Chapter 47

第四十七章

到三月份，画室里热闹了起来，大家净忙着为一年一度的巴黎艺展投送画稿。唯独克拉顿超然物外，没准备任何作品，还把劳森送去的两幅头像画大大奚落了一番。这两幅画显然出自初学者之手，是直接根据模特儿写生的，不过笔力苍劲，有股雄浑之气，而克拉顿所追求的，是完美无缺的艺术，他不能容忍火候功力还未到家的彷徨逡巡之作。他耸耸肩对劳森说，一些连画室门都拿不出的习作，竟要送去展览，真有点不知天高地厚。即使后来那两幅头像被画展处接受了，他仍然固执己见。弗拉纳根也试了运气，结果送去的画被退了回来。奥特太太送去了一幅《母亲之像》，一幅具有一定造诣、无可非议的二流作品，被挂在十分显眼的地方。

劳森和菲利普打算在自己的画室里举行一次聚餐会，对劳森的作品荣获公展聊表庆贺之意。这时海沃德也到巴黎来小住几天，正好凑上了这场热闹。打他离开海德堡之后，菲利普还没见到过他。菲利普一直很盼望能再次见到海沃德，可是如今真的会了面，倒不觉有点失望。海沃德的模样变了。一头金黄色的柔发变得稀稀拉拉，随着姣好容颜的迅速衰败，人也显得干瘪瘪的没一点生气。那对蓝眼睛失去了昔日的光泽，整个面容都带点灰溜溜的神情，然而他的思想却似乎丝毫未变。可惜，使十八岁的菲利普深为叹服的那种文化素养，对二十一岁的菲利普来说，似乎只能激起轻蔑之情。菲利普已今非昔比：往日那一整套有关艺术、人生和文学的见解，而今一概视如敝屣；至于那些至今仍死抱住这些迂腐之见的人，他简直无法容忍。他似乎没意识到自己多么急于在海沃德面前露一手。等他陪着海沃德参观美术馆的时候，他情不自禁地把自己也不过刚接受过来的革命观点，一古脑儿端了出来。菲利普把海沃德领到马奈的《奥兰毕亚》跟前，用颇带戏剧性的口吻说：

"我愿意拿古典大师的全部作品，来换取眼前的这一幅杰作，当然委拉斯开兹、伦勃朗和弗美尔的作品除外。"

"弗美尔是谁？"海沃德问。

"哟，亲爱的老兄，你连弗美尔都不知道？你莫非是还没开化怎么的。要是连弗美尔也不知道，人活着还有啥意思。他是唯一具有现代派风格的古典大师。"

菲利普把海沃德从卢森堡展览馆里硬拖了出来，催着他上卢佛尔宫去。

"这儿的画都看完了？"海沃德怀着那种唯恐有所遗漏的游客心理问。

"剩下的净是些微不足道的作品，你以后可以自己带着导游手册来看。"

到了卢佛尔宫之后，菲利普径直领着他的朋友步入长廊。

"我想看看那幅《永恒的微笑》，"海沃德说。

"噢，我的老兄，那算不得杰作，被文人捧起来的，"菲利普答道。

最后来到一间小房间，菲利普在弗美尔·凡·戴尔夫特的油画《织女》跟前停了下来。

"瞧，这是卢佛尔宫内首屈一指的珍品，完全像出自马奈的手笔。"

菲利普翘起他富于表现力的大拇指，细细介绍起这幅佳作的迷人之处。他一口画家的行话，叫人听了不能不为之折服。

"不知我是否能尽领其中妙处，"海沃德说。

"当然罗，那是画家的作品嘛，"菲利普说。"我敢说，门外汉是看不出多大名堂的。"

"门--什么？"海沃德说。

"门外汉。"

跟大多数艺术爱好者一样，海沃德很想充当行家，最怕在别人面前露馅。倘若对方闪烁其词，不敢断然发表自己的见解，他就要摆出一副权威的架势来；倘若对方引经据典，振振有词，他就做出虚心听取的样子。菲利普斩钉截铁的自信口吻，不由海沃德不服，他乖乖地认可了菲利普的言外之意：只有画家才有资格评断绘画的优劣，而且不管怎么说也不嫌武断。

一两天后，菲利普和劳森举行了聚餐会。克朗肖这回也破例赏光，同意前来尝尝他们亲手制作的食品。查利斯小姐主动跑来帮厨。她对女性不感兴趣，要他们不必为了她的缘故而特地去邀请别的女客。出席聚餐会的有克拉顿、弗拉纳根、波特和另外两位客人。屋里没什么家什，只好把模特儿台拿来权充餐桌。客人们要是喜欢，可以坐在旅行皮箱上；要是不高兴，那就席地而坐。菜肴有查利斯小姐做的蔬菜肉汤，有从街角处一家餐馆买来的烤羊腿，拿来时还冒着腾腾的热气，散发着令人馋涎欲滴的香味（查利斯小姐早已把土豆煮好，画室里还散发着一股油煎胡萝卜的香味，这可是查利斯小姐的拿手好菜），这以后是一道火烧白兰地梨，是克朗肖自告奋勇做的。最后一道菜将是一块大得出奇的fromage de Brie，这会儿正靠窗口放着，给已经充满各种奇香异味的画室更添了一股浓香。克朗肖占了首席，端坐在一只旅行皮箱上，盘起了两条腿，活像个土耳其帕夏，对着周围的年轻人露出宽厚的笑意。尽管画室里生着火，热得很，但他出于习惯，身上仍然裹着大衣，衣领朝上翻起，头上还是戴着那顶硬边礼帽。他心满意足地望着面前的四大瓶意大利西昂蒂葡萄酒出神。那四瓶酒在他面前排成一行，当中还夹着瓶威士忌酒。克朗肖说，这引起了他的联想，好似四个大腹便便的太监守护着一位体态苗条、容貌俊美的彻尔克斯女子。海沃德为了不让别人感到拘束，特意穿了套花呢服，戴了条"三一堂"牌领带。他这副英国式打扮看上去好古怪。在座的人对他彬彬有礼，敬如上宾。喝蔬菜肉汤的时候，他们议论天气和政局。在等羊肉上桌的当儿，席间出现了片刻的冷场。查利斯小姐点了一支烟。

"兰蓬泽尔，兰蓬泽尔，把你的头发放下来吧，"她冷不丁冒出了这么一句。

她仪态潇洒地抬起手，解下头上的绸带，让一头长发披落到肩上。随即又是一摇头。

"我总觉得头发放下来比较惬意。"

瞧着她那双棕色的大眼睛、苦行僧似的瘦削脸庞、苍白的皮肤和宽阔的前额，真叫人以为她是从布因-琼司的画里走下来的呢。她的那双手，十指纤纤，煞是好看，美中不足的是指端已被尼古丁熏得蜡黄。她穿了件绿紫辉映的衣裙，浑身上下透出一股肯辛顿高街的淑女们所特有的浪漫气息。她风流放荡，但为人随和、善良，不失为出色的人间尤物，惜乎情感比较浅薄。这时猛听得门外有人敲门，席上的人齐声欢呼起来。查利斯小姐起身去开门。她接过羊腿，高高举托过头，仿佛盛在盘子里的是施洗者圣约翰的头颅。她嘴里仍叼着支烟卷，脚一下跨着庄重、神圣的步伐。

"妙啊！希律迪亚斯的女儿！"克朗肖喊道。

席上的人全都津津有味地大啃其羊腿来，尤其是那位面如粉玉的女郎大啖大嚼的馋相，看了更叫人觉着有趣。在她的左右两边，分别坐着克拉顿和波特。在场的人心里全明白，她对这两个男子决不会故作扭。泥之态。对于大多数男子，不出六个星期，她就感到厌倦了，不过她很懂得事后该如何同那些曾经拜倒在她石榴裙下的多情郎应付周旋。她爱过他们，后来不爱了，但她并不因此而对他们怀有任何怨隙，她同他们友好相处，却不过分亲昵。这会儿，她不时用忧郁的目光朝劳森望上一眼。火烧白兰地梨大受欢迎，一则是因为里面有白兰地，一则是由于查利斯小姐坚持要大家夹着奶酪吃。

"这玩意儿究竟是美味可口呢，还是令人恶心，我实在说不上来，"她在充分品尝了这道杂拌以后评论说。

咖啡和科涅克白兰地赶紧端了上来，以防出现什么棘手局面。大家坐着惬惬意意地抽着烟。露思·查利斯一抬手、一投足，都有意要显示出她的艺术家风度。她姿态忧美地坐在克朗肖身旁，把她那小巧玲珑的头倚靠在他的肩头。她若有所思地凝望空中，仿佛是想望穿那黑森森的时间的深渊，间或朝劳森投去长长的、沉思的一瞥，同时伴以一声长叹。

转眼间夏天到了。这几位年轻人再也坐不住了。湛蓝湛蓝的天穹引诱他们去投身大海；习习和风在林荫大道的梧桐枝叶间轻声叹息，吸引他们去漫游乡间。人人都打算离开巴黎。他们在商量该带多大尺寸的画布最合适；他们还备足了写生用的油画板；他们争辩着布列塔尼各个避暑地的引人入胜之处。最后，弗拉纳根和波特到孔卡努去了；奥特太太和她母亲，性喜一览无余的自然风光，宁愿去篷特阿旺；菲利普和劳森决计去枫丹白露森林。查利斯小姐晓得在莫雷有一家非常出色的旅馆，那儿有不少东西很值得挥笔一画，再说，那儿离巴黎又不远，菲利普和劳森对车费也并非毫不在乎。露思·查利斯也要去那儿。劳森打算替她在野外画一幅肖像画。那时候，巴黎艺展塞满了这类人像画；阳光灿烂的花园，画中人身居其间，眨巴着眼睛，阳光透过繁枝茂叶，在他们的脸庞上投下斑驳的绿影。他们请克拉顿结伴同游，可是克拉顿喜欢独个儿消夏。他刚刚发现了塞尚，急着要去普罗旺斯。他向往云幕低垂的天空，而那火辣辣的点点蓝色，似乎像汗珠那样从云层间滴落下来。他眷恋尘土飞扬的宽阔的白色公路、因日晒而变得苍白的屋顶，还有被热浪烤成灰色的橄榄树。

就在准备动身的前一天，上午上完课后，菲利普一边收拾画具，一边对范妮·普赖斯说：

"我明天要走啦，"他兴冲冲地说。

"去哪儿？"她立刻追问道，"你不会离开这儿吧？"她的脸沉了下来。

"我要找个地方去避避暑，你呢？"

"我不走，我留在巴黎。我还以为你也留下呢。我原盼望着……"

她戛然收住口，耸了耸肩。

"夏天这儿不是热得够呛吗？对你身体很不利呢。"

"对我身体有利没有利，你才无所谓呢。你打算去哪儿？"

"莫雷。"

"查利斯也去那儿。你该不是同她一起去吧？"

"我和劳森一块儿走。她也打算去那儿，是不是同行我就不清楚了。"

她喉咙里轻轻咕噜了一声，大脸盘憋得通红，脸色阴沉得可怕。

"真不要脸，我还当你是个正派人，大概是这儿独一无二的正派人呢。那婆娘同克拉顿、波特和弗拉纳根都有过私情，甚至同老富瓦内也勾勾搭搭--所以他才特别为她费神嘛--现在可又轮到你和劳森两个了，这真叫我恶心！"

"哟，你胡扯些什么呀。她可是个正经女人，大家差不多把她当男子看待。"

"哟，我不想听！我不想听！"

"话说回来，这又管你什么事？"菲利普诘问道。"我愿上哪儿消夏，完全是我自个儿的事嘛。"

"我一直痴痴地盼望着这样一个机会，"她喘着粗气，仿佛是在自言自语，"我还以为你没钱出去呢。到时候，这儿再没旁人，咱们俩就可以一块儿作画，一块儿出去走走看看。"说到这儿，她又猛地想起了露思·查利斯。"那个臭婊子，"她嚷了起来，"连跟我说话都不配。"

菲利普望着她，心头有股说不出的滋味。他不是个自作多情的人，以为世上的姑娘都会爱上自己；相反，他由于对自己的残疾十分敏感，在女人面前总感到狼狈，显得笨嘴拙舌。此刻，他不知道她这顿发作，除了一泄心头之火外还能有什么别的意思。她站在他跟前，身上套着那件邀遏的棕色衣裙，披头散发，衣衫不整，腮帮子上还挂着两串愤怒的泪水，真叫人受不了。菲利普朝门口瞟了一眼，本能地巴望此刻有人走进屋来，好马上结束这个尴尬的场面。

"我实在很抱歉，"他说。

"你和他们都是一路货。能捞到手的，全捞走了，到头来连谢一声都不说。你现在学到的东西，还不都是我把着手教给你的？除我以外，还有谁肯为你操这份心。富瓦内关心过你吗？老实对你说了吧，你哪怕在那里学上一千年，也决不会有什么出息。你这个人没有天分，没一点匠心。不光是我一个人--他们全都是这么说的。你一辈子也当不了画家。"

"那也不管你的事，对吗？"菲利普红着脸说。

"哟，你以为我不过是在发脾气，讲气话？不信你去问问克拉顿，去问问劳森，去问问查利斯！你永远当不成画家。永远！永远！永远当不成！你根本不是这块料子！"

菲利普耸耸肩，径自走了出去。她冲着他的背影，大声喊道：

"永远！永远！永远当不成！"

那时光，莫雷是个只有一条街的老式小镇，紧挨在枫丹白露森林的边沿。"金盾"客栈是一家还保持王政时代遗风的小旅舍，面临蜿蜒曲折的洛英河。查利斯小姐租下的那个房间，有个俯瞰河面的小凉台，从那儿可以看到一座古桥及其加固过的桥日通道，景致别有风味。每天晚上用过晚餐，他们就坐在这儿，喝咖啡，抽烟卷，谈艺术。离这儿不远，有条汇入洛英河的运河，河面狭窄，两岸种着白杨树。工作之余，他们常沿运河的堤岸溜达一会。白天的时间，他们全用来画画。他们也跟同时代的大多数青年人一样，对于富有诗情画意的景色感到头痛；展现在眼前的小镇的绮丽风光，他们偏偏视而不见，而有意去捕捉一些质朴无华的景物。凡是俏丽之物，他们一概嗤之以鼻。西斯莱和莫奈曾经画过这儿白杨掩映的运河，他们也很想试试笔锋，画一幅具有典型法国情调的风景画，可是又害怕眼前景色所具有的那种匀称之美，于是煞费苦心地要加以回避。心灵手巧的查利斯小姐落笔时，故意把树顶部分略去不画，以使画面独具新意，不落窠臼。劳森尽管一向瞧不起女子的艺术作品，可这一回也不得不叹服她独具匠心。至于他自己，灵机一动，在画的前景添上一块蓝色的美尼尔巧克力糖的大广告牌，以显示他对巧克力盒糖的厌恶。

现在菲利普开始学画油画了。当他第一次使用这种可爱的艺术媒介时，心里止不住感到一阵狂喜。早晨，他带着小画盒随同劳森外出，坐在劳森身旁，一笔一笔地在画布上涂抹着。他得心应手，画得好欢，殊不知他所干的充其量只是依样画葫芦罢了。他受这位朋友的影响之深，简直可以说他是通过他朋友的眼睛来观察世界的。劳森作画，爱用很低的色调，绿宝石似的草地，到了他俩眼里则成了深色的天鹅绒，而光华闪烁的晴空，在他们的笔下也成了一片郁郁苍苍的深蓝。整个七月都是大好晴天，气候酷热，热浪似乎把菲利普的灵感烤干了，他终日没精打采，连画笔也懒得拿，脑子里乱哄哄的，杂念丛生。早晨，他常常侧身躲入河边的浓荫，念上几首小诗，然后神思恍惚地默想半个钟头。有时候，他骑了辆租来的破自行车，沿着尘土飞扬的小路朝森林驶去。随后拣一块林中空地躺下，任自己沉浸在罗曼蒂克的幻想之中。他仿佛看到华托笔下的那些活泼好动、漫不经心的窈窕淑女，在骑士们的伴同之下，信步漫游于参天巨树之间；她们喁喁私语，相互诉说着轻松、迷人的趣事，然而不知怎么地，似乎总摆脱不掉一种无名恐惧的困扰。

整个客栈里，除了一个胖胖的法国中年妇人之外，就他们这几个人了。那女人颇似拉伯雷笔下的人物，动辄咧嘴大笑，发出一阵阵淫荡的笑声。她常去河边，很有耐心地钓上一整天鱼，尽管从未钓到过一条。有时候，菲利普走上去同她搭讪几句。菲利普发现，她过去是干那种营生的-一那一行里面最负盛名的人物，在我们这一代就数华伦太太了。她赚足了钱，现在到乡下来过她布尔乔亚的清闲日子。她给菲利普讲了些不堪入耳的淫秽故事。

"你得去塞维利亚走一遭，"她说--一她还能讲几句蹩脚英语，"那儿的女人是世界上最标致的。"

她用淫荡的目光瞟了菲利普一眼，又朝他点点头。她的上下三层下颔，还有那鼓突在外的大肚子，随着格格笑声不住地抖动起来。

气温愈来愈高，晚上几乎无法人眠。暑热像是一种有形物质，在树丛间滞留不散。他们不愿离开星光灿烂的夜景，三个人悄没声儿地坐在露思·查利斯的房间的凉台上，一小时又一小时，谁都懒得说一句话，只顾尽情地享受夏夜的幽静。他们侧耳谛听潺潺的流水声，直到教堂的大钟打了一下，两下，有时甚至打了三下，才拖着疲惫的身子上床去睡。菲利普恍然醒悟过来，露思和劳森原来是对情侣。这一点，他是凭自己的直觉，从姑娘凝望年轻画家的目光以及后者着了魔似的神态中揣测到的。菲利普同他们坐在一块儿的时候，总觉得他们在眉来眼去，传送着某种射流，似乎空气也因夹带了某种奇异之物而变得沉重起来。这一意想不到的发现，着实叫菲利普大吃一惊。他向来认为查利斯小姐是个好伙伴，很喜欢同她聊上几句，似乎从没想到能同她建立起更深一层的关系。一个星期天，他们三人带着茶点篓筐，一齐走进森林。他们来到一块绿树环拥的理想的林间空地，查利斯小姐认为这儿具有田园风味，执意要脱下鞋袜。惜乎她的脚太大了些，而且两只脚的第三个脚趾上都长着一个大鸡眼，要不然她那双脚倒也够迷人的。菲利普暗自嘀咕，这大概就是她行走时步态有点滑稽可笑的缘故吧。可是现在，菲利普对她刮目相看了。她那双大眼睛，那一身橄榄色的皮肤，都显露出女性所特有的温柔。菲利普觉得自己真是个大傻瓜，竟一直没注意到她原是那么富于魅力。他似乎觉得她有点儿瞧他不起，就因为他过于迟钝，竟然会感觉不到有她这样的尤物存在；而他发现劳森现在似乎也带有几分自恃高人一等的神气。他忌妒劳森，不过他忌炉的倒也并非劳森本人，而是忌妒他的爱情。要是他能取劳森而代之，像劳森那样去爱，那该有多好呀。菲利普心烦意乱，忧心忡忡，唯恐爱情会从他身旁悄悄溜走。他盼望有股感情的激流向他猛然袭来，把他卷走。他愿意听凭这股激流的摆布，不管卷至何方，他全不在乎。在他看来，查利斯小姐和劳森似乎有点异样，老是守在他们身边，使他感到惴惴不安。他对自己很不满意。他想获得的东西，生活就是不给。他心里很不是个滋味，觉得自己是在蹉跎光阴。

那个法国胖女人没多久就猜到了这对青年男女之间的关系，而且在菲利普面前直言不讳。

"而你呢，"她说，脸上挂着那种靠同胞委身卖笑而养肥自己的人所特有的微笑，"你有petite amie吗？

"没有，"菲利普红着脸说。

"怎么会没有呢？C'est de votre age。

菲利普耸耸肩。他手里拿着魏尔伦的一本诗集，信步走开了。他想看看书，但是情欲在他心头骚动得厉害。他想起弗拉纳根给他讲过的男人们寻花问柳的荒唐经：小巷深院里的幽室，装饰着乌得勒支天鹅绒织品的客厅，还有那些涂脂抹粉的卖笑女子。想到这里，菲利普禁不住打了个寒噤。他往草地上一倒，像头刚从睡梦中醒来的幼兽那样仰肢八叉地躺着。那泛着涟漪的河水，那在微风中婆娑起舞的白杨树，那蔚蓝的天穹--周围的这一切，菲利普几乎都没法忍受。他现在已堕入了自织的情网。他想入非非，似乎感到有两片温暖的嘴唇在吻他，有一双温柔的手搂着他的脖子。他想象着自己如何躺在露思·查利斯的怀里，想到了她那对乌黑的明眸，那细腻光洁的皮肤，他竟白白地错过了这份良缘，自己不是疯子才怪呢！既然劳森这么干了，他为何不可呢？不过，只是她不在跟前的时候--晚上躺在床上睡不着觉，或是白天在运河边沉思的时候，他才会有这样的欲念。而一见到她，他的感情就起了突变，既不想拥抱她，也不再想象自己如何吻她了。这真是天下少有的怪事！她不在跟前时，他觉得她千媚百娇，仪态万方，只想到她那双勾魂摄魄的眸子和略透奶油色的苍白脸庞；可是同她呆在一块儿的时候，他只看到她平直的胸脯和那一口微蛀的龋齿，而且还忘不了她脚趾上的鸡眼。他简直没法理解自己。难道是回于自己的那种似乎净在夸大伊人的不尽人意之处的畸形视觉，他才永远只有在心上人不在跟前的时候才能去爱，而一旦有机会和她面面相对，反党扫兴的吗？

气候的变换，宣布漫漫长夏已尽。他们返回巴黎，而菲利普心里并天半点遗憾之感。

 

In March there was all the excitement of sending in to the Salon. Clutton, characteristically, had nothing ready, and he was very scornful of the two heads that Lawson sent; they were obviously the work of a student, straight-forward portraits of models, but they had a certain force; Clutton, aiming at perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayed hesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told Lawson it was an impertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been allowed out of his studio; he was not less contemptuous when the two heads were accepted. Flanagan tried his luck too, but his picture was refused. Mrs. Otter sent a blameless Portrait de ma Mere, accomplished and second-rate; and was hung in a very good place.

Hayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg, arrived in Paris to spend a few days in time to come to the party which Lawson and Philip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of Lawson’s pictures. Philip had been eager to see Hayward again, but when at last they met, he experienced some disappointment. Hayward had altered a little in appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting of the very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes were paler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features. On the other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the culture which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the contempt of Philip at twenty-one. He had altered a good deal himself, and regarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had no patience with anyone who still held them. He was scarcely conscious of the fact that he wanted to show off before Hayward, but when he took him round the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions which himself had so recently adopted. He took him to Manet’s Olympia and said dramatically:

‘I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Vermeer for that one picture.’

‘Who was Vermeer?’ asked Hayward.

‘Oh, my dear fellow, don’t you know Vermeer? You’re not civilised. You mustn’t live a moment longer without making his acquaintance. He’s the one old master who painted like a modern.’

He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to the Louvre.

‘But aren’t there any more pictures here?’ asked Hayward, with the tourist’s passion for thoroughness.

‘Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and look at them by yourself with your Baedeker.’

When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the Long Gallery.

‘I should like to see The Gioconda,’ said Hayward.

‘Oh, my dear fellow, it’s only literature,’ answered Philip.

At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lacemaker of Vermeer van Delft.

‘There, that’s the best picture in the Louvre. It’s exactly like a Manet.’

With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the charming work. He used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect.

‘I don’t know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in it,’ said Hayward.

‘Of course it’s a painter’s picture,’ said Philip. ‘I can quite believe the layman would see nothing much in it.’

‘The what?’ said Hayward.

‘The layman.’

Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward was extremely anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those who did not venture to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was very modest. He was impressed by Philip’s assurance, and accepted meekly Philip’s implied suggestion that the painter’s arrogant claim to be the sole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to recommend it.

A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw, making an exception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and Miss Chalice offered to come and cook for them. She took no interest in her own sex and declined the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake. Clutton, Flanagan, Potter, and two others made up the party. Furniture was scarce, so the model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to sit on portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn’t on the floor. The feast consisted of a pot-au-feu, which Miss Chalice had made, of a leg of mutton roasted round the corner and brought round hot and savoury (Miss Chalice had cooked the potatoes, and the studio was redolent of the carrots she had fried; fried carrots were her specialty); and this was to be followed by poires flambees, pears with burning brandy, which Cronshaw had volunteered to make. The meal was to finish with an enormous fromage de Brie, which stood near the window and added fragrant odours to all the others which filled the studio. Cronshaw sat in the place of honour on a Gladstone bag, with his legs curled under him like a Turkish bashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the young people who surrounded him. From force of habit, though the small studio with the stove lit was very hot, he kept on his great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowler hat: he looked with satisfaction on the four large fiaschi of Chianti which stood in front of him in a row, two on each side of a bottle of whiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair Circassian guarded by four corpulent eunuchs. Hayward in order to put the rest of them at their ease had clothed himself in a tweed suit and a Trinity Hall tie. He looked grotesquely British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and during the soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. There was a pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and Miss Chalice lit a cigarette.

‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,’ she said suddenly.

With an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell over her shoulders. She shook her head.

‘I always feel more comfortable with my hair down.’

With her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broad forehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by Burne-Jones. She had long, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. She wore sweeping draperies, mauve and green. There was about her the romantic air of High Street, Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an excellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but skin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout of exultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton and held it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist on a platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn, hieratic steps.

‘Hail, daughter of Herodias,’ cried Cronshaw.

The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty appetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter sat on each side of her, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grew tired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat afterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She bore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so, and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. Now and then she looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The poires flambees were a great success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because Miss Chalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese.

‘I don’t know whether it’s perfectly delicious, or whether I’m just going to vomit,’ she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture.

Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, who could do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in a graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his shoulder. She looked into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, and now and then with a long meditative glance at Lawson she sighed deeply.

Then came the summer, and restlessness seized these young people. The blue skies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant breeze sighing through the leaves of the plane-trees on the boulevard drew them towards the country. Everyone made plans for leaving Paris; they discussed what was the most suitable size for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores of panels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various places in Brittany. Flanagan and Potter went to Concarneau; Mrs. Otter and her mother, with a natural instinct for the obvious, went to Pont-Aven; Philip and Lawson made up their minds to go to the forest of Fontainebleau, and Miss Chalice knew of a very good hotel at Moret where there was lots of stuff to paint; it was near Paris, and neither Philip nor Lawson was indifferent to the railway fare. Ruth Chalice would be there, and Lawson had an idea for a portrait of her in the open air. Just then the Salon was full of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with blinking eyes and green reflections of sunlit leaves on their faces. They asked Clutton to go with them, but he preferred spending the summer by himself. He had just discovered Cezanne, and was uger to go to Provence; he wanted heavy skies from which the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, and broad white dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt the colour, and olive trees gray with heat.

The day before they were to start, after the morning class, Philip, putting his things together, spoke to Fanny Price.

‘I’m off tomorrow,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Off where?’ she said quickly. ‘You’re not going away?’ Her face fell.

‘I’m going away for the summer. Aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m staying in Paris. I thought you were going to stay too. I was looking forward....’

She stopped and shrugged her shoulders.

‘But won’t it be frightfully hot here? It’s awfully bad for you.’

‘Much you care if it’s bad for me. Where are you going?’

‘Moret.’

‘Chalice is going there. You’re not going with her?’

‘Lawson and I are going. And she’s going there too. I don’t know that we’re actually going together.’

She gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red.

‘How filthy! I thought you were a decent fellow. You were about the only one here. She’s been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with old Foinet—that’s why he takes so much trouble about her—and now two of you, you and Lawson. It makes me sick.’

‘Oh, what nonsense! She’s a very decent sort. One treats her just as if she were a man.’

‘Oh, don’t speak to me, don’t speak to me.’

‘But what can it matter to you?’ asked Philip. ‘It’s really no business of yours where I spend my summer.’

‘I was looking forward to it so much,’ she gasped, speaking it seemed almost to herself. ‘I didn’t think you had the money to go away, and there wouldn’t have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together, and we’d have gone to see things.’ Then her thoughts flung back to Ruth Chalice. ‘The filthy beast,’ she cried. ‘She isn’t fit to speak to.’

Philip looked at her with a sinking heart. He was not a man to think girls were in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he felt awkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburst could mean. Fanny Price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair falling over her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled down her cheeks. She was repellent. Philip glanced at the door, instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to the scene.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re just the same as all of them. You take all you can get, and you don’t even say thank you. I’ve taught you everything you know. No one else would take any trouble with you. Has Foinet ever bothered about you? And I can tell you this—you can work here for a thousand years and you’ll never do any good. You haven’t got any talent. You haven’t got any originality. And it’s not only me—they all say it. You’ll never be a painter as long as you live.’

‘That is no business of yours either, is it?’ said Philip, flushing.

‘Oh, you think it’s only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice. Never, never, never. You haven’t got it in you.’

Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after him.

‘Never, never, never.’

Moret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at the edge of the forest of Fontainebleau, and the Ecu d’Or was a hotel which still had about it the decrepit air of the Ancien Regime. It faced the winding river, the Loing; and Miss Chalice had a room with a little terrace overlooking it, with a charming view of the old bridge and its fortified gateway. They sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee, smoking, and discussing art. There ran into the river, a little way off, a narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this after their day’s work they often wandered. They spent all day painting. Like most of their generation they were obsessed by the fear of the picturesque, and they turned their backs on the obvious beauty of the town to seek subjects which were devoid of a prettiness they despised. Sisley and Monet had painted the canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire to try their hands at what was so typical of France; but they were frightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid it. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed Lawson notwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in which she tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of the trees; and Lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground a large blue advertisement of chocolat Menier in order to emphasise his abhorrence of the chocolate box.

Philip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of delight when first he used that grateful medium. He went out with Lawson in the morning with his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so much satisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; he was so much under his friend’s influence that he saw only with his eyes. Lawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the grass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in their hands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had one fine day after another; it was very hot; and the heat, searing Philip’s heart, filled him with languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousand thoughts. Often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the shade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an hour. Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty road that led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. His head was full of romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed to wander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to one another careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless fear.

They were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle age, a Rabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent the day by the river patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and Philip sometimes went down and talked to her. He found out that she had belonged to a profession whose most notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren, and having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the bourgeoise. She told Philip lewd stories.

‘You must go to Seville,’ she said—she spoke a little broken English. ‘The most beautiful women in the world.’

She leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large belly, shook with inward laughter.

It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. The heat seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. They did not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit on the terrace of Ruth Chalice’s room, silent, hour after hour, too tired to talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. They listened to the murmur of the river. The church clock struck one and two and sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed. Suddenly Philip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were lovers. He divined it in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air of possession; and as Philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluence surrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange. The revelation was a shock. He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very good fellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him possible to enter into a closer relationship. One Sunday they had all gone with a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which was suitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on taking off her shoes and stockings. It would have been very charming only her feet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe. Philip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. But now he looked upon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in her large eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seen that she was attractive. He thought he detected in her a touch of contempt for him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, in his way, and in Lawson a suspicion of superiority. He was envious of Lawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his love. He wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his heart. He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass him by. He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feet and borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither. Miss Chalice and Lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constant companionship with them made him restless. He was dissatisfied with himself. Life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was losing his time.

The stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between the couple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the utmost frankness.

‘And you,’ she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened on the lust of her fellows, ‘have you got a petite amie?’

‘No,’ said Philip, blushing.

‘And why not? C’est de votre age.’

He shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of Verlaine in his hands, and he wandered off. He tried to read, but his passion was too strong. He thought of the stray amours to which he had been introduced by Flanagan, the sly visits to houses in a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room in Utrecht velvet, and the mercenary graces of painted women. He shuddered. He threw himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animal freshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gently tremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost more than he could bear. He was in love with love. In his fancy he felt the kiss of warm lips on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands. He imagined himself in the arms of Ruth Chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and the wonderful texture of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful adventure slip through his fingers. And if Lawson had done it why should not he? But this was only when he did not see her, when he lay awake at night or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw her he felt suddenly quite different; he had no desire to take her in his arms, and he could not imagine himself kissing her. It was very curious. Away from her he thought her beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and the creamy pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that she was flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed; he could not forget the corns on her toes. He could not understand himself. Would he always love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying anything when he had the chance by that deformity of vision which seemed to exaggerate the revolting?

He was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the definite end of the long summer, drove them all back to Paris.