Of Human Bondage (34 page)

  Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly
filled his eyes.

  "Oh, my dear, I can't take it," he said. "It's most
awfully good of you, but I couldn't bear to take it."

  When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred
pounds, and this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to
meet any unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy
Christmas and birthday presents for her husband and for Philip. In
the course of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with
the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich
woman and he constantly spoke of the `nest egg.'

  "Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been
extravagant, and there's only that left. But it'll make me so happy
if you'll accept it."

  "But you'll want it," said Philip.

  "No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case
your uncle died before me. I thought it would be useful to have a
little something I could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I
don't think I shall live very much longer now."

  "Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're
going to live for ever. I can't possibly spare you."

  "Oh, I'm not sorry." Her voice broke and she hid her
eyes, but in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. "At first,
I used to pray to God that He might not take me first, because I
didn't want your uncle to be left alone, I didn't want him to have
all the suffering, but now I know that it wouldn't mean so much to
your uncle as it would mean to me. He wants to live more than I do,
I've never been the wife he wanted, and I daresay he'd marry again
if anything happened to me. So I should like to go first. You don't
think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I couldn't bear it if
he went."

  Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not
know why the sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel
strangely ashamed. It was incomprehensible that she should care so
much for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly
self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew his
indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him humbly
all the same.

  "You will take the money, Philip?" she said, gently
stroking his hand. "I know you can do without it, but it'll give me
so much happiness. I've always wanted to do something for you. You
see, I never had a child of my own, and I've loved you as if you
were my son. When you were a little boy, though I knew it was
wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that I
could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and then
it was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only
chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a great
artist you won't forget me, but you'll remember that I gave you
your start."

  "It's very good of you," said Philip. "I'm very
grateful." A smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure
happiness.

  "Oh, I'm so glad."

  A few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to
see Philip off. She stood at the door of the carriage, trying to
keep back her tears. Philip was restless and eager. He wanted to be
gone.

  "Kiss me once more," she said.

  He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The
train started, and she stood on the wooden platform of the little
station, waving her handkerchief till it was out of sight. Her
heart was dreadfully heavy, and the few hundred yards to the
vicarage seemed very, very long. It was natural enough that he
should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and the future
beckoned to him; but she – she clenched her teeth so that she
should not cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God would
guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness
and good fortune.

  But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he
had settled down in his carriage. He thought only of the future. He
had written to Mrs. Otter, the massiere to whom Hayward had given
him an introduction, and had in his pocket an invitation to tea on
the following day. When he arrived in Paris he had his luggage put
on a cab and trundled off slowly through the gay streets, over the
bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin Quarter. He had
taken a room at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which was in a shabby
street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient for
Amitrano's School at which he was going to work. A waiter took his
box up five flights of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny
room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater part of which was
taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over it of red rep;
there were heavy curtains on the windows of the same dingy
material; the chest of drawers served also as a washing-stand; and
there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is connected with
the good King Louis Philippe. The wall-paper was discoloured with
age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on it
garlands of brown leaves. To Philip the room seemed quaint and
charming.

  Though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and,
going out, made his way into the boulevard and walked towards the
light. This led him to the station; and the square in front of it,
vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with the yellow trams that seemed to
cross it in all directions, made him laugh aloud with joy. There
were cafes all round, and by chance, thirsty and eager to get a
nearer sight of the crowd, Philip installed himself at a little
table outside the Cafe de Versailles. Every other table was taken,
for it was a fine night; and Philip looked curiously at the people,
here little family groups, there a knot of men with odd-shaped hats
and beards talking loudly and gesticulating; next to him were two
men who looked like painters with women who Philip hoped were not
their lawful wives; behind him he heard Americans loudly arguing on
art. His soul was thrilled. He sat till very late, tired out but
too happy to move, and when at last he went to bed he was wide
awake; he listened to the manifold noise of Paris.

  Next day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion
de Belfort, and in a new street that led out of the Boulevard
Raspail found Mrs. Otter. She was an insignificant woman of thirty,
with a provincial air and a deliberately lady-like manner; she
introduced him to her mother. He discovered presently that she had
been studying in Paris for three years and later that she was
separated from her husband. She had in her small drawing-room one
or two portraits which she had painted, and to Philip's
inexperience they seemed extremely accomplished.

  "I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well
as that," he said to her.

  "Oh, I expect so," she replied, not without
self-satisfaction. "You can't expect to do everything all at once,
of course."

  She was very kind. She gave him the address of a
shop where he could get a portfolio, drawing-paper, and
charcoal.

  "I shall be going to Amitrano's about nine tomorrow,
and if you'll be there then I'll see that you get a good place and
all that sort of thing."

  She asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt
that he should not let her see how vague he was about the whole
matter.

  "Well, first I want to learn to draw," he said.

  "I'm so glad to hear you say that. People always
want to do things in such a hurry. I never touched oils till I'd
been here for two years, and look at the result."

  She gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a
sticky piece of painting that hung over the piano.

  "And if I were you, I would be very careful about
the people you get to know. I wouldn't mix myself up with any
foreigners. I'm very careful myself."

  Philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed
to him odd. He did not know that he particularly wanted to be
careful.

  "We live just as we would if we were in England,"
said Mrs. Otter's mother, who till then had spoken little. "When we
came here we brought all our own furniture over."

  Philip looked round the room. It was filled with a
massive suite, and at the window were the same sort of white lace
curtains which Aunt Louisa put up at the vicarage in summer. The
piano was draped in Liberty silk and so was the chimney-piece. Mrs.
Otter followed his wandering eye.

  "In the evening when we close the shutters one might
really feel one was in England."

  "And we have our meals just as if we were at home,"
added her mother. "A meat breakfast in the morning and dinner in
the middle of the day."

  When he left Mrs. Otter Philip went to buy drawing
materials; and next morning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem
self-assured, he presented himself at the school. Mrs. Otter was
already there, and she came forward with a friendly smile. He had
been anxious about the reception he would have as a nouveau, for he
had read a good deal of the rough joking to which a newcomer was
exposed at some of the studios; but Mrs. Otter had reassured
him.

  "Oh, there's nothing like that here," she said. "You
see, about half our students are ladies, and they set a tone to the
place."

  The studio was large and bare, with gray walls, on
which were pinned the studies that had received prizes. A model was
sitting in a chair with a loose wrap thrown over her, and about a
dozen men and women were standing about, some talking and others
still working on their sketch. It was the first rest of the
model.

  "You'd better not try anything too difficult at
first," said Mrs. Otter. "Put your easel here. You'll find that's
the easiest pose."

  Philip placed an easel where she indicated, and Mrs.
Otter introduced him to a young woman who sat next to him.

  "Mr. Carey – Miss Price. Mr. Carey's never studied
before, you won't mind helping him a little just at first will
you?" Then she turned to the model. "La Pose."

  The model threw aside the paper she had been
reading, La Petite Republique, and sulkily, throwing off her gown,
got on to the stand. She stood, squarely on both feet with her
hands clasped behind her head.

  "It's a stupid pose," said Miss Price. "I can't
imagine why they chose it."

  When Philip entered, the people in the studio had
looked at him curiously, and the model gave him an indifferent
glance, but now they ceased to pay attention to him. Philip, with
his beautiful sheet of paper in front of him, stared awkwardly at
the model. He did not know how to begin. He had never seen a naked
woman before. She was not young and her breasts were shrivelled.
She had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead untidily,
and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss
Price's work. She had only been working on it two days, and it
looked as though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from
constant rubbing out, and to Philip's eyes the figure looked
strangely distorted.

  "I should have thought I could do as well as that,"
he said to himself.

  He began on the head, thinking that he would work
slowly downwards, but, he could not understand why, he found it
infinitely more difficult to draw a head from the model than to
draw one from his imagination. He got into difficulties. He glanced
at Miss Price. She was working with vehement gravity. Her brow was
wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious look in her eyes.
It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on her forehead.
She was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold hair;
it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from
her forehead and tied in a hurried knot. She had a large face, with
broad, flat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a
singular unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the
cheeks. She had an unwashed air and you could not help wondering if
she slept in her clothes. She was serious and silent. When the next
pause came, she stepped back to look at her work.