第四十一章
菲利普沿着蒙帕纳斯大街信步闲逛。眼前的这个巴黎，同他春上来给圣乔治旅合结算帐务时所看到的迥然不同--一他每想到那一段生活经历就不寒而栗--一就其风貌来说，倒和自己心目中的外省城镇差不多。周围是一派闲适自在的气氛；明媚的阳光，开阔的视野，把人们的心神引人飘飘欲仙的梦幻之中。修剪得齐齐整整的树木，富有生气的白净房屋，宽阔的街道，全都令人心旷神怡。他觉得自己完全适应了这里的生活。他在街头悠然漫步，一边打量来往行人。在他看来，就连那些最普通的巴黎人，比如那些束着大红阔边腰带、套着肥大裤管的工人，那些身材矮小、穿着褪了色却很迷人的制服的士兵，似乎都焕发着动人的风采。不一会儿，他来到天文台大街，展现在他眼前的那种气势磅礴且又典雅绮丽的景象，不由得令他赞叹不已。他又来到卢森堡花园：孩童在玩耍嬉戏，头发上束着长丝带的保姆，成双结对地款款而行；公务在身的男士们，夹着皮包匆匆而过；小伙子们穿着各式各样的奇装异服。风景匀称、精致。自然景色虽带着人工斧凿的痕迹，却显得玲珑剔透。由此看来，自然风光若不经人工修饰，反倒失之于粗鄙。菲利普陶然若醉。过去他念到过许多有关这一风景胜地的描写，如今终于身临其境，怎能不叫他喜上心头，情不自胜。对于他来说，这里算得上是历史悠久的文艺胜地，他既感敬畏，又觉欢欣，其情状如同老学究初次见到明媚多姿的斯巴达平原时一般。
菲利普逛着逛着，偶一抬眼，瞥见普赖斯小姐独自坐在一条长凳上。他踌躇起来，他此刻实在不想见到任何熟人，况且她那粗鲁的举止与自己周围的欢乐气氛极不协调。但他凭直觉辨察出她是个神经过敏、冒犯不得的女子。既然她已看到了自己，那么出于礼貌，也该同她应酬几句。
"你怎么上这儿来啦？"她见菲利普走过来，这样问。
"散散心呗。你呢？"
"哦，我每天下午四点至五点都要上这儿来。我觉得整天埋头于工作，不见得有什么好处。"
"可以在这儿坐一会儿吗？"他说。
"悉听尊便。"
"您这话似乎不大客气呢，"他笑着说。
"我这个人笨嘴拙舌，天生不会甜言蜜语。"
菲利普有点困窘，默默地点起一支烟。
"克拉顿议论过我的画吗？"她猝然问了这么一句。
"我印象里他什么也没说，"菲利普说。
"你知道，他这个人成不了什么气候。自以为是天才，纯粹瞎吹。别的不说，懒就懒得要命。天才应能吃得起大苦，耐得起大劳。最要紧的，是要有股换而不舍的韧劲。世上无难事，只怕有心人嘛。"
她说话时，激昂之情溢于言表。她头戴黑色水手草帽，上身穿一件不很干净的白衬衫，下身束一条棕色裙子。她没戴手套，而那双手真该好好洗洗。她毫无风韵可言，菲利普后悔不该跟她搭讪。他摸不透普赖斯小姐是希望他留下呢，还是巴不得他快点走开。
"我愿意尽力为你效劳，"她突然前言不搭后语地说，"我可深知其难呢。"
"多谢你了，"菲利普说。停了一会儿他又说："我请你去用茶点，肯赏光嘛？"
她飞快地瞟了他一眼，刷地涨红了脸。她脸一红，那苍白的皮肤顿时斑驳纷呈，模样儿好怪，就像变质的奶油里拌进了草莓似的。
"不，谢谢，你想我干吗要用茶点呢？我刚吃过午饭。"
"我想可以消磨消磨时间嘛，"菲利普说。
"哦，要是你闲得发慌，可犯不着为我操心。我一个人待着，并不嫌冷清。"
这时候，有两个男子打旁边走过。他们穿着棕色棉绒上衣，套着肥大的裤管，戴着巴斯克便帽。他们年纪轻轻，却蓄着胡子。
"嗳，他们是美术学校的学生吧？"菲利普说，"真像是从《波希米亚人的生涯》那本书里跳出来的哩。"
"是些美国佬，"普赖斯小姐用鄙夷的口吻说。"这号服装，法国人三十年前就不穿了。可那些从美国西部来的公子哥儿，一到巴黎就买下这种衣服，而且赶忙穿着去拍照。他们的艺术造诣大概也仅止于此了。他们才不在乎呢，反正有的是钱。"
菲利普对那些美国人大胆别致的打扮倒颇欣赏，认为这体现了艺术家的浪漫气质。普赖斯小姐问菲利普现在几点了。
"我得去画室了，"她说。"你可打算去上素描课？"
菲利普根本不知道有素描课。她告诉菲利普，每晚五时至六时，画室有模特儿供人写生，谁想去，只要付五十生丁就行。模特儿天天换，这是个不可多得的习画好机会。
"我看你目前的水平还够不上，最好过一个时期再去。"
"我不明白干吗不能去试试笔呢！反正闲着没事干。"
他们站起身朝画室走去。就普赖斯小姐的态度来说，菲利普摸不透她究竟希望有他作伴呢，还是宁愿独个儿前往。说实在的，他纯粹出于困窘，不知道用什么办法可以脱身，这才留在她身边的；而普赖斯小姐不愿多开口，菲利普问她的话，她总是爱理不理，态度简慢。
一个男子站在画室门口，手里托着一只大盘子，凡是进画室的人都得往里面丢半个法郎。画室济济一堂，人比早晨多得多，其中英国人和美国人不再占大多数，女子的比例也有所减少。菲利普觉得这么一大帮子人，跟他脑子里的习画者的形象颇不一致。大气暖洋洋的，屋子里的空气不多一会儿就变得混浊不堪。这回的模特儿是个老头，下巴上蓄着一大簇灰白胡子。菲利普想试试今天早晨学到的那点儿技巧，结果却画得很糟。他这才明白，他对自己的绘画水平实在估计得过高了。菲利普不胜钦羡地望了一眼身旁几个习画者的作品，心中暗暗纳闷，不知自己是否有一天也能那样得心应手地运用炭笔。一个小时飞快地溜了过去。他不愿给普赖斯小姐再添麻烦，所以刚才特意避着她找了个地方坐下。临了，当菲利普经过她身边朝外走时，普赖斯小姐却唐突地将他拦住，问他画得怎样。
"不怎么顺手，"他微笑着说。
"如果你刚才肯屈尊坐在我旁边，我满可以给你点提示。看来你这个人自视甚高的。"
"不，没有的事。我怕你会嫌我讨厌。"
"要是我真那么想，我会当面对你说的。"
菲利普发现，她是以其特有的粗鲁方式来表示她乐于助人的善意。
"那我明天就多多仰仗你了。"
"没关系，"她回答。
菲利普走出画室，自己也不知道该如何打发吃饭前的这段时间。他很想干点独出心裁的事儿。来点儿苦艾酒如何！当然很有此必要。于是，他信步朝车站走去，在一家咖啡馆的露天餐席上坐下，要了杯苦艾酒。他喝了一口，觉得恶心欲吐，心里却很得意。这酒喝在嘴里挺不是滋味，可精神效果极佳：他现在觉得自己是个道道地地的投身艺术的学生了。由于他空肚子喝酒，一杯下肚，顿觉飘然欲仙。他凝望着周遭的人群，颇有几分四海之内皆兄弟的感觉。他快活极了。当他来到格雷维亚餐馆时，克拉顿那张餐桌上已坐满了人，但是他一看到菲利普一拐一瘸地走过来，忙大声向他打招呼。他们给他腾出个坐儿。晚餐相当节俭，一盆汤，一碟肉，再加上水果、奶酪和半瓶酒。菲利普对自己面前的食物并不在意，只顾打量同桌进餐的那些人。弗拉纳根也在座。他是个美国人，年纪很轻，有趣的脸上竖着只扁塌的狮子鼻，嘴巴老是笑得合不拢。他身穿大花格子诺福克茄克衫，颈脖上围条蓝色的硬领巾，头上戴顶怪模怪样的花呢帽。那时候，拉丁区是印象派的一统天下，不过老的画派也只是最近才大势的。卡罗路斯一迪朗、布格柔之流仍被人捧出来，同马奈、莫奈和德加等人分庭抗礼。欣赏老一派画家的作品，依然是情趣高雅的一个标志。惠司勒以及他整理的那套颇有见识的日本版画集，在英国画家及同胞中间有很大的影响。古典大师们受到新标准的检验。几个世纪以来，世入对拉斐尔推崇备至，如今这在聪明伶俐的年轻人中间却传为笑柄。他们觉得他的全部作品，还及不上委拉斯开兹画的、现在陈列在国家美术馆里的一幅腓力四世头像。菲利普发现，谈论艺术已成了一股风气。午餐时遇到的那个劳森也在场，就坐在他对面。他是个身材瘦小的年轻人，满脸雀斑，一头红发，长着一对灼灼有光的绿眼睛。菲利普坐下后，劳森目不转睛地望着他，这时冷不防高谈阔论起来：
"拉斐尔只有在临摹他人作品时，还算过得去。譬如，他临摹彼鲁其诺或平图里乔的那些画，很讨人喜欢，而他想在作品中画出自己的风格时，就只是个--"说到这儿，他轻蔑地一耸肩，"--拉斐尔。"
劳森说话的口气之大，菲利普不觉暗暗吃惊，不过他也不必去答理他，因为这时候弗拉纳根不耐烦地插嘴了。
"哦，让艺术见鬼去吧！"他大声嚷道。"让咱们开怀痛饮，一醉方休。"
"昨晚上你喝得够痛快的了，弗拉纳根，"劳森说。
"昨晚是昨晚，我说的可是今夜良宵，"他回答。"想想吧，来到巴黎之后，整天价净在想着艺术、艺术。"他说话时，操着一口浓重的西部口音。"嘿，人生得意须尽欢嘛。"只见他抖擞精神，用拳头砰地猛击餐桌。"听我说，让艺术见鬼去吧！"
"说一遍就够啦，干吗婆婆妈妈的唠叨个没完，"克拉顿板着脸说。
同桌还有个美国人，他的穿着打扮，同菲利普下午在卢森堡花园见到的那些个公子哥儿如出一辙。他长得很清秀，眸子乌黑发亮，脸庞瘦削而严峻。他穿了那一身古怪有趣的服装，倒有点像个不顾死活的海盗。浓黑的头发不时耷拉下来，遮住了眼睛，所以他时而作出个颇带戏剧性的动作，将头往后一扬，把那几络长发甩开。他开始议论起马奈的名画《奥兰毕亚》，这幅画当时陈列在卢森堡宫里。'
"今儿个我在这幅画前逗留了一个小时。说实在的，这画算不得一幅。上乘之作。"
劳森放下手中的刀叉，一双绿眼珠快冒出火星来。他由于怒火中烧，连呼吸也急促起来，不难看出，他在竭力按捺自己的怒气。
"听一个头脑未开化的野小子高谈阔论，岂不有趣，"他说。"我们倒要请教，这幅画究竟有什么不好？"
那美国人还没来得及启口，就有人气冲冲地接过话茬。
"你的意思是说，你看着那幅栩栩如生的人体画，竟能说它算不上杰作？"
"我可没那么说。我认为右乳房画得还真不赖。"
"去你的右乳房，"劳森扯着嗓门直嚷嚷。"整幅画是艺苑中的一个奇」迹。"
他详尽地讲述起这幅杰作的妙处来，然而，在格雷维亚餐馆的这张餐桌上，谁也没在听他-一谁要是发表什么长篇大论，得益者唯他自己而已。那个美国人气势汹汹地打断劳森。
"你不见得要说，你觉得那头部画得很出色吧？"
劳森此时激动得脸色都发白了，他竭力为那幅画的头部辩解。再说那位克拉顿，他一直坐在一旁默默不语，脸上挂着一丝宽容的嘲笑，这时突然开腔了。
"就把那颗脑袋给他吧，咱们可以忍痛割爱。这无损于此画的完美。"
"好吧，我就把这颗脑袋给你了，"劳森嚷道，"提着它，见你的鬼去吧。"
"而那条黑线又是怎么回事？"美国人大声说着，得意扬扬一抬手，把一绺差点儿掉进汤盆里的头发往后一掠。"自然万物，无奇不有，可就是没见过四周有黑线的。"
"哦，上帝，快降下一把天火，把这个读神的歹徒烧死吧！"劳森说。"大自然同这幅画有何相于？自然界有什么，没有什么，谁说得清楚！此人是通过艺术家的眼睛来观察自然的。可不是！几个世纪来，世人看到马在跳越篱笆时，总是把腿伸得直直的。啊，老天在上，先生，马腿确实是伸得直直的！在莫奈发现影子带有色彩之前，世人一直看到影子是黑的，老天在上，先生，影子确实是黑的哟。如果我们用黑线条来勾勒物体，世人就会看到黑色的轮廓线，而这样的轮廓线也就真的存在了；如果我们把草木画成红颜色，把牛画成蓝颜色，人们也就看到它们是红色、蓝色的了，老天在上，它们确实会成为红色和蓝色的呢！"
"让艺术见鬼去吧！"弗拉纳根咕哝道，"我要的是开怀痛饮！"
劳森没理会他。
"现在请注意，当《奥兰毕亚》在巴黎艺展中展出时，左拉--在那批凡夫俗子的冷嘲热讽声中，在那伙守旧派画家、冬烘学究还有公众的一片唏嘘声中--一左拉宣布说：'我期待有那么一天，马奈的画将陈列在卢佛尔宫内，就挂在安格尔的《女奴》对面，相形之下，黯然失色的将是《女奴》。'《奥兰毕亚》肯定会挂在那儿的，我看这一时刻日益临近了。不出十年，《奥兰毕亚》定会在卢佛尔宫占一席之地。"
"永远进不了卢佛尔宫，"那个美国人大嚷一声，倏地用双手把头发狠命往后一掠，似乎想要一劳永逸地解决这个麻烦。"不出十年，那幅画就会销声匿迹。它不过是投合时好之作。任何一幅画要是缺少点实质性的内容，就不可能有生命力，拿这一点来衡量，马奈的画相去何止十万八千卫。"
"什么是实质性内容？"
"缺少道德上的内容，任何伟大的艺术都不可能存在。"
"哦，天哪！"劳森狂怒地咆哮。"我早知道是这么回事。他希罕的是道德说教。"他双手搓合，做出祈祷上苍的样子："哦，克利斯朵夫·哥伦币。克利斯朵夫·哥伦布，你在发现美洲大陆的时候，你可知道自己是在干什么啊？"
"罗斯金说……"
他还要往下说，冷不防克拉顿突然用刀柄乒乒乓乓猛敲桌面。
"诸位，"他正言厉色说，那只大鼻子因为过分激动而明显地隆起一道道褶皱。
"刚才有人提到了一个名字，我万万没想到在上流社会竟然也会听到它。言论*固然是件好事，但也总得掌握点分寸，适可而止才是。要是你愿意，你尽可谈论布格柔：这个名字虽招人嫌，听上去却让人感到轻松，逗人发笑。但是我们可千万别让罗斯金，G·F·瓦茨和E·B·琼司这样一些名字来玷污我们贞洁的双唇。"
"这个罗斯金究属何人？"弗拉纳根问。
"维多利亚时代的伟人之一，擅长优美文体的文坛大师。"
"罗斯金文体--由胡言乱语和浮华词藻拼凑起来的大杂烩，"劳森说
"再说，让维多利亚时代的那些伟人统统见鬼去！我翻开报纸，只要一看见某个伟人的讣告，就额手庆幸：谢天谢地，这些家伙又少了一个啦。他们唯一的本事是精通养生之道，能老而不死。艺术家一满四十，就该让他们去见上帝。一个人到了这种年纪，最好的作品也已经完成。打这以后，他所做的不外乎是老凋重弹。难道诸位不认为，济慈、雪莱、波宁顿和拜伦等人早年丧生，实在是交上了人世间少有的好运？假如史文朋在出版第一卷《诗歌和民谣集》的那天溘然辞世，他在我们的心目中会是个多么了不起的天才！"
这席话可说到了大家的心坎上，因为在座的没一个人超过二十四岁。他们立刻津津有味地议论开了。这一回他们倒是众口一词，意见一致，而且还各自淋漓尽致地发挥了一通。有人提议把四十院士的所有作品拿来，燃起一大片篝火，维多利亚时代的伟人凡满四十者都要--往里扔。这个提议博得一阵喝彩。卡莱尔、罗斯金、丁尼生、勃朗宁、G·F·瓦茨、E·B·琼司、狄更斯和萨克雷等人，被匆匆抛进烈焰之中。格莱斯顿先生、约翰·布赖特和科勃登，也遭到同样下场。至于乔治·梅瑞狄斯，曾有过短暂的争执；至于马修·阿诺德和爱默生，则被病痛快快讨诸一炬。最后轮到了沃尔特·佩特。
"沃尔特·佩特就免了吧，"菲利普咕哝说。
劳森瞪着那双绿眼珠，打量了他一阵，然后点点头。
"你说得有理，只有沃尔特·佩特一人证明了《蒙娜丽莎》的真正价值。你知道克朗肖吗？他以前和佩特过往甚密。"
"克朗肖是谁？"
"他是个诗人，就住在这儿附近。现在让咱们上丁香园去吧。"
丁香园是一家咖啡馆，晚饭后他们常去那儿消磨时间。晚上九时以后，凌晨二时之前，准能在那儿遇到克朗肖。对弗拉纳根来说，一晚上的风雅之谈，已够受的了，这时一听劳森作此建议，便转身对菲利普说：
"哦，伙计，我们还是找个有姑娘的地方去乐乐吧。上蒙帕纳斯游乐场去，让咱们喝它个酩酊大醉。"
"我宁愿去见克朗肖，而不想把自己搞得醉醺醺的，"菲利普笑呵呵地说。
Philip walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was not at all like the Paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to do the accounts of the Hotel St. Georges—he thought already of that part of his life with a shudder—but reminded him of what he thought a provincial town must be. There was an easy-going air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which invited the mind to day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid whiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt himself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along, staring at the people; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary, workmen with their broad red sashes and their wide trousers, little soldiers in dingy, charming uniforms. He came presently to the Avenue de l’Observatoire, and he gave a sigh of pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He came to the gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with long ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The scene was formal and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so exquisitely, that nature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric. Philip was enchanted. It excited him to stand on that spot of which he had read so much; it was classic ground to him; and he felt the awe and the delight which some old don might feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of Sparta.
As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself on a bench. He hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it would be polite to speak to her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, as he came up.
‘Enjoying myself. Aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I don’t think one does any good if one works straight through.’
‘May I sit down for a minute?’ he said.
‘If you want to.’
‘That doesn’t sound very cordial,’ he laughed.
‘I’m not much of a one for saying pretty things.’
Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette.
‘Did Clutton say anything about my work?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No, I don’t think he did,’ said Philip.
‘He’s no good, you know. He thinks he’s a genius, but he isn’t. He’s too lazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. The only thing is to peg away. If one only makes up one’s mind badly enough to do a thing one can’t help doing it.’
She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking. She wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt. She had no gloves on, and her hands wanted washing. She was so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to talk to her. He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go.
‘I’ll do anything I can for you,’ she said all at once, without reference to anything that had gone before. ‘I know how hard it is.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Philip, then in a moment: ‘Won’t you come and have tea with me somewhere?’
She looked at him quickly and flushed. When she reddened her pasty skin acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had gone bad.
‘No, thanks. What d’you think I want tea for? I’ve only just had lunch.’
‘I thought it would pass the time,’ said Philip.
‘If you find it long you needn’t bother about me, you know. I don’t mind being left alone.’
At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and basque caps. They were young, but both wore beards.
‘I say, are those art-students?’ said Philip. ‘They might have stepped out of the Vie de Boheme.’
‘They’re Americans,’ said Miss Price scornfully. ‘Frenchmen haven’t worn things like that for thirty years, but the Americans from the Far West buy those clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive in Paris. That’s about as near to art as they ever get. But it doesn’t matter to them, they’ve all got money.’
Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans’ costume; he thought it showed the romantic spirit. Miss Price asked him the time.
‘I must be getting along to the studio,’ she said. ‘Are you going to the sketch classes?’
Philip did not know anything about them, and she told him that from five to six every evening a model sat, from whom anyone who liked could go and draw at the cost of fifty centimes. They had a different model every day, and it was very good practice.
‘I don’t suppose you’re good enough yet for that. You’d better wait a bit.’
‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t try. I haven’t got anything else to do.’
They got up and walked to the studio. Philip could not tell from her manner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with her or preferred to walk alone. He remained from sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her; but she would not talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious manner.
A man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into which each person as he went in dropped his half franc. The studio was much fuller than it had been in the morning, and there was not the preponderance of English and Americans; nor were women there in so large a proportion. Philip felt the assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. It was very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. It was an old man who sat this time, with a vast gray beard, and Philip tried to put into practice the little he had learned in the morning; but he made a poor job of it; he realised that he could not draw nearly as well as he thought. He glanced enviously at one or two sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered whether he would ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. The hour passed quickly. Not wishing to press himself upon Miss Price he sat down at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed her on his way out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on.
‘Not very well,’ he smiled.
‘If you’d condescended to come and sit near me I could have given you some hints. I suppose you thought yourself too grand.’
‘No, it wasn’t that. I was afraid you’d think me a nuisance.’
‘When I do that I’ll tell you sharp enough.’
Philip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help.
‘Well, tomorrow I’ll just force myself upon you.’
‘I don’t mind,’ she answered.
Philip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till dinner. He was eager to do something characteristic. Absinthe! of course it was indicated, and so, sauntering towards the station, he seated himself outside a cafe and ordered it. He drank with nausea and satisfaction. He found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his spirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier’s the table at which Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he called out to him. They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip paid no attention to what he ate. He took note of the men at the table. Flanagan was there again: he was an American, a short, snub-nosed youth with a jolly face and a laughing mouth. He wore a Norfolk jacket of bold pattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape. At that time impressionism reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory over the older schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau, and their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas. To appreciate these was still a sign of grace. Whistler was an influence strong with the English and his compatriots, and the discerning collected Japanese prints. The old masters were tested by new standards. The esteem in which Raphael had been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men. They offered to give all his works for Velasquez’ head of Philip IV in the National Gallery. Philip found that a discussion on art was raging. Lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him. He was a thin youth with a freckled face and red hair. He had very bright green eyes. As Philip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly:
‘Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people’s pictures. When he painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was charming; when he painted Raphaels he was,’ with a scornful shrug, ‘Raphael.’
Lawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he was not obliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently.
‘Oh, to hell with art!’ he cried. ‘Let’s get ginny.’
‘You were ginny last night, Flanagan,’ said Lawson.
‘Nothing to what I mean to be tonight,’ he answered. ‘Fancy being in Pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time.’ He spoke with a broad Western accent. ‘My, it is good to be alive.’ He gathered himself together and then banged his fist on the table. ‘To hell with art, I say.’
‘You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration,’ said Clutton severely.
There was another American at the table. He was dressed like those fine fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg. He had a handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb with the dashing air of a buccaneer. He had a vast quantity of dark hair which fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to throw back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of the way. He began to talk of the Olympia by Manet, which then hung in the Luxembourg.
‘I stood in front of it for an hour today, and I tell you it’s not a good picture.’
Lawson put down his knife and fork. His green eyes flashed fire, he gasped with rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon himself.
‘It’s very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored savage,’ he said. ‘Will you tell us why it isn’t a good picture?’
Before the American could answer someone else broke in vehemently.
‘D’you mean to say you can look at the painting of that flesh and say it’s not good?’
‘I don’t say that. I think the right breast is very well painted.’
‘The right breast be damned,’ shouted Lawson. ‘The whole thing’s a miracle of painting.’
He began to describe in detail the beauties of the picture, but at this table at Gravier’s they who spoke at length spoke for their own edification. No one listened to him. The American interrupted angrily.
‘You don’t mean to say you think the head’s good?’
Lawson, white with passion now, began to defend the head; but Clutton, who had been sitting in silence with a look on his face of good-humoured scorn, broke in.
‘Give him the head. We don’t want the head. It doesn’t affect the picture.’
‘All right, I’ll give you the head,’ cried Lawson. ‘Take the head and be damned to you.’
‘What about the black line?’ cried the American, triumphantly pushing back a wisp of hair which nearly fell in his soup. ‘You don’t see a black line round objects in nature.’
‘Oh, God, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer,’ said Lawson. ‘What has nature got to do with it? No one knows what’s in nature and what isn’t! The world sees nature through the eyes of the artist. Why, for centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended, and by Heaven, sir, they were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet discovered they were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black. If we choose to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the black line, and there will be a black line; and if we paint grass red and cows blue, it’ll see them red and blue, and, by Heaven, they will be red and blue.’
‘To hell with art,’ murmured Flanagan. ‘I want to get ginny.’
Lawson took no notice of the interruption.
‘Now look here, when Olympia was shown at the Salon, Zola—amid the jeers of the Philistines and the hisses of the pompiers, the academicians, and the public, Zola said: ‘I look forward to the day when Manet’s picture will hang in the Louvre opposite the Odalisque of Ingres, and it will not be the Odalisque which will gain by comparison.’ It’ll be there. Every day I see the time grow nearer. In ten years the Olympia will be in the Louvre.’
‘Never,’ shouted the American, using both hands now with a sudden desperate attempt to get his hair once for all out of the way. ‘In ten years that picture will be dead. It’s only a fashion of the moment. No picture can live that hasn’t got something which that picture misses by a million miles.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Great art can’t exist without a moral element.’
‘Oh God!’ cried Lawson furiously. ‘I knew it was that. He wants morality.’ He joined his hands and held them towards heaven in supplication. ‘Oh, Christopher Columbus, Christopher Columbus, what did you do when you discovered America?’
‘Ruskin says...’
But before he could add another word, Clutton rapped with the handle of his knife imperiously on the table.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose positively wrinkled with passion, ‘a name has been mentioned which I never thought to hear again in decent society. Freedom of speech is all very well, but we must observe the limits of common propriety. You may talk of Bouguereau if you will: there is a cheerful disgustingness in the sound which excites laughter; but let us not sully our chaste lips with the names of J. Ruskin, G. F. Watts, or E. B. Jones.’
‘Who was Ruskin anyway?’ asked Flanagan.
‘He was one of the Great Victorians. He was a master of English style.’
‘Ruskin’s style—a thing of shreds and purple patches,’ said Lawson. ‘Besides, damn the Great Victorians. Whenever I open a paper and see Death of a Great Victorian, I thank Heaven there’s one more of them gone. Their only talent was longevity, and no artist should be allowed to live after he’s forty; by then a man has done his best work, all he does after that is repetition. Don’t you think it was the greatest luck in the world for them that Keats, Shelley, Bonnington, and Byron died early? What a genius we should think Swinburne if he had perished on the day the first series of Poems and Ballads was published!’
The suggestion pleased, for no one at the table was more than twenty-four, and they threw themselves upon it with gusto. They were unanimous for once. They elaborated. Someone proposed a vast bonfire made out of the works of the Forty Academicians into which the Great Victorians might be hurled on their fortieth birthday. The idea was received with acclamation. Carlyle and Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B. Jones, Dickens, Thackeray, they were hurried into the flames; Mr. Gladstone, John Bright, and Cobden; there was a moment’s discussion about George Meredith, but Matthew Arnold and Emerson were given up cheerfully. At last came Walter Pater.
‘Not Walter Pater,’ murmured Philip.
Lawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes and then nodded.
‘You’re quite right, Walter Pater is the only justification for Mona Lisa. D’you know Cronshaw? He used to know Pater.’
‘Who’s Cronshaw?’ asked Philip.
‘Cronshaw’s a poet. He lives here. Let’s go to the Lilas.’
La Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the evening after dinner, and here Cronshaw was invariably to be found between the hours of nine at night and two in the morning. But Flanagan had had enough of intellectual conversation for one evening, and when Lawson made his suggestion, turned to Philip.
‘Oh gee, let’s go where there are girls,’ he said. ‘Come to the Gaite Montparnasse, and we’ll get ginny.’
‘I’d rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober,’ laughed Philip.
