Chapter XLVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　When Philip returned to Amitrano's he found that Fanny Price was no longerworking there. She had given up the key of her locker. He asked Mrs. Otterwhether she knew what had become of her; and Mrs. Otter, with a shrug ofthe shoulders, answered that she had probably gone back to England. Philipwas relieved. He was profoundly bored by her ill-temper. Moreover sheinsisted on advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight whenhe did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he felthimself no longer the duffer he had been at first. Soon he forgot allabout her. He was working in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. Hehoped to have something done of sufficient importance to send to thefollowing year's Salon. Lawson was painting a portrait of Miss Chalice.She was very paintable, and all the young men who had fallen victims toher charm had made portraits of her. A natural indolence, joined with apassion for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and shehad enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. Since herpassion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of artists, she wasquite content to neglect her own work. She liked the warmth of the studio,and the opportunity to smoke innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in alow, pleasant voice of the love of art and the art of love. She made noclear distinction between the two.Lawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could hardlystand for days and then scraping out all he had done. He would haveexhausted the patience of anyone but Ruth Chalice. At last he got into ahopeless muddle."The only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh," he said. "I knowexactly what I want now, and it won't take me long."Philip was present at the time, and Miss Chalice said to him:"Why don't you paint me too? You'll be able to learn a lot by watching Mr.Lawson."It was one of Miss Chalice's delicacies that she always addressed herlovers by their surnames."I should like it awfully if Lawson wouldn't mind.""I don't care a damn," said Lawson.It was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he began withtrepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and painted as he sawhim paint. He profited by the example and by the advice which both Lawsonand Miss Chalice freely gave him. At last Lawson finished and invitedClutton in to criticise. Clutton had only just come back to Paris. FromProvence he had drifted down to Spain, eager to see Velasquez at Madrid,and thence he had gone to Toledo. He stayed there three months, and he wasreturned with a name new to the young men: he had wonderful things to sayof a painter called El Greco, who it appeared could only be studied inToledo."Oh yes, I know about him," said Lawson, "he's the old master whosedistinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns."Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at Lawsonwith a sardonic air."Are you going to show us the stuff you've brought back from Spain?" askedPhilip."I didn't paint in Spain, I was too busy.""What did you do then?""I thought things out. I believe I'm through with the Impressionists; I'vegot an idea they'll seem very thin and superficial in a few years. I wantto make a clean sweep of everything I've learnt and start fresh. When Icame back I destroyed everything I'd painted. I've got nothing in mystudio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases.""What are you going to do?""I don't know yet. I've only got an inkling of what I want."He spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were straining to hearsomething which was only just audible. There seemed to be a mysteriousforce in him which he himself did not understand, but which was strugglingobscurely to find an outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dreadedthe criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought hemight get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton's; but Philipknew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than Clutton'spraise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, thenglanced at Philip's picture, which was standing on an easel."What's that?" he asked. "Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too.""The sedulous ape," he murmured.He turned away again to Lawson's canvas. Philip reddened but did notspeak."Well, what d'you think of it?" asked Lawson at length."The modelling's jolly good," said Clutton. "And I think it's very welldrawn.""D'you think the values are all right?""Quite."Lawson smiled with delight. He shook himself in his clothes like a wetdog."I say, I'm jolly glad you like it.""I don't. I don't think it's of the smallest importance."Lawson's face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment: he had nonotion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and hespoke as though it were an effort. What he had to say was confused,halting, and verbose; but Philip knew the words which served as the textof his rambling discourse. Clutton, who never read, had heard them firstfrom Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they hadremained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired thecharacter of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint,namely, man and the intention of his soul. The Impressionists had beenoccupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they hadtroubled themselves as little as the English portrait painters of theeighteenth century with the intention of his soul."But when you try to get that you become literary," said Lawson,interrupting. "Let me paint the man like Manet, and the intention of hissoul can go to the devil.""That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own game, butyou can't get anywhere near him. You can't feed yourself on the day beforeyesterday, it's ground which has been swept dry. You must go back. It'swhen I saw the Grecos that I felt one could get something more out ofportraits than we knew before.""It's just going back to Ruskin," cried Lawson."No--you see, he went for morality: I don't care a damn for morality:teaching doesn't come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion.The greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention ofhis soul; Rembrandt and El Greco; it's only the second-raters who've onlypainted man. A lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn't smell,but it's more lovely because it has perfume. That picture"--he pointed toLawson's portrait--"well, the drawing's all right and so's the modellingall right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled sothat you know the girl's a lousy slut. Correctness is all very well: ElGreco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to expresssomething he couldn't get any other way.""Damn El Greco," said Lawson, "what's the good of jawing about a man whenwe haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?"Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and wentaway. Philip and Lawson looked at one another."There's something in what he says," said Philip.Lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture."How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by paintingexactly what one sees?"About this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning modelsassembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week,and one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model byprofession. Philip's attention was attracted by the manner in which heheld himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet,square, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward;the attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and hismuscles stood out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped,was well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes andheavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without appearance offatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination.His air of passionate energy excited Philip's romantic imagination, andwhen, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him thathe wore them as though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, butin a day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard andthat he had never sat before."I suppose he was starving," said Philip."Have you noticed his clothes? They're quite neat and decent, aren'tthey?"It chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at Amitrano's, wasgoing to Italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to Philip.Philip was pleased. He was growing a little impatient of Lawson'speremptory advice and wanted to be by himself. At the end of the week hewent up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finishedasked whether he would come and sit to him one day."I'm not a model," the Spaniard answered. "I have other things to do nextweek.""Come and have luncheon with me now, and we'll talk about it," saidPhilip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: "It won't hurtyou to lunch with me."With a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to acremerie. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent but difficult tofollow, and Philip managed to get on well enough with him. He found outthat he was a writer. He had come to Paris to write novels and kepthimself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; hegave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chieflybusiness documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his finefigure. Sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the last weekwas enough to keep him for two more; he told Philip, amazed, that he couldlive easily on two francs a day; but it filled him with shame that he wasobliged to show his body for money, and he looked upon sitting as adegradation which only hunger could excuse. Philip explained that he didnot want him to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to doa portrait of him which he might send to the next Salon."But why should you want to paint me?" asked the Spaniard.Philip answered that the head interested him, he thought he could do agood portrait."I can't afford the time. I grudge every minute that I have to rob from mywriting.""But it would only be in the afternoon. I work at the school in themorning. After all, it's better to sit to me than to do translations oflegal documents."There were legends in the Latin quarter of a time when students ofdifferent countries lived together intimately, but this was long sincepassed, and now the various nations were almost as much separated as in anOriental city. At Julian's and at the Beaux Arts a French student waslooked upon with disfavour by his fellow-countrymen when he consorted withforeigners, and it was difficult for an Englishman to know more than quitesuperficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he dwelt.Indeed, many of the students after living in Paris for five years knew nomore French than served them in shops and lived as English a life asthough they were working in South Kensington.Philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to getin touch with a Spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome theman's reluctance."I'll tell you what I'll do," said the Spaniard at last. "I'll sit to you,but not for money, for my own pleasure."Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arrangedthat he should come on the following Monday at one o'clock. He gave Philipa card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria.Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowedfifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little moreexpensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; butgave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning hisliving in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as arepresentative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada,Velasquez and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur ofhis country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was theonly country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world."Spain is dead," he cried. "It has no writers, it has no art, it hasnothing."Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed hisambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. Hewas under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. Hetold Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; thenaive obscenity--c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie, he cried--thenaive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of theanecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denyinghimself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris,fighting with starvation for art's sake, determined that nothing shouldhinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic."But why don't you write about Spain?" cried Philip. "It would be so muchmore interesting. You know the life.""But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life."One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French,translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcelyunderstand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, lookedat the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow wastrivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but theobvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of asitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all verywell to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that waswhen people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and itdistressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he hadeverything to make a good writer but talent. Philip looked at his ownwork. How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether youwere wasting your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could nothelp you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of FannyPrice; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will wasextraordinary."If I thought I wasn't going to be really good, I'd rather give uppainting," said Philip. "I don't see any use in being a second-ratepainter."Then one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to himthat there was a letter. Nobody wrote to him but his Aunt Louisa andsometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know. The letterwas as follows:Please come at once when you get this. I couldn't put up with it any more.Please come yourself. I can't bear the thought that anyone else shouldtouch me. I want you to have everything.F. PriceI have not had anything to eat for three days.Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house in whichshe lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at all. He had not seenher for months and imagined she had long since returned to England. Whenhe arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in."Yes, I've not seen her go out for two days."Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply. He calledher name. The door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was inthe lock."Oh, my God, I hope she hasn't done something awful," he cried aloud.He ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room. He hadhad a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. He suggestedbreaking open the door. The porter, who had been sullen and disinclined tolisten, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of breakinginto the room; they must go for the commissaire de police. They walkedtogether to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith. Philip foundthat Miss Price had not paid the last quarter's rent: on New Year's Dayshe had not given the concierge the present which old-established customled him to regard as a right. The four of them went upstairs, and theyknocked again at the door. There was no reply. The locksmith set to work,and at last they entered the room. Philip gave a cry and instinctivelycovered his eyes with his hands. The wretched woman was hanging with arope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed bysome previous tenant to hold up the curtains of the bed. She had moved herown little bed out of the way and had stood on a chair, which had beenkicked away. it was lying on its side on the floor. They cut her down. Thebody was quite cold.