by A. J. Cronin
It was now past two, but without thought of food he selected four of his paintings and hurried along to the quais to Napoleon Campo’s shop. The colourman was seated on his customary box behind the counter, his short legs dangling, wearing a blue pilot coat and yellow knitted cap, his chapped ears protruding, purple cheeks unshaven, hands folded across his stomach. He greeted Stephen amiably, as though he had seen him only the day before.
‘Well, Monsieur l’Abbé, what can I do for you?’
‘First of all, let me settle what I owe you.’
‘Good. You are an honest man.’ He took the fifty francs Stephen gave him and slid them into an old leather purse.
‘And now, Monsieur Campo, I want a specially large canvas, two hundred centimetres by eighty.’
‘Ha! So a great work is in prospect? Of course you can pay?’
‘Not money, Monsieur Campo. These.’
‘Are you crazy, Abbé? My God, my cellar is stuffed with paintings, rubbish unfit even for the dustbin, that I took through the softness of my heart.’
‘Not all rubbish, Campo. You took paintings from Pissaro, and Boudin, and Degas.’
‘Are you a Degas, my little Abbeé?’
‘One day, perhaps.’
‘Mon dieu, it is always the same fairy-tale. So your specially large canvas is to hang in the Salon, with crowds gathered before it. You are to have fame and fortune overnight. Bah!’
‘Then take twenty francs down and these paintings as a pledge against the balance.’
Napoleon’s pinpoint blue eyes searched the pale, serious face before him. So many, many faces had passed through his store in the past thirty years they swamped his recollection. He was a phlegmatic man, not easily moved, and age had rendered him more stolid. But occasionally, though rarely, there had been in the manner and appearance of some needy aspirant, as there was now in the features of this curious little Englishman, a quality of intensity which impressed him. He hesitated, then got off his stool and, grumbling, began to rummage in his shelves. When the canvas that Stephen wanted – a fine linen of close grain – lay upon the counter there was a pause.
‘Twenty francs, you said.’
‘Yes, Monsieur Campo.’ Stephen counted out the coins.
Napoleon Campo took snuff, meditatively dusting his fleshy nose with the cuff of his pilot coat.
‘And now, naturally, you will starve.’
‘Oh, not quite. Anyhow, now I have this canvas I don’t care.’
Another pause. Suddenly Campo pushed the coins back across the counter.
‘Return these to your offertory box, Abbé. And give me your wretched daubs.’
Surprised, Stephen handed over his paintings. Without even a cursory glance Napoleon thrust them under the counter.
‘But … don’t you want to look at them? … They are … the best I’ve done.’
‘I am not a judge of paintings but of people,’ Campo retorted gruffly. ‘Good day, Monsieur. And good fortune.’
Stephen got back to his room with the canvas at three o’clock, and without delay immediately set off for the bicycle shop in the Rue de Bièvre. So far things had gone well, but as he drew near the Berthelot establishment he felt nervous and unsure of himself, yet filled with a quick anticipation that made his heart beat fast. Often during the past months he had thought of Emmy, the recollection of those moments in the darkness of the narrow passage had come to him from time to time without warning, yet with a queer inconsistency.
He found her in the yard behind the workshop, bent over a nickel-plated, reinforced bicycle enamelled in red and gold. It gave him a warm feeling inside to see her again. She looked up as he appeared, accepted his greeting without surprise, then, went on oiling the hub bearings. His pulse was still absurdly uneven, yet from their expeditions together he knew her well enough to damp down all evidence of emotion.
‘That’s a nice-looking machine,’ he said after a few moments.
‘It’s mine. I shall be using it soon.’ She straightened, thrust back a lock of hair. ‘So you’re in town again.’
‘Since this morning.’
‘Want to hire a wheel?’
He shook his head.
‘I’ve more important things on hand.’
There was a pause. She had always been mildly curious about him and now, as he had intended, her interest was aroused.
‘What are you up to?’
He took a quick breath.
‘Have you heard of the Prix de Luxembourg, Emmy? It’s a competition open to all artists who’ve never been in the Salon. I mean to have a shot at it.’ Then, as she turned away indifferently, he added, ‘That’s why I came round. I want you to sit for me.’
‘You mean …’ arrested, she stared at him, her expression altered … ‘ do my picture?’
‘That’s it.’ He made his tone casual. ‘You’ve never been painted, have you?’
‘No. Though I ought to have been, long ago, considering who I am.’
‘Well, now’s your chance. It might do you a bit of good. All the best entries will be exhibited at the Orangery. You’d be sure to be recognised.’
He could see that her vanity was flattered, but she hesitated, looking him up and down as though estimating his capabilities.
‘You can paint, can’t you? I mean, you could do a good likeness?’
‘You may depend on me. I’ll put everything I’ve got into it.’
‘Yes, I suppose you would, for your own sake.’ A thought struck her. ‘But I’m going on tour next month.’
‘That’s time enough. If you come every day for three weeks, I can work on the detail after you’ve gone.’
Again he could see her mentally debating the possibilities.
‘Well,’ she said at last, in her ungracious style, ‘I don’t mind. I don’t suppose I can lose.’
He suppressed an exclamation of satisfaction and relief – not only had he wanted to paint her from the beginning, she would be perfect for the subject which in these last few hours had taken command of him. Quickly, he gave her his new address, asked her to be there at ten tomorrow, wearing her black sweater and pleated skirt, then before she could change her mind, he took his leave.
Tramping back along the boulevard, he felt excited at what he had accomplished that day. Only then did he realise that he had not eaten since he shared a sandwich with the driver of the camion on the previous evening. Hunger struck him like a blow. He dived into an épicerie, bought a long loaf and a tranche of sausage. He could not be still. Strolling through the darkening street past the Jardin des Plantes, he bit alternately the crisp bread and the succulent pâté encased in its soft white coat of lard. How good it tasted. He felt happy, free, and strangely exalted.
Chapter Six
On the next day he was ready and waiting impatiently, his canvas set up, when she arrived some twenty minutes late.
‘There you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were never coming.’
She did not answer but, from the doorway, gazed round the wretched little room with its bare boards, broken cane chair and sagging truckle bed. Finally she looked at him, cruelly.
‘You’re broke, aren’t you?’
‘Practically.’
‘You have a nerve. Getting me up to a trou like this. Not even a place to hang my things.’
He had reddened, but he forced a smile.
‘I admit it isn’t the Elysée, but it’s not a bad place to paint in. Just give me a chance and I promise you won’t regret it.’
Her lips drew down in a kind of grimace, but with a shrug she came in, permitted him to take her coat and to pose her by the window.
The light was good and, filled with a sudden surge of power, he began to outline the conception which now obsessed him. As the rules of the competition demanded a ‘classical’ painting, his theme was to be allegorical, though modern in composition, the subject: Circe and Her Lovers. Could it be that his absurd adventure with Madame Cruchot, working deep in his subconscious m
ind, had ignited a spark which flamed to this strange vision? Symbols and images filled the screen of his sight, captivating his senses. In his imagination pleasure fought with virtue, and lust stood revealed in the shape of prowling beasts. All as yet was a mirage; nevertheless, within the intimate and mysterious recesses of his soul, he felt the power to make his dream exist.
Although he could have gone on all day, warned by her expression he did not dare to keep her long, and towards noon suggested that she might have had enough for that day. Immediately, she crossed the room and examined the canvas, where already, using charcoal, he had made a preliminary sketch of her, full length and fairly complete. Her frown lifted, the sulky look left her face as she saw herself occupying the centre of the canvas, legs apart, hands planted on her hips, an attitude which was all her own. She said nothing as she allowed him to help her on with her coat, but at the door she turned and nodded.
‘Same time tomorrow.’
During the afternoon, while the light lasted, he worked on the background. And on the next day, and the days which followed, he went on, not always in an elevated mood, but with a purpose which carried him through momentary despondency to fresh intoxications. At the same time, as the sittings progressed and he was brought more closely in contact with Emmy, he could no longer blind himself to the deepening of his feeling for her. Every day after the sitting was over he found himself missing her, more and more. In the absence of Peyrat and Glyn, he was lonely. But did this explain his constant desire for her companionship? Angry at his weakness, he reminded himself of how much he had disliked her at their first meeting, of how so often she still irritated him by her rudeness and lack of consideration. When she was in an ill humour and he tried to talk to her, her responses came in monosyllables, and when he told her she might rest she would often ignore him, sprawl on her stomach on the bed, light a Caporal and immerse herself in a crumpled sports magazine. He realised that it was not regard for him but vanity alone which brought her regularly to his room. A dozen times a day she would take stock of the progress of the work, and while never praising it would congratulate herself:
‘I’m coming out well, amn’t I?’
The legend from the Odyssey, of the daughter of Helios and the ocean nymph Perse, which he explained to her, tickled her fancy. The idea that she should possess the power to change human beings into the forms of animals brought out her smile.
‘That’a teach them, for trying it on.’
The vulgarity made him wince. And yet it was no deterrent. What was it about her that provoked this pressing interest? He tried to analyse it. What did he really know of her? Little enough, except that she was common, cheap and tough – a little nonentity, unintelligent, without imagination, completely callous. She knew nothing of art, had no interest in his work, and when he spoke of it was bored. But her figure was exquisite – was he not reproducing every subtle line of her strong slender limbs, flat stomach and firm breasts? – and above all, she was small. While he could admire on canvas the voluptuous flesh of Ruben’s women, his taste had always been for a less rounded perfection. And she had that physical neatness, a figure which he compared always to that of Goya’s La Maja. Yet no one could call her beautiful. She had a gamin prettiness, but her lips were thin, her nostrils a trifle pinched, and her expression, when not alert and watchful, was almost sullen. Strangely, all her imperfections were apparent to him. Yet they made not the slightest difference to this strange emotion that, despite all his efforts to suppress it, grew within him.
He longed to be with her and felt restless and miserable when she had gone. Inordinately affected by her variable moods, he responded to them in a manner that made him despise himself. On the rare occasions when she was agreeable his heart lifted. Sometimes, in this talkative humour, she would question him on that subject which of all others connected with himself, alone seemed to interest her.
‘It is true that your parents have a grande propriété in Su-ssex, with many acres of good land?’
‘Not so many.’ He smiled. ‘If Glyn told you that he was exaggerating.’
‘And you were to be a little priest… until they sent you from the seminary.’
‘You know I left of my own accord.’
‘In order to live in a room such as this?’ She spoke unbelievingly.
‘I quite like the room – when you’re in it.’
She shrugged, but without contempt – flattery always gratified her. This affability, while it afforded him no respite, was in pleasant contrast to the mortifying indifference with which she usually met his attempts to please her. And while she posed, indolent as a cat, he began to tell her, not ceasing to paint, stories of Stillwater which he felt might entertain and amuse her. When he finally ran dry she reflected for a few moments, then declared:
‘Of course I have lived with, or rather,’ she corrected herself, ‘amongst artists all my life. I am myself an artiste. I understand some giving up all for art when their all amounts to nothing. But you are in a different category. And to give up your bonne propriété, which you could inherit…’ she paused and shrugged … ‘it was imbécile.’
‘Not altogether,’ he smiled, ‘ since otherwise I should not have met you.’ A sudden surge of longing overcame him. He paused, dared not to look at her. ‘Don’t you realise, Emmy… I’ve grown terribly fond of you?’
She laughed shortly and raised a warning finger.
‘None of that, Abbé. It’s not in our arrangement.’
Defeated, he resumed work. And all that evening he felt the sting of the rebuff. If only he might take her out in the evening – she was fond of entertainment of the raffish variety – he felt that he might win her favour. But his lack of means precluded it. He was living on little more than half a franc a day, subsisting on a roll or an apple until six-o’clock, then taking his solitary meal at the cheapest café in the district.
One afternoon, when her sittings were nearly at an end, she was later than usual. On her arrival she seemed in excellent spirits. She was wearing a new yellow fichu with a short red Zouave jacket trimmed with braid, and her hair had been freshly washed.
‘You’re looking extremely nice,’ he said. ‘And I’d almost given you up.’
‘I had an appointment with Peroz. His office is quite far… in the Boulevard Jules Ferry. But I got the contract I wanted.’
‘That’s good.’ He smiled, although mention of her departure depressed him. ‘When do you leave?’
‘The fourteenth of October. It’s put back two weeks.’
‘I shall miss you, Emmy.’ He leaned towards her. ‘More than you think.’
She laughed again and he noticed that her teeth were sharp and regular, with definite spaces in between. Then, with vivacity, emphasising her remarks, she began to describe how she had got the better of Peroz in arranging the terms of their agreement.
‘They say he’s good-hearted,’ she concluded. ‘I think he’s just a gobeur … a soft touch.’
Knowing that his conversation usually bored her, he encouraged her to go on talking about herself. Then, as the light failed, he put down his brushes.
‘Let me walk back with you,’ he said. ‘ It’s a lovely evening.’
‘Well,’ she shrugged. ‘If you like.’
When she had put on her things they went downstairs and presently came out to the Boulevard Gavranche, where a warm darkness cast a halo around the street lamps, investing the muted city with a mysterious beauty. Couples were moving slowly, arm in arm, along the quiet pavements – the night seemed made for lovers. In a side street near the river they passed a café where, to the music of an accordion, people were dancing in a little arbour, under Chinese lanterns hung from the branches of plane trees. The scene was full of light and gaiety, and he could feel her glancing towards him inquiringly.
‘Don’t you like to dance?’
With a slow flush of embarrassment, conscious of his ineptitude, he shook his head.
‘I shouldn’t be much good in th
ere.’
It was true. She gave her familiar shrug.
‘You’re not good at much, are you?’ she said.
They reached the cobbled shadows of the quais. The Seine flowed without sound, a smooth green tide, beneath the low span of the Pont de l’Alma. As though bored by his silence, walking a little in advance, she had begun to hum the tune played by the accordion at the cabaret.
‘Wait, Emmy.’ He drew up in the shelter of an archway. She looked at him sideways, over her shoulder.
‘What’s on your mind, Abbé?’
‘Can’t you see … how much you mean to me?’
He put his arms round her and held her close. For a few moments, unresponsive as a lamp post, she permitted him to embrace her, then, with an abrupt movement of impatience, she pushed him away.
‘You don’t know the first thing about it.’ There was contempt in her voice.
Hurt and humiliated, weak with frustrated emotion, feeling the truth of her remark, he followed her towards the street. They walked towards the Rue de Bièvre. Outside the bicycle shop she glanced at him as though nothing had happened.
‘Shall I come once more tomorrow?’
‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘It won’t be necessary.’
He turned away, furious with her and disgusted with himself.
‘Don’t forget,’ she called after him, ‘I want to see it when it’s done.’
He hated her for her hardness, her lack of common decency – she had not even pitied him. He told himself he would never see her again.
Next morning, when he awoke after a restless night, he threw himself passionately into the completion of the picture. So far, only the central figure had taken form, there was still the theme to be developed. The weather had turned wet and dismal, the light was poor, his makeshift studio swept by draughts, but no difficulty seemed too great for him to overcome. In his search for realism, he went every forenoon to make studies at the Zoological Gardens; then, returning to his room, he transferred to the abject creatures upon the canvas something of his own sadness and subjection. At the end of that week his money ran out – searching for a coin to buy his daily petit pain, he could not find a single sou. Undeterred, he continued to paint all that day with a kind of fury, in bitter protest against the difficulties that hampered him.
