying positively horrified him.
‘I don't care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know I've got it in me. I feel I'm an artist. I'd sooner kill myself than give it up. Oh, I shan't be the first they've all laughed at in the schools and then he's turned out the only genius of the lot. Art's the only thing I care for, I'm willing to give my whole life to it. It's only a question of sticking to it and pegging away.'
She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her own estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that his friend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he couldn't compose a figure to save his life. And Lawson:
‘Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He's so afraid of Foinet that he won't let him see his work. After all, I don't funk it, do I? I don't care what Foinet says to me, I know I'm a real artist.'
They reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief Philip left her.
XLIV
BUT NOTWITHSTANDING when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered to take him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. He looked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till he knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater had added beauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated to Miss Price.
‘That's all literature,' she said, a little contemptuously. ‘You must get away from that.'
She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about them. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus.
‘When you feel the beauty of that,' she said, ‘you'll know something about painting.'
She showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price was a peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished, and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She was desperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing in the Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny, and urbane, like a picture by Raffaëlli, exclaimed: ‘I say, how jolly! Do let's stop here a minute,' she said, indifferently: ‘Yes, it's all right. But we've come here to look at pictures.'
The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towards midday they stood in the great courtyard of the Louvre, he felt inclined to cry like Flanagan: To Hell with art.
‘I say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the Boul' Mich' and have a snack together, shall we?' he suggested.
Miss Price gave him a suspicious look.
‘I've got my lunch waiting for me at home,' she answered.
‘That doesn't matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you a lunch.'
‘I don'
t know why you want to.'
‘It would give me pleasure,' he replied, smiling.
They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St Michel there was a restaurant.
‘Let's go in here.'
‘No, I won't go there, it looks too expensive.'
She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few steps brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already lunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced in large white letters: Déjeuner 1.25, vin compris.
‘We couldn't have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite all right.'
They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was the first article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed with delight upon the passers-by. His heart went out to them. He was tired but very happy.
‘I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn't he ripping!'
He glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she was looking down at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavy tears were rolling down her cheeks.
‘What on earth's the matter?' he exclaimed.
‘If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once,' she answered.
He was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came. He divided it in half and they began to eat. Philip did his best to talk of indifferent things, and it seemed as though Miss Price were making an effort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a success. Philip was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate took his appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beast in a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the plate with pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wish to lose a single drop of gravy. They had Camembert cheese, and it disgusted Philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that was given her. She could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving.
Miss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day with friendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not be sulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she could not draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constant suggestions helped his progress. Mrs Otter was useful to him too, and sometimes Miss Chalice criticized his work; he learned from the glib loquacity of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hated him to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked her help after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse with brutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson, Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed him about her.
‘You be careful, my lad,' they said, ‘she's in love with you.'
‘Oh, what nonsense,' he laughed.
The thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was preposterous. It made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggled hair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained and ragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but she might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and thread to make her skirt tidy.
Philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown in contact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed so long ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interest in humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticize. He found it difficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for three months than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impression at the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great things, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going to do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. He had worked at several studios before Amitrano's, at Julians, the Beaux-Arts, and MacPherson's, and was remaining longer at Amitrano's than anywhere because he found himself more left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlike most of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave advice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue Campagne Première, which served him for workroom and bedroom, he had wonderful pictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced to exhibit them. He could not afford a model but painted still life, and Lawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was a masterpiece. He was fastidious, and aiming at something he did not quite fully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhaps a part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, a glass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it, destroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselves to see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a single picture to show. In Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else had heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up painting at middle age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. He was turning his back on the impressionists and working out for himself painfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. Philip felt in him something strangely original.
At Gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or at the Closerie des Lilas, Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He sat quietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when the opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was most cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his sarcasm. He seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the one or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered whether there was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him, the pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no more than an effective mask which covered nothing.
With Lawson, on the other hand, Philip soon grew intimate. He had a variety of interests which made him an agreeable companion. He read more than most of the students, and though his income was small, loved to buy books. He lent them willingly; and Philip became acquainted with Flaubert and Balzac, with Verlaine, Heredia, and Villiers de L'Isle-Adam. They went to plays together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opéra Comique. There was the Odéon quite near them, and Philip soon shared his friend's passion for the tragedians of Louis XIV and the sonorous Alexandrine. In the Rue Taitbout were the Concerts Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they could hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it was quite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was crowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in their young enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they went to the Bal Bullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied them. His excitability and his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. He was an excellent dancer, and before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing round with some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made.
The desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of the paraphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave consideration in the eyes of one's fellows. It was something to boast about. But the difficulty was that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though they argued that Frenchwomen were so clever it cost no more to keep two than one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to take that view of the circumstances. They had to content themselves for the most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection from painters of more settled respectability than their own. It was extraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson would become acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at length to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the time fixed. He would come to Gravier's very late, ill-tempered, and exclaim:
‘Confound it, another rabbit! I don't know why it is they don't like me. I suppose it's because I don't speak French well, or my red hair. It's too sickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold of anyone.'
‘You don't go the right way to work,' said Flanagan.
He had a long and enviable list of tri
umphs to narrate, and though they took leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge that he did not altogether lie. But he sought no permanent arrangement. He only had two years in Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come and study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period he was to return to Seattle and go into his father's business. He had made up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded variety rather than duration in his love affairs.
‘I don't know how you get hold of them,' said Lawson furiously.
‘There's no difficulty about that, sonny,' answered Flanagan. ‘You just go right in. The difficulty is to get rid of them. That's where you want tact.'
Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the desire for female society. He thought there would be plenty of time for that when he could speak French more glibly.
It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and during his first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had written to him just before he left Blackstable. When another came, knowing it would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for them, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did not run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked at the unopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson had suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probably got over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. It suggested itself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions. These did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had not written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. He made up his mind not to read the letter.
‘I daresay she won't write again,' he said to himself. ‘She can't help seeing the thing's over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother; she ought to have known better.'