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Marion, the Story of an Artist's Model

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<h2>XXXV</h2> I WENT directly from Miss St. Denis’ to the school. I asked to speak to Mr. Lawton, the master, and he came out to the little anteroom and looked at me sharply while I spoke. I knew my voice was trembling but I said as bravely as I could: “I have come from Miss St. Denis. She is ill; but I will take her place.” “You have posed nude before?” he asked, his eye seeming to scan me from head to foot. “I am a professional model,” I answered. “Hm! Yes, I think you will do.” I was behind the screen. I had taken off all of my clothes, and I was wrapped up in the wrapper which I found to be very dirty. I wondered how many girls had wrapped it about them. I could hear the students entering the class-room. I peeped out, and already there were about fifteen men of various ages, and there were about thirty easels and stools. More students were coming in. There was one elderly man with white hair, and two young boys, one only about thirteen. He looked like my little brother,{218} Randle. I began to redress. I could never go out before those men and the little boy! Merciful God, no! Then I remembered my promise to Miss Darling. I thought of my father, who was ill, of Ada’s insistent demands, of my empty pocketbook, and then I thought of the bottle that Miss St. Denis had given to me. I undressed again. I heard a voice saying: “Where’s the model?” Then the voice of the monitor called sharply: “Pose! Pose, please!” I drained that bottle dry. I stepped from behind that screen. I walked up to the platform, and I flung off the wrapper. I heard a voice saying, as from a distance: “Stand a little to the left.” I obeyed. “Take some poses,” said the voice. I obeyed. I stood there immovable. I felt like a slave who was to be burned as an offering by some savages. It seemed as if I were turning to stone. There was a vague ringing in my ears, and then, as Miss St. Denis had foretold, I forgot that class. I did not see it. I was back in Hochelaga, and Charles was dragging me along on a sleigh. The snow was thick on our clothes. Mama was brushing it off. Charles was pulling off his mittens, and I heard him say to mama—as, oh! he had said a hundred years ago, it seemed{219}—“Mama, I’ll never take that Marion with me again. When we pass the Catholic store with all those images of saints, she makes me so ashamed. She will stop to look at the naked Jesuses. I couldn’t make her come away.” “Rest! Rest!” The voice of the monitor! I awoke. Mechanically I pulled the wrapper over me. Somebody said: “The model is crying.” I walked behind the screen. My head still swam, and I still saw dim visions of my home. I seemed to have been there only five seconds—it was five minutes—when again came the command: “Pose!” Now I felt angry. I stepped on that stage again, and once more I threw off the wrapper. Somebody said: “Put the left foot further back.” My anger was mounting. The dream had all vanished and I was conscious only of a vague fury. I know not why, but, oh! I hated all of those men. They were looking at me, I thought, like cruel tormentors. I wanted to hurt them all, as they were hurting me. Their intent looks, some with their eyes narrowed to see better, others measuring me with a plumb string, seemed to be mocking at my pain. Somebody said:{220} “She looks cross.” I seized the wrapper and savagely I wrapped it about me. I ran for the screen, shouting: “Oh! you devils! You beasts! You shall not torment me any more.” Again I was behind the screen, and with mad, hurrying, fumbling hands I was dressing myself. There was the scraping of boots and stools, and several whistles from the class-room, after that first silence. Then the master came behind the screen. “What does this mean, Miss Ascough?” he demanded. I was crying bitterly. “Did anyone say or do anything to offend you? If so, I’ll put him out of the class.” I said: “Oh, yes, they are not gentlemen. They all stared at me and talked about me.” There was an indignant murmur of denials from the students. Mr. Lawton put his head over the screen and I saw him wink to the students. Then he turned to me and said in a coaxing voice: “Now, now, be a good girl. We want you to finish the pose. If anybody dares to be rude to you, you just tell me about it, and I’ll put him out.” “No, no,” I said. “I’ll not do it again.” “Now please, won’t you for my sake? It’s instruction night, and I am here to give criticisms. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_263_sml.jpg" width-obs="422" height-obs="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /> <div class="caption">I seized the wrapper and savagely I wrapped it about me. </div> </div> {221} Please resume the pose like a good girl. Yours is just the kind of figure we need. Come, now.” “No—no—I am through forever!” I was all dressed. Oh, my beloved clothes! Never again would I remove them. The teacher was now thoroughly provoked. “What do you mean by taking an engagement and wasting our time like this?” “I don’t know,” I answered, and I ran out of the room. I owe an apology to that class.{222} <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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