"
His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist.
"Mais, nom de Dieu, I can't teach you. I could more easily teach a
camel." He turned to Mrs. Otter. "Ask her, does she do this for amusement,
or does she expect to earn money by it?"
"I'm going to earn my living as an artist," Miss Price answered.
"Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would
not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets
in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long
have you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better
than you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt.
You're more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as
a painter. Look."
He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper.
He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and
spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom.
"Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it's grotesque. I
tell you a child of five. You see, she's not standing on her legs. That
foot!"
With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing
upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was
unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337