by George Moore
At the cross roads she noticed a still more formal avenue, trees planted in single line and curving like a regiment of soldiers marching across country. The whitewashed stead and the lonely peasant scratching like an insect in the long tilth were painful impressions. She missed the familiar hedgerows which make England like a garden; and she noticed that there were trees everywhere except about the dwellings; and that there were neither hollybush or sunflowers in the white village they rolled through — a gaunt white village which was not Barbizon. The driver mentioned the name, but Mildred did not heed him. She looked from the blank white walls to her prettily posed feet and heard him say that Barbizon was still a mile away.
It lay at the end of the plain, and when the carriage entered the long street, it rocked over huge stones so that Mildred was nearly thrown out. She called to the driver to go slower; he smiled, and pointing with his whip said that the hotel that Mademoiselle wanted was at the end of the village, on the verge of the forest.
A few moments after the carriage drew up before an iron gateway, and Mildred saw a small house at the bottom of a small garden. There was a pavilion on the left and a numerous company were dining beneath the branches of a cedar. Elsie and Cissy got up, and dropping their napkins ran to meet their friend. She was led in triumph to the table, and all through dinner she had a rough impression of English girls in cheap linen dresses and of men in rough suits and flowing neck-ties.
She was given some soup, and when the plate of veal had been handed round, and Elsie and Cissy had exhausted their first store of questions, she was introduced to Morton Mitchell. His singularly small head was higher by some inches than any other, bright eyes, and white teeth showing through a red moustache, and a note of defiance in his open-hearted voice made him attractive. Mildred was also introduced to Rose Turner, the girl who sat next him, a weak girl with pretty eyes. Rose already looked at Mildred as if she anticipated rivalry, and was clearly jealous of every word that Morton did not address to her. Mildred looked at him again. He was better dressed than the others, and an air of success in his face made him seem younger than he was. He leaned across the table, and Mildred liked his brusque, but withal well-bred manner. She wondered what his pictures were like. At Daveau’s only the names of the principal exhibitors at the Salon were known, and he had told her that he had not sent there for the last three years. He didn’t care to send to the vulgar place more than he could help.
Mildred noticed that all listened to Morton; and she was sorry to leave the table, so interesting was his conversation. But Elsie and Cissy wanted to talk to her, and they marched about the grass plot, their arms about each other’s waists; and, while questioning Mildred about herself and telling her about themselves, they frequently looked whither their lovers sat smoking. Sometimes Mildred felt them press her along the walk which passed by the dining table. But for half an hour their attractions were arrayed vainly against those of cigarettes and petits verres. Rose was the only woman who remained at table. She hung over her lover, desirous that he should listen to her. Mildred thought, ‘What a fool…. We shall see presently.’
The moment the young men got up Cissy and Elsie forgot Mildred. An angry expression came upon her face and she went into the house. The walls had been painted all over — landscapes, still life, nude figures, rustic, and elegiac subjects. Every artist had painted something in memory of his visit, and Mildred sought vaguely for what Mr. Mitchell had painted. Then, remembering that he had chosen to walk about with the Turner girl, she abandoned her search and, leaning on the window- sill, watched the light fading in the garden. She could hear the frogs in a distant pond, and thought of the night in the forest amid millions of trees and stars.
Suddenly she heard some one behind her say:
‘Do you like being alone?’
It was Morton.
‘I’m so used to being alone.’
‘Use is a second nature, I will not interrupt your solitude.’
‘But sometimes one gets tired of solitude.’
‘Would you like to share your solitude? You can have half of mine.’
‘I’m sure it is very kind of you, but—’ It was on Mildred’s tongue to ask him what he had done with Rose Turner. She said instead, ‘and where does your solitude hang out?’
‘Chiefly in the forest. Shall we go there?’
‘Is it far? I don’t know where the others have gone.’
‘They’re in the forest, we walk there every evening; we shall meet them.’
‘How far is the forest?’
‘At our door. We’re in the forest. Come and see. There is the forest,’ he said, pointing to a long avenue. ‘How bright the moonlight is, one can read by this light.’
‘And how wonderfully the shadows of the tall trunks fall across the white road. How unreal, how phantasmal, is that grey avenue shimmering in the moonlight.’
‘Yes, isn’t the forest ghostlike. And isn’t that picturesque,’ he said, pointing to a booth that had been set up by the wayside. On a tiny stage a foot or so from the ground, by the light of a lantern and a few candle ends, a man and a woman were acting some rude improvisation.
Morton and Mildred stayed; but neither was in the mood to listen. They contributed a trifle each to these poor mummers of the lane’s end, and it seemed that their charity had advanced them in their intimacy. Without hesitation they left the road, taking a sandy path which led through some rocks. Mildred’s feet sank in the loose sand, and very soon it seemed to her that they had left Barbizon far behind. For the great grey rocks and the dismantled tree trunk which they had suddenly come upon frightened her; and she could hardly bear with the ghostly appearance the forest took in the stream of glittering light which flowed down from the moon.
She wished to turn back. But Morton said that they would meet the others beyond the hill, and she followed him through great rocks, filled with strange shadows. The pines stood round the hill-top making it seem like a shrine; a round yellow moon looked through; there was the awe of death in the lurid silence, and so clear was the sky that the points of the needles could be seen upon it.
‘We must go back,’ she said.
‘If you like.’
But, at that moment, voices were heard coming over the brow of the hill.
‘You see I did not deceive you. There are your friends, I knew we should meet them. That is Miss Laurence’s voice, one can always recognise it.’
‘Then let us go to them.’
‘If you like. But we can talk better here. Let me find you a place to sit down.’ Before Mildred could answer, Elsie cried across the glade:
‘So there you are.’
‘What do you think of the forest?’ shouted Cissy.
‘Wonderful,’ replied Mildred.
‘Well, we won’t disturb you… we shall be back presently.’
And, like ghosts, they passed into the shadow and mystery of the trees.
‘So you work in the men’s studio?’
‘Does that shock you?’
‘No, nothing shocks me.’
‘In the studio a woman puts off her sex. There’s no sex in art.’
‘I quite agree with you. There’s no sex in art, and a woman would be very foolish to let anything stand between her and her art.’
‘I’m glad you think that. I’ve made great sacrifices for painting.’
‘What sacrifices?’
‘I’ll tell you one of these days when I know you better.’
‘Will you?’
The conversation paused a moment, and Mildred said:
‘How wonderful it is here. Those pines, that sky, one hears the silence; it enters into one’s very bones. It is a pity one cannot paint silence.’
‘Millet painted silence. “The Angelus” is full of silence, the air trembles with silence and sunset.’
‘But the silence of the moonlight is more awful, it really is very awful, I’m afraid.’
‘Afraid of what? there’s nothing to be afraid of. You asked m
e just now if I believed in Daveau’s, I didn’t like to say; I had only just been introduced to you; but it seems to me that I know you better now… Daveau’s is a curse. It is the sterilisation of art. You must give up Daveau’s, and come and work here.’
‘I’m afraid it would make no difference. Elsie and Cissy have spent years here, and what they do does not amount to much. They wander from method to method, abandoning each in turn. I am utterly discouraged, and made up my mind to give up painting.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. One of these days I shall find out my true vocation.’
‘You’re young, you are beautiful—’
‘No, I’m not beautiful, but there are times when I look nice.’
‘Yes, indeed there are. Those hands, how white they are in the moonlight.’ He took her hands. ‘Why do you trouble and rack your soul about painting? A woman’s hands are too beautiful for a palette and brushes.’
The words were on her tongue to ask him if he did not admire Rose’s hands equally, but remembering the place, the hour, and the fact of her having made his acquaintance only a few hours before, she thought it more becoming to withdraw her hands, and to say:
‘The others do not seem to be coming back. We had better return.’
They moved out of the shadows of the pines, and stood looking down the sandy pathway.
‘How filmy and grey those top branches, did you ever see anything so delicate?’
‘I never saw anything like this before. This is primeval…. I used to walk a good deal with a friend of mine in St. James’ Park.’
‘The park where the ducks are, and a little bridge. Your friend was not an artist.’
‘Yes, he was, and a very clever artist too.’
‘Then he admired the park because you were with him.’
‘Perhaps that had something to do with it. But the park is very beautiful.’
‘I don’t think I care much about cultivated nature.’
‘Don’t you like a garden?’
‘Yes; a disordered garden, a garden that has been let run wild.’
They walked down the sandy pathway, and came unexpectedly upon Elsie and her lover sitting behind a rock. They asked where the others were. Elsie did not know. But at that moment voices were heard, and Cissy cried from the bottom of the glade:
‘So there you are; we’ve been looking for you.’
‘Looking for us indeed,’ said Mildred.
Now, Mildred, don’t be prudish, this is Liberty Hall. You must lend us Mr. Mitchell, we want to dance.’
‘What, here in the sand!’
‘No, in the Salon…. Come along, Rose will play for us.’
XV.
Mildred was the first down. She wore a pretty robe a fleurs, and her straw hat was trimmed with tremulous grasses and cornflowers. A faint sunshine floated in the wet garden.
A moment after Elsie cried from the door-step:
‘Well, you have got yourself up. We don’t run to anything like that here. You’re going out flirting. It’s easy to see that.’
‘My flirtations don’t amount to much. Kisses don’t thrill me as they do you. I’m afraid I’ve never been what you call “in love.”’
‘You seem on the way there, if I’m to judge by last night,’ Elsie answered rather tartly. ‘You know, Mildred, I don’t believe all you say, not quite all.’
A pained and perplexed expression came upon Mildred’s face and she said:
‘Perhaps I shall meet a man one of these days who will inspire passion in me.’
‘I hope so. It would be a relief to all of us. I wouldn’t mind subscribing to present that man with a testimonial.’
Mildred laughed.
‘I often wonder what will become of me. I’ve changed a good deal in the last two years. I’ve had a great deal of trouble.’
‘I’m sorry you’re so depressed. I know what it is. That wretched painting, we give ourselves to it heart and soul, and it deceives us as you deceive your lovers.’
‘So it does. I had not thought of it like that. Yes, I’ve been deceived just as I have deceived others. But you, Elsie, you’ve not been deceived, you can do something. If I could do what you do. You had a picture in the Salon. Cissy had a picture in the Salon.’
‘That doesn’t mean much. What we do doesn’t amount to much.’
‘But do you think that I shall ever do as much?’
Elsie did not think so, and the doubt caused her to hesitate. Mildred perceived the hesitation and said:
‘Oh, there’s no necessity for you to lie. I know the truth well enough. I have resolved to give up painting. I have given it up.’
You’ve given up painting! Do you really mean it?’
‘Yes, I feel that I must. When I got your letter I was nearly dead with weariness and disappointment — what a relief your letter was — what a relief to be here!’
‘Well, you see something has happened. Barbizon has happened, Morton has happened.’
‘I wonder if anything will come of it. He’s a nice fellow. I like him.’
‘You’re not the first. All the women are crazy about him. He was the lover of Merac, the actress of the Francais. They say she could only play Phedre when he was in the stage-box. He always produced that effect upon her. Then he was the lover of the Marquise de la — de la Per —— I can’t remember the name.’
‘Is he in love with any one now?’
‘No; we thought he was going to marry Rose.’
‘That little thing!’
‘Well, he seemed devoted to her. He seemed inclined to settle down.’
‘Did he ever flirt with you?’
‘No; he’s not my style.’
‘I know what that means,’ thought Mildred.
The conversation paused, and then Elsie said:
‘It really is a shame to upset him with Rose, unless you mean to marry him. Even the impressionists admit that he has talent. He belongs to the old school, it is true, but his work is interesting all the same.’
The English and American girls were dressed like Elsie and Cissy in cheap linen dresses; one of the French artists was living with a cocotte. She was dressed more elaborately; somewhat like Mildred, Elsie remarked, and the girls laughed, and sat down to their bowls of coffee.
Morton and Elsie’s young man were almost the last to arrive. Swinging their paint-boxes they came forward talking gaily.
‘Yours is the best looking,’ said Elsie.
‘Perhaps you’d like to get him from me.’
‘No, I never do that.’
‘What about Rose?’
Mildred bit her lips, and Elsie couldn’t help thinking, ‘How cruel she is, she likes to make that poor little thing miserable. It’s only vanity, for I don’t suppose she cares for Morton.’
Those who were painting in the adjoining fields and forest said they would be back to the second breakfast at noon, those who were going further, and whose convenience it did not suit to return, took sandwiches with them. Morton was talking to Rose, but Mildred soon got his attention.
‘You’re going to paint in the forest,’ she said, ‘I wonder what your picture is like: you haven’t shown it to me.’
‘It’s all packed up. But aren’t you going into the forest? If you’re going with Miss Laurence and Miss Clive you might come with me. You’d better take your painting materials; you’ll find the time hang heavily, if you don’t.’
‘Oh no, the very thought of painting bores me.’
‘Very well then. If you are ready we might make a start, mine is a mid-day effect. I hope you’re a good walker. But you’ll never be able to get along in those shoes and that dress — that’s no dress for the forest. You’ve dressed as if for a garden-party.’
‘It is only a little robe a fleurs, there’s nothing to spoil, and as for my shoes, you’ll see I shall get along all right, unless it is very far.’
‘It is more than a mile. I shall have to take you down to the loc
al cobbler and get you measured. I never saw such feet.’
He was oddly matter of fact. There was something naive and childish about him, and he amused and interested Mildred.
‘With whom,’ she said, ‘do you go out painting when I’m not here? Every Jack seems to have his own Jill in Barbizon.’
‘And don’t they everywhere else? It would be damned dull without.’
‘Do you think it would? Have you always got a Jill?’
‘I’ve been down in my luck lately.’
Mildred laughed.
‘Which of the women here has the most talent?’
‘Perhaps Miss Laurence. But Miss Clive does a nice thing occasionally.’
‘What do you think of Miss Turner’s work?’
‘It’s pretty good. She has talent. She had two pictures in the Salon last year.’
Mildred bit her lips. ‘Have you ever been out with her?’
‘Yes, but why do you ask?’
‘Because I think she likes you. She looked very miserable when she heard that we were going out together. Just as if she were going to cry. If I thought I was making another person unhappy I would sooner give you — give up the pleasure of going out with you.’
‘And what about me? Don’t I count for anything?’
‘I must not do a direct wrong to another. Each of us has a path to walk in, and if we deviate from our path we bring unhappiness upon ourselves and upon others.’
Morton stopped and looked at her, his stolid childish stare made her laugh, and it made her like him.
‘I wonder if I am selfish?’ said Mildred reflectively. ‘Sometimes I think I am, sometimes I think I am not. I’ve suffered so much, my life has been all suffering. There’s no heart left in me for anything. I wonder what will become of me. I often think I shall commit suicide. Or I might go into a convent.’
‘You’d much better commit suicide than go into a convent. Those poor devils of nuns! as if there wasn’t enough misery in this world. We are certain of the misery, and if we give up the pleasures, I should like to know where we are.’
Each had been so interested in the other that they had seen nothing else. But now the road led through an open space where every tree was torn and broken; Mildred stopped to wonder at the splintered trunks; and out of the charred spectre of a great oak crows flew and settled among the rocks, in the fissures of a rocky hill.
