"La cigale ayant chante
Tout l'ete,
Se trouva fort depourvue
Quand la bise fut venue."...
--Lafontaine.
Sometimes I went to see Lord and Lady Archibald, who lived in
Clarges Street; and Lady Archibald was kind enough to call on my
mother, who was charmed with her, and returned her call in due time.
Also, at about this period (1853) my uncle Charles (Captain Blake,
late 17th Lancers), who had been Lord Runswick's crony twenty years
before, patched up some feud he had with my father, and came to see
us in Brunswick Square.
He had just married a charming girl, young enough to be his
daughter.
I took him to see Barty, and they became fast friends. My uncle
Charles was a very accomplished man, and spoke French as well as any
of us; and Barty liked him, and it ended, oddly enough, in Uncle
Charles becoming Lord Whitby's land-agent and living in St. Hilda's
Terrace, Whitby.
He was a very good fellow and a thorough man of the world, and was
of great service to Barty in many ways. But, alas and alas! he was
not able to prevent or make up the disastrous quarrel that happened
between Barty and Lord Archibald, with such terrible results to my
friend--to both.
It is all difficult even to hint at--but some of it must be more
than hinted at.
Lord Archibald, like his nephew, was a very passionate admirer of
lovely woman. He had been for many years a faithful and devoted
husband to the excellent Frenchwoman who brought him wealth--and
such affection! Then a terrible temptation came in his way. He fell
in love with a very beautiful and fascinating lady, whose birth and
principles and antecedents were alike very unfortunate, and Barty
was mixed up in all this: it's the saddest thing I ever heard.
The beautiful lady conceived for Barty one of those frantic passions
that must lead to somebody's ruin; it led to his; but he was never
to blame, except for the careless indiscretion which allowed of his
being concerned in the miserable business at all, and to this
frantic passion he did not respond.
"_Spretae injuria formae._"
So at least _she_ fancied; it was not so. Barty was no laggard in
love; but he dearly loved his uncle Archie, and was loyal to him all
through.
"His honor rooted in dishonor stood,
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true."
Where he was unfaithful was to his beloved and adoring Lady
Archibald--his second mother--at miserable cost of undying remorse
to himself for ever having sunk to become Lord Archibald's confidant
and love-messenger, and bearer of nosegays and _billets doux_, and
singer of little French songs. He was only twenty, and thought of
such things as jokes; he had lived among some of the pleasantest,
best-bred, and most corrupt people in London.
The beautiful frail lady told the most infamous lies, and stuck to
them through thick and thin. The story is not new; it's as old as
the Pharaohs. And Barty and his uncle quarrelled beyond recall. The
boy was too proud even to defend himself, beyond one simple denial.
Then another thing happened. Lady Archibald died, quite suddenly, of
peritonitis--fortunately in ignorance of what was happening, and
with her husband and daughter and Barty round her bedside at the
end. She died deceived and happy.
Lord Archibald was beside himself with grief; but in six months he
married the beautiful lady, and went to the bad altogether--went
under, in fact; and Daphne, his daughter of fourteen or fifteen, was
taken by the Whitbys.
So now Barty, thoroughly sick of smart society, found himself in an
unexpected position--without an allowance, in a crack regiment, and
never a penny to look forward to!
For old Lord Whitby, who loved him, was a poor man with a large
family; and every penny of Lady Archibald's fortune that didn't go
to her husband and daughter went back to her own family of
Lonlay-Savignac. She had made no will--no provision for her beloved,
her adopted son!
So Barty never went to the Crimea, after all, but sold out, and
found himself the possessor of seven or eight hundred pounds--most
of which he owed--and with the world before him; but I am going too
fast.
* * * * *
In the winter of 1853, just before Christmas, my father fitted up for me
a chemical laboratory at the top of the fine old house in Barge Yard,
Bucklersbury, where his wine business was carried on, a splendid
mansion, with panelled rooms and a carved-oak staircase--once the abode
of some Dick Whittington, no doubt a Lord Mayor of London; and I began
my professional career, which consisted in analyzing anything I could
get to analyze for hire, from a sample of gold or copper ore to a
poisoned stomach.
Lord Whitby very kindly sent me different samples of soil from
different fields on his estate, and I analyzed them carefully and
found them singularly like each other. I don't think the estate
benefited much by my scientific investigation. It was my first job,
and brought me twenty pounds (out of which I bought two beautiful
fans--one for my sister, the other for Leah Gibson--and got a new
evening suit for myself at Barty's tailor's).
When this job of mine was finished I had a good deal of time on my
hands, and read many novels and smoked many pipes, as I sat by my
chemical stove and distilled water, and dried chlorate of potash to
keep the damp out of my scales, and toasted cheese, and fried
sausages, and mulled Burgundy, and brewed nice drinks, hot or
cold--a specialty of mine.
I also made my laboratory a very pleasant place. My father wouldn't
permit a piano, nor could I afford one; but I smuggled in a guitar
(for Barty), and also a concertina, which I could play a little
myself. Barty often came with friends of his, of whom my father did
not approve--mostly Guardsmen; also friends of my own--medical
students, and one or two fellow-chemists, who were serious, and
pleased my father. We often had a capital time: chemical experiments
and explosions, and fearful stinks, and poisoned waters of
enchanting hue; also oysters, lobsters, dressed crab for lunch--and
my Burgundy was good, I promise you, whether white or red!
[Illustration: SOLITUDE]
We also had songs and music of every description. Barty's taste had
improved. He could sing Beethoven's "Adelaida" in English, German,
and Italian, and Schubert's "Serenade" in French--quite charmingly,
to his own ingenious accompaniment on the guitar.
We had another vocalist, a little Hebrew art-student, with a
heavenly tenor (I've forgotten his name); and Ticklets, the bass;
and a Guardsman who could yodel and imitate a woman's voice--one
Pepys, whom Barty loved because he was a giant, and, according to
Barty, "the handsomest chap in London."
These debauches generally happened when my father was
abroad--always, in fact. I'm greatly ashamed of it all now; even
then my heart smote me heavily at times when I thought of the pride
and pleasure he took in all my scientific appliances, and the money
they cost him--twenty guineas for a pair of scales! Poor dear old
man! he loved to weigh things in them--a feather, a minute crumb of
cork, an infinitesimal wisp of cotton wool!...
However, I've made it all up to him since in many ways; and he has
told me that I have been a good son, after all! And that is good to
think of now that I am older than he was when he died!
* * * * *
One fine morning, before going to business, I escorted my sister to
Bedford Square, calling for Leah Gibson on the way; as we walked up
Great Russell Street (that being the longest way round I could think
of), we met Barty, looking as fresh as a school-boy, and resplendent
as usual. I remember he had on a long blue frock-coat, check
trousers, an elaborate waistcoat and scarf, and white hat--as was
the fashion--and that he looked singularly out of place (and
uncommonly agreeable to the eye) in such an austere and learned
neighborhood.
He was coming to call for me in Brunswick Square.
My sister introduced him to her friend, and he looked down at Leah
with a surprised glance of delicate fatherly admiration--he might
have been fifty.
Then we left the young ladies and went off together citywards; my
father was abroad.
"By Jove, what a stunner that girl is! I'm blest if I don't marry
her some day--you see if I don't!"
"That's just what _I_ mean to do," said I. And we had a good laugh
at the idea of two such desperadoes, as we thought ourselves,
talking like this about a little school-girl.
"We'll toss up," says Barty; and we did, and he won.
This, I remember, was before his quarrel with Lord Archibald. She
was then about fourteen, and her subtle and singular beauty was just
beginning to make itself felt.
I never knew till long after how deep had been the impression
produced by this glimpse of a mere child on a fast young man about
town--or I should not have been amused. For there were times when I
myself thought quite seriously of Leah Gibson, and what she might be
in the long future! She looked a year or two older than she really
was, being very tall and extremely sedate.
Also, both my father and mother had conceived such a liking for her
that they constantly talked of the possibility of our falling in
love with each other some day. Castles in Spain!
As for me, my admiration for the child was immense, and my respect
for her character unbounded; and I felt myself such a base unworthy
brute that I couldn't bear to think of myself in such a
connection--until I had cleansed myself heart and soul (which would
take time)! And as for showing by my manner to her that such an idea
had ever crossed my mind, the thought never entered my head.
She was just my dear sister's devoted friend; her petticoat hem was
still some inches from the ground, and her hair in a plait all down
her back....
Girlish innocence and purity incarnate--that is what she seemed; and
what she was. "La plus forte des forces est un coeur innocent," said
Victor Hugo--and if you translate this literally into English, it
comes to exactly the same, both in rhythm and sense.
* * * * *
When Barty sold out, he first thought he would like to go on the
stage, but it turned out that he was too tall to play anything but
serious footmen.
Then he thought he would be a singer. We used to go to the opera at
Drury Lane, where they gave in English a different Italian opera
every night;--and this was always followed by _Acis and Galatea_.
We got our seats in the stalls every evening for a couple of weeks,
through the kindness of Mr. Hamilton Braham, whom Barty knew, and
who played Polyphemus in Handel's famous serenata.
I remember our first night; they gave _Masaniello_, which I had
never seen; and when the tenor sang, "Behold how brightly breaks the
morning," it came on us both as a delicious surprise--it was such a
favorite song at Brossard's--"_amis! la matinee est belle_...."
Indeed, it was one of the songs Barty sang on the boulevard for the
poor woman, six or seven years back.
The tenor, Mr. Elliot Galer, had a lovely voice; and that was a
moment never to be forgotten.
Then came _Acis and Galatea_, which was so odd and old-fashioned we
could scarcely sit it out.
[Illustration: "'PILE OU FACE--HEADS OR TAILS?'"]
Next night, _Lucia_--charming; then again _Acis and Galatea_,
because we had nowhere else to go.
"Tiens, tiens!" says Barty, as the lovers sang "the flocks shall
leave the mountains"; "c'est diantrement joli, ca!--ecoute!"
Next night, _La Sonnambula_--then again _Acis and Galatea_.
"Mais, nom d'une pipe--elle est _divine_, cette musique-la!" says
Barty.
And the nights after we could scarcely sit out the Italian opera
that preceded what we have looked upon ever since as among the
divinest music in the world.
So one must not judge music at a first hearing; nor poetry; nor
pictures at first sight; unless one be poet or painter or musician
one's self--not even then! I may live to love thee yet, oh
_Tannhaeuser_!
Lucy Escott, Fanny Huddart, Elliot Galer, and Hamilton Braham--that
was the cast; I hear their voices now....
One morning Hamilton Braham tried Barty's voice on the empty stage
at St. James's Theatre--made him sing "When other lips."
"Sing _out_, man--sing _out_!" said the big bass. And Barty shouted
his loudest--a method which did not suit him. I sat in the pit, with
half a dozen Guardsmen, who were deeply interested in Barty's
operatic aspirations.
It turned out that Barty was neither tenor nor barytone; and that
his light voice, so charming in a room, would never do for the
operatic stage; although his figure, in spite of his great height,
would have suited heroic parts so admirably.
Besides, three or four years' training in Italy were needed--a
different production altogether.
So Barty gave up this idea and made up his mind to be an artist. He
got permission to work in the British Museum, and drew the
"Discobolus," and sent his drawing to the Royal Academy, in the hope
of being admitted there as a student. He was not.
Then an immense overwhelming homesickness for Paris came over him,
and he felt he must go and study art there, and succeed or perish.
My father talked to him like a father, my mother like a mother; we
all hung about him and entreated. He was as obdurate as Tennyson's
sailor-boy whom the mermaiden forewarned so fiercely!
He was even offered a handsome appointment in the London house of
Vougeot-Conti & Co.
But his mind was made up, and to my sorrow, and the sorrow of all
who knew him, he fixed the date of his departure for the 2d of May
(1856),--this being the day after a party at the Gibsons'--a young
dance in honor of Leah's fifteenth birthday, on the 1st--and to
which my sister had procured him an invitation.
He had never been to the Gibsons' before. They belonged to a world
so different to anything he had been accustomed to--indeed, to a
class that he then so much disliked and despised (both as
ex-Guardsman and as the descendant of French toilers of the sea, who
hate and scorn the bourgeois)--that I was curious to see how he
would bear himself there; and rather nervous, for it would have
grieved me that he should look down on people of whom I was getting
very fond. It was his theory that all successful business people
were pompous and purse-proud and vulgar.