by George Moore
DEAR ETTA, — Here we are again in Barbizon, painting in the day and dancing in the evening, and there are a nice lot of fellows here, one or two very clever ones. I have already picked up a lot of hints. How we did waste our time in that studio. Square brush work, drawing by the masses — what rot! I suppose you have abandoned it all long ago. Cissy is here; she has thrown over Hopwood Blunt for good and all, and is at present interested in a division-of-the-tones man. A clever fellow, but not nearly so good-looking as mine. The inn stands in a large garden, and we dine and walk after dinner under the trees, and watch the stars come out There’s a fellow here who might interest you; his painting would, even if he failed to respond to the gentle platonism of your flirtations. The forest, too, would interest you. It is an immense joy. I’m sure you want change of air. Life here is very cheap, only five francs, room and meals — breakfast and dinner, everything included except coffee.
The letter dropped upon her knees, and a wonderful rejoicement began in her heart, so surprising and so spontaneous that she stopped in her packing to ask herself if it were true that she had been pursuing things long after they had ceased to interest her — dead things, she said. But is my interest in painting, once so vital, gone? But was it ever very vital? she asked herself, and unable to find an answer to the question, she put it aside, it seeming to her that all search for reasons might check the joy rising, bubbling, effervescing in her heart. Why ask myself questions, for am I not going to Barbizon to get away from questions, from ideas? But what is Barbizon but painting, tones, relations, composition? And stopping in her picking and choosing of hats and gowns, she fell to thinking that she would like to escape into some other world in which there were no pictures, or only good ones, it being against the law to paint bad ones, and as nobody could paint good ones any longer men and women would be devoted to other things. But to what? She did not know, nor care, for she was going to Barbizon, to a life in which there would be no painting, at least none for her. Again the prospect of an escape from Paris into the open air possessed her, and she said: Though they are painters in Barbizon, they are but landscape painters. Barbizon is without studios; the forest is the studio. And her face darkening quickly, she added: — And there is no Davau. A moment after her eyes returned to Elsie’s letter, and she read that she was not to go to Fontainebleau, but to Melun, where she would find an omnibus waiting that would take her to Barbizon; or, if she did not mind the expense, she could take a fly, which would be pleasanter and quicker. But be sure not to miss the five o’clock express, the letter said, and she felt that Elsie’s letter had restored her to health and strength. Soon after she was out of the house in the street, making purchases, returning with them, enjoying every minute: the packing of her clothes, the drive through Paris to the Gare de Lyons, the train journey, and the long plains that Millet had painted.
VIII
So a formal avenue of trees leads out of the town of Melun, she said, and the plain is girdled with a dark green belt of distant forest. At the cross roads she noticed a still more formal avenue, trees planted in a single line, curving like a regiment of soldiers marching across a plain that seemed to be incompletely cleared of forest. She missed the familiar hedgerows which make England like a garden, and when the carriage entered, half an hour later, a gaunt, white village, Etta was glad to learn that it was not Barbizon. The driver mentioned the name, but she did not catch it, for she was thinking of certain Surrey villages where honeysuckle, wistaria or clematis, clamber about the porches, and sunflowers raise gaudy heads over pretty palings. Barbizon, she learnt from a somewhat persistent driver, 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 violently that she was nearly thrown into the roadway and had to call to the driver to go slower; but he smiled, just as if he had not understood her, and pointing with his whip, said that the hotel 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 Etta saw a small house at the bottom of a garden, where a numerous company was dining beneath the branches of a cedar. Elsie and Cissy ran to meet their friend; and all through dinner her impression was of English girls dressed in cheap linen dresses and men in rough suits and flowing neck-ties. She was given some soup, and when the plate of veal was handed round and Elsie and Cissy had exhausted their first store of questions, she was introduced to Morton Mitchell, who leaned back in his chair till he broke it. Another was given to him, and Etta liked his brusque, but withal well-bred manner, and was sorry to leave the table when dinner was over, but could not do else than follow Elsie and Cissy, who wanted to talk to her. And the three marched across the grass plot, their arms about each other’s waists, and whilst questioning Etta about herself and telling her about themselves, they frequently looked where their lovers sat smoking, Etta’s attention drawn to a girl who hung over Morton, desirous that he should listen only to her. Elsie and Cissy whispered Rose Turner’s story, and Etta thought: What a fool....
And when the attractions of mazagans and les petits verres were over and the young men joined the ladies, Cissy and Elsie forgot Etta, who had turned into the house to view, so she said, the walls painted with landscapes, still life, nude figures, rustic and elegiac subjects; and she remained looking at the pictures in the hope that Morton Mitchell would catch her admiring his. But he did not return, and she was beginning to wonder if he were still listening to Rose Turner, when she heard somebody say: — Do you like being alone? I am used to being alone, she answered, with a smile of welcome, for she recognised the voice as Morton’s.
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’s very kind of you, but — It was on Etta’s tongue to ask him what he had done with Rose Turner, but she said instead: Where does your solitude hang out?
Chiefly in the forest.
I don’t know where the others have gone.
We shall find them 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, he said; and answering his questions, Etta followed Morton through great rocks filled with weird shadows, to where pines stood round the hill-top, with a round, yellow moon looking through them. Does it shock you, she asked, that I should prefer to work from the naked model among men?
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 Etta said: How wonderful it is here! One hears the silence; it enters into one’s very bones. It is a pity one cannot paint silence.
Millet painted silence. The Angelus 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 me if I believed in Davau’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. Davau’s is a curse. It is the sterilisation of art. You must give up Davau’s and come to 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 have 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.
&
nbsp; You’re young, you are beautiful —
No, I’m not beautiful, but there are times when I look nice 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. I never saw anything like this before, Etta continued. This is primeval. I used to walk a good deal with a friend of mine in St. James’s Park.
The park where the ducks are and a little bridge. Your friend was not an artist?
Oh 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 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! said Etta. Yes; we are going to dance. Rose will play when Etta is dancing, and when Rose is dancing Etta will play. Nobody can play waltzes better than Etta. Strauss himself would listen to her playing of the Blue Danube. I’m not so sure of that, Etta answered, but I’ll do my best to help Rose to whirl away her evening, and she’ll do her best to help me to whirl away mine. And the evening whirled through music and moonlight till the painters began to think of the motives that awaited them in the morning.
IX
Etta was the first down. She wore a pretty, flowered dress, and her straw hat was trimmed with tremulous grasses and cornflowers. A faint sunshine floated in the wet garden. Well, you have got yourself up! cried Elsie. 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, Elsie. 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 tartly. You know, Etta, I don’t believe all you say, not quite all. An almost triumphant expression came upon Etta’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.
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. But we all are. The art to which we give ourselves deceives us as you deceive your lovers.
But, Elsie, you haven’t been deceived. You had a picture in the Salon, and Cissy had one too.
That doesn’t mean much.
But do you think that I shall ever do as much?
Elsie did not think so, and the doubt caused her to hesitate. Etta 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. I’m not very strong, and the long hours in the studio wear me out. 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 Mérac, the actress of the Français, and it is said that she could only play Phèdre 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.
Morton was talking to Rose, but Etta 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 if you’re not painting with Miss Lawrence and Miss Clive you might come with me. And you’d better take your painting materials! you’ll find the time hang heavily if you don’t.
The very thought of painting bores me.
Well, then, if you’re ready we might make a start; mine is a midday effect. I hope you’re a good walker. But you’ll never be able to get along in those shoes, and the dress you’ve on is no dress for the forest. You’re dressed as for a garden-party.
It is only a little flowered muslin, 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 local cobbler and get you measured. I never saw such feet!
He was oddly matter of fact, and his almost childishness amused and interested Etta. 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 on my luck lately.
Which of the women here has the most talent?
Perhaps Miss Lawrence. 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.
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 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 stare made her laugh and it made her like him. I wonder if I am selfish, Etta continued 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!
You’re not going to ask me to climb those rocks! said Etta. Mile after mile of rocks! What a scene, like a landscape by Salvator Rosa.
Climb that hill? You couldn’t! I’ll wait until our cobbler has made you a pair of boots. Bah! Isn’t that desolate region of blasted oaks and sundered rocks wonderful? And they had walked but a very little way when he stopped and said: Don’t you call that beautiful? And leaning against the same tree, Morton and Etta looked into the summer wood, where the trunks of the young elms rose straight, and through the pale leafage the sunlight quivered, full of the impulse of the morning. Something ran through the grass, paused, and then ran again.
What is that? Etta asked.
A squirrel, I think. Yes; he’s going up that tree.
How pretty he is, his paws set against the bark.
Come this way and we shall see him better. But they caught no further sight of the squirrel, and Morton asked Etta the time. A quarter-past ten, she said, glancing at the tiny watch that she wore in a bracelet. Then we must be moving on, he answered. I ought to be at work by half-past. One can’t work more than a couple of hours in this light. Etta opened her parasol, and they passed out of the wood and crossed an open space where rough grass grew in patches. You asked me just now if I ever went to England, she said, and that’s my difficulty. So long as I was painting, there was a reason for my remaining in France, but now that I’ve given it up —
But you’ve not given it up!
Yes, I have; and if I don’t find something else to do, I suppose I must go back. That’s what I dread. We live in Sutton. But that conveys no idea to you
r mind. Sutton is a little town in Surrey. It was very nice once, but now it is little better than a London suburb. My brother is a distiller. He goes to town every day by the nine o’clock, and he returns by the six o’clock. I’ve heard of nothing but those two trains all my life. We have many acres of ground — gardens, greenhouses, and a number of servants. Then there’s the cart — I go out for drives in the cart. We have tennis parties — the neighbours, you know. And I shall have to choose whether I look after my brother’s house, or marry and look after my husband’s.
It must be very lonely in Sutton.
Yes, it is very lonely. There are a number of people about, but I’ve no friends I care for.
A moment after they passed out of the sunlight into the green shade of some beech trees. Etta closed her parasol, and swaying it to and fro amid the ferns she continued telling in a low, laughing voice of a friend of hers who read Comte, and the influence that this lady had exercised upon her. Her words floated along in a current of quiet humour, cadenced by the gentle swaying of her parasol and brought into relief by a certain intentness of manner which was peculiar to her, and which was not without charm for Morton, who became more and more conscious of her. The charm of her voice stole upon him, and once he lingered, allowing her to get a few yards in front, so that he might notice the quiet figure, a little demure and intensely itself in a yellow gown. When he first saw her, she had seemed to him a little sedate, even a little dowdy; he had feared a bore, but this she at least was not, and her determination to paint no more announced an excellent sense of the realities of things in which the other women — the Elsies and the Cissys — seemed to Rim deficient. Here is my subject, he said, and when he had set up his easel, he spread the rug for her in a shady place. But for the present she preferred to stand behind him, her parasol slanted slightly, talking, he thought very well, of the art of the great men who had made Barbizon remembering He was sorry when she said the sun was getting too hot for her, and she went and lay on the he had spread for her in the shade of the oak. She had brought a book to read, but she only read a line here and there. Her thoughts wandered from the page to the man sitting easily on his camp-stool, his long legs wide apart. His small head, his big hat, the line of his bent back, amused and interested her; she liked his abrupt speech, and wondered if she could love him. A couple of peasant women came by, bent under the weight of the faggots they had picked, and Etta could see that Morton was watching the movements of these women, and she thought how well they would come into the picture he was painting. Soon after he rose from his easel and walked towards her. Have you finished? she asked.
