Keeping the World Away Read online

  Dorelia’s reaction to Gus’s letter was strange. Used as she was to her friend’s inscrutable expressions, Gwen wondered at the blankness in her face while she was reading. Did she not see why Ida pleaded? Did she not understand that Ida was prepared to share Gus with her? If so, she did not appreciate Ida’s generosity, or the self-sacrifice involved. Gus had written that he longed to look upon Dorelia’s ‘fat’ again, and that had made Dorelia smile. For Ida’s words, written, Gwen was sure, in a great pain, there had been neither smile nor frown. ‘You write to Ida,’ she said to Gwen. Gwen did not need to be told. She wrote to Ida and Gus, and Ursula, all the time. ‘What shall I tell her?’ she asked. The famous Dorelia shrug … But then, ‘Tell her we are not going on to Rome.’

  It was true, of course, but neither of them had stated it out loud, as a fact. They had just stopped thinking about it. They were going nowhere in this cold and damp, it did not encourage travelling. Holed up in their room, living on bread and cheese and figs, they had lost their adventurous spirit. To Gwen, it did not matter so much because she was teaching herself to paint in a new way, but for Dorelia it did. She was not a painter like Gwen, she could not paint all the time. ‘Does Dorelia take two hours to do an eye?’ Ida had joked in a letter to Gwen. Yes. She did. And after two hours’ struggling with one eye she was bored and had no desire to go on to the other. Like Gus, she wanted to be outside, sketching in fields or by the river, not toiling in one room to get some minute detail right. And she wanted company other than Gwen’s, even the girl they had found to sit for them. She was young, only fifteen, but pretty in a disordered sort of way, her hair unbrushed and wild, her nails far from clean. Nothing would persuade her to take her clothes off – she had squealed at the request and had had to be hurriedly reassured that there was no absolute need. She was a fidgety sitter and exasperated Gwen, but Dorelia was amused. She rather enjoyed the girl’s bounciness. The sitter brought some spirit into the room. Gwen would not let her talk. She thought her thick red lips bad enough without having to watch them move. After the girl had gone, she shuddered and told Dorelia that the mouth made her feel ill, it was so fleshy, so greedy, so wet-looking.

  Had Gwen known passion? Dorelia did not think so. She had felt it, for Ambrose – everyone knew and it had been terrifying to witness, or so Gus had said – but had she known it? Dorelia saw that it was all there in Gwen, it boiled within her, but that while she was painting it did not plague her. Had she even been kissed, a real kiss? They did not ask each other such things. Dorelia had watched Gwen naked, posing for herself, and had seen how easy she was with her own body. It was a good body, lithe and firm but feminine in its gracefulness, not just in the breasts and genitals. It had a delicacy, Dorelia realised, which her own more voluptuous body did not. But had any man known it? She thought it unlikely. Mirrors had known it, other artists had known it, but never a man, surely.

  In February, the sun came out again. Blossom appeared on the trees and once more they could work outside if they wished. But Gwen did not wish. She had learned more in their room and did not want to leave it for the open road. Their landlady put the rent up. It appeared they had been enjoying special winter rates. And that decided them.

  *

  A long day searching, and then to come to this … A dismal room, none too clean and far too crowded, but they were exhausted and had to lay their heads somewhere. Gwen would rather have slept in the Luxembourg Gardens, but Dorelia, usually so phlegmatic, had protested that she could not bear to be soaked and that they must find shelter somewhere inside. The room in the Hôtel Mont Blanc was inside, and that was all that could be said for it. Dorelia went to sleep immediately, fully clothed. Gwen sat and sketched her sleeping, but the light was harsh. Already she missed the lamp in Toulouse, and the sound of the birds, and the stream when it was in full spate. Coming to Paris from London, she had marvelled at the difference but now she despaired. The grime in the street outside, the infernal clatter of carts on cobbles, the shouting – all threatened to depress her.

  When she woke up next morning, she was astonished to find that Dorelia was gone. There was no note. Her bag was still packed and lay on the floor next to the bed. Had she gone in search of food? Gwen doubted it. She could see that it was still raining and that the sky was grey and that Dorelia would be getting wet wherever she was. She had been strange ever since they left Toulouse and started for Paris, constantly turning her head away and staring into the far distance as though she could see something that Gwen would not be able to see. Normally patient, she had become impatient, and this was alarming, curiously hurtful. It was not Dorelia’s place to be irritated by small things. ‘You are vain,’ she had said one day, and had told Gwen, ‘You are admiring yourself in that mirror. You are not studying your body to paint it.’ It was rather shocking to be accused of vanity, and by Dorelia. Did they love each other still? Gwen was not so sure. She could not talk of love, as Ida could. She could not ask Dorelia this, and she had never needed to until now. Their love was there, and of a special kind, and it did not need reassurance. But lately it had felt weaker. It might, Gwen thought, be due to Leonard Broucke, the artist they had met on the road, and she did not like that thought. Dorelia had seemed too smitten with him, and he had given her his address in Paris.

  When, by midday, Dorelia still had not returned, she went out herself and bought bread and cheese and some grapes. If Dorelia came back with the same, no matter. The rain had stopped and a faint glimmer of sunshine defused the thin mist hanging in the air. She found a café and, though the seats were damp, she sat outside and ordered coffee and a roll. It was not pleasant sitting there – the trams passed very near and their roar shook the little tables – but she did not want to go inside and face people. Here, nobody bothered her. Everyone was too busy dashing past. Several dogs came up to her but she ignored them and they took the hint. Then, at the corner of the untidy street, where the tram turned, she saw Dorelia walking along. How she stood out in these drab surroundings! In the red skirt, given to her by Gus, and her yellow embroidered blouse and the brown velvet coat, open all the way down the front, Gwen could not take her eyes off her friend as she came towards the café, lighting up the street with her progress.

  She was not at all surprised to see Gwen. Sitting down beside her, she broke off a piece of roll and popped it into her mouth. Gwen did not ask where she had been – they never asked such banal questions of each other – and Dorelia did not tell her, but Gwen could see that she had a letter sticking out of her pocket. From Gus? From Leonard Broucke? Sent poste restante? There were secrets now between them. The waiter came out again, would Dorelia require anything? Dorelia looked at Gwen. ‘I have no more money,’ she said. Gwen felt in her pocket: enough for coffee or a roll, but not both. The waiter brought a roll (larger than Gwen’s had been) and a glass of water in which he had kindly put a slice of lemon. ‘Well,’ Dorelia said, ‘Paris.’ And she looked about her with an air of incredulity.

  *

  It was not difficult to find modelling work. There were artists’ studios everywhere and it was only a matter of knocking at doors and announcing oneself. The women were safest, the German painter Miss Gerhardie, the Swiss painter Ottilie Roederstein, and others. They were pleased to see Gwen, even more pleased when she was willing to strip to the waist. For hours and hours she posed, easily adopting the poses they requested, never uttering a word, even when invited to converse. At the end of these sessions, she collected her money and left as quickly as possible, never pausing to look at how the artists had portrayed her. But she did not then go back to her room in the Hôtel Mont Blanc. Instead, she roamed Paris, walking miles along the Seine, watching the boats, or around the public gardens, her sketchbook always with her. The weather was good now, and she could sit in comfort on benches and draw whatever took her fancy. Scores of drawings, but no paintings. She had nowhere to paint. She could not paint in that dreary room and as yet she could not afford anywhere else. Leaving Toulouse had, for her,
been a mistake. A bigger one might be to return to England, but the inevitability of this was beginning to worry her.

  Dorelia had been gone weeks now. She had joined Leonard Broucke, who was in Bruges. Gwen’s face, when she realised what had happened, felt hot and clammy. Dorelia had gone to Leonard, not to Gus, with whom she belonged, without consulting her, without a word. It was not being alone that troubled Gwen – she was not alone, she had a cat now – but the shock of realising that Dorelia had not trusted her. Maybe, as Ida suggested in a letter, she had been afraid. Am I so fierce? Gwen thought about it. She imagined that she was kind, a good listener, someone whom those she loved could confide in and find support from, but it seemed this was not true. She was too strong, too firm in her opinions, or at least Dorelia must have thought so. And that hurt.

  The room in the Hôtel Mont Blanc was no more sympathetic but she could not afford to move out of it. With Dorelia gone, she had more space but she could not work there, still she was obliged to sketch outdoors and now that the winter was coming she was often so cold her hands could hardly hold a pencil. One day, she took the yellow tram to the end of the Rue de l’Université, to the Dépôt des Marbres. ‘Rodin likes English ladies,’ Gus had said in a letter, and she needed more work, so why should she not be brave and seek out Rodin? But she was nervous as she walked through the huge, mossy, paved courtyard, its corners overgrown with grass, where great blocks of marble – oblong, upstanding, flat – stood waiting to be claimed by the sculptors in the workshops surrounding it. She did not know which workshops were his, only that he had two of them. Hesitant, she stood awhile, listening, then moved towards the door from which she judged the noise was coming. She knocked, once, twice, and a third time, louder still.

  A woman opened the door at last. A woman wearing a white apron and white cap pulled down almost to her eyes. A woman whose hands were covered in a fine dust and who had a chisel in one of them. ‘Yes?’ she said, abrupt, frowning. Gwen gave her name. She said she was a model, an experienced model, an artist herself, and that she had been told that Monsieur Rodin might consider employing her services. She spoke in French but the woman replied in English, inviting her to step inside. Monsieur Rodin was in his studio, working, and could not, at the moment, be disturbed, but she could wait. Humbly, Gwen followed her. She was led through a vast room, where three men were hacking away at blocks of stone in a frenzied manner, chips of stone flying dangerously everywhere, to an arch at the other end. Here her guide paused, and beckoned her to come close. She pointed through the arch at a man who seemed to be caressing a half-finished statue, smoothing it over and over again and staring intently at the surface he was smoothing. ‘Monsieur Rodin,’ the women said, quietly. ‘He will break soon, and then you may introduce yourself.’

  Alone, Gwen stood and waited. Waiting and watching felt comfortable, natural. Rodin, she saw, was short, but powerfully built, with huge hands and a massive head, out of proportion with his body. His beard was reddish-blond, streaked heavily with grey. He was dressed like a workman, in an old knitted vest and blue trousers with a smock over the top. She thought, from the way he peered so closely at his work, that he must be short-sighted. As she watched, he took a mouthful of water from a jug on the floor and to her amazement spat it over the clay. She saw he was in the grip of some intense emotion, his face calm but concentrated, not a muscle moving. It was as though he were listening for the statue to speak, to hear its voice and obey its commands whatever they might be. She went on staring, thinking that he looked like an ancient patriarch, coolly assessing his physical qualities, and reminding herself of his reputation. She did not feel awed exactly. There was the excitement of anticipation, but of what? It was hard to tell. She wanted to stand there for ever, watching a master at work. But at last he stopped. He stood back and looked at the statue, appraising it, his head first on one side then the other. He shut his eyes, kept them shut for several minutes, then opened them wide again. This time, he looked beyond his statue. He looked past it straight at Gwen.

  They seemed to stay still, eyes locked together, for a long time. The heat crept up Gwen’s face. She remembered his erotic sculptures which she had seen at the Exposition Universelle, the lovers entwined together … But she was resolute, she would not drop her gaze and yet she feared that she might be considered impudent. She tried to put into her stare a pleading expression. What, she wondered, was Rodin putting into his scrutiny? I am not striking, Gwen thought; he is not looking at me with wonder or astonishment, but is he curious? When he called out, ‘Come here, if you wish to speak to me,’ she moved slowly, mouth dry, and could not manage more than a whisper when she reached him. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I am a model. I would like to model for you.’ She said nothing about being an artist herself, did not mention her brother. He smiled slightly, a mere twitch of the lips. His lips, she saw, were fleshy, his eyes a clear grey. He looked at her differently, she thought, quite challengingly, while he asked if she had experience. She named names. He nodded. Turning away from her to wipe his hands, he said she should go into the corner of his studio where she would find a peg to hang her clothes, which she should remove, and then he would look at her.

  Many times she had taken her clothes off for other artists, over many years now, but she could not do it easily that day. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her boots, which she took off first, and again with the hooks and eyes on her blouse. She was wearing a white cotton chemise under her blouse but no corset, which was a mercy. She hung up her skirt and her blouse on the thick wooden peg sticking out of the wall and folded her chemise and knickers, putting them in a bundle on top of her boots and stockings. Once naked, she felt less nervous. She heard footsteps and knew Rodin was walking across the room towards her, so she began to turn round to face him but he stopped her with ‘No! Just as you are, if you please, for a moment.’ She stood straight, her feet slightly apart, arms hanging at her side. ‘A good back,’ he said. ‘Now turn.’ His eyes were looking at her feet. She looked down at them herself. She had, she thought, pretty feet, the toes almost all the same length, and not a corn or bunion to be seen. Slowly, his eyes moved up her body, pausing at her breasts, which she knew were small but believed to be nicely rounded, and finally they were looking into each other’s eyes again. ‘Raise your arms,’ he said. She did. She did not shave under her arms but was not very hairy. He frowned, disapproving of the hair, she imagined. ‘Hands on hips,’ he said. She liked that pose and adopted it confidently. He asked her to assume several other positions and then he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘tomorrow, at ten.’

  Elated, she dressed rapidly and left the studio. All the way back to the hotel she found herself humming odd refrains from songs she hardly knew and had only heard sung in snatches. She bought some violets from a woman in the street and held them tightly, wanting immediately to paint them, to capture the trembling blue delicacy of the flowers. With a sense of surprise she registered her happiness and thought it could not merely be because Rodin was going to let her model for him – it must be more than that, surely. He had been responsible for this new buoyancy she felt, he himself, not what he had offered her in the way of work. She would earn no more than she had earned from other sculptors (though money had not been discussed). It was the man who invigorated her, the very sight of him. She warned herself to be careful but immediately scorned her own warning. Rodin was as old as her father, perhaps even older, she did not know. She knew he had a wife, or a woman who had been with him so long that she was regarded as his wife, and that he had mistresses, so she must not entertain fantasies in which he did more than notice her and use her as a model. She was not a schoolgirl, not a student, but a grown woman of almost thirty years. She must be sensible.

  But all sense left her in the months that followed. She felt herself bewitched, enchanted, changed utterly from the lonely young woman she had been. Almost every day she made her way to Rodin’s studio and posed for him, and soon he was calling her his little Marie,
which pleased her and strengthened the conviction that she was now someone else entirely. She had thought he would work in silence but no, he liked to talk: he asked her questions and listened and then asked more. Of course, she told him of her work, and that her brother was Augustus (of whom he had heard), and he took such interest in her. Soon she was showing him sketches of her cat and he appeared impressed, though there was no false flattery. How many hours a week did she work, he wanted to know, what was her routine, where did she buy her paints, her canvases – he wanted to know everything about her from the trivial to the more important. He told her how he himself worked. He rose at seven in the morning, was in his studio by eight, had a short lunch break at noon, worked on until eight, or even later, in the evening. He worked standing, or perched on a stool, and had no electric or gas light in his studio – candles, lanterns, sufficed. He told her he had always been ‘wild’ about working, and she said so had she, but circumstances sometimes curbed her passion. He did not like hearing that she lived in a lodging house in such an undesirable area. He frowned and said it was not comme il faut. She agreed, but was reluctant to plead poverty so could not explain why she lingered there. But he guessed, and went on to offer her other work apart from modelling. He needed, he said, someone other than his secretary to deal with his correspondence and to translate articles from English to French. She could be that person. She could get herself out of that miserable hotel room.

  One day he began on a statue, for which she was to be the sole model. This statue was to be a monument to Whistler (who had died some two years ago) and was to be put on a site on the Chelsea embankment. She was, he told her, ideal to be the Muse to Whistler, English as she was (though she had told him that she was Welsh) and a one-time student of the artist. Days were spent choosing the position she should stand in, or rather appear to move in, and days more draping fabric first round her waist and then her hips. One leg, her left, was bent at the knee, the foot resting awkwardly on a plinth. It was not an easy position to hold, but she settled into it and he was pleased. His concern for her comfort was, she thought, unusual and surprising – most sculptors, and indeed most artists, in her experience hardly considered the aches and tiredness of their models. And at the end of the sessions, he helped her down from the platform and undid the drapes. That was when it began.