I went directly from Miss St. Denis’ to the school. I asked to speak to
Mr. Lawton, the master, and he came out to the little anteroom and
looked at me sharply while I spoke. I knew my voice was trembling but I
said as bravely as I could:
“I have come from Miss St. Denis. She is ill; but I will take her
place.”
“You have posed nude before?” he asked, his eye seeming to scan me from
head to foot.
“I am a professional model,” I answered.
“Hm! Yes, I think you will do.”
I was behind the screen. I had taken off all of my clothes, and I was
wrapped up in the wrapper which I found to be very dirty. I wondered how
many girls had wrapped it about them.
I could hear the students entering the class-room. I peeped out, and
already there were about fifteen men of various ages, and there were
about thirty easels and stools. More students were coming in. There was
one elderly man with white hair, and two young boys, one only about
thirteen. He looked like my little brother, Randle. I began to redress.
I could never go out before those men and the little boy! Merciful God,
no!
Then I remembered my promise to Miss Darling. I thought of my father,
who was ill, of Ada’s insistent demands, of my empty pocketbook, and
then I thought of the bottle that Miss St. Denis had given to me. I
undressed again. I heard a voice saying:
“Where’s the model?”
Then the voice of the monitor called sharply: “Pose! Pose, please!”
I drained that bottle dry. I stepped from behind that screen. I walked
up to the platform, and I flung off the wrapper. I heard a voice saying,
as from a distance:
“Stand a little to the left.” I obeyed.
“Take some poses,” said the voice. I obeyed.
I stood there immovable. I felt like a slave who was to be burned as an
offering by some savages. It seemed as if I were turning to stone. There
was a vague ringing in my ears, and then, as Miss St. Denis had
foretold, I forgot that class. I did not see it. I was back in
Hochelaga, and Charles was dragging me along on a sleigh. The snow was
thick on our clothes. Mama was brushing it off. Charles was pulling off
his mittens, and I heard him say to mama--as, oh! he had said a hundred
years ago, it seemed--“Mama, I’ll never take that Marion with me again.
When we pass the Catholic store with all those images of saints, she
makes me so ashamed. She will stop to look at the naked Jesuses. I
couldn’t make her come away.”
“Rest! Rest!”
The voice of the monitor! I awoke. Mechanically I pulled the wrapper
over me. Somebody said:
“The model is crying.”
I walked behind the screen. My head still swam, and I still saw dim
visions of my home. I seemed to have been there only five seconds--it
was five minutes--when again came the command:
“Pose!”
Now I felt angry. I stepped on that stage again, and once more I threw
off the wrapper. Somebody said:
“Put the left foot further back.”
My anger was mounting. The dream had all vanished and I was conscious
only of a vague fury. I know not why, but, oh! I hated all of those men.
They were looking at me, I thought, like cruel tormentors. I wanted to
hurt them all, as they were hurting me. Their intent looks, some with
their eyes narrowed to see better, others measuring me with a plumb
string, seemed to be mocking at my pain. Somebody said:
“She looks cross.”
I seized the wrapper and savagely I wrapped it about me. I ran for the
screen, shouting:
“Oh! you devils! You beasts! You shall not torment me any more.”
Again I was behind the screen, and with mad, hurrying, fumbling hands I
was dressing myself. There was the scraping of boots and stools, and
several whistles from the class-room, after that first silence.
Then the master came behind the screen.
“What does this mean, Miss Ascough?” he demanded. I was crying bitterly.
“Did anyone say or do anything to offend you? If so, I’ll put him out of
the class.”