Complete Stories of Eveyln, Page 2

  “Why, there isn’t even a coronet on it, Ada.”

  The little old mother pours out tea for him and tells him about the death of a friend in the Times that morning; when he has drunk some tea and eaten some fish, she bustles him out of the house.

  Adam walks to the corner of the road, where he gets on to a bus. The neighbourhood is revealed as being Regent’s Park.

  THE CENTRE OF LONDON’S QUARTIER LATIN

  THE MALTBY SCHOOL OF ART.

  No trouble has been spared by the producers to obtain the right atmosphere. The top studio at Maltby’s is already half full of young students when Adam enters. Work has not yet started, but the room is alive with busy preparation. A young woman in an overall—looking rather more like a chorus girl than a painter—is making herself very dirty cleaning her palette; another near by is setting up an easel; a third is sharpening a pencil; a fourth is smoking a cigarette in a long holder. A young man, also in an overall, is holding a drawing and appraising it at arm’s length, his head slightly on one side; a young man with untidy hair is disagreeing with him. Old Mr. Maltby, an inspiring figure in a shabby silk dressing gown, is telling a tearful student that if she misses another composition class, she will be asked to leave the school. Miss Philbrick, the secretary, interrupts the argument between the two young men to remind them that neither of them has paid his fee for the month. The girl who was setting up the easel is trying to borrow some “fixative”; the girl with the cigarette holder lends her some. Mr. Maltby is complaining of the grittiness of the charcoal they make nowadays. Surely this is the Quartier Latin itself?

  The “set,” too, has been conscientiously planned. The walls are hung with pots, pans and paintings—these last mainly a series of rather fleshly nudes which young Mr. Maltby has been unable to sell. A very brown skeleton hangs over the dais at the far end.

  “I say, Gladys, do you think we shall see ’is models?”

  “Coo, Ada, you are a one.”

  Adam comes in and goes towards the board on which hangs a plan of the easel places; the girl who was lending the “fixative” comes over to him, still smoking.

  “THERE’S A PLACE EMPTY NEXT TO ME, DOURE, DO COME THERE.”

  Close up of the girl.

  “She’s in love with ’im.”

  Close up of Adam.

  “’E’s not in love with ’er, though, is ’e, Ada?”

  The place the girl points out is an excellent one in the second row; the only other one besides the very front and the very back is round at the side, next to the stove. Adam signs his initials opposite this place.

  “I’M SORRY—I’M AFRAID THAT I FIND THE LIGHT WORRIES ME FROM WHERE YOU ARE—ONE GETS SO FEW SHADOWS—DON’T YOU FIND?”

  The girl is not to be discouraged; she lights another cigarette.

  “I SAW YOU LAST NIGHT AT THE COCKATRICE—YOU DIDN’T SEE ME THOUGH.”

  “THE COCKATRICE—LAST NIGHT—OH YES—WHAT A PITY!”

  “WHO WERE ALL THOSE PEOPLE YOU WERE WITH?”

  “OH, I DON’T KNOW, JUST SOME PEOPLE, YOU KNOW.”

  He makes a movement as if to go away.

  “WHO WAS THAT GIRL YOU WERE DANCING WITH SO MUCH—THE PRETTY ONE WITH FAIR HAIR—IN BLACK?”

  “OH, DON’T YOU KNOW HER? YOU MUST MEET HER ONE DAY—I SAY, I’M AWFULLY SORRY, BUT I MUST GO DOWN AND GET SOME PAPER FROM MISS PHILBRICK.”

  “I CAN LEND YOU SOME.”

  But he is gone.

  Ada says, “Too much talk in this picture, eh, Gladys?” and the voice with the Cambridge accent is heard saying something about the “elimination of the caption.”

  ONE OF LIFE’S UNFORTUNATES.

  Enter a young woman huddled in a dressing-gown, preceded by young Mr. Maltby.

  “The model—coo—I say.”

  She has a slight cold and sniffles into a tiny ball of handkerchief; she mounts the dais and sits down ungracefully. Young Mr. Maltby nods good morning to those of the pupils who catch his eye; the girl who was talking to Adam catches his eye; he smiles.

  “’E’s in love with ’er.”

  She returns his smile with warmth.

  Young Mr. Maltby rattles the stove, opens the skylight a little and then turns to the model, who slips off her dressing gown and puts it over the back of the chair.

  “Coo—I say. Ada—my!”

  “Well I never.”

  The young man from Cambridge goes on talking about Matisse unfalteringly as though he were well accustomed to this sort of thing. Actually he is much intrigued.

  She has disclosed a dull pink body with rather short legs and red elbows; like most professional models her toes are covered with bunions and malformed. Young Mr. Maltby sets her on the chair in an established Art School pose. The class settles to work.

  Adam returns with some sheets of paper and proceeds to arrange them on his board. Then he stands for some time glaring at the model without drawing a line.

  “’E’s in love with ’er.” But for once Ada’s explanation is wrong—and then begins sketching in the main lines of the pose.

  He works on for five or six minutes, during which time the heat of the stove becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Old Mr. Maltby, breathing smoke, comes up behind him.

  “Now have you placed it? What is your centre? Where is the foot going to come? Where is the top of the head coming?”

  Adam has not placed it; he rubs it out angrily and starts again.

  Meanwhile a vivid flirtation is in progress between young Mr. Maltby and the girl who was in love with Adam. He is leaning over and pointing out mistakes to her; his hand rests on her shoulder; she is wearing a low-necked jumper; his thumb strays over the skin of her neck; she wriggles appreciatively. He takes the charcoal from her and begins drawing in the corner of her paper; her hair touches his cheek; neither of them heed the least what he is drawing.

  “These Bo’emians don’t ’alf carry on, eh, Gladys?”

  In half an hour Adam has rubbed out his drawing three times. Whenever he is beginning to interest himself in some particular combination of shapes, the model raises her ball of handkerchief to her nose, and after each sniff relapses into a slightly different position. The anthracite stove glows with heat; he works on for another half hour.

  THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK REST.

  Most of the girls light cigarettes; the men, who have increased in number with many late arrivals, begin to congregate away from them in the corner. One of them is reading The Studio. Adam lights a pipe, and standing back, surveys his drawing with detestation.

  Close up; Adam’s drawing. It is not really at all bad. In fact it is by far the best in the room; there is one which will be better at the end of the week, but at present there is nothing of it except some measurements and geometrical figures. Its author is unaware that the model is resting; he is engaged in calculating the medial section of her height in the corner of the paper.

  Adam goes out on to the stairs, which are lined with women from the lower studio eating buns out of bags. He returns to the studio.

  The girl who has been instructed by young Mr. Maltby comes up to him and looks at his drawing.

  “Rather Monday morningish.”

  That was exactly what young Mr. Maltby had said about hers.

  The model resumes her pose with slight differences; the paper bags are put away, pipes are knocked out; the promising pupil is calculating the area of a rectangle.

  The scene changes to

  158 PONT STREET. THE LONDON HOUSE

  OF MR. CHARLES AND LADY ROSEMARY QUEST.

  An interior is revealed in which the producers have at last made some attempt to satisfy the social expectations of Gladys and Ada. It is true that there is very little marble and no footmen in powder and breeches, but there is nevertheless an undoubted air of grandeur about the high rooms and Louis Seize furniture, and there is a footman. The young man from Cambridge estimates the household at six thousand a year, and though somewhat overgenerous, it is a reasonable guess. Lady Ro
semary’s collection of Limoges can be seen in the background.

  Upstairs in her bedroom Imogen Quest is telephoning.

  “What a lovely Kimony, Ada.”

  Miss Philbrick comes into the upper studio at Maltby’s, where Adam is at last beginning to take some interest in his drawing.

  “MISS QUEST WANTS TO SPEAK TO YOU ON THE TELEPHONE, MR. DOURE. I told her that it was against the rules for students to use the telephone except in the luncheon hour” (there is always a pathetic game of make-believe at Maltby’s played endlessly by Miss Philbrick and old Mr. Maltby, in which they pretend that somewhere there is a code of rules which all must observe), “but she says that it is most important. I do wish you would ask your friends not to ring you up in the mornings.”

  Adam puts down his charcoal and follows her to the office.

  There over the telephone is poor Miss Philbrick’s notice written in the script writing she learned at night classes in Southampton Row.

  “Students are forbidden to use the telephone during working hours.”

  “Good morning, Imogen.”

  “Yes, quite safely—very tired though.”

  “I can’t, Imogen—for one thing I haven’t the money.”

  “No, you can’t afford it either. Anyway, I’m dining with Lady R. tonight. You can tell me then, surely?”

  “Why not?”

  “Who lives there?”

  “Not that awful Basil Hay?”

  “Well, perhaps he is.”

  “I used to meet him at Oxford sometimes.”

  “WELL, IF YOU’RE SURE YOU CAN PAY I’LL COME TO LUNCHEON WITH YOU.”

  “WHY THERE? IT’S FRIGHTFULLY EXPENSIVE.”

  “STEAK TARTARE—WHAT’S THAT?”

  The Cambridge voice explains, “Quite raw, you know, with olives and capers and vinegar and things.”

  “My dear, you’ll turn into a werewolf.”

  “I should love it if you did.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am getting a little morbid.”

  “One-ish. Please don’t be too late—I’ve only three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Good-bye, Imogen.”

  So much of the forbidden conversation is audible to Miss Philbrick.

  Adam returns to the studio and draws a few heavy and insensitive lines.

  He rubs at them but they still show up grubbily in the pores of the paper. He tears up his drawing; old Mr. Maltby remonstrates; young Mr. Maltby is explaining the construction of the foot and does not look up.

  Adam attempts another drawing.

  Close up of Adam’s drawing.

  “’E’s thinking of ’er.” Unerring Ada!

  “These films would be so much more convincing if they would only employ decent draughtsmen to do the hero’s drawings for him—don’t you think?” Bravo, the cultured bourgeoisie!

  TWELVE O’CLOCK.

  There is a repetition of all the excursions of eleven o’clock.

  The promising pupil is working out the ratio of two cubes. The girl who has been learning the construction of the foot comes over to him and looks over his shoulder; he starts violently and loses count.

  Adam takes his hat and stick and goes out.

  Adam on a bus.

  Adam studying Poussin at the National Gallery.

  Close up of Adam studying Poussin.

  “’E’s thinking of ’er.”

  The clock of St. Martin-in-the-Fields strikes one. Adam leaves the National Gallery.

  TEN MINUTES PAST ONE. THE DINING ROOM OF THE RESTAURANT DE LA TOUR DE FORCE.

  Enter Adam; he looks round but as he had expected, Imogen has not yet arrived. He sits down at a table laid for two and waits.

  Though not actually in Soho, the Tour de Force gives unmistakably an impression half cosmopolitan, half theatrical, which Ada would sum up in the word “Bo’emian.” The tables are well spaced and the wines are excellent though extremely costly.

  Adam orders some sherry and waits, dividing his attention between the door through which Imogen will enter and the contemplation of a middle-aged political lawyer of repute who at the next table is trying to keep amused a bored and exquisitely beautiful youth of eighteen.

  QUARTER TO TWO.

  Enter Imogen.

  The people at the other tables say, “Look, there’s Imogen Quest. I can’t see what people find in her, can you?” or else, “I wonder who that is. Isn’t she attractive?”

  “My dear, I’m terribly late. I am sorry. I’ve had the most awful morning shopping with Lady R.”

  She sits down at the table.

  “You haven’t got to rush back to your school, have you? Because I’m never going to see you again. The most awful thing has happened—you order lunch, Adam. I’m very hungry. I want to eat a steak tartare and I don’t want to drink anything.”

  Adam orders lunch.

  “LADY R. SAYS I’M SEEING TOO MUCH OF YOU. ISN’T IT TOO AWFUL?”

  Gladys at last is quite at home. The film has been classified. Young love is being thwarted by purse-proud parents.

  Imogen waves aside a wagon of hors d’oeuvre.

  “We had quite a scene. She came into my room before I was up and wanted to know all about last night. Apparently she heard me come in. And, oh Adam, I can’t tell you what dreadful things she’s been saying about you. My dear, what an odd luncheon—you’ve ordered everything I most detest.”

  Adam drinks soup.

  “THAT’S WHY I’M BEING SENT OFF TO THATCH THIS AFTERNOON. And Lady R. is going to talk to you seriously tonight. She’s put Mary and Andrew off so that she can get you alone. Adam, how can you expect me to eat all this? and you haven’t ordered yourself anything to drink.”

  Adam eats an omelette alone. Imogen crumbles bread and talks to him.

  “But, my dear, you mustn’t say anything against Basil because I simply adore him, and he’s got the loveliest, vulgarest mother—you’d simply love her.”

  The steak tartare is wheeled up and made before them.

  Close up; a dish of pulverized and bleeding meat: hands pouring in immoderate condiments.

  “Do you know, Adam, I don’t think I do want this after all. It reminds me so of Henry.”

  HALF PAST TWO.

  Adam has finished luncheon.

  “SO YOU SEE, DEAR, WE SHALL NEVER, NEVER MEET AGAIN—PROPERLY I MEAN. Isn’t it just too like Lady R. for words.”

  Imogen stretches out her hand across the table and touches Adam’s.

  Close up; Adam’s hand, a signet ring on the little finger and a smudge of paint on the inside of the thumb. Imogen’s hand—very white and manicured—moves across the screen and touches it.

  Gladys gives a slight sob.

  “YOU DON’T MIND TOO DREADFULLY—DO YOU, ADAM?”

  Adam does mind—very much indeed. He has eaten enough to be thoroughly sentimental.

  The Restaurant de la Tour de Force is nearly empty. The political barrister has gone his unregenerate way; the waiters stand about restlessly.

  Imogen pays the bill and they rise to go.

  “Adam, you must come to Euston and see me off. We can’t part just like this—for always, can we? Hodges is meeting me there with the luggage.”

  They get into a taxi.

  Imogen puts her hand in his and they sit like this for a few minutes without speaking.

  Then Adam leans towards her and they kiss.

  Close up: Adam and Imogen kissing. There is a tear (which finds a ready response in Ada and Gladys, who sob uncontrollably) in Adam’s eye; Imogen’s lips luxuriously disposed by the pressure.

  “Like the Bronzino Venus.”

  “IMOGEN, YOU NEVER REALLY CARED, DID YOU? IF YOU HAD YOU WOULDN’T GO AWAY LIKE THIS. IMOGEN, DID YOU EVER CARE—REALLY?”

  “HAVEN’T I GIVEN PROOF THAT I DID. Adam dear, why will you always ask such tiresome questions. Don’t you see how impossible it all is? We’ve only about five minutes before we reach Euston.”

  They kiss again.

&nb
sp; Adam says, “Damn Lady R.”

  They reach Euston.

  Hodges is waiting for them. She has seen about the luggage; she has seen about tickets; she has even bought magazines; there is nothing to be done.

  Adam stands beside Imogen waiting for the train to start; she looks at a weekly paper.

  “Do look at this picture of Sybil. Isn’t it odd? I wonder when she had it taken.”

  The train is about to start. She gets into the carriage and holds out her hand.

  “Good-bye, darling. You will come to mother’s dance in June, won’t you? I shall be miserable if you don’t. Perhaps we shall meet before then. Good-bye.”

  The train moves out of the station.

  Close up. Imogen in the carriage studying the odd photograph of Sybil.

  Adam on the platform watching the train disappear.

  Fade out.

  “Well, Ada, what d’you think of it?”

  “Fine.”

  “It is curious the way that they can never make their heroes and heroines talk like ladies and gentlemen—particularly in moments of emotion.”

  A QUARTER OF AN HOUR LATER.

  Adam is still at Euston, gazing aimlessly at a bookstall. The various prospects before him appear on the screen.

  Maltby’s. The anthracite stove, the model, the amorous student—(“the Vamp”), the mathematical student, his own drawing.

  Dinner at home. His father, his mother, Parsons, his sister with her stupid, pimply face and her dull jealousy of all Imogen said and did and wore.

  Dinner at Pont Street, head to head with Lady Rosemary.

  Dinner by himself at some very cheap restaurant in Soho. And always at the end of it, Solitude and the thought of Imogen.

  Close up: Adam registering despair gradually turning to resolution.

  Adam on a bus going to Hanover Gate.

  He walks to his home.

  Parsons. Parsons opens the door. Mrs. Doure is out; Miss Jane is out; no, Adam does not want any tea.

  Adam’s room. It is a rather charming one, high at the top of the house, looking over the trees. At full moon the animals in the Zoological Gardens can be heard from there. Adam comes in and locks the door.

  Gladys is there already.

  “Suicide, Ada.”

  “Yes, but she’ll come in time to stop ’im. See if she don’t.”