# The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 11/Told in the Studios

Illustrated by Paul Hardy.
Layout 4
Told in the Studios.
By Rita.
STORY THE SECOND.—"CIGARETTE."
"Cigarette."
"T is your turn next," said Denis O'Hara, turning to a grey-bearded, middle-aged man, who was smoking his brierwood with serene and placid content; "and this," handing him a sketch from the heap on the table, "this is your subject."
The artist took it, and for some moments gazed quietly down at the subject it presented.
Only a girl, perched in a half-defiant, half-coquettish attitude on a wooden table, a cigarette in her hand, just as if taken from the pretty, petulant lips, which blew a cloud of smoke into the laughing face of a young man bending over her.
"It looks more French than English," said Denis, musingly; "and the name—Cigarette, isn't that it, Druce?"
"That is the name," said Norman Druce. A smile, humorous and tender, played round his mouth, as he took out the big pipe and quietly filled it. "Yes," he said again, as he resumed his seat, "there is something un-English and unconventional about that sketch, but for all that the girl was English; and, stranger still, the daughter of a country clergyman."
"That," said Jasper Trenoweth, some​what cynically, "might account for a good deal. The bow that is too tightly strung is always the one to rebound most fiercely."
"She was a character in her way," said Norman Druce, musingly. "Wild, wayward, impetuous, passionate; as lovely as a dream, as wilful as—well, as a woman; mischievous, coquettish; yet withal so generous and tender-hearted! Poor Cigarette!"
"She looks very young here," said Denis.
"She was only sixteen." He glanced at the sketch. "Just such a scene," he said, "only supplement it by some half-dozen young fellows in their workshop. I—I was one of them. We were young then, and poor, and sharing a joint studio in a quiet little country place in Devon, studying landscape-painting. I had been the last to join them. Two were personal friends; the others I only knew by name. I arrived one summer evening; and, leaving my traps at the inn, walked over to the studio, as arranged. It was a long, wooden building, lighted by two large windows, and had been built on to a little, rustic cottage, originally tenanted by an artist. I knocked at the door, but the noise of voices and laughter within made my diffident announcement inaudible. I therefore opened the door, and stood for a moment unobserved, looking on at the scene presented. I never look at this sketch but it all comes back. A crash of chords, a medley of sounds, the ringing, audacious notes of a voice clear and sweet as a nightingale's, a puff of smoke blown saucily from rosy lips, the mutinous flash of brown eyes, a figure shabbily and poorly clad, yet perfect in its youth and grace, and careless ease of movement—that was Cigarette, as I first saw her."
"It sounds delightful," said Denis O'Hara. "Was she a model?"
"A model! I told you she was a clergyman's daughter," said Norman Druce indignantly.
"And sang buffo songs; smoked cigarettes in the company of a lot of young fellows, puffing smoke from rosy lips into their faces—well, you must allow it sounds a little—incompatible."
"Oh," said Norman Druce laughing, "she did many worse things than that. All the same we adored her. She was the veriest incarnation of coquetry and mischief that ever wore the garb of woman—a sprite, a will-o'-the wisp, a something untamable and untrained, and most certainly the plague of my life and of many of the others for those six months during which we rented the studio. She had always been allowed to run wild. She had no mother, or brothers, or sisters. Her father bore a not very excellent character, and seemed to let her do just what she pleased. That, apparently, consisted in haunting the studio, coquetting with the artists, and spoiling canvas, and wasting colour in an attempt to produce what she termed 'novel effects'—they were novel, by Jove!—playing all sorts of practical jokes on us, and amusing, interesting, tormenting each and all of us just as the fancy took her. She was like a wild young colt. She respected nothing and no one. She would parody songs till we had to hold our sides for laughing, mimic her father and his sermons; dance, play, sing; in fact, her talents were as versatile as herself. One of our number, Val Beresford, alone seemed to dislike the girl. He was a wonderfully clever artist, out and out the best among us, excessively handsome, very ambitious, and very fastidious. He made no secret that he disliked Cigarette, though he laughed and teased her like the rest of us, as if she were some pet kitten, with claws as yet half sheathed and harmless. But Cigarette seemed to guess his dislike, and I noticed that in his presence she was always wilder, bolder, more fantastic and petulant than we ever knew her. If he admired a song, it was the signal for some audacious parody that turned it into ridicule; if he praised art, she abused it; if he spoke of the refinement and delicacy of womanhood, she would tear its idealised graces into shreds and tatters, and paint them with a scathing and bitter contempt that quite startled us. On no subject could they or would they agree; strangely enough, too, she would sit for any of us with most untiring patience, but nothing would ever induce her to do so for Val. One day he told her laughingly that, with or without her will, he intended to make a picture of her, and send it to the French Exhibition. 'You are too vivid and dangerous for English tastes,' he said teasingly. He did not notice, as he spoke, how white that lovely rich-hued face of hers became; how swift and fierce a flash shot from the dark brown eyes; so sudden, so tempestuous was the change that I felt almost frightened, though I knew her temper, and how variable were her moods. But, sudden as was that change, it was checked as suddenly. For once Cigarette did not ​storm in anger, or lash him with her sharp unsparing tongue. She only turned away, saying very low, 'I would sooner kill you than let you paint me for—for exhibition.'
"That delightful song."
"Val only laughed, and at this time no more was said on the subject. I think five minutes afterwards the little fury was sitting at the piano, and giving us what she called 'the sense' of that delightful song to Anthea, which Val used to sing so splendidly. I believe I can remember the words still:—
'Bid me to paint, and I will paint
A moon, or sun, or sea,
Or dirty boys, or village joys,
For the Acad-a-mee;
Or do what all have done before
(For so doth art decree),
That fruit and flower may have the power
To give the lie to me! Bid me to use of oil a cruse
(Whatever that may be),
That nature's tints I may abuse,
For critics all to see! And I will do what all will do,
To all eterni-tee—
And mock the praise I cannot raise
From that Acad-a-mee.
It is the hope of every heart
That honours its decree; But genius dwells afar apart,
Nor there would wish to be!'"
A round of laughter followed this declamation, as Norman Druce paused to re-light his pipe.
"By Jove!" cried Denis O'Hara, "I should like to have known that girl. She must have been a caution! But go on, old chap. It's getting interesting. Of course, he did paint her?"
"You know the sketch," said Norman, quietly; "I don't know how long he was doing it, or when he managed to get the likeness: it is lifelike. We none of us knew what he was about, Cigarette least of all. They quarrelled as much as ever, and she seemed as saucily defiant—as mischievous and uncertain in her moods as we had always known her. But sometimes I thought I detected a change in the girl. She had fits of quietude, almost of sadness; she seemed to take more pains with her personal appearance, to be less random of speech, less bold of tongue. I was older and graver and steadier than the others, and in some vague way she seemed to trust me more, and be more natural with me than with them. I met her sometimes taking long, aimless walks, book in hand—she who used to declare she hated books, and would ridicule and parody the most sublime poem that ever was written. But among us all, and specially when Val Beresford was present, she was the same wild, laughing, mutinous creature we had grown to know so well. Time passed on; our tenancy was almost over. We had painted and sketched our fill, and were already half-regretful that we must give up those pleasant quarters and our lazy Bohemian life. One night we were all sitting together before the fire; it was close on Christmas, and the weather was cold and damp. Cigarette had not appeared for two or three days. We were wondering at her absence, and speculating as to her probable appearance to-night.
"'I hope she will come,' said Val, 'for I want to show you all my picture, and I should like her to be present.'
​"'You don't care much for her opinion, surely?' I said.
"'Her opinion? Oh, no!' he said, with a somewhat odd smile, 'I only want to give her a surprise.'
"As he spoke, the door opened, and Cigarette appeared. She had thrown a scarlet cloak round her; the hood was drawn over her head. Her great dark eyes and flushed cheeks looked out from that glowing frame with rare and piquant beauty. Val looked at her critically, as he had a way of looking, and I saw her colour deepen as she met his eyes.
"'Will you have me for a model?' she asked.
"'Thanks, no,' he said coolly, 'I've a good memory.'
"With no further word he went to a corner of the studio, and, opening a cabinet there, took out a small square of canvas. This he placed on his easel, and turned it round so as to face us all. The lull light of the swinging lamp above fell on it. There was a cry of wonder from us; of rage and passionate indignation from the girl. She looked back at herself. Herself—to the life, with her petulant grace, and her flashing eyes, and her mutinous, lovely, riante face, and she sat there in the colour and life of the picture as she sits in that sketch, puffing a cloud of smoke into the face bent down to hers. It was very simple, but it was very lifelike and true, and the title, 'A Challenge,' said all that was needful. We burst into a chorus of praise and admiration. None of us had had the faintest idea of what Val had been doing, only—somehow, I looked not at the picture but at the original; and I was startled to see the life and colour die slowly out of the girl's face, till it grew cold, white, stern, as never had I dreamt it could look. She stood there—her breast heaving, her eyes veiled by their long lashes, the colour coming and going in her face. Val seemed somewhat uneasy. 'Come, Cigarette,' he said, 'don't look so angry. The others have painted you so often, why shouldn't I?'
"She only looked at him. I—well, I've often wondered how he felt. How does a deer look wounded to death, turning its eyes on its hunters? How might a child look torn from arms it loves, and seeing only terror and darkness around it? So she looked in that brief moment between his question and her reply. Swift as thought she seized a brush lying near her. One fierce gesture; one rapid sweep of the small, firm hand, and the face on the canvas was disfigured beyond all recognition! None of us spoke or moved. We were too astonished. 'There,' she cried, throwing the brush at Val’s feet, 'there is your "challenge" answered.'
"'And rightly answered,' he said very quietly. 'Thank you. Cigarette, I deserve your rebuke; I had no right to do it without your permission.'
"He went up to the picture, and turned its face to the easel.
"The girl stood there, silent and trembling, every vestige of colour gone from her face, as every trace of that moment's fiery passion had vanished in the shame and remorse that had followed its outbreak. Then, without a word, she drew the hood closely round her head, and turned to the door. She paused there for a moment and looked back at us. 'I came here to-night,' she said, 'to wish you all good-bye. I—I am going away to a school in London. I shall never see any of you again.' We sprang up and crowded round her. Val alone remained seated in the chair, smoking. One would have thought he had not heard her. She broke away from us with a sob—Cigarette, who never cried, who mocked at tears as something more than childish. Then she was gone, leaving us to wonder or comment as we might. How curiously silent Val was; how impossible we found it to draw anything from him that night. I remembered that afterwards.
"It happened that the next morning he and I were the first to enter the studio. We had to collect our sketches and implements, and pack our pictures. As we entered I saw that his picture had been turned again to its original position. 'Why, Val,' I said, 'someone has been here—look!' For on the edge of the easel lay a bunch of flowers, tied together by a long, soft tress of brown hair. He came forward and took them from my hand. A smile, half sad half tender, played around his lips.
"'What a child she is,' he said, 'and with all her wilfulness and passion, what a tender heart.'
"'I am glad,' I said, 'that you do her justice at last. It always seemed to me that you have been too hard on her.'
"He did not answer, and his lips still wore that musing tender smile, as he thrust the little bunch of flowers into the breast pocket of his coat.
***** ​"Surely that is not all," exclaimed Denis O'Hara as Norman Druce leant back in his chair and puffed a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.
"Well," answered Druce, with an odd little smile, "I think there is a sequel, if you care to hear it." He rose as he spoke, and took down from the mantel-shelf a box of cigarettes, which he handed to Denis.
"Three or four, are there not?" he said; "that's the sequel."
"But—but I don't understand," exclaimed Denis, looking somewhat bewildered.
"Don't you?" said Druce, puffing another cloud of smoke from the brierwood; "oh, its very simple. He married her—after she left that school in London."
"One sweep of the hand, and the face was disfigured."