by George Moore
“Three pounds isn’t much, he ought to have given me five; but never mind, let’s have some supper on the strength of it.”
“’Tis foolish to be extravagant just because you have had a bit of luck; that is what gets you into such trouble.”
“Oh, nonsense! I have a shilling to-night, and you will have fifteen to-morrow, and I shall have three pounds on Monday; it is all right, we can have a couple of sausages and a pint of porter.”
“Very well,” replied the little girl, “I will run and fetch them.”
He gave her a shilling and she ran off.
When she was gone he took up the panel, and, drawing in the air, began to calculate, but suddenly a grey cloud passed over his bright face.
“Good heavens!” he said, “I have no money to pay for a model! What shall I do? I had quite forgotten.”
Then he thought of some drawings of which he would be able to make use, for it was only a decorative panel, and the gloom faded from his face.
In a few minutes Gwynnie returned with the eatables; she added a couple of baked potatoes to the sausages; there was no cloth to lay, and they had only to push aside the paints and brushes.
As they supped he tried to explain to her what the picture would be, but she did not like the conversation, and he laughed at her scruples. They had often discussed the subject before, particularly on one occasion, when he took her to the National Gallery. Many of the pictures had shocked her, and he failed to convince her that it was not sinful to paint such things, until he told her that many had been painted in Rome, and had received the approbation of the most pious popes.
But how delightful was that supper! Lewis watched Gwynnie trying to eat the too hot potatoes, and she pressed him to drink the porter, with a sense of complete happiness: until the candle burnt low in the socket they chattered of their future prospects, and how happy they were going to be.
Then he remembered that they both had to be up in the morning early, that it was time to go to bed.
Lewis conducted her to the door and waited till she fetched her candle, which she lit from his. They wished each other good-night affectionately, and shut their garret doors.
CHAPTER II.
PAINTING FROM IMAGINATION.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK next morning Gwynnie and Lewis bade each other good-bye. The former went off to the shop in Regent Street, where she was employed, the latter sat down to his easel.
After hunting a long time through his academy studies, he found two which he thought would suit him. He would fit the legs of one on to the other, and patch his picture up in that way.
He had nearly all he required, but the action of one arm and shoulder bothered him; somehow he couldn’t get them to fit. He wanted to represent Venus tossing a cloud of hair round her body, but, try as he would, the arm did not seem to come right. He looked again through the portfolio, but could find nothing to guide him; however, he slaved away at his drawing till twelve, and at last, after much rubbing out, thought he had got the movement he was seeking for. The Loves were easily done; he had a big engraving from one of Boucher’s pictures, and he could take the Cupids from it, arranging them differently, of course.
Then, confident in himself, he set to work to rub in the sea and sky. All went well until he began to mould the figure, and then the faultiness of the drawing became apparent. He shifted the arms, raising and lowering them, thinking every minute he was getting it right. But no, it would not come right. He continued to change and alter until the light began to fade; the panel was thick in paint, and the drawing seemed to be worse instead of better.
At last, in deep despair, he changed the entire pose of the arms; walked backwards and forwards, and tried to think what the action of the figure would be, but nothing would do: at last, half mad with fear and disappointment, he took his palette knife and scraped the panel clean.
There was no use in trying any more, he could not do it without a model, and he had no money to pay for one, so there was an end of it. Leaning back in his chair, he hid his face in his hands, and his thoughts reverted to the question of suicide. He regretted that he hadn’t drowned himself the previous night. If he had only had the courage to have taken the plunge it would be all over now.
What was the use of trying to live? He had been clearly blackballed out of life; he had nothing, not a hope, not a love but one, and that was a poor little work-girl. But as he thought of her his face brightened; she would have fifteen shillings: he would borrow five to hire a model For a moment he thought of asking her to sit, and he regretted that it would be impossible to persuade her that it was a mere question of art. However, this did not much matter; she would give him her earnings to pay for the model, and there was the difficulty solved. He would be able to find a girl tonight, anyone would do, and by working all to-morrow and getting up early on Monday, he would he able to finish it.
His large, tender, blue eyes grew bright with hope, and he walked up and down, waiting for Gwynnie to return. He looked around the room and prayed fervidly that he might get some more panels to do. It is torture to remain here, he thought, and a look of loathing passed over his face.
Truly it was a miserable place. In the far corner was a narrow iron bed covered with some discoloured blankets. Hanging on some pegs by the door were the rags of clothes that remained to him; a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, and a flannel shirt. By the wall stood three chairs, one broken, and a few canvases.
About six o’clock a blithe voice came singing up the staircase, and a moment after Gwynnie bounced into the room. Her face was rippling with smiles, but they disappeared as her eyes fell on the bare panel “Why,” she exclaimed, “what have you been doing to-day, Lewis? Where’s the picture?”
“I spoilt it; it wouldn’t do; I wiped it out.”
“Oh, Lewis, how could you!” said Gwynnie, her clear eyes filling with tears.
“Dear Gwynnie, don’t cry; I am as much cut up about it as you; but it is no good, I can’t do it without a model.”
“What’s that? What, a real woman?” she said, with a frightened expression of face, “to sit like those drawings?”
“My dear,” returned Lewis, “I was thinking of asking you to lend me a few shillings to pay a model; you know there are lots of girls who make their living by sitting to artists.”
“But of course I will,” she answered, putting her hand in her pocket; a weight of indefinite apprehension was taken off her mind; she fancied he was going to ask her to sit. But suddenly she withdrew her hand from her pocket, her purse was not there, and, pale with fright, she said, trembling, “I am afraid my pocket has been picked.”
A dull, death-like look passed over his face; it was beautiful in gladness, but grief caricatured the features strangely.
In an instant, divining his thoughts, Gwynnie flung her arms on his shoulders and exclaimed, sobbing, “Oh, Lewis! did you not promise me never to think of anything so wicked again?”
“My dear child,” he said, putting her arms aside, “I am thinking of nothing.”
“Oh, yes, you are, and you have made up your mind to kill yourself.”
“Well, what if I have? I can’t wait till starvation finishes me.”
“Oh, Lewis, Lewis, how can you!” cried the girl, almost frantic with fear. “What should I do without you?”
“It is no use making this fuss,” he explained, brutally; “will you sit for this picture? Otherwise, even if I don’t drown myself, I shall starve!”
“No, Lewis, don’t ask me; I would do anything in the world for you but that.”
“Yes, anything but what will save me; I did not think you were so heartless, Gwynnie.”
“Don’t speak so; I would do anything in the world for you; I will beg for you.”
“You know,” he said, taking her hand, “I love you, Gwynnie, and that I would not ask you to do anything I thought wrong. I assure you it is only a question of art, nothing more; surely it can’t be wrong to save our lives. Remember, neither you nor I h
ave any money, and you heard what Jacobs said, that this would bring other orders, and then we shall have lots of money, and shall be able to get married, for you know I love you better than anybody in the world. You won’t sacrifice everything, will you; you won’t see me starve?”
At the word married, a bright look passed through her tears over the girl’s face, and she said:
“How do you mean I must sit, Lewis, like those drawings?”
He appreciated the sacrifice she was making for him, and his voice trembled with love and gratitude.
“There is no use in mincing matters, Gwynnie,” he said, after a pause; “there are, if you refuse, only a few days between us and starvation. It is no good to talk about begging; if you can beg, I can’t, and won’t No painter ever painted a nude figure without a model; there is really no harm; will you or will you not save me from starvation? But I won’t starve; I have borne up against this poverty long enough, there is always the river,” he added, trying to decide her.
Gwynnie sobbed hysterically; she longed to lock herself into her own room, but knowing that that would determine nothing, she resisted the impulse. Lewis let her have her cry out. He had seen the same scene in the studios often before, and it had always ended by the girl giving way. He thought, considering the terrible necessity, that it was rather unreasonable for her to make such a fuss about it. Besides, there was really no harm, for he knew a perfectly good girl who sat for a shilling an hour. Lewis watched her; he was pale with anxiety; for should she refuse, he did not see what there was for him to do. Gwynnie sobbed heavily; she felt sure that if she said, no, Lewis would drown himself, and to say, yes, was beyond her strength.
The two months she had spent in London had scarcely sullied her pure little mind. She had closed her ears to the low talk in the London shop, and was nearly as simple-minded as when she used to walk three miles every Sunday to hear mass.
Religion had been laid so carefully about her early life that it was the soil to which tended the roots of all her thoughts. If her father had not taught her his faith, there was one word he had engraven on her mind, which was Duty; therefore, if Lewis could persuade her that it was her duty to save his life at the cost of her modesty, she would do so, as Lady Godiva saved Coventry. Still, of all the virtues, modesty is the dearest to the Methodists, and her struggle was the bitterest; and, decided either way, would infallibly influence the rest of her life. If she refused, and so caused her lover’s death, remorse would cloud her life; if she consented, pure as might be her intentions, she would have lost her modesty, and then, what shield would she have to keep her from sin and ruin?
But still, on the other hand, the sacrifice of all she held dear to save not only the temporal but the spiritual life of the man she loved, might so poetise and etherealise her nature that it would be able to withstand all temptations which might otherwise have attended it, and enable her to live in the past as a saint lives in the future. This transfiguration would undoubtedly be the result of subjecting so fervid a nature as hers to so fearful a test, but would it endure through her whole life, or for a time only? Would the struggle for existence which she would be engaged in, slowly but surely grind away the beautiful structure of feminine devotion she had raised, and leave her neither good nor wicked in the end, but only sordidly commonplace? These were the different issues which her decision involved, and which it is one of the objects of this story to trace.
Gwynnie continued to sob until at last the poignancy of her grief became so acute that Lewis felt he would rather die a hundred deaths than ask her to sit.
“For goodness sake don’t cry like that, Gwynnie,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “I am sorry I asked you; let’s say no more about it.”
At the sound of his voice the girl stopped crying, and, looking up at him, said:
“I will sit for you, Lewis, since it is necessary; but I am not a bad girl, nor do I wish to be, but it cannot be right to see you starve or drown yourself, when I can save you.”
Lewis did not speak, he felt that words were out of place. He knew that she suffered, although he didn’t exactly know why. His was a soft, sensuous nature, that instinctively took the easiest road to walk in, without a thought whether it was the right or the wrong one.
Gwynnie Lloyd, on the contrary, might hesitate a long while before deciding, but once convinced which was the right path, she would follow it, no matter how thorny it might prove.
The silence became each moment more irritating, but Lewis left her to break it, feeling himself unequal to the effort.
“When do you want me to sit?” said Gwynnie, resolutely.
“I am afraid I shall have to ask you to sit nearly all day,” he answered, timidly, afraid that she would draw back. “Do you think you will mind?”
She looked at him surprised; her only excuse was to do what was wanted of her, efficiently.
“Certainly not; I will sit for you as long as you require me.”
“Well, then, suppose we begin at eight; but I am afraid you will not be able to sit without a fire. Have you any money? I will buy a little wood and coal.”
The mention of these details produced the same effect on her as the first sight of a guillotine will, even on those most prepared to die.
Luckily, she had two shillings, which had escaped the pickpocket’s fingers, and she gave them to him, saying:
“I suppose you have had nothing to eat:” then her thoughts wandered, and she added, absently, “I don’t know what we shall do if you don’t sell this picture. I wonder how I lost my money!”
“I have been at work all day,” said Lewis; “I haven’t had time to feel hungry; will you come, and we’ll have some supper together?”
“No, thank you, I had some dinner with one of the girls; I am tired, and I think I shall go to bed.”
Then she got up and bade him good-night, and went towards the door in a hesitating way, as if she had left something unsaid.
“I do this, Lewis,” she explained, holding the door open, “because we are nearly starving, because I believe I am saving your life; but you’ll not think worse of me; you will respect me, will you not?”
Lewis raised his hands in mute protest while he sought for words, but before he could speak she had bid him good-night, and slipped out of the room.
CHAPTER III.
PAINTING A VENUS.
HE WAS HEAPING some more coals on the fire when Gwynnie entered the studio-garret next morning. With one hand she clasped round her shoulders a coarse woollen shawl, with the other she held up her skirts which hung loosely about her. Her feet were bare.
She had slept feverishly and fitfully. All night she had been awakened and startled by dreams. Each half hour’s sleep had been followed by a long vigil, full of the ardours of plighted and enfeebled by the lassitudes of broken promises. She would have had no difficulty in acting rightly had she known where her duty lay. But there was no one to whom she could turn for a word of advice, and she often got out of bed and prayed in the clear moonlight on her knees for grace.
Often she seemed to see her father’s face, but it told her little; sometimes it seemed to frown, sometimes to smile, but she found comfort nowhere, save in a voice that told her that we do right when we believe what we are doing is right.
“How good of you to come,” said Lewis; “I was afraid that you would change your mind.”
“Why should we change our minds when we think we are doing right?” she answered, unaffectedly, but with a desire to excuse her conduct.
Both were very much embarrassed. He, even more than she, dreaded the first step, and cowardly tried to put it off by suggesting that she had better wait till the room was warmer; she, on the other hand, having come for a certain purpose, did not understand why it should be delayed.
“I think the room is quite warm; I am ready when you are,” she answered, with the faintest tremble in her voice.
Lewis placed her in the centre of the room where the light would fall directly upon her,
then he arranged his easel in front of her, and stood waiting:
Bravely she threw her shawl away, and showed her arms and bosom. Then there was a pause. She held her skirts irresolutely about her, until at last, with a supreme effort, she threw them aside.
If she could have stood as she was the worst would have been over, but Lewis had to tell her how to stand, to place her arms, her legs, her head, and she was so nervous she could scarcely understand what he said. Then she felt a faint sickness come over her, mixed with an aching detestation of her own person, and an infinite desire to beat herself against the walls, to be crushed out of sight. Twenty times she thought she was going to faint, it was only her pluck that saved her.
However, at last the pose was found, and Lewis commenced his drawing. The knowledge of the sacrifice she was making for him intensified his powers of concentration, and in an hour he had made a very excellent drawing; he had caught the whole spirit of the pose.
Gwynnie stood posing admirably; but those who are not professional models will stand still for a quarter of an hour or so, and then fall suddenly from their full height without a word of warning. Lewis, being aware of this, watched carefully, and at the first quivering of the muscles of her face, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and helped her to a chair. When the faintness had passed off she cried a little, but was consoled at hearing the drawing was getting on beautifully.
The ten minutes’ rest went by rather awkwardly, and when he asked her to resume the pose, she did so a little reluctantly.
It caused her perhaps a bitterer pang than before; the uncertainty was gone and the humiliation remained; but knowing that it would not do now to draw back, she bravely returned to her place.
Having assured himself by measuring that his drawing was in proportion, be took up his palette and began to paint. Everything went right as if by magic, and if Gwynnie had been able to hold out till three o’clock, he could have finished it all from nature, but although she took long rests of twenty minutes, she began to feel so dreadfully tired, that after two o’clock she had to go to her room and lie down. Luckily this did not matter. Lewis had it all well laid in, and could complete it from memory.
