OF THE STABAT MATER, SPIRIDION, AND DE LA PINE
When he woke up from his day-dream, he noticed that the carriage was
on its way back to the palace. They stopped at the Casino first, and
stepped out to join the players at petits chevaux. Tannhäuser preferred
to watch the game rather than play himself, and stood behind Venus, who
slipped into a vacant chair and cast gold pieces upon lucky numbers.
The first thing that Tannhäuser noticed was the grace and charm, the
gaiety and beauty of the croupiers. They were quite adorable even
when they raked in one's little losings. Dressed in black silk, and
wearing white kid gloves, loose yellow wigs and feathered toques:
with faces oval and young, bodies lithe and quick, voices silvery
and affectionate, they made amends for all the hateful arrogance,
disgusting aplomb, and shameful ugliness of the rest of their kind.
The dear fellow who proclaimed the winner was really quite delightful.
He took a passionate interest in the horses, and had licked all the
paint off their petits couillons!
You will ask me, no doubt, "Is that all he did?" I will answer, "Not
quite," as the merest glance at their petits derrières would prove.
In the afternoon light that came through the great silken-blinded
windows of the Casino, all the gilded decorations, all the chandeliers,
the mirrors, the polished floor, the painted ceiling, the horses
galloping round their green meadow, the fat rouleaux of gold and
silver, the ivory rakes, the fanned and strange frocked crowd of dandy
gamesters looked magnificently rich and warm. Tea was being served.
It was so pretty to see some plushed little lady sipping nervously,
and keeping her eyes over the cup's edge intently upon the slackening
horses. The more indifferent left the tables and took their tea in
parties here and there.
Tannhäuser found a great deal to amuse him at the Casino. Ponchon was
the manager, and a person of extra-ordinary invention. Never a day but
he was ready with a new show--a novel attraction. A glance through the
old Casino programmes would give you a very considerable idea of his
talent. What countless ballets, comedies, comedy-ballets, concerts,
masques, charades, proverbs, pantomimes, tableaux-magiques, and
peep-shows excentriques; what troupes of marionettes, what burlesques!
Ponchon had an astonishing flair for new talent, and many of the
principal comedians and singers at the Queen's Theatre and Opera House
had made their first appearance and reputation at the Casino.
This afternoon the pièce de résistance was a performance of Rossini's
Stabat Mater, an adorable masterpiece. It was given in the beautiful
Salle des Printemps Parfumés. Ah! what a stunning rendering of the
delicious demodé pièce de décadence. There is a subtle quality about
the music, like the unhealthy bloom upon wax fruit, that both orchestra
and singer contrived to emphasize with consummate delicacy.
The Virgin was sung by Spiridion, that soft incomparable alto. A
miraculous virgin, too, he made of her. To begin with, he dressed
the rôle most effectively. His plump legs up to the feminine hips of
him, were in very white stockings, clocked with a false pink. He wore
brown kid boots, buttoned to mid-calf, and his whorish thighs had thin
scarlet garters round them. His jacket was cut like a jockey's, only
the sleeves ended in manifold frills, and round the neck, and just upon
the shoulders, there was a black cape. His hair, dyed green, was curled
into ringlets, such as the smooth Madonnas of Morales are made lovely
with, and fell over his high egg-shaped creamy forehead, and about his
ears and cheeks and back.
The alto's face was fearful and wonderful--a dream face. The eyes
were full and black, with puffy blue rimmed hemispheres beneath them,
the cheeks, inclining to fatness, powdered and dimpled, the mouth was
purple and curved painfully, the chin tiny, and exquisitely modelled,
the expression cruel and womanish. Heavens! how splendid he looked and
sounded.
An exquisite piece of phrasing was accompanied with some curly gesture
of the hand, some delightful undulation of the stomach, some nervous
movement of the thigh, or glorious rising of the bosom.
The performance provoked enthusiasm--thunders of applause. Claude and
Clair pelted the thing with roses, and carried him off in triumph to
the tables. His costume was declared ravishing. The men almost pulled
him to bits, and mouthed at his great quivering bottom! The little
horses were quite forgotten for the moment.
Sup, the penetrating, burst through his silk fleshings, and thrust
in bravely up to the hilt, whilst the alto's legs were feasted upon
by Pudex, Cyril, Anquetin, and some others. Ballice, Corvo, Quadra,
Senillé, Mellefont, Theodore, Le Vit, and Matta, all of the egoistic
cult, stood and crouched round, saturating the lovers with warm douches.
Later in the afternoon, Venus and Tannhäuser paid a little visit to
De La Pine's studio, as the Chevalier was very anxious to have his
portrait painted. De La Pine's glory as a painter was hugely increased
by his reputation as a fouteur, for ladies that had pleasant memories
of him looked with a biassed eye upon his fêtes galantes merveilleuses,
portraits and folies bergères.
Yes, he was a bawdy creature, and his workshop a regular brothel.
However, his great talent stood in no need of such meretricious and
phallic support, and he was every whit as strong and facile with his
brush as with his tool!
When Venus and the Chevalier entered his studio, he was standing amid a
group of friends and connoisseurs who were liking his latest picture.
It was a small canvas, one of his delightful morning pieces. Upon an
Italian balcony stood a lady in a white frock, reading a letter. She
wore brown stockings, straw-coloured petticoats, white shoes, and a
Leghorn hat. Her hair was red and in a chignon. At her feet lay a tiny
Japanese dog, painted from the Queen's favourite "Fanny," and upon the
balustrade stood an open empty bird cage. The background was a stretch
of Gallic country, clusters of trees cresting the ridges of low hills,
a bit of river, a chateau, and the morning sky.
De La Pine hastened to kiss the moist and scented hand of Venus.
Tannhäuser bowed profoundly and begged to have some pictures shown him.
The gracious painter took him round his studio.
Cosmé was one of the party, for De La Pine just then was painting his
portrait--a portrait, by the way, which promised to be a veritable chef
d'oeuvre, Cosmé was loved and admired by everybody. To begin with, he
was pastmaster in his art, that fine, relevant art of coiffing; then
he was really modest and obliging, and was only seen and heard when he
was wanted. He was useful; he was decorative in his white apron, black
mask, and silver suit; he was discreet.
The painter was giving Venus and Tannhäuser a little dinner that
evening, and he insisted on Cosmé joining them. The barber vowed he
would be de trop, and required a world of pressing before he would
accept the invitation. Venus added her voice, and he consented.
Ah I what a delightful little partie carré it turned out. The painter
was in purple and full dress, all tassels and grand folds. His hair
magnificently curled, his heavy eye-lids painted, his gestures large
and romantic, he reminded one a little of Maurel playing Wolfram in the
second act of the Opera of Wagner.