Part 8 (2/2)
The other, a pale and perky youth, sniffed. His name was Higgins. ”Good Lord! What do you mean?”
”I'm a model in the life cla.s.s of the Royal Academy School,” said Paul, proudly.
”You stand up naked in front of all kinds of people for them to paint you?”
”Of course,” said Paul.
”How beastly!” said Higgins.
”What do you mean?”
”Just that,” said Higgins. ”It's beastly!”
A minute or two afterward he jumped on a pa.s.sing omnibus, and thenceforward avoided Paul at the Polytechnic Inst.i.tute.
This uncompromising p.r.o.nouncement on the part of Higgins was a shock; but together with other incidents, chiefly psychological, vague, intangible phenomena of his spiritual development, it showed Paul the possibility of another point of view. He took stock of himself. From the picturesque boy he had grown into the physically perfect man. As a model he was no longer sought after for subject pieces. He was in clamorous demand at Life Schools, where he drew a higher rate of pay, but where he was as impersonal to the intently working students as the cast of the Greek torso which other students were copying in the next room. The intimacy of the studio, the warmth and the colour and the meretricious luxury were gone from his life. On the other hand he was making money. He had fifty pounds in the Savings Bank, the maximum of petty thrift which an incomprehensive British Government encourages, and a fair, though unknown, sum in an iron money-box hidden behind his washstand. Up to now he had had no time to learn how to spend money.
When he took to smoking cigarettes, which he had done quite recently, he regarded himself as a man.
Higgins's ”How beastly!” rang in his head. Although he could not quite understand the full meaning of the brutal judgment, it brought him disquiet and discontent. For one thing, like the high-road, his profession led nowhither. The thrill of adventure had gone from it. It was static, and Paul's temperament was dynamic. He had also lost his boyish sense of importance, of being the central figure in the little stage. Disillusion began to creep over him. Would he do nothing else but this all his life? Old Erricone, the patriarchal, white-bearded Italian, the doyen of the models of London, came before his mind, a senile posturer, mumbling dreary tales of his inglorious achievements: how he was the Roman Emperor in this picture and Father Abraham in the other; how painters could not get on without him; how once he had been summoned from Rome to London; how Rossetti had shaken hands with him.
Paul s.h.i.+vered at the thought of himself as the Erricone of a future generation.
The next day was Sat.u.r.day, and he had no sitting. The morning he spent in his small bedroom in the soothing throes of literary composition.
Some time ago he had thought it would be a mighty fine thing to be a poet, and had tried his hand at verse. Finding he possessed some facility, he decided that he was a poet, and at once started an epic poem in rhyme on the Life of Nelson, the material being supplied by Southey. This morning he did the Battle of the Baltic.
He put the gla.s.s to his blind eye, And said ”No signals do I spy,”
wrote Paul. Poetry taken at the gallop like this was a very simple affair, and Paul covered an amazing amount of ground.
In the afternoon he walked abroad with Jane, who, having lengthened her skirts and put up her hair, was now a young woman looking older than her years. She too had developed. Her lank figure had rounded into pretty curves. Her sharp little c.o.c.kney face had filled out. She had a pleasant smile and a capable brow, and, correcting a tendency to fluffiness of hair of which she disapproved, and dressing herself neatly, made herself by no means unattractive. Constant a.s.sociation with Paul had fired her ambitions. Like him, she might have a destiny, though not such a majestic one, Accordingly she had studied stenography and typewriting, with a view to earning her livelihood away from the little shop, which did not offer the prospect of a dazzling career. At the back of her girlish mind was the desire to keep pace with Paul in his upward flight, so that he should not be ashamed of her when he sat upon the clouds in glory. In awful secrecy she practised the social accomplishments which Paul brought home. She loved her Sat.u.r.day and Sunday excursions with Paul--of late they had gone far afield: the Tower, Greenwich, Richmond--exploring London and making splendid discoveries such as Westminster Abbey and a fourpenny tea garden at Putney. She scarcely knew whether she cared for these things for themselves; but she saw them through Paul coloured by his vivid personality. Once on Chelsea Bridge he had pointed out a peculiarly ugly stretch of low-tide mud, and said: ”Look at that.” She, by unprecedented chance, mistaking his tone, had replied: ”How lovely!”
And she had thought it lovely, until his stare of rebuke and wonderment brought disillusion and spurting tears, which for the life of him he could not understand. It is very foolish, and often suicidal, of men to correct women for going into rapture over mud flats. On that occasion, however, the only resultant harm was the conviction in the girl's heart that the presence of Paul turned mud flats into beds of asphodel. Then, just as she saw outer things through his eyes, she felt herself regarded by outer eyes through him. His rare and absurd beauty made him a cynosure whithersoever he went. London, vast and seething, could produce no such perfect Apollo. When she caught the admiring glances of others of her s.e.x, little Jane drew herself up proudly and threw back insolent glances of triumph. ”You would like to be where I am, wouldn't you?” the glance would say, with the words almost formulated in her mind. ”But you won't. You never will be. I've got him. He's walking out with me and not with you. I like to see you squirm, you envious little cat.” Jane was not a princess, she was merely a child of the people; but I am willing to eat my boots if it can be satisfactorily proved that there is a princess living on the face of the earth who would not be delighted at seeing another woman cast covetous eyes on the man she loved, and would not call her a cat (or its h.o.m.onym) for doing so.
On this mild March afternoon Paul and Jane walked in the Euston Road, he in a loose blue serge suit, floppy black tie, low collar and black soft felt hat (this was in the last century, please remember--epoch almost romantic, so fast does time fly), she in neat black braided jacket and sailor hat. They looked pathetically young.
”Where shall we go?” asked Jane.
Paul, in no mood for high adventure, suggested Regent's Park. ”At least we can breathe there,” said he.
Jane sniffed up the fresh spring air, unconscious of the London taint, and laughed. ”Why, what's the matter with the Euston Road?”
”It's vulgar,” said Paul. ”In the Park the hyacinths and the daffodils will be out.”
What he meant he scarcely knew. When one is very young and out of tune with life, one is apt to speak discordantly.
They mounted a westward omnibus. Paul lit a cigarette and smoked almost in silence until they alighted by the Park gates. As they entered, he turned to her suddenly. ”Look here, Jane, I want to ask you something.
The other night I told a man I was an artist's model, and he said 'How beastly!' and turned away as if I wasn't fit for him to a.s.sociate with.
What was he driving at?”
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