Chapter 48

第四十八章

菲利普回到阿米特拉诺画室，发现范妮·普赖斯已不再在那儿学画。她个人专用柜的钥匙也已交还给学校。菲利普向奥特太太打听她的情况，奥特太太双肩一耸，说她很可能回英国去了。菲利普听了不觉松了口气。她那副臭脾气实在让人受不了。更气人的是，菲利普在作画的时候，她定要在旁指手划脚，倘若菲利普不按她的意见办，她便认为是有意怠慢，不把她放在眼里。殊不知他菲利普早已不是当初那么个一窍不通的傻小子啦。没多久，菲利普便把她忘得一干二净。现在他迷上了油画，一心希望画出一两幅有分量的作品来，好参加明年的巴黎艺展。劳森在作查利斯小姐的肖像画。就这位小姐的模样来说，确实颇堪入画，凡是拜倒在她脚下的青年人，都曾替她作过画。她天生一副慵慵恹恹的神态，再加上喜欢搔首弄姿，使她成为一个不可多得的模特儿。再说她自己对门也很在行，还可以在旁提些中肯的意见。她之所以热中于艺术，主要是因为向往艺术家的生涯。至于自己的学业是否有所长进，倒是满不在乎。她喜欢画室里的热闹气氛，还有机会大量抽烟。她用低沉而悦耳的声，谈论对艺术的爱，谈论爱的艺术，而这两者究竟有何区别，连她自己也分辨不清。

近来，劳森一直在埋头苦干，差不多真到了废寝忘食的地步。他一连画上好几天，直到支撑不住才罢手，接着却又把画好的部分统统刮掉。幸好是露思·查利斯，若换了别人早就不耐烦了。最后，画面被他搞得一团糟，再也没法补救。

"看来只得换块画布，重砌炉灶罗，"他说。"这回我心里有底了，不消多久就能画成的。"

当时菲利普正好也在场，查利斯小姐对他说：

"你干吗不也来给我画一张？你观摩劳森先生作画，一定会学到不少东西的。"

查利斯小姐对他的情人一律以姓氏相称--这也是她待人接物细致入微的地方。

"要是劳森不介意，我当然非常乐意罗。"

"我才不在乎呢！"劳森说。

菲利普还是第一次动手画人像，一上来尽管有点紧张，但心里很得意。他坐在劳森旁边。一边看他画，一边自己画。面前放着这么个样板，又有劳森和查利斯小姐毫无保留地在旁点拨，菲利普自然得益匪浅。最后，劳森终于大功告成，请克拉顿来批评指教。克拉顿刚回巴黎。他从普罗旺斯顺路南下，到了西班牙，很想见识一下委拉斯开兹在马德里的作品，然后他又去托列多待了三个月。回来后，他嘴里老念叨着一个在这些年轻人听来很觉陌生的名字：他竭力推崇一个名叫埃尔·格列柯的画家，并说倘若要想学他的画，则似乎非去托列多不可。

"哦，对了，这个人我听说过，"劳森说，"他是个古典大师，其特色却在于他的作品同现代派一样拙劣。"

克拉顿比以往更寡言少语，这会儿他不作任何回答，只是脸带讥讽地瞅了劳森一眼。

"你打算让咱们瞧瞧你从西班牙带回来的大作吗？"

"我在西班牙什么也没画，我太忙了。"

"那你在忙点啥？"

"我在思考问题。我相信自己同印象派一刀两断了。我认为不消几，年工夫，他们的作品就会显得十分空洞而浅薄。我想把以前学的东西统。统扔掉，一切从零开始。我回来以后，就把我过去所画的东西全都销毁了。在我的画室里，除了一只画架、我用的颜料和几块干净的画布之外，什么也没有了。"

"那你打算干什么呢？"

"我说不上来。今后要干什么我还只有一点模糊的想法。"

他说起话来慢腾腾的，神态很怪，好像在留神谛听某种勉强可闻的声音。他身上似乎有股连他自己也不理解的神秘力量，隐隐然挣扎着寻求发泄的机会。他那股劲头还真有点儿咄咄逼人。劳森嘴上说恭请指教，心里可有点发慌，忙不迭摆出一副对克拉顿的见解不屑一听的架势，以冲淡可能挨到的批评。但菲利普在一旁看得清楚，劳森巴不得能从克拉顿嘴里听到几句赞许的话呢。克拉顿盯着这张人像，看了半晌，一言不发，接着又朝菲利普画架上的画瞥了一眼。

"那是什么玩意儿？"他问。

"哦，我也试着画画人像。"

"依着葫芦学画瓢，"他嘟哝了一句。

他再转过身去看劳森的画布。菲利普涨红了脸，没吱声。

"嗯，阁下高见如何？"最后劳森忍不住问道。

"很有立体感，"克拉顿说，"我看画得挺好。"

"你看明暗层次是不是还可以？"

"相当不错。"

劳森喜得咧开了嘴。他像条落水狗似的，身子连着衣服一起抖动起来。

"嘿，你喜欢这幅画，我说不出有多高兴。"

"我才不呢！我认为这幅画毫无意思。"

劳森拉长了脸，惊愕地望着克拉顿，不明白他葫芦里卖的什么药。克拉顿不善辞令，说起话来似乎相当费劲，前言不搭后语，结结巴巴，罗里罗唆，不过菲利普对他东拉西扯的谈话倒还能琢磨出个究竟来。克拉顿自己从不开卷看书，这些话起初是从克朗肖那儿听来的，当时虽然印象不深，却留在他的记忆里了。最近，这些话又霍然浮现在脑际，给了他某种新的启示：一个出色的画像，有两个主要的描绘对象，即人及其心灵的意愿。印象派沉湎于其他方面，尽管他们笔下的人物，有形有色，令人赞叹，但他们却像十八世纪英国肖像画家那样，很少费心去考虑人物心灵的意愿。

"可你果真朝这方面发展，就会变得书卷气十足了，"劳森插嘴说，"还是让我像马奈那样画人物吧，什么心灵的意愿，见他的鬼去！"

"要是你能在马奈擅长的人像画方面胜过他，当然再好不过，可实际上你赶不上他的水平。你今天立足的这个地盘，已是光光的一无所有，你怎么能既站在现在的地盘上又想用往昔的东西来丰富自己的创作呢？你得脚踏实地重新退回去。直到我见到格列柯的作品之后，我才开了眼界，感到可以从肖像画中得到以前所不知道的东西。"

"那不是又回到罗斯金的老路上去了！"劳森嚷道。

"不--你得明白，他喜欢说教，而我才不在乎那一套呢。说教呀，伦理道德呀，诸如此类的玩意儿，根本没用，要紧的是激情和情感。最伟大的肖像画家，不仅勾勒人物的外貌，而且也描绘出人物心灵的意愿。勒勃朗和埃尔·格列柯就是这样。只有二流画家，才局限于刻划人物的外貌。幽谷中的百合花，即使没有香味，也是讨人喜欢的；可是如果还能散发出阵阵芳馨，那就更加迷人了。那幅画，"一他指着劳森画的人像一"嗯，构图不错，立体感也可以，就是没有一点新意。照理说，线条的勾勒和实体的表现，都应该让你一眼就看出这是个卖弄风骚的婆娘。外形准确固然是好，可埃尔·格列柯笔下的人物，却是身高八英尺，因为非如此便不足以表达他所想表达的意趣。"

"去他妈的埃尔·格列柯，"劳森说，"这个人的作品我们连看都没看到过，却在这儿谈论此人如何如何，还不是瞎放空炮！"

克拉顿耸耸肩，默默地点上一支烟，走开了。菲利普和劳森面面相觑。

"他讲的倒也不无道理，"菲利普说。

劳森悻悻然冲着自己的画发愣。

"除了把你看到的东西毫不走样地勾勒下来，还有什么别的方法可用来表达人物心灵的意愿？"

差不多就在这时候，菲利普结交了个新朋友。星期一早晨，模特儿们。照例要到学校来应选，选中者就留下来工作一周。有一回，选中了个青年男子，他显然不是个职业模特儿。菲利普被他的姿态吸引住了：他跨上，站台，两腿交叉成直角，稳稳地站着，紧攥双拳，头部傲然前倾，这一姿态鲜明地显示了他体型的健美；他身上胖瘦适中，鼓突的肌肉犹如铜铸铁浇一般。头发剪得很短，头部轮廓线条很优美，下巴上留着短短的胡须；一对眼睛又大又黑，两道眉毛又粗又浓。他一连几个小时保持着这种姿势，不见半点倦意。他那略带几分羞惭的神态之中，隐隐透出一股刚毅之气。他活力充沛，神采奕奕，激起了菲利普的罗曼蒂克的遐想。等他工作完毕，穿好衣服，菲利普反觉得他像个裹着褴褛衣衫的君王。他寡言少语，不轻易开口。过了几天，奥特太太告诉菲利普，这模特儿是个西班牙人，以前从未干过这一行。

"想来他是为饥饿所迫吧，"菲利普说。

"你注意到他的衣服了？既整洁又体面，是吗？"

说来也凑巧，在阿米特拉诺画室习画的美国人波特，这时要去意大利。小住几个月，愿意让菲利普借用他的画室。菲利普正求之不得。他对劳森那种命令式的诲训已渐渐有点不耐烦，正想一个人住开去。周末，他跑到那个模特儿跟前，借口说自己的画还没画完，问他是否肯上自己那儿去加一天班。

"我不是模特儿，"西班牙人回答说，"下星期我有别的事要干。"

"现在跟我一起去吃中饭，咱们可以边吃边商量嘛，"菲利普说。他见对方迟疑不决，又笑着说："陪我吃顿便饭会把你坑了怎么的。"

那个模特儿耸了耸肩，同意了，他们便一块儿去一家点心店就餐。那个模特儿说一口蹩脚的法语，吐词又像连珠炮似的，所以听起来很吃力。菲利普小心应付，和他谈得还算投机。那西班牙人是个作家，来巴黎写小说的，在此期间，为了糊口，穷光蛋干的苦差事他差不多全干过：他教书，搞翻译，主要是搞商务文件翻译（凡能揽到手的，不管什么都译），到最后，竟不得不靠自己的健美体型来赚钱。给人当模特儿，收入倒还不错，这个星期所挣到的钱，够他以后两个星期花的。他对菲利普说，他靠两个法郎就能舒舒服服地过上一天（菲利普听了好生惊讶）。不过，为了挣几个子儿而不得不裸露自己的身子，这实在使他感到羞愧难当。在他看来，做模特儿无异是一种堕落，唯一可聊以自慰的是：总不见得眼睁睁地让自己饿死吧。菲利普解释说，他并不想画整个身子，而是单画头部，他希望画张他的头像，争取送到下一届巴黎艺展去展出。

"干吗你一定要画我呢？"西班牙人问。

菲利普回答说自己对他的头型很感兴趣，说不定能画出一幅成功的人像画来。

"我可抽不出时间来。要我挤掉写作时间，哪怕是一分一秒，我也不乐意。"

"但我只想占用你下午的时间。上午我在学校里作画。不管怎么说，坐着让我画像，总比翻译法律公文要强吧。"

拉丁区内不同国籍的学生，一度曾相处得十分融洽，至今仍传为美谈，可惜这早已成了往事。如今，差不多也像在东方城市里那样，不同国籍的学生老死不相往来。在朱利昂画室或是在美术学院里，一个法国学生苦与外国人交往，就会遭到本国同胞的侧目；而一个旅居巴黎的英国人要想与所住城市的当地居民有所深交，似乎比登天还难。说真的，有许多学生在巴黎住了五年之久，学到的法语只够在跑商店饭馆时派点用处。他们仍过着道地的英国式生活，好似在南肯辛顿工作、学习一样。

菲利普一向醉心于富有浪漫气息的事物，现在有机会和一个西班牙人接触，他当然不舍得白白放过。他拨动如簧巧舌，连劝带哄，想把对方说通。

"我说就这么办吧，"西班牙人最后说，"我答应给你当模特儿，但不是为了钱，而是我自个儿高兴这么做。"

菲利普劝他接受点报酬，但对方拒意甚坚。最后他们商定，他下星期一下午一时来。他给了菲利普一张名片，上面印着他的大名：米格尔·阿胡里亚。

米格尔定期来当模特儿，他虽然拒绝收费，但不时问菲利普借个五十法郎什么的，所以菲利普实际的破费，比按常规付他工钱只多不少。不过，西班牙人感到满意了，因为这些钱可不是干下践活儿挣来的。由于他有着西班牙的国籍，菲利普就把他当作浪漫民族的代表，执意要他谈谈塞维利亚和格拉纳达，谈谈委拉斯开兹和卡尔德隆。但是米格尔并不把自己国家的灿烂文化放在眼里。他也像他的许多同胞一样，认为只有法国才算得上英才荟萃之乡，而巴黎则是世界的中心。

"西班牙完蛋了，"他大声叫道。"没有作家，没有艺术，什么也没有。"

渐渐地，米格尔以其民族所特有的那种浮夸辩才，向菲利普披露了自己的抱负。他正在写一部长篇小说，希望能借此一举成名。他深受左拉的影响，把巴黎作为自己小说的主要生活场景。他详细地给菲利普讲了小说的情节。在菲利普听来，作品内容粗俗而无聊，有关秽行的幼稚描写--c'est la vie，mon cher，c'est la vie，他叫道--反而更衬托出故事的陈腐俗套。他置身于难以想象的困境之中，坚持写了两年，含辛茹苦，清心寡欲，舍弃了当初吸引他来巴黎的种种生活乐趣，为了艺术而甘心忍饥挨饿；他矢志不移，任何力量也阻挡不了实现毕生宏愿的决心。这种苦心孤诣的精神倒真了不起呢。

"你何不写西班牙呢？"菲利普大声说。"那会有趣多了。你熟悉那儿的生活。"

"巴黎是唯一值得描写的地方。巴黎才是生活。"

有一天，他带来一部分手稿，自念自译。他激动得什么似的，再加上他的法语又那么蹩脚，菲利普听了简直不知其所云。他一口气念了好几段。实在糟糕透了。菲利普望着自己的画发愣：他实在没法理解，藏在宽阔的眉宇后面的思想，竟是那么浅薄平庸；那对灼灼有光、热情洋溢的眸子，竞只看到生活中浮光掠影的表象。菲利普对自己的画总觉着不顺心，每回作画临结束时，差不多总要把已成的画面全部刮掉。人物肖像，旨在表现心灵的意愿，这说法固然很中听，可如果出现在你面前的是一些集各种矛盾于一身的人物，那又有谁说得出心灵的意愿是什么呢？他喜欢米格尔，看到他呕心沥血却劳而无功，不免感到痛心。成为出色作家的各种条件，他差不多一应俱全，唯独缺少天赋。菲利普望着自己的作品。谁又分辨得出这里面确实凝聚着天才，还是纯粹在虚掷光阴呢？显然，那种不达目的誓不罢休的意志，帮不了你什么忙，自信心也毫无意义。菲利普想到了范妮·普赖斯：她既坚信自己的禀赋，意志力也相当惊人。

"要是我自知成不了大器，我宁可就此封笔不画了，"菲利普说。"我看当个二流画家实在毫无出息。"

一天早上他刚要出门，看门人将他叫住，说有封他的信。平时除了路易莎伯母，间或还有海沃德外，再没别人给他写信了。而这封信的笔迹他过去从未见过。信上这么写着：

见信后请速来我处。我再也支撑不住。你务必亲自前来。想到让别人来碰我的身子，我简直受不了。我要把所有的东西全留给你。

范·普赖斯

我已经一连三天没吃到一口食物。

菲利普突然感到一阵惶恐，浑身发软。他急匆匆直奔她的住所。使他吃惊的是，她竟还留在巴黎。他已经好几个月没见到她，以为她早就回英国去了。他一到那儿，便问门房她是否在家。

"在的吧，我已经有两天没见她出门了。"

菲利普一口气奔上了楼，敲敲房门。里面没人应答，他叫唤她的名字。房门锁着，他弯腰一看，发现钥匙插在锁孔里。

"哦，天哪，但愿她没干出什么糊涂事来，"他失声大叫。

他急忙跑到楼下对门房说，她肯定是在房间里。他刚收到她的一封信，担心出了什么意外。他建议把门撬开。起初门房板着脸，不想听他说话，后来知道事态严重，一时又慌了手脚。他负不起破门而入的责任，坚持要把警察署长请来。他们一块儿到了警察署，然后又找来了锁匠。菲利普了解到普赖斯小姐还欠着上个季度的房租。元旦那天，也没给门房礼物，而门房根据惯例，认为元旦佳节从房客那儿到手件把礼物乃是理所当然的事。他们四人一起上了楼，又敲了敲门，还是无人应答。锁匠动手开锁，最后大家总算进了房间。菲利普大叫一声，本能地用手捂住眼睛。这个可怜的姑娘已上吊自尽了--绳索就套在天花板的铁钩上，而这钩子是先前某个房客用来挂床帘的。她把自己的小床挪到一边，先站在椅于上，随后用两脚把椅于蹬开。椅子现在就横倒在地上。他们割断绳索，把她放下来。她的身子早已凉透了。

 

When Philip returned to Amitrano’s he found that Fanny Price was no longer working there. She had given up the key of her locker. He asked Mrs. Otter whether she knew what had become of her; and Mrs. Otter, with a shrug of the shoulders, answered that she had probably gone back to England. Philip was relieved. He was profoundly bored by her ill-temper. Moreover she insisted on advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight when he did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he felt himself no longer the duffer he had been at first. Soon he forgot all about her. He was working in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. He hoped to have something done of sufficient importance to send to the following year’s Salon. Lawson was painting a portrait of Miss Chalice. She was very paintable, and all the young men who had fallen victims to her charm had made portraits of her. A natural indolence, joined with a passion for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and she had enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. Since her passion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of artists, she was quite content to neglect her own work. She liked the warmth of the studio, and the opportunity to smoke innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a low, pleasant voice of the love of art and the art of love. She made no clear distinction between the two.

Lawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could hardly stand for days and then scraping out all he had done. He would have exhausted the patience of anyone but Ruth Chalice. At last he got into a hopeless muddle.

‘The only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh,’ he said. ‘I know exactly what I want now, and it won’t take me long.’

Philip was present at the time, and Miss Chalice said to him:

‘Why don’t you paint me too? You’ll be able to learn a lot by watching Mr. Lawson.’

It was one of Miss Chalice’s delicacies that she always addressed her lovers by their surnames.

‘I should like it awfully if Lawson wouldn’t mind.’

‘I don’t care a damn,’ said Lawson.

It was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he began with trepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and painted as he saw him paint. He profited by the example and by the advice which both Lawson and Miss Chalice freely gave him. At last Lawson finished and invited Clutton in to criticise. Clutton had only just come back to Paris. From Provence he had drifted down to Spain, eager to see Velasquez at Madrid, and thence he had gone to Toledo. He stayed there three months, and he was returned with a name new to the young men: he had wonderful things to say of a painter called El Greco, who it appeared could only be studied in Toledo.

‘Oh yes, I know about him,’ said Lawson, ‘he’s the old master whose distinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns.’

Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at Lawson with a sardonic air.

‘Are you going to show us the stuff you’ve brought back from Spain?’ asked Philip.

‘I didn’t paint in Spain, I was too busy.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I thought things out. I believe I’m through with the Impressionists; I’ve got an idea they’ll seem very thin and superficial in a few years. I want to make a clean sweep of everything I’ve learnt and start fresh. When I came back I destroyed everything I’d painted. I’ve got nothing in my studio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ve only got an inkling of what I want.’

He spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were straining to hear something which was only just audible. There seemed to be a mysterious force in him which he himself did not understand, but which was struggling obscurely to find an outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dreaded the criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he might get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton’s; but Philip knew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than Clutton’s praise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then glanced at Philip’s picture, which was standing on an easel.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too.’

‘The sedulous ape,’ he murmured.

He turned away again to Lawson’s canvas. Philip reddened but did not speak.

‘Well, what d’you think of it?’ asked Lawson at length.

‘The modelling’s jolly good,’ said Clutton. ‘And I think it’s very well drawn.’

‘D’you think the values are all right?’

‘Quite.’

Lawson smiled with delight. He shook himself in his clothes like a wet dog.

‘I say, I’m jolly glad you like it.’

‘I don’t. I don’t think it’s of the smallest importance.’

Lawson’s face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment: he had no notion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he spoke as though it were an effort. What he had to say was confused, halting, and verbose; but Philip knew the words which served as the text of his rambling discourse. Clutton, who never read, had heard them first from Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the character of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint, namely, man and the intention of his soul. The Impressionists had been occupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they had troubled themselves as little as the English portrait painters of the eighteenth century with the intention of his soul.

‘But when you try to get that you become literary,’ said Lawson, interrupting. ‘Let me paint the man like Manet, and the intention of his soul can go to the devil.’

‘That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own game, but you can’t get anywhere near him. You can’t feed yourself on the day before yesterday, it’s ground which has been swept dry. You must go back. It’s when I saw the Grecos that I felt one could get something more out of portraits than we knew before.’

‘It’s just going back to Ruskin,’ cried Lawson.

‘No—you see, he went for morality: I don’t care a damn for morality: teaching doesn’t come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion. The greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention of his soul; Rembrandt and El Greco; it’s only the second-raters who’ve only painted man. A lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn’t smell, but it’s more lovely because it has perfume. That picture’—he pointed to Lawson’s portrait—‘well, the drawing’s all right and so’s the modelling all right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled so that you know the girl’s a lousy slut. Correctness is all very well: El Greco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express something he couldn’t get any other way.’

‘Damn El Greco,’ said Lawson, ‘what’s the good of jawing about a man when we haven’t a chance of seeing any of his work?’

Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went away. Philip and Lawson looked at one another.

‘There’s something in what he says,’ said Philip.

Lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture.

‘How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by painting exactly what one sees?’

About this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning models assembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week, and one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model by profession. Philip’s attention was attracted by the manner in which he held himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet, square, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward; the attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his muscles stood out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped, was well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without appearance of fatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination. His air of passionate energy excited Philip’s romantic imagination, and when, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that he wore them as though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, but in a day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard and that he had never sat before.

‘I suppose he was starving,’ said Philip.

‘Have you noticed his clothes? They’re quite neat and decent, aren’t they?’

It chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at Amitrano’s, was going to Italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to Philip. Philip was pleased. He was growing a little impatient of Lawson’s peremptory advice and wanted to be by himself. At the end of the week he went up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished asked whether he would come and sit to him one day.

‘I’m not a model,’ the Spaniard answered. ‘I have other things to do next week.’

‘Come and have luncheon with me now, and we’ll talk about it,’ said Philip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: ‘It won’t hurt you to lunch with me.’

With a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to a cremerie. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent but difficult to follow, and Philip managed to get on well enough with him. He found out that he was a writer. He had come to Paris to write novels and kept himself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; he gave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chiefly business documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his fine figure. Sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the last week was enough to keep him for two more; he told Philip, amazed, that he could live easily on two francs a day; but it filled him with shame that he was obliged to show his body for money, and he looked upon sitting as a degradation which only hunger could excuse. Philip explained that he did not want him to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to do a portrait of him which he might send to the next Salon.

‘But why should you want to paint me?’ asked the Spaniard.

Philip answered that the head interested him, he thought he could do a good portrait.

‘I can’t afford the time. I grudge every minute that I have to rob from my writing.’

‘But it would only be in the afternoon. I work at the school in the morning. After all, it’s better to sit to me than to do translations of legal documents.’

There were legends in the Latin quarter of a time when students of different countries lived together intimately, but this was long since passed, and now the various nations were almost as much separated as in an Oriental city. At Julian’s and at the Beaux Arts a French student was looked upon with disfavour by his fellow-countrymen when he consorted with foreigners, and it was difficult for an Englishman to know more than quite superficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he dwelt. Indeed, many of the students after living in Paris for five years knew no more French than served them in shops and lived as English a life as though they were working in South Kensington.

Philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to get in touch with a Spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome the man’s reluctance.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said the Spaniard at last. ‘I’ll sit to you, but not for money, for my own pleasure.’

Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged that he should come on the following Monday at one o’clock. He gave Philip a card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria.

Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed fifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little more expensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but gave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his living in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as a representative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada, Velasquez and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur of his country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was the only country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world.

‘Spain is dead,’ he cried. ‘It has no writers, it has no art, it has nothing.’

Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his ambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. He was under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. He told Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the naive obscenity—c’est la vie, mon cher, c’est la vie, he cried—the naive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the anecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying himself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris, fighting with starvation for art’s sake, determined that nothing should hinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic.

‘But why don’t you write about Spain?’ cried Philip. ‘It would be so much more interesting. You know the life.’

‘But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life.’

One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French, translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely understand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very well to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was when people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had everything to make a good writer but talent. Philip looked at his own work. How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you were wasting your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could not help you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of Fanny Price; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will was extraordinary.

‘If I thought I wasn’t going to be really good, I’d rather give up painting,’ said Philip. ‘I don’t see any use in being a second-rate painter.’

Then one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to him that there was a letter. Nobody wrote to him but his Aunt Louisa and sometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know. The letter was as follows:

Please come at once when you get this. I couldn’t put up with it any more. Please come yourself. I can’t bear the thought that anyone else should touch me. I want you to have everything.

F. Price

I have not had anything to eat for three days.

Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house in which she lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at all. He had not seen her for months and imagined she had long since returned to England. When he arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in.

‘Yes, I’ve not seen her go out for two days.’

Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply. He called her name. The door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was in the lock.

‘Oh, my God, I hope she hasn’t done something awful,’ he cried aloud.

He ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room. He had had a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. He suggested breaking open the door. The porter, who had been sullen and disinclined to listen, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of breaking into the room; they must go for the commissaire de police. They walked together to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith. Philip found that Miss Price had not paid the last quarter’s rent: on New Year’s Day she had not given the concierge the present which old-established custom led him to regard as a right. The four of them went upstairs, and they knocked again at the door. There was no reply. The locksmith set to work, and at last they entered the room. Philip gave a cry and instinctively covered his eyes with his hands. The wretched woman was hanging with a rope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed by some previous tenant to hold up the curtains of the bed. She had moved her own little bed out of the way and had stood on a chair, which had been kicked away. it was lying on its side on the floor. They cut her down. The body was quite cold.