CLAUDE RAOUL DUPONT
I well remember the first words of French that I mastered, and the
sensation I created when I, a very small boy, irrepressibly burst forth
with my declaration:
"O Madam, kay voos aite bell!"
This was addressed across the friendly supper table to Madame de R., who
with her husband, the well-known portrait-painter, was spending her
honeymoon at Boulogne.
To Boulogne we too had gone, as people went then when they wanted a
change of air, or as they go now to Africa or the antipodes.
On this occasion our party consisted of my parents, three sisters,
myself, and an English nurse, who, from first to last, was unutterably
shocked by what she called the outrageous proceedings of the foreigners,
and by the fearful language that parrot used, who always gathered a
little sympathetic crowd in front of the shell and wooden-spade shop.
My sisters had a French governess of the approved type.
"Maître Corbeau sur un arbre perché," she recited to me with
conventional emphasis and genuine affectation. On such occasions I
stood staring at her, surprised at the amount of mouth-twisting and
wriggling it took to talk French. Then I tried to do as much, and said:
"Mayter Korbow sure unn ahber per Shay."
"Perrrché," she interposed, and
"Pure Shay," I repeated.
"Mais non, mon petit chéri, perrrr--ché!" and so on, till we got to
"apeuprès ce langage," the "a pew pray" being, I recollect, a terrible
stumbling-block.
I was about eighteen when I met that handsome Madame de R. again in
Paris. She reminded me of my early appreciation of her beauty, and was
anxious to know whether I was still inclined to express my admiration as
warmly as I did formerly.
"To be sure," I said. "Yes. _Mais oui certainement, madame._" But, oh
dear! how little female French I must have understood in those days, and
how little male French I must have had at my command! for--I must
confess--I said no more.
The de R.'s became great people under the Empire: he and she--or perhaps
more correctly she and he--got into the inner Court circle, where she
soon distinguished herself as a leader of fashion, and he as a very
successful painter of life-size fashion-plates in oils. Both his works
and her personal charms were graciously smiled upon by the imperial
master himself.
Apropos of my French, I may say that I had every opportunity of
improving it. I soon entered the Atelier Gleyre, that studio we have
heard about in reference to Du Maurier, Whistler, Poynter, and others,
who there learnt to draw their first bonshommes, and to spoil their
first canvases.
I had made a sort of mental vow to speak nought but the language of the
country for the first year of my stay in Paris. In the beginning I found
it rather tough work, but a French studio is a good school. I plunged in
head foremost, and soon got on swimmingly. From the first I was
attracted by the brilliancy of Parisian slang, and by the terseness of
French argot (that is, the thieves' language). As for the genuine
article, real French, as spoken by real Frenchwomen in real salons on a
"_Madame reçoit_" day--nothing could exceed my admiration for it. But
the Quartier Latin, with its studios and garrets, its _crêmeries_ and
little restaurants, all bedecked with clever works from the brushes of
the _habitués_, was the high school in which I graduated and which in
due time turned me out a fair specimen of the classical _Rapin_--the art
student as Paris alone produces him. In a word, I soon felt quite at
home in that delightful haven of unrest we call Bohemia.
And the friends of those days! I made many and lost few. There is one
who stands out prominently from amongst the rest, and he is connected in
my mind with a thousand and one incidents of my Paris life. His name was
Claude; Claude Raoul Dupont.
At our first meeting I felt that I should like to make friends with him.
He was what the Italians call _sympatico_--not quite the same thing as
sympathetic; just the sort of man whom little girls would unhesitatingly
request to ring the bell they couldn't reach, or boys would call to
their assistance with a "Please, sir, lend us your stick to get down
that cap from up there," or "to fetch out that ball from inside them
railings;" the sort of man with whom you or I would at once have got
into conversation, if we had met him in a railway carriage.
My first acquaintance with him was in that Atelier Gleyre. We were just
fellow-students at the beginning, then chums, _bons camarades_, soon
friends, and finally we got linked together by the most lasting of ties,
that of brotherly love. So it comes that the story of his life is most
vividly impressed on my mind. It is uneventful, perhaps, and differs
little from any other story that pictures the artist's life, with its
hopes and aspirations, its sprinkling of love-making and its glorious
consummation of love-finding, but I must attempt to give an outline of
it, if but in memory of my friend.
To begin at the beginning, let me sketch our days of good comradeship,
and put in a wash of background here and there, and a few touches of
local colour in illustration of the life we led.
You could tell at a glance that Claude was a "Rapin," but that was not
surprising, for in those days it had not yet become the aim and end of
the young artist to conceal his profession and to walk through life
incognito, with a well-groomed chimney-pot implanted on the top of his
head. So you must fancy Claude with a soft felt hat of a species even
now not quite extinct, although, as we all know, superseded by the
boiled apple-pudding-shaped dome, ornamented with a gutter, which we
have universally adopted, and which we call a pot hat, a bowler, a
billycock hat, or as the coachman or groom says, a bridle.
It was quite appropriate that Claude should wear a wide-awake, as being
in keeping with an expression that showed him always on the _qui vive_.
He was tall, rather too much so for the breadth of his shoulders, but he
moved with great freedom and ease, and as he was mostly on the move, he
also mostly showed to advantage.
In the Atelier Gleyre he was the leading spirit. That studio was
situated in the Rue de l'Ouest, flanking the Luxembourg Gardens. It was
a large, high room with the regulation studio window, and was furnished
with one model table on wheels, one iron spitfire of a stove, and a lot
of three-legged easels and four-legged stools, not to forget a large
screen behind which the models undressed; all things bearing traces of
the perilous lives they led, and showing picturesque seams and scars
where they were begrimed with the scrapings from perennial palettes. The
professor very liberally gave his instruction gratis. For the working
expenses of the Atelier the students clubbed together, each contributing
ten francs per month to the "masse." At the time I entered, Claude was
"Massier," that is, a sort of secretary, treasurer, and boss combined.
He occupied that exalted position with much distinction, for he could be
alternately serious and absurd, weighty and trivial. Common sense on the
one hand; an uncommon amount of nonsense on the other. In fact his
character was a curious compound of elements seemingly opposed, but
working in harmony together. He was _facile princeps_ as a _blagueur_,
that is, he could chaff unmercifully, talk tall, make a fool imagine
himself wise, and a wise man feel foolish. It takes a double-distilled
Frenchman to make a full-blown _blagueur_, and such a man was Dupont.
We were a lively set, and the jokes that were bandied about, coupled
with the most unparliamentary, not to say vituperative language, at
first startled me. But the Rapin's bark is worse than his bite. "Il est
défendu de chahuter la religion et la famille" was an unwritten law,
that excluded those two delicate topics, the family and religion, from
the field of word-battle. Another law bade you keep your temper. We
might have hurled the most obnoxious of epithets at one another, but
when the available catalogue of abuse was exhausted, we would wind up
with some good-humoured trump card, like "C'est égal, je suis plus bête
que toi," which, freely translated, says, "Never mind, I am the bigger
fool of the two."
One of the first things that struck me in the atelier was a large felt
hat forming a sort of centre on the ceiling. That was Gobelot's hat. It
was there just because some of the boys had taken a dislike to it; in
fact it was a priggish hat, and as Gobelot had a twitchy sort of a face
that would work well under feelings of surprise and resentment, they
thought they would like to watch him, from the first moment when he
would miss his hat, to the last when he would discover its whereabouts.
It had got fixed on the ceiling with some difficulty, whilst its owner
had fallen asleep by the stove. The model table was placed in the centre
of the room, and the ladder held upright upon it by half-a-dozen sturdy
arms; a light-weight clambered to the top and did the nailing. The
result proved pre-eminently satisfactory to all except Gobelot, and even
he, I think, after the lapse of a few months, got to be rather proud of
the excelsiority accorded to his headgear.
This was by no means the first experience he had had of studio life. On
his entrance into the Atelier Gleyre, he had set himself to draw the
figure of Sinel, one of the leading models of the day, and had betrayed
more self-confidence than was compatible with his position as a
_nouveau_. He had been working for a couple of days, when Monsieur
Gleyre came to visit his students. The bear-garden was suddenly
transformed into a grave academy. Respectful silence and order
prevailed, as the master passed from easel to easel, criticising here
and encouraging there, and generally enunciating wise artistic saws for
the benefit of the students. When Gobelot's turn came, he paused a while
before he expressed an opinion on his work. At last he said kindly but
firmly: "Young man, you have come to study with me, and it is my duty to
advise you honestly and straight-forwardly. Believe me, devote all your
attention to the human foot; learn to draw that correctly,--and then
perhaps you may be successful as a bootmaker." Therewith he passed on to
the neighbour. Shortly afterwards the real Monsieur Gleyre came in, for
the whole thing was a plant, and Gobelot was officially introduced as
the _nouveau_ by the sham professor.
It is not a sinecure to be the _nouveau_. One is the butt of endless
jokes, and has to take them meekly; one is at everybody's beck and call,
to pick up a brush, or to run for a ha'porth of bread or a penn'orth of
fried potatoes. When I was the new boy, I knew resistance was useless,
so I served my time cheerfully, swallowing snakes, as the French call
it, with apparent relish.
But one day I was caught napping. I had joined in the general
conversation, and had so far forgotten myself as to make a joke, and,
what was worse, they said, not a bad one. This was adding insult to
injury; a storm of indignation broke forth, and the cry of "À l'échelle"
("To the ladder") was raised. I should then and there have suffered the
penalty of my rashness, had not Dupont interposed. He mounted the
rostrum, _i.e._ the model table, and made an eloquent appeal on my
behalf. I was an Englishman, he pleaded, and as such I had been reared
on raw beef and bran puddings; he would himself now see that I was kept
on lighter food (I suppose he meant frogs). Yes, I had presumed to
trespass on the domain of "esprit," the exclusive property of Frenchmen
in general, and of the duffers now before him in particular--he would
not offend them by calling them gentlemen. My joke, he admitted, was a
good one, but then, what could you expect from a benighted foreigner,
who did not know the value of a bad one. And so on. However feeble his
defence may appear to us as we read it in cold blood, it had the
desired effect, and I was saved from my impending fate. But I was not to
get off for long. Only a couple of days afterwards, an incident led to
my punishment. It was luncheon time and I was studying the greasy paper
that my potatoes had been wrapped up in, probably a leaf from some old
register, so many tons of which are issued daily by bureaucratic Paris.
I had got to my second course, roast chestnuts done to a T, when I had a
sort of secret forewarning that a certain long stick with a hook, one of
the studio properties, was stealthily approaching towards the stool I
was sitting on. A sudden jerk, and the stool was pulled from beneath me;
but being fully prepared, I failed to collapse, and remained as if
seated, continuing my meal as if nothing had occurred. Such independence
could not be tolerated. Stop, the well-known caricaturist, now formally
moved that I be "mis à l'échelle," and the resolution was unanimously
carried. So the ladder was laid on the floor, and I was bound to it
hands and feet; then it and I were hoisted up and placed against the
wall. Next Stop proceeded to bare my breast, and to paint thereon a
highly coloured picture representing several pigs and their doings. In
the meanwhile the poker was being made red-hot in the stove. The
occasion must be marked by a scar, I was given to understand, and I can
assure those who have never gone through a similar experience, that a
touch from a red-hot poker is very painful, even if the red is only
vermilion and the heat imaginary. I was informed that I should have to
preserve the pig picture for a fortnight, after which time I should be
called up for inspection.
When a _nouveau_ is entered at an atelier, he is expected to pay "la
bienvenue," his welcome. Gobelot had preceded me as the new boy, and as
we had both been pretty liberal, a sum of about fifty francs was in
readiness to be used for some sociable purpose. After some deliberation
it was decided to invest our capital in donkeys, to be hired in the Bois
de Boulogne. So one fine afternoon we found ourselves in full force,
selecting our mounts at Père Delaborde's well-known stables. His donkeys
were always the best fed and best kept, and to us, who had never been to
the East, and therefore did not know what a donkey was really like, they
seemed quite decent and cheerful specimens of their kind. Here and
there, to be sure, there was one who had not become resigned to his
fate, and who would stiffen his neck with an emphasis that showed that
he would have used strong language, had he been endowed with the power
of speech. But on the whole Monsieur Delaborde's donkeys were quite
docile and manageable, and accustomed to be ruled by the little shouting
savages known as donkey-boys.
There were two horses in the stables, and it was decided that Gobelot
and I should mount them and take command of the donkey brigade. The
responsibility of leadership soon, however, devolved on me alone, for
Gobelot's horse had, I suppose through long-standing habits of
companionship, taken to the ways of its mates; so it kept step with
them, and stretched its ears full length, and took all things
philosophically. My steed was made of very different metal. He started
off at a lively pace, giving me an opportunity of showing off my
horsemanship, acquired at the riding-school in Leipsic. I felt
pleasantly aware of my superiority over my donkey-mounted friends,
especially over Dupont, whose long legs were dangling very near the
ground, he having left his stirrups, or they him, and over Gobelot, who
was ineffectually trying to break into a canter.
Very suddenly and unexpectedly my horse stopped as if it had divined
that I thought it time to inspect my followers. It was my intention to
form them into column, and then to execute one or two strategical
movements that seemed well adapted to the occasion. As a first step
towards this, I wanted to wheel round and face my men, but my steed was
evidently in a meditative mood and would not be disturbed. I applied my
heels to its flanks, and pulled its head round, till its eye met mine,
but its body remained stationary. When it had thought out whatever it
may have had on its mind, it started off again as suddenly as it had
stopped, before I had had an opportunity of commencing operations. This
capricious starting and stopping, over which I had no control, was, I
need not say, a source of annoyance to me, and of hilarity to my
friends. It was to be more than this presently.
I had got pretty far ahead of the others, when my mount came to one of
its dead stops. I contented myself with hoping it would soon have done
staring vacantly. Looking round, I noticed some commotion in the distant
donkey group, and an opening in its ranks to let a carriage pass. As it
approached, it proved to be a well-appointed phaeton, and I recognised
Louis Napoleon, who was driving himself, accompanied by a gentleman and
by two servants in green and gold livery. I made every effort to get out
of the way, but in vain. The prince took in the situation at a glance
and considerately deviated from his course, seeing that I could not keep
it clear for him. A smile flitted across his face and enlivened his
rigidly waxed moustache, as he turned to his companion and made some
remark. I did not catch it, but my horse probably did, and must have
taken it as encouraging, for it started off in an uncontrollable fit of
loyalty, and whether I liked it or not, I had to ride by the side of the
phaeton, acting, for the time being, as equerry to the future emperor.
He took it kindly; the two green and gold ones were amazed and
indignant, but too well trained to lynch me, and so I galloped on till
once more my quadruped stopped and again became absorbed in thought.
When my companions came up, they gave expression to their unbounded
delight at my discomfiture, and generally treated me, their appointed
leader, with every mark of disrespect. This time the horse must have
mistaken their vociferous hooting for a signal to return home, for it
started off in that direction, and took me back without once indulging
in the usual hiatus.
I dismounted, and whilst, on the one hand, I was glad to be now able to
regulate my own movements, on the other I was smarting under the
recollection of my ignominious failure, and the jeering and hooting
still rang in my ears.
A couple of _sergents de ville_ were on duty close by, a circumstance
which suggested to me the opportunity of getting even with my
insubordinate men.
"Well, Messieurs," I said to the policemen, "I think there might be a
few more of you along the principal avenues. It is positively
disgraceful. I don't mind a bit of a joke myself, but in my country we
don't play practical jokes on royalty, as that young chap with the brown
felt hat did on your Prince President."
"What he did?"
"Why, ride alongside the prince's carriage, giving himself airs and
posing for _son Altesse's_ aide-de-camp. And, following him as fast as
they could get along, a band of asses on donkeys, braying like
_imbéciles_. Well, _bon jour_, Messieurs; after all, it's no business of
mine. I only thought you might care to know."
On the arrival of the band, I learnt afterwards, they were confronted by
four _sergents de ville_, the two original ones having been reinforced.
Gobelot, the man with the brown felt hat, was asked for his passport,
and, not being able to produce it, was looked upon with suspicion and
closely cross-questioned. Dupont rather entered into my joke and let
things go wrong, till it was high time to set them right. Then I was
denounced, and it was not without some difficulty made clear to the
authorities that the informer was the real culprit. So Gobelot the
innocent was only warned to be more careful another time, and my name
is probably inscribed on some black list at the _Préfecture_.
* * * * *
Claude was a most indefatigable worker; as an artist ever severe and
uncompromising, studying on the lines of Ingres and Flandrin, loving a
bird, a stone, a woman for the sake of the outline they imprinted on his
mind, and ever seeking an ideal contour, whether he held the pencil or
the brush. His enthusiasm was quite catching; so under his influence I
soon began to love drawing for its own sake, and we spent many an
evening together studying Dante's stern features from the cast or
working from the living model.
He had inherited his classical predilections from his father, who
himself had started life as an artist, but had found that large
historical landscapes _à la_ Poussin were not easily convertible into
bread and butter, and had therefore wisely abandoned art as a
profession, and had embraced the administrative career, in which he rose
and prospered. His leisure hours he still spent at the easel, but his
canvases were not as large as formerly; in his productions he always
gave me the impression that he could use more emerald and olive greens,
to the exclusion of other colours, on a given space, than any man I had
ever known.
He was quite touching in his love for Claude.
"What I have dreamed of and struggled for in vain," he would say, "that
boy is going to realise. He is born with _du style_. Believe me, my
child, outside _le style_ there is no art. From the time of Raphael
down to the present day, nothing is worth recording, nothing remains or
will remain, that is not _de l'école_. _La grande école_, my child, _le
style, la ligne, voilà le salut_, believe me."
I winced, for I loved, above all the colourists, the Spaniards, the
Dutch; but he was so sincere, so convincing, that for the time being I
felt as if I could have sold my birthright for a line of beauty.
"He is quite right," Claude would afterwards say to me, "but he puts his
finger in his eye, if he thinks he can flatten your bump of colour.
Every man is born with his own bumps, and they are bound to grow with
him just as his hair does."
And with that we would plunge headlong into the famous discussion _sur
la forme et la couleur_, each doing battle for his god with the energy
of youthful fanaticism, and feeling all the while that we would have
given anything to be able to exchange bumps with one another. How much
further his bump would lead him, I thought, and how admirably he was
organised to use it in the service of high art! And he, on the other
hand, would say--
"What am I, my dear fellow, as compared to you, born in the purple of
art as you are? You hold the trump cards, and will," &c. &c.
Then there was an uncle of Claude's, _l'oncle Auguste_, whose views
clashed fearfully with the artistic aspirations of my friend and of his
father. He was a tanner, at the head of a large establishment which he
had founded--a self-made man, with a lot of cleverly-grabbed money. In
his social intercourse he had so carefully surrounded himself with
inferior intellects, that he could not but shine as a bright light
amongst them--a circumstance which led him to form a most exaggerated
estimate of his own wisdom and mental powers.
"My dear Jean," he would say to his brother, "I should really have
thought your own experiences with those blessed paints would have made a
wiser man of you. Surely one victim to the mania in the family should
have been enough, without dragging that poor boy into it; a splendid
fellow, sane and sound, if it weren't for the rubbish you put into his
head. He was cut out for the business; never happier than when he was
pottering about at the works. Why, when he was a mere child, he very
nearly got drowned in the tan vat." And turning to Claude: "What have
you to say to it, you young rascal? Ah well, I know you are hopelessly
lost, since you got out of those plaster casts and those bones and
muscles into that--What do you call that place, where able-bodied young
men, strong and fit for work, sit all day drawing mannikins! _Une vraie
fabrique de bonshommes! En voilà un métier!_"
The same evening l'oncle Auguste was holding forth to some friends he
had invited to sit at his feet and at his whist-table--
"Now mark my words, messieurs; we are going to make an artist of that
nephew of mine, and one who will surprise the world. He has been
received first on a list of I don't know how many hundreds of students
at the Life Class of the École des Beaux Arts. _Oui, messieurs_, art is
an heirloom in our family; we hand it down from generation to
generation."
But differences of opinion on the merits of the artistic career led to
no more than skirmishes; the real tug-of-war between the Duponts, father
and son on the one hand, and l'oncle Auguste on the other, came when
they exchanged their views on matrimonial alliances. The former to be
sure looked upon the tying of the nuptial knot from the ideal point of
view; the latter very strongly held the belief that a young man should
marry money, and should do so early in life.
"Suppose now," he would argue, "you mean to marry 100,000 francs, why
put it off till you are twenty-six or twenty-eight? Why lose the
interest of your money for so many years?"
"But perhaps, uncle, my lady-love is still in the nursery, and I must
wait awhile till I can declare my undying affection. Yes, I believe she
is only just beginning to play the piano, and I really cannot take her
till she has done practising her scales, you know. Besides, her father
has only lately started collecting the 100,000 francs, and I think he
has not got further than 3500."
"God forbid, unhappy boy, that you should be led away to paint one of
your classical haloes round the head of some such unfledged chicken,
blessed with a fond and shabby father. Remember, young man, you have two
things to look forward to that can set you up in this world--matrimony
and expectations; expectations and matrimony--and don't forget that in
my mind they are very closely connected."
"Don't be angry, my dear uncle, and don't worry till there is cause. As
for the 'dot,' I suppose I could do with 100,000 francs as well as any
other fellow who has got to take a _bel appartement orné de glaces_, and
to put himself into his furniture. But surely you, who know the value of
skins, you wouldn't want me to sell mine, with what is inside in the way
of body and soul, for that price!"
"See that you get 200,000 then, or three or four; you're worth all that.
Lady-love, indeed! _so_ beautiful, I suppose!
Sentiment--romance--eternal love! Eternal fudge! Remember this, Uncle
Auguste's fortune was not made to encourage tomfoolery."
Now there was really no reason why Uncle Auguste should deliver himself
of that speech. There was no lady-love, no classical halo, and no
centime-grabbing father. But the fact was, the uncle trembled lest he
should be disappointed in the boy he loved so well. He was already
scheming for him, and telling one or two friends of his confidentially,
that it was quite worth while treating Claude with respect, as he was
the nephew of a very rich uncle. It was not to be long before the uncle
was deemed well worthy of respect, as being able to boast of a very
clever nephew.
Whilst he was still painting studies at the Atelier Gleyre, and
attending classes and lectures at the École des Beaux Arts, Claude
started a picture in a queer little studio he had taken for the purpose,
at the top of a very tall house in the Rue de Seine, Quartier Latin.
Somebody, with an eye to artistic possibilities, must have converted
what was originally a garret into a studio by adding a big projecting
window. It had a top light into which all the prying cats of the
neighbourhood used to peer, whilst the less inquisitive ones merely made
the loose tiles rattle as they prowled along the roof.
There was a second studio of the same kind up there, which was occupied
by Giacomo Irmanno, an Italian boy of about seventeen years, with
jet-black curly hair. That peculiar underglow of rich bronze colour, so
characteristic of the Southern type, lit up Irmanno's perfectly
chiselled features. Dupont and I made great friends with him, and I
often enjoyed helping him with his work. He could be very morose and
look Italian daggers, but that was probably because in his desire to
become an artist he was waging war at fearful odds against poverty. He
was quite out of his element under northern skies, and spoke French in a
way that taught me much Italian.
His only means of support were derived from painting what is called "Les
Stations de la Croix." These pictures, destined to decorate the village
churches in France and generally in Catholic countries, are produced in
a more matter-of-fact than artistic way. The employer with an eye to the
advantages of division of labour, has the subjects printed on canvas.
Then a batch of Station No. 1, perhaps some six or eight canvases at a
time, are given out to artist No. 1, who puts in the landscape and
surroundings; from there they go to artist No. 2, who paints the
draperies, and finally to No. 3, who fills in heads, hands, and feet.
Irmanno was No. 2. We placed the pictures ready for treatment all round
the room. Then we started with one colour, say dark red, for the shade
of a certain drapery; when that had been repeated on all the canvases,
came the turn of the middle tint, and finally of the light red. Then
came the next colour--I need not say they were all prescribed--and when
we had made the round with that, the next, and so on until all the
draperies were satisfactorily disposed of.
The proceedings were only varied when Irmanno lay down on the red brick
floor and groaned, and pretended to have a sort of attack. I did not
mind, because when the evil spirit was upon him, he always looked
particularly interesting.
Next door, in the twin garret, Dupont was putting heart and soul into
the production of his first picture; it was still in its initial stages,
but studies small and large, in pencil and in chalks, were gradually
covering the walls. His subject was "The raising of the daughter of
Jairus," and he would never tire of talking to me about the grand
opportunities it afforded to the artist. He would question me too on
things connected with mesmerism (I was mesmerising in those days), and
would want to know all about the first symptoms of awaking from a
trance, of the action of the hand as it makes passes, and the dictates
of the eye as it bids the subject sleep or wake. "Christ, the God," he
wrote to me in a letter of a later date, "can never be depicted,
translated into human forms, but Christ the Healer, Christ the Helper,
and He, the lover of children, is perhaps approachable. Give me a
lifetime, and possibly I may decipher a little of what is to be read
between the lines of the New Testament."
The summer had set in early and rather savagely, as it will do sometimes
in Paris, and the heat in those ex-garrets of the Rue de Seine was
stifling.
Rosa Bonheur Sinel did what she could to mitigate the evil. Rosa Sinel
was her real name, but somebody had nicknamed her Rosa Bonheur, and in
course of time her father had worked himself into the belief that the
great artist had been her godmother. She was a precocious little woman,
somewhere between the age of ten and fifteen--who can tell the real age
of a Parisian child? _Le père_ Sinel was one of the best known models in
Paris. He was a living _écorché_, a creature designed for the study of
anatomy, for he had a most extraordinary faculty of showing the action
of any and every muscle; in fact he could, if the circumstances
required, give himself the appearance of having been skinned, scalped,
or flayed alive. He was ever boasting of his participation in the great
pictorial and plastic works that had made a mark in his days, and always
claiming his full share of the laurels awarded to them.
"It is not so much my exceptional figure that has inspired my friends,
as it is my experience that has guided them," he told us. "Did not the
great Monsieur Delacroix say with his characteristic modesty, when his
plafond in the Galerie d'Apollon was uncovered: 'Where should I be
without the assistance of my friend Sinel?' _Oui_, messieurs, he was
right, and such a plafond is not produced in a day. 'Art is short and
sittings are long,' as the poet says; _Voyez_, Monsieur Ingres! Many an
hour was I nailed to the cross as a thief, before we could get the true
agony. I well remember his saying 'Sinel, _mon ami_, till I knew you, I
had no idea what the flexor of a third and fourth toe could do, nor did
I know what acting was till I heard you.'"
"Allons donc, blagueur"--from the students--"what do you know about
acting?"
"Moderate your language if you please, messieurs. You would not laugh if
you knew the position I hold in the theatrical world--" With much
dignity--"I am of the Théâtre Français."
"Shut up, _tais toi_" cries one.
"To be sure you play the fool," shouts another.
"_Il n'y a pas de tais toi_, messieurs; but I must be off and study my
part. To-night I am on with Mademoiselle Rachel. I am cast for 'Le
peuple murmure.'"
To return to the daughter, I must say she was the most useful little
studio drudge I ever knew. Her appearance was against her, for she was
plain and generally unkempt and untidy; the cleanest parts of her apron
were the holes, but for all that she was an ever-handy little monkey of
all work. She would roast chestnuts on the stove according to her own
particular system, and would feed that stove with heterogeneous fuel
that it would not have taken from another hand. She would water the
garden--a sort of shelf suspended outside the window--would drench
unsuspecting but indiscreet cats, and was generally of an aquatic turn
of mind. One very hot day we came upon her unexpectedly, and found her
perched upon a high stool, her dress tucked up, and her bare feet on the
chair rail. She was contemplating with evident satisfaction what she
called _le réservoir_. It looked very much as if she had been utilising
it as a footbath, by way of refreshing herself, but that may or may not
have been the case. There was an empty pail that told the story of the
reservoir. She had sprinkled part of its contents over the studio floor,
forming a quantity of little quivering black pearls, as the water licked
up the dust; the rest she reserved to make a pool where the hand of
time, or the foot rather, had produced a deep hollow in the red brick
floor. The cement of time must have been at work too, to weld the bricks
into a compact mass, for the water did not seem to percolate through to
the neighbour's ceiling, but stood its ground to bear witness to Rosa
Bonheur's aquatic genius.
After this success she had visions of gold-fish and fountains and of
_les grandes eaux de Versailles_, and she wanted more snubbing than
ever.
But water or no water, the heat in the studio remained intolerable. It
soon began to tell on Claude, who was not of the most robust, and who
was simply overworking himself. He did not like being told so--artists
never do; he had got into difficulties with his picture, and now that it
was in distress he would not leave it.
It really needs as much patience and perseverance to mature a picture as
to rear a child. All goes smoothly for a while, and one's offspring,
picture or baby, is a source of happiness. Then comes a hitch, an
illness, and everything seems darkness. But just as a father does not
give in and say, "Oh, this baby is no use, pitch it aside," so a true
picture parent does not gash the canvas of his own painting with a
knife, or cast it away because it has the scarlet or yellow fever, or
because it tells of a crooked leg or a deformed limb. On the contrary,
he sets to work and tends the patient with soothing oils, and with the
whole arsenal of remedies his palette affords. Wonderful are the cures
that have been effected on canvas, and little does the public know, when
it admires the completed work, how desperately the artist has had to
struggle at times to preserve even a spark of vitality in it, and how
narrowly it escaped destruction at his hands.
Claude had got into a phase of despair. Several studies he had made
lately, especially some for the head of the daughter of Jairus, he
considered absolute failures.
"Those blessed models," he said, "drive me wild. The rubbish that girl
talks whilst I am trying to raise her from the dead, would make a saint
swear."
It took a good deal of persuasion to get him away from the studio and
the models, but luckily an opportunity for a rest came, when his father
had to make an official inspection of some works in the neighbourhood of
Lyons and wished Claude to accompany him.
The short holiday that he thus had to submit to would have proved rather
dull and uneventful, had it not been for an incident that made a great
impression on him. In his rambles through the city of Lyons he had come
across a fine old building, the gates of which stood hospitably open;
the door too, for, having crossed the picturesque courtyard, at one time
probably a cloister, there was nothing to prevent his entering the main
building, and he soon found himself wandering along the corridors of the
City Hospital. He seems at first to have chatted cheerfully with some of
the patients, amusing and encouraging them in his pleasant way; but
presently, as he passed from ward to ward, and witnessed the acute
sufferings of some of the sick, and the dull hopelessness of the
incurables, he gradually felt his strength failing him. The long rows of
beds began to revolve around him; he mechanically clutched hold of
something and--fainted.
So much of the incident he mentioned in a letter to me; as also that he
was going daily to the hospital to make some drawings, but the more
interesting features of his adventure I did not gather till a week or
two later, when we met in Orléans, which place was to be the
starting-point for a pedestrian tour we had planned. There he gave me
full particulars.
"I felt it coming," he said; "the rail of the bedstead nearest at hand
seemed to be going round like a wheel, and I had to wait till it was
within reach to catch it. What happened then I don't know. I suppose the
good sisters helped me to a seat and watered me till I came round. All I
can say is, that there must have been a long interval between getting
out of the faint and back to life. It was a curious experience, and one
I shall not easily forget. The first thing I became conscious of, was
that my eyes were riveted on the lifeless body of a girl laid out on a
bed, and covered with a spotless shroud; I thought it was of marble. I
saw no one else, and wondered that there was no relative or friend to
watch by the corpse; then it occurred to me that they must all have gone
to break the news to Jairus. I sat gazing at the girl's large eyelids
that lay heavily on the eyes but were not quite closed; at the wax-like
features, so beautifully chiselled; and the lock of brown hair, the only
living texture, in striking contrast with the cold sculptured pillow and
with the stiff rigid fingers that rested on the border of the shroud.
"I felt very tired and leant back, wondering what the colour of her eyes
might be. Then--was I dreaming?--I suddenly became aware that they were
violet, like the colour of a transparent amethyst. She had opened them,
and was looking quietly and unconcernedly at me.
"'J'ai bien dormi,' she said, and I, at one bound, leaped back to life
and its realities.
"'Tiens, oui,' I said, 'you look all the better for it. Now what have
you been dreaming about, if I may ask?'
"'Oh, about the bon Jésus: I love to dream of Him, it makes me so
strong.'
"'And what is your name, mon enfant?'
"'Madeleine, monsieur.'
"I was truly glad to know, for I always regretted the apostle had not
told us the name of the daughter of Jairus. Well, I got Madeleine to
tell me a little of her history, and the good sisters gave me the rest.
Her father was a poor labourer, and she had been in the hospital for the
last nine months under treatment for hip disease. She was the sweetest
and most lovable of patients, they told me.
"When I went away I said:--
"'Is there anything you want? Shall I bring you a book when I come
to-morrow?'
"'No, not a book; bring me a rose, please, a red rose.'
"Well, you can fancy I thought of nothing else but the Jairus's daughter
I had found. The next morning I brought her three of the reddest roses I
could find, and she beamed with happiness as she fondled them.
"'Oh, _ma soeur_,' she said to the nurse, 'you will let me keep them
just here by my side; they smell so sweet, and they can't hurt me now
the windows are all open. I want to nurse them myself, and when they are
tired of living in a glass, I will keep them between the leaves of my
prayer-book,' and presently she added: 'I am going to read them all day.
You know, monsieur, I can't read really; that's why I didn't want you to
bring me a book.'"
Here I interrupted Claude with the question--
"How old is she?"
"How old? Well, really it never occurred to me to ask her age. I suppose
it's a sort of grown-up age, but then, to be sure, she is quite a child,
poor little thing."
And so on, and so on. Every morning he brought a fresh red rose for the
pale girl. _Sub rosa_, to be sure, was the sketch-book. Now that he had
found his long-sought model, he was glowing with the desire to make
studies from her, and so he spent the better part of a week by her
bedside, pencil in hand. The drawings I thought by far the best things I
had ever seen of his; especially one in which he had used a few coloured
chalks, and where the amethyst eyes gazed at you wonderingly. I have
since sometimes been reminded of those eyes in the work of Gabriel Max.
* * * * *
We had met in Orleans as I have said, and started on our walking tour in
a southerly direction along the banks of the Loire. We were most
unconventionally equipped, wearing caps and blouses, and carrying only
the artist's knapsacks with a change of clothes and sketch-books.
What can be more glorious than walking, if you have the right boots to
tread along in, and the right friend by your side? It was perfect. The
river flowed with a will, the birds sang with a soul, and we could not
but catch the note and go forward in unison with stream and song. We
were in such high spirits that we found it hard to pass a man without
hurling a cordial _bon jour_ or a thundering bad joke at him. We helped
old women with their bundles, and pauperised small children by giving
them sous when they never dreamt of asking for such a thing.
Thus we pushed on, till we reached a town, not the first day, but
another. What town I have forgotten; nor do I remember what art
treasures may have been accumulated within its walls. I only know that
our sketch-books were out, and that we had found a corner of the
market-place, from which we could, without being too much noticed, catch
the characteristic figures that were buying and selling, sitting,
standing, or hanging about.
We had been working some time, when a friendly native of the fair sex,
who had evidently taken a discreet interest in our work, requested us,
with profuse apologies for the interruption, to give her a few minutes'
interview at her shop, as soon as we should have finished.
"It is just over the way," she said; "'Leroux, Smith and Carriage
Varnisher,' is written over the door."
In due time we went, and Madame Leroux asked us with some trepidation
what might be our charge for a portrait of her little girl. Dupont was
at once fully up to the situation, and said--
"Ah, madame, it is not quite easy to give you a direct answer. Charges,
you see, vary a good deal according to the style. There is the
guaranteed likeness at one price, and there is the family likeness at
another, considerably lower to be sure; that again fluctuating according
to the amount of chiaroscuro the client desires introduced. What shall
we say, my friend?" he asked, turning to me. I started a consultation on
the subject in gibberish, to which he readily responded in the same
tongue. She was much impressed by our mastery over the strange idiom,
and exclaimed admiringly--
"Ah, messieurs, anybody could see you were English."
Returning to business, Dupont further explained--
"It is, above all, the colouring, madame, that makes the difference in
price. We can do you a drawing--of the first-class quality to be
sure--for two francs twenty-five centimes; coloured, madame, it cannot
be produced for less than three francs seventy-five centimes."
It was her turn to consider and mentally to review the means at her
disposal for art purposes.
"Well, messieurs," she finally decided, "will you please do the drawing
part, and"--pointing to the pots and pans on the shelf--"my husband will
lay on the colours."
The little girl was pretty, and we had got our full enjoyment out of the
joke, so we set to, Dupont drawing her, and I doing the painting, and
finally we presented our joint work as a free gift to Madame Leroux. She
was deeply grateful, but looked just a trifle alarmed. Were we princes
in disguise, she was wondering, or had she been harbouring peripatetic
angels unawares? But she only pressed our hands and said--
"Believe me, Messieurs, I felt it, I knew it from the first, that you
were English."
I only hope that Monsieur Leroux, when he came home, was pleased with
our performance, and satisfied in his mind that I had given the full
amount of colour necessary to constitute a complete work of art.
Leaving the city, we shortly had an opportunity of testing our abilities
by the attractions they might possess for the rustic population of
France. It was in a charming little place, somewhere not far from Blois,
an idyllic spot and a very haven of rest, I should think, in times of
peace; but just now it was invaded by a large contingent of visitors,
attracted by the holding of the annual fair and of a cattle-market. In
ordinary times, I daresay the approaching traveller would have been
greeted by the silvery voice of the village church-bell, and the
peasants working in the fields would have doffed their caps _à la_ Jean
François Millet as the Angelus called them to prayer. But we only heard
the discordant voices of man and beast, as they rose from the market and
the fair, and the devout peasants had left the fields to bow their heads
reverently somewhere nearer the centre of festivities.
We found but poor accommodation at the crowded inn, but had learnt by
this time not to be particular, and to put up with a bundle of straw for
a mattress, and the back of a chair turned upside down for a pillow.
I had left Claude making some studies of oxen that might perhaps some
day, under his brush, figure as a background to a sacred subject, and I
had sauntered on to the fair. There, having pulled out my sketch-book, I
soon became a centre of attraction. An artist was evidently a strange
figure in this primitive place, and so a little crowd collected to watch
one of the species use his tools. It was on this occasion that I had an
opportunity of realising a truth which I have subsequently so often
found confirmed--viz., that there are occasions when I am wanted, and
others when I am not wanted. In that particular place I was not wanted.
So the boss of a theatrical show, close to whose booth I had taken my
stand, told me. He put it in the most courteous language. With me it did
not mean business, he could see that. With him it did, and his business
was suffering from the unwonted attraction I offered. I at once closed
my sketch-book, and he improved the occasion by announcing his
performance in stentorian voice to my crowd. It was something about the
Assassin's Coffin and the Haunted Wreck--grand drama in so many acts and
so many more tableaux, performed by his troupe in all the capitals of
Europe.
"Entrez, messieurs! on va commencer. Deux sous l'entrée!" and he was up
on his platform, prodding a monkey with a long thin stick, and banging
on a drum with a short thick one.
I was moving on, when a lady, also gifted with an eye to business,
addressed me, this time to tell me that I _was_ wanted.
"You will be here this evening, will you not?" she said. "Would you mind
coming and doing some of your drawing in front of my booth; you would
attract the people, and once they are there, leave me alone for the
rest." I agreed, and in the evening Claude and I started operations. She
had placed a bench in front of her booth, which was well lit by a couple
of large lamps. Claude was in his element. He harangued the open-mouthed
villagers in his best manner. Our connection with the court, he
explained, generally made it impossible for us to accept any engagements
outside Paris, but, hearing that the good lady who presided over the
classical game of Loto had the misfortune to be a widow and an orphan,
we had felt it our duty to give her the advantage of our presence on
this occasion.
"Yes, gentlemen," he added, "not only has she put before you a most
remarkable collection of valuable articles, specimens of which the lucky
card-holder may carry home to the wife of his bosom or the child of his
headache, but the purchaser of the series of five cards is entitled to
have his portrait executed in the latest and most approved style, by
your humble servant, and his friend and colleague. Deux sous la carte,
messieurs; deux sous la carte!"
We did a good stroke of business for the enterprising widow, and at the
same time carried off some first-rate types in our sketch-books. For we
placed our models in the centre of the bench, and each of us drew a
profile from his side. Of the two sketches, we gave one away and kept
the other. The people were refreshingly ignorant; a scrap of
conversation between two old women was specially edifying. They were
comparing notes after having watched our work from both ends of the
bench.
"Well, you see," said one, "there are two of them--they each make half;
then they put it together, and that makes one."
"Sure enough, that's just the way it's done," answered the other.
It was on leaving this place that we unexpectedly found ourselves
"wanted" by the rural police.
We were trudging along, when we met two gensdarmes on horseback. They
pulled up and asked us rather gruffly for our passports. Dupont handed
them his, which was of the regulation pattern and therefore easily
passed muster; but mine was a British Foreign Office passport, neatly
bound in a leather case and signed by Lord Clarendon, and as I produced
it from beneath a time-worn French workman's blouse, it seemed, to say
the least of it, out of keeping with my appearance. It was very
explicit, setting forth that: "We, George William Frederick, Earl of
Clarendon, Baron Hyde of Hindon, Peer of &c. &c., request and require in
the name of Her Majesty, &c. &c. &c." But the gensdarmes looked in vain
for the signalement, the personal description of the bearer, which they
considered the very essence of a respectable passport; and so they
refused to "allow me to pass freely without let or hindrance." (You see
I have the old friend of a document still, and am quoting from it.) In
fact they invited us to follow them to the town we had started from in
the morning. To this we demurred, and it was not without some difficulty
that we persuaded them to run us in in the other direction, only
succeeding when Dupont said he had an uncle in the gensdarmerie, who had
often told him that the men were so badly paid, that they could not make
both ends meet, were it not for an occasional tip from those interested
in securing their good offices.
In due time we were marched into a pleasant little town--I forget its
name--our captors following close on our heels. We were taken to
headquarters and detained, as nobody there could make head or tail of
Baron Hyde of Hindon's rescript. It was taken to Monsieur le Maire,
before whom we were shortly summoned to appear. He received us
courteously.
"I have no doubt, monsieur," he said to me, "that the passport is in
perfect order, but I should like to see your signature and any other
papers you may have about you that may establish your identity." I
produced a washing bill, and the last letter I had received from my
father. He looked at these and then selected a thick-set volume from the
bookcase. "Mo-sche-les," he said, as he turned over the pages, evidently
to assure himself whether my name figured in the register of criminals.
Then, turning an inquisitorial eye on me, he sat down to cross-question
me, his fingers all the while beating a little bureaucratic tattoo on
his knees. I felt as innocent as ever I had felt in my life, and strong
in my reliance on Baron Hyde and the British fleet.
"So you are an Englishman?" he asked. "And where was your father born?"
"In Prague," I answered. "Quite right," he said, with a glance at the
book; "in Prague, in 1794. You are the man;" and before I could say
anything, he had got up, and calling to a young lady in the next room,
he said, "Just come here, my dear, and look. This is Moscheles'
handwriting. Is it not a curious coincidence, just when you are studying
the Rondo brillant and the Sonata? This is Monsieur Felix Moscheles, his
son.--My daughter, Mademoiselle Julie, messieurs."
It was a very pleasant and timely coincidence. My blouse blushed, I
suppose, but Mademoiselle Julie was too polite to notice it. Monsieur le
Maire said--
"Well, as I have been officially called upon to find you a lodging, I
may as well walk with you to the Hôtel de la Poste, and see that you get
a comfortable one. When you have rested, you must come round and take a
little supper and music with us."
Our arrival, escorted by the gensdarmes, had caused considerable
excitement amongst the natives; our reappearance under the wing of
Monsieur le Maire, with whom we were evidently on terms of easy
familiarity, at once dispelled all doubts as to our character, and not
only were first impressions wiped out, but we took position as the
recognised heroes of the day. Besides thus rehabilitating us, Monsieur
le Maire profusely apologised for the gensdarmes' blunder.
"The fact is," he said, "they have instructions to look out for two
young men who are wanted, and who are supposed to be in the
neighbourhood, so they are all on the alert." To which Dupont added--
"Yes, I quite see; if they just weed out all the wrong ones, they can
then easily lay hands on the real culprits."
"Il y a de cela," said the Maire good-naturedly.
We spent a very pleasant evening with our friend and his family. The
daughter played me the Rondo brillant and the Sonata, both early works
of my father's that I was not quite as familiar with as I felt I must
pretend to be. Dupont did a little pretending too, I think, for he got
on splendidly with the mother by taking a lively interest in the
pedigrees of the leading families in the neighbourhood.
Neither of us fell in love with the daughter, as one of us, if not both,
should have done, to make a good story of it; nor, to the best of my
knowledge, did Mademoiselle Julie lose her heart to either of us.
* * * * *
Just one more little incident of the road, to close the record of our
excursion. It would not be worth mentioning, had not the future given it
significance.
It was towards evening; the sun had gone down behind one set of heavy
clouds, and the wind was whipping up another set to join them. We were
anxious to get on, and if possible to find a short cut to our
destination, so we consulted a man who was mending the road. He had
evidently not been talked to for some time, and wanted to make the most
of his chance, for instead of a simple answer, he gave us a long yarn
about his father's road and his brother's road, and about how his was so
smooth we could play at billiards on it, but we couldn't on theirs. When
we replied that we didn't want to play, but to walk it, he said we were
only chaffing him. "I know you well," he added; "you are the two young
men who are staying with Monsieur le Docteur."
We should have done better not to take our cue from this specimen of a
billiard-table road-maker, for he misdirected us, and we must have got
on to the father's road when we should have been on the brother's, or
_vice versâ_. And the rain came on and drenched us, and soon there was a
good deal of big cloud-rolling above us, and enough of light-flashing to
show us there was nothing worth seeing--no house, no shelter of any
kind. But we didn't mind; we knew that in an orthodox thunderstorm a
friendly beacon of light shining from the window of a cottage is sure,
sooner or later, to come to the rescue of the belated traveller; and so
we pushed on till we discerned its twinkle. Then we made for it.
We were soon being hospitably received by the three inmates of the
friendly cottage--an old man, an old woman, and a dog in the prime of
life. The old man made up the fire on the brick hearth for us to dry our
clothes by, the woman stirred something that was simmering in the
caldron, and the dog sat down and stared at Dupont. He was a beautiful
shaggy creature, a sort of shepherd-dog, I think; they called him Rollo.
His pedigree might perhaps not have passed muster, but for all that, one
felt sure that his sire and his sire's spouse must have been good dogs.
I have never forgotten the deep mysterious look in that creature's eyes.
There were some pigs, too, somewhere in immediate proximity to us, but
more heard than seen, consigned as they were to a dark corner, where
they lustily grunted, whilst some of their relatives, already
dismembered, hung up inside the chimney-breast, to be gradually smoked
and cured. The old woman fetched a saucepan, and put something in it
that bubbled and fizzed, and presently one could see floating,
quivering particles come together and solidify, and finally emerge in
pancake form. Good solid pancakes they were, like counterpanes, not like
those flimsy kid-glove sort of pancakes we get in society. We fully
enjoyed them, and the coarse peasant's bread and the home-made cider.
Then we went to bed--to palliasse rather, for two big bags filled with
straw were laid down for us, and we turned in, or rather on. Our hosts
had made us as comfortable as they could, and we felt that all we could
do in return was to sleep well and to forget a few francs on the table
when we left. The old man was so kind; he knew from the first that we
were itinerant painters, and that no discredit attached to our calling.
"C'est un métier comme un autre de faire des images,"[3] he said
encouragingly. They were a cheerful couple, those two old people, and
looked as if they had not known much trouble or worry, and had just
collected their wrinkles, as time went on, for what they were worth.
One does sleep soundly on a bag of straw after a thunderstorm and a
rustic supper, and I should have done so till sunrise if, some time in
the middle of the night, Rollo had not poked his nose into my face. I
woke up with a start, and looking round, was surprised to see Dupont
standing at the window, gazing into space.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"Nothing," he answered. "It's a wonderful night."
I turned round to go to sleep again, but Rollo was very restless, and a
glorious full moon was flooding the kitchen with light, her silver rays
forming fantastic patterns on the stone floor, broken as they were by
the little lead divisions of the casement and by the flower-pots,
bottles, and various nondescript articles on the window-sill.
"I wish you would come to bed, and not stand there as if you were
moon-struck," I said at last.
"That's just what I am," he replied. "I wish you would come and be so
too."
"As-tu fini?" I growled. "Va te coucher, imbécile,"[4] and with that I
dozed off.
But Rollo, I dreamed or I felt it, was sitting gravely by my side and
wondering how I could be so rude, his tail all the while beating the
ground at regular intervals. I roused myself once more; there stood
Dupont as before.
"Hang it all," I said, "I do wish that blessed dog and you would shut up
and turn in."
"I wish you'd open up and turn out," he answered. "Come along, don't be
an _épicier_;[5] get up and let's tramp it. It's a splendid night."
"What's the matter, messieurs?" here broke in the old man, whose head
and nightcap appeared at the glass door which separated his
sleeping-nook from the kitchen, and--"What's the matter?" echoed the
wife's voice. When he saw Claude, he simply said, "Oh, c'est ce jeune
homme qui souffre de la lune; c'est tout comme Rollo."[6]
I burst out laughing, and--I suppose lunacy is catching--I too felt that
I could not lie still, and that a moon that could make that pattern on
the floor was not the Philistine orb of the Boulevards, but a heavenly
body well worth getting up for.
Soon we were on the move. Every cloud had vanished; Nature was in her
most peaceful mood; all was at rest. We walked on, Dupont a little ahead
of me, whilst Rollo, who had come with us, never budged from his side.
We must have gone some miles when the moon, gradually descending towards
the horizon, went down behind a potato-field. We sat on the banks of a
ditch and watched it.
"A true circle," said Dupont, "a true circle!"
When it had quite disappeared, we went on. For a while Rollo stood
staring after Dupont, then he started off at a slow trot in the
direction of home, and was soon out of sight.
"Drole de chien cela,"[7] said I.
"C'est égal, il a du flaire,"[8] rejoined Dupont. Beyond that he was not
inclined for conversation, so I relapsed into silence.
And that is all. But I was to remember the moon of that night when once
more Dupont and I sat together and watched "the true circle."
* * * * *
New-Year's Day in Paris is, as everybody knows, the most
soul-foot-and-purse-stirring day of the year. Everybody has to
conciliate everybody else. Emperors and kings move their oracular lips
to dispel any "black specks" that may be visible on the horizon, and to
proclaim the fact that, under their paternal guidance, everything is for
the best in the best of States--winding up in all humility, with a
filial appeal to the Father of all, and praying that He may devote
Himself specially to the interests of His chosen people.
The telegraph boys rush from the palace to the office, and soon the
high-priests of the Press trumpet forth the words of the mighty, and
explain their oracular utterances to the gaping crowd that stands ready,
all the world over, to be gulled, and is ever proud to wear some
master's livery and be crushed under the glorious weight of the fetters
he forges.
Sometimes the first day of God's new year is specially selected to
accentuate the Divine Right of Temporal power enthroned on earth. With
breathless expectation we await a sign--it comes--Jupiter has not
deigned to wink, or worse still, Jupiter has frowned; he should have
turned to the left, and he turned to the right, or--ye other gods
protect us!--he did not turn at all! Then suddenly there is a great
commotion in the human ant-hill. It is Neptune's ambassador who has been
slighted! The courtiers stand aghast, the High Press priests shriek
prophetically, and spill vicious inks all over their papers. Vulcan with
his big bellows fans the ever-glowing embers of distrust, just to oblige
his noble friend Mars, who looks forward to glorious work and fresh
laurels. A howling mob of human ants breaks out into rabid patriotism,
and calls upon the State to lead its armies, and on the Church to bless
its banners.
To be sure Neptune at once calls for an unlimited credit, to satisfy the
ever-neglected claims of the Panic Fund. Up go some things, by leaps and
bounds; down go others; bears and bulls hug and gore one another to
death, the dogs of war strain on their leashes, whilst the devout ant
sets to, and works with a will for six days in the week to fill the
arsenals, and then spends the seventh solemnly invoking the aid and the
blessings of the Prince of Peace.
How petty the little incidents I can record appear when compared to the
fratricidal aspirations of the faithful! Yet I must return to my own
little lambs. I had only mentioned New-Year's Day to speak of cards and
letters exchanged, and of the tribute of sweets to the sweet, and of
tips to the tipsters. All that to tell of a particular letter Claude
received on that day. The address was in his own handwriting on an
envelope which he had left the summer before with Madeleine.
"When you can write, you let me know," he had said. "The good Sisters
have promised me to teach you." And here was the letter:--
"MONSIEUR,--I have learnt to write now, and I am so happy because I
can write to you. I have prayed to the Bon Jésus to give you health
and all happiness in the new year. And I am still in the hospital,
and the sisters are so good to me.--Your grateful
MADELEINE."
To be sure he answered, and that most cordially and sympathetically, and
at the same time he wrote to the Économe, the Secretary of the Hospital,
asking for information concerning her health, and her prospects of
recovery. He received in return full particulars both from the secretary
and from the doctor who had been attending the case for the last fifteen
months. Her life had been despaired of, nor was she yet out of danger;
she would have to undergo another operation shortly. Further anxious
inquiries from Dupont elicited bulletins stating that the operation had
been successful, but that for some time afterwards the strength of the
patient had been at its lowest ebb. She was improving, and the only
thing that might eventually restore her to health would be to send her
into the country, where pure air and careful tending might possibly
effect a cure. Situated as she was, there seemed no prospect of her
securing that advantage, so Dupont volunteered to defray the cost of
placing her in a convalescent home, as soon as she could leave the
hospital. The country air worked wonders, and, one thing leading to
another, in due time he placed her in a school, a convent, where she was
in every respect well taken care of, and where she still enjoyed the
full benefit of healthy surroundings. Under these circumstances she made
rapid progress, both physically and intellectually.
In the meanwhile Claude was busy all through the winter. After our
return from the pedestrian tour he had set to work on the picture for
which he had accumulated so many studies. It was original in more than
one respect. He had selected a canvas of a peculiar shape, about twice
as wide as it was high, but his composition seemed to fill the space
allotted to it quite naturally and spontaneously.
His figures were half life-size; the main group, somewhat to the right,
was enveloped in the haze of a mysterious chiaroscuro. On the extreme
left, at the entrance to the primitive dwelling, the figures of three
children stood out dark against the bright sky, a beautiful silhouette
and true to nature, for he had taken it from life, noting it during a
halt in a peasant's cottage near Orléans. He knew the text tells us that
none but the apostles and the child's father and mother were allowed to
follow the Master; but children were children all the world over, he
said, and they might well have disregarded the command.
The picture was destined to remain on the easel for a long while, for
whilst devoting much of his time to it, Claude continued his studies
with unabated energy, attending lectures, making a series of elaborate
anatomical drawings, and I fear, generally burning the artistic candle
at both ends.
But towards the close of the winter, the picture, being very far
advanced, Claude showed it to some friends whose opinion he valued. They
were evidently much struck by his rendering of the subject.
Some very eulogistic remarks must have reached l'oncle Auguste, for, on
the strength of them, he resolved to visit the studio. He had hitherto
not condescended to show any interest in his nephew's work, but, as
others were speaking of it, he felt it desirable to be posted up to
date.
It happened that when he called, Claude was out, but Rosa Bonheur Sinel
was there, and at once took it upon herself to do the honours of the
place and to expatiate on the beauties of the canvas.
"_I_ sat for the foot of the daughter," she said; "she is supposed to
have pushed off the drapery. You see, my big toe is fine; it is quite
apart from the one next to it; there is room for three pieces of twenty
sous between them. Sit down this side, so you don't get the varnish; now
if you look through your hand, like that, you will see a large
earthenware thing in the background. That's a big water-bottle; it's
what they used before they were Christians. It has _du style_, you know,
and keeps the water cool. Next week we shall get the frame, then you
will see it plainer; and look at the figures; they are just what is
wanted, and the draperies; monsieur never uses the mannequin, that's
what makes them so natural; that's just how people look when somebody
gets risen from the dead."
And so she went on, assisting Uncle Auguste in arriving at a due
appreciation of the picture, and giving him points he used afterwards
for the enlightenment of his friends. Looking round the studio, he said,
more to himself than to the young lady who had taken him in hand--
"What a garret! Never saw anything like it! Why, there isn't a creature
comfort in the place. I must really send him up some"----
"That you should," broke in Miss Rosa; "I know what he wants."
"And what may that be, Miss Saucebox?" he asked.