by George Moore
The sentence was left unfinished, and both women fell to thinking of the pleasant stories that Davau told of the day when he was a shepherd boy and afterwards a great wrestler in the South. In wrestling he and his cousin overthrew all competitors, and when he was not wrestling he was drawing. And by spending the money he gained in the circus, he had educated himself enough to come to Paris and to make a success in the Salon des Refusés. Alfred de Musset’s poem supplied him with a subject — the moment when Rolla leaves his mistress’s bed to shoot himself, having spent his last louis on the supper they had enjoyed before returning home, the girl innocent of her lover’s intention to take his life at daybreak. Davau’s picture represented Rolla at the window pointing to the sunrise. His mistress still slept, and it was the girl’s carefully painted petticoat, thrown over a chair, that caused the scandal and the success. Davau told Etta and Ethel how a critic had said, que Rolla montrait le soleil pendant qu’elle montrait la lune; and to explain what he meant he asked for a piece of paper and made a sketch of his picture, making them both laugh. Bub a success like Davau’s Rolla does not give a painter an income, and Davau, reduced like Rolla to his last hundred francs, bethought himself of an exhibition of wrestling. A circus was built on a waste plot in the centre of the town, and all the friends of Davau’s youth came to Paris to initiate the Parisians in la lutte Romaine. Coeur de Lion and Bras de Fer were minor attractions, Davau relying on L’Homme Masqué to fill his booth. He entered to wrestle with the victor in all the contests and had never been overthrown, and it became the brag of Paris to discover his name. His cabriolet was overtaken miles away in the country, but there was nobody in it; and attempts were made to bribe the wrestlers to drag the mask from his face, but the heralds intervened. And then it began to be noticed, Davau said, that I disappeared from the auditorium when L’Homme Masqué was in the arena, and to show that I was not L’Homme Masqué I took a seat in full view of the public; and on that very night it so happened that L’Homme Masqué only just escaped defeat. The man who was nearly overthrown was your cousin, Etta interjected. You were L’Homme Masqué in turns. Davau did not answer, and he entertained the ladies in the rue Hauteville till nearly midnight with tales of Coeur de Lion, Bras de Fer, and Poitrine de Taureau.
Etta was not satisfied with Davau’s visits to the rue Hauteville; she wished to show in the studio that she held him in tether, and her attempts to exhibit her power were her undoing. From the very first day that she ran across the studio and took him by the sleeve, saying: Now you must come and look at my drawing, the crafty Southerner determined to put her aside. Her invitations to dinner were refused; he never accompanied her again to the theatre; he was polite, but distant always, and Etta confessed her perplexities to Ethel, who could not dissuade her. The difficulty and danger of this wooing whetted her appetite for victory, and she might have pursued her quest with ridiculous attentions if it had not been dropped in conversation with some of the other women in the studio during the lunch hour that Mile. Berge was Davau’s mistress.
At first Etta could not believe that she had been deceived, but once put on the track of the truth, she remembered a hundred things that had passed unnoticed at the time, words and incidents. And these rousing in her a passion of hatred, she began to vent her hatred of Mlle. Berge, making insulting remarks in her hearing and relating conversations she had had with Mlle. Berge, who had been foolish enough once to tell her that she had prettier thighs than, any of the models. An excellent subject for caricature this was, which Etta availed herself of, sketching upon Mile. Berge’s drawings. Her hatred of Davau was as unmeasured; she told stories about him, relating that she had been obliged to refuse to see him in the rue Hauteville, that he used to dine with them there, but his conduct was so extraordinary one night that she could not receive him any more. Davau heard all these stories without making any protest, and Etta rejoiced, unsuspicious that when she came to renew her subscription to the studio, he would tell her that he was sorry but he could not accept it, for he wished to reduce the number of lady pupils.
VII
Expulsion from the studio made shipwreck of her life in Paris; she took lessons in French, began a novel, and paid many visits to the Louvre in search of a picture that would interest her to copy, and meeting there a student from Davau’s she learnt from him that a subscription was being promoted by the pupils to present Davau with a testimonial. A subscription entitled a subscriber to a place at the banquet, and at the banquet Davau could not do else than say to Etta: I think this is an occasion on which old differences should be forgotten. If you care to return to my studio, you will find it open to you. And to show that he wished to let bygones be bygones, he often came to help her with her drawing, whereat she rejoiced, thinking that during Mile. Berge’s absence, she would be able to turn defeat into victory. But why had Mlle. Berge left the studio? A very bitter hatred rose up in her heart when she learnt that Davau was living in a handsome flat with Mlle. Berge, his mistress and helpmate, whom he was soon to wed. Harsh words rose up in Etta’s mind, but remembering the price her former indiscretions had cost her she began a letter of congratulation, and would have written it probably if Ethel Brand’s mother had not come to Paris to fetch her daughter home.
Ethel had fallen out of health, and her departure gave Etta an excuse for leaving the flat in the rue Hauteville. She could say that it was too large, too expensive, and too lonely. She hated the flat, for it was associated in her mind with Davau, and to forget him she went to live in a boarding-house on the other side of the water, where Cissy was staying. But at the end of the first quarter Etta thought the neighbourhood did not suit her, and she wandered from boarding-house to boarding-house, from hotel to hotel, to take at last another flat, one in which there was a studio, and to spend a good deal of money on models, frames, and costumes. But nothing she did satisfied her, and convinced that she must improve her drawing she joined a drawing-class — one run on the same lines as the studio in the Passage des Panoramas, and for three months she bore the strain of the long working hours, till one morning, near the middle of the fourth month, she paused in her dressing and sank into a chair, unable to summon enough strength to draw on her stockings. In this hour of mental and physical weakness life seemed hopeless. She did not doubt her own genius, but she could not do else than doubt her own strength. There it was. She was without strength to rise at seven in the morning, to arrive at the studio at eight and to draw there till five, like Doucet, and after all, hundreds had drawn better than Doucet. With Doucet’s skill, she thought she could do something better than Doucet. But there, she had neither his skill nor his strength, not even strength to pull on her stockings, only just enough to pull them off and roll herself into bed again and rest, which she did, lying between sleeping and waking till the maid knocked at her door and handed her a letter from Elsie.
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 must stop in her packing and ask herself if it were true that she had been pursuing things long after they had ceased to i
nterest 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 neckties. 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.
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.