Chapter LI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Two months passed.It seemed to Philip, brooding over these matters, that in the truepainters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove them to suchcomplete absorption in their work as to make it inevitable for them tosubordinate life to art. Succumbing to an influence they never realised,they were merely dupes of the instinct that possessed them, and lifeslipped through their fingers unlived. But he had a feeling that life wasto be lived rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the variousexperiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion that itoffered. He made up his mind at length to take a certain step and abide bythe result, and, having made up his mind, he determined to take the stepat once. Luckily enough the next morning was one of Foinet's days, and heresolved to ask him point-blank whether it was worth his while to go onwith the study of art. He had never forgotten the master's brutal adviceto Fanny Price. It had been sound. Philip could never get Fanny entirelyout of his head. The studio seemed strange without her, and now and thenthe gesture of one of the women working there or the tone of a voice wouldgive him a sudden start, reminding him of her: her presence was morenoticuble?? now she was dead than it had ever been during her life; and heoften dreamed of her at night, waking with a cry of terror. it washorrible to think of all the suffering she must have endured.Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at alittle restaurant in the Rue d'Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so thathe could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip walked upand down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, withbent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself togo up to him."Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment."Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile agreeting."Speak," he said."I've been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to askyou to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue."Philip's voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without lookingup. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it."I don't understand.""I'm very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else.""Don't you know if you have talent?""All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them aremistaken."Foinet's bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked:"Do you live near here?"Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round."Let us go there? You shall show me your work.""Now?" cried Philip."Why not?"Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master's side. Hefelt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to seehis things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to preparehimself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whetherhe might bring them to Foinet's studio. He was trembling with anxiety. Inhis heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that raresmile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip's hand and say:"Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You have talent, real talent." Philip's heartswelled at the thought. It was such a relief, such a joy! Now he could goon with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, anddisappointment, if he arrived at last? He had worked very hard, it wouldbe too cruel if all that industry were futile. And then with a start heremembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that. They arrived atthe house, and Philip was seized with fear. If he had dared he would haveasked Foinet to go away. He did not want to know the truth. They went inand the concierge handed him a letter as they passed. He glanced at theenvelope and recognised his uncle's handwriting. Foinet followed him upthe stairs. Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and thesilence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without aword placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinetnodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he hadmade of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted atMoret, and a number of sketches."That's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh.Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it."You have very little private means?" he asked at last."Very little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at hisheart. "Not enough to live on.""There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's meansof livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despisemoney. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense withoutwhich you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without anadequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The onlything to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling forthe shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the bestspur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh.They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endlesshumiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. Itis not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, towork unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with allmy heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirelydependent for subsistence upon his art."Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown."I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much chance."Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders."You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverancethere is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetentpainter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds whopainted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I seeindustry and intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre."Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily."I'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can't thankyou enough."Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and,stopping, put his hand on Philip's shoulder."But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage inboth hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, butlet me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if someone hadgiven me that advice when I was your age and I had taken it."Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into asmile, but his eyes remained grave and sad."It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. Itdoes not improve the temper."He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out ofthe room.Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of hishandwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him.She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go overto England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work,had refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; shesaid she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stayat the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worseshe would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing himagain. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill tohold a pen. Philip opened the letter. it ran as follows:My dear Philip,I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early thismorning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change for theworse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was fullyprepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance ofa blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of ourblessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be present atthe funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you can. There isnaturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and I am very muchupset. I trust that you will be able to do everything for me.Your affectionate uncle,William Carey.