Beautifully wooded country about here, he said at the earliest opportunity the military gentleman gave him by laying down his Times (even in France your Englishman will stick to his paper). Not like most of France; so green and fresh-looking. This is Millets country, you know; he always works about the outskirts of Fontainebleau.
Ah, indeed, does he? the colonel responded, having only a very vague idea floating through his mind that Millet or Millais or something of the sort was the name of some painter fellow or other he had somewhere heard about. He works about Fontainebleau, does he, now? Dear me! How very interesting!
Whenever people dismiss a subject from their minds by saying How very interesting! you know at once they really mean that it doesnt interest them in the slightest degree, and they dont want to be bothered by hearing anything more about it; but Colins observations upon mankind and the niceties of the English language had not yet carried him to this point of interpretative science, so he took the colonel literally at his word, and went on enthusiastically (for he was a great admirer of the peasant painter whose story was so like his own), Yes, he works at Fontainebleau. It was here, you know, that he painted his Angelus. Have you ever seen the Angelus?
The colonel fidgeted about in his seat uneasily, and fumbled in a nervous way with the corner of the Times. The Angelus! he repeated, meditatively. Ah, yes, the Angelus. Gwen, my dear, have we seen Mr. Millets Angelus P Was it in the Academy?
No, papa, Gwen answered, smiling sweetly and composedly. We havent seen it, and it wasnt in the Academy. M. Millet is the French painter, you remember, the painter who wears sabots. So delightfully romantic, isnt it, turning to Colin, to be a great painter and yet still to wear sabots? This was a very cleverly delivered sentence of Miss Gwens, for it was intended first to show that she at least, if not her father, knew who the unknown young artist was talking about (Gwen jumped readily at the conclusion that Colin was an artist), and secondly, to exonerate her papa from culpable ignorance in the artists eyes by gently suggesting that a slight confusion of names sufficiently accounted for his obvious blunder. But it was also, quite unintentionally, delivered point-blank at Colin Churchills tenderest susceptibilities. This grand young lady, then, so calm and selfpossessed, could sympathise with an artist who had risen, and who, even in the days of his comparative prosperity, still wore sabots. To be sure, Colin didnt exactly know what sabots were (perhaps the blue blouses which he saw all the French workmen were wearing?), for he was still innocent of all languages but his own, unless one excepts the Italian he had picked up in anticipation from Cicolari; but he guessed at least it was some kind of dress supposed to mark Millets peasant origin, and that was quite enough for him. The grand young lady did not despise an artist who had been born in the ranks of the people.
Yes, he said warmly, its very noble of him. Noble not merely that he has risen to paint such pictures as the Gleaners and the Angelus, but that he isnt ashamed now to own the peasant people he has originally sprung from.
Oh, ah, certainly, the colonel replied in a short sharp voice, though the remark was hardly addressed to him. Very creditable of the young man, indeed, not to be ashamed of his humble origin. Very creditable. Very creditable. Gwen, my dear, would you like to see the paper?
No, thank you, papa, Gwen answered with another charming smile (fine teeth, too, by Jingo). You know I never care to read in a train in motion. Yes, quite a romantic story, this of Millets; and I believe even now hes horribly poor, isnt he? he doesnt sell his pictures.
The highest art, Colin said quietly, seldom meets with real recognition during the lifetime of the artist.
Youre a painter yourself? asked Gwen, looking up at the handsome young man with close interest.
Not a painter; a sculptor; and Im going to Rome to perfect myself in my art.
A sculptor to Rome! Gwen repeated to herself. Oh, how nice! Why, were going to Rome, too, and we shall be able to go all the way together. Im so glad, for Im longing to be told all about art and artists.
Colin smiled. Youre fond of art, then? he asked simply.
Fond of it is exactly the word, Gwen answered. I know very little about it; much less than I should like to do; but Im intensely interested in it. And a sculptor, too! Do you know, Ive often met lots of painters, but I never before met a sculptor.
The loss has been theirs, Colin put in with professional gravity. You would make a splendid model.
The young man said it in the innocence of his heart, thinking only what a grand bust of a Semiramis or an Artemisia one might have moulded from Miss Gwens full womanly face and figure; but the observation made the colonel shudder with awe and astonishment on his padded cushions. Gwen, my dear, he said, feebly interposing for the second time, hadnt you better change places with me? The draught from the window will be too much for you, Im afraid.
Oh dear no, thank you, papa; not at all. I havent been roasted, you know, for twenty years in the North-West Provinces, till every little breath of air chills me and nips me like a hothouse flower. So you think I would make a good model, do you? Well, that now I call a real compliment, because of course you regard me dispassionately from a sculpturesque point of view. Ive been told that a great many faces do quite well enough to paint, but that only very few features are regular and calm enough to be worth a sculptors notice. Is that so, now?
It is, Colin answered, looking straight into her beautiful bold face. For example, some gipsy-looking girls, who are very pretty indeed with their brown skins and bright black eyes, and who make exceedingly taking pictures Esthers, and Cleopatras, and so forth, you know are quite useless from the plastic point of view: their good looks depend too much upon colour and upon passing shades of expression, while sculpture of course demands that the features should be almost faultlessly perfect and regular in absolute repose.
The colonel looked uneasy again, and pulled up his collar nervously. Very fine occupation indeed, a sculptors, he edged in sideways. Delightful faculty to be able to do the living marble and all that kind of thing; very delightful, really. The colonel was always equal to a transparent platitude upon every occasion, and contributed very little else to the general conversation at any time.
And so delightful, too, to hear an artist talk about his art, Gwen added with a touch of genuine enthusiasm. Do you know, I think I should love to be a sculptor. I should love even to go about and see the studios, and watch the beautiful things growing under your hands. I should love to have my bust taken, just so as to get to know how you do it all. It must be so lovely to see the shape forming itself slowly out of a raw block of marble.
Oh, you know, we dont do it all in the marble, at first, Colin said quickly. Its rather dirty work, the first modelling. If you come into a sculptors studio when hes working in the clay, youll find him all daubed over with bits of mud, just like a common labourer.
How very unpleasant! said the colonel coldly. Hardly seems the sort of profession fit for a gentleman now does it?