Chapter 48 Chapter Forty-eight

Philip returned to Amitrano's studio to find that Fanny Price was no longer studying painting there.The key to her personal locker has also been returned to the school.Philip asked Mrs. Otter how she was, and Mrs. Otter shrugged her shoulders and said that she had probably gone back to England.Philip was relieved to hear that.Her bad temper was unbearable.What's even more irritating is that when Philip was painting, she had to point fingers at him. If Philip didn't follow her advice, she thought it was intentional neglect and ignored her.Little did he know that Philip was no longer the stupid boy who knew nothing.It was not long before Philip forgot all about her.Now he is fascinated by oil painting, and he hopes to paint one or two important works so that he can participate in the Paris art exhibition next year.Lawson was painting Miss Chalice's portrait.As far as the young lady's appearance is concerned, she is indeed quite picturesque, and all the young people who fell at her feet have painted for her.Her natural languid demeanor, coupled with her fondness for posing, made her a rare model.Besides, she is also very good at dealing with the door, and she can also give some pertinent opinions on the sidelines.The reason why she is passionate about art is mainly because she yearns for the career of an artist.As for whether his studies have improved, he doesn't care.She liked the lively atmosphere in the studio and the chance to smoke a lot.In a deep, melodious voice, she talked about the love of art, about the art of loving, and she couldn't tell the difference between the two.

Lawson had been working hard of late, almost to the point of forgetting food and sleep.He continued to paint for several days, until he couldn't hold on, and then he scraped off all the painted parts.Luckily it was Ruth Chalice, who would have grown impatient with anyone else.In the end, the picture was messed up by him beyond repair. "Looks like we'll just have to change the canvas and rebuild the stove," he said. "This time I have a solid idea, and it won't take me long to finish the painting." Philip happened to be there, and Miss Chalice said to him: "Why don't you come and draw me one too? You'll learn a lot from watching Mr. Lawson paint."

Miss Chalice addressed her lovers by their last names--and that was the subtlety of her dealings. "If Lawson doesn't mind, of course I'd be more than happy." "I don't care!" said Lawson. It was the first time for Philip to draw a portrait. Although he was a little nervous at the beginning, he was very proud of it.He sat next to Lawson.While watching him draw, draw by myself.With such an example before him, and the unreserved advice of Lawson and Miss Chalice, Philip benefited greatly.In the end, Lawson was finally done and asked Clutton to criticize and advise.Clutton had just returned to Paris.He went down from Provence to Spain, eager to see Velázquez's works in Madrid, and then he went to Toledo for three months.When he came back, he kept chanting a name that sounded strange to these young people: he tried his best to praise a painter named El Greco, and said that if you want to learn his painting, it seems very important. Can't go to Toledo.

"Oh, yes, I've heard of this man," said Lawson. "He's an old master, but the thing about him is that his work is as bad as the moderns." Clutton, more taciturn than ever, made no answer now, but gave Lawson a mocking look. "Are you going to show us the masterpiece you brought back from Spain?" "I didn't draw anything in Spain, I was too busy." "Then what are you up to?" "I'm thinking. I believe I'm done with the Impressionists. I think that in a few years, their work will be very empty and superficial. I want to throw away everything I've learned and start from scratch. .When I came back, I destroyed everything I had painted. In my studio, there was nothing left but an easel, my paints, and a few clean canvases."

"Then what are you going to do?" "I can't tell. I have only a vague idea of ​​what to do next." He spoke slowly and with a strange air, as if he were listening for some barely audible sound.There seemed to be a mysterious power in him that even he didn't understand, and he was faintly struggling to find an opportunity to vent.His energy is really a bit aggressive.Lawson said that he respectfully asked for advice, but he was a little flustered in his heart, and hurriedly put on a posture of dismissing Clutton's views, so as to dilute the possible criticism.But Philip could see clearly that Lawson wished to hear some words of approval from Clutton.Clutton stared at the portrait for a moment without saying a word, then glanced at the picture on Philip's easel.

"What's that?" he asked. "Oh, I also tried drawing portraits." "Learn to draw a ladle from a gourd," he muttered. He turned again to look at Lawson's canvas.Philip blushed and said nothing. "Well, what's your opinion?" Lawson couldn't help asking at last. "It's very three-dimensional," Clutton said. "I think it looks pretty good." "Do you see that the light and dark levels are okay?" "Pretty good." Lawson grinned happily.Like a drowning dog, his body shook with his clothes. "Hey, I can't express how happy you are that you like this painting."

"I don't! I don't think the picture is interesting." Lawson straightened his face and looked at Clutton in astonishment, wondering what kind of medicine he was selling in his gourd.Clutton was not very eloquent, and seemed to be speaking with considerable difficulty, incoherent, stammering, and rambling, but Philip could make sense of his ramblings.Clutton never read a book himself, and these words had first been heard from Cronshaw, and though not deeply impressed at the time, remained in his memory.Recently, these words came to his mind suddenly, and gave him some new revelation: a good portrait has two main objects, namely, the person and the will of the heart.The Impressionists were preoccupied with other things, and though their figures were admirable in form and colour, they, like the English portrait painters of the eighteenth century, bothered as little as they could about the will of their souls.

"But if you go in that direction, you'll be very bookish," interposed Lawson. "Let me paint figures like Manet, what the will of the soul, to hell with him!" "It would be great if you could surpass Manet in portrait painting, which he is good at, but in fact you can't catch up with his level. The place you are standing on today is bare and nothing. How can you stand on the ground?" Do you want to enrich your creation with old things on the current site? You have to go back down-to-earth. It was not until I saw El Greco’s works that I opened my eyes and felt that I could get something different from portraits. Know something."

"That's back to Ruskin's way!" cried Lawson. "No--you see, he likes to preach, and I don't give a damn about that. Preaching, ethics, and stuff like that, it's no use at all, it's passion and emotion that matter. Greatest portraitist, Not only outline the appearance of the characters, but also describe the wishes of the characters' hearts. LeBron and El Greco are like this. Only second-rate painters are limited to depicting the appearance of the characters. The lily of the valley, even if it has no fragrance , is also pleasing; but if it can still emit bursts of fragrance, it will be even more charming. That painting, "he pointed to the portrait drawn by Lawson" well, the composition is good, and the three-dimensional effect is also good, that is There is nothing new. Logically speaking, the outline of the lines and the performance of the body should let you see that this is a coquettish woman at a glance. It is good to have an accurate shape, but the characters in El Greco's works are tall Eight feet, because otherwise it would not be enough to express what he wanted to express."

"Fuck El Greco," said Lawson, "we've never even seen a man's work, and here's talking about him, and that's not a piece of shit!" Clutton shrugged, silently lit a cigarette, and walked away.Philip and Lawson looked at each other. "He's not unreasonable," said Philip. Lawson stared at his painting resentfully. "Is there any other way to express the will of the character's heart than to sketch exactly what you see?" About this time Philip made a new friend.Monday morning, models.As usual, you have to go to the school to apply for the election, and those who are selected will stay and work for a week.Once, a young man was selected, who was obviously not a professional model.Philip was fascinated by his posture: he stepped onto the platform, crossed his legs at right angles, stood firmly, clenched his fists, and leaned his head proudly forward, a posture that clearly showed his physical fitness; His body is moderately fat and thin, and his bulging muscles are like cast iron.The hair is cut very short, the outline of the head is very graceful, and there is a short beard on the chin; a pair of big and black eyes, and two thick and thick eyebrows.He remained in this position for hours on end without any sign of fatigue.In his slightly ashamed demeanor, there was a faint sense of fortitude.He was full of life and radiance, which excited Philip's romantic reveries.When he was done and dressed he seemed to Philip like a king in rags.He is reticent and doesn't speak easily.A few days later Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard who had never been in the trade before.

"He was hungry, I suppose," said Philip. "You noticed his clothes? They're neat and respectable, aren't they?" It just so happened that American Potter, who was studying painting in Amitrano's studio, was going to Italy at this time.Staying for a few months, willing to let Philip borrow his studio.Philip was asking for it.He was growing impatient with Lawson's commanding instruction, and was thinking of going to live alone.On weekends, he ran up to the model, excused that his painting was not finished, and asked him if he would come to his place to work an overtime day. "I'm not a model," replied the Spaniard, "I have other things to do next week." "Come and dine with me now, and we may talk over it," said Philip.Seeing that the other party was hesitant, he smiled and said, "Eating a light meal with me will screw you over." The model shrugged and agreed, and they went to a pastry shop together.The model spoke broken French, and the words came out in a flurry of words, so it sounded like a struggle.Philip dealt with it carefully, and talked with him fairly speculatively.The Spaniard was a writer who came to Paris to write novels, and during this period he did almost all the drudgery of a poor man for a living: he taught, translated, mainly business documents (whatever he could get his hands on, no matter what) Translate everything), in the end, I had to rely on my bodybuilding to make money.Modeling for others, the income is not bad. The money he earns this week is enough for him to spend the next two weeks.He told Philip (to Philip's amazement) that he could live comfortably on two francs.But he was ashamed to have to be naked in order to earn a few bucks.In his view, being a model is a kind of depravity, and the only consolation is: you don't have to starve to death.Philippe explained that he didn't want to paint the whole body, but a single head. He hoped to paint a head portrait of him and try to send it to the next Paris art exhibition for exhibition. "Why do you have to paint me?" asked the Spaniard. Philip replied that he was very interested in the shape of his head, and might be able to paint a successful portrait. "I don't have the time. I don't like to squeeze out even a minute of my writing time." "But I just want to occupy your afternoon. In the morning I paint at school. Anyway, it's better to sit and let me paint than to translate legal documents." Students of different nationalities in the Latin Quarter once got along very well, and it is still a good story, but it is a pity that this has long been a thing of the past.Today, almost as in Eastern cities, students of different nationalities do not communicate with each other.At Julien's studio or at the Academy of Fine Arts, a French student who struggles with foreigners is looked upon by his compatriots; and an Englishman living in Paris seems to be more familiar with the natives of his city than he is. It is still difficult to reach the sky.To be honest, there are many students who have lived in Paris for five years and only learned enough French to be useful in running shops and restaurants.They still live an authentic British life, as if working and studying in South Kensington. Philip had always been obsessed with romantic things, and now that he had the opportunity to get in touch with a Spaniard, he was certainly not willing to let it go.He twitched his tongue like a reed, persuading and coaxing, trying to make sense of the other party. "I say let it be," said the Spaniard at last. "I promise to model for you, not for money, but for my own pleasure." Philip persuaded him to accept some payment, but the other party refused very firmly.It was finally agreed that he would come next Monday at one o'clock in the afternoon.He gave Philip a card with his name on it: Miguel Ajuria. Miguel came regularly as a model, and although he refused to charge him, he asked Philip from time to time to borrow fifty francs or something, so that Philip actually spent only a little more than what he was usually paid.However, the Spaniards were satisfied, because the money was not earned by hard work.Since he had Spanish nationality, Philip took him as a representative of the romantic nation and insisted that he talk about Seville and Granada, Velázquez and Calderon.But Miguel doesn't take the brilliant culture of his own country seriously.Like many of his compatriots, he believed that only France could be considered a place of excellence, and that Paris was the center of the world. "Spain is finished," he cried. "No writers, no art, nothing." Gradually Miguel revealed his ambitions to Philip, with all the rhetoric peculiar to his nation.He is writing a novel, which he hopes will make him famous.He was deeply influenced by Zola and took Paris as the main life scene in his novels.He told Philip the plot of the novel in detail.To Philip it seemed vulgar and boring, and the juvenile descriptions of filth—cest la vie, mon cher, cest la vie, he cried—made the story even more trite.He was placed in unimaginable predicaments, insisted on writing for two years, endured hardships, abstained from desires, abandoned all the pleasures of life that attracted him to Paris in the first place, and willingly starved for art; Nor can it stop the determination to realize his lifelong ambition.This kind of painstaking spirit is really amazing. "Why don't you write about Spain?" cried Philip. "That would be much more interesting. You know life there." "Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life." One day, he brought some manuscripts and read and translated by himself.He was so excited, and his French was so bad that Philip could hardly understand what he was talking about.He read several paragraphs in one breath.It's really bad.Philip looked at his painting in a daze: he really couldn't understand that the thoughts hidden behind the broad brows were so shallow and mediocre; the pair of shining and passionate eyes only saw the superficial appearance of life.Philip always felt dissatisfied with his paintings, and almost always scraped off the finished picture at the end of each painting.Portraits of people are intended to express the will of the soul, which sounds good, but if you are presented with characters full of contradictions, who can say what the will of the soul is?He liked Miguel, and it pained him to see his hard work go nowhere.He has almost all the conditions to be a good writer, but he lacks talent.Philip looked at his work.Who can tell whether there is indeed a genius in this, or is it just a waste of time?Obviously, the will to never give up until you reach your goal will not help you much, and self-confidence is meaningless.Philip thought of Fanny Price: a woman who believed in her natural gifts and had a remarkable amount of willpower. "If I knew I wasn't going to be great, I'd rather quit painting," said Philip. "I don't think there's much to be gained as a second-rate painter." One morning when he was about to go out, the porter stopped him and said there was a letter from him.No one else wrote to him except Aunt Louisa, and now and then Hayward.And the handwriting of this letter he had never seen before.The letter reads: Please come to me as soon as you see the letter.I can't take it any longer.You must come in person.I just can't stand the thought of having someone else touch my body.I want to leave everything to you. van price I haven't had a bite of food for three days. Philip felt a sudden panic and went limp all over.He hurried straight to her residence.To his surprise, she remained in Paris.He hadn't seen her for months and thought she had gone back to England long ago.Once there, he asked the porter if she was at home. "Yes, I haven't seen her go out for two days." Philip rushed upstairs in one breath and knocked on the door.When no one answered inside, he called her name.The door was locked, and he stooped to look and found the key in the lock. "Oh, God, I hope she hasn't done anything stupid," he cried out. He hurried downstairs to tell the porter that she must be in the room.He had just received a letter from her and worried that something had happened.He suggested prying the door open.At first the concierge had a serious face and didn't want to listen to him, but later he realized the seriousness of the situation and panicked for a while.He couldn't take the responsibility for breaking in and insisted on calling in the Chief of Police.Together they went to the police station, and then they got the locksmith.Philip learned that Miss Price still owed last quarter's rent.On New Year's Day, no gift was given to the concierge, and the concierge considered it a matter of course to receive gifts from tenants on New Year's Day according to the custom.The four of them went upstairs together and knocked on the door again, but no one answered.The locksmith started to unlock the lock, and finally everyone entered the room.Philip gave a cry, and instinctively put his hands over his eyes.The poor girl had hanged herself--the rope was attached to the hook in the ceiling which a previous lodger used to hang the bed curtains.She moved her little bed aside, first stood on the chair, and then pushed the chair away with her two feet.The chair is now on its side on the floor.They cut the rope and let her down.Her body was already completely cold.