Chapter 50

第五十章

这一不幸事件一直在菲利普脑际萦绕，叫他想忘也忘不了。最使他烦忧不安的是，范妮勤学多年，到头来竟是白辛苦一场。论刻苦，比诚心，谁也赶不上她：她真心相信自己赋有艺术才华。可是在这方面，自信心显然说明不了什么问题。他的朋友们不是个个都很自信？至于其他人，比如米格尔·阿胡里亚，亦复如此。这个西班牙人从事写作，可谓苦心孤诣，矢志不移，可写出来的东西却浅薄无聊，不堪一读。所费心血之多，所得成果之微，其间差距委实令人瞠目。菲利普早年凄楚不幸的学校生活，唤起他内心的自我剖析机能。他在不知不觉间染上的这种怪癖，就像吸毒成痛那样，早已根深蒂固，无法摆脱。如今，他更是深切地感到有必要对自己的内心情感作一番剖析。他不能不看到，自己对艺术的感受毕竟有异于他人。一幅出色的美术作品能直接扣动劳森的心弦。他是凭直觉来欣赏作品的。即使弗拉纳根能从感觉上把握某些事物，而菲利普却非得经过一番思索才能有所领悟。菲利普是靠理性来欣赏作品的。他不由得暗自感叹：假如他身上也有那种所谓"艺术家的气质"（他讨厌这个用语，可又想不出别的说法），他就会像他们那样，也能借助感情而不是借助推理来获得美的感受。他开始怀疑自己莫非只有手面上那么一点巧劲儿，至多也只能靠它依样画葫芦。这实在毫不足取。他现在也学别人的样，不再把技巧放在眼里。最要紧的是如何借画面表达作画人的内心感受。劳森按某种格调作画，这本是由他的天性所决定了的；而他作为一个习画者，尽管易于接受各种影响，然而在他的刻意模仿之中，却棱角分明地显露出他个人的风格。菲利普呆呆地望着自己那帧露思·查利斯像，成画到现在已三月有零，他这时才意识到自己的画不过是劳森作品的忠实翻版而已。他感到自己毫无匠心，不堪造就。他是用脑子来作画的，而他心里明白，有价值的美术作品，无一不是心灵的结晶。

他没有多少财产，总共还不到一千六百镑，他得节衣缩食，精打细算地过日子。十年之内，他别指望挣到一个子儿。纵观一部美术史，一无收益的画家比比皆是。他得安于贫穷，苦度光阴。当然罗，要是哪天能创作出一幅不朽之作来，那么即使穷苦一辈子倒也还算值得，怕就怕自己至多只能有个当二流画家的出息。倘若牺牲了自己的青春韶华，舍弃了生活的乐趣，错过了人生的种种机缘，到头来只修得个二流画家的正果，这值得吗？菲利普对于一些侨居巴黎的外国画家的情况，十分熟悉，知道他们生活在一方小天地里，活动圈子极其狭窄。他知道有些画家为了想扬名四海，含辛茹苦二十年如一日，最后仍然出不了名，于是一个个皆穷途潦倒，沦为一蹶不振的酒鬼。范妮的悬梁自尽，唤起了菲利普对往事的回忆。他常听人谈到过这个或那个画家的可怕遭遇，说他们为了摆脱绝境，如何如何寻了短见。他还回想起那位画师如何讥锋犀利地向可怜的范妮提出了忠告。她要是早点听了他的话，断然放弃这一毫无希望的尝试，或许尚不至于落个那样的下场。

菲利普完成了那幅米格尔·阿胡里亚人像之后，决计送交巴黎艺展。弗拉纳根也打算送两幅画去，菲利普自以为水平和弗拉纳根不相上下。他在这幅画上倾注了不少心血，自信不无可取之处。他在审视这幅作品时，固然觉得有什么地方画得不对头，一时又说不出个所以然来，可是只要他眼前看不到那幅画，他又会转化为喜，不再有快快失意之感。送交艺展的画被退了回来。起初他倒也不怎么在乎，因为他事先就想过各种理由来说服自己，人选的可能性微乎其微。谁知几天之后，弗拉纳根却兴冲冲地跑来告诉菲利普和劳森，他送去的画中有一幅已被画展选中了。菲利普神情冷淡地向他表示祝贺。陶然忘情的弗拉纳根只顾额手称庆，一点儿也没察觉菲利普道贺时情不自禁流露出的讥诮口风。头脑机灵的劳森，当即辨出菲利普话里有刺，好奇地望了菲利普一眼。劳森自己送去的画不成问题，他在一两天前就知道了，他对菲利普的态度隐隐感到不悦。等那美国人一走，菲利普立即向劳森发问，问题问得很突然，颇叫劳森感到意外。

"你要是处于我的地位，会不会就此洗手不干了？"

"你这话是什么意思？"

"我怀疑当个二流画家是否值得。你也明白，要是换个行当，就说行医或经商吧，即使庸庸碌碌地混一辈子也不打紧，只要能养家糊口就行了。然而要是一辈子净画些二流作品，能有多大出息？"

劳森对菲利普颇有几分好感，他想菲利普一向遇事顶真，此时一定是为画稿落选的事在苦恼，所以竭力好言相劝：谁都知道，好些被巴黎画展退回的作品，后来不是成了画坛上的名作？他菲利普首次投稿应选，遭到拒绝，也是在意料之中的嘛；至于弗拉纳根的侥幸成功，不外乎这么回事：他的画完全是卖弄技巧的肤浅之作，而暮气沉沉的评选团所赏识的偏偏就是这号作品。菲利普越听越不耐烦；劳森怎么也不明白菲利普心情沮丧，乃是由于从根本上对自己的能力丧失了信心，而竟然以为自己会为了这等微不足道的挫折而垂头丧气！这未免太小看人了。

近来，克拉顿似乎有意疏远那些在格雷维亚餐馆同桌进餐的伙伴，过起离群索居的日子来。弗拉纳根说他准是跟哪个姑娘闹恋爱了，可是从他不苟言笑的严肃神情里却看不到一点堕入情网的迹象。菲利普心想，他回避旧日的朋友，很可能是为了好好清理一下他脑子里的那些新的想法。然而有一天晚上，其他人全离开餐馆上剧场看话剧去了，只留下菲利普一个人闲坐着，这时克拉顿走了进来，点了饭菜。他们随口攀谈起来。菲利普发现克拉顿比平时健谈，说的话也不那么刺人，决定趁他今天高兴的当儿好好向他讨教一下。

"哎，我很想请你来看看我的习作，"他试探着说，"很想听听阁下的高见。"

"我才不干呢。"

"为什么？"菲利普红着脸问。

他们那伙人相互之间经常提出这种请求，谁也不会一口回绝的。克拉顿耸了耸肩。

"大家嘴上说敬请批评指教，可骨子里只想听恭维话。况且就算提出了批评，又有何益？你画得好也罢，歹也罢，有什么大不了的？"

"对我可大有关系呢？"

"没的事。一个人所以要作画，只是因为他非画不可。这也算得上是一种官能，就跟人体的所有其他官能一样，不过只有少数人才具有这种官能罢了。一个人作画，纯粹是为了自己，要不让他作画，他说不定会自杀。请你想一想，为了能在画布上涂上几笔，天知道你下了多少年的苦功夫，呕沥了多少心血，结果又如何呢？交送画展的作品，十有八九要被退回来；就算有幸被接受了，人们打它跟前走过时至多朝它看上个十秒钟。要是有哪个不学无术的笨伯把你的画买了去，挂在他家的墙上，你就算是交了好运，而他对你的画就像对屋子里的餐桌一样，难得瞧上一眼。批评向来同艺术家无缘。批评纯粹是客观性的评断，而凡属客观之物皆同画家无关。"

克拉顿用手捂住眼睛，好让自己的心思全部集中在自己要说的话上。

"画家从所见事物中获得某种独特的感受之后，身不由主地要想把它表现出来。他自己也说不清是为了什么，反正他得用线条和色彩来表现自己的内心感受。这就跟音乐家一样。音乐家只要读上一两行文字，脑子里就会自然而然地映现出某种音符的组合，他自己也说不清为什么这几个词或那几个词会在他心里唤起这一组或那一组的音符来，反正就是这么来着。我还可以给你举个理由，说明批评纯属无谓之举。大画家总是迫使世人按他的眼光来观察自然，但是，时隔一代，一位画坛新秀则按另一种方式来观察世界，而公众却仍按其前辈而不是按他本人的眼光来评断他的作品。巴比松派画家教我们的先辈以某种方式来观察树木，可后来又出了个莫奈，他另辟蹊径，独树一帜，于是人们议论纷纷：树木怎会是这个样子的呢。他们从来没想到过，画家爱怎么观察树木，树木就会有个什么样子。我们作画时是由里及表的--假如我们能迫使世人接受我们的眼光，人们就称我们是大画家；假如不能呢，世人便不把我们放在眼里。但我们并不因此而有所不同。伟大也罢，渺小也罢，我们才不看重世人的这些褒贬之词哩。我们的作品问世之后会有什么样的遭遇，那是无关紧要的；在我们作画的时候，我们已经获得了所能获得的一切。"

谈话暂时中断，克拉顿风卷残云似地把他面前的食品一扫而光。菲利普一面抽着廉价雪茄，一面仔细打量克拉顿。他那凹凸不平的头颅--一仿佛是用顽石雕刻而成的，而在雕刻的时候，雕刻家的凿于怎么也制伏不了这块顽石-一再配上那一头粗鬃似的黑发、大得出奇的鼻子和宽阔的下颚骨，表明他是一条个性倔强的硬汉子。可是菲利普心里却在暗暗嘀咕：在这强悍的面具下面，会不会隐伏着出奇的软弱呢？克拉顿不愿意让别人看到他的大作，说不定纯粹是虚荣心在作怪：他受不了他人的批评，也不愿冒被巴黎艺展拒之于门外的风险；他希望别人能把他当作艺术大师看待，可又不敢把作品拿出来同他人较量，唯恐相形之下自愧不如。菲利普同他相识已有十八个月，只见他变得愈来愈粗鲁、尖刻，尽管他不愿意公开站出来与同伴比个高低，可是对伙伴们轻而易举地获得成功往往露出愤愤不平之意。他看不惯劳森。当初菲利普刚认识他们的时候，他和劳森过往甚密，形同莫逆，可如今这已成往事。

"劳森吗，没问题，"他用鄙夷的口吻说，"日后他回英国去，当个时髦的肖像画家，一年挣个万把英镑，不到四十岁就会戴上皇家艺术协会会员的桂冠。只要动手为显贵名流多画几帧肖像就行了呗！"

菲利普听了这席话，不由得也窥测了一下未来。他仿佛见到了二十年后的克拉顿，尖刻、孤僻、粗野、默默无闻，仍死守在巴黎，因为巴黎的生活已经渗入他的骨髓之中；他靠了那条不饶人的舌头，成为小型cenacle上的风云人物，他同自己过不去，也同周围世界过不去；他愈来愈狂热地追求那种可望而不可即的尽善尽美的艺术境界，却拿不出什么作品来，最后说不定还会沦为酒鬼。近来，有个想法搞得菲利普心神不定。既然人生在世只有一次，那就切不可虚度此生。他并不认为只有发迹致富、名扬天下，才算没枉活于世，可究竟怎样才无愧于此生，他自己也说不上来。也许应该阅尽人世沧桑，做到人尽其才吧。不管怎么说，克拉顿显然已难逃失败的厄运，除非他日后能画出几幅不朽杰作来。他想起克朗肖借波斯地毯所作的古怪比喻，近来菲利普也经常想到这个比喻。当时克朗肖像农牧神那样故弄玄虚，硬是不肯进一步说清意思，只是重复了一句：除非由你自己悟出其中的奥妙来，否则便毫无意义。菲利普之所以在是否继续其艺术生涯的问题上游移不定，归根结底是因为他不希望让自己的一生年华白白虚度掉。克拉顿这时又开腔了。

"你还记得吗，我曾同你谈起过我在布列塔尼遇到的那个家伙？前几天，我在这儿又遇到他了。他正打算去塔希提岛。他现在成了个一文不名的穷光蛋。他本是个brasseu，d'affaires，我想也就是英语中所说的股票经纪人吧。他有老婆孩子，有过十分可观的收入，可他心甘情愿地抛弃了这一切，一心一意想当画家。他离家出走，只身来到布列塔尼，开始了他的艺术生涯。他身无分文，险些儿饿死。"

"那他的老婆孩子呢？"菲利普问。

"哦，他撇下他们，任他们饿死拉倒。"

"这未免太缺德了吧。"

"哦，我亲爱的老弟，要是你想做个止人君于，就千万别当艺术家。两者是水火不相容的。你听说过有些人为了赡养老母，不惜粗制滥造些无聊作品来骗取钱财--唔，这表明他们是克尽孝道的好儿子，但这可不能成为粗制滥造的理由。他们只能算是生意人。真正的艺术家宁可把自己的老娘往济贫院里送。我认识这儿的一位作家。有一回他告诉我，他老婆在分娩时不幸去世了。他爱妻的死，使他悲痛欲绝；但是当他坐在床沿上守护奄奄一息的爱妻时，他发现自己竟然在偷偷地打腹稿，默默记下她弥留时的脸部表情、她临终前的遗言以及自己当时的切身感受。这恐怕有失绅士风度吧，呃？"

"你那位朋友是个有造诣的画家吗？"

"不，现在还算不上。他绘图的风格颇似毕沙罗。他还没察觉自己的特长，过他很懂得运用色彩和装饰。但关键不在这儿。要紧的是激情，而他身上就蕴藏着那么一股激情。他对待自己的老婆孩子，像个十足的无赖；他的行为举止始终像个十足的无赖，他对待那些帮过他忙的人--有时他全仗朋友们的接济才免受饥馁之苦---态度粗鲁，简直像个畜生。可他恰恰是位了不起的艺术家。"

菲利普陷入了沉思。那人为了能用颜料将人世给予他的情感在画布上表现出来，竟不惜牺牲一切：舒适的生活、家庭、金钱、爱情、名誉和天职。这还真了不起。可他菲利普就是没有这种气魄。

刚才想到克朗肖，菲利普忽然记起他已经有一星期没见到这位作家了，所以同克拉顿分手后，便径直朝丁香园咖啡馆近去，他知道在那儿准能遇到克朗肖。在他旅居巴黎的头几个月里，他曾把克朗肖的一言一语皆奉为金科玉律，然而时日一久，讲究实际的菲利普便渐渐对克朗肖的那套空头理论不怎么买帐了。他那薄薄的一束诗章，似乎算不得是悲惨一生的丰硕之果。菲利普出身于中产阶级，他没法把自己品性中的中产阶级本能驱除掉。克朗肖一贫如洗，干着雇佣文人的营生，勉强糊口。他不是蜷缩在腌(月赞)污秽的小顶室里，就是在咖啡馆餐桌边狂饮，过着两点一线的单凋生活--凡此种种，都是同菲利普心目中的体面概念相抵触的。克朗肖是个精明人，不会不知道这年轻人对自己有看法，所以不时要回敬菲利普几句，有时带点开玩笑的口气，而在更多的场合，则是犀利地加以冷嘲热讽，挖苦他市侩气十足。

"你是个生意人，"他对菲利普说，"你想把人生投资在统一公债上，这样就可稳稳到手三分年利。我可是个挥霍成性的败家子，我打算把老本吃光用尽，赤裸着身子去见上帝。"

这个比喻颇叫菲利普恼火。因为这样的说法不仅给克朗肖的处世态度平添了几分罗曼蒂克的色彩，同时又诋毁了菲利普对人生的看法。菲利普本能地觉得要为自己申辩几句，可是一时却想不出什么话来。

那天晚上，菲利普心里好矛盾，迟迟拿不定主意，所以想找克朗肖谈谈自己的事儿。幸好时间已晚，克朗肖餐桌上的茶托高叠（有多少只茶托就表示他已灌下了多少杯酒），看来他已准备就人生世事发表自己的独到见解了。

"不知你是否肯给我提点忠告，"菲利普猝然开口说。

"你不会接受的，对吧？"

菲利普不耐烦地一耸肩。

"我相信自己在绘画方面搞不出多大的名堂来。当个二流画家，我看不出会有什么出息，所以我打算洗手不干了。"

"干吗不干了呢？"

菲利普沉吟了片刻。

"我想是因为我爱生活吧。"

克朗肖那张平和的圆脸上形容大变。嘴角骤然垂挂下来，眼窝深陷，双目黯然无光。说来也奇怪，他竟突然腰也弯、背也驼了，显出一副龙钟老态。

"是因为这个？"他嚷了一声，朝周围四座扫了一眼。真的，他连说话的声音也有些颤抖了。

"你要是想脱身，那就趁早吧。"

菲利普瞪大眼，吃惊地望着克朗肖。这种动感情的场面，常使菲利普感到羞涩不安，不由得垂下眼睑。他知道，呈现在他面前的乃是一尊人生潦倒的悲剧。一阵沉默。菲利普心想，这会儿克朗肖一定在回顾自己的一生，也许他想到了自己充满灿烂希望的青年时代，后来这希望的光辉逐渐泯灭在人生的坎坷失意之中，空留下可怜而单调的杯盏之欢，还有渺茫凄清的惨淡未来。菲利普愣愣地望着那一小叠茶托，他知道克朗肖的目光这时也滞留在那些茶托上面。

 

Philip could not get the unhappy event out of his head. What troubled him most was the uselessness of Fanny’s effort. No one could have worked harder than she, nor with more sincerity; she believed in herself with all her heart; but it was plain that self-confidence meant very little, all his friends had it, Miguel Ajuria among the rest; and Philip was shocked by the contrast between the Spaniard’s heroic endeavour and the triviality of the thing he attempted. The unhappiness of Philip’s life at school had called up in him the power of self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle as drug-taking, had taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiar keenness in the dissection of his feelings. He could not help seeing that art affected him differently from others. A fine picture gave Lawson an immediate thrill. His appreciation was instinctive. Even Flanagan felt certain things which Philip was obliged to think out. His own appreciation was intellectual. He could not help thinking that if he had in him the artistic temperament (he hated the phrase, but could discover no other) he would feel beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. He began to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial cleverness of the hand which enabled him to copy objects with accuracy. That was nothing. He had learned to despise technical dexterity. The important thing was to feel in terms of paint. Lawson painted in a certain way because it was his nature to, and through the imitativeness of a student sensitive to every influence, there pierced individuality. Philip looked at his own portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that three months had passed he realised that it was no more than a servile copy of Lawson. He felt himself barren. He painted with the brain, and he could not help knowing that the only painting worth anything was done with the heart.

He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would be necessary for him to practise the severest economy. He could not count on earning anything for ten years. The history of painting was full of artists who had earned nothing at all. He must resign himself to penury; and it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he had a terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate. Was it worth while for that to give up one’s youth, and the gaiety of life, and the manifold chances of being? He knew the existence of foreign painters in Paris enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial. He knew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a fame which always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism. Fanny’s suicide had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of the way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. He remembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor Fanny: it would have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attempt which was hopeless.

Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his mind to send it to the Salon. Flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought he could paint as well as Flanagan. He had worked so hard on the portrait that he could not help feeling it must have merit. It was true that when he looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he could not tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was not dissatisfied. He sent it to the Salon and it was refused. He did not mind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that there was little chance that it would be taken, till Flanagan a few days later rushed in to tell Lawson and Philip that one of his pictures was accepted. With a blank face Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was so busy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony which Philip could not prevent from coming into his voice. Lawson, quicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip curiously. His own picture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he was vaguely resentful of Philip’s attitude. But he was surprised at the sudden question which Philip put him as soon as the American was gone.

‘If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I wonder if it’s worth while being a second-rate painter. You see, in other things, if you’re a doctor or if you’re in business, it doesn’t matter so much if you’re mediocre. You make a living and you get along. But what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?’

Lawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriously distressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him. It was notorious that the Salon had refused pictures which were afterwards famous; it was the first time Philip had sent, and he must expect a rebuff; Flanagan’s success was explicable, his picture was showy and superficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit in. Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think him capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would not realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his powers.

Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who took their meals at Gravier’s, and lived very much by himself. Flanagan said he was in love with a girl, but Clutton’s austere countenance did not suggest passion; and Philip thought it more probable that he separated himself from his friends so that he might grow clear with the new ideas which were in him. But that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go to a play and Philip was sitting alone, Clutton came in and ordered dinner. They began to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less sardonic than usual, Philip determined to take advantage of his good humour.

‘I say I wish you’d come and look at my picture,’ he said. ‘I’d like to know what you think of it.’

‘No, I won’t do that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Philip, reddening.

The request was one which they all made of one another, and no one ever thought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his shoulders.

‘People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. Besides, what’s the good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is good or bad?’

‘It matters to me.’

‘No. The only reason that one paints is that one can’t help it. It’s a function like any of the other functions of the body, only comparatively few people have got it. One paints for oneself: otherwise one would commit suicide. Just think of it, you spend God knows how long trying to get something on to canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what is the result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it’s accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you’re lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing to do with the artist. It judges objectively, but the objective doesn’t concern the artist.’

Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind on what he wanted to say.

‘The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it and, he doesn’t know why, he can only express his feeling by lines and colours. It’s like a musician; he’ll read a line or two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn’t know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they just do. And I’ll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the next generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then the public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So the Barbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner, and when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But trees aren’t like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how a painter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards—if we force our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don’t it ignores us; but we are the same. We don’t attach any meaning to greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it.’

There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him closely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved from a stone refractory to the sculptor’s chisel, the rough mane of dark hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of strength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask concealed a strange weakness. Clutton’s refusal to show his work might be sheer vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone’s criticism, and he would not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted to be received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work which might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the eighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He had no patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms upon which they had been when Philip first knew them.

‘Lawson’s all right,’ he said contemptuously, ‘he’ll go back to England, become a fashionable portrait painter, earn ten thousand a year and be an A. R. A. before he’s forty. Portraits done by hand for the nobility and gentry!’

Philip, too, looked into the future, and he saw Clutton in twenty years, bitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in Paris, for the life there had got into his bones, ruling a small cenacle with a savage tongue, at war with himself and the world, producing little in his increasing passion for a perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last into drunkenness. Of late Philip had been captivated by an idea that since one had only one life it was important to make a success of it, but he did not count success by the acquiring of money or the achieving of fame; he did not quite know yet what he meant by it, perhaps variety of experience and the making the most of his abilities. It was plain anyway that the life which Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would be the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw’s whimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but Cronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear: he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself. It was this desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip’s uncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton began to talk again.

‘D’you remember my telling you about that chap I met in Brittany? I saw him the other day here. He’s just off to Tahiti. He was broke to the world. He was a brasseur d’affaires, a stockbroker I suppose you call it in English; and he had a wife and family, and he was earning a large income. He chucked it all to become a painter. He just went off and settled down in Brittany and began to paint. He hadn’t got any money and did the next best thing to starving.’

‘And what about his wife and family?’ asked Philip.

‘Oh, he dropped them. He left them to starve on their own account.’

‘It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do.’

‘Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being an artist. They’ve got nothing to do with one another. You hear of men painting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother—well, it shows they’re excellent sons, but it’s no excuse for bad work. They’re only tradesmen. An artist would let his mother go to the workhouse. There’s a writer I know over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. He was in love with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedside watching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she looked and what she said and the things he was feeling. Gentlemanly, wasn’t it?’

‘But is your friend a good painter?’ asked Philip.

‘No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro. He hasn’t found himself, but he’s got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration. But that isn’t the question. it’s the feeling, and that he’s got. He’s behaved like a perfect cad to his wife and children, he’s always behaving like a perfect cad; the way he treats the people who’ve helped him—and sometimes he’s been saved from starvation merely by the kindness of his friends—is simply beastly. He just happens to be a great artist.’

Philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything, comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on to canvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him. it was magnificent, and yet his courage failed him.

Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for a week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in which he was certain to find the writer. During the first few months of his stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said, but Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories which resulted in no action. Cronshaw’s slim bundle of poetry did not seem a substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip could not wrench out of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came; and the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul together, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the cafe table, jarred with his respectability. Cronshaw was astute enough to know that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his philistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often very keen.

‘You’re a tradesman,’ he told Philip, ‘you want to invest life in consols so that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent. I’m a spendthrift, I run through my capital. I shall spend my last penny with my last heartbeat.’

The metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which Philip instinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at the moment.

But this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about himself. Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw’s pile of saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an independent view of things in general.

‘I wonder if you’d give me some advice,’ said Philip suddenly.

‘You won’t take it, will you?’

Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

‘I don’t believe I shall ever do much good as a painter. I don’t see any use in being second-rate. I’m thinking of chucking it.’

‘Why shouldn’t you?’

Philip hesitated for an instant.

‘I suppose I like the life.’

A change came over Cronshaw’s placid, round face. The corners of the mouth were suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to become strangely bowed and old.

‘This?’ he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. His voice really trembled a little.

‘If you can get out of it, do while there’s time.’

Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion always made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. He knew that he was looking upon the tragedy of failure. There was silence. Philip thought that Cronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered his youth with its bright hopes and the disappointments which wore out the radiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future. Philip’s eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that Cronshaw’s were on them too.