VIII
The sun was shining brightly when he awoke, and all the little midinettes were in full song.
Wynne sat up in bed and ate a piece of his bread and drank a glass of water. Asked why he did so, he cheerfully replied,
“Moi, je suis ruiné.”
Whereupon the maidens laughed very heartily and said he was a droll.
Wynne had become quite used to the little audience across the way and scarcely took them into consideration. Women, as such, made little or no impression upon him. He liked them well enough, but never cared to better his knowledge or acquaintance with any with whom he had come into contact. Physically they made not the slightest appeal to him—his senses were inert toward the impulse of sex, and he was given to criticize contemptuously those of his companions who staked their emotions in the ways of passion.
“Do not imagine I suffer from moral convictions,” he would say; “but, according to my views, you attach an importance to these matters out of all relation to their value.”
The sentence had inflamed to a very high degree the student to whom it was addressed.
“Fool! Fish!” he had shouted, by way of argument; and again, “Fish! Fish!”
To a running fire of semi-serious sympathy Wynne dressed himself and went out. In a sense he was a little distressed to sacrifice his accustomed cup of early morning chocolate—but this, he argued, was a matter of small concern. A plethora of victuals stagnates the mind, and on this day he had every reason to desire a clear head.
In the Elysée Gardens he found a bench and contracted his brow in meditation. What, he ruminated, were the essentials required to gain a livelihood? Obviously there was a place for every one in this world, or mankind would not survive the ordeal of birth. There was a place for people of every kind of intelligence—a glance at the passers-by proved it, and proved that even the stupid may sometimes prosper. This being so, it was obvious that the wise must prosper even more greatly.
“What have I got to sell?” he asked himself. “What have I got that these other people desire? What can I do that other people can’t do?”
But though he racked his brain he could find no answer to the questions.
After a while he rose and started to walk. He walked fast, as if to escape from his own thoughts, and Fear, so it seemed, walked by his side.
“Nothing,” said Fear—“you have nothing to sell. Nobody wants you—nobody will care if you starve.”
“Go away,” said Wynne. “I tell you I am wanted. I say I shan’t starve.”
“Little idiot! What have you learnt to do but sneer at the real worker? There is no market price for sneers. Sneerers starve—starve! Who are you to laugh at the honest people of the world?”
“I didn’t laugh. I only pitied.”
“How dared you pity—you, who have achieved nothing? Even that small errand boy yonder is a worthier citizen than you—he at least earns his ten francs a week. What have you earned? Only the wage-slave deserves to be a freeman. What is the value of all this trash of art and æsthetics? These are only accessories of life—life itself must be learnt before you can deal in these.”
“But I don’t want to be a wage-slave. I want to be a king.”
“Kingdoms are not won by desire. You must be a subject first.”
“I will be a king—a ruler.”
“A beggar in a week. Come off the heights, little idiot; come down into the plains and lay a road.”
Wynne stopped suddenly in the great quadrangle of the Louvre.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll be content with small beginnings, but show me the way to find them.”
And looking across the cobbled yard he saw three people. They were quite ordinary, and obviously English. There was a middle-aged man with a disposition toward side-whiskers. He carried an umbrella, and wore a severe bowler hat. His clothes spoke of prosperity coupled with a due regard for quiet colours. By his side walked a stout lady, in a tailor-made dress of suburban cut. Upon her head reposed an example of Paris millinery, and consciousness of its beauty gave her face an added tendency to perspire. It was a new hat, and did not seem to have sympathetic relations with her boots. People who go abroad for the first time are apt to overestimate the probable amount of wear their shoe-leather is likely to incur, and guard against walking barefoot by donning boots whose sturdiness would defeat the depredations of a Matterhorn climb.
By the lady’s side was a youth—a very unprepossessing youth too. His face was blotchy, almost as blotchy as his tie. His waistcoat was double-breasted and of a violent grey. He carried a vulgar little cane in his yellow-gloved hand.
That the trio were strangers to the city was indisputably betrayed by the consciousness of their manner and the elaborate precautions they were at to look at everything. The elder man drew attention to a sewer grating in the middle of the quadrangle, and pointed with his umbrella at the pigeons.
Presently they came to a halt, and produced a Baedeker, which provided them with small enlightenment.
“You are supposed to know French,” Wynne heard the elder man say, “then why not ask some one how we get into the place.”
“I can’t,” replied the son.
“Well, all I can say is it seems a very funny thing.”
While conversing they failed to observe the approach of an official guide, who, complete with ingratiating smile and a parchment of credentials, offered to pilot them round the galleries.
At this they at once took flight, with much head-shaking and confusion, and had the misfortune to run into the arms of two more of the fraternity. These two importuned them afresh.
“Certainly not,” said the paterfamilias, as though he had been asked to participate in some very disgraceful orgy.
An Englishman always runs away from a guide, although sooner or later he becomes a victim.
Being aware of this fact, one, more assiduous than the rest, followed them closely with invitations and beseechings, and headed them toward the spot where Wynne was standing. It was clear that the unhappy people were greatly unnerved, and equally clear that in a moment they would cease to retreat, and surrender.
Perceiving this, Wynne was conceived of an idea, and as they came abreast he brought to bear upon the guide with a quick barrage of Paris invective. In effect his words were: “These people are my friends—get out,” although he coloured up the phrase with some generosity. The victory was instantaneous, and a moment later he had raised his hat and was saying:
“I don’t think you will be bothered any more.”
“Very kind of you—very kind,” said the father, mopping his brow. “Great nuisance, these people.” And the lady favoured Wynne with a grateful smile.
“You were about to visit the galleries?”
“Well, we thought we’d take a look round, you know. The thing to do!”
“Oh, quite. Are you familiar with the Louvre?”
“Er, no—no. Can’t say we are—no.”
“H’m. I was wondering if I should offer to conduct you.”
“Hey? Well. Ho! I see! Not a bad idea! What do you say, Ada?”
“It would be very nice.”
“You do this job, then?”
“Occasionally. Not regularly.”
“Well, I don’t mind. Got to see the things, I s’pose.”
“It is customary, isn’t it?” smiled Wynne.
“Hum. How long will it take to do the place?”
“Five years—perhaps a little less.”
The joke was not well received, so Wynne modified it.
“I could show you the more vital points of interest in a couple of hours.”
“Two hours, eh? And you’d want how much an hour?”
Wynne considered. “Should we say five francs?” he suggested.
“Jolly sight too much, I call it,” observed the blotchy youth, whose name was Vincent. “Get a seat at a café chantong for that.”
“Well, what do you say?” said the father.
“I am silent, like the ‘G’ in chantong,” replied Wynne. He had begun to feel the spice of adventure in bartering, and would not give ground.
“We mustn’t forget we are on a holiday,” the mother reminded them.
“Let it go,” said the father; “and I only hope it will be worth it.”
“I can promise you it will be more than worth it,” said Wynne, and led the way to the entrance.
As they mounted the stairs, blotchy Vincent plucked at his sleeve and asked, sotto voce:
“I say, do you know Paris well?”
“Intimately. Why?”
“I only wondered.”
He nodded toward his parents and shook his head mysteriously.
Wynne was not entirely easy with his conscience at having accepted the post of guide, and determined to justify himself by a great liberality of artistic expression. He therefore began to talk with exceeding rapidity the moment they entered the first gallery.
“This collection is more or less mediocre, although one or two examples are worthy of attention. This Cupid and Psyche, for instance, may at first strike you as insipid, but it presents interesting features. You observe how there is a far greater similarity between the sexes than we find in nature. It is almost as though, by combining the two, the artist sought to arrive at the ideal human form.”
“Dare say he did,” admitted the father, rather uncomfortably, while the mother looked with eyes that saw nothing. Blotchy Vincent, on the other hand, pricked up his ears at the word “sex.”
“One might sum up this school by saying they were inspired by an hermaphroditic tendency.”
“M’yes. Well, I don’t think we need inquire into that. It’s—hardly—er—”
“The same spirit is prevalent in modern French sculpture.”
“I think we will have a look at something else.”
“That’s a nice picture,” said Mrs. Johns—for Johns was the name of the family. “Very nice, I call that—quiet!”
She directed their attention toward a large canvas depicting a lady sitting upon a couch with her legs resting straightly on its flat surface.
“Ah, that is a nice picture,” agreed Mr. Johns.
Vincent, however, lingered before Cupid and Psyche. It did not compare with sundry picture postcards he had seen, but it held greater attractions than the portrait of Madame Récamier.
“I consider the colour is disappointing,” observed Wynne—“disappointing and improbable. When one comes to consider that Madame Récamier held in her day the most popular Salon in Paris, and reflects that to do so she must inevitably have been demimondaine of the demimondaine, one is justified in expecting an added brilliance to the cheeks and an added scarlet to the lips.”
Hereupon Mr. Johns favoured Wynne with a warning look, which he was pleased to ignore.
“This particular canvas is illustrative of what somebody—I think Samuel Butler—said, that a portrait is never so much of the sitter as of the artist. Shall we take some of the older masters next?”
He led the way to an inner gallery, the Johns family trooping behind him. As they passed through the arched doorway Mr. and Mrs. Johns exchanged glances as though to say:
“I think we have made a great mistake introducing this young man into our God-fearing midst!”
Before the canvases of the Old Masters Wynne expanded his views with great liberality. Correggio and Botticelli were favoured with a kindly mention, Rembrandt was patted on the back, and Raphael severely criticized. An ill-advised appreciation of a canvas by Jordeans brought upon Mr. Johns a vigorous attack:
“Oh, believe me, very second-rate indeed. A mere copyist of Rubens, who, himself, in no way justified the position of being a target at which a self-respecting artist should aim. Here is a Titian now—”
“Oh, really!” said Mrs. Johns. “I’ve often heard of Titian red. Do you see, father, that’s a Titian.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Johns, consulting his catalogue. “So it is. Seems good!”
“Very wonderful how the colours last so long. Isn’t it pretty, Vincent?”
“I don’t know,” said Vincent, who was very bored. “Dare say it’s all right.”
“I wonder,” remarked Wynne, “if you can detect the fault in that picture.”
Mr. and Mrs. Johns half closed their eyes, by which means they fondly believed faults were more easily detected. After much consideration they produced the joint statement that it looked “a little funny—I don’t know!”
“The fault lies in the fact that there are no faults—which, to my way of thinking, is very heinous.”
“That sounds nonsense to me,” said Mr. Johns, who was getting heartily sick of the whole exposition.
“Not at all. There must be impurity to emphasize purity. Where would the Church be were it not for sinners? What would be the worth of virtue if there were no vice? Therefore I contend that nothing is so imperfect as perfection.”
Carried away by his own arguments, Wynne hurried his charges along to Leonardo’s “Baptist.”
Here he drew breath and started to speak afresh.
“An amazingly happy performance—instinct with life, saturated with humour. You notice the same classic tendency towards sexlessness? In my opinion this is all a painting should be. There is something astonishingly compelling in every line of the form and features.”
“She is certainly very pleasant-looking,” said Mrs. Johns. “Who was the young lady?”
“John the Baptist, madam.”
At this Mr. Johns very properly interposed with:
“I don’t tolerate jokes about the Bible, young man.”
Even Vincent looked as though he expected Wynne to be struck down by some divine and correcting hand. Mrs. Johns was frankly horrified.
“Look at your catalogue,” said Wynne.
This advice Mr. Johns accepted, but even the printed words failed to convince him.
“If that’s John the Baptist,” he remarked, “all I can say is that it’s not my idea of John the Baptist.”
“What is your idea, sir.”
“An elderly gentleman with a beard.”
“With all respect, I think Leonardo’s is preferable. Youth is more appealing than middle age. These half humorous, wholly inspired features would lose the greater measure of their attraction if the lower part of the face were covered with hair.”
“I don’t agree with you, and I don’t consider the subject at all a proper one,” said Mr. Johns sternly. “As for that picture, I am very sorry I’ve seen it.”
It is probable Wynne would have answered hotly had not Vincent advanced a suggestion:
“Why don’t you and the mater sit down for ten minutes,” he said. “This Mr.—er—can take me round for a bit.”
“I’d like to rest my feet,” admitted Mrs. Johns; “the leather has begun to draw.”
So Wynne and Vincent entered the next gallery together.
“My people are all right, you know,” said Vincent; “but they are a bit off in Paris, you know.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes. You know! Isn’t there anything a bit more lively we can see? I don’t think a lot of these Old Masters—damned if I do.”
Wynne had to bear in mind that he was the servant of these people, and accordingly he replied, civilly enough:
“Perhaps you’d like the more modern school better.”
“I thought French painting was a bit livelier, but it seems about as dud as the Liverpool Art Gallery. Aren’t there any more of those figure pictures?”
“Nudes?”
“That what you call ’em?”
“That is what they are called.”
“Let’s have a look at some, anyway.”
“We’ll go through here, then, and I’ll show you ‘La Source.’ It is considered remarkable flesh painting, although I don’t care for it very particularly.”
As they turned to the modern side, Vincent dropped his voice, and said:
“Pretty hot, Paris, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never been here in the summer,” replied Wynne, an answer which made his companion laugh very heartily.
“You are not giving much away, are you?” he mocked.
“There,” said Wynne; “this is ‘La Source.’ ”
He halted before Ingres’ masterpiece—the slim figure of a naked girl, a tilted pitcher on her shoulder, from which flows a fall of greeny-white water.
“Remarkable, perhaps, but not art.”
“No,” said Vincent, “I don’t like it either, you know. I see what you mean—it isn’t spicy enough, is it?”
“Spicy?”
“Yes—you know. Look here, I was wanting a chance to speak to you alone. I’ve got a bit of money.”
“You are more fortunate than I.”
“I don’t mind you having a bit of it.”
“Oh.”
“The mater and pater get to bed by 10 o’clock, and I could easily slip out after that.”
“It ought not to be difficult.”
“We could meet, I thought, and you could show me round a bit. See what I’m driving at?”
“No. What are you driving at?”
“I want to see a bit of life, and you’re the chap to show it me.”
And suddenly Wynne became very angry, so angry that his face went pink and white in turns.
“What the hell do you mean?” he exploded. “Do you take me for a disorderly house tout?”
“Shut up—don’t shout.”
“You dirty, pimply— Good God!”
“If you call me names you won’t get your money.”
“Money!” cried Wynne. “D’you think I’d take money from any one who begat a thing like you. Clear out, get away, and tell your father, when next he thinks he’d like a son, to blow out his brains instead.”
Thrusting his hands in his empty pockets, and tossing his head from side to side, Wynne stamped furiously from the gallery and down the steps to the courtyard below.
It was two hours before he recovered an even temper, and then he surprised many passers-by by stopping in the middle of the Rue de Rivoli and shouting with laughter.
“One up to my immortal soul,” he cried. “And now for Les Arles!”