Crusader's Tomb Page 6

  More and more, beneath Dupret’s aloofness and grand manner, Stephen began to discern a worm-eaten core of disappointment, the galling bitterness of a man who in his heart knows that he has failed to fulfil his youthful expectations. To have won recognition in official circles, to exhibit annually at the Salon (a safe, carefully executed picture which was always well hung), to sit upon boards and committees, to represent ‘art’ in white gloves at government receptions – did these distinctions mean anything to one who had wished to rock the world with a tremendous masterpiece? Dupret had no real interest in his studio and still less in his students except when, with a stab of jealousy, he came upon evidence of a talent that might surpass his own. Behind the façade he was a hollow man, a man driven by the man he was supposed to be, a man more worthy to be pitied than despised. Indeed, as the professor strode impressively into the room, Stephen had a queer vision of him, at the end of the day, slowly removing the tight frock coat and shiny button boots, easing his corns by wriggling his crushed toes, then, seated hunched before the stove in his showy studio, turning to the half-finished canvas A Breton Wedding, thinking with a shudder: Mon dieu, must I go on with this?

  At lunch-time Stephen usually went with Chester to Madame Chobert’s, but occasionally he escaped from Harry’s effusive friendship and wandered alone along the quays, munching a petit pain in which lay a slice of ham, enlivened by yellow mustard. Then, with quickening steps, he sped to the museums, to the Louvre or the Luxembourg. It was almost dark when, with eyes not yet reattuned to the realities of the street, he left the long galleries and walked back to the Clifton.

  To Chester, and the few other acquaintances he made at Dupret’s, it seemed extraordinary that Stephen should spend his evenings alone, and several times he was pressed to join them in a visit to Montmartre. Upon one occasion he accepted, accompanied some half a dozen others to a café concert at La Toque Bleue, near the Moulin de la Galette.

  But he was dreadfully bored by scenes which were presumed to be vivid and exciting but were, in fact, stupidly futile. The dance-hall was a mass of stamping, pushing, circling humanity, semi-intoxicated, magnified and distorted by scores of mirrors, twisting themselves into uncouth shapes, to the blare of cheap brass. Surely nothing could be more frighteningly sad than the faces of the older habitués – hollow-cheeked and dead-eyed, strangely forbidding. Some of the well-known cocottes whom Chester pointed out to him were frankly hideous, their male escorts, dressed in tight black, sinister and degenerate.

  Later, several young women became attached to the party, which had now reached a boisterous stage. Stephen gazed at them curiously. Their raucous voices and gross camaraderie, their flinging of arms around necks and loudly whispered endearments, aroused in him a chilly distaste. As he sat there, pale and silent, like a fish out of water, one of the girls bent towards Chester, who had drunk a good deal, and with her eyes on Stephen, giggled and murmured something into his ear. Immediately Chester broke into a fit of laughter.

  At the time Stephen made no comment, but on the way home with Chester he brought the matter up.

  ‘It was nothing, old boy. She merely said’ – Chester, with a note of apology, modified the original unprintable remark – ‘that you were a queer one.’ He added, as Stephen turned away, ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself tonight. Don’t forget we’re going to Lambert’s on Wednesday. Call for me, at my place, beforehand.’

  On that day, towards four o’clock, Stephen set out for the Rue Bonaparte, where, at number 15, Harry had a lodging on the top floor. After a sharp climb of three flights of stairs, he became aware of a loud altercation going on inside, and pushing through the half-open door he found Chester arguing with a short man in a square black hat and drab overcoat who, quite unmoved, stood superintending the movements of a subordinate busily engaged in stowing into a capacious burlap bag the mantel clock, a pair of china vases, and other articles which decorated the room.

  ‘Now, if you please, your watch, Monsieur Chester.’

  ‘Oh, hang it all, Maurice,’ Chester pleaded, ‘not the watch. Not this time. Give me to the end of the week and you’ll be squared.’

  At this point Chester saw Stephen. For a moment he looked foolish; then, approaching, he forced a confident smile.

  ‘Isn’t it idiotic, Desmonde? I’ve just run over my allowance. And these wretched duns are stripping me. It’s practically nothing. A couple of hundred francs … and of course I shall have my cheque from the Mater at the end of the month. Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of asking you, still, if you could by any chance …’

  There was a slight pause; then Stephen said, willingly:

  ‘I’ll be glad to oblige you.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, old man. You shall have it back, with interest, the first of the month. Here you are, Maurice, you thief. Now foutre le camp.’

  He folded the crisp notes, which Stephen extracted from his wallet, and tossed them over to the bailiff, who, after counting them twice with a moist thumb, nodded silently, emptied the contents of the satchel upon the table, and, with an enigmatic bow, followed by his companion, slid out of the room.

  ‘Well! That’s over!’ Chester laughed cheerfully, as though at an excellent joke. ‘I should have missed my old pots. And of course there’s this …’ Placing the vases back upon the mantelpiece, he absently snapped open a small flat case and exhibited a round silver medal attached to a blue silk ribbon. Lowering his eyes, he hesitated, then added in a rather shamed fashion, which was quite charming:

  ‘One doesn’t mention these things, Desmonde. But since you’ve caught me off guard, so to speak … it’s the Albert Medal. I’m afraid they gave me it a couple of years ago.’

  ‘What for Chester?’ Stephen could not help feeling impressed.

  ‘Oh, saving life at sea, they called it. A silly old woman fell off the Folkestone steamer. Couldn’t blame her, it was rough as the devil … and winter. I happened to go in after her. It was absolutely nothing. We weren’t in the water more than half an hour before the steamer swung round and got a boat to us. But let’s forget it and get a move on. If we don’t hurry we’ll be late for tea.’

  With his good humour quite restored, Chester led the way downstairs, talking and laughing all the way to the Lamberts’ apartment, which was situated in a cul-de-sac well back from the Avenue Duquesne. Here, in a cobbled courtyard, stood a little grey stone pavilion – brightened artistically by an apple-green door and window-boxes of the same colour – which had once served as porter’s lodge for a great house in the days of Henri Quatre. Within, smelling of lunch and a recently burned pastille, the small, rather dim interior was made equally artistic by a few scattered rugs, beaded curtains, and bamboo chairs. A Spanish shawl was draped on the upright piano.

  Driven by Chester’s impetuosity, they were early. Lambert, drowsing in an easy-chair by the ashes of a wood fire, still seemed sunk in an after-luncheon lethargy, and barely lifted one heavy eyelid as they came in. But Mrs Lambert was there to welcome them. She was tall and slender, older than Stephen had expected, with large green eyes, features inclined to sharpness, sandy hair, and the milky skin which goes with it. Her afternoon dress, cut round at the neck in an arty fashion and with long full skirts, was of white brocade.

  While she and Chester talked, Stephen watched as she sat there, poised, with arching neck, against a lacquered screen, until, as if conscious of his scrutiny, she glanced towards him with an arch smile.

  ‘I hope you approve my dress?’

  As she seemed to invite a compliment, he said:

  ‘I’m sure Whistler would have wished to paint you in it.’

  ‘What a charming thing to say.’ She added, confidingly, ‘I made it myself.’

  Presently she went out and brought in tea, on a silver tray, with many cups, thin watercress sandwiches, and petits fours. When she began to pour Lambert yawned and stretched.

  ‘Tea!’ he cried. ‘ I can’t live without tea. Blessed, nourishing tea. Strong, Elise.
’ Accepting a cup, he balanced it airily. ‘This may even come from your extensive family plantations in Ceylon, Harry. Is not that a stimulating thought? Tell us if you recognise the flavour.’ He gazed at Stephen. ‘ Well … what have you been doing with yourself in the naughty city, Monsieur l’Abbé?’

  Stephen reddened. He saw that Chester had been talking about him.

  ‘I daresay it strikes you as ridiculous. A would-be parson turning to art.’ In a few words he went on to explain some of the circumstances of his coming to Paris.

  When he finished a slight pause followed, then Lambert exclaimed, with his usual irony:

  ‘Bravo, Abbé. Now that you’ve made your confession you have our unconditional absolution.’

  And Elise, leaning a little towards him, with her flattering smile, murmured:

  ‘You must have wanted terribly to paint. Now have some more tea.’

  As Stephen rose to hand over his cup his eye was caught by three fans, painted on silk in the Japanese manner, arranged upon the wall. He paused, struck by the delicacy of the work.

  ‘Who did these attractive things?’

  Lambert’s eyebrows lifted. He lit a cigarette before answering, almost too casually:

  ‘As a manner of fact, dear Abbé, these are mine. If it won’t bore you, I’ll show you some more of my work.’

  He put down his cup, and from a little side passage brought several canvases, then in a fatigued manner stood them, one after another, so that they caught all the light, on a tall chair by the window.

  Most of the paintings were quite small, and slight in subject – a spray of cherry blossom in a blue bowl, two willow trees overhanging a stagnant pool, a child in a straw hat seated in an arbour by a river – yet each had a decorative prettiness that enhanced the mere design. It was a quality which seemed to infuse the pale forms with a fastidious and elusive charm.

  When the paintings had been shown – they were few – Stephen turned to Lambert.

  ‘I had no idea you could paint like that … these are delightful.’

  Lambert pretended to shrug, but he was clearly gratified, while his wife, reaching out vivaciously, pressed Stephen’s hand.

  ‘Phil is really a genius. He does portraits too.’ Her green eyes lingered brightly. ‘If anyone you know should be interested in buying … I am the business partner.’

  After this, the doorbell rang and, in quick succession, a number of other guests arrived, all singularly appropriate to this atmosphere of refined bohemianism: a young man in white socks with a manuscript under his arm, another man, less young, but square-shouldered and well-groomed, from the American Embassy, a model called Nina whom Stephen had seen occasionally at Madame Chobert’s, a stout elderly Frenchman with an eyeglass who kissed Elise’s hand with touching gallantry and upon whom, as a potential purchaser, she turned all her blandishments. Fresh tea was brought, Lambert poured whisky, the sound of conversation deepened, and presently Stephen, who on his first visit did not wish to stay too long, rose to go. Both Philip and his wife pressed him to come again. Indeed, Mrs Lambert broke off a conversation to accompany him to the door.

  ‘Come with us up the river on Sunday. We’re picnicking at Champrosay.’ She paused, wide-eyed, with the air of delivering a compliment. ‘Philip has really taken to you.’

  On Sunday, then, and on other days thereafter, Stephen accompanied the Lamberts, sometimes alone, sometimes with Chester or others of their friends, to those lovely reaches of the Seine between Châtillon and Melun. They took the boteau mouche from the Pont Neuf to Ablon, where they hired a skiff and pulled with leisurely strokes against the slow green stream, winding placidly between banks made glorious by the Forest of Sénart until, mooring at some riverside inn, they disembarked to lunch at a wooden table in the open air.

  The weather was superb, the foliage at its moment of most mature beauty, the hollyhocks and the sunflowers in full bloom. The sparkling sunshine and caressing air, the exercise, these congenial friends, the dazzling newness of every sight and sound, the hoot of a barge, the colour of a workman’s blouse, the pose of the lock-keeper’s wife as she stood against the sky, all of which awoke in him a quivering ecstasy, above all the belief that he had, at last, ‘found himself’ in the ‘artistic life’, acted like a drug on Stephen. Lambert, save for some moody hours, was in his most winning humour, teasing them all occasionally, exhibiting his brilliance, dropping a witticism here, an epigram there, reciting long passages from Verlaine and Les Fleurs du Mal.

  ‘More sacred than the Indus,’ he would murmur, pausing to catch his breath, trailing his long fingers in the cool current, his narrow chest heaving, the lock of hair drooping over his damp brow. ‘These water-lilies … chalices of purest alabaster … translucent pink … and cold … cold as the breasts of floating water nymphs …’ And so on.

  His eye for beauty was not confined to nature, and whenever the woman who waited on them at their inn was passably well-favoured he would, despite the sharp look in his wife’s eyes, flirt with her outrageously.

  At first Stephen brought a sketch-book with him, he longed to make a record of everything he saw, but Lambert discouraged him with a whimsical smile.

  ‘You must store it all here, dear Abbé.’ He tapped his forehead gently. ‘Later on … in solitude … it will be born again.’

  One Sunday evening, after an excursion of more than usual delight, Stephen took leave of the Lamberts and two others who had made up the boating party, and set out from the landing-stage on the Quai St Bernard for his hotel. The sun, now sinking, behind the dome of the Trocadéro, had blazed in the sky all day long. Enticed by the heat of the day, they had bathed in the pool below the weir at L’Hermitage, eaten a special lunch of cold trout and pâté, enriched by the noble Chambertin, then fallen asleep, afterwards on the warm grass beneath the Sénart beeches.

  How well he felt! … skin scorched by the sun, lungs full of country air, body tingling from the sharp river water … a kind of god-like satisfaction suffused him.

  Suddenly, as he crossed the Rue de Bièvre, a man stepped out of a narrow entry just ahead of him. He wore heavy boots, a pair of stained moleskin trousers, a patched blue porter’s blouse. About his neck a red kerchief was carelessly entwined. He looked like a labourer going home after a stint of hard and heavy toil, yet something in the set of the shoulders, the defiant carriage of the head, made Stephen start. He hurried forward.

  ‘Glyn.’

  Richard Glyn swung round, his face set and lowering, then, as he gazed, the frown which so deeply creased his forehead gradually lifted.

  ‘It’s you, Desmonde.… So you managed to get over.’

  ‘Five weeks ago.’ Stephen was smiling with pleasure. ‘And I’ve been hoping I’d run into you ever since. Look here, I’m just going back to the hotel. Do come and have dinner with me.’

  ‘Well,’ Glyn considered, ‘I’d be glad of a bite. I’ve had nothing to eat all day.’

  ‘Good heavens, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Painting … since six this morning,’ Glyn answered, with a kind of gloomy violence. ‘I’m apt to forget about lunch when I’m working … especially when I can’t master my cursed tone values.’

  As he spoke his agate-yellow eyes sparked with a sudden harsh impatience, the strain of a prolonged and passionately creative effort. Taking Stephen’s arm, he set out with him along the street.

  Chapter Eight

  Glyn’s appearance, in red neckerchief and hobnail boots, caused a mild stir in the Clifton dining-room. The ancient head waiter, reared in the tradition of English milords, did not like it, and the two spinster ladies, who had hitherto regarded Stephen with sympathetic approval, fluttered in shocked surprise. Richard, however, did not seem to mind and, settling himself in his chair, glanced round with visible curiosity.

  ‘Why in Heaven’s name do you stay in a place like this, Desmonde?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know … I’m used to it, I suppose.’

  Glyn tasted the
soup, made, as usual with flour and greasy water.

  ‘Perhaps you like the cooking?’ he suggested.

  Stephen laughed.

  ‘I know this isn’t up to much. But the meat course will be good.’

  ‘It had better be.’ Richard broke another roll. ‘I told you I was hungry. Some evening I’ll take you to a real eating-house.’

  ‘Madame Chobert’s?’

  ‘Good God, no! Not that artistic hash shop! … I hate sham in cooking as well as in painting. A cabman’s bistro near my place. You can always depend on a pub where the cabbies go. They have a rabbit pâté there that’s out of this world.’ Glyn paused. ‘Now tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  Willingly, indeed with enthusiasm, Stephen began a full account of all his recent doings. He spoke of his morning ‘grind’ at Dupret’s, glowed over his friendship with Chester and the Lambert’s, grew lyrical in describing the expeditions to Champrosay. At first Glyn listened with a half-sarcastic, half-indulgent smile, but gradually his expression turned serious, he glanced askance at his companion.

  ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, when the narrative concluded. ‘ You seem to have been busy. Perhaps you’ll take me up to your room afterwards and we’ll see what you’ve done.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t much to show you,’ Stephen answered hurriedly. ‘Only a few sketches. I’ve been concentrating on line, you see.’

  ‘I see,’ said Glyn.

  In complete silence he chewed upon the tenacious pouding à l’anglais which constituted the Clifton dessert. He did not speak for a good five minutes. Then, from beneath knitted brows, he turned upon Stephen a steady gaze which held also a glint of extreme disfavour.

  ‘Desmonde,’ he said. ‘Do you want to paint? Or fool your life away like one of these fancy characters in La Bohême?’