THE EXHIBITION
The means I employed in finding out who was Hélène's husband were very
simple, and a lucky chance helped me to the discovery. The next morning
I went in a cab, whose blinds I carefully closed, to a point just
opposite the little house of the Beaumarchais garden, to see if some
unforeseen circumstance would not help me in my projects. I did not have
to wait long; about nine o'clock a man, carrying a package of
newspapers, knocked at the green door and handed a paper to an elderly
woman, whom I recognised as having been in my aunt's service.
I ordered my driver to follow the news-carrier; and when, after having
distributed three or four other papers to several houses on the
boulevard, he went off into a side street, I got out of the cab and
accosted him:
"Tell me the names of the five people to whom you have just left your
papers. You will earn two louis."
The man looked at me stupefied.
"I am asking you this because it is a bet I have made," said I.
"Besides, this information, which you can give me if you choose, can't
make any possible difference to you," and I put the two louis in his
hand.
"My faith, monsieur, I'll give it to you willingly; as the bands of my
papers are all printed, it will not be any great harm in showing them to
you."
I took a pencil, and wrote down the names as he read them off to me. He
named three or four which were perfectly uninteresting to me, and,
finally, giving the number of Hélène's house, said, "M. Frank,
artist." I asked him, in order to put him on a false track, if, in the
list of his subscribers who lived on the boulevard, there was not a M.
de Verneuil.
He examined his list, replied that there was no such person, thanked me,
and I returned home almost happy.
The name Frank was evidently that of a foreigner; Hélène must then
have married during her voyage to Germany, and married an artist who, to
all appearances, was as yet very little known, for I had never heard his
name before.
I went, however, that very day to the exhibition of paintings, hoping to
find in the catalogue some notice of Hélène's husband.
What inexplicable interest made me do all this? Almost certain that
Hélène was happy, my discoveries could only result in misery to
myself; but, whether I saw in all this interest in Hélène only a means
of distracting my thoughts from the remembrance of Marguerite, or
whether I was only following the influence of a sentiment which was
still smouldering in my heart, I awoke from the apathy which had been
dulling my senses for so many days, and began my investigations with an
energy that astonished me.
The exposition was drawing to its close; I entered the gallery, where
there were very few people. I opened the catalogue, and there I found
the name of M. Frank, Boulevard Beaumarchais, No. --. One painting and
two water-colours were inscribed with his name.
One was a fragment from a scene in Goethe's "Egmont."
The painter had chosen the end of the charming interview between Claire
and Egmont, who, at the request of his naïve mistress, has come to the
humble abode where she dwells with her mother, clothed in all the
splendid vesture which he wore to the court. "What splendour," cries
Claire, as she admires, with childish joy, the dazzling costume of the
man she loves with such profound and candid passion. "And this velvet,"
continues she, "and these embroideries! I know not where to begin. And
the collar of the Golden Fleece! You told me once that it was a
distinction of great merit. I can compare it, then, to your love for me,
for I wear it here, next my heart."
This is the notice of the picture as it was printed in the catalogue.
_No. --. M. Frank, Painter._
_Claire and Egmont._
_Claire._--Ah, let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me fix my eyes
on thine, and there find all things,--consolation, hope, joy, and
sorrow. (She clasps him in her arms and gazes on him.) Tell me, tell
me,--it seems so strange,--art thou, then, Egmont? Count Egmont? The
great Egmont, who makes such a stir in the world, who figures in the
Gazette, who is the hope of the country?
_Egmont._--No, Claire, I am not he.
_Claire._--How?
_Egmont._--Listen, Claire! Let me sit down! (He seats himself, and she
kneels before him on a footstool, rests her arms on his knees, and gazes
in his eyes.) That Egmont is a morose, solemn, cold Egmont, obliged to
be for ever on his guard, to appear now this and now that; harassed,
misunderstood, and worried, when people think him gay and light-hearted;
beloved by the people who know not their own minds, surrounded by
friends in whom he does not confide, observed by men who desire to
supplant him, toiling and tiring himself for no object nor any reward.
Oh, let me hide him, let me not speak of his feelings. But this Egmont,
Claire, is calm, sincere, happy; he is loved and known by the best of
hearts, which he knows and loves in return, and which he presses to his
own with boundless confidence and love. (He takes her in his arms.) This
is thy Egmont.
_Claire._--Thus let me die; the world has no further joy.
The choice of subject for a picture has always appeared to me to show
the real limit of an artist's intelligence; there is his thought, his
poesy. Now I admit that the scene as described by the catalogue was
admirably depicted.
I looked for the painting, nevertheless, with a secret hope that I
should find it mediocre and unworthy the high inspiration the artist had
demanded from one of the _chef-d'œuvres_ of Goethe.
Hélène had seemed to me too happy. If I had found her sad, this wicked
and envious thought would never have entered my mind.
I sought this picture for a long time. At last I discovered it placed in
a most unfavourable light, and half hidden by the gigantic and massive
frame of a large portrait.
Frank's canvas was what is called an easel picture; it was about three
feet high by two feet and a half wide.
I have said that, to my shame, I arrived before the picture with a
determination to find fault with it; but what immediately caused my
malevolent feelings to disappear in an instant was, first, my surprise,
and then my involuntary admiration, as I recognised the sweet face of
Hélène, who had, doubtless, posed for the personage of Claire.
It was Hélène, whose charm and unspeakable grace were still more
idealised by the divine power of art, for art alone can give to the
features it reproduces, and reproduces with fidelity, that inexplicable
character, grandiose and almost superhuman, which is to the living
features that which historic perspective is to events.
The more I examined the picture, the more I admired, in spite of the
pangs of my hateful jealousy, a talent full of freshness, melancholy,
and elevation, joined to an intimate knowledge of nature and the
passions.
As to Egmont, no one could find a physiognomy more masculine and more
expressive. If the slight frown on the forehead showed the indelible
trace of political cares, though his pallor betrayed the absorbing and
concentrated reaction of that ambition which Egmont concealed under
frivolity, one saw that at least, when he was at the side of Claire,
free from all annoyances, forgetful of his hazardous schemes, he came to
cool his burning brow by the soothing touch of this angel of devotion
and candour, who, as Goethe tells us, had so often lulled this great
child to sleep.
The count's smile was full of calmness and serenity, his eyes were
bright with confidence and love; his pose, so joyfully casting aside
court etiquette, was one of graceful negligence, while with his two
beautiful hands he pressed those of Claire, who, kneeling before her
Egmont, with her elbows on his knees, was gazing upon him with idolatry.
In this profound and admiring look of Claire, you could imagine her
saying, "I, poor, obscure girl, I am beloved of Egmont,--of the great
Egmont." Simple and enchanting modesty, which makes that young girl's
love so chaste, so humble, and so passionate!
As to the accessories of the picture, their extreme simplicity had been
carefully and skilfully thought out, so as to show to all the more
advantage Egmont's splendid costume. It was the interior of a poor
Flemish house, there was Claire's spinning-wheel, some pieces of
furniture with well-polished twisted columns; on the left a little
window with leaded panes, which was shaded by the hop-vine that,
climbing on the outside of it, half hid the bird cage that hung there.
It was from this window, no doubt, that Claire had seen Egmont for the
first time, when, passing by mounted on his beautiful battle-steed at
the head of his army, the count, with his unparalleled grace, had
saluted her with his golden sword, and a bow of his waving plumes. And
finally, above the high chimney piece, with its serge curtain, one could
see a rude and naïve popular print representing the great Egmont.
Wretched picture as it was, Claire had often dreamily gazed on it,
little thinking that one day the great captain would be at her knees! Or
rather that she would be kneeling before Egmont; for it was with
admirable sagacity that the painter had thus chosen Claire's attitude,
as symbolising the love of that admirable child, who, so timidly
kneeling, shows her gratitude for the love she bestows.
A soft exquisite light illumined the picture, which was almost all
painted in a beautiful clair-obscure, for the colouring, though bold,
strong, and vigorous, was of a marvellous harmony and mellowness; in the
accessories there was nothing bright or staring to attract the eye.
Claire wore the simple black dress of a young Flemish girl, and Egmont's
costume was of brown velvet, embroidered with silver; thus all the
interest of the picture was absolutely concentrated on those two
admirable faces.
I must admit that, in spite of the ill-feeling I had entertained for
Frank, with the exception of M. Delacroix's "Charles the Fifth," the
"Marguerite and Faust" of Ary Scheffer, and "The Children of Edward" by
M. Delaroche, I had scarcely ever been more profoundly touched by the
irresistible power of genius.
Giving myself up to its charming influence, thinking only of enjoying
its beauty, I lost myself in the thousand impressions this picture
awakened in me; but when this first effervescence of involuntary
admiration was somewhat calmed, my envious feelings returned with a
sharper sting than ever, for I appreciated all there was great and
elevated in the talent of Hélène's husband.
I looked in the catalogue; this beautiful picture had not yet been sold.
A mean frame, whose cheapness was noticeable and displeasing to me,
surrounded this _chef-d'œuvre_, which was barely visible, consigned as
it was to the very end of the gallery among all the miserable daubs
which are thrust to one side. I judged from this fact that Frank was but
little known. He had probably just arrived from Germany, without friends
and without protection, and had simply abandoned his picture to all the
hazards of the exposition.
They say that some of the most talented men die unknown, or live
misunderstood. I do not believe this. A first attempt may not be
successful, but true merit inevitably rises at last to its own level. I
made this reflection, which I believe a just one, as I thought bitterly
that sooner or later the remarkable talent of Frank would become
recognised, and that his obscurity, over which I was now rejoicing,
would be but a thing of the past.
I looked again in the catalogue for the numbers and subjects of his
water-colour sketches. Like the painting, they demonstrated the poetic
intelligence of the artist.
The subject of one was from Shakespeare's "King Lear;" the other was
from Goethe's beautiful drama of "Goetz of Berlichingen."
Not far from Frank's oil-painting I discovered these two sketches, which
were of large dimensions.
The subject of the first was that sad and touching scene, in which
Cordelia, the noble daughter of the old king, notices in her father the
return of reason, the cruelty of his other daughters having driven him
crazy.
He exclaims:
"Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight! I am mightily abused. I
should e'en die with pity, to see another thus. I know not what to say,
I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see, I feel this pin prick.
Would I were assured of my condition!"
"Oh, look upon me, sir," sweet Cordelia replies, "and hold your hands in
benediction o'er me; no, sir, you must not kneel," she cries, holding in
hers her father's hands, who, pale and trembling, wishes to kneel before
his daughter, saying: "Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old
man, forescore and upward, not an hour more nor less; and, to deal
plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you,
and know this man; yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant what
place this is; and all the skill I have remembers not these garments;
nor I know not where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; for, as
I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia."
"And so I am, I am," cries Cordelia, weeping, and wetting his hands with
her tears.
"Be your tears wet? Yes, 'faith. I pray, weep not: if you have poison
for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters
have, as I do remember, done me wrong: you have some cause, they have
not."
All the fearful sadness of the poor king, all the courageous tenderness
of Cordelia, were exhaled from this beautiful drawing, which bore the
imprint of the sombre and melancholy genius of Shakespeare.
The other water-colour offered a remarkable contrast to the first;
there, one beheld the wildness and rusticity of the German nature. The
scene was laid in the vast and antique kitchen of old Goetz's château,
which had been transformed into a magazine and hospital during the siege
of his feudal habitation by the troops of the Empire.
Elizabeth, his wife, is busy in attending to the needs of a wounded man;
the men are all on the ramparts, and so the women and children are
hurrying here and there, moulding bullets or preparing food for the
besieged. Old Goetz has just entered. His rude physiognomy, frank and
warlike, shows the stubbornness and bravery of this man of iron; armed
with his breastplate, he has placed, for an instant, his casque and his
arquebuse on a massive oak table, on which is stretched out the half of
a deer, that no one has had the time to cut up. Goetz passes one of his
great hands over his forehead, from which he wipes the moisture, and in
the other hand holds a large pewter mug, from which he means to quench
his thirst and renew his strength.
"Thou hast a hard time, poor wife?" says he to Elizabeth. "I hope to
have it a long time," she answers; "but we will hardly hold out." "Some
charcoal, madame!" asks a servant maid. "What for?" "To melt bullets, we
have no more." "How are you off for powder?" "We waste none of our
shots, madame."
In order to give an idea of the powerful and varied beauty of the
principal figures in this drawing, it will suffice to say that they
perfectly expressed the savage energy which Goethe ascribes to them.
As I returned home, thinking of this unknown man, who had held me so
long under the irresistible spell of his talent, my jealousy, my hateful
irritation, gave way to a sort of sadness, which was calmer, but harder
to bear. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of my own
idleness, as I compared the pure and elevated emotions, the noble
resources, that the man I detested, this Frank, must find in his art, to
the aimless life I was dragging along in such obscurity, without even
having enough vulgar common sense to enjoy the sensual delights that
were offered me.
I could not, however, hide from myself the fact that regret and envy
were the sole motives of such reflections. Had Hélène married a man
who was rich, idle, and well born, in the same social position as
myself, I should never have had such thoughts; therefore, I was enraged
when I reflected that fame would put an enormous and insurmountable
distance between this Frank and myself. Sooner or later, he would be
able to bestow on Hélène, not only the fortune that I could have given
her, but the distinction of a great name, a name to be illustrious for
ever, perhaps one of those glorious names that thrills with pride the
woman who bears it!
Oh, how frightful all this seemed to me! For me there was no
consolation, no possible hope. I found consolation, however, in this
thought, which came to me through dragging to the surface every shameful
and mean thought that was buried deep in my envious soul.
I hoped that Frank, in spite of his talent and his poesy, would prove to
be of a vulgar and repulsive appearance. Besides, he could never have
received that refined education, which results in elegance in the
smallest details of daily life, a charm which Hélène, who was a woman
of such distinction, knew so well how to appreciate. Remembering, with a
childish maliciousness, how few of the men of talent or genius I had met
had an education and charm of manner on a level with the splendours of
their mind, I had hopes that Frank would not be among the number of
these privileged few.
Shall I dare to tell it? It was with the greatest conceivable impatience
that I waited for night to come, so that again I might take my station
before the shutters of Hélène's house, and find out if I had been
mistaken on the subject of Frank.
Nothing could be wilder or more ridiculous than this kind of espionage.
And, besides, why should I wish to continue in the fatal round? Why open
a wound which was already so sore? I know not, but my curiosity was
insurmountable.
I could not go too soon before Hélène's house, for fear of attracting
the attention of people who might pass by. It was, therefore, ten
o'clock at night when I reached that lonely boulevard.
The light was shining clearly from the little holes in the shutters. I
crept quietly up to the house.
The little salon was lighted up; but at first I did not see Hélène.
Near the mantelpiece a man was drawing, by the light of a lamp. This man
could be no other than Frank.
On beholding him, I felt myself torn to pieces by jealousy and hatred,
for I could see that he was very young and remarkably handsome. The
clear light from the lamp shone on his profile, whose noble contour
showed a striking and extraordinary likeness to the portraits of
Raphaël at twenty-five.
His mouth had a smile both sweet and serious, and his eyelashes were so
long that they threw a shadow on his delicate pale cheeks. His hair was
chestnut brown, and, as was the fashion among German students, he wore
it falling in soft curls on his neck, whose grace and elegance were
apparent; for Frank wore a sort of black velvet jacket, belted around
the waist with a purple silk cord. His long, white hand, which from time
to time dipped a paint brush into a glass cup, was admirably shaped.
Nothing could be more despicable than my real despair at the revelation
of Frank's beauty. But are the secret and disgraceful sores of pride any
the less agonising, because they are hidden out of sight, in the very
recesses of our hearts?
But with the insatiable avidity of despair, that wishes to drain its
bitter cup to the dregs, I looked again into the parlour, leaning my
burning forehead against the damp panel of the window blinds.
I cast my eyes towards the door which led into that other room; where
the day before I had seen the cradle, I now saw, through that door which
was standing wide open, Hélène sleeping beside her child.
Frank kept on with his drawing, though from time to time he would give a
tender glance towards the enchanting group.
Never in my life shall I forget the sublime spectacle of this noble
young man working thus in the silence of night, and the sacred
tranquillity of the domestic hearth, to assure the existence of the wife
and child who were sleeping so peacefully under his protection.
All the blackness of my envy could not withstand a scene so simple and
so grand. My soul, until then cold and inflexible, was gently and
insensibly penetrated by admiration. I understood how much hope and
strength this young man must possess in order to struggle, talented and
unknown, against the evil days now present and the terrible uncertainty
of future success.
How beautiful Hélène was while thus sleeping! How blissful seemed her
slumbers! What an angelic calm was on her closed eyelids; what serenity
on her pure white brow, encircled by the waves of blonde hair; with what
maternal grace she abandoned one of her beautiful hands to her child,
who, still asleep, clasped it with his little fingers! Hélène had, no
doubt, hesitated to withdraw it for fear of awakening him. What a
serious charm her features had taken on! It was the melancholy and sweet
smile of the young wife, happy and proud in her dignity of being a
mother.
How despairing was my regret! With what bitterness I again recalled all
I had lost as I contemplated this touching and chaste picture, in
admiring that home which was so poor and yet seemed so blessed of God.
I know not how long a time I remained absorbed in such thoughts, but it
must have been late when I again looked into the salon, for Frank was
standing and contemplating his work with the fugitive and pleased look
of an artist who is charmed and proud of his work. This satisfaction,
rapid and ephemeral as it is, which only lasts a moment, reveals to the
artist in that one moment the resplendent beauty of his work in all its
perfections. Then, strange phenomenon, this divine lustre once gone,
this consciousness of genius once extinct, the artist loses all
remembrance of it. It is no more than a vague and far-off dream, whose
memory excites him without reassuring him, and he becomes crushed to
earth under the terrible doubt as to the real worth of his
talents,--eternal torture to a sensitive soul who can compare the
limitations of art to the grandeur of nature.
After having contemplated his drawing, Frank smiled sadly, covered it
over, and went towards a little secretary which stood on the other side
of the fireplace. He opened a drawer, took out a purse, and, having put
to one side some pieces of gold, he sighed as he looked at the little
that remained.
Almost at the same instant he glanced quickly and sadly at his wife and
her child; then with his forehead bent on his hands he remained for some
time with his elbows on the mantelpiece.
I understood it all.
No doubt this brave man was experiencing one of those terrible alarms
during which the reality of his position crushes him with its chilling,
deadening weight. The radiant wings of his bright genius, which for a
moment he had spread out so gloriously, had dashed against that hideous
phantom, which always stands like an open sepulchre,--want! And he had a
wife, a child,--and that wife was Hélène!
However, after a moment of reflection, Frank proudly raised his
beautiful head; his eyes, though moistened with tears, shone with
courage and with hope. It may have only been by chance, but his gaze, so
touching, and so full of energy, fell on "The Descent from the Cross,"
by Rembrandt, one of the engravings which ornamented the salon.
Thus, as he contemplated this symbol of suffering on earth, Frank's
features gradually became serene and grave. Perhaps he was ashamed of
his weakness and discouragement, when he remembered the immeasurable
sorrow and the angelic patience of the One whose Calvary was so high and
whose cross was so heavy.
I returned home sadder but less unhappy. Some kindly feelings cooled the
burning regrets that were consuming me. I no longer had the heart to
begrudge Frank his happiness; nor did I rejoice over his poverty when I
had seen how courageously he bore it. The love I bore to Hélène, the
remembrance of my mother, who had loved her so much, of my father, to
whom she had been like a daughter, brought better and more generous
thoughts into my mind. I wished that I might be of some service to them
both, and to this end I went the next day to see Lord Falmouth.