Chapter 41 Chapter Forty-One

Philip strolled along the Avenue Montparnasse.The Paris in front of him was very different from what he had seen when he came to settle the accounts of the St. George's Hotel in the spring--he shuddered every time he thought of that period of life--in terms of appearance, it was quite different from what he had seen in his mind. Towns in other provinces are about the same.There is a leisurely atmosphere all around; the bright sunshine and broad vision draw people's minds into ecstatic dreams.The neatly trimmed trees, the vibrant white houses, and the wide streets are all refreshing.He felt that he had fully adapted to life here.He strolled leisurely in the street, looking at the passers-by.It seemed to him that even the most ordinary Parisians, the workmen with their wide red sashes and baggy trouser legs, and the small soldiers in their faded but attractive uniforms, seemed to glow with radiance. Moving style.After a while, he came to Observatory Avenue, and he couldn't help but admire the majestic and elegant scene before his eyes.He came to the Luxembourg Gardens again: children were playing, nannies with long ribbons on their hair walked in pairs; Such fancy clothes.The scenery is well-proportioned and exquisite.Although the natural scenery bears the traces of man-made ax chiseling, it looks exquisite and translucent.From this point of view, if the natural scenery is not artificially modified, it will be lost to vulgarity.Philip was intoxicated.He had read many descriptions about this scenic spot in the past, and now that he was finally there, how could he not be overjoyed and overwhelmed.To him, it was a place of art and literature with a long history, and he was as awed and delighted as when an old pedant saw the bright and colorful plain of Sparta for the first time.

Philip was walking about, and now and then he caught a glimpse of Miss Price sitting alone on a bench.He hesitated. He really didn't want to see any acquaintances at the moment, and besides, her rude behavior was very out of harmony with the cheerful atmosphere around him.But he intuitively recognized that she was a nervous, unoffensive woman.Now that she has seen herself, out of politeness, she should also have a few words with her. "How did you come here?" she asked, seeing Philip approaching. "Let's relax. What about you?" "Well, I'm up here every afternoon from four to five. I don't think it's going to do any good to work all day."

"May I sit here for a while?" he said. "As you wish." "You don't seem very polite," he said with a smile. "I'm a clumsy person, and I'm not born with sweet words." Embarrassed, Philip silently lit a cigarette. "Has Clutton ever commented on my paintings?" she asked abruptly. "I don't think he said anything," said Philip. "You know, he's not a great guy. He thinks he's a genius, and it's pure nonsense. If nothing else, he's too lazy to be lazy. A genius should be able to suffer a lot and endure a lot of work. The most important thing is to have The tenacity of persevering in stock exchanges. Nothing is difficult in the world, as long as there is a heart."

When she spoke, the passion was palpable.She was wearing a black sailor straw hat, a dirty white shirt and a brown skirt.She wasn't wearing gloves, and those hands really deserved a good wash.She had no charm, and Philip regretted accosting her.He could not tell whether Miss Price wished him to stay, or wished him to go away. "I will do my best for you," she said suddenly, incoherently. "I know how difficult it is." "Thank you very much," said Philip.After pausing for a while, he said again: "I invite you to have tea, will you appreciate it?" She glanced at him quickly, blushing deeply.She blushed, and her pale skin was suddenly mottled, and she looked strange, like strawberries mixed with spoiled cream.

"No, thanks, why do you think I want tea? I just had lunch." "I suppose it would kill the time," said Philip. "Oh, if you're bored, you don't need to worry about me. I'm not too lonely when I'm alone." At this time, two men walked by.They wore brown cotton wool jackets, baggy trousers, and Basque caps.They were young, but they had beards. "Well, they're art students, aren't they?" said Philip. "Looks like they jumped out of La Bohemian's Life." "Yankees," said Miss Price contemptuously. "The French stopped wearing this kind of clothing thirty years ago. But those young men from the western United States bought this kind of clothing as soon as they arrived in Paris, and hurriedly wore it for a photo. Their artistic attainments are probably limited to That's it. They don't care, there's plenty of money anyway."

Philip admired the bold and unique dress of those Americans, thinking that it reflected the romantic temperament of the artist.Miss Price asked Philip what time it was. "I have to go to the studio," she said. "Are you going to take a sketching class?" Philip had no idea that there were sketching lessons.She told Philip that there were models in the studio for people to sketch from five to six every night, and anyone who wanted to go would only have to pay fifty centimes.The models change every day, and this is a rare opportunity to practice painting. "I think your current level is not enough, it's better to go after a period of time."

"I don't see why you can't try a pen! There's nothing to do anyway." They stood up and walked towards the studio.As far as Miss Price's manner was concerned, Philip could not tell whether she wished to have him as company, or whether she would rather go alone.To tell the truth, he stayed with her out of sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to get out of it; and Miss Price would not say much, and she was always indifferent to Philip's questions to her. brief. A man was standing at the door of the studio, holding in his hand a large plate into which everyone who entered the studio had to throw a half franc.The studio was full, and there were many more people than in the morning. Among them, the British and Americans no longer accounted for the majority, and the proportion of women also decreased.Such a large crowd seemed to Philip quite at odds with the picture he had of painters.The atmosphere was warm, and the air in the room soon became cloudy.This time the model was an old man with a big gray beard on his chin.Philip tried to try the little technique he had learned this morning, and he drew very badly.Only then did he realize that he had really overestimated his painting skills.Philip glanced admiringly at the work of some of the fellow painters around him, and wondered if he would ever be able to handle charcoal with such ease.An hour flew by quickly.He didn't want to cause Miss Price any more trouble, so he deliberately found a place to sit without her just now.At last, when Philip passed her going out, Miss Price stopped him abruptly, and asked how he was doing.

"Not so easy," he said with a smile. "If you'd condescended to sit next to me just now, I could have given you a hint. You seem to have a high opinion of yourself." "No, nothing. I'm afraid you'll find me annoying." "If I really wanted to, I'd tell you to your face." Philip found that she showed her helpful kindness in her characteristic rude way. "Then I will rely on you a lot tomorrow." "It's okay," she replied. Philip left the studio, not knowing what to do with the time before dinner.He wanted to do something original.How about some absinthe!Of course it is necessary.So he strolled towards the station, sat down on the open-air table of a café, and ordered a glass of absinthe.He took a sip and felt nauseous, but he was very pleased with himself.The drink was unpleasant in the mouth, but the spirit was excellent: he now felt like a full-fledged student of art.Because he drank on an empty stomach, he felt ecstasy after drinking a glass.He stared at the crowd around him, feeling as if everyone in the world was brothers.He was very happy.Clutton's table was already full when he came to Grevia's, but he greeted Philip loudly as he saw Philip limping along.They made room for him.Dinner is quite frugal, a pot of soup, a plate of meat, plus fruit, cheese and half a bottle of wine.Philip didn't care about the food in front of him, he just looked at the people at the same table.Flanagan was there too.He was an American, very young, with a snub-nosed, funny face and a grinning mouth.He wore a plaid Norfolk jacket, a blue stiff neckerchief around his neck, and a queer tweed cap on his head.At that time, the Latin Quarter was dominated by the Impressionists, but the old school only became popular recently.Carolus-Durand, Bouguereau and his like are still being promoted to compete with Manet, Monet and Degas.Appreciation of the works of the old school of painters is still a sign of taste and elegance.Whistler and his insightful collection of Japanese prints had a great influence on British painters and compatriots.Old masters are tested by new standards.The admiration of Raphael for centuries in the world is now a laughing stock among bright young people.They felt that his oeuvre was inferior to a portrait of Philip IV painted by Velázquez, which is now displayed in the National Gallery.Philip found that talking about art had become the fashion.Lawson, whom he had met at lunch, was there, sitting across from him.He was a small, freckled young man with red hair and glowing green eyes.After Philip sat down, Lawson looked at him intently, and suddenly began to talk loudly:

"Raphael was only passable when he copied other people's works. For example, he copied those paintings by Peruchino or Pinturiccio, which were very pleasing, but when he wanted to paint his own style in the works, Just a—" He said with a contemptuous shrug, "—Raphael." Philip was secretly startled at Lawson's tone of voice, but he did not have to answer him, for Flanagan interrupted impatiently. "Oh, to hell with art!" he cried. "Let's drink and drink until we're drunk." "You had a good enough drink last night, Flanagan," said Lawson.

"Last night was last night, and I was talking about a good night," he answered. "Think about it, after coming to Paris, I have been thinking about art and art all day long." When he spoke, he spoke with a strong western accent. "Hey, you have to be happy to be happy in life." He cheered up and slammed his fist on the dining table. "Listen to me, to hell with art!" "It's enough to say it once, why do mother-in-law and mother-in-law keep nagging," Clutton said with a straight face. There was also an American at the same table. His attire was exactly the same as those young men Philip saw in the Luxembourg Gardens in the afternoon.He was very handsome, with black eyes shining, and a thin and stern face.He was a bit of a desperate pirate in that quirky and funny costume.From time to time his thick black hair fell down over his eyes, so now and then he made a dramatic movement, throwing his head back and shaking the long locks out of the way.He began to discuss Manet's famous painting "Olambia", which was displayed in the Luxembourg Palace at the time.

"Today I lingered in front of this painting for an hour. It's not a painting, to be honest. It's the best." Lawson put down the knife and fork in his hand, and his green eyes were about to sparkle.He was so angry that even his breathing became short of breath. It was not difficult to see that he was trying to suppress his anger. "Wouldn't it be fun to hear an uninitiated wild boy talk," he said. "We would like to ask, what is so wrong with this painting?" Before the American had time to speak, he took up the conversation angrily. "You mean to say that, looking at that lifelike painting of a nude, you can say it's not a masterpiece?" "I didn't say that. I think the right breast is pretty good." "Fuck your right breast," Lawson yelled at the top of his voice. "The whole painting is a miracle in the art garden. " He narrated at length the wonders of this masterpiece, but no one at this table in Grevia's restaurant was listening to him—he was the only beneficiary of anyone who made a long speech.The American interrupted Lawson aggressively. "You don't necessarily mean to say that you think the head is well drawn, do you?" Lawson, now pale with emotion, tried to justify the head of the picture.And that Clutton, who had been sitting silently, with a tolerant sneer on his face, suddenly spoke. "Just give him that head, and we can part with it. It doesn't detract from the perfection of this painting." "Well, I'll give you this head," cried Lawson, "take it and go to hell with it." "And what's with that black line?" the American said aloud, raising his hand triumphantly, brushing back a lock of hair that nearly fell into the soup bowl. "All things in nature are full of wonders, but I have never seen black lines around them." "Oh, God, send down a fire from heaven, and burn this god-reading bastard!" said Lawson. "What does nature have to do with this painting? Who can tell what is and what is not in nature! This man sees nature through the eyes of an artist. No! For centuries, the world has seen horses jumping When you go over a fence, you always keep your legs straight. Oh, by God, sir, horses do! The world saw shadows as black until Monet discovered that they had colors. Yes, by God, sir, shadows are black indeed. If we outline objects with black lines, the world will see black outlines, and such outlines really exist; Paint grass and trees red and cows blue, and people will see them as red and blue, and by God they will be red and blue!" "To hell with art!" murmured Flanagan, "I want a boozy drink!" Lawson ignored him. "Now notice, when "Olambia" was exhibited at the Paris Art Exhibition, Zola -- amidst the cynicism of ordinary people, the moaning of old-school painters, pedants, and the public In the middle-one Zola announced: I look forward to the day when Manet's paintings will be displayed in the Louvre Palace, just opposite to Ingres's "The Slave". "Slave." "Olanbia" will certainly hang there, and I see the time drawing nearer. Within ten years, "Olanbia" will have a place at the Louvre." "Never into the Louvre," cried the American, throwing back his hair violently with both hands, as if wanting to settle the trouble once and for all. "Within ten years, that painting will be gone. It's just a hit and miss. Any painting that lacks something of substance can't be alive, and by that, Manet's painting The difference is more than one hundred and eight thousand guards." "What is substance?" "No great art can exist without a moral content." "Oh, dear!" Lawson growled furiously. "I knew that was the case. What he cares about is moral teaching." He clasped his hands together, as if praying to God: "Oh, Christopher Columbus. Christopher Columbus, are you here?" Did you know what you were doing when you discovered America?" "Ruskin said..." He was about to go on, when Clutton suddenly slammed the handle of his knife on the table. "Gentlemen," he said sharply, his big nose visibly creased and wrinkled from overexcitement. "Someone mentioned a name just now that I never expected to hear in high society. Freedom of speech is a good thing, but there has to be a certain amount of moderation. You can talk about Bu Gerow: It's an offensive name, but it sounds relaxing and funny. But let's not let names like Ruskin, G.F. Watts, and E.B. Jones tarnish it. Our chaste lips." "Who does this Ruskin belong to?" Flanagan asked. "One of the great men of the Victorian age, a master of fine style." "Ruskin style -- a hodgepodge of gibberish and rhetoric," says Lawson "Besides, to hell with all the great Victorians! I turn over the papers and whenever I see a great man's obituary, I'm glad: Thank goodness there's one less of these fellows. Their only thing is to master the art of health." One can grow old and not die. When artists turn forty, they should be sent to God. At that age a man's best work is done. After that, all he does is grow old. Replay. Don't you think that Keats, Shelley, Bonnington, Byron, etc., died in their early years, and they were really lucky in the world? If Swinburne published the first volume of "Poetry and Ballads" What a genius he will be in our minds when he passed away on the day he passed away!" This remark touched everyone's heart, because no one present here is over twenty-four years old.They immediately discussed with relish.This time they spoke with one voice and agreed with each other, and each played their part to the fullest.Someone proposed to bring all the works of forty academicians and light a large bonfire, and every great Victorian man who turned forty would have to throw it into it.The proposal drew applause.Carlyle, Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B. Jones, Dickens, and Thackeray were hastily thrown into the flames.Mr. Gladstone, John Bright, and Cobden, too, met the same fate.As for George Meredith, there was a brief quarrel; as for Matthew Arnold and Emerson, they were quickly burned by illness.Finally it was Walter Pater's turn. "Forget Walter Pate," muttered Philip. Lawson stared at him for a moment with those green eyes, then nodded. "You're right. Only Walter Pater proved the real value of the Mona Lisa. Do you know Cronshaw? He used to be very close to Pater." "Who is Cronshaw?" "He's a poet, and lives near here. Now let us go to the Lilac Garden." Lilac Garden was a coffee shop where they used to hang out after dinner.Cronshaw was sure to be met there after nine in the evening and before two in the morning.Flanagan, who had had enough of an evening of fine talk, turned to Philip at Lawson's suggestion, and said: "Oh man, let's get some fun somewhere with girls. Go to Montparnasse and let's get drunk on it." "I'd rather go to Cronshaw than get myself drunk," said Philip, laughing.