Of Human Bondage (35 page)

  "I don't know why I'm having so much bother," she
said. "But I mean to get it right." She turned to Philip. "How are
you getting on?"

  "Not at all," he answered, with a rueful smile.

  She looked at what he had done.

  "You can't expect to do anything that way. You must
take measurements. And you must square out your paper."

  She showed him rapidly how to set about the
business. Philip was impressed by her earnestness, but repelled by
her want of charm. He was grateful for the hints she gave him and
set to work again. Meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men,
for the women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of
year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there came in a
young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so
long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip
and nodded across him to Miss Price.

  "You're very late," she said. "Are you only just
up?"

  "It was such a splendid day, I thought I'd lie in
bed and think how beautiful it was out."

  Philip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark
seriously.

  "That seems a funny thing to do, I should have
thought it would be more to the point to get up and enjoy it."

  "The way of the humorist is very hard," said the
young man gravely.

  He did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his
canvas; he was working in colour, and had sketched in the day
before the model who was posing. He turned to Philip.

  "Have you just come out from England?"

  "Yes."

  "How did you find your way to Amitrano's?"

  "It was the only school I knew of."

  "I hope you haven't come with the idea that you will
learn anything here which will be of the smallest use to you."

  "It's the best school in Paris," said Miss Price.
"It's the only one where they take art seriously."

  "Should art be taken seriously?" the young man
asked; and since Miss Price replied only with a scornful shrug, he
added: "But the point is, all schools are bad. They are academical,
obviously. Why this is less injurious than most is that the
teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. Because you learn
nothing...."

  "But why d'you come here then?" interrupted
Philip.

  "I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss
Price, who is cultured, will remember the Latin of that."

  "I wish you would leave me out of your conversation,
Mr. Clutton," said Miss Price brusquely.

  "The only way to learn to paint," he went on,
imperturbable, "is to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight
it out for yourself."

  "That seems a simple thing to do," said Philip.

  "It only needs money," replied Clutton.

  He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the
comer of his eye. He was long and desperately thin; his huge bones
seemed to protrude from his body; his elbows were so sharp that
they appeared to jut out through the arms of his shabby coat. His
trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on each of his boots was a
clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to Philip's
easel.

  "If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment,
I'll just help you a little," she said.

  "Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour," said
Clutton, looking meditatively at his canvas, "but she detests me
because I have genius."

  He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen
nose made what he said very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh,
but Miss Price grew darkly red with anger.

  "You're the only person who has ever accused you of
genius."

  "Also I am the only person whose opinion is of the
least value to me."

  Miss Price began to criticise what Philip had done.
She talked glibly of anatomy and construction, planes and lines,
and of much else which Philip did not understand. She had been at
the studio a long time and knew the main points which the masters
insisted upon, but though she could show what was wrong with
Philip's work she could not tell him how to put it right.

  "It's awfully kind of you to take so much trouble
with me," said Philip.

  "Oh, it's nothing," she answered, flushing
awkwardly. "People did the same for me when I first came, I'd do it
for anyone."

  "Miss Price wants to indicate that she is giving you
the advantage of her knowledge from a sense of duty rather than on
account of any charms of your person," said Clutton.

  Miss Price gave him a furious look, and went back to
her own drawing. The clock struck twelve, and the model with a cry
of relief stepped down from the stand.

  Miss Price gathered up her things.

  "Some of us go to Gravier's for lunch," she said to
Philip, with a look at Clutton. "I always go home myself."

  "I'll take you to Gravier's if you like," said
Clutton.

  Philip thanked him and made ready to go. On his way
out Mrs. Otter asked him how he had been getting on.

  "Did Fanny Price help you?" she asked. "I put you
there because I know she can do it if she likes. She's a
disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she can't draw herself at all,
but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful to a newcomer if she
cares to take the trouble."

  On the way down the street Clutton said to him:

  "You've made an impression on Fanny Price. You'd
better look out."

  Philip laughed. He had never seen anyone on whom he
wished less to make an impression. They came to the cheap little
restaurant at which several of the students ate, and Clutton sat
down at a table at which three or four men were already seated. For
a franc, they got an egg, a plate of meat, cheese, and a small
bottle of wine. Coffee was extra. They sat on the pavement, and
yellow trams passed up and down the boulevard with a ceaseless
ringing of bells.

  "By the way, what's your name?" said Clutton, as
they took their seats.

  "Carey."

  "Allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend,
Carey by name," said Clutton gravely. "Mr. Flanagan, Mr.
Lawson."

  They laughed and went on with their conversation.
They talked of a thousand things, and they all talked at once. No
one paid the smallest attention to anyone else. They talked of the
places they had been to in the summer, of studios, of the various
schools; they mentioned names which were unfamiliar to Philip,
Monet, Manet, Renoir, Pissarro, Degas. Philip listened with all his
ears, and though he felt a little out of it, his heart leaped with
exultation. The time flew. When Clutton got up he said:

  "I expect you'll find me here this evening if you
care to come. You'll find this about the best place for getting
dyspepsia at the lowest cost in the Quarter."

  Philip walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It
was not at all like the Paris he had seen in the spring during his
visit to do the accounts of the Hotel St. Georges – he thought
already of that part of his life with a shudder – but reminded him
of what he thought a provincial town must be. There was an
easy-going air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which invited the
mind to day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid
whiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he
felt himself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along,
staring at the people; there seemed an elegance about the most
ordinary, workmen with their broad red sashes and their wide
trousers, little soldiers in dingy, charming uniforms. He came
presently to the Avenue de l'Observatoire, and he gave a sigh of
pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He came to the
gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with long
ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with
satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The scene was
formal and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so
exquisitely, that nature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric.
Philip was enchanted. It excited him to stand on that spot of which
he had read so much; it was classic ground to him; and he felt the
awe and the delight which some old don might feel when for the
first time he looked on the smiling plain of Sparta.

  As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting
by herself on a bench. He hesitated, for he did not at that moment
want to see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid
the happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her
sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it
would be polite to speak to her.

  "What are you doing here?" she said, as he came
up.

  "Enjoying myself. Aren't you?"

  "Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I
don't think one does any good if one works straight through."

  "May I sit down for a minute?" he said.

  "If you want to."

  "That doesn't sound very cordial," he laughed.

  "I'm not much of a one for saying pretty
things."

  Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit
a cigarette.

  "Did Clutton say anything about my work?" she asked
suddenly.

  "No, I don't think he did," said Philip.

  "He's no good, you know. He thinks he's a genius,
but he isn't. He's too lazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite
capacity for taking pains. The only thing is to peg away. If one
only makes up one's mind badly enough to do a thing one can't help
doing it."

  She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was
rather striking. She wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white
blouse which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt. She had no
gloves on, and her hands wanted washing. She was so unattractive
that Philip wished he had not begun to talk to her. He could not
make out whether she wanted him to stay or go.

  "I'll do anything I can for you," she said all at
once, without reference to anything that had gone before. "I know
how hard it is."

  "Thank you very much," said Philip, then in a
moment: "Won't you come and have tea with me somewhere?"

  She looked at him quickly and flushed. When she
reddened her pasty skin acquired a curiously mottled look, like
strawberries and cream that had gone bad.

  "No, thanks. What d'you think I want tea for? I've
only just had lunch."

  "I thought it would pass the time," said Philip.

  "If you find it long you needn't bother about me,
you know. I don't mind being left alone."

  At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens,
enormous trousers, and basque caps. They were young, but both wore
beards.

  "I say, are those art-students?" said Philip. "They
might have stepped out of the Vie de Boheme."

  "They're Americans," said Miss Price scornfully.
"Frenchmen haven't worn things like that for thirty years, but the
Americans from the Far West buy those clothes and have themselves
photographed the day after they arrive in Paris. That's about as
near to art as they ever get. But it doesn't matter to them,
they've all got money."

  Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the
Americans' costume; he thought it showed the romantic spirit. Miss
Price asked him the time.

  "I must be getting along to the studio," she said.
"Are you going to the sketch classes?"

  Philip did not know anything about them, and she
told him that from five to six every evening a model sat, from whom
anyone who liked could go and draw at the cost of fifty centimes.
They had a different model every day, and it was very good
practice.

  "I don't suppose you're good enough yet for that.
You'd better wait a bit."

  "I don't see why I shouldn't try. I haven't got
anything else to do."

  They got up and walked to the studio. Philip could
not tell from her manner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with
her or preferred to walk alone. He remained from sheer
embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her; but she would not
talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious manner.