We were, according to our nightly habit, in possession of the Café des
Souris--dear Café des Souris, that is no more; and our assiduous
patronage rumour alleges to have been the death of it--we were in
possession of the Café des Souris, a score or so of us, chiefly
English speakers, and all votaries of one or other of the
'quatre-z-arts,' when the door swung open, and he entered.
Now, the entrance of anybody not a member of our particular _cénacle_
into the Café des Souris, we, who felt (I don't know why) that we had
proprietary rights in the establishment, could not help deeming
somewhat in the nature of an unwarranted intrusion; so we stopped our
talk for an instant, and stared at him: a man of medium stature,
heavily built, with hair that fell to his shoulders, escaping from
beneath a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat, knee breeches like a
bicyclist's, and, in lieu of overcoat, a sort of doublet, or magnified
cape, of buff-coloured cloth.
He supported our examination, and the accompanying interval of
silence, which ordinary flesh and blood might have found embarassing,
with more than composure--with, it seemed to me, a dimly perceptible,
subcutaneous smile, as of satisfaction--and seated himself at the only
vacant table. This world held nothing human worthy to rivet our
attention longer than thirty seconds, whence, very soon, we were hot
in debate again. It was the first Sunday in May; I need hardly add
that our subject-matter was the _Vernissage_, at which the greater
number of us had assisted.
For myself, however, I could not forbid my gaze to wander back from
time to time upon the stranger: an indulgence touching which I felt
the less compunction, in that he had (it was a fair inference) got
himself up with a deliberate view to attracting just such notice. Else
why the sombrero and knickerbockers, the flowing locks and eccentric
yellow cloak? Nay, I think it may have been in part this very note of
undisguised vanity in the man that made it difficult to keep one's
eyes off him: it tickled the sense of humour, and challenged the
curiosity. What would his state of mind be, who, in the dotage of the
Nineteenth Century, went laboriously out of his way to cultivate a
fragmentary resemblance to--say a spurious Vandyke?
As the heat of the room began to tell upon him, he threw aside his
outer garment, and hung up his hat, thereby discovering a velvet
jacket and a very low-cut shirt, with unstarched rolling collar, and
sailor's knot of pale green Liberty silk. His long hair, of a faded,
dusty brown, was brushed straight back from his forehead, and
plastered down upon his scalp, in such wise as to lend him a
misleading effect of baldness. He wore a drooping brown moustache, and
a lustreless brown beard, trimmed to an Elizabethan point. His skin
was sallow; his eyes were big, wide apart, of an untransparent buttony
brilliancy, and in colour dully blue. Taken for all in all, his face,
deprived of the adventitious aids of long hair and Elizabethan beard,
would have been peculiarly spiritless and insignificant, but from the
complacency that shone like an unguent in every line of it, as well
as from the studied picturesqueness of his costume, it was manifest
that he posed as a unique and interesting character, a being
mysterious and romantic, melancholy and rarely gifted--like the artist
in a bad play.
Artist, indeed, of some description, I told myself, he must infallibly
be reckoned. What mere professional man or merchant would have the
heart to render his person thus conspicuous? And the hypothesis that
might have disposed of him as a _model_ was excluded by the freshness
of his clothes. A poet, painter, sculptor, possibly an actor or
musician--anyhow, something to which the generic name of artist,
soiled with all ignoble use, could more or less flatteringly be
applied--I made sure he was; an ornament of our own English-speaking
race, moreover, proclaimed such by the light of intelligence that
played upon his features as he followed our noisy conversation; and,
at a guess, two or three-and-thirty years of age.
'Anybody know the duffer with the hair?'
This question, started by Charles K. Smith, of Battle Creek, Michigan,
U.S.A., and commonly called in the Latin Quarter by his sobriquet of
_Chalks_, went our rounds in an undertone; and everybody answered,
'No.'
'What is it? Can it talk? 'Pears like it can hear and catch on,' was
Chalks's next remark. 'Shall we work the growler on it?'
The process termed by Chalks 'working the growler' was of ancient
institution in the Café des Souris; and I believe it is not unknown in
other seats of learning--a custom handed down from generation to
generation of students, which, like politeness, costing little, yields
generous returns. Should a casual wayfarer, happening amongst us, so
far transgress the usages of good society as to volunteer a
contribution to our talk, without the preliminary of an introduction,
it was the rule instantly to require him to offer the company
refreshments; and, I am sorry to have to add, not infrequently, being
thirsty, and possessing a lively appreciation of the value of our own
money, we would, by a marked affability of bearing, by smiles, nods,
glances of sympathetic understanding, or what not, designedly
encourage such an one to address us, and so render himself liable to
our impost.
'If we don't,' continued Chalks, 'it will be to fly in the face of
Providence. The man is simply bursting to fire his mouth off. He's had
something to say swelling in him for the last half-hour. It will be an
act of Christian mercy to let him say it. And for myself, I confess
I'm rather dry.'
Chalks doubtless argued from the eager eye with which the man regarded
us; from the uneasy way in which he held his seat, shifting in it, and
edging in our direction; and from the tentative manner in which he
occasionally coughed.
Now, persuaded by the American, we one by one fell silent, to give our
victim his opportunity; whilst those nearest to him baited the trap by
looking enquiringly at his face.
It was all he needed.
'I beg your pardon,' he began, with no symptom of diffidence, 'but I
too was at the _Vernissage_ to-day, and some of your comments upon it
have surprised me.' He spoke with a _staccato_ north-country accent,
in a chirpy, querulous little voice; and each syllable seemed to chop
the air, like a blow from a small hatchet. 'Am I to take it that you
are serious when you condemn Bouguereau's great picture as a
_croûte_? _Croûte_, if I mistake not, is equivalent to the English
_daub_?'
Our one-armed waiter, Pierre, had but awaited this crisis to come
forward and receive our orders. When they were delivered Chalks
courteously explained the situation to the neophyte, adding that, as a
further formality, he must make us acquainted with his name and
occupation.
He accepted it in perfectly good part. 'I'm sure I shall feel honoured
if you will drink with me,' he said, and settled the reckoning with
Pierre.
'Name? Name?' a dozen of us cried in scattering chorus.
'I had thought that, among so many Englishmen and Americans, some one
would have recognised me,' he replied. 'I am Davis Blake.'
He said it as one might say, 'I am Mr. Gladstone'--or Lord
Salisbury--or Bismarck--with dignity, with an inflection of conscious
greatness, it is true, but with neither haughtiness nor ostentation.
We, however, are singularly ignorant of contemporary English
literature in the Latin Quarter--our chief reading matter, indeed,
being Maupassant and _Le Petit Journal pour Rire_--and though, as we
shortly learned, here was a writer whose works were for sale at every
bookstall in the United Kingdom, lavishly pirated in the United
States, and distributed far and wide by Baron Tauchnitz on the
Continent, his announcement left us unenlightened.
'Painter?' demanded Chalks.