Chapter XLIV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　But notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered totake him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. Helooked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read tillhe knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater has addedbeauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeatedto Miss Price."That's all literature," she said, a little contemptuously. "You must getaway from that."She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things aboutthem. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus."When you feel the beauty of that," she said, "you'll know something aboutpainting."She showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price wasa peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished,and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She wasdesperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing inthe Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny,and urbane, like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed:"I say, how jolly! Do let's stop here a minute."She said, indifferently: "Yes, it's all right. But we've come here to lookat pictures."The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towardsmid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the Louvre, he felt inclinedto cry like Flanagan: To hell with art."I say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the Boul' Mich' andhave a snack together, shall we?" he suggested.Miss Price gave him a suspicious look."I've got my lunch waiting for me at home," she answered."That doesn't matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you alunch.""I don't know why you want to.""It would give me pleasure," he replied, smiling.They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St. Michelthere was a restaurant."Let's go in there.""No, I won't go there, it looks too expensive."She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few stepsbrought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were alreadylunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced inlarge white letters: Dejeuner 1.25, vin compris."We couldn't have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite allright."They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was thefirst article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed with delight upon thepassers-by. His heart went out to them. He was tired but very happy."I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn't he ripping!"He glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she was lookingdown at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavytears were rolling down her cheeks."What on earth's the matter?" he exclaimed."If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once," she answered.He was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came.He divided it in two and they began to eat. Philip did his best to talk ofindifferent things, and it seemed as though Miss Price were making aneffort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether asuccess. Philip was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate tookhis appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beastin a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the platewith pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wishto lose a single drop of gravy. They had Camembert cheese, and itdisgusted Philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that wasgiven her. She could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving.Miss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day withfriendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not besulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she couldnot draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constantsuggestions helped his progress. Mrs. Otter was useful to him too, andsometimes Miss Chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glibloquacity of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hatedhim to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked herhelp after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse withbrutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson, Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed himabout her."You be careful, my lad," they said, "she's in love with you.""Oh, what nonsense," he laughed.The thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was preposterous.It made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggledhair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained andragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, butshe might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle andthread to make her skirt tidy.Philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown incontact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed solong ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interestin humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticise. He found itdifficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for threemonths than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impressionat the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do greatthings, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was goingto do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. He had worked at severalstudios before Amitrano's, at Julian's, the Beaux Arts, and MacPherson's,and was remaining longer at Amitrano's than anywhere because he foundhimself more left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlikemost of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gaveadvice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue CampagnePremiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room, he had wonderfulpictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced toexhibit them. He could not afford a model but painted still life, andLawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was amasterpiece. He was fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quitefully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhapsa part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, aglass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it,destroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselvesto see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a singlepicture to show. In Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody elsehad heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken uppainting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. He wasturning his back on the impressionists and working out for himselfpainfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. Philipfelt in him something strangely original.At Gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or atthe Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He satquietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only whenthe opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and wasmost cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise hissarcasm. He seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with theone or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered whetherthere was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him,the pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no morethan an effective mask which covered nothing.With Lawson on the other hand Philip soon grew intimate. He had a varietyof interests which made him an agreeable companion. He read more than mostof the students and though his income was small, loved to buy books. Helent them willingly; and Philip became acquainted with Flaubert andBalzac, with Verlaine, Heredia, and Villiers de l'Isle Adam. They went toplays together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opera Comique. Therewas the Odeon quite near them, and Philip soon shared his friend's passionfor the tragedians of Louis XIV and the sonorous Alexandrine. In the RueTaitbout were the Concerts Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes theycould hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it wasquite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place wascrowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in theiryoung enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they went to the BalBullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied them. His excitabilityand his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. He was an excellent dancer,and before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing roundwith some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made.The desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of theparaphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave consideration in theeyes of one's fellows. It was something to boast about. But the difficultywas that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and thoughthey argued that French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep twothen one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing totake that view of the circumstances. They had to content themselves forthe most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protectionfrom painters of more settled respectability than their own. It wasextraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson wouldbecome acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; fortwenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer atlength to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at thetime fixed. He would come to Gravier's very late, ill-tempered, andexclaim:"Confound it, another rabbit! I don't know why it is they don't like me.I suppose it's because I don't speak French well, or my red hair. It's toosickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold ofanyone.""You don't go the right way to work," said Flanagan.He had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though theytook leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledgethat he did not altogether lie. But he sought no permanent arrangement. Heonly had two years in Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him comeand study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that periodhe was to return to Seattle and go into his father's business. He had madeup his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demandedvariety rather than duration in his love affairs."I don't know how you get hold of them," said Lawson furiously."There's no difficulty about that, sonny," answered Flanagan. "You just goright in. The difficulty is to get rid of them. That's where you wanttact."Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, theplays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with thedesire for female society. He thought there would be plenty of time forthat when he could speak French more glibly.It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and duringhis first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she hadwritten to him just before he left Blackstable. When another came, knowingit would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood forthem, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and didnot run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out adrawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked at theunopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson hadsuffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probablygot over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. It suggesteditself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions.These did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up hismind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had notwritten for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. Hemade up his mind not to read the letter."I daresay she won't write again," he said to himself. "She can't helpseeing the thing's over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother;she ought to have known better."For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude wasobviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling ofdissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did notwrite again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paristo make him ridiculous before his friends. In a little while he cleanforgot her.Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with which atfirst he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed toadmiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as therest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph ofa drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia.They were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he couldcontemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positivelythat there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt areal thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt's Disciples at Emmaus orVelasquez' Lady with the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name,but by that she was distinguished at Gravier's to emphasise the picture'sbeauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter'sappearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside hisbowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn oncoming to Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat,a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked along theBoulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and byvirtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. Hewas letting his hair grow, and it was only because Nature is unkind andhas no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempta beard.