Chapter XLIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The story which Philip made out in one way and another was terrible. Oneof the grievances of the women-students was that Fanny Price would nevershare their gay meals in restaurants, and the reason was obvious: she hadbeen oppressed by dire poverty. He remembered the luncheon they had eatentogether when first he came to Paris and the ghoulish appetite which haddisgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner because she wasravenous. The concierge told him what her food had consisted of. Abottle of milk was left for her every day and she brought in her own loafof bread; she ate half the loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day whenshe came back from the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. Itwas the same day after day. Philip thought with anguish of what she musthave endured. She had never given anyone to understand that she was poorerthan the rest, but it was clear that her money had been coming to an end,and at last she could not afford to come any more to the studio. Thelittle room was almost bare of furniture, and there were no other clothesthan the shabby brown dress she had always worn. Philip searched among herthings for the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. Hefound a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score of times.It gave him a peculiar shock. He supposed it was true that she had lovedhim; he thought of the emaciated body, in the brown dress, hanging fromthe nail in the ceiling; and he shuddered. But if she had cared for himwhy did she not let him help her? He would so gladly have done all hecould. He felt remorseful because he had refused to see that she lookedupon him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her letterwere infinitely pathetic: I can't bear the thought that anyone else shouldtouch me. She had died of starvation.Philip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother, Albert. itwas two or three weeks old, dated from some road in Surbiton, and refuseda loan of five pounds. The writer had his wife and family to think of, hedidn't feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that Fannyshould come back to London and try to get a situation. Philip telegraphedto Albert Price, and in a little while an answer came:"Deeply distressed. Very awkward to leave my business. Is presenceessential. Price."Philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presentedhimself at the studio."My name's Price," he said, when Philip opened the door.He was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he hadsomething of Fanny's clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had acockney accent. Philip asked him to come in. He cast sidelong glancesround the studio while Philip gave him details of the accident and toldhim what he had done."I needn't see her, need I?" asked Albert Price. "My nerves aren't verystrong, and it takes very little to upset me."He began to talk freely. He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife andthree children. Fanny was a governess, and he couldn't make out why shehadn't stuck to that instead of coming to Paris."Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl. And there's nomoney in art--never 'as been."It was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with hissister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had donehim. He did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty;that seemed to reflect on the family. The idea struck him that possiblythere was a more respectable reason for her act."I suppose she 'adn't any trouble with a man, 'ad she? You know what Imean, Paris and all that. She might 'ave done it so as not to disgraceherself."Philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. Price's keen littleeyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue."I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous," he answeredacidly. "She killed herself because she was starving.""Well, it's very 'ard on her family, Mr. Carey. She only 'ad to write tome. I wouldn't have let my sister want."Philip had found the brother's address only by reading the letter in whichhe refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders: there was no use inrecrimination. He hated the little man and wanted to have done with him assoon as possible. Albert Price also wished to get through the necessarybusiness quickly so that he could get back to London. They went to thetiny room in which poor Fanny had lived. Albert Price looked at thepictures and the furniture."I don't pretend to know much about art," he said. "I suppose thesepictures would fetch something, would they?""Nothing," said Philip."The furniture's not worth ten shillings."Albert Price knew no French and Philip had to do everything. It seemedthat it was an interminable process to get the poor body safely hiddenaway under ground: papers had to be obtained in one place and signed inanother; officials had to be seen. For three days Philip was occupied frommorning till night. At last he and Albert Price followed the hearse to thecemetery at Montparnasse."I want to do the thing decent," said Albert Price, "but there's no usewasting money."The short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. Halfa dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at the studio came to thefuneral, Mrs. Otter because she was massiere and thought it her duty,Ruth Chalice because she had a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan.They had all disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across thecemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, othersvulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was horribly sordid. Whenthey came out Albert Price asked Philip to lunch with him. Philip loathedhim now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamedconstantly of Fanny Price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nailin the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse."You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. All thisis the very worst thing for my nerves.""Lavenue's is about the best place round here," answered Philip.Albert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. Heordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine."Well, I'm glad that's over," he said.He threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that he waseager to hear about the painter's life in Paris. He represented it tohimself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies whichhis fancy suggested to him. With sly winks and discreet sniggering heconveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more thanPhilip confessed. He was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two.He asked Philip whether he had ever been to any of those places inMontmartre which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. Hewould like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon was verygood and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as the processes ofdigestion went satisfactorily forwards."Let's 'ave a little brandy," he said when the coffee was brought, "andblow the expense."He rubbed his hands."You know, I've got 'alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow.What d'you say to spending the evening together?""If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight, I'll seeyou damned," said Philip."I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing."The answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled."Besides it would be rotten for your nerves," he said gravely.Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the fouro'clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip."Well, good-bye, old man," he said. "I tell you what, I'll try and comeover to Paris again one of these days and I'll look you up. And then wewon't 'alf go on the razzle."Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus andcrossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view atDurand-Ruel's. After that he strolled along the boulevard. It was cold andwind-swept. People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk togetherin an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched andcareworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among allthose white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangelyhomesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw would be working, andClutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait ofRuth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to goand see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up hiswork and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more moneythan most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip lookedat the two heads that he was sending to the Salon."It's awful cheek my sending anything," said Flanagan, "but I don't care,I'm going to send. D'you think they're rotten?""Not so rotten as I should have expected," said Philip.They showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties had beenavoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paintwas put on which was surprising and even attractive. Flanagan, withoutknowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who hasspent a lifetime in the practice of the art."If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty secondsyou'd be a great master, Flanagan," smiled Philip.These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another withexcessive flattery."We haven't got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds inlooking at any picture," laughed the other.Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, hada tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. Whenever anyonewas ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than anymedicine. Like many of his countrymen he had not the English dread ofsentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, findingnothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathywhich was often grateful to his friends in distress. He saw that Philipwas depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindlinessset himself boisterously to cheer him up. He exaggerated the Americanismswhich he knew always made the Englishmen laugh and poured out a breathlessstream of conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. In due coursethey went out to dinner and afterwards to the Gaite Montparnasse, whichwas Flanagan's favourite place of amusement. By the end of the evening hewas in his most extravagant humour. He had drunk a good deal, but anyinebriety from which he suffered was due much more to his own vivacitythan to alcohol. He proposed that they should go to the Bal Bullier, andPhilip, feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. Theysat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little from thelevel of the floor so that they could watch the dancing, and drank a bock.Presently Flanagan saw a friend and with a wild shout leaped over thebarrier on to the space where they were dancing. Philip watched thepeople. Bullier was not the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night andthe place was crowded. There were a number of students of the variousfaculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; theywore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, andtheir hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they dancedthere was no place to put them but their heads. Some of the women lookedlike servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most partthey were shop-girls. They were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of thefashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up toresemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at themoment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudentlyscarlet. The hall was lit by great white lights, low down, whichemphasised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden underit, and the colours were most crude. It was a sordid scene. Philip leanedover the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They dancedfuriously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, withall their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their facesshone with sweat. it seemed to Philip that they had thrown off the guardwhich people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and hesaw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they werestrangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others hadthe long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from theunhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. Their features wereblunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning.There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for allof them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts.The air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they dancedfuriously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and itseemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment.They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desirefor pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urgedthem blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it ofall pleasure. They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knewnot why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them, andthey danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Theirsilence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbedthem of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts diedat their throats. Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstandingthe beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces,and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst of all,the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic.Philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity whichfilled him.He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldnessof the night.