"Wilkie Collins - I Say No" - читать интересную книгу автора (Collins Wilkie)

"I only presumed to touch your drawing," she said, "because it was in danger."
"What danger?" he inquired.
Francine pointed to the pond. "If I had not been in time to pick it up, it would
have been blown into the water."
"Do you think it was worth picking up?"
Putting that question, he looked first at the sketch--then at the view which it
represented--then back again at the sketch. The corners of his mouth turned
upward with a humorous expression of scorn. "Madam Nature," he said, "I beg your
pardon." With those words, he composedly tore his work of art into small pieces,
and scattered them out of the window.
"What a pity!" said Francine.
He joined her on the ground outside the cottage. "Why is it a pity?" he asked.
"Such a nice drawing."
"It isn't a nice drawing."
"You're not very polite, sir."
He looked at her--and sighed as if he pitied so young a woman for having a
temper so ready to take offense. In his flattest contradictions he always
preserved the character of a politely-positive man.
"Put it in plain words, miss," he replied. "I have offended the predominant
sense in your nature--your sense of self-esteem. You don't like to be told, even
indirectly, that you know nothing of Art. In these days, everybody knows
everything--and thinks nothing worth knowing after all. But beware how you
presume on an appearance of indifference, which is nothing but conceit in
disguise. The ruling passion of civilized humanity is, Conceit. You may try the
regard of your dearest friend in any other way, and be forgiven. Ruffle the
smooth surface of your friend's self-esteem--and there will be an acknowledged
coolness between you which will last for life. Excuse me for giving you the
benefit of my trumpery experience. This sort of smart talk is my form of
conceit. Can I be of use to you in some better way? Are you looking for one of
our young ladies?"
Francine began to feel a certain reluctant interest in him when he spoke of "our
young ladies." She asked if he belonged to the school.
The corners of his mouth turned up again. "I'm one of the masters," he said.
"Are you going to belong to the school, too?"
Francine bent her head, with a gravity and condescension intended to keep him at
his proper distance. Far from being discouraged, he permitted his curiosity to
take additional liberties. "Are you to have the misfortune of being one of my
pupils?" he asked.
"I don't know who you are."
"You won't be much wiser when you do know. My name is Alban Morris."
Francine corrected herself. "I mean, I don't know what you teach."
Alban Morris pointed to the fragments of his sketch from Nature. "I am a bad
artist," he said. "Some bad artists become Royal Academicians. Some take to
drink. Some get a pension. And some--I am one of them--find refuge in schools.
Drawing is an 'Extra' at this school. Will you take my advice? Spare your good
father's pocket; say you don't want to learn to draw."
He was so gravely in earnest that Francine burst out laughing. "You are a
strange man," she said.
"Wrong again, miss. I am only an unhappy man."
The furrows in his face deepened, the latent humor died out of his eyes. He