Chapter 40

第四十章

数日之后，凯里太太去车站给菲利普送行。她伫立在车厢门口，噙泪忍泣。菲利普显得急切而不安，巴不得早点插翅高飞。

"再吻我一下，"她说。

菲利普将身子探出车窗，吻了吻她。火车启动了。她站在小车站的木制月台上，频频挥动手绢，直至火车消失在视野之外。她心头像压上了铅块，沉重得很。回牧师公馆的路程总共才几百码，却似有千里之遥。她边走边沉思：菲利普这孩子，也难怪他那么迫不及待地要走，他毕竟年轻，未来在向他召唤。可她自己--她紧咬牙关，强忍着不哭出来。她默默祈祷，求上帝暗中保佑菲利普，让他免受诱惑，赐予他幸福和好运。

可是菲利普在车厢里坐定身子，不多一会就把他伯母撇在脑后。他心里充满着对未来的憧憬。他写过一封信给奥特太太某美术学校的司库，海沃德曾向她介绍过菲利普的情况，这时菲利普口袋里还揣着奥特太太邀他明天去喝茶的请帖。到了巴黎，他雇了辆小马车，让人把行李放到车上。马车徐徐行进，穿过五光十色的街道，爬过大桥，驶入拉丁区的狭街陋巷。菲利普在"两极"旅社已租下一个房问。这家旅馆坐落在离蒙帕纳斯大街不远的一条穷陋小街上，从这里到他学画的阿米特拉诺美术学校还算方便。一位侍者把行李搬上五楼，菲利普被领进一间小房间，里面窗户关得严严的，一进门就闻到股霉味。房间大部分地盘都叫一张大木床给占了。床上蒙着大红棱纹平布帐幔，窗上挂着同样布料制成的、厚实但已失去光泽的窗帘。五斗橱兼用作脸盆架，另外还有一只结实的大衣柜，其式样令人联想起那位贤明君主路易·腓力普。房间里的糊墙纸因年深日久，原来的颜色已褪尽，现呈深灰色，不过从纸上还能依稀辨认出村有棕色树叶的花环图案。菲利普觉得这房间布置得富有奇趣，令人销魂。

夜已深沉，菲利普却兴奋得难以成眠。他索性出了旅馆，走上大街，朝华灯辉门处信步逛去。他不知不觉来到火车站。车站前面的广场，在几盏弧光灯的照耀下，显得生趣盎然，黄颜色的有轨电车，似乎是从四面八方涌至广场，又丁丁当当地横穿而过。菲利普注视着这一切，禁不住快活地笑出声来。广场四周开设了不少咖啡馆。他正巧有点口渴，加上也很想把街上的人群看个仔细，于是就在凡尔赛啡咖馆外面的露天小餐桌旁坐下。今晚夜色迷人，其他餐桌上都已坐满了人，菲利普用好奇的目光打量着周围的人群：这边是家人在团聚小饮，那边坐着一伙头上戴着奇形怪状的帽子、下巴上蓄着大胡子的男子，他们一边粗声大气地拉呱，一边不住地指手划脚；邻坐的两个男子看上去像是画家，身边还坐着妇人，菲利普心想，她们不是画家的结发之妻才妙呢；背后，他听到有几个美国人在高谈阔论，争辩着有关艺术的问题。菲利普心弦震颤。他就这么坐在那儿，一直到很晚才恋恋不舍地离去，尽管筋疲力尽，心里却美滋滋的。等他最后好不容易上了床，却心清神爽，倦意全无。他侧耳谛听着巴黎夜生活的鼎沸喧嚣。

第二天下午喝茶时分，菲利普动身去贝尔福狮子街，在一条由拉斯帕依大街向外延伸的新铺筑的马路上，找到了奥特太太的寓所，奥特太太是个三十岁光景的微不足道的妇人，仪态粗俗，却硬摆出一副贵夫人的派头。她把菲利普介绍给她母亲。没聊上几句，菲利普就了解到她已在巴黎学了三年美术，后来又知道她已同丈夫分道扬镳。小小的起居室里，挂着一两幅出自她手笔的肖像画。菲利普毕竟不是个行家，在他看来，这些画尽善至美，功力已到了炉火纯青的地步。

"不知可有那么一天，我也能画出同样出色的画来，"他感叹地说。

"哦，我看你准行，"她不无得意地应道。"当然罗，一锹挖不出个井来，得一步步来嘛。"

她想得很周到，特地给了他一家商店的地址，说从那儿可以买到画夹、图画纸和炭笔等用品。

"明天上午九点左右我要去阿米特拉诺画室，如果你也在那时候到那儿，我可以设法给你找个好位子，帮你张罗点别的什么。"

她问菲利普具体想干些什么，菲利普觉得不能让她看出自己对整个事儿至今还没个明确的打算。

"嗯，我想先从素描着手，"他说。

"听你这么说我很高兴。一般人总是好高骛远，急于求成。拿我来说，到这儿呆了两年，才敢去试几笔油彩。至于效果如何，你自个儿瞧吧。"

奥特太太朝排在钢琴上方的一幅黏糊糊的油画瞟了一眼，那是幅她母亲的肖像。

"我要是你的话，在同陌生人交往时，一定火烛小心，不同外国人在一起厮混。我自己向来言行谨慎，丝毫不敢大意。"

菲利普谢谢她的忠告。但说实在的，这番话菲利普听了好生奇怪，他不明白自己干吗非要做个瞻前顾后、谨小慎微的君子呢。

"我们现在过日子，就像留在英国一样，"奥特太太的母亲说，她在一旁几乎一直没开过口。"我们来这儿的时候，把老家所有的家什全都搬了来。"

菲利普环顾四周。房间里塞满了笨实的家具，窗户上挂的那几幅镶花边的白窗帘，同夏天牧师公馆里挂的一模一样。钢琴和壁炉架上都铺着"自由"绸罩布。菲利普东张张西望望，奥特太太的目光也随着来回转动。

"晚上一把百叶窗关上，就真像回到了英国老家似的。"

"我们一日三餐仍然按老家的规矩，"她母亲补充说，"早餐有肉食，正餐放在中午。"

从奥特太太家出来，菲利普便去购置绘画用品。第二天上午，他准九点来到美术学校，竭力装出一副沉着自信的神态。奥特大大已先到一步，这时笑容可掬地迎上前来。菲利普一直在担心，他这个"nouyeau"会受到什么样的接待。他在不少书里看到，乍进画室习画的学生往往会受到别人的无礼捉弄，但是奥特太太的一句话，就使他的满腹疑虑涣然冰释。

"哦，这里可不兴那一套，"她说。"你瞧，我们同学中差不多有一半是女的，这儿是女士们当道呢。"

画室相当宽敞，空荡荡的，四周灰墙上挂着一幅幅获奖习作。一个模特儿正坐在椅子里，身上裹着件宽大的外套。她周围站着十来个男女学生，有的在聊天，有的还在埋头作画。这会儿是模特儿的第一次休息时间。

"一上来，最好先试些难度不太大的东西，"奥特太太说。"把画架放到这边来。你会发现，从这个角度上写生，最讨巧。"

菲利普根据她的指点搁好画架，奥特太太还把他介绍给近旁的一个年轻女子。

"这位是凯里先生。这位是普赖斯小姐。凯里先生以前从未学过画，开头还得有劳您多多点拨，您不会嫌麻烦的吧？"说着，她转身朝模特儿喊了声：La pose。

模特儿正在看《小共和国报》，这时把报纸随手一扔，绷着脸掀掉了外套，跨上画台。她支开双脚，稳稳地站在那里，双手十指交叉，托着后脑勺。

"这姿势够别扭的，"普赖斯小姐说，"真不明白他们怎么偏偏选中这么个怪姿势。"

刚才菲利普进画室时，人们向他投来好奇的目光，模特儿淡漠地瞟了他一眼，现在再没人注意他了。菲利普面前的画架上，铺着一张漂亮挺刮的画纸，他局促不安地注视着模特儿，不知该从何处落笔才好。他还是生平第一次见到裸体女人。这个模特儿年纪不轻了，乳房已趋萎缩，失去了光泽的金发，像一蓬乱草似地耷拉在脑门上，满脸尽是一块块显眼的雀斑。他朝普赖斯小姐的作品瞥了一眼。这幅画她刚画了两天，看来已遇上麻烦。由于她老是用橡皮擦拭，画面已搞得邋里邋遢。在菲利普看来，她笔下的人体全走了样，不知画的啥名堂。

"我早该想到，自己画起来不至于比这更糟吧，"他暗暗对自己说。

他着手先画头部，打算慢慢往下画。但不知怎么的，他发现同样是画头，写生却要比单凭想象作画难得多。他卡住了，再也画不下去。他朝普赖斯小姐瞥了一眼。她正聚精会神、一丝不苟地画着。她心情热切，连眉头都不觉紧蹩起来，目光中流露出焦躁不安的神情。画室里很热，她额头上沁出了一颗颗汗珠。普赖斯小姐今年二十六岁，一头浓密的金褐色柔发，发丝光滑美丽，可惜梳理得很马虎，她把头发打前额往后一挽，草草束成个大发髻。大脸盘上嵌着一对小眼睛，五官宽阔而扁平；皮肤白里泛青，带着几分怪异的病态，双颊不见一丝血色。她看上去像是从来不梳洗打扮似的，人们不禁要纳闷：她晚上没准儿是和衣而睡的呢。她生性沉默，不苟言笑。第二次休息时，她退后一步，端详着自己的大作。

"不知怎么搞的，老是不顺手，"她说，"不过，我也算把心思放在上面了。"她转脸朝菲利普。"你进展如何？"

"糟透了，"菲利普苦笑着应了一声。

她看了看他的画。

"你这么个画法哪成呢！你得先用笔比划一下，然后得在纸上框好轮廓线。一她干净利索地给他示范了一下。她这番真挚情意委实打动了菲利普，可她那毫无韵致的仪态还是让菲利普感到不悦。他感谢了她的热心指点，又重新操起画笔来。到这时候，其他学画的人也都陆陆续续到齐了，这会儿姗姗而来的人大多是男的，因为女的总是一早就来了。今年这时候（虽说季节还早了点），画室已是人满为患。过了一会，走进来一个青年，稀疏的黑发，特大的鼻子，一张长脸不由得叫人联想起马来。他在菲利普身旁坐下，并且隔着菲利普朝普赖斯小姐一点头。

"你怎么这时候才来，"她说，"是不是刚起床？"

"今天是这么个风和日丽的好日子，我想，我得躺在床上，好好想象一下户外的景色有多美。"

菲利普会意一笑。普赖斯小姐却挺顶真，不把这话当玩笑看待。

"这种做法真有点好笑。照我的想法，及早起床，趁天气大好出外逛逛，这才更加在理呢。"

"看来要想当个幽默家还真不容易呢，"那个年轻人一本正经地说。

他似乎还不想立即动笔，只是朝自己的画布望了一眼。他正在给画上水彩，这个模特儿的草图，他昨天就勾勒好了。他转身对菲利普说。

"您刚从英国来吧？"

"是的。"

"你怎么会跑到阿米特拉诺学校来的？"

"我只晓得这么一所美术学校。"

"但愿你来这儿时没存非分之想，以为在这儿可以学到点最起码的有用本事。"

"阿米特拉诺可是巴黎首屈一指的美术学校，"普赖斯小姐说，"这样认认真真对待艺术的学校，还不见有第二所呢。"

"难道对待艺术就非得认真不可？"年轻人问。既然普赖斯小姐的回答只是轻蔑地一耸肩，他也就自顾自往下说了："不过关键还在于：所有的美术学校全都大高而不妙。显然全都学究气十足。而这儿所以为害较浅，就因为这儿的教学比别处更为无能，在这儿啥也学不到手……"

"那您干吗要上这儿来呢？"菲利普插嘴问。

"我找到了捷径坦途，却还是在走老路。普赖斯小姐文化素养很高，一定记得这句话的拉丁语原文吧。"

"希望你谈话时别把我牵扯进去，克拉顿先生，"普赖斯小姐毫不客气地说。

"学习绘画的唯一途径，"他若无其事地继续说，"是租间小画室，雇个模特儿，靠自己闯出条路来。"

"这似乎并不难做到，"菲利普说。

"这可需要钱呐，"克拉顿接口说。

克拉顿开始动笔了，菲利普打眼角里偷偷打量他。只见他高高的个子，瘦得只剩下一把骨头，那宽大的骨架似乎突到肌体的外面；两肘尖削，差不多快要把他破外套的袖管给撑破了。裤子的臀部已经磨破，每只靴子上都打了个难看的补钉。普赖斯小姐站起身，朝着菲利普的画架走过来。

"如果克拉顿先生肯闭上嘴安静一会儿，我就过来帮你一下，"她说。

"普赖斯小姐不喜欢我，是因为我有几分幽默，"克拉顿一边说，一边若有所思地端详自己的画面，"而她讨厌我，则是因为我有几分才气。"

克拉顿煞有介事地说着，菲利普瞧着他那只模样古怪的大鼻子，觉得他的话听上去格外好笑，忍不住噗哧了一声。普赖斯小姐却气得满脸通红。

"这儿除你之外，谁也没埋怨过你有才气。"

"这儿唯独我的意见，我觉得最不足取。"

普赖斯小姐开始品评菲利普的习作。她滔滔不绝地谈到剖视、结构、平面、线条，以及其他许多菲利普一窍不通的东西。她在这儿画室已经呆了好长一段时间，通晓教师们再三强调的绘画要领，她一口气点出了菲利普习作中的各种毛病，然而讲不出个矫枉匡正的道道来。

"多谢你这么不厌其烦地开导我，"菲利普说。

"哦，没什么，"她回答说，不好意思地红了脸。"我刚来这里时，别人也是这么指点我的，不管是谁，我都乐意效劳。"

"普赖斯小姐要想说的是，她向您传经赐教，纯粹是出于责任感，而并非是由于您本人有什么迷人的魅力，"克拉顿说。

普赖斯小姐恶狠狠地白了他一眼，又回到自己的座位上继续画画。

时钟敲了十二下，模特儿如释重负般地叫了一声，从画台上走下来。

普赖斯小姐收拾好自己的画具。

"我们有些人要去格雷维亚餐馆就餐，"她对菲利普说，并乜了克拉顿一眼。"我自己一向是在家里吃午饭的。"

"如果你不介意，就让我陪你去格雷维亚餐馆吧，"克拉顿说。

菲利普道了谢，起身准备离开画室。没走几步，奥特太太过来问他今天学画的情况如何。

"范妮·普赖斯可手把手教你了？"她询问道。"我特意把你安排在她旁边，因为我知道，只要她乐意，她还是有这点能耐的。这个姑娘不怎么讨人喜欢，脾气又坏，她自己也不会作画。不过，她懂得作画的诀窍，只要她不嫌麻烦，倒可以给新来者指点一下迷津的。"

他们走上大街的时候，克拉顿对菲利普说：

"范妮·普赖斯对你的印象不错，你最好留神点。"

菲利普哈哈大笑。对她那样的女人，他压根儿没想到要留下什么好印象。他们来到一家经济小餐馆，画室的几个学生正坐在那儿用餐，克拉顿在一张餐桌旁坐下，那儿已经坐了三四个人。在这儿，花一个法郎，可以吃到一只鸡蛋、一碟子肉，外加奶酪和一小瓶酒。要喝咖啡，则须另外付钱。他们就坐在人行道上，黄颜色的电车在大街上来回穿梭，丁丁当当的铃声不绝于耳。

"哦，请问您尊姓？"在他们就座时，克拉顿猝然问了一声。

"凯里。"

"请允许我把一位可信赖的老朋友介绍给诸位-一他叫凯里，"克拉顿正经八百地说。"这位是弗拉纳根先生，这位是劳森先生。"

在座的人哈哈一笑，又继续谈自己的。他们海阔天空，无所不谈；大家七嘴八舌，只顾自己叽叽呱呱，根本不去理会旁人说些什么。他们谈到夏天去过哪些地方，谈到画室，还有这样那样的学校；他们提到许多在菲利普来说还是很陌生的名字：莫奈、马奈、雷诺阿、毕沙罗、德加等等。菲利普竖起耳朵听着，尽管感到有点摸不着头脑，却兴奋得什么似的，心头小鹿猛撞不已。

时间过得真快。克拉顿站起身说：

"今晚要是你愿意来，你准能在这儿找到我。你会发觉这儿是拉丁区里最经济实惠的一家馆子，花不了几个子儿，包管可以让你害上消化不良症。"

 

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 comer 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.’