by George Moore
An expression of pleasure came upon her face, and, seeing it, he threw his arms out to draw her closer. She drew away.
‘You shrink from me…. I suppose I’m too rough. You could never care for me.’
‘Yes, indeed, Ralph, I do care for you. I like you very much indeed, but not like that.’
‘You could not like me enough to marry me.’
‘I don’t think I could marry any one.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you care for any one else?’
‘No, indeed I don’t. I like you very much. I want you to be my friend…. But you don’t understand. Men never do. I suppose affection would not satisfy you.’
‘But you could not marry me?’
‘I’d sooner marry you than any one. But—’
‘But what?’
Mildred told the story of her engagement, and how in the end she had been forced to break it off.
‘And you think if you engaged yourself to me it might end in the same way?’
‘Yes. And I would not cause you pain. Forgive me.’
‘But if you never intend to marry, what do you intend to do?’
‘There are other things to do surely.’
‘What?’
‘There’s art.’
‘Art!’
‘You think I shall not succeed with my painting?’
‘No. I did not mean that. I hope you will. But painting is very difficult. I’ve found it so. It seems hopeless.’
‘You think I shall be a failure? You think that I’d better remain at home and marry than go to France and study?’
‘It’s impossible to say who will succeed. I only know it is very difficult — too difficult for me…. Women never have succeeded in painting.’
‘Some have, to a certain extent.’
‘But you’re not angry, offended at my having spoken?’
‘No; I hope we shall always be friends. You know that I like you very much.’
‘Then why not, why not be engaged? It will give you time to consider, to find out if you could.’
‘But, you see, I’ve broken off one engagement, so that I might be free to devote myself to painting.’
‘But that man was not congenial to you. He was not an artist, he would have opposed your painting; you’d have had to give up painting if you had married him. But I’m quite different. I should help and encourage you in your art. All you know I have taught you. I could teach you a great deal more. Mildred—’
‘Do you think that you could?’
‘Yes; will you let me try?’
‘But, you see, I’m going away. Shall I see you again before I go?’
‘When you like. When? To-morrow?’
‘To-morrow would be nice.’
‘Where — in the National?’
‘No, in the park. It will be nicer in the park. Then about eleven.’
At five minutes past eleven he saw her coming through the trees, and she signed to him with a little movement of her parasol, which was particularly charming, and which seemed to him to express her. They walked from the bridge along the western bank; the trees were prettier there, and from their favourite seat they saw the morning light silver the water, the light mist evaporate, and the trees on the other bank emerge from vague masses into individualities of trunk and bough. The day was warm, though there was little sun, and the park swung a great mass of greenery under a soft, grey sky.
The drake and the two ducks came swimming towards them — the drake, of course, in the middle, looking very handsome and pleased, and at a little distance the third duck pursued her rejected and disconsolate courtship. Whenever she approached too near, the drake rushed at her with open beak, and drove her back. Then she affected not to know where she was going, wandering in an aimless, absent-minded fashion, getting near and nearer her recalcitrant drake. But these ruses were wasted upon him; he saw through them all, and at last he attacked the poor broken-hearted duck so determinedly that she was obliged to seek safety in flight. And the entire while of the little aquatic comedy the wisdom of an engagement had been discussed between Ralph and Mildred. She had consented. But her promise had not convinced Ralph, and he said, referring to the duck which they had both been watching:
‘I shall dangle round you for a time, and when I come too near you’ll chase me away until at last you’ll make up your mind that you can stand it no longer, and will refuse ever to see me again.’
VI.
She had had a rough passage: sea sickness still haunted in her, she was pale with fatigue, and her eyes longed for sleep. But Elsie and Cissy were coming to take her to the studio at ten o’clock. So she asked to be called at nine, and she got up when she was called.
The gilt clock was striking ten in the empty drawing-room when she entered. ‘I didn’t expect her to get up at six to receive me, but she might be up at ten, I think. However, it doesn’t much matter. I suppose she’s looking after her sick husband. … Well, I don’t think much of her drawing-room. Red plush sofas and chairs. It is just like an hotel, and the street is dingy enough,’ thought Mildred, as she pulled one of the narrow lace curtains aside: I don’t think much of Paris. But it doesn’t matter, I shall be at the studio nearly all day.’
A moment after Mrs. Fargus entered. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t up to receive you, but—’
‘I didn’t expect you to get up at five, which you would have had to do. I was here soon after six.’
Mrs. Fargus asked her if she had had a good passage, if she felt fatigued, and what she thought of Paris. And then the conversation dropped.
‘She’s a good little soul,’ thought Mildred, ‘even though she does dress shabbily. It is pure kindness of her to have me here; she doesn’t want the three pounds a week I pay her. But I had to pay something. I couldn’t sponge on her hospitality for six months… I wonder she doesn’t say something. I suppose I must.’
‘You know it is very kind of you to have me here. I don’t know how to thank you.’
Mrs. Fargus’ thoughts seemed on their way back from a thousand miles. ‘From the depths of Comte,’ thought Mildred.
‘My dear, you wanted to study.’
‘Yes, but if it hadn’t been for you I should never have got the chance. As it was Harold did his best to keep me. He said he’d have to get a housekeeper, and it would put him to a great deal of inconvenience: men are so selfish. He’d like me to keep house for him always.’
‘We’re all selfish, Mildred. Men aren’t worse than women, only it takes another form. We only recognise selfishness when it takes a form different from our practice.’
Mildred listened intently, but Mrs. Fargus said no more, and the conversation seemed as if it were going to drop. Suddenly, to Mildred’s surprise, Mrs. Fargus said:
‘When do you propose to begin work?’
‘This morning. Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive are coming to take me to the studio. I’m expecting them every moment. They’re late.’
‘They know the studio they’re taking you to, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes, they’ve worked there before… The question is whether I ought to work in the men’s studio, or if it would be better, safer, to join the ladies’ class.’
‘What does Miss Laurence say?’
‘Oh, Elsie and Cissy are going to work with the men. They wouldn’t work with a lot of women.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they like being with men in the first place.’
‘Oh! But you?’
‘No, I don’t mind, and yet I don’t think I should care to be cooped up all day with a lot of women.’
‘You mean that there would be more emulation in a mixed class?’
‘Yes; and Elsie says it is better to work in the men’s studio. There are cleverer pupils there than in the ladies’ studio, and one learns as much from one’s neighbours as from the professor; more.’
‘Are you sure of that? Do you not think that we
are all far too ready to assume that whatever men do is the best?’
‘I suppose we are.’
‘Men kept us uneducated till a hundred years ago; we are only gaining our rights inch by inch, prejudice is only being overcome very slowly, and whenever women have had equal, or nearly equal, advantages they have proved themselves equal or superior to men. Women’s inferiority in physical strength is immaterial, for, as mankind grows more civilised, force will be found in the brain and not in the muscles.’
Mrs. Fargus was now fairly afloat on her favourite theme, viz., if men were kind to women, their kindness was worse than their cruelty — it was demoralising.
Eventually the conversation returned whence it had started, and Mrs. Fargus said:
‘Then why do you hesitate? What is the objection to the men’s studio?’
‘I do not know that there is any particular objection, nothing that I ought to let stand in the way of my studies. It was only something that Elsie and Cissy said. They said the men’s conversation wasn’t always very nice. But they weren’t sure, for they understand French hardly at all — they may have been mistaken. But if the conversation were coarse it would be very unpleasant for me; the students would know that I understood… Then there’s the model, there’s that to be got over. But Elsie and Cissy say that the model’s nothing; no more than a statue.’
‘The model is undraped?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Really Mildred—’
‘That’s the disadvantage of being a girl. Prejudice closes the opportunity of study to one.’
Mrs. Fargus did not speak for a long time. At last she said:
‘Of course, Mildred, you must consult your own feeling; if it’s the custom, if it’s necessary — Your vocation is of course everything.’
Then it was Mildred’s turn to pause before answering. At last she said:
‘It does seem rather — well, disgusting, but if it is necessary for one’s art. In a way I’d as soon work in the ladies’ studio.’
‘I daresay you derive just as much advantage.’
‘Do you think so? It’s from the students round one that one learns, and there’s no use coming to Paris if one doesn’t make the most of one’s opportunities.’
‘You might give the ladies’ studio a trial, and if you didn’t find you were getting on you could join the men’s.’
‘After having wasted three months! As you say my vocation is everything. It would be useless for me to think of taking up painting as a profession, if I did not work in the men’s studio.’
‘But are you going there?’
‘I can’t make up my mind. You have frightened me, you’ve put me off it.’
‘I think I hardly offered an opinion.’
‘Perhaps Harold would not like me to go there.’
‘You might write to him. Yes, write to him.’
‘Write to Harold about such a thing — the most conventional man in the world!’
At that moment the servant announced Elsie and Cissy. They wore their best dresses and were clearly atingle with desire of conversation and Paris.
‘We’re a little late, aren’t we, dear. We’re so sorry,’ said Elsie.
‘How do you do, dear,’ said Cissy.
Mildred introduced her friends. They bowed, and shook hands with Mrs. Fargus, but were at no pains to conceal their indifference to the drab and dowdy little woman in the soiled sage green, and the glimmering spectacles. ‘What a complexion,’ whispered Elsie the moment they were outside the door. ‘What’s her husband like?’ asked Cissy as they descended the first flight. Mildred answered that Mr. Fargus suffered from asthma, and hoped no further questions would be asked, so happy was she in the sense of real emancipation from the bondage of home — so delighted was she in the spectacle of the great boulevard, now radiant with spring sunlight.
She wondered at the large blue cravats of idlers, sitting in cafes freshly strewn with bright clean sand, at the aprons of the waiters, — the waiters were now pouring out green absinthe, — at the little shop girls in tight black dresses and frizzled hair, passing three together arm in arm; all the boulevard amused and interested Mildred. It looked so different, she said, from what it had done four hours before. ‘But none of us look our best at six in the morning,’ she added laughing, and her friends laughed too. Elsie and Cissy chattered of some project to dine with Walter, and go to the theatre afterwards, and incidentally Mildred learnt that Hopwood Blunt would not be in Paris before the end of the week. But where was the studio? The kiosques were now open, the morning papers were selling briskly, the roadway was full of fiacres plying for hire, or were drawn up in lines three deep, the red waistcoated coachmen slept on their box-seats. But where was the studio?
Suddenly they turned into an Arcade. The shops on either side were filled with jet ornaments, fancy glass, bon-bons, boxes, and fans. Cissy thought of a present for Hopwood — that case of liqueur glasses. Mildred examined a jet brooch which she thought would suit Mrs. Fargus. Elsie wished that Walter would present her with a fan; and then they went up a flight of wooden stairs and pushed open a swing door. In a small room furnished with a divan, a desk, and a couple of cane chairs, they met M. Daveau. He wore a short jacket and a brown- black beard. He shook hands with Elsie and Cissy, and was introduced to Mildred. Elsie said:
‘You speak better than we do. Tell him you’ve come here to study.’
‘I’ve come to Paris to study painting,’ said Mildred. ‘But I don’t know which I shall join, the ladies’ studio or the men’s studio. Miss Laurence and Miss Clive advised me to work here, in the men’s studio.’
‘I know Miss Laurence and Miss Clive very well.’ There was charm in his voice, and Mildred was already interested in him. Cissy and Elsie had drawn a curtain at the end of the room and were peeping into the studio. ‘Miss Laurence and Miss Clive,’ he said, ‘worked here for more than a year. They made a great deal of progress — a great deal. They worked also in the ladies’ studio, opposite.’
‘Ah, that is what I wanted to speak to you about. Would you advise me to work in the men’s studio? Do you think it would be advisable? Do you think there would be any advantages?’
‘We have some very clever pupils here — very clever; of course it is of great advantage to work with clever pupils.’
‘That is what I think, but I am not certain.’
‘If Mademoiselle intends to study painting seriously.’
‘Oh, but I do; I am very serious.’
‘Then I do not think there can be any doubt which studio she should choose.’
‘Very well.’
‘This studio is a hundred francs a month — for a lady; the ladies’ studio is sixty francs a month.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because, if it were not so, we should be overcrowded. Ladies prefer to work in this studio, it is much more advantageous. If you would like to see the studio first?’
There were more than thirty in the studio; about twenty men and fifteen women. Some sat on low stools close under the platform whereon the model stood, some worked at easels drawn close together in a semicircle round the room. The model was less shocking than Mildred had imagined; he stood with his hands on his hip, a staff in his hand; and, had it not been for a slight swaying motion, she would hardly have known he was alive. She had never drawn before from the living model, and was puzzled to know how to begin. She was going to ask Elsie to tell her, when M. Daveau drew the curtain aside, and picking his way through the pupils, came straight to her. He took the stool next her, and with a pleasant smile asked if she had ever drawn from the life.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I have only copied a few pictures, you learn nothing from copying.’
He told her how she must count the number of heads, and explained to her the advantage of the plumb-line in determining the action of the figure. Mildred was much interested; she wondered if she would be able to put the instruction she was receiving into practice, and was disappointed when
the model got down from the table and put on his trousers.
‘The model rests for ten minutes every three quarters of an hour. He’ll take the pose again presently. It is now eleven o’clock.’
M. Daveau laid the charcoal upon her easel, and promised to come and see how she was getting on later in the afternoon. But, just as the model was about to take the pose again, a young girl entered the studio.
‘Do you want a model?’
‘Yes, if she has a good figure,’ said a student. ‘Have you a good figure?’ he added with a smile.
‘Some people think so. You must judge for yourselves,’ she answered, taking off her hat.
‘Surely she is not going to undress in public!’ said Mildred to Elsie, who had come to her easel.
VII.
Mildred worked hard in the studio. She was always one of the first to arrive, and she did not leave till the model had finished sitting, and during the eight hours, interrupted only by an hour in the middle of the day for lunch, she applied herself to her drawing, eschewing conversation with the students, whether French or English. She did not leave her easel when the model rested; she waited patiently sharpening her pencils or reading — she never came to the studio unprovided with a book. And she made a pretty picture sitting on her high stool, and the students often sketched her during the rests. Although quietly, she was always beautifully dressed. Simple though they appeared to be, her black crepe de chine skirts told of large sums of money spent in fashionable millinery establishments, and her large hats profusely trimmed with ostrich feathers, which suited her so well, contrasted strangely with the poor head-gear of the other girls; and when the weather grew warmer she appeared in a charming shot silk grey and pink, and a black straw hat lightly trimmed with red flowers. In answer to Elsie, who had said that she looked as if she were going to a garden-party, Mildred said:
‘I don’t see why, because you’re an artist, you should be a slattern. I don’t feel comfortable in a dirty dress. It makes me feel quite ill.’
Although Mildred was constantly with Elsie and Cissy she never seemed to be of their company; and seeing them sitting together in the Bouillon Duval, at their table next the window, an observer would be sure to wonder what accident had sent out that rare and subtle girl with such cheerful commonness as Elsie and Cissy. The contrast was even more striking when they entered the eating-house, Mildred looking a little annoyed, and always forgetful of the tariff card which she should take from the door-keeper. Elsie and Cissy triumphant, making for the staircase, as Mildred said to herself, ‘with a flourish of cards.’ Mildred instinctively hated the Bouillon Duval, and only went there because her friends could not afford a restaurant. The traffic of the Bouillon disgusted her; the food, she admitted, was well enough, but, as she said, it was mealing — feeding like an animal in a cage, — not dining or breakfasting. Very often she protested.
