Chapter XLVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　In March there was all the excitement of sending in to the Salon. Clutton,characteristically, had nothing ready, and he was very scornful of the twoheads that Lawson sent; they were obviously the work of a student,straight-forward portraits of models, but they had a certain force;Clutton, aiming at perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayedhesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told Lawson it was animpertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been allowed out ofhis studio; he was not less contemptuous when the two heads were accepted.Flanagan tried his luck too, but his picture was refused. Mrs. Otter senta blameless Portrait de ma Mere, accomplished and second-rate; and washung in a very good place.Hayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg, arrived inParis to spend a few days in time to come to the party which Lawson andPhilip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of Lawson'spictures. Philip had been eager to see Hayward again, but when at lastthey met, he experienced some disappointment. Hayward had altered a littlein appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting ofthe very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes werepaler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features. Onthe other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and theculture which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat thecontempt of Philip at twenty-one. He had altered a good deal himself, andregarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, hadno patience with anyone who still held them. He was scarcely conscious ofthe fact that he wanted to show off before Hayward, but when he took himround the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinionswhich himself had so recently adopted. He took him to Manet's Olympiaand said dramatically:"I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Vermeerfor that one picture.""Who was Vermeer?" asked Hayward."Oh, my dear fellow, don't you know Vermeer? You're not civilised. Youmustn't live a moment longer without making his acquaintance. He's the oneold master who painted like a modern."He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to theLouvre."But aren't there any more pictures here?" asked Hayward, with thetourist's passion for thoroughness."Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and look at them byyourself with your Baedeker."When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the LongGallery."I should like to see The Gioconda," said Hayward."Oh, my dear fellow, it's only literature," answered Philip.At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lacemaker of Vermeervan Delft."There, that's the best picture in the Louvre. It's exactly like a Manet."With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the charming work.He used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect."I don't know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in it," saidHayward."Of course it's a painter's picture," said Philip. "I can quite believethe layman would see nothing much in it.""The what?" said Hayward."The layman."Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward wasextremely anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those who did notventure to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was verymodest. He was impressed by Philip's assurance, and accepted meeklyPhilip's implied suggestion that the painter's arrogant claim to be thesole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence torecommend it.A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw, making anexception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and Miss Chaliceoffered to come and cook for them. She took no interest in her own sex anddeclined the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake.Clutton, Flanagan, Potter, and two others made up the party. Furniture wasscarce, so the model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to siton portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn't on the floor. The feastconsisted of a pot-au-feu, which Miss Chalice had made, of a leg ofmutton roasted round the corner and brought round hot and savoury (MissChalice had cooked the potatoes, and the studio was redolent of thecarrots she had fried; fried carrots were her specialty); and this was tobe followed by poires flambees, pears with burning brandy, whichCronshaw had volunteered to make. The meal was to finish with an enormousfromage de Brie, which stood near the window and added fragrant odoursto all the others which filled the studio. Cronshaw sat in the place ofhonour on a Gladstone bag, with his legs curled under him like a Turkishbashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the young people who surrounded him.From force of habit, though the small studio with the stove lit was veryhot, he kept on his great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowlerhat: he looked with satisfaction on the four large fiaschi of Chiantiwhich stood in front of him in a row, two on each side of a bottle ofwhiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair Circassian guarded by fourcorpulent eunuchs. Hayward in order to put the rest of them at their easehad clothed himself in a tweed suit and a Trinity Hall tie. He lookedgrotesquely British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and duringthe soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. There wasa pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and Miss Chalice lit acigarette."Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," she said suddenly.With an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell overher shoulders. She shook her head."I always feel more comfortable with my hair down."With her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broadforehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by Burne-Jones. She hadlong, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. She woresweeping draperies, mauve and green. There was about her the romantic airof High Street, Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was anexcellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were butskin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout ofexultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton andheld it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist ona platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn,hieratic steps."Hail, daughter of Herodias," cried Cronshaw.The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a heartyappetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter sat on each side ofher, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grewtired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treatafterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. Shebore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so,and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. Now and thenshe looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The poires flambees were agreat success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because MissChalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese."I don't know whether it's perfectly delicious, or whether I'm just goingto vomit," she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture.Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untowardconsequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, whocould do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself ina graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on hisshoulder. She looked into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, andnow and then with a long meditative glance at Lawson she sighed deeply.Then came the summer, and restlessness seized these young people. The blueskies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant breeze sighing through theleaves of the plane-trees on the boulevard drew them towards the country.Everyone made plans for leaving Paris; they discussed what was the mostsuitable size for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores ofpanels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various places inBrittany. Flanagan and Potter went to Concarneau; Mrs. Otter and hermother, with a natural instinct for the obvious, went to Pont-Aven; Philipand Lawson made up their minds to go to the forest of Fontainebleau, andMiss Chalice knew of a very good hotel at Moret where there was lots ofstuff to paint; it was near Paris, and neither Philip nor Lawson wasindifferent to the railway fare. Ruth Chalice would be there, and Lawsonhad an idea for a portrait of her in the open air. Just then the Salon wasfull of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with blinking eyesand green reflections of sunlit leaves on their faces. They asked Cluttonto go with them, but he preferred spending the summer by himself. He hadjust discovered Cezanne, and was uger to go to Provence; he wanted heavyskies from which the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, andbroad white dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt thecolour, and olive trees gray with heat.The day before they were to start, after the morning class, Philip,putting his things together, spoke to Fanny Price."I'm off tomorrow," he said cheerfully."Off where?" she said quickly. "You're not going away?" Her face fell."I'm going away for the summer. Aren't you?""No, I'm staying in Paris. I thought you were going to stay too. I waslooking forward...."She stopped and shrugged her shoulders."But won't it be frightfully hot here? It's awfully bad for you.""Much you care if it's bad for me. Where are you going?""Moret.""Chalice is going there. You're not going with her?""Lawson and I are going. And she's going there too. I don't know thatwe're actually going together."She gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red."How filthy! I thought you were a decent fellow. You were about the onlyone here. She's been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with oldFoinet--that's why he takes so much trouble about her--and now two of you,you and Lawson. It makes me sick.""Oh, what nonsense! She's a very decent sort. One treats her just as ifshe were a man.""Oh, don't speak to me, don't speak to me.""But what can it matter to you?" asked Philip. "It's really no business ofyours where I spend my summer.""I was looking forward to it so much," she gasped, speaking it seemedalmost to herself. "I didn't think you had the money to go away, and therewouldn't have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together,and we'd have gone to see things." Then her thoughts flung back to RuthChalice. "The filthy beast," she cried. "She isn't fit to speak to."Philip looked at her with a sinking heart. He was not a man to think girlswere in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he feltawkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburstcould mean. Fanny Price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair fallingover her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolleddown her cheeks. She was repellent. Philip glanced at the door,instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to thescene."I'm awfully sorry," he said."You're just the same as all of them. You take all you can get, and youdon't even say thank you. I've taught you everything you know. No one elsewould take any trouble with you. Has Foinet ever bothered about you? AndI can tell you this--you can work here for a thousand years and you'llnever do any good. You haven't got any talent. You haven't got anyoriginality. And it's not only me--they all say it. You'll never be apainter as long as you live.""That is no business of yours either, is it?" said Philip, flushing."Oh, you think it's only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice.Never, never, never. You haven't got it in you."Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after him."Never, never, never."Moret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at the edge ofthe forest of Fontainebleau, and the Ecu d'Or was a hotel which stillhad about it the decrepit air of the Ancien Regime. It faced the windingriver, the Loing; and Miss Chalice had a room with a little terraceoverlooking it, with a charming view of the old bridge and its fortifiedgateway. They sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee,smoking, and discussing art. There ran into the river, a little way off,a narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this aftertheir day's work they often wandered. They spent all day painting. Likemost of their generation they were obsessed by the fear of thepicturesque, and they turned their backs on the obvious beauty of the townto seek subjects which were devoid of a prettiness they despised. Sisleyand Monet had painted the canal with its poplars, and they felt a desireto try their hands at what was so typical of France; but they werefrightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoidit. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed Lawsonnotwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in whichshe tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of thetrees; and Lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground alarge blue advertisement of chocolat Menier in order to emphasise hisabhorrence of the chocolate box.Philip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of delight whenfirst he used that grateful medium. He went out with Lawson in the morningwith his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so muchsatisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; hewas so much under his friend's influence that he saw only with his eyes.Lawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of thegrass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in theirhands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had one fine day afteranother; it was very hot; and the heat, searing Philip's heart, filled himwith languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousandthoughts. Often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in theshade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half anhour. Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty roadthat led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. His head was fullof romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed towander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to oneanother careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a namelessfear.They were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle age, aRabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent the day by theriver patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and Philip sometimeswent down and talked to her. He found out that she had belonged to aprofession whose most notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren,and having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of thebourgeoise. She told Philip lewd stories."You must go to Seville," she said--she spoke a little broken English."The most beautiful women in the world."She leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large belly, shookwith inward laughter.It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. The heatseemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. Theydid not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would siton the terrace of Ruth Chalice's room, silent, hour after hour, too tiredto talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. Theylistened to the murmur of the river. The church clock struck one and twoand sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed. SuddenlyPhilip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were lovers. He divinedit in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air ofpossession; and as Philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluencesurrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange. Therevelation was a shock. He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very goodfellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to himpossible to enter into a closer relationship. One Sunday they had all gonewith a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which wassuitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on takingoff her shoes and stockings. It would have been very charming only herfeet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe.Philip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. But now he lookedupon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in herlarge eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seenthat she was attractive. He thought he detected in her a touch of contemptfor him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, inhis way, and in Lawson a suspicion of superiority. He was envious ofLawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of hislove. He wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with hisheart. He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass himby. He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feetand borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither. Miss Chaliceand Lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constantcompanionship with them made him restless. He was dissatisfied withhimself. Life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasyfeeling that he was losing his time.The stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between thecouple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the utmost frankness."And you," she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened onthe lust of her fellows, "have you got a petite amie?""No," said Philip, blushing."And why not? C'est de votre age."He shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of Verlaine in his hands, andhe wandered off. He tried to read, but his passion was too strong. Hethought of the stray amours to which he had been introduced by Flanagan,the sly visits to houses in a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room inUtrecht velvet, and the mercenary graces of painted women. He shuddered.He threw himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animalfreshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gentlytremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost more than hecould bear. He was in love with love. In his fancy he felt the kiss ofwarm lips on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands. He imaginedhimself in the arms of Ruth Chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and thewonderful texture of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderfuladventure slip through his fingers. And if Lawson had done it why shouldnot he? But this was only when he did not see her, when he lay awake atnight or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw her he feltsuddenly quite different; he had no desire to take her in his arms, and hecould not imagine himself kissing her. It was very curious. Away from herhe thought her beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and thecreamy pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that shewas flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed; he could notforget the corns on her toes. He could not understand himself. Would healways love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying anything whenhe had the chance by that deformity of vision which seemed to exaggeratethe revolting?He was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the definite endof the long summer, drove them all back to Paris.