XL

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.

“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 corner 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.”