Titus Awakes

22

Titus as Model

THEY WALKED BACK to Ruth’s studio with Dog, who sensed Titus’s affinity with her, so much so that he chose to walk by Ruth’s side instead of his master’s. For Titus, this indication was a good one. Despite his endeavour to have no human ties, no loves, no hates, he felt an unpossessive affection for the animal, which had displayed so much valour towards him, but he knew that when the time came he would abandon him. Perhaps Dog himself sensed it and, not sharing Titus’s need for self-sufficiency, was yearning towards someone who would shield him against what was to come.

As they entered the studio the cats, according to their temperaments, remained asleep, or raised eyes and, recognising no interruption to their privacy, closed them again.

‘What are you going to do then, Ruth?’

‘I’ve got to do three drawings for a story that I don’t like, and as usual they are to be done in a hurry. I’ve been waiting to hear if they were wanted for months and now I’ve heard yes, but they must be sent by the end of the month. I’ve got to get references and materials and, most urgent of all, my ideas straightened out or crookeded out perhaps. I might even ask you if you would pose for me some time, but I’m afraid I can’t pay you! I’ll have to go out now to get some special paper – so perhaps you’ll have gone to Herbert’s by the time I’m back, but Titus, come back, won’t you. It’s too soon for goodbye.’

As Ruth left to go out, Dog, without being asked, rose to follow, but she said, ‘Oh, no, Dog. You’ve got an appointment this afternoon, but we’ll be together some time – of that I am almost certain, eh, Titus?’

Titus didn’t answer, for he knew the implications of Ruth’s remark.

After she had left, despite the very short time Titus had known her, her absence filled the studio and Titus had a momentary wish to be like other people in wanting and needing the succour of one person, one place, a home, but he knew himself too well to think that it would ever be.

It was time to go to Herbert Drumm’s, so he called Dog to him and they both went out to see what lay in store for them.

Titus found his way to Herbert’s studio and knocked on the glass panel of the door. It was opened by a lady in a black turban, dressed completely in black; her eyes were black, with deep brown shadows ringing them, which gave them a tragic appearance, and her skin was sallow with two patches of rouge flanking the hollow shadows. It might be supposed that such an appearance would be reflected in the lady’s demeanour, but as she said ‘Titus Groan’ in a deeply accented voice, she bowed to welcome him in and her melancholy smile lent as much warmth to her personality as did the rouge to her cheeks.

She pushed forward a velvet curtain, which divided the small entrance from the main room, and invited Titus and Dog to enter.

‘Ah, come in, old boy, glad to see you. Let’s have a drink – bring on the booze, old girl, will you?’

The room that Titus entered was the same size and shape as Ruth’s, but they were as unalike in everything else as a horse from a centaur. It seemed to have two completely different moods, not divided by anything tangible, such as a screen, but by the furnishings. There was a certain chaos where Herbert stood cleaning his brushes with turpentine, and on the other side of the room, a tidy, finicky posse of little tables with lace mats proclaimed the complete autonomy of their own domain. Titus was not able to distinguish the details of the profound difference in the two parts of the room, but he was intrigued by it.

‘Sophia is my wife, old boy. She doesn’t hold with painting and she likes to keep herself to herself. It’s not all that easy in one room but we’ve reached a pretty good compromise between us, and I don’t stray into her province any more than she does into mine. She came from the country, you see – anyway, let’s get down to work soon. Ever done any modelling? Course you haven’t – I don’t know where you’ve come from, but you don’t have to tell me, and what’s more you’ve never stood in one place for long at a time, so I won’t ask you to do too much – and old Dog – old bag Sempleton-Grove’ll like him in the pic too. Thanks, old girl,’ said Herbert, as Sophia strayed across the invisible dividing line of the two territories with a silver salver on which were two heavy glasses and a decanter of red wine. She put it down on a dust-covered table on which were scattered innumerable objects of so diverse a kind that Titus would not have been able, even if he had wished, to distinguish one from another.

Sophia withdrew across the frontier, without having spoken, but there was no unfriendliness in her manner and Titus took his glass of wine from Herbert as he sat down in a large armchair, whose springs were on affectionate terms with the floor.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I know nothing of modelling, as you call it, and I can’t see myself standing still for long, but I’d like to know how you go about what you’re doing.’

‘Well, we’ve all got our tricks, you know, old boy. I’m not much of a painter but I love the damned stuff, and I’m in luck to have got round old Sempleton-Grove – I’m slick, but I know it, and if she wants lovely boys I’ll give her lovely boys, and heap them on by the basinful. No, you won’t have to stand long – it’s your head I want – I’ll use the old bod for the rest of you,’ and Herbert pointed to a life-size figure sitting in a chair, which Titus had not noticed.

‘Oh, what is that?’

‘That’s a lay figure, old boy,’ said Herbert as he went over to it and stood it up. ‘It’s got all its joints and there’s a key for her to stay in any position I want her to . . .’

‘But I’m a he,’ said Titus.

‘Do you know, I’m just beginning to decipher the difference between he and she, and I rather like it . . . anyway, you see, I’m only going to do some drawings of your head, and then put it on top of wonder-girl, only it’ll be wonder-boy – see what I mean?’

‘I think I see,’ said Titus. ‘I shall look forward to seeing my transformation.’

‘Look, can you go on sitting in that chair, and just keep your head as still as possible, and I’ll get on with it, and your companion, that great hound, who’ll be a good deal better a sitter than you.’

Titus sat with his back to the dividing line and, as he watched Herbert, was aware of the quiet rustle of movement behind him, of objects being picked up and put down, of a rattling, and a rustling and water running, and a scraping, and activity of a domestic kind that seemed ceaseless. The small domestic noises were interrupted by a huge bellow of sound from Herbert’s lungs, as he raised his voice in an uninhibited song of delight. As he sang, and took great gulps at his wine, he pounced on the paper in front of him with an equal lack of inhibition; he sat in an ungainly armchair with a drawing board across his knee and, holding his thick black charcoal at arm’s length, with eyes half closed, he made marks upon the paper.

‘Yes, yes, keep your eyes like that, old boy – keep still for a minute – don’t move, don’t move – put your hand up – no, put it down, I won’t be long – yes, that’s it. Yes, you’ve got a good head – I like those hollow cheeks – it’s a good nose, yes, strange eyes, yours – deep – I like that – deep set – a good nose too, you’ve an indefinable face – not handsome, not ugly, but a face of its own – I can’t pin it down, but I’m damned well going to try – but I think you’ve got me there.’

As he spoke, the slight scrape of charcoal on paper conflicted with the strange domestic sounds behind Titus, which he could not always locate, but slowly and insidiously another sense was being attacked, as a most subtle aroma filled his nostrils and he became aware that he was hungry.

‘Well, that’s it for the time being. You can move now.’

Although Titus had made little effort to be still, he was pleased all the same to be able to move without what small conscience he had being disturbed. He stood up, he stretched his arms, he closed his eyes and breathed out, and turned his back on Herbert to look more closely at the other side of the room. He saw Sophia with an apron on, busy at a cooking stove, stirring gently at a large black pot. He had not noticed before, under the huge window, several shelves, on which stood flowering plants that showered the room with colour and life, so silently burgeoning, the very opposite of her husband’s lusty, insensitive nature. Everything was loved and cared for, cleaned and orderly, in striking contrast to Herbert, whose love for his paints, his brushes, his canvas, paper, pencils and chalks was made manifest by ebullient disorder. How these two had achieved the compromise of living together and yet apart, was to Titus’s mind a remarkable feat of what love or propinquity is capable of.

‘I expect you’d like a rest now,’ said Herbert, as he poured another glass of wine for Titus.

‘Can I see what you’ve done?’

‘Yes, old boy, but you won’t see what I can see, or what I’m going to do with you.’

Titus looked at the drawings and although he knew very little, he felt a shallowness in them, a certain flair, but a vulgarity and coarseness of vision, and he didn’t know what to say. Yet there was an underlying vitality.

‘Yes, I know, old boy. Cheap stuff – I know. I should have stuck to the other sort of canvas. At least I know my limitations. I’m a hack, but a happy hack.’

‘I don’t really know much about it all, I haven’t any idea, but I think it looks like me.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, old boy. I don’t get hurt that easily. It stinks, but old Sempleton-Grove’ll want to meet the model and if you’re short of a coin or two and you play your cards right, she’ll set you up, put you on your feet, feather your nest and all the rest of it.’

The most delicious smell began to waft across the frontier, and Titus hoped that the restrictions imposed by the dividing line were domestic, rather than culinary.

His hopes were fulfilled quite soon, as the first to be served was Dog, with a plate of meat, which he sat looking at until he was sure that his master was to be equally rewarded.

* * * * *

WITH A SMILE Sophia retraced her steps and handed Titus a silver tray, which was set to perfection with highly polished silver cutlery and cruets, a crystal glass intricately cut, a linen napkin, and a small posy of flowers, delicately arranged. He was fascinated by the incongruity of the arrangements and at the same time touched by the thoughtfulness of his hostess. He wondered if Herbert would be treated to the same amount of care and rather doubted it, until he saw him clearing a space on his dust-covered, object-laden table. The same care had been taken with the tray that was deposited on that disreputable table, and all that was now awaited was the realisation of the delicious smell into a visual presence.

‘Yes, old boy, she’s a wonderful woman. Funny, we don’t speak the same language in any respect, but we get on. Take away my paints, my booze, my squalor, and I’d die, loud and clear. Take away her plants, her polish, her order, shining white and silver, she’d fade away, slowly and without a murmur. It’s a funny way to get your satisfaction out of life, eh, old boy?’

‘Yes, but I can understand it. Isn’t perfection, or the pursuit of it, something to be envied?’

‘You’re right there, old boy. I’m a brash, haphazard old fool. I’m satisfied with outward flash – don’t go deep into anything, but I’m none the less happy for that. Here it comes and I’ll bet you’ve not tasted food like this before.’

Two plates of very fine porcelain with silver covers were put on Titus’s tray, then Herbert’s, and as the covers were lifted the sight as well as the smell of the food could almost have satisfied their aesthetic hunger, if it had not been for the more animal hunger that had begun to consume them, and as they started to eat so did Dog, and sitting at a linen-draped table across the border sat Sophia, straight-backed, her apron removed, and eating, with a delicate refinement, a portion a good deal smaller than her guest’s.

There followed wine and dessert, and even the loquacious Herbert seemed to be silenced, until the last plate was removed, the last drop of wine drunk and Sophia had begun the task of clearing and polishing and tidying her side of the fence.

Titus was very conscious of the extreme kindness of his hostess, but was uncertain how to make his thanks known, as they seemed to have no common language, so he asked Herbert.

‘Well, old boy, you just tell her in your own way and she’ll understand the gist of it. You got category A status. She likes you, that’s certain.’

‘I’m very grateful to your wife, and to you, but I’m not quite sure why I am so honoured.’

‘Well, there’s something about you, old boy. Can’t say what it is, but she knows. She’s got a nose (not a pun, old boy) for quality. And by the way, you haven’t had your earnings yet.’

‘I can hardly expect to be paid for doing nothing but sit down with my dog, and drink and eat food fit for an earl . . .’

‘King, old boy, but you came here as my model and we’ll stick to our plan. Anyway, it’s the old bag’s money. I’m going to run up these drawings into something that’ll whet her appetite for you and she’ll want to meet you all right. So I’ll come round in a day or two to fix it. You’ll be at Ruth’s, will you?’

‘Ruth has said I can stay as long as I like, but I never stay very long anywhere.’

‘Don’t you hurt her, old boy.’

‘I’ll try not to hurt her.’

Herbert felt in his pocket and brought out some notes, which he handed to Titus. ‘Here you are, old boy – it’s what we give models, so don’t let’s haggle.’

Titus took the money, knowing it was not deserved but feeling that he could now help Ruth a little. He rose to go and, as he rose, so Mrs Drumm came over the divide, and Titus bowed and thanked her with great courtesy for her hospitality. She smiled, with her eyes and her lips, and led him towards the door of the studio, which she opened to let him out.