THE FENCING SCHOOL.
Among other things in Boston at that period there was a fencing school
and pistol gallery, kept by an old soldier of the First Empire, Monsieur
Hypolite Bagasse. The way to it was up a long, narrow boarded alley which
led out of Washington street, ran straight for about twenty steps, and
then with the natural disposition of every street, avenue, alley, lane
or court in Boston, made an effort to achieve the line of beauty and of
grace by slanting off to the left, in which bent it was followed by the
blind, brick walls, covered in one spot with a patch of theatre posters
on the left hand side of it, and by a large dingy old brick building,
preternaturally full of windows, on the right hand side of it. In this
building was the fencing school.
A large, long, dim, unfinished interior, lighted on one side only by
a row of windows looking on the alley, clap-boarded all around on the
other sides, and with rafters overhead. Cool and dry, with a faint acrid
smell of powder-smoke pervading its musty atmosphere. One section of the
oblong space, to the left of the door, unwindowed, and lying in complete
shadow. Three or four square wooden posts, down the long centre,
supporting the raftered ceiling. On the left hand, under the windows, the
pistol gallery—a fenced lane, with a target at one end, and a bench, with
arms and ammunition on it, at the other. Near this a wooden settee with
a tin can of cheap claret wine upon it. Opposite, hanging on the boarded
wall in the rear of the pistol bench, and in the range of two or three
of the windows, rows of foils and yellow buckskin fencing-gloves, black
wire masks for the face, leathern plastrons for the breast, and a few
single-sticks and blunt broadswords. No other furniture, save three or
four old chairs, scattered here and there about the room.
It was about half-past seven o’clock in the morning of the twenty-fifth
of May, and Monsieur Bagasse was waiting for pupils to arrive. John
Todd, a young fellow about fifteen or sixteen years of age, was at the
bench, absorbed in cleaning pistols. Monsieur Bagasse himself, slowly
shuffling up and down in front of the fencing implements, with a halt
in his step, occasioned by one leg being shorter than the other, was
absently smoking a short pipe, which he held to his mouth by the base of
the bowl. He was a figure fit for the pencil of Callot or Gavarni. Sixty
years old, but not looking more than a weather-beaten forty; of middling
stature, brawny, round-shouldered, slightly bow-legged, with large splay
feet, cased in shambling shoes, with an old cap on the back of his
head, and his coarse, black hair, dashed with grey, showing under the
crescent-shaped visor above his low, broad, corrugated forehead; with a
dilapidated, old-fashioned stock around his neck, a slate-colored worsted
jacket buttoned with horn buttons up to his throat, the sleeves of a red
flannel shirt showing at his wrists, and coarse, dark, baggy trowsers on
his lower limbs. His visage swarthy, ferruginous, picturesquely ugly, but
suave and kindly, with a constant expression of curious interrogation
upon it—an expression to which the ever upturned jaw contributed—to which
the mouth, shaded by a rusty black moustache, and always inquiringly
open, contributed—to which the eyes, one bleared and the other bright
as a darkly-glowing coal, and both surmounted by shaggy eyebrows,
contributed—and which had its contribution from the horn-rimmed goggles
worn half way down on the bold aquiline nose, above which the eyes
looked from the upturned face as though they were sighting at a mark
along a cannon. Wrinkles, of course—wrinkles, and seams and crowsfeet in
profusion; two noticeable fissures sloping deeply down the cheeks from
the big nostrils; and on the right cheek a dim red scar—the record of a
Frenchman’s last service to his Emperor at Waterloo. Add to all a general
association of tobacco, snuff, and garlic, and you have the idea of
Monsieur Bagasse.
A step on the stairs announcing the approach of a visitor, Monsieur
Bagasse halted, took his pipe from his mouth, and stood in a habitual
attitude, his arms hung stiffly, his palms turned outward, his big feet
also turned outward and visible from heel to toe, and his face sighting
with curious inquiry at the door. The door opening presently, in came a
young man of seven or eight and twenty, rather boyish-looking for his
years, modishly, though tastefully, attired, whose name was Fernando
Witherlee.
“Good morning, Monsieur Bagasse. How de do,” he said, touching his
moleskin hat with a kid-gloved finger, as, smiling constrainedly, and
cringing into a super-elegant bow, he came forward. “Whew! how you smell
of powder in here.”
“Ah! good morning, good morning, Miss’r Witterlee,” rejoined the old
Frenchman, politely, with a quick salute of the hand.
Privately, Monsieur Bagasse had a supreme contempt for his visitor.
Nobody could have guessed it, however, who saw the bland suavity on
his grotesque visage, as he curiously scanned the face before him. A
plump, smooth, colorless, bilious face, handsome in its general effect,
subtle, morbid, fastidious, supercilious, reticent; but with all its
traits masked in a cool assumption of impassibility. With thick, brown
hair gracefully arranged; handsome, expressive brown eyebrows; brown
eyes, with a restless glitter on them when they were in motion, and a
perfect opaqueness in them when they were still; lips which were rigid
in their contour, usually slightly parted, and which moved but little
in their speech. Primarily, the face of an epicurean and a dilettante; a
face, too, that bespoke cynicism, conceit, arrogance, and indescribable
capacity of aggravation and insult. Such was the face which Monsieur
Bagasse smilingly and suavely interrogated.
“Where are our friends this fine morning?” Witherlee asked, carelessly,
with an affected elegance of utterance, which was a cross between mincing
and drawling. “Not arrived yet? The lazy fellows! Perfect sloths, both of
them.”
“Lazee? Oh no! It is vair early yet,” returned Monsieur Bagasse. “Miss’r
Harrin’ton an’ Miss’r Wentwort’ are not lazee yet, Miss’r Witterly.”
“Oh, they’re up early enough, I know,” replied the other, “for I met them
an hour ago, idling along Temple street with some ladies.”
“Maybe zose ladee was zere sweetheart. Ah, Miss’r Witterly, pardon me,
it is not lazee for ze young men to promenade wis zere sweetheart—_sacre
bleu_, no!”
Witherlee laughed—a chuckling laugh, as though his throat was full of
turtle.
“I was struck with the contrast,” he remarked. “Wentworth was dressed
in his dandy artist rig—spruce as Beau Brummel, and Harrington wore
those superannuated old clothes, looking for all the world as if he had
just been let out of the watchhouse. Splendid girls they were with too.
Wentworth beside one of them was like a bizarre creature, of some sort
or other, walking with a princess, and Harrington like a strapping young
rag-picker along side of a queen.”
“Ah, zey is vair fine young zhentilmen,” tranquilly replied Monsieur
Bagasse. “Vair fine.”
Witherlee made no reply, but slightly elevated his handsome eyebrows in
expressive disparagement.
“You know zose ladee, Miss’r Witterly?” inquired the old Frenchman.
“Oh yes, very well. I walked along with them this morning. One is a Miss
Eastman—she lives in Temple street with her mother. Quite rich. The other
is a Miss Ames, who is visiting the Eastmans. Her family are all rich.
They live at Cambridge.”
“Vair fine ladee? Wis beautee—wis dollair, eh?”
“Oh yes, indeed. Very much sought after too, both of them. With crowds of
admirers, I assure you.”
“Ah, Miss’r Witterly, I am so glad for zat. It please me vair mush that
Miss’r Harrington and Miss’r Wentwort’ sall marry zose vair fine ladee.”
“Hoity, toity, my dear Monsieur Bagasse, what in the world are you
thinking of? Your pupils are not so lucky as that yet. Wentworth might
have a chance, for his father’s rich, and in good standing, though I
judge from the way things go on lately that Miss Ames cares precious
little for him. But Harrington—why he’s as poor as a church mouse, and
doesn’t move in good society at all. How Miss Eastman tolerates his
visits, _I_ can’t imagine. I suppose it’s her kindness though. Seems
to me Harrington must have a great deal of assurance to visit her at
all. As for marrying her, why it’s perfectly absurd! She’d as soon
marry a man out of the poor-house. Good gracious! look at the old coat
the fellow wears! Why the lady belongs to our first society—a su-pairb
person—perfectly dis-t-a-nguay.”
Monsieur Bagasse grinned broadly, possibly with rage, possibly at the
affected drawl with which Witherlee had pronounced the French word
_distingué_, and then growing grotesquely serious, burst forth in
orotund, hoarse, fluent tones, very politely, but with great earnestness.
“Pardon me, Miss’r Witterly,” he said, “but why is zat so odd zat ze vair
fine _distingué_ ladee sall lof Miss’r Harrin’ton? Ah, Miss’r Witterly,
you make one vair big mistake. You zink ze pretty girl all so fond of
ze dollair—ze rank—ze grand posetion, eh? Bah—no! I tell you, no. Ze
duch-ess—ze count-ess—ze great vair fine ladee—zey lof so offen ze wit,
ze brave heart, ze gallantree, ze goodness wis ze old coat over him.
_Ouf!_ Look now. Attend. Was I great vair fine ladee, what sall I do wis
myself? I tell you. I see Miss’r Harrington lof me, I make vair sure. Zen
I say—here, you brave, good man, so kind, so handsome, so gallant, so
like ze superb chevalier of ze old time—look—I lof you! I lof you wis
you old coat! I lof you old coat, too, for it covair you so long. Come—I
marry you—you take my fine house—my dollair—you take me—all, for evair
and evair. _Sacrebleu_, Miss’r Witterly, zat is what I say to Miss’r
Harrin’ton was I vair fine ladee.”
To this outburst, which was delivered with great vivacity and many
shrugs, grimaces, and odd gesticulations, Witherlee listened with
opaque eyes and parted lips, and an expression of perfect immobility
on his colorless, plump, morbid countenance. At the end, he lifted his
expressive eyebrows, slightly curled a contumelious nose, and curved a
supercilious lip, with an insolence at once so delicate and so intense,
that Monsieur Bagasse, with the most suave smile again on his uncouth
visage, felt a strong desire to deal him a thumping French kick under the
chin.
“I have no doubt, my dear Monsieur Bagasse,” was the rejoinder after a
pause, “that you would do as you say if you were the lady in question.
But you’re not, you know, which makes the difference. However, I won’t
discuss the point with you. Harrington is not quite so great a fool,
I hope, as to expect any such good fortune. As for Wentworth, if you
could have seen his face this morning when Emily—that is Miss Ames—gave
Harrington a bunch of violets, you would have thought that his hopes,
like his prospects, were rather down.”
“Eh, what was zat?” inquired the old Frenchman, curiously.
“Why you see,” replied Witherlee, with a spirting chuckle at the
remembrance, “after the walk we were in the parlor, and Miss Ames went
into the conservatory and came back with a little bunch of violets. She
was at a table in the further end of the room, dividing the violets into
two nosegays, and, just for a joke, I went over to her and whispered
that Wentworth would be delighted to receive a true-love posy from her.
I don’t know what made her color, but she did, and instantly tied up
all the flowers in one nosegay, with a piqued air, and went over to the
two fellows. You should have seen Wentworth’s mortified air when she
sailed past him, and gave them to Harrington. He walked across the room,
trying to look indifferent, but it was no go. Miss Eastman went out and
came back with another bunch of violets which she gave him with her most
gracious manner, but I guess she couldn’t console him for that rebuff. He
made his adieux to Miss Ames stiffly enough, though he was extra cordial
to Miss Eastman, at which Miss Ames looked colder than ever. Altogether,
for a little matter, it played the deuce with Wentworth everyway.”
“Pardon me, Miss’r Witterly—ex-cuse me, sir, please,” interposed Monsieur
Bagasse, with immense civility of manner, and deprecating grimaces:
“Zat was not well—_sacrebleu_, no. You make zat mischeef—ex-cuse
me—you vex zat ladee and you wound Miss’r Wentwort’ wis you littel gay
talk. Ah, you was not right—no indeed. You make maybe littel miff wis
zose young peeples—it grow, grow, grow evair so big maybe, and zey
nevair, nevair, come back togezzer. You duty sall be to make ze amende
honorable—ex-plain—yes indeed, Miss’r Witterly. You tell Miss’r Wentwort’
what you say—zen he know, zen it is again right.”
“Not at all,” replied the mischief-maker. “I don’t think so. I only made
a playful remark. If Miss Ames chose to act as she did, that is not my
affair. I said all I could to console Wentworth. I told him I was truly
sorry that Miss Ames had treated him so rudely—very sorry indeed.”
“_Mille tonnerre!_” exclaimed the Frenchman, grinning and grimacing
desperately: “you say zat to Miss’r Wentwort’!”
“Of course I said it,” coolly replied Witherlee. “What less could I say?
It didn’t console him much, though. He tried to look indifferent, thanked
me coolly enough, and remarked that it was of no consequence.”
Monsieur Bagasse gave a sort of snort, still grinning and grimacing.
The whole proceeding was quite in Fernando Witherlee’s style. A piece
of boyish malice, perpetrated with mischievously subtle talent—with an
expressiveness of manner which had injected the words and action with a
wicked meaning not purely their own; afterwards foolishly tattled of, and
defended with pig-headed perversity.
“I am very sorry the thing happened,” resumed Witherlee, in a cool,
sympathizing, soliloquizing tone, looking, meanwhile, at the wall with
his opaquest gaze. “And I’m still more sorry to notice that Wentworth and
Miss Ames are not so intimate as they were a short time ago. It really
seems as if they were becoming estranged. It’s odd to see how attentive
Wentworth is lately to Miss Eastman, though I’m sure he only cares for
her as a friend. Then Miss Ames, on the other hand, is very agreeable to
Harrington, which galls Wentworth, I know. ’Pon my word, I believe he
is getting jealous of Harrington, and I shouldn’t wonder if those two
fellows had a falling out presently. It’s dreadfully absurd of Wentworth,
for I’m sure that if Harrington cares for either of them, it’s Miss
Eastman.”
The case was pretty much as Witherlee had stated it, but the explanation
was, that he had been lifting his eyebrows and modulating his tones and
dropping his intangible innuendoes to Miss Ames with regard to Wentworth,
and the result was, that she had become filled with indeterminate
suspicion and distrust of her lover, and had almost alienated him from
her by her manner toward him.
“Miss’r Witterly, you are ze friend of zose young men,” placidly observed
Monsieur Bagasse. “See, now, suppose you tell Miss’r Wentwort’ zat he
sall not be jalous of Miss’r Harrin’ton—zat Miss’r Harrin’ton haf not lof
Mees Ame nevair. Zen you make zem fine young zhentilmen still good friend
of ze ozzer. You say zat now to Miss’r Wentwort’.”
“Dear me, no; that wouldn’t do at all,” was the reply. “It’s not my
business, you know, and I might only make trouble. Better let them
alone. It’ll all come right, I guess. Wentworth’s in no danger from our
negro-worshipping friend, and I guess the best policy in this case, like
the national policy in regard to Kossuth, will be non-intervention.”
“Neeger-worship friend? Who is zat you mean?” inquired Monsieur Bagasse,
with grotesque perplexity.
Witherlee laughed his turtle-husky chuckle.
“I was only joking,” he returned; “I meant Harrington. You know he’s a
furious Abolitionist.”
“Ah, Miss’r Witterly,” said the old Frenchman, with a deprecating shrug
and grimace, “zat is not good fon. Miss’r Harrin’ton is vair fine young
zhentilman. If he worsheep ze neeger, _pardieu_, Hypolite Bagasse
worsheep ze neeger wis him. Zat is only what you call ze attachment zoo
libertee. Ah, Miss’r Witterly, zat Miss’r Harrington, so kind, so strong,
so good, he is friend of ze neeger, of ze Iris’man, of ze Frenchman, of
ze poor fellow, of ze littel child, of ze small fly on ze window, of ze
vair old devail himself, of evairybody. See, now. Attend. I was seek—vair
seek wis fever in ze winter. Nobody come to me—of my pupeel not one. Zat
Miss’r Harrin’ton he come. He find John Todd, and inquire where I live,
and he come. He breeng ze doctor—he breeng Miss’r Wentwort’, he breeng
ze littel jellee, ze grape, all zem littel ting zat he say ze vair fine
ladee give him for ze poor old vair seek Bagasse. _Sacrebleu_, he nurse
me; he sit up wis me in ze night when my wife tire herself out wis me,
and go sleep; he get me well, and zen he go zoo ze pupeel and make ze
subscripsheon for zere old fencing-mastair. Feefty dollair—dam! it is
sub-lime! Ze wolf he cut off from ze door of Bagasse so queek as his dam
leg will trot! Zen Miss’r Harrin’ton he advise Madame Bagasse zoo keep ze
boarding-house. Ah! it is grand. She accept—ze boardair come—ze French,
ze Italian, ze German man zey board wis me. Hah! zat Miss’r Harrin’ton
he set me up on my leg, wis my heart big wis gratitude. You make mock of
zat old coat, Miss’r Witterly. Bah! He wear zat old coat zat so many poor
devail sall wear any coat at all. _Sacrebleu!_ was I ze great Nap-oleon,
I sall put ze grand cross of ze Legion—ze Legion d’Honneur—on ze breast
of zat old coat for evair.”
There was such emotion in the deep, hoarse rolling tones—such a dark glow
on the grotesque, brown, wrinkled visage—such fire in the one eye under
its shaggy eyebrow—such martial energy in the uncouth, shabby figure,
that Witherlee felt the danger of pursuing any further his detraction of
Harrington. At the same time, he felt an envious itching to continue it.
To hear anybody or anything praised, and not be roused to oppositiveness,
was not in the organization of Fernando Witherlee. A peculiarly
aggravating rejoinder was in his mind, and the temptation to utter it was
prodigious. While he hesitated between the temptation and the imminent
prospect of having a quarrel on his hands with Monsieur Bagasse, steps
and loud talking on the stairs, announcing the approach of pupils, at
once decided and relieved him, and he sauntered away to a chair, sinking
into which and tilting it back against the wall, he proceeded to select,
light and smoke a cigar.