He shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of
Verlaine in his hands, and he wandered off. He
tried to read, but his passion was too strong.
He thought of the stray amours to which he had been
introduced by Flanagan, the sly visits to houses in
a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room in Utrecht velvet,
and the mercenary graces of painted women. He
shuddered. He threw himself on the grass, stretching
his limbs like a young animal freshly awaked from
sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gently
tremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost
more than he could bear. He was in love with
love. In his fancy he felt the kiss of warm lips
on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands.
He imagined himself in the arms of Ruth Chalice, he
thought of her dark eyes and the wonderful texture
of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful
adventure slip through his fingers. And if Lawson
had done it why should not he? But this was only
when he did not see her, when he lay awake at night
or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw
her he felt suddenly quite different; he had no desire
to take her in his arms, and he could not imagine
himself kissing her. It was very curious.
Away from her he thought her beautiful, remembering
only her magnificent eyes and the creamy pallor of
her face; but when he was with her he saw only that
she was flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly
decayed; he could not forget the corns on her toes.
He could not understand himself. Would he always
love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying
anything when he had the chance by that deformity
of vision which seemed to exaggerate the revolting?
He was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing
the definite end of the long summer, drove them all
back to Paris.
XLVIII
When Philip returned to Amitrano’s he found
that Fanny Price was no longer working there.
She had given up the key of her locker. He asked
Mrs. Otter whether she knew what had become of her;
and Mrs. Otter, with a shrug of the shoulders, answered
that she had probably gone back to England. Philip
was relieved. He was profoundly bored by her ill-temper.
Moreover she insisted on advising him about his work,
looked upon it as a slight when he did not follow
her precepts, and would not understand that he felt
himself no longer the duffer he had been at first.
Soon he forgot all about her. He was working
in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. He
hoped to have something done of sufficient importance
to send to the following year’s Salon.
Lawson was painting a portrait of Miss Chalice.
She was very paintable, and all the young men who had
fallen victims to her charm had made portraits of
her. A natural indolence, joined with a passion
for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter;
and she had enough technical knowledge to offer useful
criticisms. Since her passion for art was chiefly
a passion to live the life of artists, she was quite
content to neglect her own work. She liked the
warmth of the studio, and the opportunity to smoke
innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a low, pleasant
voice of the love of art and the art of love.
She made no clear distinction between the two.
