Chapter XLIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　On Tuesdays and Fridays masters spent the morning at Amitrano's,criticising the work done. In France the painter earns little unless hepaints portraits and is patronised by rich Americans; and men ofreputation are glad to increase their incomes by spending two or threehours once a week at one of the numerous studios where art is taught.Tuesday was the day upon which Michel Rollin came to Amitrano's. He was anelderly man, with a white beard and a florid complexion, who had painteda number of decorations for the State, but these were an object ofderision to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of Ingres,impervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with that tas defarceurs whose names were Manet, Degas, Monet, and Sisley; but he was anexcellent teacher, helpful, polite, and encouraging. Foinet, on the otherhand, who visited the studio on Fridays, was a difficult man to get onwith. He was a small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air,an untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his tonesarcastic. He had had pictures bought by the Luxembourg, and attwenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his talent was due toyouth rather than to personality, and for twenty years he had done nothingbut repeat the landscape which had brought him his early success. When hewas reproached with monotony, he answered:"Corot only painted one thing. Why shouldn't I?"He was envious of everyone else's success, and had a peculiar, personalloathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his own failure as dueto the mad fashion which had attracted the public, sale bete, to theirworks. The genial disdain of Michel Rollin, who called them impostors, wasanswered by him with vituperation, of which crapule and canaille werethe least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their privatelives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and obscene detail,attacked the legitimacy of their births and the purity of their conjugalrelations: he used an Oriental imagery and an Oriental emphasis toaccentuate his ribald scorn. Nor did he conceal his contempt for thestudents whose work he examined. By them he was hated and feared; thewomen by his brutal sarcasm he reduced often to tears, which again arousedhis ridicule; and he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protestsof those who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there couldbe no doubt that he was one of the best masters in Paris. Sometimes theold model who kept the school ventured to remonstrate with him, but hisexpostulations quickly gave way before the violent insolence of thepainter to abject apologies.It was Foinet with whom Philip first came in contact. He was already inthe studio when Philip arrived. He went round from easel to easel, withMrs. Otter, the massiere, by his side to interpret his remarks for thebenefit of those who could not understand French. Fanny Price, sittingnext to Philip, was working feverishly. Her face was sallow withnervousness, and every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on herblouse; for they were hot with anxiety. Suddenly she turned to Philip withan anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown."D'you think it's good?" she asked, nodding at her drawing.Philip got up and looked at it. He was astounded; he felt she must have noeye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of drawing."I wish I could draw half as well myself," he answered."You can't expect to, you've only just come. It's a bit too much to expectthat you should draw as well as I do. I've been here two years."Fanny Price puzzled Philip. Her conceit was stupendous. Philip had alreadydiscovered that everyone in the studio cordially disliked her; and it wasno wonder, for she seemed to go out of her way to wound people."I complained to Mrs. Otter about Foinet," she said now. "The last twoweeks he hasn't looked at my drawings. He spends about half an hour onMrs. Otter because she's the massiere. After all I pay as much asanybody else, and I suppose my money's as good as theirs. I don't see whyI shouldn't get as much attention as anybody else."She took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with a groan."I can't do any more now. I'm so frightfully nervous."She looked at Foinet, who was coming towards them with Mrs. Otter. Mrs.Otter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an air of importance.Foinet sat down at the easel of an untidy little Englishwoman called RuthChalice. She had the fine black eyes, languid but passionate, the thinface, ascetic but sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under theinfluence of Burne-Jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies inChelsea. Foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much to her, butwith quick, determined strokes of her charcoal pointed out her errors.Miss Chalice beamed with pleasure when he rose. He came to Clutton, and bythis time Philip was nervous too but Mrs. Otter had promised to makethings easy for him. Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton's work,biting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvasthe little piece of skin which he had bitten off."That's a fine line," he said at last, indicating with his thumb whatpleased him. "You're beginning to learn to draw."Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air ofsardonic indifference to the world's opinion."I'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent."Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not seeanything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went intotechnical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton didnot say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt withsatisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most ofthem listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinetgot up and came to Philip."He only arrived two days ago," Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. "He's abeginner. He's never studied before.""Ca se voit," the master said. "One sees that."He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him:"This is the young lady I told you about."He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voicegrew more rasping."It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You havebeen complaining to the massiere. Well, show me this work to which youwish me to give attention."Fanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be ofa strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on whichshe had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down."Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it isgood? It isn't. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn't. Doyou wish me to say it has merit? It hasn't. Do you wish me to show youwhat is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what todo with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now?"Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all thisbefore Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and couldunderstand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words."He's got no right to treat me like that. My money's as good as anyoneelse's. I pay him to teach me. That's not teaching me.""What does she say? What does she say?" asked Foinet.Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrableFrench."Je vous paye pour m'apprendre."His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist."Mais, nom de Dieu, I can't teach you. I could more easily teach acamel." He turned to Mrs. Otter. "Ask her, does she do this for amusement,or does she expect to earn money by it?""I'm going to earn my living as an artist," Miss Price answered."Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It wouldnot matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streetsin these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How longhave you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw betterthan you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt.You're more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than asa painter. Look."He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper.He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly andspoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom."Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it's grotesque. Itell you a child of five. You see, she's not standing on her legs. Thatfoot!"With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawingupon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble wasunrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung downthe charcoal and stood up."Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking." He looked at his watch."It's twelve. A la semaine prochaine, messieurs."Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after theothers to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but:"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!"She turned on him savagely."Is that what you're waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I'll askfor it. Please get out of my way."She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of theshoulders, limped along to Gravier's for luncheon."It served her right," said Lawson, when Philip told him what hadhappened. "Ill-tempered slut."Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, neverwent to the studio when Foinet was coming."I don't want other people's opinion of my work," he said. "I know myselfif 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 thepictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in heraccustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met hiswell-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he hadnot 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. Icould show you one or two good things."He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, shemade 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 beenplaced on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity toexamine at his ease the works of the impressionists. Till then it had beenpossible to see them only at Durand-Ruel's shop in the Rue Lafitte (andthe dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painteran attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbieststudent whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which itwas not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where youmight see pictures of world-wide reputation. Miss Price led Philipstraight 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 exceptperhaps Whistler's portrait of his mother."She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then tookhim 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 chatterof the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extentof her knowledge. She proceeded to explain the pictures to him,superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the paintershad attempted and what he must look for. She talked with muchgesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new,listened with profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshippedWatts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the affecteddrawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities.Their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlaythe titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functionsof art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but herewas something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and thecontemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and ahigher life. He was puzzled.At last he said: "You know, I'm simply dead. I don't think I can absorbanything 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 becauseI enjoy it. We'll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you like, and then I'lltake 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 shallstay there just exactly as long as it suits me. All that this morning, itwas Lucy Otter's doing, I know it was. She always has hated me. Shethought 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 thatmorning."She's been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She's nothingbetter than a street-walker. And she's dirty. She hasn't had a bath for amonth. I know it for a fact."Philip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various rumourswere in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was ridiculous to supposethat Mrs. Otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidlyvirtuous. The woman walking by his side with her malignant lyingpositively horrified him."I don't care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know I've gotit 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 thenhe's turned out the only genius of the lot. Art's the only thing I carefor, I'm willing to give my whole life to it. It's only a question ofsticking to it and pegging away"She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at herown estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that hisfriend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; hecouldn't compose a figure to save his life. And Lawson:"Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He's so afraid ofFoinet that he won't let him see his work. After all, I don't funk it, doI? 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 reliefPhilip left her.