Well, what about Laura?
Will you take a peep at Laura in bed with the remains of a cold, on her
chill March birthday—Laura, very sorry for herself, languidly undoing
her presents—miraculously cured by the arrival of The Letter?
You and I, of course, can sympathize—would dearly love a trip to Italy
with the right people. But there we pause.
But be eighteen: be soaked to your crude soul in art, and the literature
and the history and the legend of art, till Colour is your romance and
Line your religion, and gradually, inevitably, Italy, that tenth muse,
grows in your mind as love grows, from a mere word to an idea, from an
idea to a symbol, from a symbol to a real presence that will not be
denied, that calls to you as the Holy Places called to the Crusaders
long ago. And if into the bargain you have been homesick——
Be eighteen and homesick—it is worth your while—before you go to Italy
with Justin and Mrs. Cloud!
Italy and Justin—Justin and Italy! It was beyond belief. One delight,
indeed, so far neutralized the other, that she did at last attain a
state of calm, ‘French calm,’ in which she wound up her affairs, packed
her trunk—she would not travel for a week, but she packed her trunk that
day—and, interviewing the Demoiselles Dunois, broke the miraculous news.
It was almost inevitable, while Life, like Monna Lisa, wears her little
crooked smile, that Laura should have overwhelmed those enthusiasts at
the instant of their assembly to do the like by her. But in the joyous
hubbub of keys and speeds and gesture, their voices, as the elder, soon
rose predominant, and Laura must listen while they detailed, amid
appeals to Monsieur La Motte, benevolent in the seat of honour, their
good-fairy plans.
The English mistress was leaving and Laura should teach in her stead,
unpaid, yet with board and lodging and free mornings in return. That,
they promised, should arrange itself as Monsieur decided, Monsieur who,
with a generosity that was like him, was throwing open his studio to
Laura, asking no more of her than that she should help, when she could,
those whose talent was less than her own. For Monsieur was of opinion
that she had such talent as justified——and so on, until for sheer lack
of breath they paused in delighted anticipation of her delight.
Of course she was grateful, touched and grateful. A week earlier, so
kind had Paris grown, so far at times her England, she might even have
been tempted. But with Mrs. Cloud’s letter tucked away in her blouse,
the words that were rung in her ears, ‘career,’ ‘success,’ ‘ambition,’
‘future,’ could not convey their meaning, died away again as words, mere
words.
But it was kind of them—most extraordinarily kind. She was glad (with
her quick flush) that Monsieur thought she had talent—and of course it
was a lovely idea—but—but—“You see—they have asked me—my friends—to go
to Italy!”
They did not seem to understand.
“Italy! and my friends!” She tried to explain the situation calmly and
decorously; but it was not easy:
“My friends! and I haven’t seen them for two years! My _English_
friends! From my home! I’m to go to Italy—to Florence—Fra
Angelico—Benozzo Gozzoli—six weeks—and perhaps Rome—with my friends—my
English friends!”
She was nearly crying with delight. And then, with quick compunction at
their blank faces—
“But you do understand how grateful I am? I simply hate leaving. You do
understand?”
The sisters assured her that they did understand. She should have her
holiday, and her visit home, and then—she would come back? In two,
three, four months, she would want to come back. Because a talent was a
gift of God—and the school would be so proud—and, who knew, a picture in
the _Salon_! Of course they understood. She should go. But
afterwards—she would come back?
She was bewildered by their solicitude. It was the first time in her
life that affection had come to her unsought. Its display touched her
(that they should actually be fond of her!) but it embarrassed her too.
She could only smile and nod and thank them again and again, and promise
to think over all they had said, and write to them from Italy.
“She will come back,” said the sisters confidently, when at last Laura
had escaped. “So young a thing—her holiday—natural enough! But the
talent is there, as Monsieur says. And talent will out. She will come
back.”
Monsieur La Motte listened to them as he had listened to Laura, in
silence. It was not until coffee had been served and drunk, and the
dregs were cold in his cup, that he delivered himself.
“She will not come back,” he decided with a sigh, as he rose to go.
“You will see! In two months—you will see!” they consoled him
sagaciously.
“She will not come back.”
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