self-control. Then he was generous, amiable, affectionate, transparent
as crystal, without an atom of either egotism or conceit; and had a gift
of amusing you and interesting you by his talk (and its complete
sincerity) that never palled; and even his silence was charming--one
felt so sure of him--so there was hardly any sacrifice, little or big,
that big Taffy was not ready and glad to make for Little Billee. On the
other hand, there lay deep down under Taffy's surface irascibility and
earnestness about trifles (and beneath his harmless vanity of the strong
man), a long-suffering patience, a real humility, a robustness of
judgment, a sincerity and all-roundness, a completeness of sympathy,
that made him very good to trust and safe to lean upon. Then his
powerful, impressive aspect, his great stature, the gladiatorlike poise
of his small round head on his big neck and shoulders, his huge deltoids
and deep chest and slender loins, his clean-cut ankles and wrists, all
the long and bold and highly-finished athletic shapes of him, that easy
grace of strength that made all his movements a pleasure to watch, and
any garment look well when he wore it--all this was a perpetual feast to
the quick, prehensile, æsthetic eye. And then he had such a solemn,
earnest, lovable way of bending pokers round his neck, and breaking them
on his arm, and jumping his own height (or near it), and lifting up
arm-chairs by one leg with one hand, and what not else!
So that there was hardly any sacrifice, little or big, that Little
Billee would not accept from big Taffy as a mere matter of course--a
fitting and proper tribute rendered by bodily strength to genius.
_Par nobile fratrum_--well met and well mated for fast and long-enduring
friendship.
* * * * *
The family banquet at Monsieur Passefil's would have been dull but for
the irrepressible Dodor, and still more for the Laird of Cockpen, who
rose to the occasion, and surpassed himself in geniality, drollery, and
eccentricity of French grammar and accent. Monsieur Passefil was also a
droll in his way, and had the quickly familiar, jocose facetiousness
that seems to belong to the successful middle-aged bourgeois all over
the world, when he's not pompous instead (he can even be both
sometimes).
Madame Passefil was not jocose. She was much impressed by the
aristocratic splendor of Taffy, the romantic melancholy and refinement
of Little Billee, and their quiet and dignified politeness. She always
spoke of Dodor as Monsieur de Lafarce, though the rest of the family
(and one or two friends who had been invited) always called him Monsieur
Théodore, and he was officially known as Monsieur Rigolot.
Whenever Madame Passefil addressed him or spoke of him in this
aristocratic manner (which happened very often), Dodor would wink at his
friends, with his tongue in his cheek. It seemed to amuse him beyond
measure.
Mademoiselle Ernestine was evidently too much in love to say anything,
and seldom took her eyes off Monsieur Théodore, whom she had never seen
in evening dress before. It must be owned that he looked very nice--more
ducal than even Zouzou--and to be Madame de Lafarce _en perspective_,
and the future owner of such a brilliant husband as Dodor, was enough to
turn a stronger little bourgeois head than Mademoiselle Ernestine's.
She was not beautiful, but healthy, well grown, well brought up, and
presumably of a sweet, kind, and amiable disposition--an _ingénue_ fresh
from her convent--innocent as a child, no doubt; and it was felt that
Dodor had done better for himself (and for his race) than Monsieur le
Duc. Little Dodors need have no fear.
After dinner the ladies and gentlemen left the dining-room together, and
sat in a pretty salon overlooking the boulevard, where cigarettes were
allowed, and there was music. Mademoiselle Ernestine laboriously played
"Les Cloches du Monastère" (by Monsieur Lefébure-Wély, if I'm not
mistaken). It's the most bourgeois piece of music I know.
[Illustration:
"PETIT ENFANT, J'AIMAIS D'UN AMOUR TENDRE
MA MÈRE ET DIEU--SAINTES AFFECTIONS!
PUIS MON AMOUR AUX FLEURS SE FIT ENTENDRE,
PUIS AUX OISEAUX, ET PUIS AUX PAPILLONS!"]
Then Dodor, with his sweet high voice, so strangely pathetic and true,
sang goody-goody little French songs of innocence (of which he seemed
to have an endless répertoire) to his future wife's conscientious
accompaniment--to the immense delight, also, of all his future family,
who were almost in tears--and to the great amusement of the Laird, at
whom he winked in the most pathetic parts, putting his forefinger to the
side of his nose, like Noah Claypole in _Oliver Twist_.
The wonder of the hour, la Svengali, was discussed, of course; it was
unavoidable. But our friends did not think it necessary to reveal that
she was "la grande Trilby." That would soon transpire by itself.
And, indeed, before the month was a week older the papers were full of
nothing else.
Madame Svengali--"la grande Trilby"--was the only daughter of the
honorable and reverend Sir Lord O'Ferrall.
She had run away from the primeval forests and lonely marshes of le
Dublin, to lead a free-and-easy life among the artists of the quartier
latin of Paris--_une vie de bohème!_
She was the Venus Anadyomene from top to toe.
She was _blanche comme neige, avec un volcan dans le coeur_.
Casts of her alabaster feet could be had at Brucciani's, in the Rue de
la Souricière St. Denis. (He made a fortune.)
Monsieur Ingres had painted her left foot on the wall of a studio in the
Place St. Anatole des Arts; and an eccentric Scotch milord (le Comte de
Pencock) had bought the house containing the flat containing the studio
containing the wall on which it was painted, had had the house pulled
down, and the wall framed and glazed and sent to his castle of
Édimbourg.
(This, unfortunately, was in excess of the truth. It was found
impossible to execute the Laird's wish, on account of the material the
wall was made of. So the Lord Count of Pencock--such was Madame Vinard's
version of Sandy's nickname--had to forego his purchase.)
* * * * *
Next morning our friends were in readiness to leave Paris; even the
Laird had had enough of it, and longed to get back to his work again--a
"Hari-kari in Yokohama." (He had never been to Japan; but no more had
any one else in those early days.)
They had just finished breakfast, and were sitting in the court-yard of
the hotel, which was crowded, as usual.
Little Billee went into the hotel post-office to despatch a note to his
mother. Sitting sideways there at a small table and reading letters was
Svengali--of all people in the world. But for these two and a couple of
clerks the room was empty.
Svengali looked up; they were quite close together.
Little Billee, in his nervousness, began to shake, and half put out his
hand, and drew it back again, seeing the look of hate on Svengali's
face.
Svengali jumped up, put his letters together, and passing by Little
Billee on his way to the door, called him "verfluchter Schweinhund," and
deliberately spat in his face.
Little Billee was paralyzed for a second or two; then he ran after
Svengali, and caught him just at the top of the marble stairs, and
kicked him, and knocked off his hat, and made him drop all his letters.
Svengali turned round and struck him over the mouth and made it bleed,
and Little Billee hit out like a fury, but with no effect: he couldn't
reach high enough, for Svengali was well over six feet.
There was a crowd round them in a minute, including the beautiful old
man in the court suit and gold chain, who called out:
"Vite! vite! un commissaire de police!"--a cry that was echoed all over
the place.
Taffy saw the row, and shouted, "Bravo, little un!" and jumping up from
his table, jostled his way through the crowd; and Little Billee,
bleeding and gasping and perspiring and stammering, said:
"He spat in my face, Taffy--damn him! I'd never even spoken to him--not
a word, I swear!"
Svengali had not reckoned on Taffy's being there; he recognized him at
once, and turned white.
Taffy, who had dog-skin gloves on, put out his right hand, and deftly
seized Svengali's nose between his fore and middle fingers and nearly
pulled it off, and swung his head two or three times backward and
forward by it, and then from side to side, Svengali holding on to his
wrist; and then, letting him go, gave him a sounding open-handed smack
on his right cheek--and a smack on the face from Taffy (even in play)
was no joke, I'm told; it made one smell brimstone, and see and hear
things that didn't exist.
Svengali gasped worse than Little Billee, and couldn't speak for a
while. Then he said,
"Lâche--grand lâche! che fous enferrai mes témoins!"
"At your orders!" said Taffy, in beautiful French, and drew out his
card-case, and gave him his card in quite the orthodox French manner,
adding: "I shall be here till to-morrow at twelve--but that is my London
address, in case I don't hear from you before I leave. I'm sorry, but
you really mustn't spit, you know--it's not done. I will come to you
whenever you send for me--even if I have to come from the end of the
world."
"Très bien! très bien!" said a military-looking old gentleman close by,
who gave Taffy _his_ card, in case he might be of any service--and who
seemed quite delighted at the row--and indeed it was really pleasant to
note with what a smooth, flowing, rhythmical spontaneity the good Taffy
could always improvise these swift little acts of summary retributive
justice: no hurry or scurry or flurry whatever--not an inharmonious
gesture, not an infelicitous line--the very poetry of violence, and its
only excuse!
Whatever it was worth, this was Taffy's special gift, and it never
failed him at a pinch.
When the commissaire de police arrived, all was over. Svengali had gone
away in a cab, and Taffy put himself at the disposition of the
commissaire.
They went into the post-office and discussed it all with the old
military gentleman, and the major-domo in velvet, and the two clerks who
had seen the original insult. And all that was required of Taffy and his
friends for the present was "their names, prenames, titles, qualities,
age, address, nationality, occupation," etc.
[Illustration: "'VITE! VITE! UN COMMISSAIRE DE POLICE!'"]
"C'est une affaire qui s'arrangera autrement, et autre part!" had said
the military gentleman--monsieur le général Comte de la Tour-aux-Loups.
So it blew over quite simply; and all that day a fierce unholy joy
burned in Taffy's choleric blue eye.
Not, indeed, that he had any wish to injure Trilby's husband, or meant
to do him any grievous bodily harm, whatever happened. But he was glad
to have given Svengali a lesson in manners.
That Svengali should injure _him_ never entered into his calculations
for a moment. Besides, he didn't believe Svengali would show fight; and
in this he was not mistaken.
But he had, for hours, the feel of that long, thick, shapely Hebrew nose
being kneaded between his gloved knuckles, and a pleasing sense of the
effectiveness of the tweak he had given it. So he went about chewing the
cud of that heavenly remembrance all day, till reflection brought
remorse, and he felt sorry; for he was really the mildest-mannered man
that ever broke a head!
Only the sight of Little Billee's blood (which had been made to flow by
such an unequal antagonist) had roused the old Adam.
No message came from Svengali to ask for the names and addresses of
Taffy's seconds; so Dodor and Zouzou (not to mention Mister the general
Count of the Tooraloorals, as the Laird called him) were left
undisturbed; and our three musketeers went back to London clean of
blood, whole of limb, and heartily sick of Paris.
Little Billee stayed with his mother and sister in Devonshire till
Christmas, Taffy staying at the village inn.
It was Taffy who told Mrs. Bagot about la Svengali's all but certain
identity with Trilby, after Little Billee had gone to bed, tired and
worn out, the night of their arrival.
"Good heavens!" said poor Mrs. Bagot. "Why, that's the new singing woman
who's coming over here! There's an article about her in to-day's
_Times_. It says she's a wonder, and that there's no one like her!
Surely that can't be the Miss O'Ferrall I saw in Paris!"
"It seems impossible--but I'm almost certain it is--and Willy has no
doubts in the matter. On the other hand, McAlister declares it isn't."
"Oh, what trouble! So _that's_ why poor Willy looks so ill and
miserable! It's all come back again. Could she sing at all then, when
you knew her in Paris?"
"Not a note--her attempts at singing were quite grotesque."
"Is she still very beautiful?"
"Oh yes; there's no doubt about that; more than ever!"
"And her singing--is that so very wonderful? I remember that she had a
beautiful voice in speaking."
"Wonderful? Ah, yes; I never heard or dreamed the like of it. Grisi,
Alboni, Patti--not one of them to be mentioned in the same breath!"
"Good heavens! Why, she must be simply irresistible! I wonder you're not
in love with her yourself. How dreadful these sirens are, wrecking the
peace of families!"
"You mustn't forget that she gave way at once at a word from you, Mrs.
Bagot; and she was very fond of Willy. She wasn't a siren then."
"Oh yes--oh yes! that's true--she behaved very well--she did her duty--I
can't deny that! You must try and forgive me, Mr. Wynne--although I
can't forgive _her_!--that dreadful illness of poor Willy's--that bitter
time in Paris...."
And Mrs. Bagot began to cry, and Taffy forgave. "Oh, Mr. Wynne--let us
still hope that there's some mistake--that it's only somebody like her!
Why, she's coming to sing in London after Christmas! My poor boy's
infatuation will only increase. What _shall_ I do?
"Well--she's another man's wife, you see. So Willy's infatuation is
bound to burn itself out as soon as he fully recognizes that important
fact. Besides, she cut him dead in the Champs Élysées--and her husband
and Willy had a row next day at the hotel, and cuffed and kicked each
other--that's rather a bar to any future intimacy, I think."
"Oh, Mr. Wynne! my son cuffing and kicking a man whose wife he's in love
with! Good heavens!"
"Oh, it was all right--the man had grossly insulted him--and Willy
behaved like a brick, and got the best of it in the end, and nothing
came of it. I saw it all."
"Oh, Mr. Wynne--and you didn't interfere?'
"Oh yes, I interfered--everybody interfered. It was all right, I assure
you. No bones were broken on either side, and there was no nonsense
about calling out, or swords or pistols, and all that."
[Illustration: "I SUPPOSE YOU DO ALL THIS KIND OF THING FOR MERE
AMUSEMENT, MR. WYNNE?"]
"Thank Heaven!"
In a week or two Little Billee grew more like himself again, and painted
endless studies of rocks and cliffs and sea--and Taffy painted with him,
and was very content. The vicar and Little Billee patched up their feud.
The vicar also took an immense fancy to Taffy, whose cousin, Sir Oscar
Wynne, he had known at college, and lost no opportunity of being
hospitable and civil to him. And his daughter was away in Algiers.
And all "the nobility and gentry" of the neighborhood, including "the
poor dear marquis" (one of whose sons was in Taffy's old regiment), were
civil and hospitable also to the two painters--and Taffy got as much
sport as he wanted, and became immensely popular. And they had, on the
whole, a very good time till Christmas, and a very pleasant Christmas,
if not an exuberantly merry one.
After Christmas Little Billee insisted on going back to London--to paint
a picture for the Royal Academy; and Taffy went with him; and there was
dulness in the house of Bagot--and many misgivings in the maternal heart
of its mistress.
And people of all kinds, high and low, from the family at the Court to
the fishermen on the little pier and their wives and children, missed
the two genial painters, who were the friends of everybody, and made
such beautiful sketches of their beautiful coast.
* * * * *
La Svengali has arrived in London. Her name is in every mouth. Her
photograph is in the shop-windows. She is to sing at J----'s monster
concerts next week. She was to have sung sooner, but it seems some hitch
has occurred--a quarrel between Monsieur Svengali and his first violin,
who is a very important person.
A crowd of people as usual, only bigger, is assembled in front of the
windows of the Stereoscopic Company in Regent Street, gazing at
presentments of Madame Svengali in all sizes and costumes. She is very
beautiful--there is no doubt of that; and the expression of her face is
sweet and kind and sad, and of such a distinction that one feels an
imperial crown would become her even better than her modest little
coronet of golden stars. One of the photographs represents her in
classical dress, with her left foot on a little stool, in something of
the attitude of the Venus of Milo, except that her hands are clasped
behind her back; and the foot is bare but for a Greek sandal, and so
smooth and delicate and charming, and with so rhythmical a set and curl
of the five slender toes (the big one slightly tip-tilted and well apart
from its longer and slighter and more aquiline neighbor), that this
presentment of her sells quicker than all the rest.
And a little man who, with two bigger men, has just forced his way in
front says to one of his friends: "Look, Sandy, look--_the foot!_ _Now_
have you got any doubts?"
"Oh yes--those are Trilby's toes, sure enough!" says Sandy. And they all
go in and purchase largely.
As far as I have been able to discover, the row between Svengali and his
first violin had occurred at a rehearsal in Drury Lane Theatre.
Svengali, it seems, had never been quite the same since the 15th of
October previous, and that was the day he had got his face slapped and
his nose tweaked by Taffy in Paris. He had become short-tempered and
irritable, especially with his wife (if she _was_ his wife). Svengali,
it seems, had reasons for passionately hating Little Billee.
He had not seen him for five years--not since the Christmas festivity in
the Place St. Anatole, when they had sparred together after supper, and
Svengali's nose had got in the way on this occasion, and had been made
to bleed; but that was not why he hated Little Billee.
When he caught sight of him standing on the curb in the Place de la
Concorde and watching the procession of "tout Paris," he knew him
directly, and all his hate flared up; he cut him dead, and made his wife
do the same.
Next morning he saw him again in the hotel post-office, looking small
and weak and flurried, and apparently alone; and being an Oriental
Israelite Hebrew Jew, he had not been able to resist the temptation of
spitting in his face, since he must not throttle him to death.
The minute he had done this he had regretted the folly of it. Little
Billee had run after him, and kicked and struck him, and he had returned
the blow and drawn blood; and then, suddenly and quite unexpectedly, had
come upon the scene that apparition so loathed and dreaded of old--the
pig-headed Yorkshireman--the huge British philistine, the irresponsible
bull, the junker, the ex-Crimean, Front-de-Boeuf, who had always
reminded him of the brutal and contemptuous sword-clanking,
spur-jingling aristocrats of his own country--ruffians that treated Jews
like dogs. Callous as he was to the woes of others, the self-indulgent
and highly-strung musician was extra sensitive about himself--a very
bundle of nerves--and especially sensitive to pain and rough usage, and
by no means physically brave. The stern, choleric, invincible blue eye
of the hated Northern gentile had cowed him at once. And that violent
tweaking of his nose, that heavy open-handed blow on his face, had so
shaken and demoralized him that he had never recovered from it.
He was thinking about it always--night and day--and constantly dreaming
at night that he was being tweaked and slapped over again by a colossal
nightmare Taffy, and waking up in agonies of terror, rage, and shame.
All healthy sleep had forsaken him.
Moreover, he was much older than he looked--nearly fifty--and far from
sound. His life had been a long, hard struggle.
He had for his wife, slave, and pupil a fierce, jealous kind of
affection that was a source of endless torment to him; for indelibly
graven in her heart, which he wished to occupy alone, was the
never-fading image of the little English painter, and of this she made
no secret.
Gecko no longer cared for the master. All Gecko's doglike devotion was
concentrated on the slave and pupil, whom he worshipped with a fierce
but pure and unselfish passion. The only living soul that Svengali could
trust was the old Jewess who lived with them--his relative--but even she
had come to love the pupil as much as the master.
On the occasion of this rehearsal at Drury Lane he (Svengali) was
conducting and Madame Svengali was singing. He interrupted her several
times, angrily and most unjustly, and told her she was singing out of
tune, "like a verfluchter tomcat," which was quite untrue. She was
singing beautifully, "Home, Sweet Home."
Finally he struck her two or three smart blows on her knuckles with his
little bâton, and she fell on her knees, weeping and crying out:
"Oh! oh! Svengali! ne me battez pas, mon ami--je fais tout ce que je
peux!"
On which little Gecko had suddenly jumped up and struck Svengali on the
neck near the collar-bone, and then it was seen that he had a little
bloody knife in his hand, and blood flowed from Svengali's neck, and at
the sight of it Svengali had fainted; and Madame Svengali had taken his
head on her lap, looking dazed and stupefied, as in a waking dream.
Gecko had been disarmed, but as Svengali recovered from his faint and
was taken home, the police had not been sent for, and the affair was
hushed up, and a public scandal avoided. But la Svengali's first
appearance, to Monsieur J----'s despair, had to be put off for a week.
For Svengali would not allow her to sing without him; nor, indeed, would
he be parted from her for a minute, or trust her out of his sight.
The wound was a slight one. The doctor who attended Svengali described
the wife as being quite imbecile, no doubt from grief and anxiety. But
she never left her husband's bedside for a moment, and had the obedience
and devotion of a dog.
When the night came round for the postponed début, Svengali was allowed
by the doctor to go to the theatre, but he was absolutely forbidden to
conduct.
[Illustration: THE FIRST VIOLIN LOSES HIS TEMPER]
His grief and anxiety at this were uncontrollable; he raved like a
madman; and Monsieur J---- was almost as bad.
Monsieur J---- had been conducting the Svengali band at rehearsals
during the week, in the absence of its master--an easy task. It had been
so thoroughly drilled and knew its business so well that it could almost
conduct itself, and it had played all the music it had to play (much of
which consisted of accompaniments to la Svengali's songs) many times
before. Her répertoire was immense, and Svengali had written these
orchestral scores with great care and felicity.
On the famous night it was arranged that Svengali should sit in a box
alone, exactly opposite his wife's place on the platform, where she
could see him well; and a code of simple signals was arranged between
him and Monsieur J---- and the band, so that virtually he might conduct,
himself, from his box should any hesitation or hitch occur. This
arrangement was rehearsed the day before (a Sunday) and had turned out
quite successfully, and la Svengali had sung in perfection in the empty
theatre.
When Monday evening arrived everything seemed to be going smoothly; the
house was soon crammed to suffocation, all but the middle box on the
grand tier. It was not a promenade concert, and the pit was turned into
guinea stalls (the promenade concerts were to be given a week later).
Right in the middle of these stalls sat the Laird and Taffy and Little
Billee.
The band came in by degrees and tuned their instruments.
Eyes were constantly being turned to the empty box, and people wondered
what royal personages would appear.
Monsieur J---- took his place amid immense applause, and bowed in his
inimitable way, looking often at the empty box.
Then he tapped and waved his bâton, and the band played its Hungarian
dance music with immense success; when this was over there was a pause,
and soon some signs of impatience from the gallery. Monsieur J---- had
disappeared.
Taffy stood up, his back to the orchestra, looking round.
Some one came into the empty box, and stood for a moment in front,
gazing at the house. A tall man, deathly pale, with long black hair and
a beard.
It was Svengali.
He caught sight of Taffy and met his eyes, and Taffy said: "Good God!
Look! look!"
Then Little Billee and the Laird got up and looked.
[Illustration: "HAST THOU FOUND ME, O MINE ENEMY?"]
And Svengali for a moment glared at them. And the expression of his face
was so terrible with wonder, rage, and fear that they were quite
appalled--and then he sat down, still glaring at Taffy, the whites of
his eyes showing at the top, and his teeth bared in a spasmodic grin of
hate.