equal. They were married at the Embassy, in the Rue du Faubourg St.
Honoré.
[Illustration: "'AH, POOR MAMMA! SHE WAS EVER SO MUCH PRETTIER THAN
THAT!'"]
"_Her_ parents weren't married at all. Her mother was the daughter of a
boatman on Loch Ness, near a place called Drumnadrockit; but her father
was the Honorable Colonel Desmond. He was related to all sorts of great
people in England and Ireland. He behaved very badly to my grandmother
and to poor mamma--his own daughter! deserted them both! Not very
_honorable_ of him, _was_ it? And that's all I know about him."
And then she went on to tell of the home in Paris that might have been
so happy but for her father's passion for drink; of her parents' deaths,
and little Jeannot, and so forth. And Mrs. Bagot was much moved and
interested by these naïve revelations, which accounted in a measure for
so much that seemed unaccountable in this extraordinary woman; who thus
turned out to be a kind of cousin (though on the wrong side of the
blanket) to no less a person than the famous Duchess of Towers.
With what joy would that ever kind and gracious lady have taken poor
Trilby to her bosom had she only known! She had once been all the way
from Paris to Vienna merely to hear her sing. But, unfortunately, the
Svengalis had just left for St. Petersburg, and she had her long journey
for nothing!
* * * * *
Mrs. Bagot brought her many good books, and read them to her--Dr.
Cummings on the approaching end of the world, and other works of a like
comforting tendency for those who are just about to leave it; the
_Pilgrim's Progress_, sweet little tracts, and what not.
Trilby was so grateful that she listened with much patient attention.
Only now and then a faint gleam of amusement would steal over her face,
and her lips would almost form themselves to ejaculate, "Oh, maïe, aïe!"
Then Mrs. Bagot, as a reward for such winning docility, would read her
_David Copperfield_, and that was heavenly indeed!
But the best of all was for Trilby to look over John Leech's _Pictures
of Life and Character_, just out. She had never seen any drawings of
Leech before, except now and then in an occasional _Punch_ that turned
up in the studio in Paris. And they never palled upon her, and taught
her more of the aspect of English life (the life she loved) than any
book she had ever read. She laughed and laughed; and it was almost as
sweet to listen to as if she were vocalizing the quick part in Chopin's
Impromptu.
* * * * *
One day she said, her lips trembling: "I can't make out why you're so
wonderfully kind to me, Mrs. Bagot. I hope you have not forgotten who
and what I am, and what my story is. I hope you haven't forgotten that
I'm not a respectable woman?"
"Oh, my dear child--don't ask me.... I only know that you are you!...
and I am I! and that is enough for me ... you're my poor, gentle,
patient, suffering daughter, whatever else you are--more sinned against
than sinning, I feel sure! But there.... I've misjudged you so, and been
so unjust, that I would give worlds to make you some amends ... besides,
I should be just as fond of you if you'd committed a murder, I really
believe--you're so strange! you're irresistible! Did you ever, in all
your life, meet anybody that _wasn't_ fond of you?"
Trilby's eyes moistened with tender pleasure at such a pretty
compliment. Then, after a few minutes' thought, she said, with engaging
candor and quite simply: "No, I can't say I ever did, that I can think
of just now. But I've forgotten such lots of people!"
* * * * *
One day Mrs. Bagot told Trilby that her brother-in-law, Mr. Thomas
Bagot, would much like to come and talk to her.
"Was that the gentleman who came with you to the studio in Paris?"
"Yes."
"Why, he's a clergyman, isn't he? What does he want to come and talk to
_me_ about?"
"Ah! my dear child ..." said Mrs. Bagot, her eyes filling.
Trilby was thoughtful for a while, and then said: "I'm going to die, I
suppose. Oh yes! oh yes! There's no mistake about that!"
"Dear Trilby, we are all in the hands of an Almighty Merciful God!" And
the tears rolled down Mrs. Bagot's cheeks.
After a long pause, during which she gazed out of the window, Trilby
said, in an abstracted kind of way, as though she were talking to
herself: "Après tout, c'est pas déjà si raide, de claquer! J'en ai tant
vus, qui ont passé par la! Au bout du fossé la culbute, ma foi!"
"What are you saying to yourself in French, Trilby? Your French is so
difficult to understand!"
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I was thinking it's not so difficult to die,
after all! I've seen such lots of people do it. I've nursed them, you
know--papa and mamma and Jeannot, and Angèle Boisse's mother-in-law, and
a poor casseur de pierres, Colin Maigret, who lived in the Impasse des
Taupes St. Germain. He'd been run over by an omnibus in the Rue
Vaugirard, and had to have both his legs cut off just above the knee.
They none of them seemed to mind dying a bit. They weren't a bit afraid!
_I'm_ not!
"Poor people don't think much of death. Rich people shouldn't either.
They should be taught when they're quite young to laugh at it and
despise it, like the Chinese. The Chinese die of laughing just as their
heads are being cut off, and cheat the executioner! It's all in the
day's work, and we're all in the same boat--so who's afraid!"
"Dying is not all, my poor child! Are you prepared to meet your Maker
face to face? Have you ever thought about God, and the possible wrath to
come if you should die unrepentant?"
"Oh, but I sha'n't! I've been repenting all my life! Besides, there'll
be no wrath for any of us--not even the worst! _Il y aura amnistie
générale!_ Papa told me so, and he'd been a clergyman, like Mr. Thomas
Bagot. I often think about God. I'm very fond of Him. One _must_ have
something perfect to look up to and be fond of--even if it's only an
idea!
"Though some people don't even believe He exists! Le père Martin
didn't--but, of course, _he_ was only a chiffonnier, and doesn't count.
"One day, though, Durien, the sculptor, who's very clever, and a very
good fellow indeed, said:
"'Vois-tu, Trilby--I'm very much afraid He doesn't really exist, le bon
Dieu! most unfortunately for _me_, for I _adore_ Him! I never do a piece
of work without thinking how nice it would be if I could only please
_Him_ with it!'
"And I've often thought, myself, how heavenly it must be to be able to
paint, or sculpt, or make music, or write beautiful poetry, for that
very reason!
"Why, once on a very hot afternoon we were sitting, a lot of us, in the
court-yard outside la mère Martin's shop, drinking coffee with an old
Invalide called Bastide Lendormi, one of the Vieille Garde, who'd only
got one leg and one arm and one eye, and everybody was very fond of him.
Well, a model called Mimi la Salope came out of the Mont-de-piété
opposite, and Père Martin called out to her to come and sit down, and
gave her a cup of coffee, and asked her to sing.
"She sang a song of Béranger's, about Napoleon the Great, in which it
says:
"'Parlez-nous de lui, grandmère!
Grandmère, parlez-nous de lui!'
I suppose she sang it very well, for it made old Bastide Lendormi cry;
and when Père Martin _blaguè'd_ him about it, he said,
"'C'est égal, voyez-vous! to sing like that is _to pray_!'
[Illustration: "'TO SING LIKE THAT IS _TO PRAY_!'"]
"And then I thought how lovely it would be if _I_ could only sing like
Mimi la Salope, and I've thought so ever since--just to _pray_!"
"_What!_ Trilby? if _you_ could only sing like--Oh, but never mind, I
forgot! Tell me, Trilby--do you ever pray to Him, as other people pray?"
"Pray to Him? Well, no--not often--not in words and on my knees and with
my hands together, you know! _Thinking's_ praying, very often--don't you
think so? And so's being sorry and ashamed when one's done a mean thing,
and glad when one's resisted a temptation, and grateful when it's a fine
day and one's enjoying one's self without hurting any one else! What is
it but praying when you try and bear up after losing all you cared to
live for? And very good praying too! There can be prayers without words
just as well as songs, I suppose; and Svengali used to say that songs
without words are the best!
"And then it seems mean to be always asking for things. Besides, you
don't get them any the faster that way, and that shows!
"La mère Martin used to be always praying. And Père Martin used always
to laugh at her; yet he always seemed to get the things _he_ wanted
oftenest!
"_I_ prayed once, very hard indeed! I prayed for Jeannot not to die!"
"Well--but how do you _repent_, Trilby, if you do not humble yourself,
and pray for forgiveness on your knees?"
"Oh, well--I don't exactly know! Look here, Mrs. Bagot, I'll tell you
the lowest and meanest thing I ever did...."
(Mrs. Bagot felt a little nervous.)
"I'd promised to take Jeannot on Palm-Sunday to St. Philippe du Roule,
to hear l'abbé Bergamot. But Durien (that's the sculptor, you know)
asked me to go with him to St. Germain, where there was a fair, or
something; and with Mathieu, who was a student in law; and a certain
Victorine Letellier, who--who was Mathieu's mistress, in fact. And I
went on Sunday morning to tell Jeannot that I couldn't take him.
"He cried so dreadfully that I thought I'd give up the others and take
him to St. Philippe, as I'd promised. But then Durien and Mathieu and
Victorine drove up and waited outside, and so I didn't take him, and
went with them, and I didn't enjoy anything all day, and was miserable.
"They were in an open carriage with two horses; it was Mathieu's treat;
and Jeannot might have ridden on the box by the coachman, without being
in anybody's way. But I was afraid they didn't want him, as they didn't
say anything, and so I didn't dare ask--and Jeannot saw us drive away,
and I _couldn't_ look back! And the worst of it is that when we were
half-way to St. Germain, Durien said, 'What a pity you didn't bring
Jeannot!' and they were all sorry I hadn't.
"It was six or seven years ago, and I really believe I've thought of it
almost every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night!
"Ah! and when Jeannot was dying! and when he was dead--the remembrance
of that Palm-Sunday!
"And if _that's_ not repenting, I don't know what is!"
"Oh, Trilby, what nonsense! _that's_ nothing; good heavens!--putting off
a small child! I'm thinking of far worse things--when you were in the
quartier latin, you know--sitting to painters and sculptors.... Surely,
so attractive as you are...."
"Oh yes.... I know what you mean--it was horrid, and I was frightfully
ashamed of myself; and it wasn't amusing a bit; _nothing_ was, till I
met your son and Taffy and dear Sandy McAlister! But then it wasn't
deceiving or disappointing anybody, or hurting their feelings--it was
only hurting myself!
"Besides, all that sort of thing, in women, is punished severely enough
down here, God knows! unless one's a Russian empress like Catherine the
Great, or a grande dame like lots of them, or a great genius like Madame
Rachel or George Sand!
[Illustration: "'THE REMEMBRANCE OF THAT PALM-SUNDAY!'"]
"Why, if it hadn't been for that, and sitting for the figure, I should
have felt myself good enough to marry your son, _although_ I was only a
blanchisseuse de fin--you've said so yourself!
"And I should have made him a good wife--of that I feel sure. He wanted
to live all his life at Barbizon, and paint, you know; and didn't care
for society in the least. Anyhow, I should have been equal to such a
life as that! Lots of their wives are blanchisseuses over there, or
people of that sort; and they get on very well indeed, and nobody
troubles about it!
"So I think I've been pretty well punished--richly as I've deserved to!"
"Trilby, have you ever been confirmed?"
"I forget. I fancy not!"
"Oh dear, oh dear! And do you know about our blessed Saviour, and the
Atonement and the Incarnation and the Resurrection...."
"Oh yes--I _used_ to, at least. I used to have to learn the Catechism on
Sundays--mamma made me. Whatever her faults and mistakes were, poor
mamma was always very particular about _that_! It all seemed very
complicated. But papa told me not to bother too much about it, but to be
good. He said that God would make it all right for us somehow, in the
end--all of us. And that seems sensible, _doesn't_ it?
"He told me to be good, and not to mind what priests and clergymen tell
us. He'd been a clergyman himself, and knew all about it, he said.
"I haven't been very good--there's not much doubt about that, I'm
afraid. But God knows I've repented often enough and sore enough; I do
now! But I'm rather glad to die, I think; and not a bit afraid--not a
scrap! I believe in poor papa, though he _was_ so unfortunate! He was
the cleverest man I ever knew, and the best--except Taffy and the Laird
and your dear son!
"There'll be no hell for any of us--he told me so--except what we make
for ourselves and each other down here; and that's bad enough for
anything. He told me that _he_ was responsible for me--he often said
so--and that mamma was too, and his parents for _him_, and his
grandfathers and grandmothers for _them_, and so on up to Noah and ever
so far beyond, and God for us all!
"He told me always to think of other people before myself, as Taffy
does, and your son; and never to tell lies or be afraid, and keep away
from drink, and I should be all right. But I've sometimes been all
wrong, all the same; and it wasn't papa's fault, but poor mamma's and
mine; and I've known it, and been miserable at the time, and after! and
I'm sure to be forgiven--perfectly certain--and so will everybody else,
even the wickedest that ever lived! Why, just give them sense enough in
the next world to understand all their wickedness in this, and that'll
punish them enough for anything, I think! That's simple enough, _isn't_
it? Besides, there may be _no_ next world--that's on the cards too, you
know!--and that will be simpler still!
"Not all the clergymen in all the world, not even the Pope of Rome, will
ever make me doubt papa, or believe in any punishment after what we've
all got to go through here! _Ce serait trop bête!_
"So that if you don't want me to very much, and he won't think it
unkind, I'd rather not talk to Mr. Thomas Bagot about it. I'd rather
talk to Taffy if I must. He's very clever, Taffy, though he doesn't
often say such clever things as your son does, or paint nearly so well;
and I'm sure he'll think papa was right."
And as a matter of fact the good Taffy, in his opinion on this solemn
subject, was found to be at one with the late Reverend Patrick Michael
O'Ferrall--and so was the Laird--and so (to his mother's shocked and
pained surprise) was Little Billee.
And so were Sir Oliver Calthorpe and Sir Jacob Wilcox and Doctor Thorne
and Antony and Lorrimer and the Greek!
And so--in after-years, when grief had well pierced and torn and riddled
her through and through, and time and age had healed the wounds, and
nothing remained but the consciousness of great inward scars of
recollection to remind her how deep and jagged and wide the wounds had
once been--did Mrs. Bagot herself!
* * * * *
Late on one memorable Saturday afternoon, just as it was getting dusk in
Charlotte Street, Trilby, in her pretty blue dressing-gown, lay on the
sofa by the fire--her head well propped, her knees drawn up--looking
very placid and content.
She had spent the early part of the day dictating her will to the
conscientious Taffy.
It was a simple document, although she was not without many valuable
trinkets to leave: quite a fortune! Souvenirs from many men and women
she had charmed by her singing, from royalties downward.
She had been looking them over with the faithful Marta, to whom she had
always thought they belonged. It was explained to her that they were
gifts of Svengali's; since she did not remember when and where and by
whom they were presented to her, except a few that Svengali had given
her himself, with many passionate expressions of his love, which seems
to have been deep and constant and sincere; none the less so, perhaps,
that she could never return it!
She had left the bulk of these to the faithful Marta.
But to each of the trois Angliches she had bequeathed a beautiful ring,
which was to be worn by their brides if they ever married, and the
brides didn't object.
To Mrs. Bagot she left a pearl necklace; to Miss Bagot her gold coronet
of stars; and pretty (and most costly) gifts to each of the three
doctors who had attended her and been so assiduous in their care; and
who, as she was told, would make no charge for attending on Madame
Svengali. And studs and scarf-pins to Antony, Lorrimer, the Greek,
Dodor, and Zouzou; and to Carnegie a little German-silver vinaigrette
which had once belonged to Lord Witlow; and pretty souvenirs to the
Vinards, Angèle Boisse, Durien, and others.
And she left a magnificent gold watch and chain to Gecko, with a most
affectionate letter and a hundred pounds--which was all she had in money
of her own.
She had taken great interest in discussing with Taffy the particular
kind of trinket which would best suit the idiosyncrasy of each
particular legatee, and derived great comfort from the business-like and
sympathetic conscientiousness with which the good Taffy entered upon all
these minutiæ--he was so solemn and serious about it, and took such
pains. She little guessed how his dumb but deeply feeling heart was
harrowed!
This document had been duly signed and witnessed and intrusted to his
care; and Trilby lay tranquil and happy, and with a sense that nothing
remained for her but to enjoy the fleeting hour, and make the most of
each precious moment as it went by.
She was quite without pain of either mind or body, and surrounded by the
people she adored--Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee, and Mrs. Bagot,
and Marta, who sat knitting in a corner with her black mittens on, and
her brass spectacles.
She listened to the chat and joined in it, laughing as usual; "love in
her eyes sat playing," as she looked from one to another, for she loved
them all beyond expression. "Love on her lips was straying, and warbling
in her breath," whenever she spoke; and her weakened voice was still
larger, fuller, softer than any other voice in the room, in the
world--of another kind, from another sphere.
A cart drove up, there was a ring at the door, and presently a wooden
packing-case was brought into the room.
At Trilby's request it was opened, and found to contain a large
photograph, framed and glazed, of Svengali, in the military uniform of
his own Hungarian band, and looking straight out of the picture,
straight at you. He was standing by his desk with his left hand turning
over a leaf of music, and waving his bâton with his right. It was a
splendid photograph, by a Viennese photographer, and a most speaking
likeness; and Svengali looked truly fine--all made up of importance and
authority, and his big black eyes were full of stern command.
[Illustration: FOR GECKO]
Marta trembled as she looked. It was handed to Trilby, who exclaimed
in surprise. She had never seen it. She had no photograph of him, and
had never possessed one.
No message of any kind, no letter of explanation, accompanied this
unexpected present, which, from the postmarks on the case, seemed to
have travelled all over Europe to London, out of some remote province in
eastern Russia--out of the mysterious East! The poisonous
East--birthplace and home of an ill wind that blows nobody good.
Trilby laid it against her legs as on a lectern, and lay gazing at it
with close attention for a long time, making a casual remark now and
then, as, "He was very handsome, I think"; or, "That uniform becomes him
very well. Why has he got it on, I wonder?"
[Illustration: "OUT OF THE MYSTERIOUS EAST"]
The others went on talking, and Mrs. Bagot made coffee.
Presently Mrs. Bagot took a cup of coffee to Trilby, and found her still
staring intently at the portrait, but with her eyes dilated, and quite a
strange light in them.
"Trilby, Trilby, your coffee! What is the matter, Trilby?"
Trilby was smiling, with fixed eyes, and made no answer.
The others got up and gathered round her in some alarm. Marta seemed
terror-stricken, and wished to snatch the photograph away, but was
prevented from doing so; one didn't know what the consequences might be.
Taffy rang the bell, and sent a servant for Dr. Thorne, who lived close
by, in Fitzroy Square.
Presently Trilby began to speak, quite softly, in French: "Encore une
fois? bon! je veux bien! avec la voix blanche alors, n'est-ce pas? et
puis foncer au milieu. Et pas trop vite en commençant! Battez bien la
mesure, Svengali--que je puisse bien voir--car il fait déjà nuit! c'est
ça! Allons, Gecko--donne-moi le ton!"
Then she smiled, and seemed to beat time softly by moving her head a
little from side to side, her eyes intent on Svengali's in the portrait,
and suddenly she began to sing Chopin's Impromptu in A flat.
She hardly seemed to breathe as the notes came pouring out, without
words--mere vocalizing. It was as if breath were unnecessary for so
little voice as she was using, though there was enough of it to fill the
room--to fill the house--to drown her small audience in holy, heavenly
sweetness.
She was a consummate mistress of her art. How that could be seen! And
also how splendid had been her training! It all seemed as easy to her as
opening and shutting her eyes, and yet how utterly impossible to anybody
else!
Between wonder, enchantment, and alarm they were frozen to statues--all
except Marta, who ran out of the room, crying: "Gott im Himmel! wieder
zurück! wieder zurück!"
She sang it just as she had sung it at the Salle des Bashibazoucks, only
it sounded still more ineffably seductive, as she was using less
voice--using the essence of her voice, in fact--the pure spirit, the
very cream of it.
There can be little doubt that these four watchers by that enchanted
couch were listening to not only the most divinely beautiful, but also
the most astounding feat of musical utterance ever heard out of a human
throat.
The usual effect was produced. Tears were streaming down the cheeks of
Mrs. Bagot and Little Billee. Tears were in the Laird's eyes, a tear on
one of Taffy's whiskers--tears of sheer delight.
When she came back to the quick movement again, after the adagio, her
voice grew louder and shriller, and sweet with a sweetness not of this
earth; and went on increasing in volume as she quickened the time,
nearing the end; and then came the dying away into all but nothing--a
mere melodic breath; and then the little soft chromatic ascending
rocket, up to E in alt, the last parting caress (which Svengali had
introduced as a finale, for it does not exist in the piano score).
When it was over, she said: "Ça y est-il, cette fois, Svengali? Ah! tant
mieux, à la fin! c'est pas malheureux! Et maintenant, mon ami, _je suis
fatiguée--bon soir_!"
Her head fell back on the pillow, and she lay fast asleep.
Mrs. Bagot took the portrait away gently. Little Billee knelt down and
held Trilby's hand in his and felt for her pulse, and could not find it.
He said, "Trilby! Trilby!" and put his ear to her mouth to hear her
breathe. Her breath was inaudible.
But soon she folded her hands across her breast, and uttered a little
short sigh, and in a weak voice said: "_Svengali.... Svengali....
Svengali!..._"
They remained in silence round her for several minutes, terror-stricken.
The doctor came; he put his hand to her heart, his ear to her lips. He
turned up one of her eyelids and looked at her eye. And then, his voice
quivering with strong emotion, he stood up and said, "Madame Svengali's
trials and sufferings are all over!"
"Oh, good God! is she _dead_?" cried Mrs. Bagot.
"Yes, Mrs. Bagot. She has been dead several minutes--perhaps a quarter
of an hour."
VINGT ANS APRÈS
PORTHOS-ATHOS, _alias_ Taffy Wynne, is sitting to breakfast (opposite
his wife) at a little table in the court-yard of that huge caravanserai
on the Boulevard des Capucines, Paris, where he had sat more than twenty
years ago with the Laird and Little Billee; where, in fact, he had
pulled Svengali's nose.