solemn. She knew full well she was being presumptuous considering I was both older and more experienced than she. She was testing me, seeing how I would react. Would I be pompous, take umbrage and start lecturing her about the fine qualities of my work? “No, no, you don’t understand it. If you look . . .”
But that is not where my vanity lies. And the faint twinkle of amusement in her eyes touched me. I laughed myself. I wasn’t completely sure she was right, although cramming too much in has always been a weakness of mine. But we signed a contract with that glance. The complicated relationship of fawning and flattering she had seen when I was with you was not her way. She would give neither. And I wanted neither from her. From that moment on I liked her but was also a little disconcerted. For she had challenged you with those remarks, and bit by bit I saw how empty your compliments could be. You were being lazy with me; you did not take me so seriously after all. She was right about the picture; you were not. You were fallible.
On the other hand, I rarely showed her any of my pictures again. Not the ones I cared about, anyway. I was too frightened of what she would see. A man can take only so much criticism. I never thought she might be equally wary of my opinion about her efforts.
Do you know what it’s like to like someone, you who acknowledges no equal? Not to see all things in hierarchy, not to strain to be better, or more powerful, than the person you are with? Not to classify someone as friend or enemy, dependent or patron? Not to envy or be envied? It is friendship; I thought it might also be love. I still can’t tell them apart.
I have had my passions and infatuations, although far fewer than my reputation might suggest, but there is enough of the Church of Scotland in me to have a suspicion of the fleshly thrall. Certainly I discovered that the magic always faded fast; no woman, however opulent, however seductive, interested me for very long. Not in the way that Evelyn did, and I was never attracted to her in that way at all. I think I wanted to know her, and the more my friendship with you faded and became bound by conditions and doubts, the more I craved her uncomplicated simplicity. I walked with her round London and Paris too; but it was a different experience. She didn’t want to teach, nor did she lecture. When she looked at a statue or building, she did not wish to classify and pigeonhole. There were none of the flat condemnations or soaring praise that you would deliver; she always tried to appreciate what the artist had been doing, however poor the result. She even found a good word for those pompous old goats from the Beaux-Arts. And above all, she took these walks because of companionship, nothing more. But there was always something in her which held back, which seemed afraid—I even thought seemed repelled—by my presence when I stood close to her. Yet she was so open at the same time. How could that be? It infuriated and frustrated me, and that, I decided, must be a symptom of love.
Coming to a decision took a long time. I delayed till we both came back to England, then some more until my career began to prosper a little, but eventually, in spring 1904, I made up my mind and proposed. Abruptly, and with little romantic style, I must say. I hadn’t even seen much of her for some time when I went round to have my say. Flowers and gifts and all the sort of thing one should employ to create a special moment did not occur to me, which is just as well as it would have been wasted money. She turned me down flat; all I got was a look of shock and astonishment and, even worse, slight anger. Even the idea offended her. I could not see why, then. No-one else was going to make her an offer, and most women, so I had always believed, were at the very least flattered to be asked.
I suppose she was right; I hardly made a good case for myself, and at the time I had little to offer except a vast
But that is not where my vanity lies. And the faint twinkle of amusement in her eyes touched me. I laughed myself. I wasn’t completely sure she was right, although cramming too much in has always been a weakness of mine. But we signed a contract with that glance. The complicated relationship of fawning and flattering she had seen when I was with you was not her way. She would give neither. And I wanted neither from her. From that moment on I liked her but was also a little disconcerted. For she had challenged you with those remarks, and bit by bit I saw how empty your compliments could be. You were being lazy with me; you did not take me so seriously after all. She was right about the picture; you were not. You were fallible.
On the other hand, I rarely showed her any of my pictures again. Not the ones I cared about, anyway. I was too frightened of what she would see. A man can take only so much criticism. I never thought she might be equally wary of my opinion about her efforts.
Do you know what it’s like to like someone, you who acknowledges no equal? Not to see all things in hierarchy, not to strain to be better, or more powerful, than the person you are with? Not to classify someone as friend or enemy, dependent or patron? Not to envy or be envied? It is friendship; I thought it might also be love. I still can’t tell them apart.
I have had my passions and infatuations, although far fewer than my reputation might suggest, but there is enough of the Church of Scotland in me to have a suspicion of the fleshly thrall. Certainly I discovered that the magic always faded fast; no woman, however opulent, however seductive, interested me for very long. Not in the way that Evelyn did, and I was never attracted to her in that way at all. I think I wanted to know her, and the more my friendship with you faded and became bound by conditions and doubts, the more I craved her uncomplicated simplicity. I walked with her round London and Paris too; but it was a different experience. She didn’t want to teach, nor did she lecture. When she looked at a statue or building, she did not wish to classify and pigeonhole. There were none of the flat condemnations or soaring praise that you would deliver; she always tried to appreciate what the artist had been doing, however poor the result. She even found a good word for those pompous old goats from the Beaux-Arts. And above all, she took these walks because of companionship, nothing more. But there was always something in her which held back, which seemed afraid—I even thought seemed repelled—by my presence when I stood close to her. Yet she was so open at the same time. How could that be? It infuriated and frustrated me, and that, I decided, must be a symptom of love.
Coming to a decision took a long time. I delayed till we both came back to England, then some more until my career began to prosper a little, but eventually, in spring 1904, I made up my mind and proposed. Abruptly, and with little romantic style, I must say. I hadn’t even seen much of her for some time when I went round to have my say. Flowers and gifts and all the sort of thing one should employ to create a special moment did not occur to me, which is just as well as it would have been wasted money. She turned me down flat; all I got was a look of shock and astonishment and, even worse, slight anger. Even the idea offended her. I could not see why, then. No-one else was going to make her an offer, and most women, so I had always believed, were at the very least flattered to be asked.
I suppose she was right; I hardly made a good case for myself, and at the time I had little to offer except a vast
Similar Books
