'Ah, well,' she said at last, 'if it must be done, I suppose it 'ad better be done at once; and I shall be able to save the money after all.' At the thought of this she dried her tears.
The moral is plain.
DE AMICITIA
I
They were walking home from the theatre.
'Well, Mr White,' said Valentia, 'I think it was just fine.'
'It was magnificent!' replied Mr White.
And they were separated for a moment by the crowd, streaming up from the Français towards the Opera and the Boulevards.
'I think, if you don't mind,' she said, 'I'll take your arm, so that we shouldn't get lost.'
He gave her his arm, and they walked through the Louvre and over the river on their way to the Latin Quarter.
Valentia was an art student and Ferdinand White was a poet. Ferdinand considered Valentia the only woman who had ever been able to paint, and Valentia told Ferdinand that he was the only man she had met who knew anything about Art without being himself an artist. On her arrival in Paris, a year before, she had immediately inscribed herself, at the offices of the New York Herald, Valentia Stewart, Cincinnati, Ohio, U.S.A. She settled down in a respectable pension, and within a week was painting vigorously. Ferdinand White arrived from Oxford at about the same time, hired a dirty room in a shabby hotel, ate his meals at cheap restaurants in the Boulevard St Michel, read Stephen Mallarmé, and flattered himself that he was leading 'la vie de Bohême.'
After two months, the Fates brought the pair together, and Ferdinand began to take his meals at Valentia's pension. They went to the museums together; and in the Sculpture Gallery at the Louvre, Ferdinand would discourse on ancient Greece in general and on Plato in particular, while among the pictures Valentia would lecture on tones and values and chiaroscuro. Ferdinand renounced Ruskin and all his works; Valentia read the Symposium. Frequently in the evening they went to the theatre; sometimes to the Français, but more often to the Odéon; and after the performance they would discuss the play, its art, its technique--above all, its ethics. Ferdinand explained the piece he had in contemplation, and Valentia talked of the picture she meant to paint for next year's Salon; and the lady told her friends that her companion was the cleverest man she had met in her life, while he told his that she was the only really sympathetic and intelligent girl he had ever known. Thus were united in bonds of amity, Great Britain on the one side and the United States of America and Ireland on the other.
But when Ferdinand spoke of Valentia to the few Frenchmen he knew, they asked him,--
'But this Miss Stewart--is she pretty?'
'Certainly--in her American way; a long face, with the hair parted in the middle and hanging over the nape of the neck. Her mouth is quite classic.'
'And have you never kissed the classic mouth?'
'I? Never!'
'Has she a good figure?'
'Admirable!'
'And yet--Oh, you English!' And they smiled and shrugged their shoulders as they said, 'How English!'
'But, my good fellow,' cried Ferdinand, in execrable French, 'you don't understand. We are friends, the best of friends.'
They shrugged their shoulders more despairingly than ever.
II
They stood on the bridge and looked at the water and the dark masses of the houses on the Latin side, with the twin towers of Notre Dame rising dimly behind them. Ferdinand thought of the Thames at night, with the barges gliding slowly down, and the twinkling of the lights along the Embankment.
'It must be a little like that in Holland,' she said, 'but without the lights and with greater stillness.'
'When do you start?'
She had been making preparations for spending the summer in a little village near Amsterdam, to paint.
'I can't go now,' cried Valentia. 'Corrie Sayles is going home, and there's no one else I can go with. And I can't go alone. Where are you going?'
'I? I have no plans.... I never make plans.'
They paused, looking at the reflections in the water. Then she said,--
'I don't see why you shouldn't come to Holland with me!'
He did not know what to think; he knew she had been reading the Symposium.
'After all,' she said, 'there's no reason why one shouldn't go away with a man as well as with a woman.'
His French friends would have suggested that there were many reasons why one should go away with a woman rather than a man; but, like his companion, Ferdinand looked at it in the light of pure friendship.
'When one comes to think of it, I really don't see why we shouldn't. And the mere fact of staying at the same hotel can make no difference to either of us. We shall both have our work--you your painting, and I my play.'
As they considered it, the idea was distinctly pleasing; they wondered that it had not occurred to them before. Sauntering homewards, they discussed the details, and in half an hour had decided on the plan of their journey, the date and the train.
Next day Valentia went to say good-bye to the old French painter whom all the American girls called Popper. She found him in a capacious dressing-gown, smoking cigarettes.
'Well, my dear,' he said, 'what news?'
'I'm going to Holland to paint windmills.'
'A very laudable ambition. With your mother?'
'My good Popper, my mother's in Cincinnati. I'm going with Mr White.'
'With Mr White?' He raised his eyebrows. 'You are very frank about it.'
'Why--what do you mean?'
He put on his glasses and looked at her carefully.
'Does it not seem to you a rather--curious thing for a young girl of your age to go away with a young man of the age of Mr Ferdinand White?'
'Good gracious me! One would think I was doing something that had never been done before!'
'Oh, many a young man has gone travelling with a young woman, but they generally start by a night train, and arrive at the station in different cabs.'
'But surely, Popper, you don't mean to insinuate--Mr White and I are going to Holland as friends.'
'Friends!'
He looked at her more curiously than ever.
'One can have a man friend as well as a girl friend,' she continued. 'And I don't see why he shouldn't be just as good a friend.'
'The danger is that he become too good.'
'You misunderstand me entirely, Popper; we are friends, and nothing but friends.'
'You are entirely off your head, my child.'
'Ah! you're a Frenchman, you can't understand these things. We are different.'
'I imagine that you are human beings, even though England and America respectively had the intense good fortune of seeing your birth.'
'We're human beings--and more than that, we're nineteenth century human beings. Love is not everything. It is a part of one--perhaps the lower part--an accessory to man's life, needful for the continuation of the species.'
'You use such difficult words, my dear.'
'There is something higher and nobler and purer than love--there is friendship. Ferdinand White is my friend. I have the amplest confidence in him. I am certain that no unclean thought has ever entered his head.'
She spoke quite heatedly, and as she flushed up, the old painter thought her astonishingly handsome. Then she added as an afterthought,--
'We despise passion. Passion is ugly; it is grotesque.'
The painter stroked his imperial and faintly smiled.
'My child, you must permit me to tell you that you are foolish. Passion is the most lovely thing in the world; without it we should not paint beautiful pictures. It is passion that makes a woman of a society lady; it is passion that makes a man even of--an art critic.'
'We do not want it,' she said. 'We worship Venus Urania. We are all spirit and soul.'
'You have been reading Plato; soon you will read Zola.'
He smiled again, and lit another cigarette.
'Do you disapprove of my going?' she asked after a little silence.