Two months passed.
It seemed to Philip, brooding over these matters, that in the true
painters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove them to such
complete absorption in their work as to make it inevitable for them to
subordinate life to art. Succumbing to an influence they never realised,
they were merely dupes of the instinct that possessed them, and life
slipped through their fingers unlived. But he had a feeling that life was
to be lived rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the various
experiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion that it
offered. He made up his mind at length to take a certain step and abide by
the result, and, having made up his mind, he determined to take the step
at once. Luckily enough the next morning was one of Foinet's days, and he
resolved to ask him point-blank whether it was worth his while to go on
with the study of art. He had never forgotten the master's brutal advice
to Fanny Price. It had been sound. Philip could never get Fanny entirely
out of his head. The studio seemed strange without her, and now and then
the gesture of one of the women working there or the tone of a voice would
give him a sudden start, reminding him of her: her presence was more
noticuble?? now she was dead than it had ever been during her life; and he
often dreamed of her at night, waking with a cry of terror. it was
horrible to think of all the suffering she must have endured.
Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a
little restaurant in the Rue d'Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that
he could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip walked up
and down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with
bent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to
go up to him.
"Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment."
Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a
greeting.
"Speak," he said.
"I've been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to ask
you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue."
Philip's voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without looking
up. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it.
"I don't understand."
"I'm very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else."
"Don't you know if you have talent?"
"All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are
mistaken."
Foinet's bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked:
"Do you live near here?"
Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round.
"Let us go there? You shall show me your work."
"Now?" cried Philip.
"Why not?"
Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master's side. He
felt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to see
his things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare
himself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whether
he might bring them to Foinet's studio. He was trembling with anxiety. In
his heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare
smile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip's hand and say:
"Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You have talent, real talent." Philip's heart
swelled at the thought. It was such a relief, such a joy! Now he could go
on with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, and
disappointment, if he arrived at last? He had worked very hard, it would
be too cruel if all that industry were futile. And then with a start he
remembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that. They arrived at
the house, and Philip was seized with fear. If he had dared he would have
asked Foinet to go away. He did not want to know the truth. They went in
and the concierge handed him a letter as they passed. He glanced at the
envelope and recognised his uncle's handwriting. Foinet followed him up
the stairs. Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the
silence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without a
word placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet
nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he had
made of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at
Moret, and a number of sketches.
"That's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh.
Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.
"You have very little private means?" he asked at last.
"Very little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his
heart. "Not enough to live on."
"There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means
of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise
money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without
which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an
adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only
thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for
the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best
spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh.
They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless
humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It
is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to
work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all
my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely
dependent for subsistence upon his art."
Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown.
"I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much chance."
Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance
there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent
painter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who
painted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I see
industry and intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre."
Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily.
"I'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can't thank
you enough."
Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and,
stopping, put his hand on Philip's shoulder.
"But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in
both hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but
let me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if someone had
given me that advice when I was your age and I had taken it."
Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a
smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.
"It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. It
does not improve the temper."
He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of
the room.
Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his
handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him.
She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over
to England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work,
had refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she
said she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay
at the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worse
she would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him
again. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to
hold a pen. Philip opened the letter. it ran as follows:
My dear Philip,
I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early this
morning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change for the
worse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was fully
prepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance of
a blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our
blessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be present at
the funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you can. There is
naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and I am very much
upset. I trust that you will be able to do everything for me.
Your affectionate uncle,
William Carey.
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