company, with more of the American element, perhaps; the same arrivals
and departures in railway omnibuses, cabs, hired carriages; and, airing
his calves on the marble steps, stood just such another colossal and
beautiful old man in black cloth coat and knee-breeches and silk
stockings as of yore, with probably the very same pinchbeck chain. Where
do they breed these magnificent old Frenchmen? In Germany, perhaps,
"where all the good big waiters come from!"
And also the same fine weather. It is always fine weather in the
court-yard of the Grand Hôtel. As the Laird would say, they manage these
things better there!
Taffy wears a short beard, which is turning gray. His kind blue eye is
no longer choleric, but mild and friendly--as frank as ever; and full of
humorous patience. He has grown stouter; he is very big indeed, in all
three dimensions, but the symmetry and the gainliness of the athlete
belong to him still in movement and repose; and his clothes fit him
beautifully, though they are not new, and show careful beating and
brushing and ironing, and even a faint suspicion of all but
imperceptible fine-drawing here and there.
What a magnificent old man _he_ will make some day, should the Grand
Hôtel ever run short of them! He looks as if he could be trusted down to
the ground--in all things, little or big; as if his word were as good as
his bond, and even better; his wink as good as his word, his nod as good
as his wink; and, in truth, as he looks, so he is.
[Illustration: "'SVENGALI!... SVENGALI!... SVENGALI!...'"]
The most cynical disbeliever in "the grand old name of gentleman," and
its virtues as a noun of definition, would almost be justified in quite
dogmatically asserting at sight, and without even being introduced,
that, at all events, Taffy is a "gentleman," inside and out, up and
down--from the crown of his head (which is getting rather bald) to the
sole of his foot (by no means a small one, or a lightly shod--_ex pede
Herculem_)!
Indeed, this is always the first thing people say of Taffy--and the
last. It means, perhaps, that he may be a trifle dull. Well, one can't
be everything!
Porthos was a trifle dull--and so was Athos, I think; and likewise his
son, the faithful Viscount of Bragelonne--_bon chien chasse de race_!
And so was Wilfred of Ivanhoe, the disinherited; and Edgar, the Lord of
Ravenswood! and so, for that matter, was Colonel Newcome, of immortal
memory!
Yet who does not love them--who would not wish to be like them, for
better, for worse!
Taffy's wife is unlike Taffy in many ways; but (fortunately for both)
very like him in some. She is a little woman, very well shaped, very
dark, with black, wavy hair, and very small hands and feet; a very
graceful, handsome, and vivacious person; by no means dull; full,
indeed, of quick perceptions and intuitions; deeply interested in all
that is going on about and around her, and with always lots to say about
it, but not too much.
She distinctly belongs to the rare, and ever-blessed, and most precious
race of charmers.
She had fallen in love with the stalwart Taffy more than a quarter of a
century ago in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, where he and she and her
mother had tended the sick-couch of Little Billee--but she had never
told her love. _Tout vient à point, pour qui sait attendre!_
[Illustration: "TOUT VIENT À POINT, POUR QUI SAIT ATTENDRE!"]
That is a capital proverb, and sometimes even a true one. Blanche Bagot
had found it to be both!
* * * * *
One terrible night, never to be forgotten, Taffy lay fast asleep in bed,
at his rooms in Jermyn Street, for he was very tired; grief tires more
than anything, and brings a deeper slumber.
That day he had followed Trilby to her last home in Kensal Green, with
Little Billee, Mrs. Bagot, the Laird, Antony, the Greek, and Durien (who
had come over from Paris on purpose) as chief mourners; and very many
other people, noble, famous, or otherwise, English and foreign; a
splendid and most representative gathering, as was duly chronicled in
all the newspapers here and abroad; a fitting ceremony to close the
brief but splendid career of the greatest pleasure-giver of our time.
He was awakened by a tremendous ringing at the street-door bell, as if
the house were on fire; and then there was a hurried scrambling up in
the dark, a tumbling over stairs and kicking against banisters, and
Little Billee had burst into his room, calling out: "Oh! Taffy, Taffy!
I'm g-going mad--I'm g-going m-mad! I'm d-d-done for...."
"All right, old fellow--just wait till I strike a light!"
"Oh, Taffy! I haven't slept for four nights--not a wink! She d-d-died
with Sv--Sv--Sv ... damn it, I can't get it out! that ruffian's name on
her lips!... it was just as if he were calling her from the t-t-tomb!
She recovered her senses the very minute she saw his photograph--she was
so f-fond of him she f-forgot everybody else! She's gone straight to
him, after all--in some other life!... to slave for him, and sing for
him, and help him to make better music than ever! Oh, T--T--oh--oh!
Taffy--oh! oh! oh! catch hold! c-c-catch...." And Little Billee had all
but fallen on the floor in a fit.
And all the old miserable business of five years before had begun over
again!
There has been too much sickness in this story, so I will tell as little
as possible of poor Little Billee's long illness, his slow and only
partial recovery, the paralysis of his powers as a painter, his quick
decline, his early death, his manly, calm, and most beautiful
surrender--the wedding of the moth with the star, of the night with the
morrow!
[Illustration: "I, PETE COELESTES...."]
For all but blameless as his short life had been, and so full of
splendid promise and performance, nothing ever became him better than
the way he left it. It was as if he were starting on some distant holy
quest, like some gallant knight of old--"A Bagot to the Rescue!" It
shook the infallibility of a certain vicar down to its very foundations,
and made him think more deeply about things than he had ever thought
yet. It gave him pause!... and so wrung his heart that when, at the
last, he stooped to kiss his poor young dead friend's pure white
forehead, he dropped a bigger tear on it than Little Billee (once so
given to the dropping of big tears) had ever dropped in his life.
But it is all too sad to write about.
It was by Little Billee's bedside, in Devonshire, that Taffy had grown
to love Blanche Bagot, and not very many weeks after it was all over
that Taffy had asked her to be his wife; and in a year they were
married, and a very happy marriage it turned out--the one thing that
poor Mrs. Bagot still looks upon as a compensation for all the griefs
and troubles of her life.
During the first year or two Blanche had perhaps been the most ardently
loving of this well-assorted pair. That beautiful look of love surprised
(which makes all women's eyes look the same) came into hers whenever she
looked at Taffy, and filled his heart with tender compunction, and a
queer sense of his own unworthiness.
Then a boy was born to them, and that look fell on the boy, and the good
Taffy caught it as it passed him by, and he felt a helpless, absurd
jealousy, that was none the less painful for being so ridiculous! and
then that look fell on another boy and yet another, so that it was
through these boys that she looked at their father. Then _his_ eyes
caught the look, and kept it for their own use; and he grew never to
look at his wife without it; and as no daughter came, she retained for
life the monopoly of that most sweet and expressive regard.
They are not very rich. He is a far better sportsman than he will ever
be a painter; and if he doesn't sell his pictures, it is not because
they are too good for the public taste: indeed, he has no illusions on
that score himself, even if his wife has! He is quite the least
conceited art-duffer I ever met--and I have met many far worse duffers
than Taffy.
Would only that I might kill off his cousin Sir Oscar, and Sir Oscar's
five sons (the Wynnes are good at sons), and his seventeen grandsons,
and the fourteen cousins (and their numerous male progeny), that stand
between Taffy and the baronetcy, and whatever property goes with it, so
that he might be Sir Taffy, and dear Blanche Bagot (that was) might be
called "my lady"! This Shakespearian holocaust would scarcely cost me a
pang!
It is a great temptation, when you have duly slain your first hero, to
enrich hero number two beyond the dreams of avarice, and provide him
with a title and a castle and park, as well as a handsome wife and a
nice family! But truth is inexorable--and, besides, they are just as
happy as they are.
They are well off enough, anyhow, to spend a week in Paris at last, and
even to stop at the Grand Hôtel! now that two of their sons are at
Harrow (where their father was before them), and the third is safe at a
preparatory school at Elstree, Herts.
It is their first outing since the honeymoon, and the Laird should have
come with them.
But the good Laird of Cockpen (who is now a famous Royal Academician) is
preparing for a honeymoon of his own. He has gone to Scotland to be
married himself--to wed a fair and clever country-woman of just a
suitable age, for he has known her ever since she was a bright little
lassie in short frocks, and he a promising A.R.A. (the pride of his
native Dundee)--a marriage of reason, and well-seasoned affection, and
mutual esteem--and therefore sure to turn out a happy one! and in
another fortnight or so the pair of them will very possibly be sitting
to breakfast opposite each other at that very corner table in the
court-yard of the Grand Hôtel! and she will laugh at everything he
says--and they will live happily ever after.
So much for hero number three--D'Artagnan! Here's to you, Sandy
McAlister, canniest, genialest, and most humorous of Scots! most
delicate, and dainty, and fanciful of British painters! "I trink your
health, mit your family's--may you lif long--and brosper!"
* * * * *
So Taffy and his wife have come for their second honeymoon, their
Indian-summer honeymoon, alone; and are well content that it should be
so. Two's always company for such a pair--the amusing one and the
amusable!--and they are making the most of it!
They have been all over the quartier latin, and revisited the
well-remembered spots; and even been allowed to enter the old studio,
through the kindness of the concierge (who is no longer Madame Vinard).
It is tenanted by two American painters, who are coldly civil on being
thus disturbed in the middle of their work.
The studio is very spick and span, and most respectable. Trilby's foot,
and the poem, and the sheet of plate-glass have been improved away, and
a bookshelf put in their place. The new concierge (who has only been
there a year) knows nothing of Trilby, and of the Vinards, only that
they are rich and prosperous, and live somewhere in the south of France,
and that Monsieur Vinard is mayor of his commune. _Que le bon Dieu les
bénisse! c'étaient de bien braves gens._
Then Mr. and Mrs. Taffy have also been driven (in an open calèche with
two horses) through the Bois de Boulogne to St. Cloud; and to
Versailles, where they lunched at the Hôtel des Réservoirs--_parlez-moi
de ça_! and to St. Germain, and to Meudon (where they lunched at la loge
du garde champêtre--a new one); they have visited the Salon, the Louvre,
the porcelain manufactory at Sèvres, the Gobelins, the Hôtel Cluny, the
Invalides, with Napoleon's tomb, and seen half a dozen churches,
including Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle; and dined with the Dodors
at their charming villa near Asnières, and with the Zouzous at the
splendid Hôtel de la Rochemartel, and with the Duriens in the Parc
Monceau (Dodor's food was best and Zouzou's worst; and at Durien's the
company and talk were so good that one forgot to notice the food--and
that was a pity). And the young Dodors are all right--and so are the
young Duriens. As for the young Zouzous, there aren't any--and that's a
relief.
And they've been to the Variétés and seen Madame Chaumont, and to the
Français and seen Sarah Bernhardt and Côquelin and Delaunay, and to the
Opéra and heard Monsieur Lassalle.
And to-day being their last day, they are going to laze and flane about
the boulevards, and buy things, and lunch anywhere, "sur le pouce," and
do the Bois once more and see tout Paris, and dine early at Durand's, or
Bignon's (or else the Café des Ambassadeurs), and finish up the
well-spent day at the "Mouches d'Espagne"--the new theatre in the
Boulevard Poissonnière--to see Madame Cantharidi in "Petits Bonheurs de
Contrebande," which they are told is immensely droll and quite
proper--funny without being vulgar! Dodor was their informant--he had
taken Madame Dodor to see it three or four times.
Madame Cantharidi, as everybody knows, is a very clever but extremely
plain old woman with a cracked voice--of spotless reputation, and the
irreproachable mother of a grown-up family whom she has brought up in
perfection. They have never been allowed to see their mother (and
grandmother) act--not even the sons. Their excellent father (who adores
both them and her) has drawn the line at that!
In private life she is "quite the lady," but on the stage--well, go and
see her, and you will understand how she comes to be the idol of the
Parisian public. For she is the true and liberal dispenser to them of
that modern "esprit gaulois" which would make the good Rabelais turn
uneasily in his grave and blush there like a Benedictine Sister.
And truly she deserves the reverential love and gratitude of her chers
Parisiens! She amused them all through the Empire; during the _année
terrible_ she was their only stay and comfort, and has been their chief
delight ever since, and is now.
When they come back from _La Revanche_, may Madame Cantharidi be still
at her post, "Les mouches d'Espagne," to welcome the returning heroes,
and exult and crow with them in her funny cracked old voice; or, haply,
even console them once more, as the case may be.
[Illustration: "PETITS BONHEURS DE CONTREBANDE"]
"Victors or vanquished, they will laugh the same!"
Mrs. Taffy is a poor French scholar. One must know French very well
indeed (and many other things besides) to seize the subtle points of
Madame Cantharidi's play (and by-play)!
But Madame Cantharidi has so droll a face and voice, and such very
droll, odd movements that Mrs. Taffy goes into fits of laughter as soon
as the quaint little old lady comes on the stage. So heartily does she
laugh that a good Parisian bourgeois turns round and remarks to his
wife: "V'là une jolie p'tite Anglaise qui n'est pas bégueule, an moins!
Et l' gros boeuf avec les yeux bleus en boules de loto--c'est son
mari, sans doute! il n'a pas l'air trop content par exemple, celui-là!"
The fact is that the good Taffy (who knows French very well indeed) is
quite scandalized, and very angry with Dodor for sending them there; and
as soon as the first act is finished he means, without any fuss, to take
his wife away.
As he sits patiently, too indignant to laugh at what is really funny in
the piece (much of it is vulgar _without_ being funny), he finds himself
watching a little white-haired man in the orchestra, a fiddler, the
shape of whose back seems somehow familiar, as he plays an _obbligato_
accompaniment to a very broadly comic song of Madame Cantharidi's. He
plays beautifully--like a master--and the loud applause is as much for
him as for the vocalist.
Presently this fiddler turns his head so that his profile can be seen,
and Taffy recognizes him.
After five minutes' thought, Taffy takes a leaf out of his pocket-book
and writes (in perfectly grammatical French):
"DEAR GECKO,--You have not forgotten Taffy Wynne, I hope; and
Litrebili, and Litrebili's sister, who is now Mrs. Taffy Wynne. We
leave Paris to-morrow, and would like very much to see you once
more. Will you, after the play, come and sup with us at the Café
Anglais? If so, look up and make 'yes' with the head, and enchant
"Your well-devoted TAFFY WYNNE."
He gives this, folded, to an attendant--for "le premier violon--celui
qui a des cheveux blancs."
Presently he sees Gecko receive the note and read it and ponder for a
while.
Then Gecko looks round the theatre, and Taffy waves his handkerchief and
catches the eye of the premier violon, who "makes 'yes' with the head."
And then, the first act over, Mr. and Mrs. Wynne leave the theatre; Mr.
explaining why, and Mrs. very ready to go, as she was beginning to feel
strangely uncomfortable without quite realizing as yet what was amiss
with the lively Madame Cantharidi.
They went to the Café Anglais and bespoke a nice little room on the
entresol overlooking the boulevard, and ordered a nice little supper;
salmi of something very good, mayonnaise of lobster, and one or two
other dishes better still--and chambertin of the best. Taffy was
particular about these things on a holiday, and regardless of expense.
Porthos was very hospitable, and liked good food and plenty of it; and
Athos dearly loved good wine!
And then they went and sat at a little round table outside the Café de
la Paix on the boulevard, near the Grand Opéra, where it is always very
gay, and studied Paris life, and nursed their appetites till
supper-time.
At half-past eleven Gecko made his appearance--very meek and humble. He
looked old--ten years older than he really was--much bowed down, and as
if he had roughed it all his life, and had found living a desperate
long, hard grind.
He kissed Mrs. Taffy's hand, and seemed half inclined to kiss Taffy's
too, and was almost tearful in his pleasure at meeting them again, and
his gratitude at being asked to sup with them. He had soft, clinging,
caressing manners, like a nice dog's, that made you his friend at once.
He was obviously genuine and sincere, and quite pathetically simple, as
he always had been.
At first he could scarcely eat for nervous excitement; but Taffy's fine
example and Mrs. Taffy's genial, easy-going cordiality (and a couple of
glasses of chambertin) soon put him at his ease and woke up his dormant
appetite; which was a very large one, poor fellow!
He was told all about Little Billee's death, and deeply moved to hear
the cause which had brought it about, and then they talked of Trilby.
[Illustration: ENTER GECKO]
He pulled her watch out of his waistcoat-pocket and reverently kissed
it, exclaiming: "Ah! c'était un ange! un ange du Paradis! when I tell
you I lived with them for five years! Oh! her kindness, Dio, dio Maria!
It was 'Gecko this!' and 'Gecko that!' and 'Poor Gecko, your toothache,
how it worries me!' and 'Gecko, how tired and pale you look--you
distress me so, looking like that! Shall I mix you a maitrank?' And
'Gecko, you love artichokes à la Barigoule; they remind you of Paris--I
have heard you say so. Well, I have found out where to get artichokes,
and I know how to do them à la Barigoule, and you shall have them for
dinner to-day and to-morrow and all the week after!' and we did!
"Ach! dear kind one--what did I really care for artichokes à la
Barigoule?...
"And it was always like that--always--and to Svengali and old Marta just
the same! and she was never well--never! toujours souffrante!
"And it was she who supported us all--in luxury and splendor sometimes!"
"And _what_ an artist!" said Taffy.
"Ah, yes! but all that was Svengali, you know. Svengali was the greatest
artist I ever met! Monsieur, Svengali was a demon, a magician! I used to
think him a god! He found me playing in the streets for copper coins,
and took me by the hand, and was my only friend, and taught me all I
ever knew--and yet he could not play my instrument!
"And now he is dead, I have forgotten how to play it myself! That
English jail! it demoralized me, ruined me forever! ach! quel enfer, nom
de Dieu (pardon, madame)! I am just good enough to play the _obbligato_
at the Mouches d'Espagne, when the old Cantharidi sings,
"'V'là mon mari qui r'garde
Prends garde--ne m'chatouille plus!'
"It does not want much of an _obbligato_, hein, a song so noble and so
beautiful as that!
"And that song, monsieur, all Paris is singing it now. And that is the
Paris that went mad when Trilby sang the 'Nussbaum' of Schumann at the
Salle des Bashibazoucks. You heard her? Well!"
And here poor Gecko tried to laugh a little sardonic laugh in falsetto,
like Svengali's, full of scorn and bitterness--and very nearly
succeeded.
"But what made you strike him with--with that knife, you know?"
"Ah, monsieur, it had been coming on for a long time. He used to work
Trilby too hard; it was killing her--it killed her at last! And then at
the end he was unkind to her and scolded her and called her
names--horrid names--and then one day in London he struck her. He struck
her on the fingers with his bâton, and she fell down on her knees and
cried ...
"Monsieur, I would have defended Trilby against a locomotive going
grande vitesse! against my own father--against the Emperor of
Austria--against the Pope! and I am a good Catholic, monsieur! I would
have gone to the scaffold for her, and to the devil after!"
And he piously crossed himself.
"But, Svengali--wasn't _he_ very fond of her?"
"Oh yes, monsieur! quant à ça, passionately! But she did not love him as
he wished to be loved. She loved Litrebili, monsieur! Litrebili, the
brother of madame. And I suppose that Svengali grew angry and jealous at
last. He changed as soon as he came to Paris. Perhaps Paris reminded him
of Litrebili--and reminded Trilby, too!"
"But how on earth did Svengali ever manage to teach her how to sing
like that? She had no ear for music whatever when _we_ knew her!"
Gecko was silent for a while, and Taffy filled his glass, and gave him a
cigar, and lit one himself.
"Monsieur, no--that is true. She had not much ear. But she had such a
voice as had never been heard. Svengali knew that. He had found it out
long ago. Litolff had found it out, too. One day Svengali heard Litolff
tell Meyerbeer that the most beautiful female voice in Europe belonged
to an English grisette who sat as a model to sculptors in the quartier
latin, but that unfortunately she was quite tone-deaf, and couldn't sing
one single note in tune. Imagine how Svengali chuckled! I see it from
here!
"Well, we both taught her together--for three years--morning, noon, and
night--six--eight hours a day. It used to split me the heart to see her
worked like that! We took her voice note by note--there was no end to
her notes, each more beautiful than the other--velvet and gold,
beautiful flowers, pearls, diamonds, rubies--drops of dew and honey;
peaches, oranges, and lemons! en veux-tu en voilà!--all the perfumes and
spices of the Garden of Eden! Svengali with his little flexible
flageolet, I with my violin--that is how we taught her to make the
sounds--and then how to use them. She was a phénomène, monsieur! She
could keep on one note and make it go through all the colors in the
rainbow--according to the way Svengali looked at her. It would make you
laugh--it would make you cry--but, cry or laugh, it was the sweetest,
the most touching, the most beautiful note you ever heard--except all
her others! and each had as many overtones as the bells in the Carillon
de Notre Dame. She could run up and down the scales, chromatic scales,
quicker and better and smoother than Svengali on the piano, and more in
tune than any piano! and her shake--ach! twin stars, monsieur! She was
the greatest contralto, the greatest soprano the world has ever known!
the like of her has never been! the like of her will never be again! and
yet she only sang in public for two years.
[Illustration: "'WE TOOK HER VOICE NOTE BY NOTE'"]
"Ach! those breaks and runs and sudden leaps from darkness into light
and back again--from earth to heaven!... those slurs and swoops and
slides à la Paganini from one note to another, like a swallow
flying!... or a gull! Do you remember them? how they drove you mad? Let
any other singer in the world try to imitate them--they would make you
sick! That was Svengali ... he was a magician!
"And how she looked, singing! do you remember? her hands behind her--her
dear, sweet, slender foot on a little stool--her thick hair lying down
all along her back! And that good smile like the Madonna's so soft and
bright and kind! _Ach! Bel ucel di Dio!_ it was to make you weep for
love, merely to see her (_c'était à vous faire pleurer d'amour, rien que
de la voir_)! That was Trilby! Nightingale and bird-of-paradise in one!