Chapter 43

第四十三章

画师每逢星期二、五上午来阿米特拉诺画室评讲学生的习作。在法国，画家的收入微乎其微，出路是替人作肖像画，设法取得某些美国阔佬的庇护，就连一些知名画家，也乐于每周抽出两三小时到某个招收习画学生的画室去兼课，赚点外快，反正这类画室在巴黎多的是。星期二这一天，由米歇尔·罗兰来阿米特拉诺授课。他是个上了年纪的画家，胡子白苍苍的，气色很好。他曾为政府作过许多装饰画，而这现在却在他的学生中间传为笑柄。他是安格尔的弟子，看不惯美术的新潮流，一听到马奈、德加、莫奈和西斯莱tas de farceurs的名字就来火。不过，他倒是个不可多得的好教师：温和有礼，海人不倦，且善于引导。至于周五巡视画室的富瓦内，却是个颇难对付的角色。此公长得瘦小干瘪，满口蛀牙，一副患胆汁症的尊容，蓬蓬松松的灰胡子，恶狠狠的眼睛，讲起话来嗓门尖利，语透讥锋。早年，他有几幅作品被卢森堡美术馆买了去，所以在二十五岁的时候，踌躇满志，期待有朝一日能独步画坛。可惜他的艺术才华，只是出自青春活力的一时勃发，而并非深植于他的个性之中。二十年来，他除了复制一些早年使他一举成名的风景画之外，别无建树。当人们指责他的作品千篇一律之时，他反驳说：

"柯罗一辈子只画一样东西，我为何不可呢？"

别人的成功，无一不招他忌妒，至于那些印象派画家，他更是切齿痛恨，同他们势不两立。他把自己的失败归咎于疯狂的时尚，惯于赶时髦的公众--Sale bete--全被那些作品吸引了过去。对于印象派画家，米歇尔·罗兰还算留点情面，只是温和地唤他们一声"江湖骗子"，而富瓦内却和之以连声咒骂，crapule和canaille算是最文雅的措词了。他以低毁他们的私生活为乐事，用含带讥讽的幽默口吻，骂他们是私生子，攻击他们乱伦不轨，竭尽侮慢辱骂之能事。为了使那些不堪入耳的奚落之词更带点儿辛辣味儿，他还援用了东方人的比喻手法和东方人的强凋语势。即便在检查学生们的习作时，他也毫不掩饰自己的轻蔑之意。学生们对他既恨又怕；女学生往往由于受不了他那不留情面的嘲讽而哭鼻子，结果又免不了遭他一顿奚落。尽管学生被他骂得走投无路而群起抗议，可也奈何不得，他照样在画室内执教，因为他无疑是全巴黎首屈一指的美术教师。有时，学校的主持人，也就是那个老模特儿，斗胆规劝他几句，但在这位蛮横暴烈的画家面前，那规劝之语转眼就化为卑躬屈膝的连声道歉。

菲利普首先碰上的便是这位富瓦内画师。菲利普来到画室时，这位夫子已在里面了。他一个画架一个画架地巡视过去，学校司库奥特太太在一旁陪着，遇到那些不懂法语的学生，便由她充当翻译。范妮·普赖斯坐在菲利普边上，画得很巴结。她由于心情紧张，脸色发青；她时而放下画笔，把手放在上衣上搓擦，急得手心都出汗了。她突然神情焦躁地朝菲利普转过脸来，紧锁双眉，似乎想借此来掩饰内心的焦虑不安。

"你看画得还可以吗？"她问，一边朝自己的画点点头。

菲利普站起身，凑过来看她的画。不看还罢，一看大吃一惊。她莫非是瞎了眼不成？画儿完全走了样，简直不成个人形。

"我要能及到你一半就挺不错了，"他言不由衷地敷衍说。

"没门儿，你还刚来这儿嘛。你现在就想要赶上我，岂不有点想入非非。我来这儿已经两年了。"

听了范妮·普赖斯的话，菲利普不由得怔住了。她那股自负劲儿，实在叫人吃惊。菲利普已发现，画室里所有的人都对她敬而远之，看来这也不奇怪，因为她似乎特别喜欢出口伤人。

"我在奥特太太跟前告了富瓦内一状，"她接着说。"近两个星期，他对我的画竟看也不看一眼。他每回差不多要在奥特太太身上花半个小时，还不是因为她是这儿的司库。不管怎么说，我付的学费不比别人少一个子儿，我想我的钱也不见得是缺胳膊少腿的。我不明白，干吗单把我一个人撒在一边。"

她重新拿起炭笔，但不多一会儿，又搁下了，嘴里发出一声呻吟。

"我再也画不下去了，心里紧得慌哪。"

她望着富瓦内，他正同奥特太太一起朝他们这边走来。奥特太太脾气温顺，见地平庸，沾沾自喜的情态之中露出几分自命不凡的神气。富瓦内在一个名叫露思·查利斯的英国姑娘的画架边坐了下来。她身材矮小，衣衫不整，一对秀气的黑眼睛，目光倦怠，但时而热情闪烁；那张瘦削的脸蛋，冷峻而又富于肉感，肤色宛如年深日久的象牙--这种风韵，正；是当时一些深受布因一琼司影响的切尔西少女所蓄意培养的。富瓦内，今天似乎兴致很好，他没同她多说什么，只是拿起她的炭笔，信手画上几笔，点出了她的败笔所在。他站起来的时候，查利斯小姐高兴得满脸放。光。富瓦内走到克拉顿跟前，这时候菲利普也有点紧张起来，好在奥特大。太答应过，有事会照顾着他点的。富瓦内在克拉顿的习作前站了一会儿，默默地咬着大拇指，然后心不在焉地把一小块咬下的韧皮吐在画布上。

"这根线条画得不错，"他终于开了腔，一边用拇指点着他所欣赏的成功之笔，"看来你已经有点人门了。"

克拉顿没吭声，只是凝目望着这位画家，依旧是那一副不把世人之言放在眼里的讥诮神情。

"我现在开始，你至少是有几分才气的。"

奥特太太一向不喜欢克拉顿，听了这话就把嘴一噘。她看不出画里有什么特别的名堂。富瓦内坐定身子，细细地讲解起绘画技巧来。奥特太太站在一旁，有点不耐烦了。克拉顿一言不发，只是时而点点头；富瓦内感到很满意，他的这一席话，克拉顿心领神会，而且悟出了其中的道理。在场的大多数人虽说也在洗耳恭听，可显然没听出什么道道来。接着，富瓦内站起身，朝菲利普走来。

"他刚来两天，"奥特太太赶紧解释道，"是个新手，以前从没学过画。"

"Ca se voit,"画师说，"不说也看得出。"

他继续往前走，奥特太太压低嗓门对他说：

"这就是我同你提起过的那个姑娘。"

他瞪眼冲她望着，仿佛她是头令人憎恶的野兽似的，而他说话的声调也变得格外刺耳。

"看来你认为我是亏待你了。你老是在司库面前嫡咕抱怨。你不是要我关心一下你的这幅大作吗？好吧，现在就拿来让我开开眼界吧。"

范妮·普赖斯满脸通红，病态的皮肤下，血液似乎呈现出一种奇怪的紫色。她不加分辩，只是朝面前的画一指，这幅画，她从星期-一直画到现在。富瓦内坐了下来。

"嗯，你希望我对你说些什么呢？要我恭维你一句，说这是幅好画？没门儿。要我夸你一声，说画得挺不错的？没门儿。要我说这幅画总还有些可取之处吧？一无是处。要我点出你的画毛病在哪儿？全都是毛病。要我告诉你怎么处置？干脆把它撕了。现在你总该满意了吧？"

普赖斯小姐脸色惨白。她火极了，他竟当着奥特太太的面如此羞辱她。她虽然在法国呆了很久，完全听得懂法语，但要她自己讲，却吐不出几个词儿来。

"他没有权利这样对待我。我出的学费一个于儿也不比别人少，我出学费是要他来教我。可现在瞧他，哪儿是在教我！"

"她说些什么？她说些什么？"富瓦内问。

奥特太太支吾着，不敢转译给他听。普赖斯小姐自己用蹩脚的法语又说了一遍：

"Je vons paye pour m'apprendre．"

画师眼睛里怒火闪射，他拉开嗓门，挥着拳头。

"Maia，nom de Dieu，我教不了你。教头骆驼也比教你容易。"他转身对奥特太太说："问问她，学画是为了消闲解闷，还是指望靠它谋生。"

"我要像画家那样挣钱过日子，"普赖斯小姐答道。

"那么我就有责任告诉你：你是在白白浪费光阴。你缺少天赋，这倒不要紧，如今真正有天赋的人又有几个；问题是你根本没有灵性，直到现在还未开窍。你来这里有多久了？五岁小孩上了两堂课后，画得也比你现在强。我只想奉劝你一句，趁早放弃这番无谓的尝试吧。你若要谋生，恐怕当bonne a tout fatre也要比当画家稳妥些。瞧！"

他随手抓起一根炭条，想在纸上勾画，不料因为用力过猛，炭条断了。他咒骂了一声，随即用断头信手画了几笔，笔触苍劲有力。他动作利索，边画边讲，边讲边骂。

"瞧，两条手臂竟不一样长。还有这儿的膝盖，给画成个什么怪模样。刚才我说了，五岁的孩子也比你强。你看，这两条腿叫她怎么站得住呀！再瞧这只脚！"

他每吐出一个词，那支怒不可遏的炭笔就在纸上留下个记号，转眼间，范妮·普赖斯好几天来呕心沥血画成的画，就被他涂得面目全非，画面上尽是乱七八糟的条条杠杠和斑斑点点。最后他把炭条一扔，站起身来。

"小姐，听我的忠告，还是去学点裁缝的手艺吧。"他看看自己的表。"十二点了。A la semaine prochaine，messieurs."

普赖斯小姐慢腾腾地把画具收拢来。菲利普故意落在别人后面，想宽慰她几句。他搜索枯肠，只想出这么一句：

"哎，我很难过。这个人多粗鲁！"

谁知她竟恶狠狠地冲着他发火了。

"你留在这儿就是为了对我说这个？等我需要你怜悯的时候，我会开口求你的。现在请你别挡住我的去路。"

她从他身边走过，径自出了画室。菲利普耸耸肩，一拐一瘸地上格雷维亚餐馆吃午饭去了。

"她活该！"菲利普把刚才的事儿告诉劳森之后，劳森这么说，"环脾气的臭娘们儿。"

劳森很怕挨批评，所以每逢富瓦内来画室授课，他总是避之唯恐不及。

"我可不希望别人对我的作品评头品足，"他说。"是好是环，我自己心中有数。"

"你的意思是说，你不希望别人说你的大作不高明吧，"克拉顿冷冷接口说。

下午，菲利普想去卢森堡美术馆看看那儿的藏画。他在穿过街心花园时，一眼瞥见范妮·普赖斯在她的老位置上坐着。他先前完全出于一片好心，想安慰她几句，不料她竟如此不近人情，想起来心里好不懊丧，所以这回在她身边走过时只当没看见。可她倒立即站起身，朝他走过来。

"你想就此不理我了，是吗？"

"没的事，我想你也许不希望别人来打扰吧？"

"你去哪儿？"

"我想去看看马奈的那幅名画，我经常听人议论到它。"

"要我陪你去吗？我对卢森堡美术馆相当熟悉，可以领你去看一两件精采之作。"

看得出，她不愿爽爽快快地向他赔礼道歉，而想以此来弥补自己的过失。

"那就有劳你了。我正求之不得呢。"

"要是你想一个人去，也不必勉强，尽管直说就是了，"她半信半疑地说。

"我真的希望有人陪我去。"

他们朝美术馆走去。最近，那儿正在公展凯博特的私人藏画，习画者第一次有机会尽情尽兴地揣摩印象派画家的作品。以前，只有在拉菲特路迪朗一吕埃尔的画铺里（这个生意人和那些自以为高出画家一等的英国同行不一样，总是乐意对穷学生提供方便，他们想看什么就让他们看什么），或是在他的私人寓所内，才有幸看得到这些作品。他的寓所每逢周二对外开放，入场券也不难搞到，在那儿你可以看到许多世界名画。进了美术馆，普赖斯小姐领着菲利普径直来到马奈的《奥兰毕亚》跟前。他看着这幅油画，惊得目瞪口呆。

"你喜欢吗？"普赖斯小姐问。

"我说不上来，"他茫然无措地回答。

"你可以相信我的话，也许除了惠司勒的肖像画《母亲》之外，这幅画就是美术馆里最精采的展品了。"

她耐心地守在一旁，让他仔细揣摩这幅杰作的妙处，过了好一会才领他去看一幅描绘火车站的油画。

"看，这也是一幅莫奈的作品，"她说，"画的是圣拉扎尔火车站。"

"画面上的铁轨怎么不是平行的呢？"菲利普说。

"这又有什么关系呢？"她反问道，一脸的傲慢之气。

菲利普自惭形秽，范妮·普赖斯捡起目前画界议论不休的话题，凭着自己这方面的渊博知识，一下子就说得菲利普心悦诚服。她开始给菲利普讲解美术馆内的名画，虽说口气狂妄，倒也不无见地。她讲给他听各个画家的创作契机，指点他该从哪些方面着手探索。她说话时不时地用大拇指比划着。她所讲的这一切，对菲利普来说都很新鲜，所以他听得津津有味，同时也有点迷惘不解。在此以前，他一直崇拜瓦茨和布因-琼司，前者的绚丽色彩，后者的工整雕琢，完全投合他的审美观。他们作品中的朦胧的理想主义，还有他们作品命题中所包含的那种哲学意味，都同他在埋头啃读罗斯金著作时所领悟到的艺术功能吻合一致。然而此刻，眼前所看到的却全然不同：作品里缺少道德上的感染力，观赏这些作品，也无助于人们去追求更纯洁、更高尚的生活。他感到惶惑不解。

最后他说："你知道，我累坏了，脑子里再也装不进什么了。让咱们找张长凳，坐下歇歇脚吧。"

"反正艺术这玩意儿，得慢慢来，贪多嚼不烂嘛，"普赖斯小姐应道。

等他们来到美术馆外面，菲利普对她热心陪自己参观，再三表示感谢。

"哦，这算不得什么，"她大大咧咧地说，"如果你愿意，咱们明天去卢佛尔宫，过些日子再领你到迪朗一吕埃尔画铺走一遭。"

"你待我真好。"

"你不像他们那些人，他们根本不拿我当人待。"

"是吗？"他笑道。

"他们以为能把我从画室撵走，没门儿。我高兴在那儿果多久，就呆多久。今天早上发生的事，还不是露茜·奥特捣的鬼！没错，她对我一直怀恨在心，以为这一来我就会乖乖地走了。我敢说，她巴不得我走呢。她自己心里有鬼，她的底细我一清二楚。"

普赖斯小姐弯来绕去讲了一大通，意思无非是说，别看奥特太太这么个身材矮小的妇人，表面上道貌岸然，毫无韵致，骨子里却是水性杨花，常和野汉子偷情。接着，她的话锋又转到露思·查利斯身上，就是上午受到富瓦内夸奖的那个姑娘。

"她跟画室里所有的男人都有勾搭，简直同妓女差不多，而且还是个邋遢婆娘，一个月也洗不上一回澡。这全是事实，我一点也没瞎说。"

菲利普听着觉得很不是滋味。有关查利斯小姐的各种流言蜚语，他也有所风闻。但是要怀疑那位同母亲住在一起的奥特太太的贞操，未免有点荒唐。他身边的这个女人，竟然在光天化日之下恶意中伤别人，实在叫他心寒。

"他们说些什么，我才不在乎呢。我照样走自己的路。我知道自己有天赋，是当画家的料子。我宁可宰了自己也不放弃这一行。哦，在学校里遭人耻笑的，我又不是第一个，但到头来，还不正是那些受尽奚落的人反倒成了鹤立鸡群的天才。艺术是我唯一放在心上的事儿，我愿为它献出整个生命。问题全在于能否持之以恒，做到锲而不舍。"

这就是她对自己的评价，而谁要是对此持有异议，就会被她视为居心叵测，妒贤忌才。她讨厌克拉顿。她对菲利普说，克拉顿实际上并没有什么才能，他的画华而不实，肤浅得很。他一辈子也画不出稍微像样的东西来。至于劳森：

"一个红头发、满脸雀斑的混小子。那么害怕富瓦内，连自己的画也不敢拿出来给他看。不管怎么说，我毕竟还有点胆量，不是吗？我不在乎富瓦内说我什么，反正我知道自己是个真正的艺术家。"

他们到了她住的那条街上，菲利普如释重负地吁了口气，离开她走了。

 

On Tuesdays and Fridays masters spent the morning at Amitrano’s, criticising the work done. In France the painter earns little unless he paints portraits and is patronised by rich Americans; and men of reputation are glad to increase their incomes by spending two or three hours once a week at one of the numerous studios where art is taught. Tuesday was the day upon which Michel Rollin came to Amitrano’s. He was an elderly man, with a white beard and a florid complexion, who had painted a number of decorations for the State, but these were an object of derision to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of Ingres, impervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with that tas de farceurs whose names were Manet, Degas, Monet, and Sisley; but he was an excellent teacher, helpful, polite, and encouraging. Foinet, on the other hand, who visited the studio on Fridays, was a difficult man to get on with. He was a small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air, an untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his tone sarcastic. He had had pictures bought by the Luxembourg, and at twenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his talent was due to youth rather than to personality, and for twenty years he had done nothing but repeat the landscape which had brought him his early success. When he was reproached with monotony, he answered:

‘Corot only painted one thing. Why shouldn’t I?’

He was envious of everyone else’s success, and had a peculiar, personal loathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his own failure as due to the mad fashion which had attracted the public, sale bete, to their works. The genial disdain of Michel Rollin, who called them impostors, was answered by him with vituperation, of which crapule and canaille were the least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their private lives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and obscene detail, attacked the legitimacy of their births and the purity of their conjugal relations: he used an Oriental imagery and an Oriental emphasis to accentuate his ribald scorn. Nor did he conceal his contempt for the students whose work he examined. By them he was hated and feared; the women by his brutal sarcasm he reduced often to tears, which again aroused his ridicule; and he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protests of those who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there could be no doubt that he was one of the best masters in Paris. Sometimes the old model who kept the school ventured to remonstrate with him, but his expostulations quickly gave way before the violent insolence of the painter to abject apologies.

It was Foinet with whom Philip first came in contact. He was already in the studio when Philip arrived. He went round from easel to easel, with Mrs. Otter, the massiere, by his side to interpret his remarks for the benefit of those who could not understand French. Fanny Price, sitting next to Philip, was working feverishly. Her face was sallow with nervousness, and every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on her blouse; for they were hot with anxiety. Suddenly she turned to Philip with an anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown.

‘D’you think it’s good?’ she asked, nodding at her drawing.

Philip got up and looked at it. He was astounded; he felt she must have no eye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of drawing.

‘I wish I could draw half as well myself,’ he answered.

‘You can’t expect to, you’ve only just come. It’s a bit too much to expect that you should draw as well as I do. I’ve been here two years.’

Fanny Price puzzled Philip. Her conceit was stupendous. Philip had already discovered that everyone in the studio cordially disliked her; and it was no wonder, for she seemed to go out of her way to wound people.

‘I complained to Mrs. Otter about Foinet,’ she said now. ‘The last two weeks he hasn’t looked at my drawings. He spends about half an hour on Mrs. Otter because she’s the massiere. After all I pay as much as anybody else, and I suppose my money’s as good as theirs. I don’t see why I shouldn’t get as much attention as anybody else.’

She took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with a groan.

‘I can’t do any more now. I’m so frightfully nervous.’

She looked at Foinet, who was coming towards them with Mrs. Otter. Mrs. Otter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an air of importance. Foinet sat down at the easel of an untidy little Englishwoman called Ruth Chalice. She had the fine black eyes, languid but passionate, the thin face, ascetic but sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under the influence of Burne-Jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies in Chelsea. Foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much to her, but with quick, determined strokes of her charcoal pointed out her errors. Miss Chalice beamed with pleasure when he rose. He came to Clutton, and by this time Philip was nervous too but Mrs. Otter had promised to make things easy for him. Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton’s work, biting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas the little piece of skin which he had bitten off.

‘That’s a fine line,’ he said at last, indicating with his thumb what pleased him. ‘You’re beginning to learn to draw.’

Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of sardonic indifference to the world’s opinion.

‘I’m beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent.’

Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into technical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton did not say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt with satisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of them listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinet got up and came to Philip.

‘He only arrived two days ago,’ Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. ‘He’s a beginner. He’s never studied before.’

‘Ca se voit,’ the master said. ‘One sees that.’

He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him:

‘This is the young lady I told you about.’

He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice grew more rasping.

‘It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You have been complaining to the massiere. Well, show me this work to which you wish me to give attention.’

Fanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of a strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on which she had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down.

‘Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it is good? It isn’t. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn’t. Do you wish me to say it has merit? It hasn’t. Do you wish me to show you what is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to do with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now?’

Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all this before Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and could understand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words.

‘He’s got no right to treat me like that. My money’s as good as anyone else’s. I pay him to teach me. That’s not teaching me.’

‘What does she say? What does she say?’ asked Foinet.

Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable French.

‘Je vous paye pour m’apprendre.’

His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist.

‘Mais, nom de Dieu, I can’t teach you. I could more easily teach a camel.’ He turned to Mrs. Otter. ‘Ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?’

‘I’m going to earn my living as an artist,’ Miss Price answered.

‘Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long have you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better than you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. You’re more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as a painter. Look.’

He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper. He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom.

‘Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it’s grotesque. I tell you a child of five. You see, she’s not standing on her legs. That foot!’

With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down the charcoal and stood up.

‘Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s twelve. A la semaine prochaine, messieurs.’

Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after the others to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but:

‘I say, I’m awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!’

She turned on him savagely.

‘Is that what you’re waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I’ll ask for it. Please get out of my way.’

She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier’s for luncheon.

‘It served her right,’ said Lawson, when Philip told him what had happened. ‘Ill-tempered slut.’

Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming.

‘I don’t want other people’s opinion of my work,’ he said. ‘I know myself if it’s good or bad.’

‘You mean you don’t want other people’s bad opinion of your work,’ answered Clutton dryly.

In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her accustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight of her. But she got up at once and came towards him.

‘Are you trying to cut me?’ she said.

‘No, of course not. I thought perhaps you didn’t want to be spoken to.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I’ve heard so much about it.’

‘Would you like me to come with you? I know the Luxembourg rather well. I could show you one or two good things.’

He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, she made this offer as amends.

‘It’s awfully kind of you. I should like it very much.’

‘You needn’t say yes if you’d rather go alone,’ she said suspiciously.

‘I wouldn’t.’

They walked towards the gallery. Caillebotte’s collection had lately been placed on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to examine at his ease the works of the impressionists. Till then it had been possible to see them only at Durand-Ruel’s shop in the Rue Lafitte (and the dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter an attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it was not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where you might see pictures of world-wide reputation. Miss Price led Philip straight up to Manet’s Olympia. He looked at it in astonished silence.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Miss Price.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered helplessly.

‘You can take it from me that it’s the best thing in the gallery except perhaps Whistler’s portrait of his mother.’

She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took him to a picture representing a railway-station.

‘Look, here’s a Monet,’ she said. ‘It’s the Gare St. Lazare.’

‘But the railway lines aren’t parallel,’ said Philip.

‘What does that matter?’ she asked, with a haughty air.

Philip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked up the glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extent of her knowledge. She proceeded to explain the pictures to him, superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters had attempted and what he must look for. She talked with much gesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new, listened with profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshipped Watts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the affected drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities. Their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions of art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here was something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a higher life. He was puzzled.

At last he said: ‘You know, I’m simply dead. I don’t think I can absorb anything more profitably. Let’s go and sit down on one of the benches.’

‘It’s better not to take too much art at a time,’ Miss Price answered.

When they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said, a little ungraciously. ‘I do it because I enjoy it. We’ll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you like, and then I’ll take you to Durand-Ruel’s.’

‘You’re really awfully good to me.’

‘You don’t think me such a beast as the most of them do.’

‘I don’t,’ he smiled.

‘They think they’ll drive me away from the studio; but they won’t; I shall stay there just exactly as long as it suits me. All that this morning, it was Lucy Otter’s doing, I know it was. She always has hated me. She thought after that I’d take myself off. I daresay she’d like me to go. She’s afraid I know too much about her.’

Miss Price told him a long, involved story, which made out that Mrs. Otter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had scabrous intrigues. Then she talked of Ruth Chalice, the girl whom Foinet had praised that morning.

‘She’s been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She’s nothing better than a street-walker. And she’s dirty. She hasn’t had a bath for a month. I know it for a fact.’

Philip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various rumours were in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was ridiculous to suppose that Mrs. Otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidly virtuous. The woman walking by his side with her malignant lying positively horrified him.

‘I don’t care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know I’ve got it in me. I feel I’m an artist. I’d sooner kill myself than give it up. Oh, I shan’t be the first they’ve all laughed at in the schools and then he’s turned out the only genius of the lot. Art’s the only thing I care for, I’m willing to give my whole life to it. It’s only a question of sticking to it and pegging away"

She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her own estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that his friend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he couldn’t compose a figure to save his life. And Lawson:

‘Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He’s so afraid of Foinet that he won’t let him see his work. After all, I don’t funk it, do I? I don’t care what Foinet says to me, I know I’m a real artist.’

They reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief Philip left her.