by George Moore
CHAP. II.
“I WONDER IF I should have had the courage?” he asked as he threaded his way through the crowds of girls and boys who filled the roadway. “That I shall never know. But something may happen to my advantage between this and next week. Old Bendish may not be in such a bad humour”; and he fell to laying plans till he reached his lodging, a room above a hardware shop. The landlord was now bargaining with an old woman who would not give the price he asked for a kettle. He moved aside to let Lewis pass, and his little daughter ran forward, tottering under the weight of a large yellow cat.
“When are you going to paint my picture with pussy, Mr. Seymour?”
“To-morrow, perhaps, if you are a good girl,” Lewis answered; and with a nod to his landlady, he went up the staircase and on the top floor struck a match. The match showed two doors almost facing each other, and as he unlocked his the other opened and a girl’s voice asked:
“Is that you, Lewis?”
“Yes; come in.” And shading the match with his hand from the draught, he succeeded in lighting his tallow candle that stood on a table covered with paints and brushes. “You have been waiting for me, Gwynnie?” he asked, and she guessed from his manner that he had not sold his sketches. “Bendish would not buy anything; he may next week — you know how capricious he is. I told him if he didn’t advance a few shillings that I should have to drown. But he didn’t seem to care, and if it hadn’t been for a policeman—”
“Do you not know, Lewis, that God forbids us to destroy ourselves?”
“Does He? Where? Not in the Bible. You’re a good sweet girl, Gwynnie; we’re young and in good health, but all is useless for the want of a few pounds.”
“Have a little patience,” said Gwynnie, trembling at the idea of losing Lewis.
“Patience!” Lewis replied, sinking into a chair. “Have I not had patience? I’ve been patient to the last shilling. Here is the last.”
Gwynnie would have liked a good cry, but she felt it was her duty to help him.
“Never mind,” she said, trying to assume a cheerful voice; “I shall have fifteen to-morrow, and you are sure to sell something soon. And now,” she said, restraining her tears with difficulty, “you’ll promise me never to attempt such a wicked thing again. You say you’re fond of me; if you were you’d not talk of drowning yourself. What should I do without you?” She continued to persuade him, and he promised to begin her portrait next morning.
“A fancy sketch,” she said, “something that will please — a fairy, a sixteen-year-old fairy.”
“Are you sixteen? “ he asked, and he studied the lines of her figure: a rosebud, it seemed to him, just beginning to brighten, and to swell in its leaves.
“Yes, I’m sixteen,” she answered.
A step was heard on the stairs, a knock came at the door, and without waiting for an answer, the stranger pushed the door open and entered.
“I have something for you, a commission,” he said, distorting his long mouth into a laugh, and showing a quavering tooth. “I called in at Mr. Carver’s to-day, you know, in Bond Street, and found him in an awful fix: he has an order to supply some decorative panels; he promised that one should be ready by Monday — in fact, it will be of no use if it isn’t. The gentleman he relied on to do them is ill, another is out of town. ‘Lewis Seymour is our man,’ I cried. ‘Right you are,’ he answered, and I’ve brought you the panel, and I’m going to pay you liberal; you’ll have more to do if it suits.”
“How much?” asked Lewis.
“Well, this is what I want done,” Mr. Jacobs said, taking the panel from out of a piece of paper: “I want you to paint me a Venus rising from the sea with a few Cupids, and it must be at Mr. Carver’s on Monday at twelve o’clock.”
“How much is it to be — a fiver?”
“A fiver!” repeated Mr. Jacobs, “you’re joking.” It was arranged that three pounds was to be the price, and Mr. Jacobs was about to go, when Lewis said:
“Could you let me have a trifle in advance? I’m very hard up.”
“I really couldn’t — I’ve only a few coppers on me; besides, it’s Mr. Carver who will pay you; but I’m sorry not to be able to oblige.”
“Couldn’t you manage half a sovereign?”
“No, no,” cried the old man testily; “I’d sooner give the panel to someone else”; and seeing that he would not give him anything, Lewis fetched the light to show him downstairs.
“On Monday morning at twelve — no mistakes. It ‘ull be no use later. And mind you make it look ‘fetching’: it’s for a gentleman who likes them young,” said Mr. Jacobs, as he shuffled downstairs.
“Well, Lewis,” Gwynnie exclaimed, “didn’t I tell you it would all come right? Three pounds, and prospects of more work — isn’t it fine?”
“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.”
“It’s foolish to be extravagant just because you’ve had a bit of luck; that’s what gets you into such trouble.”
“I’ve a shilling to-night, and you’ll have fifteen to-morrow, and I shall have three pounds on Monday; it’s all right. A couple of sausages and a pint of porter?” Gwynnie demurred, but she did not insist, for she was afraid to damp his enthusiasm.
“I’ll fetch them,” she said, and while she was away he began to dream his composition and to think of some drawings he would be able to make use of. He thought of some engravings, and in a few minutes Gwynnie returned with the sausages, to which she had added a couple of baked potatoes. And as they supped he tried to explain to her what the picture would be, but she did not seem to like it, and he railed against her prejudices. “One would think you were a Quaker, whereas thou’rt but a Methodist,” he said to her, at which they both laughed and then bade each other good-night.
CHAP. III.
IT WAS AT eight o’clock next morning that Gwynnie and Lewis parted. Gwynnie went to the shop in Regent Street where she was employed, and Lewis pulled forward his easel. He thought that he would be able to dodge up a very plausible birth of Venus by fitting the legs of one drawing on to the body of another, and he could arrange a pair of arms tossing back a cloud of hair, from an engraving. At first it seemed as if he could do this, but after working a couple of hours he began to feel dissatisfied with the movement; and then after much rubbing out he thought he had got the hang of the thing. But as soon as he began to model, the drawing began to seem faulty. He shifted the arms, raising and lowering them, thinking every minute he was coaxing the figure into rhythm, till at last, half mad with fear and disappointment, he scraped the panel clean.
There was no use in trying any more; he couldn’t do it without a model, and he had no money to pay for one: there was an end of it, and leaning back in his chair his thoughts reverted to suicide. If he had had the courage to take the plunge it would be all over now.... Gwynnie would be bringing home fifteen shillings; he would borrow five to hire a model. A great waste of money that would be, for she was just the model he wanted, but she wouldn’t sit. “So I shall have to borrow five shillings”; and he walked up and down the room expecting her about six, and it was about half an hour after six when she bounced into the room, her face rippling with smiles that disappeared as her eyes fell on the 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!” and her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m as much cut up about it as you, but it is no good, I can’t do it without a model, and was thinking of asking you to lend me a few shillings to pay for one.”
“Of course I will,” she answered, putting her hand in her pocket. Alas! Her purse was not there, and pale with fright she said: “I’m afraid my pocket has been picked.” And divining his thoughts, Gwynnie flung her arms about his shoulders exclaiming: “Lewis, you promised me never to think o
f anything so wicked again!”
“My dear girl,” he said, putting her arms aside, “I’m thinking of nothing; we’re very unlucky, that’s all.”
“You’ve made up your mind to kill yourself.”
“Well, what if I have? I can’t wait till starvation finishes me.”
“Lewis, how can you? What should I do without you?”
“It’s no use making this fuss! Will you sit for this picture? Or else, even if I don’t drown, I shall starve!”
“Take off all my clothes and stand naked before you? Anything—”
“Yes, anything but what will save me!”
“I’d do anything for you, Lewis; but—”
“You know,” he said, taking her hand, “that I love you, Gwynnie, and that I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I thought wrong. I assure you it is only a question of art, nothing more. It can’t be wrong to save our lives. Remember, neither you nor I have 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 marry. You know I love you—”
“How do you mean I must sit, Lewis — quite naked?”
“It is better to sit quite naked than half naked.”
“But perhaps my figure isn’t good enough?”
“Yes it is. You’ve a very pretty figure.”
“You’re not to speak like that, Lewis, if it is only a question of art. But you won’t think I’m a bad girl if I do sit for you?”
“Bad girl?” he replied. “Good heavens! You’re sitting so that we may save our lives.”
“Yes, that it is,” she said.
“You will have to sit a long while.”
“That won’t matter.”
“But it will,” he answered; “sitting is very tiring. I do hope you won’t mind.”
“I will sit for you as long as you require me. When—”
“We had better begin about eight. But the room will be very cold in the morning. If I had some money I’d go out and buy some coal.”
Gwynnie searched again in her pocket, and found two shillings. She gave them to him, saying:
“I suppose you’ve had nothing to eat?”
“I’ve been at work all day,” Lewis answered, “and haven’t had time to feel hungry. We’ll go out and have some supper together.”
“I don’t think I should care to go out again.”
“But, Gwynnie, you haven’t had any dinner.”
“Yes, I have; and if I’m to sit to you to-morrow I’d better go to bed. You say that sitting is tiring. At eight, then. Shall I knock at your door, or will you knock at mine?”
CHAP. IV.
WHEN LEWIS KNOCKED at her door she answered, “In a minute, Lewis”; and she came across the landing holding a coarse shawl about her shoulders and body. Her legs and feet were bare, and Lewis, dissembling any interest in her appearance, hoped that she would not find the room too cold.
“No; the room is quite warm. I’m ready when you are,” she answered; and placing her in the centre of the room where the light would fall upon her directly, he stood waiting for her to throw her shawl away. She seemed irresolute, but, as if ashamed of herself, she threw her shawl aside almost disdainfully and waited for him to begin his painting, never suspecting that he would have to place her in the pose, and that to do this he would have to come near and to handle her.
It seemed for a long time that she would not be able to take the pose; she was so nervous that she could hardly understand what he said to her. Her nervousness made him nervous, but it was she that compelled him to try again and again till the pose was found.
“Now,” he said, “if you can stand like that. Do you think you can?”
“Yes, I think I can,” she answered; 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, and 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 going on beautifully; and leaving her to recover, Lewis returned to his drawing and sat considering it thoughtfully till Gwynnie could take the pose again. It seemed to him that she did so a little reluctantly, and that it caused her perhaps a bitterer pang than before; but we are always ignorant of what is passing in another’s mind — Gwynnie was as indifferent now as a pack-horse.
Having assured himself by measuring that his drawing was in proportion, he took up his palette, 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 had after two o’clock to go to her room, and lie down.
He had still to paint in the sky, sea, the Cupids, and he worked till he began to fear he might spoil his picture if he continued it any longer.
He carried it to the lightest part of the room, and it seemed to him to be one of the best things he had done. “ Things done under difficulties are often the best,” he said as he looked at it from the right and then from the left side. “The drawing is all there,” he said—” it only wants a little finishing,” and if he could get Gwynnie to give him half an hour to-morrow before she went to business, he could finish it to his satisfaction; but, remembering how much she had suffered for him, he began to grow sentimental, and determined not to ask her. It might be safer to complete it from memory; he had gotten the essentials. It was certainly one of the best things he had done, and it was strange to have painted his best picture the day after he had thought of drowning himself. Everything pawned, and not a shilling in the house — lots of men had done away with themselves for less cause. It was very probable that he would not have been able to bear up any longer, but it was all right now. Gwynnie had done him a great service — there was no doubt about that — and vowing she should be compensated, he began to consider his project of marrying her, for she was one of those women who would think that the only man she could marry was the man who first saw her naked. “Every man and woman is different,” he said, “yet we are all alike in essentials. But what are essentials?” His meditations on the subject were brought to a close by his belly, which told him sharply that he had eaten but a crust of bread all the day long. And Gwynnie, too, had eaten nothing; so he resolved that they should go out together and have some supper. But Gwynnie slept so soundly that he hesitated to awaken her, and went out with the intention of returning in half an hour.
But Lewis’s half hour was a long one, and before he came back Gwynnie awoke — partly from cold, partly from hunger. She had not eaten anything for nearly twenty hours, and to quench hunger she drank a little water which relieved her, and groping her way into the studio sought for the matches. Many broke under her hand, but at length one flared up and she lighted a candle, and stood looking at the picture she had sat for — recognising herself in it; anybody who had seen her would recognise her in it. Her first thought was to smear out the likeness, but in doing this she might spoil the picture, thereby making herself answerable for Lewis’s life.
She came back once or twice to bid good-bye to the studio, where she had found some happiness and a struggle. It cost her many a pang to go, but she felt that if she stayed other temptations would result from what she had done; and, fearful of her own strength to resist, she sought safety in flight.
CHAP. V.
AND WHEN LEWIS jumped off his bed next morning, and when he had admired his picture — the drawing, the colour, the composition — he remembered Gwynnie. Where was she? — And not finding her in her room, he supposed that she had gone to work; and having gotten the time from a lodger, and finding it later than he thought (for it was ten o’clock), he bought a paper collar, brushed his clothes, tied his necktie so as to conceal the shabbiness of his shirt, and started for Bond Street with his picture under his arm.
He was told that Mr. Carver would
see him when disengaged; at present he was, as Lewis could see, showing some pictures to a tall, aristocratic-looking woman, who, judging from the dealer’s obsequious politeness, was a well-known customer.
As she raised her arm to point out some merits or defects in the picture before her, the movement dragged the long sleeveless grey cashmere mantle closer to her figure, and showed the shape of her broad shoulders and delicate waist; the fur border made the hand look smaller even than it really was. A somewhat coarse, large mouth contrasted strangely with the delicate refinement of the nose and the beautiful temples, broad and white. Her black hair wound up hastily, a graceful untidiness slipped from under the dark velvet hat, and she looked so aristocratic and dignified in her clothes and demeanour that it seemed to Lewis impossible that anyone could exist whose right it was to kiss her lips and call her by her Christian name.
