1
THE girls came back from inspecting the mysteries behind the screen,
Rose-Ann’s enthusiasm undiminished. “Where is the agent?” she demanded.
“We must get this place right away, before somebody else does.... You
want it, don’t you, Felix?”
“Oh, I wanted it all along,” said Felix. “Only—”
“You didn’t think I would? Oh, Felix! It’s just our kind of place. And
twelve dollars a month! And that lovely stove!”
“How much do you want for the stove?” Felix asked the girl.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the girl. “Your wife and I have settled
that between us.”
“She’s given us the stove for a wedding-present!” said Rose-Ann. “I
tried to buy it, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“It’s no good to me any more,” said the girl defensively. “And do you
mind if I leave behind that old model stand? You can knock it to pieces
and make kindling of it. And speaking of kindling, there’s a little left
there in that box, and about one shovelful of coal. I’m sorry there
isn’t more to start you off with.”
“You’re a dear to be so generous,” said Rose-Ann. “And you _will_ come
to see us?” She turned to Felix. “Her name is Dorothy Sheridan. She
rather likes us, I think, Felix. And I like her very much!”
Felix and the girl shook hands rather awkwardly. “I take back all I said
about your wife,” said Dorothy. “Hey, you!”—to the moving man who was
lounging at the door—“that’s all. The stove and the other things stay
here. You’ve got the address. I’ll be there to take in the stuff when it
comes.” She held out her hand to Rose-Ann. “Good-bye. I’ll drop in some
evening when you’ve got more or less settled. Good-bye!”
2
Felix and Rose-Ann went to the landlord and were confirmed in their
possession of the studio. They put up the Franklin stove again, and
built a fire with the remains of Dorothy’s kindling and coal, and sat
there till twilight, on the low model-stand, furnishing the room in
imagination.
Felix was feeling a curious emotion which was at once an immense relief
and a dim perturbation. He felt now that he had never wanted to live in
an ordinary apartment. He could sympathize now with all the indignant
things Rose-Ann had been saying about such places. It would have meant a
kind of surrender—a giving up to outward form of the special quality of
their lives.... But he had been willing to surrender. It was strange now
to realize, but it was true—he had felt that very surrender to be a part
of marriage, of adjusting himself to the world of actuality. Yes, he had
thought that he and Rose-Ann had to live cooped up together in a little
domestic cage like other married people.
And instead they were to remain free!
For that was what living in a studio meant. They would not subordinate
their individual lives to a domestic arrangement. On the contrary, all
their domestic arrangements were pushed into the background. This was
first of all a place for them to do their work in.
They planned for their work-tables first of all—two enormous tables that
one could fill with papers and books to one’s heart’s content, and that
never were to be disturbed, no matter how messy they looked: these, one
on either side of the room, up by the front windows. And then, books—all
the books they would ever want, ranged on two long shelves along the
side-walls. And then two large beds, at the back of the studio, behind
the screen—two, so that they could work as late at night as they wished
and go to bed without disturbing each other. And a settle in front of
the fire, and chairs—ordinary kitchen chairs that they would paint in
bright colours—for rest and talk and friends. And a gate-legged table
that could be pushed out of the way after dinner, if they dined at home.
And a tiny gas-range, and a cupboard for dishes. Coloured dishes they
would be—no two alike. “I hate sets of dishes as much as I hate sets of
books,” said Rose-Ann.... And a tiny gas-range.
That gas-range was to be their least and last possession, not they its
slaves!
No, they would be two artists who lived together because they loved each
other, who ate when they were hungry, slept when a chapter was finished,
and cooked when they thought it would be fun to eat at home!
“For instance,” said Rose-Ann, “it would be fun to get dinner here
tonight, but we can’t. But I’ll tell you—let’s early in the morning go
and buy beds and dishes and things, so we can move right in.”
“Why not have dinner here tonight?” said Felix. “We can get it at a
delicatessen and eat it with our fingers!”
“The electricity has been turned off—we can’t eat in the dark,” she said
wistfully.
“We’ll buy some candles!”
“Of course!” said Rose-Ann.
They bought candles, and bread and butter, which Felix cut and spread
with his pocket-knife, and a variety of delicatessen. They made a
table-cloth out of a newspaper spread on the model-stand, and sat on the
floor and ate with their fingers, laughing. It made this all the more
their home, thus to pioneer in it the first night.... They put on the
last of Dorothy’s coal, and then sat side by side on the bare
comfortless model-stand, and, still unable to go away, talked for hours
of what they would buy tomorrow, and where they would put it, while the
grate cast flickering and changing lights on the ceiling. Then the fire
died down, and the room became cold, and they could hear the wind
roaring outside, and still they sat there, huddled together for warmth.
Rose-Ann fell asleep at last with her head on Felix’s shoulder and a
strand of her red hair against his lips. She slept, and shivered ... and
he awoke her with kisses. And only then, and reluctantly, they went back
to their hotel.
------------------------------------------------------------------------