suppose, might possibly just shake his faith a little (just as though,
instead of being parson, he had been tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,
gentleman, apothecary, ploughboy, thief), and teach him that many of
these beliefs are simply childish--and some of them very wicked
indeed--and most immoral.
"It is very wicked and most immoral to believe, or affect to believe,
and tell others to believe, that the unseen, unspeakable, unthinkable
Immensity we're all part and parcel of, source of eternal, infinite,
indestructible life and light and might, is a kind of wrathful,
glorified, and self-glorifying ogre in human shape, with human passions,
and most inhuman hates--who suddenly made us out of nothing, one fine
day--just for a freak--and made us so badly that we fell the next--and
turned us adrift the day after--damned us from the very beginning--_ab
ovo--ab ovo usque ad malum_--ha, ha!--and ever since! never gave us a
chance!
"All-merciful Father, indeed! Why, the Prince of Darkness was an angel
in comparison (and a gentleman into the bargain).
"Just think of it, Tray--a finger in every little paltry pie--an eye and
an ear at every key-hole, even that of the larder, to catch us tripping,
and find out if we're praising loud enough, or grovelling low enough, or
fasting hard enough--poor god-forsaken worms!
"And if we're naughty and disobedient, everlasting torment for us;
torture of so hideous a kind that we wouldn't inflict it on the basest
criminal, not for one single moment!
"Or else, if we're good and do as we are bid, an eternity of bliss so
futile, so idle, and so tame that we couldn't stand it for a week, but
for thinking of its one horrible alternative, and of our poor brother
for ever and ever roasting away, and howling for the drop of water he
never gets.
"Everlasting flame, or everlasting dishonor--nothing between!
"Isn't it ludicrous as well as pitiful--a thing to make one snigger
through one's tears? Isn't it a grievous sin to believe in such things
as these, and go about teaching and preaching them, and being paid for
it--a sin to be heavily chastised, and a shame? What a legacy!
"They were shocking bad artists, those conceited, narrow-minded Jews,
those poor old doting monks and priests and bigots of the grewsome, dark
age of faith! They couldn't draw a bit--no perspective, no
chiaro-oscuro; and it's a woful image they managed to evolve for us out
of the depths of their fathomless ignorance, in their zeal to keep us
off all the forbidden fruit we're all so fond of, because we were built
like that! And by whom? By our Maker, I suppose (who also made the
forbidden fruit, and made it very nice--and put it so conveniently for
you and me to see and smell and reach, Tray--and sometimes even pick,
alas!).
"And even at that it's a failure. Only the very foolish little birds are
frightened into good behavior. The naughty ones laugh and wink at each
other, and pull out its hair and beard when nobody's looking, and build
their nests out of the straw it's stuffed with (the naughty little birds
in black, especially), and pick up what they want under its very nose,
and thrive uncommonly well; and the good ones fly away out of sight; and
some day, perhaps, find a home in some happy, useful father-land far
away, where the Father isn't a bit like this. Who knows?
"And I'm one of the good little birds, Tray--at least, I hope so. And
that unknown Father lives in me whether I will or no, and I love Him
whether He be or not, just because I can't help it, and with the best
and bravest love that can be--the perfect love that believeth no evil,
and seeketh no reward, and casteth out fear. For I'm His father as much
as He's mine, since I've conceived the thought of Him after my own
fashion!
"And He lives in you too, Tray--you and all your kind. Yes, good dog,
you king of beasts, I see it in your eyes....
"Ah, bon Dieu Père, le Dieu des bonnes gens! Oh! if we only knew for
_certain_, Tray! what martyrdom would we not endure, you and I, with a
happy smile and a grateful heart--for sheer _love_ of such a father! How
little should _we_ care for the things of this earth!
"But the poor parson?
"He must willy-nilly go on believing, or affecting to believe, just as
he is told, _word for word_, or else good-bye to his wife and children's
bread and butter, his own preferment, perhaps even his very
gentility--that gentility of which his Master thought so little, and he
and his are apt to think so much--with possibly the Archbishopric of
Canterbury at the end of it, the bâton de maréchal that lies in every
clerical knapsack.
"What a temptation! one is but human!
"So how can he be honest without believing certain things, to believe
which (without shame) one must be as simple as a little child; as,
by-the-way, he is so cleverly told to be in these matters, and so
cleverly tells us--and so seldom is himself in any other matter
whatever--his own interests, other people's affairs, the world, the
flesh, and the devil! And that's clever of him too....
"And if he chooses to be as simple as a little child, why shouldn't I
treat him as a little child, for his own good, and fool him to the top
of his little bent for his dear daughter's sake, that I may make her
happy, and thereby him too?
"And if he's _not_ quite so simple as all that, and makes artful little
compromises with his conscience--for a good purpose, of course--why
shouldn't I make artful little compromises with mine, and for a better
purpose still, and try to get what I want in the way _he_ does? I want
to marry his daughter far worse than he can ever want to live in a
palace, and ride in a carriage and pair with a mitre on the panels.
"If he _cheats_, why shouldn't I cheat too?
"If _he_ cheats, he cheats everybody all round--the wide, wide world,
and something wider and higher still that can't be measured, something
in himself. _I_ only cheat _him_!
"_If_ he cheats, he cheats for the sake of very worldly things
indeed--tithes, honors, influence, power, authority, social
consideration and respect--not to speak of bread and butter! _I_ only
cheat for the love of a lady fair--and cheating for cheating, I like my
cheating best.
"So, whether he cheats or not, I'll--
"Confound it! what would old Taffy do in such a case, I wonder?...
"Oh, bother! it's no good wondering what old Taffy would do.
"Taffy never wants to marry _anybody's_ daughter; he doesn't even want
to paint her! He only wants to paint his beastly ragamuffins and thieves
and drunkards, and be left alone.
"Besides, Taffy's as simple as a little child himself, and couldn't fool
any one, and wouldn't if he could--not even a parson. But if any one
tries to fool _him_, my eyes! don't he cut up rough, and call names, and
kick up a shindy, and even knock people down! That's the worst of
fellows like Taffy. They're too good for this world and too solemn.
They're impossible, and lack all sense of humor. In point of fact,
Taffy's a _gentleman_--poor fellow! _et puis voilà!_
"I'm not simple--worse luck; and I can't knock people down--I only wish
I could! I can only paint them! and not even _that_ 'as they really
are!' ... Good old Taffy!...
"Faint heart never won fair lady!
"Oh, happy, happy thought--I'll be brave and win!
"I can't knock people down, or do doughty deeds, but I'll be brave in my
own little way--the only way I can....
"I'll simply lie through thick and thin--I must--I will--nobody need
ever be a bit the wiser! I can do more good by lying than by telling the
truth, and make more deserving people happy, including myself and the
sweetest girl alive--the end shall justify the means: that's my excuse,
my only excuse! and this lie of mine is on so stupendous a scale that it
will have to last me for life. It's my only one, but its name is _Lion_!
and I'll never tell another as long as I live.
"And now that I know what temptation really is, I'll never think any
harm of any parson any more ... never, never, never!"
So the little man went on, as if he knew all about it, had found it all
out for himself, and nobody else had ever found it out before! and I am
not responsible for his ways of thinking (which are not necessarily my
own).
It must be remembered, in extenuation, that he was very young, and not
very wise: no philosopher, no scholar--just a painter of lovely
pictures; only that and nothing more. Also, that he was reading Mr.
Darwin's immortal book for the third time, and it was a little too
strong for him; also, that all this happened in the early sixties, long
ere Religion had made up her mind to meet Science half-way, and hobnob
and kiss and be friends. Alas! before such a lying down of the lion and
the lamb can ever come to pass, Religion will have to perform a larger
share of the journey than half, I fear!
Then, still carried away by the flood of his own eloquence (for he had
never had such an innings as this, no such a listener), he again
apostrophized the dog Tray, who had been growing somewhat inattentive
(like the reader, perhaps), in language more beautiful than ever:
"Oh, to be like you, Tray--and secrete love and good-will from morn till
night, from night till morning--like saliva, without effort! with never
a moment's cessation of flow, even in disgrace and humiliation! How much
better to love than to be loved--to love as you do, my Tray--so warmly,
so easily, so unremittingly--to forgive all wrongs and neglect and
injustice so quickly and so well--and forget a kindness never! Lucky dog
that you are!
"'Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be as I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene,
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish tho' they be,
So 'midst this withered waste of life those tears would flow to me!'
"What do you think of those lines, Tray? I _love_ them, because my
mother taught them to me when I was about your age--six years old, or
seven! and before the bard who wrote them had fallen; like Lucifer, son
of the morning! Have you ever heard of Lord Byron, Tray? He too, like
Ulysses, loved a dog, and many people think that's about the best there
is to be said of him nowadays! Poor Humpty Dumpty! Such a swell as he
once was! 'Not all the king's horses, nor all the--'"
Here Tray jumped up suddenly and bolted--he saw some one else he was
fond of, and ran to meet him. It was the vicar, coming out of his
vicarage.
A very nice-looking vicar--fresh, clean, alert, well tanned by sun and
wind and weather--a youngish vicar still; tall, stout, gentlemanlike,
shrewd, kindly, wordly, a trifle pompous, and authoritative more than a
trifle; not much given to abstract speculation, and thinking fifty times
more of any sporting and orthodox young country squire, well-inched and
well-acred (and well-whiskered), than of all the painters in
Christendom.
"'When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war,'" thought Little
Billee; and he felt a little uncomfortable. Alice's father had never
loomed so big and impressive before, or so distressingly nice to look
at.
"Welcome, my Apelles, to your ain countree, which is growing quite proud
of you, I declare! Young Lord Archie Waring was saying only last night
that he wished he had half your talent! He's _crazed_ about painting,
you know, and actually wants to be a painter himself! The poor dear old
marquis is quite sore about it!"
With this happy exordium the parson stopped and shook hands; and they
both stood for a while, looking seaward. The parson said the usual
things about the sea--its blueness; its grayness; its greenness; its
beauty; its sadness; its treachery.
"'Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable sea!'"
"Who indeed!" answered Little Billee, quite agreeing. "I vote _we_
don't, at all events." So they turned inland.
The parson said the usual things about the land (from the
country-gentleman's point of view), and the talk began to flow quite
pleasantly, with quoting of the usual poets, and capping of quotations
in the usual way--for they had known each other many years, both here
and in London. Indeed, the vicar had once been Little Billee's tutor.
And thus, amicably, they entered a small wooded hollow. Then the vicar,
turning of a sudden his full blue gaze on the painter, asked, sternly:
"What book's that you've got in your hand, Willie?"
"A--a--it's the _Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin. I'm very
f-f-fond of it. I'm reading it for the third time.... It's very
g-g-good. It _accounts_ for things, you know."
Then, after a pause, and still more sternly:
"What place of worship do you most attend in London--especially of an
evening, William?"
Then stammered Little Billee, all self-control forsaking him:
"I d-d-don't attend any place of worship at all, morning, afternoon, or
evening. I've long given up going to church altogether. I can only be
frank with you; I'll tell you why...."
And as they walked along the talk drifted on to very momentous subjects
indeed, and led, unfortunately, to a serious falling out--for which
probably both were to blame--and closed in a distressful way at the
other end of the little wooded hollow--a way most sudden and unexpected,
and quite grievous to relate. When they emerged into the open the parson
was quite white, and the painter crimson.
"Sir," said the parson, squaring himself up to more than his full height
and breadth and dignity, his face big with righteous wrath, his voice
full of strong menace--"sir, you're--you're a--you're a _thief_, sir, a
_thief_! You're trying to _rob me of my Saviour_! Never you dare to
darken _my_ door-step again!"
"Sir," said Little Billee, with a bow, "if it comes to calling names,
you're--you're a--no; you're Alice's father; and whatever else you are
besides, I'm another for trying to be honest with a parson; so
good-morning to you."
And each walked off in an opposite direction, stiff as pokers; and Tray
stood between, looking first at one receding figure, then at the
other, disconsolate.
[Illustration: "'YOU'RE A _THIEF_, SIR!'"]
And thus Little Billee found out that he could no more lie than he could
fly. And so he did not marry sweet Alice after all, and no doubt it was
ordered for her good and his. But there was tribulation for many days in
the house of Bagot, and for many months in one tender, pure, and pious
bosom.
And the best and the worst of it all is that, not very many years after,
the good vicar--more fortunate than most clergymen who dabble in stocks
and shares--grew suddenly very rich through a lucky speculation in Irish
beer, and suddenly, also, took to thinking seriously about things (as a
man of business should)--more seriously than he had ever thought before.
So at least the story goes in North Devon, and it is not so new as to be
incredible. Little doubts grew into big ones--big doubts resolved
themselves into downright negations. He quarrelled with his bishop; he
quarrelled with his dean; he even quarrelled with his "poor dear old
marquis," who died before there was time to make it up again. And
finally he felt it his duty, in conscience, to secede from a Church
which had become too narrow to hold him, and took himself and his
belongings to London, where at least he could breathe. But there he fell
into a great disquiet, for the long habit of feeling himself always _en
évidence_--of being looked up to and listened to without contradiction;
of exercising influence and authority in spiritual matters (and even
temporal); of impressing women, especially, with his commanding
presence, his fine sonorous voice, his lofty brow, so serious and
smooth, his soft, big, waving hands, which soon lost their country
tan--all this had grown as a second nature to him, the breath of his
nostrils, a necessity of his life. So he rose to be the most popular
Unitarian preacher of his day, and pretty broad at that.
But his dear daughter Alice, she stuck to the old faith, and married a
venerable High-Church archdeacon, who very cleverly clutched at and
caught her and saved her for himself just as she stood shivering on the
very brink of Rome; and they were neither happy nor unhappy
together--_un ménage bourgeois, ni beau ni laid, ni bon ni mauvais_. And
thus, alas! the bond of religious sympathy, that counts for so much in
united families, no longer existed between father and daughter, and the
heart's division divided them. _Ce que c'est que de nous!_ ... The pity
of it!
And so no more of sweet Alice with hair so brown.
Part Sixth
'"Vraiment, la reine auprès d'elle était laide
Quand, vers le soir,
Elle passait sur le pont de Tolède
En corset noir!
Un chapelet du temps de Charlemagne
Ornait son cou....
_La vent qui vient à travers la montagne
Me rendra fou!_
"'Dansez, chantez, villageois! la nuit tombe....
Sabine, un jour,
A tout donné--sa beauté de colombe,
Et son amour--
Pour l'anneau d'or du Comte de Soldagne,
Pour un bijou....
_La vent qui vient à travers la montagne
M'a rendu fou!_'"
Behold our three musketeers of the brush once more reunited in Paris,
famous, after long years.
In emulation of the good Dumas, we will call it "cinq ans après." It was
a little more.
Taffy stands for Porthos and Athos rolled into one, since he is big and
good-natured, and strong enough to "assommer un homme d'un coup de
poing," and also stately and solemn, of aristocratic and romantic
appearance, and not too fat--not too much ongbong-pwang, as the Laird
called it--and also he does not dislike a bottle of wine, or even two,
and looks as if he had a history.
The Laird, of course, is d'Artagnan, since he sells his pictures well,
and by the time we are writing of has already become an Associate of the
Royal Academy; like Quentin Durward, this d'Artagnan was a Scotsman:
"Ah, was na he a Roguy, this piper of Dundee!"
And Little Billee, the dainty friend of duchesses, must stand for
Aramis, I fear! It will not do to push the simile too far; besides,
unlike the good Dumas, one has a conscience. One does not play ducks and
drakes with historical facts, or tamper with historical personages. And
if Athos, Porthos & Co. are not historical by this time, I should like
to know who are!
Well, so are Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--_tout ce qu'il y a de
plus historiques_!
Our three friends, well groomed, frock-coated, shirt-collared within an
inch of their lives, duly scarfed and scarf-pinned, chimney-pot-hatted,
and most beautifully trousered, and balmorally booted, or neatly spatted
(or whatever was most correct at the time), are breakfasting together on
coffee, rolls, and butter at a little round table in the huge court-yard
of an immense caravanserai, paved with asphalt, and covered in at the
top with a glazed roof that admits the sun and keeps out the rain--and
the air.
A magnificent old man as big as Taffy, in black velvet coat and breeches
and black silk stockings, and a large gold chain round his neck and
chest, looks down like Jove from a broad flight of marble steps--as
though to welcome the coming guests, who arrive in cabs and railway
omnibuses through a huge archway on the boulevard, or to speed those who
part through a lesser archway opening on to a side street.
"Bon voyage, messieurs et dames!"
At countless other little tables other voyagers are breakfasting or
ordering breakfast; or, having breakfasted, are smoking and chatting and
looking about. It is a babel of tongues--the cheerfulest, busiest,
merriest scene in the world, apparently the costly place of rendezvous
for all wealthy Europe and America; an atmosphere of bank-notes and
gold.
Already Taffy has recognized (and been recognized by) half a dozen old
fellow-Crimeans, of unmistakable military aspect like himself; and three
canny Scotsmen have discreetly greeted the Laird; and as for Little
Billee, he is constantly jumping up from his breakfast and running to
this table or that, drawn by some irresistible British smile of
surprised and delighted female recognition: "What, _you_ here? How nice!
Come over to hear la Svengali, I suppose."
At the top of the marble steps is a long terrace, with seats and people
sitting, from which tall glazed doors, elaborately carved and gilded,
give access to luxurious drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, reading-rooms,
lavatories, postal and telegraph offices; and all round and about are
huge square green boxes, out of which grow tropical and exotic
evergreens all the year round--with beautiful names that I have
forgotten. And leaning against these boxes are placards announcing what
theatrical or musical entertainments will take place in Paris that day
or night; and the biggest of these placards (and the most
fantastically decorated) informs the cosmopolite world that Madame
Svengali intends to make her first appearance in Paris that very
evening, at nine punctually, in the Cirque des Bashibazoucks, Rue St.
Honoré!
[Illustration: "AN ATMOSPHERE OF BANK-NOTES AND GOLD"]
Our friends had only arrived the previous night, but they had managed to
secure stalls a week beforehand. No places were any longer to be got for
love or money. Many people had come to Paris on purpose to hear la
Svengali--many famous musicians from England and everywhere else--but
they would have to wait many days.
The fame of her was like a rolling snowball that had been rolling all
over Europe for the last two years--wherever there was snow to be picked
up in the shape of golden ducats.
Their breakfast over, Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee, cigar in
mouth, arm in arm, the huge Taffy in the middle (_comme autrefois_),
crossed the sunshiny boulevard into the shade, and went down the Rue de
la Paix, through the Place Vendôme and the Rue Castiglione to the Rue de
Rivoli--quite leisurely, and with a tender midriff-warming sensation of
freedom and delight at almost every step.
Arrived at the corner pastry-cook's, they finished the stumps of their
cigars as they looked at the well-remembered show in the window; then
they went in and had, Taffy a Madeleine, the Laird a baba, and Little
Billee a Savarin--and each, I regret to say, a liqueur-glass of _rhum de
la Jamaïque_.
After this they sauntered through the Tuileries Gardens, and by the quay
to their favorite Pont des Arts, and looked up and down the
river--_comme autrefois_!
It is an enchanting prospect at any time and under any circumstances;
but on a beautiful morning in mid-October, when you haven't seen it for
five years, and are still young! and almost every stock and stone that
meets your eye, every sound, every scent, has some sweet and subtle
reminder for you--
Let the reader have no fear. I will not attempt to describe it. I
shouldn't know where to begin (nor when to leave off!).
Not but what many changes had been wrought; many old landmarks were
missing. And among them, as they found out a few minutes later, and much
to their chagrin, the good old Morgue!
They inquired of a _gardien de la paix_, who told them that a new
Morgue--"une bien jolie Morgue, ma foi!"--and much more commodious and
comfortable than the old one, had been built beyond Notre Dame, a little
to the right.
"Messieurs devraient voir ça--on y est très bien!"
But Notre Dame herself was still there, and la Sainte Chapelle, and Le
Pont Neuf, and the equestrian statue of Henri IV. _C'est toujours ça!_
And as they gazed and gazed, each framed unto himself, mentally, a
little picture of the Thames they had just left--and thought of Waterloo
Bridge, and St. Paul's, and London--but felt no homesickness whatever,
no desire to go back!
And looking down the river westward there was but little change.
On the left-hand side the terraces and garden of the Hôtel de la
Rochemartel (the sculptured entrance of which was in the Rue de Lille)
still overtopped the neighboring houses and shaded the quay with tall
trees, whose lightly falling leaves yellowed the pavement for at least a
hundred yards of frontage--or backage, rather; for this was but the rear
of that stately palace.
[Illustration: "A LITTLE PICTURE OF THE THAMES"]
"I wonder if l'Zouzou has come into his dukedom yet?" said Taffy.
And Taffy the realist, Taffy the modern of moderns, also said many
beautiful things about old historical French dukedoms; which, in spite
of their plentifulness, were so much more picturesque than English ones,
and constituted a far more poetical and romantic link with the past;
partly on account of their beautiful, high-sounding names!
"Amaury de Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boisségur was a
generous mouthful! Why, the very sound of it is redolent of the twelfth
century! Not even Howard of Norfolk can beat that!"