"I am accompanying my cousin, Miss Lorimer"--this was the stage name by
which she was known--"in order to paint the pose of one of my sitters. I
want more vibrating actuality, and hope to sketch it here."
"Mais certainement--of course. Ze beauty of ze human form is never so
fine as when it moves to my vish. You vill see."
Laura entered in a short, fan-pleated frock with black silk
knickerbockers, and lacy frills shrouding the knees. Her silken hose and
shiny pumps make her already graceful as she chassed by way of
experiment across the bare boards from the orange-toothed piano at one
end to the camp chairs at the other. The ballet-master made his way to a
small conservatory--a hospital for effete bulbs and straggling, deformed
geraniums--and snatching up a watering-can laid the dust which already
began to thicken the air.
Then operations began. To me they were deeply interesting, because
Betty's face and form were continually before my eyes, and the one thing
wanting to make my work a chef-d'oeuvre was, I hoped, on the verge of
discovery. Laura placed herself in an attitude, glanced at her
instructor, who had armed himself with a fiddle, and with its first
tones commenced a series of evolutions. Sketch-book in hand, I followed
her movements, now noting a six-step shuffle straight a-down the length
of the boards; now sketching the action of her arms, which, balancing
that of the feet, swayed inversely with every bend of the knees. Then
came an etherealised milkmaid step that might have been termed an arm
akimbo gallop had not the two wrists been pressed abnormally forward
against the waist, with their pink palms glowing outwards. In this pose
poor Laura's limbs looked obdurate as sawdust, while Betty's had bent
like wax to the will of the modeller. Meanwhile, the fiddle fluttered,
and the master now and then exemplified the grace of any particular
attitude he desired. You could observe his beautiful build, the symmetry
of every movement, despite the impediment of two gouty-looking feet
encased in cloth-covered boots of original design. His features were
certainly distinguished, and the trimness of his prematurely blanched
hair made a curious contrast to the general dilapidation of the
surroundings. His poses, one quickly following the other, were all
picturesque. With every turn of the head, or bend of a knee, or stretch
of an arm, some fresh revelation of physical equipoise delighted the
eye.
Laura went through various new movements of a Spanish Carmen-like
fandango with head uplifted and a bravura pout of the chin, after which
we preceded her through the dressing-room, where she was left to
readjust her walking dress. A sense of disappointment weighed on me. All
these attitudes, all these evolutions I had seen in their perfection
through the medium of Betty. No grace of motion could equal hers, no
actuality portrayed by another could be half as exquisite as even the
baldest reminiscence of her.
On the wall of the little bed-chamber where M. Dupres courteously
accompanied me were many photographs, faded but still recognisable, of
himself dressed in tights or other theatrical frippery. He took evident
pleasure in watching my appreciation of the curious attitudes in
which--to show off in their fullest perfection the lithe muscles and
magnificent symmetry of his agile frame--he had been portrayed.
"You must have danced a great deal?" I questioned, seeing that some
remark was required of me.
"Danced!" he said, lifting his eyes to the smudgy ceiling. "Yes, it is
feefteen year ago, but I remember it like jesterday. All overe in vone
moment; a coup de fouet ve call it."