Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [112]
“That’s a fine line,” he said at last, indicating with his thumb what pleased him. “You’re beginning to learn to draw.”
Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of sardonic indifference to the world’s opinion.
“I’m beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent.”
Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into technical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton did not say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt with satisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of them listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinet got up and came to Philip.
“He only arrived two days ago,” Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. “He’s a beginner. He’s never studied before.”
“Ça se voit,” the master said. “One sees that.”
He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him:
“This is the young lady I told you about.”
He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice grew more rasping.
“It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You have been complaining to the massière. Well, show me this work to which you wish me to give attention.
Fanny Price colored. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of a strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on which she had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down.
“Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it is good? It isn’t. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn’t. Do you wish me to say it has merit? It hasn’t. Do you wish me to show you what is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to do with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now? ”
Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all this before Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and could understand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words.
“He’s got no right to treat me like that. My money’s as good as anyone else’s. I pay him to teach me. That’s not teaching me.”
“What does she say? What does she say?” asked Foinet.
Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable French:
“Je vous paye pour m ‘apprendre.”
His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist.
“Mais, nom de Dieu, I can’t teach you. I could more easily teach a camel.” He turned to Mrs. Otter. “Ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?”
“I’m going to earn my living as an artist,” Miss Price answered.
“Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long have you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better than you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. You’re more likely to earn your living as a bonne à tout faire than as a painter. Look.”
He seized a piece of charcoal and it broke as he applied it to the paper. He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom.
“Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it’s grotesque. I tell you a child of five. You see, she’s not standing on her legs. That foot!”
With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was unrecognizable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down the charcoal and stood up.
“Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking.” He looked at his watch. “It’s twelve. A la semaine