Chapter XLVI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip did not find living in Paris as cheap as he had been led to believeand by February had spent most of the money with which he started. He wastoo proud to appeal to his guardian, nor did he wish Aunt Louisa to knowthat his circumstances were straitened, since he was certain she wouldmake an effort to send him something from her own pocket, and he knew howlittle she could afford to. In three months he would attain his majorityand come into possession of his small fortune. He tided over the intervalby selling the few trinkets which he had inherited from his father.At about this time Lawson suggested that they should take a small studiowhich was vacant in one of the streets that led out of the BoulevardRaspail. It was very cheap. It had a room attached, which they could useas a bed-room; and since Philip was at the school every morning Lawsoncould have the undisturbed use of the studio then; Lawson, after wanderingfrom school to school, had come to the conclusion that he could work bestalone, and proposed to get a model in three or four days a week. At firstPhilip hesitated on account of the expense, but they reckoned it out; andit seemed (they were so anxious to have a studio of their own that theycalculated pragmatically) that the cost would not be much greater thanthat of living in a hotel. Though the rent and the cleaning by theconcierge would come to a little more, they would save on the petitdejeuner, which they could make themselves. A year or two earlier Philipwould have refused to share a room with anyone, since he was so sensitiveabout his deformed foot, but his morbid way of looking at it was growingless marked: in Paris it did not seem to matter so much, and, though henever by any chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other peoplewere constantly noticing it.They moved in, bought a couple of beds, a washing-stand, a few chairs, andfelt for the first time the thrill of possession. They were so excitedthat the first night they went to bed in what they could call a home theylay awake talking till three in the morning; and next day found lightingthe fire and making their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such ajolly business that Philip did not get to Amitrano's till nearly eleven.He was in excellent spirits. He nodded to Fanny Price."How are you getting on?" he asked cheerily."What does that matter to you?" she asked in reply.Philip could not help laughing."Don't jump down my throat. I was only trying to make myself polite.""I don't want your politeness.""D'you think it's worth while quarrelling with me too?" asked Philipmildly. "There are so few people you're on speaking terms with, as it is.""That's my business, isn't it?""Quite."He began to work, vaguely wondering why Fanny Price made herself sodisagreeable. He had come to the conclusion that he thoroughly dislikedher. Everyone did. People were only civil to her at all from fear of themalice of her tongue; for to their faces and behind their backs she saidabominable things. But Philip was feeling so happy that he did not wanteven Miss Price to bear ill-feeling towards him. He used the artificewhich had often before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour."I say, I wish you'd come and look at my drawing. I've got in an awfulmess.""Thank you very much, but I've got something better to do with my time."Philip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing she could be countedupon to do with alacrity was to give advice. She went on quickly in a lowvoice, savage with fury."Now that Lawson's gone you think you'll put up with me. Thank you verymuch. Go and find somebody else to help you. I don't want anybody else'sleavings."Lawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found anything out he waseager to impart it; and because he taught with delight he talked withprofit. Philip, without thinking anything about it, had got into the habitof sitting by his side; it never occurred to him that Fanny Price wasconsumed with jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else'stuition with ever-increasing anger."You were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody here," she saidbitterly, "and as soon as you made friends with other people you threw measide, like an old glove"--she repeated the stale metaphor withsatisfaction--"like an old glove. All right, I don't care, but I'm notgoing to be made a fool of another time."There was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made Philip angryenough to answer what first came into his head."Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw it pleased you."She gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. Then two tearsrolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy and grotesque. Philip, notknowing what on earth this new attitude implied, went back to his work. Hewas uneasy and conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say hewas sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would takethe opportunity to snub him. For two or three weeks she did not speak tohim, and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by her, hewas somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a friendship. He hadbeen a little disconcerted by the air of proprietorship she assumed overhim. She was an extraordinary woman. She came every day to the studio ateight o'clock, and was ready to start working when the model was inposition; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour afterhour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the clockstruck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not in it the smallestapproach even to the mediocre achievement at which most of the youngpersons were able after some months to arrive. She wore every day the sameugly brown dress, with the mud of the last wet day still caked on the hemand with the raggedness, which Philip had noticed the first time he sawher, still unmended.But one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked whether shemight speak to him afterwards."Of course, as much as you like," smiled Philip. "I'll wait behind attwelve."He went to her when the day's work was over."Will you walk a little bit with me?" she said, looking away from him withembarrassment."Certainly."They walked for two or three minutes in silence."D'you remember what you said to me the other day?" she asked then on asudden."Oh, I say, don't let's quarrel," said Philip. "It really isn't worthwhile."She gave a quick, painful inspiration."I don't want to quarrel with you. You're the only friend I had in Paris.I thought you rather liked me. I felt there was something between us. Iwas drawn towards you--you know what I mean, your club-foot."Philip reddened and instinctively tried to walk without a limp. He did notlike anyone to mention the deformity. He knew what Fanny Price meant. Shewas ugly and uncouth, and because he was deformed there was between thema certain sympathy. He was very angry with her, but he forced himself notto speak."You said you only asked my advice to please me. Don't you think my work'sany good?""I've only seen your drawing at Amitrano's. It's awfully hard to judgefrom that.""I was wondering if you'd come and look at my other work. I've never askedanyone else to look at it. I should like to show it to you.""It's awfully kind of you. I'd like to see it very much.""I live quite near here," she said apologetically. "It'll only take youten minutes.""Oh, that's all right," he said.They were walking along the boulevard, and she turned down a side street,then led him into another, poorer still, with cheap shops on the groundfloor, and at last stopped. They climbed flight after flight of stairs.She unlocked a door, and they went into a tiny attic with a sloping roofand a small window. This was closed and the room had a musty smell. Thoughit was very cold there was no fire and no sign that there had been one.The bed was unmade. A chair, a chest of drawers which served also as awash-stand, and a cheap easel, were all the furniture. The place wouldhave been squalid enough in any case, but the litter, the untidiness, madethe impression revolting. On the chimney-piece, scattered over with paintsand brushes, were a cup, a dirty plate, and a tea-pot."If you'll stand over there I'll put them on the chair so that you can seethem better."She showed him twenty small canvases, about eighteen by twelve. She placedthem on the chair, one after the other, watching his face; he nodded as helooked at each one."You do like them, don't you?" she said anxiously, after a bit."I just want to look at them all first," he answered. "I'll talkafterwards."He was collecting himself. He was panic-stricken. He did not know what tosay. It was not only that they were ill-drawn, or that the colour was puton amateurishly by someone who had no eye for it; but there was no attemptat getting the values, and the perspective was grotesque. It looked likethe work of a child of five, but a child would have had some naivete andmight at least have made an attempt to put down what he saw; but here wasthe work of a vulgar mind chock full of recollections of vulgar pictures.Philip remembered that she had talked enthusiastically about Monet and theImpressionists, but here were only the worst traditions of the RoyalAcademy."There," she said at last, "that's the lot."Philip was no more truthful than anybody else, but he had a greatdifficulty in telling a thundering, deliberate lie, and he blushedfuriously when he answered:"I think they're most awfully good."A faint colour came into her unhealthy cheeks, and she smiled a little."You needn't say so if you don't think so, you know. I want the truth.""But I do think so.""Haven't you got any criticism to offer? There must be some you don't likeas well as others."Philip looked round helplessly. He saw a landscape, the typicalpicturesque `bit' of the amateur, an old bridge, a creeper-clad cottage,and a leafy bank."Of course I don't pretend to know anything about it," he said. "But Iwasn't quite sure about the values of that."She flushed darkly and taking up the picture quickly turned its back tohim."I don't know why you should have chosen that one to sneer at. It's thebest thing I've ever done. I'm sure my values are all right. That's athing you can't teach anyone, you either understand values or you don't.""I think they're all most awfully good," repeated Philip.She looked at them with an air of self-satisfaction."I don't think they're anything to be ashamed of."Philip looked at his watch."I say, it's getting late. Won't you let me give you a little lunch?""I've got my lunch waiting for me here."Philip saw no sign of it, but supposed perhaps the concierge would bringit up when he was gone. He was in a hurry to get away. The mustiness ofthe room made his head ache.