The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(58)

Her mind leaped forward. Clothed, trousseaued, fitted out – blue butterflies – the sun! Only the money for the tickets wanting. And suddenly she saw herself with nothing on standing before the gentleman with sliding eyes. Who cared! The money!

For the rest of the morning she worked feverishly, shortening Tony, mending the holes in his socks, turning the fray of his cuffs. She ate a biscuit, drank another cup of cocoa – it was fattening, and went for the hole in the white silk jumper. One o’clock. In panic she stripped once more, put on a new combination, pair of stockings, and the stays, then paused in superstition. No! Her own dress and hat – like yesterday! Keep the rest until –! She hastened to her bus, overcome alternately by heat and cold. Perhaps he would give her another glass of that lovely stuff. If only she could go swimmy and not care for anything!

She reached the studio as two o’clock was striking, and knocked. It was lovely and warm in there, much warmer than yesterday, and the significance of this struck her suddenly. In front of the fire was a lady with a little dog.

‘Miss Collins – Mrs Michael Mont; she’s lending us her Peke, Miss Collins.’

The lady – only her own age, and ever so pretty – held out her hand. Geranium! This, then, was she whose clothes –!

She took the hand, but could not speak. If this lady was going to stay, it would be utterly impossible. Before her – so pretty, so beautifully covered – oh! no!

‘Now, Ting, be good, and as amusing as you can. Good-bye, Aubrey! Good luck to the picture! Good-bye, Miss Collins; it ought to be wonderful.’

Gone! The scent of geranium fading; the little dog snuffling at the door. The sliding gentleman had two glasses in his hands.

‘Ah!’ thought Victorine, and drank hers at a gulp.

‘Now, Miss Collins, you don’t mind, do you! You’ll find everything in there. It’s really nothing. I shall want you lying on your face just here with your elbows on the ground and your head up a little turned this way; your hair as loose as it can be, and your eyes looking at this bone. You must imagine that it’s a faun or some other bit of all right. The dog’ll help you when he settles down to it. F-a-u-n, you know, not f-a-w-n.’

‘Yes,’ said Victorine faintly.

‘Have another little tot?’

‘Oh! please.’

He brought it.

‘I quite understand; but you know, really, it’s absurd. You wouldn’t mind with a doctor. That’s right. Look here, I’ll put this little cow-bell on the ground. When you’re in position, give it a tinkle, and I’ll come out. That’ll help you.’

Victorine murmured:

‘You are kind.’

‘Not at all – it’s natural. Now will you start in? The light won’t last for ever. Fifteen bob a day, we said.’

Victorine saw him slide away behind a screen, and looked at the little cow-bell. Fifteen bob! And fifteen bob! And fifteen bob! Many, many, fifteen bobs before –! But not more times of sitting than of Tony’s standing from foot to foot, offering balloons. And as if wound up by that thought, she moved like clockwork off the dais, into the model’s room. Cosy in there, too; warm, a green silk garment thrown on a chair. She took off her dress. The beauty of the pink stays struck her afresh. Perhaps the gentleman would like – no, that would be even worse –! A noise reached her – from Ting-a-ling complaining of solitude. If she delayed, she never would –! Stripping hastily, she stood looking at herself in a glass. If only that slim, ivory-white image could move out on to the dais and she could stay here! Oh! It was awful – awful! She couldn’t – no! she couldn’t. She caught up her final garment again. Fifteen bob! But fifteen bob! Before her eyes, wild and mournful, came a vision: Of a huge dome, and a tiny Tony, with little, little balloons in a hand held out! Something cold and steely formed over her heart as icicles form on a window. If that was all they would do for him, she would do better! She dropped the garment; and, confused, numb, stepped forth in ‘the altogether’. Ting-a-ling growled at her above his bone. She reached the cow-bell and lay down on her face as she had been told, with feet in the air, crossed. Resting her chin on one hand, she wagged the bell. It made a sound like no bell she had ever heard; and the little dog barked – he did look funny!

‘Perfect, Miss Collins! Hold that!’

Fifteen bob! and fifteen bob!

‘Just point those left toes a bit more. That’s right! The flesh tone’s perfect! My God, why must one walk before one runs! Drawing’s a bore, Miss Collins; one ought to draw with a brush only; a sculptor draws with a chisel, at least when he’s a Michelangelo. How old are you?’