In due course the hearing of this extraordinary suit came before
the high tribunal of Paris, and Madame Julie de Serres was summoned
to appear in court, and answer the questions of the judges. She was
confronted with M. du Bourg, and was surprised and indignant at his
pretensions. The father of Gabrielle de Launay came from Toulouse, and
burst into tears at the sight of one who bore so wondrous a resemblance
to his dead daughter; nor could he find words in which to address the
lady who seemed the living image of his only child, and who calmly
denied all knowledge of him. The judges, in much perplexity, looked at
each other in troubled silence and indecision. Madame de Serres, in
simple language, told the story of her entire life. She was an orphan,
she said, born in South America, of a French father and a Spanish
mother, and had never left her native country until her marriage.
The legal certificate was produced, attesting the marriage of Maurice
de Serres and Julie de Nerval, and, with other formal documents, was
laid before the court. After hearing the pleas of the distinguished
advocates engaged on both sides, the judges consulted together for a
short time, and announced that their decision would be given at the
next sitting of the tribunal.
On the following day the court was crowded to excess, and it was
rumoured amongst the many ladies and gentlemen of position who were
present that a majority of the judges were so thoroughly convinced
of the preposterous character of the President du Bourg's claim
as to render certain a decree in favour of Captain de Serres and
his wife. Amidst a sympathetic silence--for popular opinion was
almost unanimously enlisted on the side of the defendants in this
unprecedented case--the President of the High Court commenced in a
grave voice the delivery of the judgment, when suddenly M. du Bourg,
who had not been present at the commencement of that day's proceedings,
entered the court, leading by the hand a little girl of five or six
summers. At this moment Madame de Serres, her face lighted up with a
smile of exultation, was seated by the side of her advocate, directly
in front of the Bench, and in full view of the public. Conversing in
animated tones with her counsel, she did not observe the entrance of
M. du Bourg; but in a moment a tiny hand was placed in her own, and a
child's soft voice said timidly--
"Mamma, won't you kiss me?"
Madame de Serres turned quickly, uttered a sharp cry, and, clasping the
child in her arms, covered it with tears and caresses. The daughter and
wife had complete control over the emotions of Nature, but the mother's
heart had not the strength to resist the sudden strain.
From that moment the case before the court, and still undecided,
assumed a totally different aspect. Springing to his feet in an
instant, the advocate of the unhappy lady unhesitatingly proclaimed
the identity of his client, and now called upon the judges to annul
her marriage with M. du Bourg, which had been dissolved, he declared
solemnly, by the hand of death. Turning towards M. du Bourg, he
exclaimed with fiery eloquence--
"Sir, you have no right to demand from the earth the body you have
consigned to the grave. Leave this woman to him by whose act, and by
whose act alone, she lives. Her existence belongs to him, and you can
only claim a corpse."
Had the brilliant advocate been pleading the cause of a beautiful
woman before a modern Parisian jury, he might have indulged some hope
of success, but a hundred and fifty years ago the law of France was
not swayed by sentiment. The judges were unmoved by this vehement
outburst, and prepared to alter their decree in conformity with the
facts elicited through the presence of the child. The wretched wife and
mother then entreated permission to spend the remainder of her days
in the seclusion of a convent. This, too, was refused, and she was
formally condemned to return to the house of her first husband.
Two days after this judgment had been rendered, she obeyed. The gates
swung wide open before her, and, dressed in white, pale and weeping,
she entered the great hall, where the President du Bourg, surrounded by
his entire household, stood awaiting her arrival.
Approaching him, and pressing a phial to her lips, she gasped forth the
words, "I restore to you what you lost"--and fell dead at his feet,
poisoned.
The same night, despite his devoted mother's efforts to save him,
Captain du Serres died by his own hand.
[Illustration]
_A Day with an East-End Photographer._
"HERE y'are now, on'y sixpence for yer likeness, the 'ole thing,
'strue's life. Come inside now, won'tcher? No waitin'. Noo
instanteraneous process."
Thus, with the sweet seductiveness of an East-end tout, was a
photographer endeavouring to inveigle 'Arry and 'Arriet into his
studio, which was situated--well, "down East som'ere," as the
inhabitants themselves would describe the locality. It was somewhere
near the Docks; somewhere, you may be sure, close bordering upon that
broad highway that runs 'twixt Aldgate and the Dockgates, for within
those boundaries the tide of human life flows most strongly, and the
photographer hoped, by stationing himself there, to catch a few of
the passers-by, thrown in his way like flotsam and jetsam. He was
not disappointed in this expectation. While daylight lasted there
was generally a customer waiting in his little back parlour, enticed
thither by the blandishments of the tout outside.
The establishment was not prepossessing to an eye cultivated in the
appearance of the artistic façades of photographers in the West. The
frontage consisted of a little shop, with diminutive windows, which
it was the evident desire of the proprietor to make the most of by
engaging in other commercial pursuits.
[Illustration: THE ESTABLISHMENT.]
There seemed to be an incongruity in the art of the photographer being
associated with the sale of coals, firewood, potatoes, sweets, and
ginger-beer, but the East-enders apparently did not trouble themselves
to consider this in the least. There was, indeed, a homely flavour
about this miscellaneous assortment of useful and edible articles,
which commended itself to their mind. What was more natural than that
'Arry, having indulged in the luxury of a photograph, should pursue
his day's dissipation by treating his 'Arriet to a bottle of the
exhilarating "pop," to say nothing of a bag of sweets to eat on their
holiday journey.
The coals, firewood, and potato department, so far from being regarded
as in any way derogatory to the photographer's profession, was rather
calculated to impress the natives, who were accustomed to look upon
a heap of coals--to say nothing of the firewood and potatoes--as a
material sign of prosperity.
So far as the photographer was concerned it was a matter of necessity
as well as choice that he came to be thus associated, for it transpired
that he had married the buxom woman, whom we now see behind the
counter, at a time when he was trying hard to make ends meet in the
winter season, when photography is at a discount. She, on the other
hand, had a thriving little business of the general nature we have
indicated, and was mourning the loss of the partner who had inaugurated
the shop, and for a time had shared with her his joys and sorrows.
The photographer had won her heart by practising his art on Hampstead
Heath the last Bank Holiday, and the happy acquaintance thus formed
had ripened into one of such mutual affection that the union was
consummated, and another department was added to the little general
business by the conversion of the yard at the back into a photographic
studio.
The placards announcing the price of coals and firewood, and the
current market rates of potatoes, were elevated to the topmost panes
of the window, and the lower half was filled with a gorgeous array of
specimen portraits in all the glory of their tinsel frames.
From that day the shop was a huge attraction, and the proprietor of
the wax-work show over the way cast glances of ill-concealed envy and
jealousy at the crowd which had deserted his frontage for the later
inducements opposite.
The incoming vessels from foreign ports brought many visitors, and
generally a few customers. To the foreign element the window was
especially fascinating. Many a face of strange mien stared in at
the window, and the photographer being somewhat of an adept with an
instantaneous camera, would often secure a "snap shot" of some curious
countenance, the owner of which could not be enticed within. These
would duly appear in the show cases, and served as decoys to others of
the same nationality.
There was the solemn-faced Turk in showy fez, and with dainty cigarette
'twixt his fingers, who surveyed the window with immutable countenance,
and was impervious to all the unction of the tout. This latter worthy
was not aware that it was against the religion of the "unspeakable
Turk" to be photographed, or he would not have wasted his energy on
such an unpromising customer.
The negro sailor was apparently struck with the presentments of the
other members of his race, but asseverated that he was "stone broke,"
and did not own a cent to pay for a photograph. He had spent such small
earnings as he had received, and was now on his way back to his vessel.
"Me no good, me no money," he told the tout, who turned away from him
in disgust.
There has so far been a good many passers-by to-day for every likely
customer, and the tout is almost in despair. "Rotters," he mutters;
"not a blessed tanner among 'em."
[Illustration: IN THE SHOW CASE.]
Ah! here's his man, though, and he is on the alert for his prey, as he
sees a dapper little figure with unmistakable Japanese features come
sauntering down the street. He is dressed in the most approved style of
the East-end tailor, who no doubt has assured him that he is a "reg'lar
masher." So evidently thinks the little Jap, as he shoots his cuffs
forward, flourishes his walking cane, and displays a set of ivory white
teeth in his guileless Celestial smile. The tout rubs his hands with a
business-like air of satisfaction as he sees the victim safely handed
over to the tender mercies of the operator within. "Safe for five bobs'
worth, that 'un," he soliloquises, winking at no one in particular, but
possibly just to relieve his feelings by the force of habit.
The next customer attracted was an Ayah, or Hindoo nurse, a type often
to be seen in the show-case of the East-end photographer. These women
find their way to England through engagements as nurses to Anglo-Indian
families coming home, and they work their way back by re-engagements to
families outward bound. Whenever a P. & O. boat arrives there will most
probably be seen one or more of these women, whose stately walk and
Oriental attire at once attract attention.
Prominent also among the natives who find their way up from the Docks
are the Malay sailors, in their picturesque white dresses. Sometimes
the photographer secures a couple for a photo, but as a rule they have
little money. "Like all the rest o' them blessed haythens," says the
tout, "not a bloomin' meg among a 'ole baker's dozen of 'em."
[Illustration: "NOW, LOOK PLEASANT!"]
The faces of such types are not, however, interesting to the
East-enders. Their interest in the window display is only heightened
when familiar faces make their appearance in the tinsel frames. There
was, for instance, positive excitement in the neighbourhood when a
highly-coloured portrait of the landlord of a well-known beer-shop in
the same street was added to the collection.
Everyone recognised the faithfulness at once, though it was
irreverently hinted that in the colouring the exact shade of the
gentleman's nose had not been faithfully copied.
One can imagine the feelings of pride with which the photographer had
posed his worthy neighbour, who had arrayed himself in all the glory of
his Sunday best suit.
"Head turned a little this way, please! Yes--now--look at
this--yes--now, look pleasant!"
Everything would have gone well at this point, but the dog, which it
was intended should form an important adjunct to the picture, and
symbolically typify the sign of the house--"The Jolly Dog"--set up a
mournful howl, and made desperate efforts to get away from the range
of that uncanny instrument in front of him. However, the photographer
waited for a more favourable moment, and while the dog was considering
the force of his master's remarks, the exposure was successfully made.
The result was regarded as quite a _chef d'oeuvre_ in the eyes of those
who stopped to gaze at it as it hung in a place of honour in the window
of the little front shop.
The "reg'lar" East-enders, as distinguished from the foreign element,
were, indeed, very easy to please; but, unfortunately, they were not
the mainstay of the photographer's business. He must needs look for
other customers to eke out a living. And here his difficulties began.
He had to be careful not to take a certain low type of Jewish features
in profile, for the foreign Jew, once he has been acclimatised, does
not like to look "sheeny"; and the descendants of Ham--euphemistically
classed under the generic term of "gentlemen of colour"--were always
fearful lest their features should come out too dark. One young negro
who came to be photographed expressly stipulated that he should not be
made to look black. To obviate this difficulty, the photographer wets
his customer's face with water, so as to present a shiny appearance
to the lens of the camera, and a brighter result is thus secured. On
this particular occasion the ingenious dodge failed, and the vain young
negro loudly denounced it as representing him a great deal blacker
than he was in the flesh. Indeed, the tears sparkled in his eyes as he
protested that he was "no black nigger." There is a subtle distinction,
mark you, between a "nigger" and a "black nigger" in the mind of a
"coloured person," and no greater insult can be levelled at him than to
apply the latter epithet.
[Illustration: Too, too black.]
The tout's thoughts are soon distracted by the appearance of a German
fraulein, evidently of very recent arrival in England, who is admiring
the photos in the window. She is arrayed in a highly-coloured striped
dress, which is not of a length that would be accepted at the West-end,
for it reaches only to the ankles, and shows her feet encased in a
clumsy pair of boots. An abnormally large green umbrella which she
carries is another characteristic feature that seems inseparable from
women of this type.
The tout has a special method of alluring the women folk within the
studio. He has a piece of mirror let into one of the tinsel frames
which he carries in his hand as specimens. He holds this up before the
woman's face, and asks her to observe what a picture she would make.
This little artifice seldom fails to attract the women, whatever their
nationality, for vanity is vanity all the world over.
John Chinaman is quite as easily satisfied, and the tout has no
difficulty in drawing him within, but the drawback to his custom is
that he seldom has any money, or, if he has any, is not inclined to
part with it. It is just a "toss-up," as the tout says, whether he will
pay, if he gets the Celestial inside, though it is worth the risk when
business is not very brisk.
Here is one fine specimen of a Celestial coming along. Western
civilisation, as yet, has made no impression upon him, and he looks for
all the world the Chinaman of the willow-pattern plate in the window
of the tea shop. John falls an easy prey to the tout, who ushers him
inside, and whispers to the "Guv'nor" in a mysterious aside: "Yew du
'im for nothin', if ye can't get him to brass up. Lots o' Chaneymen
about to-day, an' 'e'll advertise the business." The customer is
thereupon posed with especial favour, the photographer feeling that the
reputation of the business in the Celestial mind depends on the success
of this effort. Chinese accessories are called into play; John Chinaman
is seated in a bamboo chair, against a bamboo table, supporting a
flower vase which looks suspiciously as though it had once served as
a receptacle for preserved ginger. Overhead is hung a paper lantern,
and the background is turned round so that the stretcher frame of the
canvas may give the appearance of a Chinese interior. There is no need
to tell the sitter to look pleasant, for his features at once expand
into that peculiar smile which Bret Harte has described as "child-like
and bland."
The photo is duly completed and handed over to the customer for his
inspection and approval. He manifests quite a childish delight, and
is about to depart with it, when he is reminded by word and sign that
he has not paid. John very well understands the meaning of it all,
but smiles vacuously. When, however, the photographer begins to look
threatening, he whines in his best English that he has no money. The
photographer slaps him all round in the hope of hearing a jingle of
concealed coins, but to no purpose. "Another blessed specimen, gratis!"
he mutters, as he allows his unprofitable customer to depart with the
photo, in the hope that it will attract some of his fellow-countrymen
to the studio. This seems quite likely, for the Chinaman goes off in a
transport of delight. He stops now and again to survey the photo, and
the appearance of it evidently gives such satisfaction that he goes
dancing off like a child to show it to his Celestial brethren. They
straightway resolve also to go and have a photograph for nothing.
A group of chattering Chinamen soon appear in front of the
photographer's shop, with the late customer in the midst explaining how
the trick is done. It seems to be finally resolved that they should
go in one at a time, the others waiting outside. One young member of
the party accordingly steps forward, and the tout, delighted to find
the bait has so soon taken, never considers the possibility that this
customer likewise has no money.
The same scene is enacted as in the previous case, but when it comes
to the point of paying for the photo, and John Chinaman is found to
be absolutely penniless, there is an unrehearsed ending to the little
comedy. The proprietor of the photographic establishment seizes the
Chinaman by the collar and drags him into the front shop, where the
tout, in instant comprehension of the state of affairs, takes the
offender in hand and very neatly kicks him over the doorstep, whence
he falls into the midst of his compatriots, who all take to their
heels, screaming in a high-pitched key. The tout looks at their rapidly
retreating figures with a countenance eloquently expressive of mingled
sorrow and anger, vowing vengeance on any other of "them haythen
Chaynees" who might choose to try the game of securing photos for
nothing. "Ought to be all jolly well drownded in the river," he remarks
to his colleague indoors.
[Illustration: "KICKED OUT."]
On the other hand, the heavy-browed, gaunt-cheeked, male Teuton is not
so easy to attract, but the photographer can trust the course of things
to bring him eventually to the studio. When first imported he stares in
at the window in a stolid, indifferent manner. His face has a hungry
look, and is shadowed by a heavily slouched hat; his hair is unkempt;
he wears an untidy and unclean scarf; his boots are big and heavy, and
his trousers several inches too short for him.
[Illustration: A TEUTON.]
[Illustration: SOME FOREIGN IMMIGRANTS.]
[Illustration: AN ORIENTAL.]
In a short time, however, he will blossom forth into a billycock hat,
with broad and curly brim of the most approved East-end cut; patent
leather boots to match, and a very loud red tie. The hungry look has
by this time given way to a sleek, well-fed nature, and he will stroll
along with a Teuton sweetheart, likewise transformed very much from
her former self. The short, gaudily-striped dress has given way to
the latest "'krect thing" in East-end fashion, and the green stuff
umbrella has gone the way of the striped skirt, to be replaced by the
latest novelty in "husband beaters." Then it is that the Teutonic 'Arry
and 'Arriet patronise the photographer, and rejoice his heart with,
perhaps, a five-shilling order.
The show-case of the East-end photographer gives one a very fair idea
of the evolution of the foreign immigrant.
The tout seemed to know the history of every person whose photograph
was displayed in the show-case, and he was rattling it off to us
at a rate which precluded any possibility of storing it up in our
memory, when a slight diversion was created by a coster's barrow,
drawn by a smart little pony, being driven up to the front of the
photographer's. The driver was Mr. Higgins, we learnt, and the other
occupants of the barrow were Mrs. Higgins and the infant son and heir
to the Higgins' estate, which was reputed to be something considerable
in the costermongers' way, as was evidenced by the fact that Mr.
Higgins was enabled to keep a pony to draw his barrow. Mrs. Higgins
had determined that 'Enery--_ætat_ one year and eight months--should
have his photograph taken and afterwards be glorified in a coloured
enlargement. Mr. Higgins had assented to this being done regardless
of expense. It was a weighty responsibility for the photographer, who
always considered the taking of babies was not his strong point. But he
reflected upon the increased fame which would accrue to his business if
he was successful, and he determined to do it or perish in the attempt.
[Illustration: "YOUNG HIGGINS."]
He made hasty preparations by selecting the most tempting stick of
toffy he could find in the sweet-stuff window, and the tout was
instructed to procure from a neighbouring toy shop a doll, a rattle, a
penny trumpet, and other articles dear to the juvenile mind.
The youthful Higgins was duly placed in a chair, behind which Mrs.
Higgins was ensconced with a view to assisting the photographer by
preserving a proper equilibrium in the sitter, and also ensuring
confidence in the infantile mind.
So far, the child had been quietly sucking his thumb and surveying the
studio with an interested air, but no sooner was his attention directed
to the photographer than a distrustful frown settled upon his face, and
his irritation at the photographer's presence found expression in a
yell of infantile wrath. The more the photographer tried to conciliate
by flourishing the toys the more the child yelled. The photographer
danced and sung, and blew the penny trumpet, and was about to give up
the operation in despair, when it dawned on him that he had forgotten
the toffy stick. It was produced, and had its effect. On being assured
by Mrs. Higgins, behind the chair, that the "ducksy darling would have
its toffy stick," the youthful sitter held that prospective joy with
his tear-glistening eye, and the photographer seizing a favourable
moment performed the operation with a sigh of satisfaction. Baby
Higgins had its toffy stick, Mrs. Higgins had a pleasing photo of her
infant offspring, and the photographer proudly congratulated himself
on having so successfully performed his task. The production of such
elaborate efforts as the coloured enlargements was, however, attended
with disadvantages and disappointments at times. It was hard to give
entire satisfaction to such exacting critics in these matters as the
East-end folk, and there was always the risk that the picture might be
thrown upon his hands if not liked.
Taking it all round, his time was much more profitably employed out of
doors on high days and holidays, in taking sixpenny "tintypes" "while
you wait."
We have seen him on a Bank Holiday beaming with good luck. He has
started out early in the morning with the intention of proceeding
to Hampstead, but instead of going direct thither, he pitches his
camera near the walls of the Docks, and manages to catch a good many
passers-by before they have had the opportunity of spending their money
in the pleasures of a London Bank Holiday. Here he has succeeded in
inducing 'Arry and 'Arriet to have their photos taken.
Such is a chapter in the life of an East-end photographer. To-day he
may be doing a "roaring" business, but to-morrow he may be reduced to
accepting the twopences and threepences of children who club together
and wait upon him with a demand that he will take "Me, an' Mary Ann,
an' little Mickey all for thruppence." He invariably assents, knowing
that, though there can be little profit, the photo will create a
feeling of envy in the minds of other children who will decide on
having a "real tip topper" at sixpence.
The stock-in-trade of an East-end photographer is not a very elaborate
one. He may pick up the whole apparatus second-hand for about £5, and
the studio and fittings are not expensive. The thin metal plates cost
not more than 10s. per gross, and the tinsel binding frames about 3s.
per gross, while the chemicals amount to an infinitesimal sum on each
plate. On a good day a turnover of £2 to £3 may be made, but there are
many ups and downs, and trials of temper and patience, to say nothing
of the unhealthy nature of the business, all going to make up many
disadvantages associated with the life of an East-end photographer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: