A year later Cuthbert Hartington was sitting in a room, somewhat better
furnished than the majority of the students' lodgings, on the second
floor of a house in Quartier Latin. The occupant of the room below,
Arnold Dampierre, was with him. He was a man three or four years
Cuthbert's junior, handsome, grave-eyed, and slightly built; he was a
native of Louisiana, and his dark complexion showed a taint of Mulatto
blood in his veins.
"So you have made up your mind to stay," he said.
"Certainly, I intend to see it through; in the first place I don't want
to break off my work, and as you know am ambitious enough to intend to
get a couple of pictures finished in time for the Salon, although
whether they will hang there, is another matter altogether."
"Don't pretend to be modest, Cuthbert. You know well enough they will be
hung, and more than that, they will be a success. I would wager a
hundred dollars to a cent on it, though you haven't as yet settled on
the subjects. You know that you are Goudé's favorite pupil and that he
predicts great things for you, and there is not one of us who does not
agree with him. You know what Goudé said of the last thing you did.
'Gentlemen, I should be proud to be able to sign my name in the corner
of this picture, it is admirable.'"
"It was but a little thing," Cuthbert said, carelessly, but nevertheless
coloring slightly, "I hope to do much better work in the course of
another year." Then he went back to the former subject of conversation.
"Yes, I shall see it through. We have had a good many excitements
already--the march away of the troops, and the wild enthusiasm and the
shouts of 'À Berlin!' I don't think there was a soul in the crowd who
was not convinced that the Germans were going to be crumpled up like a
sheet of paper. It was disgusting to hear the bragging in the studio,
and they were almost furious with me when I ventured to hint mildly that
the Prussians were not fools, and would not have chosen this time to
force France into a war if they had not felt that they were much better
prepared for it than Napoleon was. Since then it has been just as
exciting the other way--the stupor of astonishment, the disappointment
and rage as news of each disaster came in; then that awful business at
Sedan, the uprising of the scum here, the flight of the Empress, the
proclamation of the Republic, and the idiotic idea that seized the
Parisians that the Republic was a sort of fetish, and that the mere fact
of its establishment would arrest the march of the Germans. Well, now we
are going to have a siege, I suppose, and as I have never seen one, it
will be interesting. Of course I have no shadow of faith in the
chattering newspaper men and lawyers, who have undertaken the government
of France; but they say Trochu is a good soldier, and Paris ought to be
able to hold out for some time. The mobiles are pouring in, and I think
they will fight well, especially the Bretons. Their officers are
gentlemen, and though I am sure they would not draw a sword for the
Republic, they will fight sturdily for France. I would not miss it for
anything. I am not sure that I shan't join one of the volunteer
battalions myself."
"You have nothing to do with the quarrel," his companion said.
"No, I have nothing to do with the quarrel; but if I were walking along
the streets and saw a big lout pick a quarrel with a weaker one and then
proceed to smash him up altogether, I fancy I should take a hand in the
business. The Germans deliberately forced on the war. They knew
perfectly well that when they put up a German Prince as candidate for
the throne of Spain it would bring on a war with France. Why, we
ourselves were within an ace of going to war with France when Guizot
brought about the Spanish marriage, although it was comparatively of
slight importance to us that Spain and France should be united. But to
the French this thing was an absolutely vital question, for with Germany
and Spain united their very existence would be threatened, and they had
nothing for it but to fight, as Germany knew they would have to do."
"But the candidature was withdrawn, Hartington."
"Withdrawn! ay, after the damage was done and France in a flame of
indignation. If a man meets me in the street and pulls me by the nose,
do you think that if he takes off his hat and bows and says that he
withdraws the insult I am going to keep my hands in my pockets? Twice
already has France been humiliated and has stood it? Once when Prussia
made that secret treaty with Bavaria and Baden, and threw it scornfully
in her face; the second time over that Luxembourg affair. Does Germany
think that a great nation, jealous of its honor and full of fiery
elements, is going to stand being kicked as often as she chooses to
kick her? You may say that France was wrong in going to war when she was
really unprepared, and I grant she was unwise, but when a man keeps on
insulting you, you don't say to yourself I must go and take lessons in
boxing before I fight him. You would hit out straight even if he were
twice as big as yourself. That is what I feel about it, Dampierre, and
feeling so I fancy that when the thing begins here I shall get too hot
over it to help joining in. Ah, here come some of the lads."
There was a clatter of feet on the staircase, and a moment later half a
dozen young Frenchmen ran in in a state of wild excitement.
"They have entered Versailles, a party of their horsemen have been seen
from Valerian, and a shot has been fired at them. They have fled."
"Well, I should think they naturally would," Cuthbert said. "A handful
of horsemen are not likely to remain to be made targets of by the guns
of Valerian."
"It is the beginning of the end," one of the students exclaimed. "Paris
will assert herself, France will come to her assistance, and the Germans
will find that it is one thing to fight against the armies of a despot,
and another to stand before a free people in arms."
"I hope so, René, but I own I have considerable doubts of it. A man when
he begins to fight, fights because he is there and has got to do it. If
he does not kill the enemy he will be killed; if he does not thrash the
enemy he will be thrashed; and for the time being the question whether
it is by a despot or by a Provisional Government that he is ruled does
not matter to him one single jot. As to the Parisians, we shall see. I
sincerely hope, they will do all that you expect of them, but in point
of fact I would rather have a battalion of trained soldiers than a
brigade of untrained peasants or citizens, however full of ardor they
may be."
"Ah, you English, it is always discipline, discipline."
"You are quite right, René, that is when it comes to fighting in the
open; fighting in the streets of a town is a very different thing. Then
I grant individual pluck will do wonders. Look at Saragosa, look at
Lucknow. Civilians in both cases fought as well as the best trained
soldiers could do, but in the field discipline is everything. Putting
aside the great battles where your feudal lords, with their brave but
undisciplined followers, met our disciplined bow and billmen, look at
the Jacquerie, the peasants were brave enough, and were animated by hate
and despair, but they were scattered like chaff by mere handfuls of
knights and men-at-arms. The Swiss have defended their mountains against
the armies of despots, because they had mountains to defend, and were
accustomed to scaling the rocks, and all good shots, just as the people
of a town might hold their streets. I believe that you will hold Paris.
I doubt whether the Germans will ever be able to enter your walls, but
famine will enter, and, defend yourselves as obstinately as you may, the
time must come when food will give out."
"As if we should wait to be starved," another of the students said
scoffingly. "If the time comes when there's nothing to eat, we would set
Paris on fire and hurl ourselves every man upon the Germans, and fight
our way through. Do you think that they could block every road round
Paris?"
"I know nothing about military affairs, Leroux, and therefore don't
suppose anything one way or the other. I believe the Parisians will make
a gallant defence, and they have my heartiest good wishes and sympathy,
and when all you men join the ranks my intention is to go with you. But
as to the end, my belief is that it will be decided not by Paris but by
France."
"Bravo, bravo, Cuthbert," the others exclaimed, "that shows, indeed,
that you love France. René said he thought you would shoulder a musket
with us, but we said Englishmen only fought either for duty or interest,
and we did not see why you should mix yourself up in it."
"Then you are altogether wrong. If you said Englishmen don't fight for
what you call glory, you would be right, but you can take my word for it
that in spite of what peace-at-any-price people may say, there are no
people in the world who are more ready to fight when they think they are
right, than Englishmen. We find it hard enough to get recruits in time
of peace, but in time of war we can get any number we want. The
regiments chosen to go to the front are delighted, those who have to
stay behind are furious. Glory has nothing to do with it. It is just the
love of fighting. I don't say that I am thinking of joining one of your
volunteer battalions because I want to fight. I do so because I think
you are in the right, and that this war has been forced upon you by the
Germans, who are likely to inflict horrible sufferings on the city."
"Never mind why you are going to fight," Leroux said, "you are going to
fight for us, and that is enough. You are a good comrade. And your
friend, here, what is he going to do?"
"I shall join also," Dampierre said. "You are a Republic now, like our
own, and of course my sympathies are wholly with you."
"Vive la Republique! Vive l'Americain!" the students shouted.
Cuthbert Hartington shrugged his shoulders.
"We were just starting for a stroll to the walls to see how they are
getting on with the work of demolition. Are any of you disposed to go
with us?"
They were all disposed, being in so great a state of excitement that
anything was better than staying indoors quietly. The streets were full
of people, carts were rumbling along, some filled with provisions,
others with the furniture and effects of the houses now being pulled
down outside the _enciente_, or from the villas and residences at Sèvres
Meudon and other suburbs and villages outside the line of defence.
Sometimes they came upon battalions of newly-arrived mobiles, who were
loudly cheered by the populace as they marched along; sturdy sunburnt
peasants with but little of the bearing of soldiers, but with an earnest
serious expression that seemed to say they would do their best against
the foes who were the cause of their being torn away from their homes
and occupations. Staff officers galloped about at full speed; soldiers
of the garrison or of Vinoy's Corps, who had come in a day or two
before, lounged about the streets looking in at the shops. No small
proportion of the male population wore kepis, which showed that they
belonged either to the National Guard or to the battalions that were
springing into existence.
"Why do we not register our names to-day!" René exclaimed.
"Because a day or two will make no difference," Cuthbert replied, "and
it is just as well to find out before we do join something about the men
in command. Let us above all things choose a corps where they have had
the good sense to get hold of two or three army men, who have had
experience in war, as their field officers. We don't want to be under a
worthy citizen who has been elected solely because he is popular in his
quarter, or a demagogue who is chosen because he is a fluent speaker,
and has made himself conspicuous by his abuse of Napoleon. This is not
the time for tomfoolery; we want men who will keep a tight hand over us,
and make us into fair soldiers. It may not be quite agreeable at first,
but a corps that shows itself efficient is sure to be chosen when there
is work to be done, and will be doing outpost duty, whilst many of the
others will be kept within the walls as being of no practical use. Just
at present everything is topsy-turvy, but you may be sure that Trochu
and Vinoy, and the other generals will gradually get things into shape,
and will not be long before they find what corps are to be depended on
and what are not."
Crossing the river they made their way out beyond the walls. Even the
light-hearted students were sobered by the sight beyond. Thousands of
men were engaged on the work of demolition. Where but ten days since
stood villas surrounded by gardens and trees, there was now a mere waste
of bricks and mortar stretching down to the Forts of Issy and Vanves.
The trees had all been felled and for the most part cut up and carried
into Paris for firewood. Most of the walls were levelled, and frequent
crashes of masonry showed that these last vestiges of bright and happy
homes would soon disappear. A continuous stream of carts and
foot-passengers came along the road to the gate--the men grim and
bitter, the women crying, and all laden with the most valued of their
little belongings. Numbers of cattle and herds of sheep, attended by
guards, grazed in the fields beyond the forts.
"By Jove, Dampierre," Cuthbert said, "if I hadn't made up my mind to
join a corps before, this scene would decide me. It is pitiful to see
all these poor people, who have no more to do with the war than the
birds in the air, rendered homeless. A good many of the birds have been
rendered homeless too, but fortunately for them it is autumn instead of
spring, and they have neither nests nor nestlings to think of, and can
fly away to the woods on the slopes below Meudon."
"What a fellow you are, Hartington, to be thinking of the birds when
there are tens of thousands of people made miserable."
"I fancy the birds are just as capable of feeling misery as we are,"
Cuthbert said quietly, "not perhaps over trivial matters, though they do
bicker and quarrel a good deal among themselves, but they have their
great calamities, and die of thirst, of hunger, and of cold. I remember
during a very hard frost some years ago our garden was full of dying
birds, though my father had bushels of grain thrown to them every day.
It was one of the most painful sights I ever saw, and I know I felt
pretty nearly as much cut up at it as I do now. I hate to see dumb
animals suffer. There is a sort of uncomplaining misery about them that
appeals to one, at any rate appeals to me, infinitely. These poor
fellows are suffering too, you will say. Yes, but they have their
consolation. They promise themselves that as soon as they get into Paris
they will join a corps and take vengeance on those who have hurt them.
They may think, and perhaps with reason, that when the trouble is over,
they will find their cottages still standing, and will take up life
again as they left it. They have at least the consolation of swearing, a
consolation which, as far as I know, is denied to animals and birds."
"You are a rum fellow, Hartington, and I never know when you are in
earnest and when you are not."
"Let us go back," René Caillard, who, with the others, had been
standing silently, said abruptly. "This is too painful; I feel
suffocated to think that such a humiliation should fall on Paris. Surely
all civilized Europe will rise and cry out against this desecration." He
turned and with his comrades walked back towards the gate. Cuthbert
followed with Arnold Dampierre.
"That is just the way with them," the former said, "it would have been
no desecration had they encamped before Berlin, but now, because it is
the other way, they almost expect a miracle from Heaven to interpose in
their favor. Curious people the French. Their belief in themselves is
firm and unshakable, and whatever happens it is the fault of others, and
not of themselves. Now, in point of fact, from all we hear, the Germans
are conducting the war in a very much more humane and civilized way than
the French would have done if they had been the invaders, and yet they
treat their misfortunes as if high Heaven had never witnessed such
calamities. Why, the march of the Germans has been a peaceful procession
in comparison with Sherman's march or Sheridan's forays. They have
sacked no city, their path is not marked by havoc and conflagration;
they fight our men, and maybe loot deserted houses, but as a rule
unarmed citizens and peasants have little to complain of."
"That is true enough," the other agreed reluctantly.
"My opinion is," Cuthbert went on, "that all these poor people who are
flocking into Paris are making a hideous mistake. If they stopped in
their villages the betting is that no harm would have come to them;
whereas now they have left their homes unguarded and untenanted--and it
would not be human nature if the Germans did not occupy them--while in
Paris they will have to go through all the privations and hardships of a
siege and perhaps of a bombardment; besides there are so many more
hungry mouths to feed. In my opinion Trochu and the Provisional
Government would have acted very much more wisely had they issued an
order that no strangers, save those whose houses have been destroyed,
should be allowed to enter the city, and advising the inhabitants of all
the villages round either to remain quietly in their homes, or to retire
to places at a distance. Fighting men might, of course, come in, but
all useless mouths will only hasten the date when famine will force the
city to surrender."
"You seem very sure that it will surrender sooner or later, Hartington,"
Dampierre said, irritably. "My opinion is that all France will rise and
come to her rescue."
"If Bazaine cuts his way out of Metz they may do it, but we have heard
nothing of his moving, and the longer he stays the more difficulty he
will have of getting out. He has a fine army with him, but if he once
gives time to the Germans to erect batteries commanding every road out
of the place, he will soon find it well-nigh impossible to make a
sortie. Except that army France has nothing she can really rely upon. It
is all very well to talk of a general rising, but you can't create an
army in the twinkling of an eye; and a host of half-disciplined
peasants, however numerous, would have no chance against an enemy who
have shown themselves capable of defeating the whole of the trained
armies of France. No, no, Dampierre, you must make up your mind
beforehand that you are going in on the losing side. Paris may hold out
long enough to secure reasonable terms, but I fancy that is about all
that will come of it."
The other did not reply. He had something of the unreasoning faith that
pervaded France, that a Republic was invincible, and that France would
finally emerge from the struggle victorious.
"We shall try and find out to-night about the corps," René Caillard
said, as the others overtook them some distance inside the gates. "After
what we have seen to-day we are all determined to join without delay. I
heard last night from some men at Veillant's that they and a good many
others have put their names down for a corps that is to be called the
Chasseurs des Écoles. They said they understood that it was to be
composed entirely of students. Not all art, of course, but law and other
schools."
"That would be just the thing," Cuthbert said, "if they can only get
some good officers. One likes the men one has to work with to be a
little of one's own class. Well, if the officers are all right you can
put my name down. I suppose there is no occasion for me to go myself."
"Of course there is occasion, lazy one. You have to be sworn in."
Cuthbert nodded. "I suppose we shan't have to give up work altogether?"
"I should think not," René said. "I suppose we shall have two or three
hours' drill in the morning and nothing more till the time for action
comes. Of course the troops and the mobiles will do the work at the
forts and walls, and we shall be only called out if the Prussians
venture to attack us, or if we march out to attack them."
"So much the better. I came here to work, and I want to stick to it and
not waste my time in parades and sentry duty. Well, we shall meet at the
studio in the morning and you can give us your news then."
Some fifteen young men met on the following morning at Goudé's studio.
"Now, gentlemen," said the artist, a short man, with a large head, and
an abundant crop of yellow hair falling on to his shoulders, "please to
attend to business while you are here. Paint--you have plenty of time
outside to discuss affairs."
M. Goudé was an artist of considerable talent, but of peppery temper. He
had at one time gone to war with the Hanging Committee of the Salon
because one of his paintings had been so badly hung that he declared it
to be nothing short of an insult, and had forthwith proceeded to publish
the most violent strictures upon them. The result was that on the
following year his pictures were not hung at all, whereupon, after
another onslaught upon them, he had declared his determination never
again to submit a picture to the judgment of men whose natural stupidity
was only equalled by their ignorance of art.
This vow he had for eight years adhered to, only occasionally painting a
picture and selling it privately, but devoting himself almost entirely
to the studio he had opened, when he ceased exhibiting. He was an
admirable teacher and his list of pupils was always full. He was an
exacting master and would take none but students who showed marked
ability. As a preliminary picture had to be presented to him for
examination, and at least three out of four of the canvases sufficed to
ensure their authors' prompt rejection.
It was, therefore, considered an honor to be one of Goudé's pupils, but
it had its drawbacks. His criticisms were severe and bitter; and he fell
into violent passions when, as Leroux once observed, he looked like the
yellow dwarf in a rage. Cuthbert had heard of him from Terrier, who said
that Goudé had the reputation of being by far the best master in Paris.
He had presented himself to him as soon as he arrived there; his
reception had not been favorable.
"It is useless, Monsieur," the master had said, abruptly, "there are two
objections. In the first place you are too old, in the second place you
are a foreigner, and I do not care to teach foreigners. I never had but
one here, and I do not want another. He was a Scotchman, and because I
told him one day when he had produced an atrocious daub, that he was an
imbecile pig, he seized me and shook me till my teeth chattered in my
head, and then kicked over the easel and went out."
"You may call me an imbecile pig if you like," Cuthbert said with his
quiet smile, "it would hurt me in no way. I have come over to learn, and
I am told you are the best master in Paris. When a man is a great master
he must be permitted to have his peculiarities, and if he likes to treat
grown-up men as children, of course he can do so, for are we not
children in art by his side."
Monsieur Goudé was mollified, but he did not show it.
"Have you brought any canvases with you?"
"I have brought the last two things I did before leaving London."
"Well, you can bring them if you like," the master said, ungraciously,
"but I warn you it will be useless. You English cannot paint, even the
best of you. You have no soul, you are monotonous, but you may bring
them."
An hour later Cuthbert returned to the studio, which was now occupied by
the students.
"You are prompt," the master said, looking round from the student whose
work he was correcting with no small amount of grumbling and
objurgation. "Put your things on those two spare easels, I will look at
them presently."
Seeing that several of the other students were smoking, Cuthbert filled
and lighted his pipe, calmly placed the pictures on the easels without
taking off the cloths in which they were wrapped, and then put his hands
into the pockets of his velvet jacket and looked round the room. After
his experience of some of the luxuriously arranged studios at St. John's
Wood, the room looked bare and desolate. There was no carpet and not a
single chair or lounge of any description. Some fifteen young fellows
were painting. All wore workmen's blouses. All had mustaches, and most
of them had long hair. They appeared intent on their work, but smiles
and winks were furtively exchanged, and the careless nonchalance of this
tall young Englishman evidently amused them. In four or five minutes M.
Goudé turned round and walked towards the easels. Cuthbert stepped to
them and removed the cloths. The master stopped abruptly, looked at them
without speaking for a minute or two, then walked up and closely
examined them.
"They are entirely your own work?" he asked.
"Certainly, I did not show either of them to my master until I had
finished them."
They were companion pictures. The one was a girl standing in a veranda
covered with a grapevine, through which bright rays of sunshine shone,
one of them falling full on her face. She was evidently listening, and
there was a look of joyous expectancy in her face. Underneath, on the
margin of the canvas, was written in charcoal, "Hope." The other
represented the same figure, darkly dressed, with a wan, hopeless look
in her face, standing on a rock at the edge of an angry sea, over which
she was gazing; while the sky overhead was dark and sombre without a
rift in the hurrying clouds. It was labelled "Despair."
For two or three minutes longer M. Goudé looked silently at the pictures
and then turning suddenly called out, "Attention, gentlemen. Regard
these pictures, they are the work of this gentleman who desires to enter
my studio. In the eight years I have been teaching I have had over two
hundred canvases submitted to me, but not one like these. I need not say
that I shall be glad to receive him. He has been well taught. His
technique is good and he has genius. Gentlemen, I have the honor to
present to you Monsieur Cuthbert Hartington, who is henceforth one of
you."
The students crowded round the pictures with exclamations of surprise
and admiration. It was not until M. Goudé said sharply "to work," that
they returned to their easels.
"You will find canvases in that cupboard if you like to set at work at
once. Choose your own size and subject and sketch it out in chalk. I
should like to see how you work. Ah, you have a portfolio. I will look
through your sketches this afternoon if you will leave it here."
Cuthbert chose a canvas from a pile ready stretched, selected a sketch
from his portfolio of a wayside inn in Normandy, pinned it on the easel
above the canvas, and then began to work. M. Goudé did not come near him
until the work was finished for the morning, then he examined what he
had just done.
"You work rapidly," he said, "and your eye is good. You preserve the
exact proportions of the sketch, which is excellent, though it was
evidently done hastily, and unless I mistake was taken before you had
begun really to paint. You did not know how to use color, though the
effect is surprisingly good, considering your want of method at the
time. I will look through your portfolio while I am having my lunch. In
an hour we resume work." So saying he took up the portfolio and left the
room. The students now came up to Cuthbert and introduced themselves one
by one.
"You see our master in his best mood to-day," one said. "I never have
seen him so gracious, but no wonder. Now we have no ceremony here. I am
René, and this is Pierre, and this Jean, and you will be Cuthbert."
"It is our custom in England," Cuthbert said, "that a new boy always
pays his footing; so gentlemen, I hope you will sup with me this
evening. I am a stranger and know nothing of Paris; at any rate nothing
of your quarter, so I must ask two of you to act as a committee with me,
and to tell me where we can get a good supper and enjoy ourselves."
From that time Cuthbert had been one of the brotherhood and shared in
all their amusements, entering into them with a gayety and heartiness
that charmed them and caused them to exclaim frequently that he could
not be an Englishman, and that his accent was but assumed. Arnold
Dampierre had been admitted two months later. He had, the master said,
distinct talent, but his work was fitful and uncertain. Some days he
would work earnestly and steadily, but more often he was listless and
indolent, exciting M. Goudé's wrath to fever heat.
Among the students he was by no means a favorite. He did not seem to
understand a joke, and several times blazed out so passionately that
Cuthbert had much trouble in soothing matters down, explaining to the
angry students that Dampierre was of hot southern blood and that his
words must not be taken seriously. Americans, he said, especially in the
south, had no idea of what the English call chaff, and he begged them as
a personal favor to abstain from joking with him, or it would only lead
to trouble in the studio.