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XIV
So Brown told her about his theory; how he desired to employ a model,how he desired to study her; what were his ideas of the terms suitable.
He talked fluently, earnestly, and agreeably; and his pretty audiencelistened with so much apparent intelligence and good taste that her veryattitude subtly exhilarated Brown, until he became slightly aware thathe was expressing himself eloquently.
He had, it seemed, much to say concerning the profession and practice ofgood literature. It seemed, too, that he knew a great deal about it,both theoretically and practically. His esteem and reverence for it wereunmistakable; his enthusiasm worthy of his courage.
He talked for a long while, partly about literature, partly abouthimself. And he was at intervals a trifle surprised that he had so muchto say, and wondered at the valuable accumulations of which he wasunburdening himself with such vast content.
The girl had turned her back to the lagoon and stood leaning against thecoquina wall, facing him, her slender hands resting on the coping.
Never had he had such a listener. At the clubs and cafes other literarymen always wanted to talk. But here under the great southern starsnobody interrupted the limpid flow of his long dammed eloquence. And heended leisurely, as he had begun, yet auto-intoxicated, thrillinglyconscious of the spell which he had laid upon himself, upon his younglistener--conscious, too, of the spell that the soft air and the perfumeand the stars had spun over a world grown suddenly and incredibly lovelyand young.
She said in a low voice: "I need the money very much.... And I don'tmind your studying me."
"Do you really mean it?" he exclaimed, enchanted.
"Yes. But there is one trouble."
"What is it?" he asked apprehensively.
"I _must_ have my mornings to myself."
He said: "Under the terms I must be permitted to ask you any questions Ichoose. You understand that, don't you?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then--why must you have your mornings to yourself?"
"I have work to do."
"What work? What are you?"
She flushed a trifle, then, accepting the rules of the game, smiled atBrown.
"I am a school-teacher," she said. "Ill health from overwork drove meSouth to convalesce. I am trying to support myself here by working inthe mornings."
"I am sorry," he said gently. Then, aware of his concession to a veryhuman weakness, he added with businesslike decision: "What is the natureof your morning's work?"
"I--write," she admitted.
"Stories?"
"Yes."
"Fiction?"
"Anything, Mr. Brown. I send notes to fashion papers, concerning thecostumes at the Hotel Verbena; I write for various household papersspecial articles which would not interest you at all. I write littlestories for the women's and children's columns in various newspapers.You see what I do is not literature, and could not interest you."
"If you are to act for me in the capacity of a model," he said firmly,"I am absolutely bound to study every phase of you, every minutestdetail."
"Oh."
"Not one minute of the day must pass without my observing you," he said."Unless you are broad-minded enough to comprehend me you may think myclose and unremitting observation impertinent."
"You don't mean to be impertinent, I am sure," she faltered, alreadysurprised, apprehensive, and abashed by the prospect.
"Of course I don't mean to be impertinent," he said smilingly, "but allgreat observers pursue their studies unremittingly day and night----"
"_You_ couldn't do _that_!" she exclaimed.
"No," he admitted, troubled, "that would not be feasible. You require,of course, a certain amount of slumber."
"Naturally," she said.
"I ought," he said thoughtfully, "to study that phase of you, also."
"What phase, Mr. Brown?"
"When you are sleeping."
"But that is impossible!"
"Convention," he said disdainfully, "makes it so. A literary student isfettered.
"But it is perfectly possible for you to imagine what I look like whenI'm asleep, Mr. Brown."
"Imagination is to play no part in my literary work," he said coldly."What I set down are facts."
"But is that art?"
"There is more art in facts than there are facts in art," he said.
"I don't quite know what you mean."
He didn't, either, when he came to analyse what he had said; and heturned very red and admitted it.
"I mean to be honest and truthful," he said. "What I just said soundedclever, but meant nothing. I admit it. I mean to be perfectly pitilesswith myself. Anything tainted with imagination; anything hinting ofromance; any weak concession to prejudice, convention, good taste, Irefuse to be guilty of. Realism is what I aim at; raw facts, howeverunpleasant!"
"I don't believe you will find anything very unpleasant about me," shesaid.
"No, I don't think I shall. But I mean to detect every imperfection,every weakness, every secret vanity, every unworthy impulse. That is whyI desire to study you so implacably. Are you willing to submit?"
She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at the stars.
"You know," she said, "that while it may be all very well for you to say'anything for art's sake,' _I_ can't say it. I can't _do_ it, either."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't. You know perfectly well that you can't follow me abouttaking notes _every_ minute of the twenty-four hours."
He said very earnestly: "Sir John Lubbock sat up day and night, nevertaking his eyes off the little colony of ants which he had underobservation in a glass box!"
"Do you propose to sit up day and night to keep me under observation?"she asked, flushed and astounded.
"Not at first. But as my studies advance, and you become accustomed tothe perfectly respectful but coldly impersonal nature of myobservations, your mind, I trust, will become so broadened that you willfind nothing objectionable in what at first might scare you. An artist'smodel, for example----"
"But I am not an artist's model!" she exclaimed, with a slight shiver.
"To be a proper model at all," he said, "you must concede all for art,and remain sublimely unconscious of self. _You_ do not matter. _I_ donot matter. Only my work counts. And that must be honest, truthful,accurate, minute, exact--a perfect record of a woman's mind andpersonality."
For a few moments they both remained silent. And after a little thestarlight began to play tricks with her eyes again, so that they seemedsparkling with hidden laughter. But her face was grave.
She said: "I really do need the money. I will do what I can.... And ifin spite of my courage I ever shrink--our contract shall terminate atonce."
"And what shall I do then?" inquired Brown.
The starlight glimmered in her eyes. She said very gravely:
"In case the demands of your realism and your art are too much for mycourage, Mr. Brown--you will have to find another model to study."
"But another model might prove as conventional as you!"
"In that case," she said, while her sensitive lower lip trembled, andthe starlight in her eyes grew softly brilliant, "in that case, Mr.Brown, I am afraid that there would be only one course to pursue withthat _other_ model."
"What course is that?" he asked, deeply interested.
"I'm afraid you'd have to marry her."
"Good Lord!" he said. "I can't marry every girl I mean to study!"
"Oh! Do you mean to study very many?"
"I have my entire life and career before me."
"Yes. That is true. But--women are much alike. One model, thoroughlystudied, might serve for them all--with a little imagination."
"I have no use for imagination in fiction," said Brown firmly. After amoment's silence, he added: "Is it settled, then?"
"About our--contract?"
"Yes."
She considered for a long while, then, looking up, she nodded.
"That's fine!" exclaim
ed Brown, with enthusiasm.
They walked back to the Villa Hibiscus together, slowly, through theblue starlight. Brown asked her name, and she told him.
"No," he said gaily, "your name is Thalomene, and you are the tenthmuse. For truly I think I have never before been so thoroughly inspiredby a talk with anyone."
She laughed. He had done almost all the talking. And he continued it,very happily, as by common consent they seated themselves on theveranda.