by George Moore
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Cissy, ‘we shall get one of Catherine’s tables if we make haste.’
Catherine was their favourite waitress. Like a hen she seemed to have taken them under her protection. And she told them what were the best dishes, and devoted a large part of her time to attending on them. She liked Mildred especially; she paid her compliments and so became a contrary influence in Mildred’s dislike of the Bouillon. She seemed to understand them thoroughly from the first. Elsie and Cissy she knew would eat everything, they were never without their appetites, but Mildred very often said she could eat nothing. Then Catherine would come to the rescue with a tempting suggestion, Une belle aile de poulet avec sauce remoulade. ‘Well, perhaps I could pick a bone,’ Mildred would answer, and these wings of chicken seemed to her the best she had ever eaten. She liked the tiny strawberries which were beginning to come into season; she liked les petites suisses; and she liked the chatter of her friends, and her own chatter across the little marble table. She thought that she had never enjoyed talking so much before.
One evening, as they stirred their coffee, Elsie said, looking down the street, ‘What a pretty effect.’
Mildred leaned over her friend’s shoulder and saw the jagged outline of the street and a spire beautiful in the sunset. She was annoyed that she had not first discovered the picturesqueness of the perspective, and, when Elsie sketched the street on the marble table, she felt that she would never be able to draw like that.
The weather grew warmer, and, in June, M. Daveau and three or four of the leading students proposed that they should make up a party to spend Sunday at Bas Mendon. To arrive at Bas Mendon in time for breakfast they would have to catch the ten o’clock boat from the Pont Neuf. Cissy, Elsie, and Mildred were asked: there were no French girls to ask, so, as Elsie said, ‘they’d have the men to themselves.’
The day impressed itself singularly on Mildred’s mind. She never forgot the drive to the Pont Neuf in the early morning, the sunshine had seemed especially lovely; she did not forget her fear lest she should be late — she was only just in time; they were waiting for her, their paint-boxes slung over their shoulders, and the boat was moving alongside as she ran down the steps. She did not forget M. Daveau’s black beard; she saw it and remembered it long afterwards. But she never could recall her impressions of the journey — she only remembered that it had seemed a long while, and that she was very hungry when they arrived. She remembered the trellis and the boiled eggs and the cutlets, and that after breakfast M. Daveau had painted a high stairway that led to the top of the hill and she remembered how she had stood behind him wondering at the ease with which he drew in the steps. In the evening there had been a little exhibition of sketches, and in the boat going home he had talked to her; and she had enjoyed talking to him. Of his conversation she only recalled one sentence. She had asked him if he liked classical music, and he had answered, ‘There is no music except classical music.’ And it was this chance phrase that made the day memorable; its very sententiousness had pleased her; in that calm bright evening she had realised and it had helped her to realise that there existed a higher plane of appreciation and feeling than that on which her mind moved.
At the end of July, Elsie and Cissy spoke of going into the country, and they asked Mildred to come with them. Barbizon was a village close to the Forest of Fontainebleau. There was an inn where they would be comfortable: all the clever young fellows went to Barbizon for the summer. But Mildred thought that on the whole it would be better for her to continue working in the studio without interruption. Elsie and Cissy did not agree with her. They told her that she would find the studio almost deserted and quite intolerable in August. Bad tobacco, drains, and Italian models — Faugh! But their description of what the studio would become in the hot weather did not stir Mildred’s resolution. M. Daveau had told her that landscape painting would come to her very easily when she had learnt to draw, and that the way to learn to draw was to draw from the nude. So she bore with the heat and the smells for eight hours a day. There were but four or five other pupils beside herself; this was an advantage in a way, but these few were not inclined for work; idleness is contagious, and Mildred experienced much difficulty in remaining at her easel.
In the evenings her only distraction was to go for a drive with Mrs. Fargus. But too often Mrs. Fargus could not leave her husband, and these evenings Mildred spent in reading or in writing letters. The dullness of her life and the narrowness and aridity of her acquaintance induced her to write very often to Ralph, and depression of spirits often tempted her to express herself more affectionately than she would have done in wider and pleasanter circumstances. She once spoke of the pleasure it would give her to see him, she said that she would like to see him walk into the studio. But when he took her at her word and she saw him draw aside the curtain and look in, a cloud of annoyance gathered on her face. But she easily assumed her pretty mysterious smile and said:
‘When did you arrive?’
‘Only this morning. You said you’d like to see me. I had to come…. I hope you are not angry.’
Then noticing that the girl next them was an English girl, Ralph spoke about Mildred’s drawing. She did not like him to see it, but he asked her for the charcoal and said if she would give him her place he would see if he could find out what was wrong; he did not think she had got enough movement into the figure.
‘Ah, that’s what the professor says when he comes round toujours un peu froid comme mouvement. I can get the proportions; it is the movement that bothers me.’
‘Movement is drawing in the real sense of the word. If they would only teach you to draw by the movement.’
He continued to correct Mildred’s drawing for some time. When he laid down the charcoal, he said:
‘How hot it is here! I wonder how you can bear it.’
‘Yes, the heat is dreadful. I’m too exhausted to do much work. Supposing we go out.’
They went downstairs and some way along the Passage des Panoramas without speaking. At last Mildred said:
‘Are you going to be in Paris for long?’
‘No, I’m going back at once, perhaps to-morrow. You know I’ve a lot of work on hand. I’m getting on, luck has turned. I’ve sold several pictures. I must get back.’
‘Why, to-morrow? — it was hardly worth while coming for so short a time.’
‘I only came to see you. You know I couldn’t — you know — I mean that I felt that I must see you.’
Mildred looked up, it was an affectionate glance; and she swung her parasol in a way that recalled their walks in the Green Park. They passed out of the passage into the boulevard. As they crossed the Rue Vivienne, Ralph said in his abrupt fragmentary way:
‘You said you’d like to see me, I could see from your letters that you were unhappy.’
‘No, I’m not unhappy — a little dull at times, that is all.’
‘You wrote me some charming letters. I hope you meant all you said.’
‘Did I say so much, then? I daresay I said more than I intended.’
‘No, don’t say that, don’t say that.’
The absinthe drinkers, the green trees, the blue roofs of the great houses, all these signs of the boulevard, intruded upon and interrupted their thoughts; then the boulevard passed out of their sight and they were again conscious of nothing but each other.
‘I met your brother. He was anxious about you. He wondered if you were getting on and I said that I’d go and see.’
‘And do you think I’m getting on?’
Yes, I think you’ve made progress. You couldn’t have done that drawing before you went to Paris.’
‘You really think so…. I was right to go to Paris…. I must show you my other drawings. I’ve some better than that.’
The artistic question was discussed till they reached the Place de l’Opera.
‘That is the opera-house,’ Mildred said, ‘and that is the Cafe de la Paix…. You haven’t been to Paris before?’
‘No; this is my first visit. But I didn’t come to Paris to see Paris. I came to see you. I could not help myself. Your letters were so charming. I have read them over a thousand times. I couldn’t go on reading them without seeing you…. I got afraid that you’d find some one here you’d fall in love with. Some one whom you’d prefer to me. Have you?’
‘No; I don’t know that I have.’
‘Then why shouldn’t we be married? That’s what I’ve come to ask you.’
‘You mean now, in Paris?’
‘Why not? If you haven’t met any one you like better, you know.’
‘And give up my painting, and just at the time I’m beginning to get on! You said I had improved in my drawing.’
‘Ah, your drawing interests you more than I.’
‘I’d give anything to draw like Misal. You don’t know him — a student of the Beaux Arts.’
‘When you’d learnt all he knows, you wouldn’t be any nearer to painting a picture.’
‘That isn’t very polite. You don’t think much of my chances of success…. But we shall see.’
‘Mildred, you don’t understand me. This is not fair to me. Only say when you’ll marry me, and I’ll wait, I’ll wait, yes, as long as you like — only fix a time.’
‘When I’ve learnt to draw.’
‘You’re laughing at me.’
Her face darkened, and they did not speak again till the green roof of the Madeleine appeared, striking sharp against a piece of blue sky. Mildred said:
‘This is my way,’ and she turned to the right.
‘You take offence without cause. When you have learnt to draw! We’re always learning to draw. No one has ever learnt to draw perfectly.’
‘I have no other answer.’
‘Mildred, this isn’t fair.’
‘If you’re not satisfied I release you from your engagement. Yes, I release you from your engagement.’
‘Mildred, you’re cruel. You seem to take pleasure in torturing me. But this cannot be. I cannot live without you. What am I to do?’
‘You must try.’
‘No, I shall not try,’ he answered sullenly.
‘What will you do?’
‘My plans are made. I shall not live.’
‘Oh, Ralph, you will not kill yourself. It would not be worth while. You’ve your art to live for. You are — how old are you — thirty? You’re no longer a sentimental boy. You’ve got your man’s life to lead. You must think of it.’
‘I don’t feel as if I could. Life seems impossible.’
She looked into his pale gentle eyes and the thought crossed her mind that his was perhaps one of those narrow, gentle natures that cannot outlive such a disappointment as she intended to inflict. It would be very terrible if he did commit suicide, the object of his visit to Paris would transpire. But no, he would not commit suicide, she was quite safe, and on that thought she said:
‘I cannot remain out any longer.’
VIII.
She stopped in the middle of the room, and, holding in her hand her large hat decorated with ostrich feathers, she assured herself that it was not at all likely that he would commit suicide. Yet men did commit suicide…. She did not want him to kill himself, that anything so terrible should happen would grieve her very much. She was quite sincere, yet the thought persisted that it would be very wonderful if he did do so. It would make a great scandal. That a man should kill himself for her! No woman had ever obtained more than that. Standing in the middle of the room, twirling her hat, she asked herself if she really wished him to kill himself. Of course not. Then she thought of herself, of how strange she was. She was very strange, she had never quite understood herself.
Mechanically, as if in a dream, she opened a bandbox and put her hat away. She smoothed her soft hair before the glass. Her appearance pleased her, and she wondered if she were worth a man’s life. She was a dainty morsel, no doubt, so dainty that life was unendurable without her. But she was wronging herself, she did not wish him to kill himself…. Men had done so before for women…. If it came to the point, she would do everything in her power to prevent such a thing. She would do everything, yes, everything except marry him. She couldn’t settle down to watch him painting pictures. She wanted to paint pictures herself. Would she succeed? He didn’t think so, but that was because he wanted her to marry him. And, if she didn’t succeed, she would have to marry him or some one else. She would have to live with a man, give up her whole life to him, submit herself to him. She must succeed. Success meant so much. If she succeeded, she would be spoken of in the newspapers, and, best of all, she would hear people say when she came into a room, ‘That is Mildred Lawson….’
She didn’t want to marry, but she would like to have all the nicest men in love with her…. Meanwhile she was doing the right thing. She must learn to draw, and the studio was the only place she could learn. But she did not want to paint large portraits with dark backgrounds. She could not see herself doing things like that. Chaplin was her idea. She had always admired him. His women were so dainty, so elegant, so eighteenth century — wicked little women in swings, as wicked as their ankles, as their lovers’ guitars.
But she would have to work two or three years before any one could tell her whether she would succeed. Two or three years! It was a long time, but a woman must do something if she wishes to attract attention, to be a success. A little success in art went a long way in society. But Paris was so dull, Elsie and Cissy were still away. There was no one in the studio who interested her; moreover, Elsie had told her that any flirtation there might easily bring banishment to the ladies’ studio across the way. So it was provoking that Ralph had forced her to throw him over at that particular moment. She would have liked to have kept him on, at least till the end of the month, when Elsie and Cissy would return. The break with Ralph was certainly not convenient. She still felt some interest in him. She would write to him.
IX.
‘We’ve come back,’ said Elsie. ‘We heard at the studio that you had gone away feeling ill, so we came on here to find out how you were.’
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ said Mildred. ‘I’ve been working rather hard lately, that’s all.’
‘You should have come with us,’ said Cissy. ‘We’ve had an awfully jolly time.’
‘We’ll go into the drawing-room. Wait a minute till I find my slippers.’
‘Oh, don’t trouble to get up; we only came to see how you were,’ said Elsie.
‘But I’m quite well, there’s really nothing the matter. It was only that I felt I couldn’t go on working this afternoon. The model bored me, and it was so hot. It was very good of you to come and see me like this.’
‘We’ve had a jolly time and have done a lot of work.’
‘Elsie has done a girl weaving a daisy-chain in a meadow. It is wonderful how she has got the sunlight on the grass. All our things are in the studio, you will see them to-morrow.’
‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t see them to-day. I’ll dress myself.’
The account they gave of their summer outing was tantalising to the tired and jaded girl. She imagined the hushed and shady places, the murmuring mystery of bird and insect life. She could see them going forth in the mornings with their painting materials, sitting at their easels under the tall trees, intent on their work or lying on rugs spread in the shade, the blue smoke of cigarettes curling and going out, or later in the evening packing up easels and paint-boxes, and finding their way out of the forest.
It was Elsie who did most of the talking. Cissy reminded her now and then of something she had forgotten, and, when they turned into the Passage des Panoramas, Elsie was deep in an explanation of the folly of square brush work. Both were converts to open brush work. They had learnt it from a very clever fellow, an impressionist. All his shadows were violet. She did not hold with his theory regarding the division of the tones: at least not yet. Perhaps she would come to it in time.
Mildred liked Elsie’s lady in a
white dress reading under a rhododendron tree in full blossom. Cissy had painted a naked woman in the garden sunshine. Mildred did not think that flesh could be so violet as that, but there was a dash and go about it that she felt she would never attain. It seemed to her a miracle, and, in her admiration for her friend’s work, she forgot her own failure. The girls dined at a Bouillon Duval and afterwards they went to the theatre together. Next morning they met, all three, in the studio; the model was interesting, Mildred caught the movement more happily than usual; her friends’ advice had helped her.
But at least two years would have to pass before she would know if she had the necessary talent to succeed as an artist. For that while she must endure the drudgery of the studio and the boredom of evenings alone with Mrs. Fargus. She went out with Elsie and Cissy sometimes, but the men they introduced her to were not to her taste. She had seen no one who interested her in Paris, except perhaps M. Daveau. That thick-set, black-bearded southern, with his subtle southern manner, had appealed to her, in a way. But M. Daveau had been ordered suddenly to Royon for gout and rheumatism, and Mildred was left without any one to exercise her attractions upon. She spent evening after evening with Mrs. Fargus, until the cropped hair, the spectacles, above all, the black satin dress with the crimson scarf, getting more and more twisted, became intolerable. And Mr. Fargus’ cough and his vacuous conversation, in which no shadow of an idea ever appeared, tried her temper. But she forebore, seeing how anxious they were to please her. That was the worst. These simple kind-hearted people saw that their sitting-room bored Mildred, and they often took her for drives in the Bois after dinner. Crazed with boredom Mildred cast side-long glances of hatred at Mrs. Fargus, who sat by her side a mute little figure lost in Comte. Mr. Fargus’ sallow-complexioned face was always opposite her; he uttered commonplaces in a loud voice, and Mildred longed to fling herself from the carriage. At last, unable to bear with reality, she chattered, laughed, and told stories and joked until her morose friends wondered at her happiness. Her friends were her audience; they sufficed to stimulate the histrionic spirit in her, and she felt pleased like an actor who has amused an audience which he despises.
