Chapter 44
第四十四章
尽管如此，下星期日当普赖斯小姐主动表示要带他去参观卢佛尔宫时，菲利普还是欣然前往了。她领他去看《蒙娜丽莎》。菲利普望着那幅名画，心里隐隐感到失望。不过，他以前曾把沃尔特·佩特关于此画的评论念了又念，直至烂熟于心--一佩特的珠玑妙语，给这幅举世闻名的杰作平添了几分异彩--此刻，菲利普便把这段话背给普赖斯小姐听。
"那纯粹是文人的舞文弄墨，"她用略带几分鄙夷的口吻说，"千万别信那一套。"
她指给他看伦勃朗的名画，同时还对这些作品作了一番介绍，讲得倒也头头是道。她在《埃墨斯村的信徒》那幅画前面站定身子。
"如果你能领悟这幅杰作的妙处，那么你对绘画这一行也算摸着点门儿了。"
她让菲利普看了安格尔的《女奴》和《泉》。范妮·普赖斯是个专横的向导，由不得菲利普作主，爱看什么就看什么，而是硬要菲利普赞赏她所推崇的作品。她对学画极认真，很有一股子蛮劲。菲利普从长廊的窗口经过，见窗外的杜伊勒利宫绚丽、雅致，阳光明媚，宛如出自于拉斐尔之手的一幅风景画，情不自禁地喊道：
"嘿，太美啦！让咱们在这儿逗留一会儿吧。"然而，普赖斯却无动于衷，漠然地说："好吧，呆一会儿也无妨。不过别忘了咱们是来这儿看画的。"
秋风徐来，空气清新而爽神，菲利普颇觉心旷神怡。将近正午的时候，他俩伫立在卢佛尔宫宽敞的庭院里，菲利普真想学弗拉纳根的样，扯开喉咙大喊一声：让艺术见鬼去吧！
"我说啊，咱俩一块上米歇尔大街，找家馆子随便吃点什么，怎么样？"菲利普提议说。
普赖斯小姐向他投来怀疑的目光。
"我已在家里准备好了午饭，"她说。
"那也没关系，可以留着明天吃嘛。你就让我请你一回吧。"
"不知道你干吗要请我呢。"
"这会让我感到高兴，"他微笑着回答。
他们过了河，圣米歇尔大街的拐角处有家餐馆。
"我们进去吧。"
"不，我不进去，这家馆于太阔气了。"
她头也不回地径直朝前走，菲利普只好跟了上去。不多几步，又来到一家小餐馆跟前，那儿人行道的凉篷下面，已经有十来个客人在用餐。餐馆的橱窗上写着白色的醒目大字：Dejeuner 1.25，vin comprls.
"不可能吃到比这更便宜的中饭了，再说这地方看来也挺不错的。"
他们在一张空桌旁坐下，等侍者给他们送上煎蛋卷，那是菜单上的第一道菜。菲利普兴致勃勃地打量着过往行人，似乎被他们吸引住了。他虽有几分困倦，却有种说不出的快意。
"哎，瞧那个穿短外套的，真逗！"
他朝普赖斯小姐瞟了一眼，使他吃惊的是，他看到她根本不理会眼前的景象，而是盯着自己的菜盘子发愣，两颗沉甸甸的泪珠，正从脸颊上滚落下来。
"你这是怎么啦？"他惊呼道。
"别对我说什么，要不我这就起身走了，"她回答说。
这可把菲利普完全搞糊涂了。幸好这时候煎蛋卷送了上来。菲利普动手把它分成两半，一人一份吃了起来。菲利普尽量找些无关痛痒的话题来同他攀谈，而普赖斯小姐呢，似乎也在竭力约束自己，没耍性子。不过，这顿饭总叫人有点扫兴。菲利普本来就胃纳不佳，而普赖斯小姐吃东西的那号模样，更叫他倒足了胃口。她一边吃，一边不住发出啧啧之声，那狼吞虎咽的馋相，倒有点像动物园里的一头野兽。她每吃完一道菜，总用面包片拭菜盆子，直到把盆底拭得雪白铮亮才罢手，似乎连一小滴卤汁也舍不得让它留在上面。他们在吃卡门贝尔奶酪时，菲利普见她把自己那一份全吃了，连干酪皮也吞下了肚，不由得心生厌恶。哪怕是几天没吃到东西的饿鬼，也不见得会像她这么嘴馋。
普赖斯小姐性情乖张，喜怒无常，别看她今天分手时还是客客气气。的，说不定明天就会翻脸不认人，朝你横眉竖眼。但话得说回来，他毕竟从她那儿学到了不少东西。尽管她自己画得并不高明，但凡属可以口传。于授的知识，她多少都懂得一点，寸得有她不时在旁点拨，菲利普才在绘画方面有所长进。当然，奥特太太也给了他不少帮助，查利斯小姐有时也。指出他、品中的不足之处。另外，劳森滔若江河的高谈阔论，还有克拉顿一所提供的范本，也都使菲利普得益匪浅。然而，范妮·普赖斯小姐最恨他接受旁人的指点；每当菲利普同人交谈之后再去向她求教，总被她恶狠狠地拒之于门外。劳森、克拉顿、弗拉纳根等人常常借她来取笑菲利普。
"留神点，小伙子，"他们说，"她已经爱上你啦。"
"乱弹琴，"他哈哈大笑。
普赖斯小姐这样的人也会坠入情网，这念头简直荒谬透顶。菲利普只要一想到她那丑陋的长相，那头茅草似的乱发，那双邋遢的手，还有那一年到头常穿不换、又脏又破的棕色衣衫，就不由得浑身发凉：看来她手头很拮据。其实这儿又有谁手头宽的？她至少也该注意点边幅，保持整洁才是。就拿那条裙子来说，用针线缝补抬掇一下，总还是办得到的吧。
菲利普接触了不少人，他开始系统地归纳自己对周围人的印象。如今，他不再像旅居海德堡时那样少不更事（那一段岁月，在他看来已恍如隔世），而是对周围的人产生出一种更为冷静而成熟的兴趣，有意在一旁冷眼观察，并暗暗作出判断。他与克拉顿相识已有三个月，虽说天天见面，但对此人的了解，还是同萍水相逢时一样。克拉顿留给画室里众人的印象是：此人颇有几分才干。大家都说他前途无量，日后必定大有作为，他自己也是这么认为的。至于他将来究竟能干出什么样的事业来，那他自己也好，其他人也好，都说不出个名堂来。克拉顿来阿米特拉诺之前，曾先后在"朱利昂"、"美术"、"马克弗松"等画室学过画，说来还是呆在阿米特拉诺的时日最长，因为他发现在这儿可以独来独往，自行其是。他既不喜欢出示自己的作品，也不像其他学画的年轻人那样，动辄求教或赐教于他人。据说，他在首次战役路有间兼作工作室和卧室的小画室，那儿藏有他的一些精心佳作，只要谁能劝他把这些画拿出来公展，他肯定会就此一举成名。他雇不起模特儿，只搞些静物写生。对他所画的一幅盘中苹果图，劳森赞不绝口，声称此画是艺苑中的杰作。克拉顿生性喜好嫌歹，一心追求某种连自己也不甚了了的目标，总觉得自己的作品不能尽如人意。有时，他觉得作品中某一部分，譬如说，一幅人体画的前臂或下肢啊，静物写生中的一个玻璃杯或者瓷杯什么的，也许尚差强人意，于是他索性从油布剪下这些部分，单独加以保存，而把其余的画面毁掉。这样，如果有谁一定要欣赏他的大作，他就可以如实禀告：可供人观赏的画，他一幅也拿不出来。他在布列塔尼曾遇到过一个默默无闻的画家，一个怪人，原是证券经纪人，直至中年才幡然弃商习画。克拉顿深受此人作品的影响，他正打算脱离印象派的门庭，花一番心血，另辟蹊径，不仅要闯出一条绘画的新路子，而且要摸索出一套观察事物的新方法。菲利普感到克拉顿身上确实有一股独出心裁的古怪劲头。
无论是在格雷维亚餐馆的餐桌上，还是在凡尔赛或丁香园咖啡馆消磨黄昏的清谈中，克拉顿难得开腔。他默默地坐在一旁，瘦削的脸上露出讥诮的神情，只有看到有机会插句把俏皮话的时候才开一下金口。他喜欢同别人抬杠，要是在座的人中间有谁可以成为他凋侃挖苦的靶子，那他才来劲呢。他很少谈及绘画以外的话题，而且只在一两个他认为值得一谈的人面前发表自己的高见。菲利普在心里嘀咕：鬼知道这家伙在故弄什么玄虚。不错，他的沉默寡言、他那副憔悴的面容，还有那种辛辣的幽默口吻，似乎都表明了他的个性。然而所有这些，说不定只是一层掩饰他不学无术的巧妙伪装呢。
至于那位劳森，菲利普没几天就同他熟捻了。他兴趣广泛，是个讨人喜欢的好伙伴。他博览群书，同学中间很少有人能在这方面赶得上他的。尽管他收入甚微，却喜欢买书，也很乐意出借。菲利普于是有机会拜读福楼拜、巴尔扎克的小说，还有魏尔伦、埃雷迪亚和维利埃·德利尔一亚当等人的诗作。他俩经常一块儿去观赏话剧，有时候还跑歌剧场，坐在顶层楼座里看喜歌剧。离他们住处不远，就是奥代翁剧场。菲利普很快也沾染上他这位朋友的热情，迷上了路易十四时期悲剧作家的作品，以及铿锵悦耳的亚历山大体诗歌。在泰特布街常举行红色音乐会，花上七十五。个生丁，就可在那儿欣赏到优美动听的音乐，说不定还能免费喝上几口。座位不怎么舒适，场内听众挤得满满的，浑浊的空气里弥散着一股浓重的烟丝味儿，憋得人透不过气来，可是他们凭着一股年轻人的热情，对这一切毫不介意。有时候他们也去比利埃跳舞厅乐一下。逢到这种场合，弗拉纳根也跟着去凑热闹。他活泼好动，爱大声嚷嚷，一身的快活劲，常常逗得菲利普和劳森乐不可支。跳起舞来，又数他最在行。进舞厅还不到十分钟，就已经同一个刚结识的妙龄售货女郎在舞池里翩跹起舞啦。
他们这伙人谁都想搞到个情妇。情妇乃是巴黎习艺学生手里的一件装饰品。要是到手个情妇，周围的伙伴都会对他刮目相看，而他自己呢，也就有了自我吹嘘的资本。可难就难在他们这些穷措大连养活自己也成问题，尽管他们振振有词地说，法国女郎个个聪明绝顶，即使养了个情妇，也不见得会比单身过日子增加多少开支，可惜同他们长着一样心眼的姑娘，就是打着灯笼也难找啊。所以，就大部分学生来说，他们也只得满足于酸溜溜地骂那些臭娘们狗眼看人低，瞧不起他们这些穷学生，而去委身于那些功成名就的画家。万万想不到，在巴黎物色个情妇竟这等困难。有几次，劳森好不容易结识了一个小妞儿，而且同她订下了约会。在接下来的二十四小时内，他兴奋得坐卧不宁，逢人便夸那尤物如何如何迷人，可是到了约定的时候，那妞儿却影踪全无。直到天色很晚了劳森才赶到格雷维亚餐馆，气急败坏地嚷道：
"见鬼，又扑了个空！真不明白，凭哪一点她们不喜欢我。莫非是嫌我法语讲得不好，还是讨厌我的红头发怎么的。想想来巴黎已一年多了，竟连一个小妞儿也没搞到手，真窝囊。"
"你还没摸着门儿呗，"弗拉纳根说。
弗拉纳根在情场上屡屡得手，可以一口气报出一长串情妇的名字来，还真叫人有点眼红。尽管他们可以不相信他说的全是真话，可是在事实面前，他们又不能不承认他说的未必尽是谎言。不过他寻求的并不是那种永久性的结合。他只打算在巴黎呆两年；他不愿上大学，他花了一番口舌说通了父母，才来巴黎学画的。满两年之后，他准备回西雅图去继承父业。他早拿定要及时行乐的主意，所以他并不追求什么忠贞不渝的爱情，而是热中于拈花惹草，逢场作戏。
"真不知道你是怎么把那些娘儿弄到手的，"劳森愤愤不平地说。
"那还不容易，伙计！"弗拉纳根回答说。"只要瞅准了目标，迎上去就行了呗！难就难在事后如何把她们甩掉。这上面才要你耍点手腕呢。"
菲利普大部分时间忙于画画上，另外还要看书，上戏院，听别人谈天说地，哪还有什么心思去追女人。他想好在来日方长，等自己能操一口流利的法国话了，还愁没有机会！
他已有一年多没见到威尔金森小姐。就在他准备离开布莱克斯泰勃的时候，曾收到过她一封信，来巴黎之后，最初几个星期忙得不可开交，竟至没工夫回信。不久，她又投来一书，菲利普料想信里肯定是满纸怨忿，就当时的心情来说，他觉得还是不看为妙，于是就把信搁在一边，打算过些日子再看，谁知后来竟压根儿给忘了。事隔一月，直到有一天他拉开抽屉想找双没有破洞的袜子，才又无意中翻到那封信。他心情沮丧地望着那封未开封的信。想到威尔金森小姐准是伤透了心，他不能不责怪自己太薄情寡义。继而转念一想，管她呢，反正这时候她好歹已熬过来了，至少已熬过了最痛苦的时刻。他又想到女人说话写信，往往喜欢夸大其词，言过其实。同样这些话，若是出于男人之口，分量就重多了。再说，自己不是已下了决心，今后无论如何再不同她见面了吗，既然已好久没给她写信，现在又何必再来提笔复她的信呢？他决计不去拆看那封信。
"料她不会再写信来了，"他自言自语道。"她不会不明白，咱们间的这段缘分早尽了。她毕竟老啦，差不多可以做我老娘呢。她该有点自知之明嘛。"
有一两个小时光景，他心里感到不是个滋味。就他的处境来说，显然也应该取这种断然的态度，但是他思前顾后，总觉得整个事儿失之于荒唐。不过，威尔金森小姐果真没再给他写信，也没有出其不意地在巴黎露面，让他在朋友面前出丑--一他就怕她会来这一手，其实这种担心还真有点可笑。没过多少时候，他就把她忘得一干二净了。
与此同时，他毫不含糊地摒弃了旧时的崇拜偶像。想当初，他是那么惊讶地看待印象派作品，可是往日的惊讶之情，今日尽化为钦慕之意，菲利普也像其余的人一样，振振有词地谈着马奈、莫奈和德加等画家的过人之处。他同时买了一张安格尔名作《女奴》和一张《奥兰毕亚》的照片，把它们并排钉在脸盆架的上方，这样，他可以一边修面剃须，一边细细揣摩大师们的神来之笔。他现在确信，在莫奈之前根本谈不上有什么风景画。当他站在伦勃朗的《埃默斯村的信徒》或委拉斯开兹的《被跳蚤咬破鼻子的女士腼前，他真的感到心弦在震颤。"被跳蚤咬破鼻子"，这当然不是那位女士的真实姓名，但是他正因为有了这个浑号才在格雷维亚餐馆出了名。从这里岂不正看出此画的魅力吗，尽管画中人生就一副令人难以消受的怪模样。他已把罗斯金、布因一琼司和瓦茨等人，连同他来巴黎时穿戴的硬边圆顶礼帽和笔挺的蓝底白点领带，全都打入冷宫。现在，他戴的是宽边软帽，系的是随风飘飞的黑围巾，另外再套一件裁剪式样颇带几分浪漫气息的披肩。他在蒙帕纳斯大街上悠然漫步，那神态就像是他一生下来就知道这地方似的。由于凭着一股锲而不舍的韧劲，他居然也学会了喝苦艾酒，不再感到味儿苦涩。他开始留长发了，心里还很想在下巴颏上蓄起胡子，无奈造化不讲情面，历来对年轻人的非分之想不加理会，于是他也只得将就点了。
But notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered to take him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. He looked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till he knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater has added beauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated to Miss Price.
‘That’s all literature,’ she said, a little contemptuously. ‘You must get away from that.’
She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about them. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus.
‘When you feel the beauty of that,’ she said, ‘you’ll know something about painting.’
She showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price was a peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished, and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She was desperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing in the Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny, and urbane, like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed:
‘I say, how jolly! Do let’s stop here a minute.’
She said, indifferently: ‘Yes, it’s all right. But we’ve come here to look at pictures.’
The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towards mid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the Louvre, he felt inclined to cry like Flanagan: To hell with art.
‘I say, do let’s go to one of those restaurants in the Boul’ Mich’ and have a snack together, shall we?’ he suggested.
Miss Price gave him a suspicious look.
‘I’ve got my lunch waiting for me at home,’ she answered.
‘That doesn’t matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you a lunch.’
‘I don’t know why you want to.’
‘It would give me pleasure,’ he replied, smiling.
They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel there was a restaurant.
‘Let’s go in there.’
‘No, I won’t go there, it looks too expensive.’
She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few steps brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already lunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced in large white letters: Dejeuner 1.25, vin compris.
‘We couldn’t have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite all right.’
They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was the first article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed with delight upon the passers-by. His heart went out to them. He was tired but very happy.
‘I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn’t he ripping!’
He glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she was looking down at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavy tears were rolling down her cheeks.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he exclaimed.
‘If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once,’ she answered.
He was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came. He divided it in two and they began to eat. Philip did his best to talk of indifferent things, and it seemed as though Miss Price were making an effort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a success. Philip was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate took his appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beast in a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the plate with pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wish to lose a single drop of gravy. They had Camembert cheese, and it disgusted Philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that was given her. She could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving.
Miss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day with friendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not be sulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she could not draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constant suggestions helped his progress. Mrs. Otter was useful to him too, and sometimes Miss Chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glib loquacity of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hated him to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked her help after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse with brutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson, Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed him about her.
‘You be careful, my lad,’ they said, ‘she’s in love with you.’
‘Oh, what nonsense,’ he laughed.
The thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was preposterous. It made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggled hair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained and ragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but she might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and thread to make her skirt tidy.
Philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown in contact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed so long ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interest in humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticise. He found it difficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for three months than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impression at the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great things, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going to do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. He had worked at several studios before Amitrano’s, at Julian’s, the Beaux Arts, and MacPherson’s, and was remaining longer at Amitrano’s than anywhere because he found himself more left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlike most of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave advice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue Campagne Premiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room, he had wonderful pictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced to exhibit them. He could not afford a model but painted still life, and Lawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was a masterpiece. He was fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quite fully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhaps a part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, a glass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it, destroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselves to see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a single picture to show. In Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else had heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up painting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. He was turning his back on the impressionists and working out for himself painfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. Philip felt in him something strangely original.
At Gravier’s where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or at the Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He sat quietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when the opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was most cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his sarcasm. He seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the one or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered whether there was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him, the pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no more than an effective mask which covered nothing.
With Lawson on the other hand Philip soon grew intimate. He had a variety of interests which made him an agreeable companion. He read more than most of the students and though his income was small, loved to buy books. He lent them willingly; and Philip became acquainted with Flaubert and Balzac, with Verlaine, Heredia, and Villiers de l’Isle Adam. They went to plays together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opera Comique. There was the Odeon quite near them, and Philip soon shared his friend’s passion for the tragedians of Louis XIV and the sonorous Alexandrine. In the Rue Taitbout were the Concerts Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they could hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it was quite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was crowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in their young enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they went to the Bal Bullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied them. His excitability and his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. He was an excellent dancer, and before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing round with some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made.
The desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of the paraphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave consideration in the eyes of one’s fellows. It was something to boast about. But the difficulty was that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though they argued that French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two then one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to take that view of the circumstances. They had to content themselves for the most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection from painters of more settled respectability than their own. It was extraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson would become acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at length to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the time fixed. He would come to Gravier’s very late, ill-tempered, and exclaim:
‘Confound it, another rabbit! I don’t know why it is they don’t like me. I suppose it’s because I don’t speak French well, or my red hair. It’s too sickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold of anyone.’
‘You don’t go the right way to work,’ said Flanagan.
He had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though they took leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge that he did not altogether lie. But he sought no permanent arrangement. He only had two years in Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come and study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period he was to return to Seattle and go into his father’s business. He had made up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded variety rather than duration in his love affairs.
‘I don’t know how you get hold of them,’ said Lawson furiously.
‘There’s no difficulty about that, sonny,’ answered Flanagan. ‘You just go right in. The difficulty is to get rid of them. That’s where you want tact.’
Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the desire for female society. He thought there would be plenty of time for that when he could speak French more glibly.
It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and during his first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had written to him just before he left Blackstable. When another came, knowing it would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for them, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did not run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked at the unopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson had suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probably got over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. It suggested itself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions. These did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had not written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. He made up his mind not to read the letter.
‘I daresay she won’t write again,’ he said to himself. ‘She can’t help seeing the thing’s over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother; she ought to have known better.’
For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude was obviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of dissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did not write again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paris to make him ridiculous before his friends. In a little while he clean forgot her.
Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with which at first he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed to admiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the rest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph of a drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia. They were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he could contemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positively that there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt a real thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt’s Disciples at Emmaus or Velasquez’ Lady with the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name, but by that she was distinguished at Gravier’s to emphasise the picture’s beauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter’s appearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside his bowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on coming to Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat, a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked along the Boulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and by virtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. He was letting his hair grow, and it was only because Nature is unkind and has no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt a beard.
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