HIGH ART IN THE QUARTIER LATIN.
"But, my dear fellow, what else could you have expected? You took
Mam'selle Josephine to the _Opera Comique. Eh bien!_ you might as well
have taken an oyster up Mount Vesuvius. Our fair friend was out of her
element. _Voilà tout_."
"Confound her and her element!" I exclaimed with a groan. "What the
deuce _is_ her element--the Quartier Latin?"
"The Quartier Latin is to some extent her habitat--but then Mam'selle
Josephine belongs to a genus of which you, _cher_ Monsieur Arbuthnot,
are deplorably ignorant--the genus grisette. The grisette from a certain
point of view is the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Parisian industry; the bouquet
of Parisian civilization. She is indigenous to the _mansarde_ and the
_pavé_--bears no transplantation--flourishes in _the première balconie_,
the suburban _guingette_, and the Salle Valentinois; but degenerates at
a higher elevation. To improve her is to spoil her. In her white cap and
muslin gown, the Parisian grisette is simply delicious. In a smart
bonnet, a Cashmere and a brougham, she is simply detestable. Fine
clothes vulgarize her. Fine surroundings demoralize her. Lodged on the
sixth story, rich in the possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half a
dozen pots of mignonette, and some bits of cheap furniture in imitation
mahogany, she has every virtue and every fault that is charming in
woman--childlike gaiety; coquetry; thoughtless generosity; the readiest
laugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest heart in the world. Transplant
her to the Chaussée d'Antin, instil the taste for diamonds, truffles,
and Veuve Clicquot, and you poison her whole nature. She becomes false,
cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, parsimonious of her own--a
vampire--a ghoul--the hideous thing we call in polite parlance a _Fille
de Marbre."_
Thus, with much gravity and emphasis, spoke Herr Franz Müller, lying on
his back upon a very ricketty sofa, and smoking like a steam-engine. A
cup of half-cold coffee, and a bottle of rum three parts emptied stood
beside him on the floor. These were the remains of his breakfast; for it
was yet early in the morning of the day following my great misadventure
at the Opéra Comique, and I had sought him out at his lodgings in the
Rue Clovis at an hour when the Quartier Latin was for the most part
in bed.
"Josephine, at all events, is not of the stuff that _Filles de Marbre_
are made of," I said, smiling.
"Perhaps not--_mais, que voulez-vous?_ We are what we are. A grisette
makes a bad fine lady. A fine lady would make a still worse grisette.
The Archbishopric of Paris is a most repectable and desirable
preferment; but your humble servant, for instance, would hardly suit
the place,"
"And the moral of this learned and perspicuous discourse?"
"_Tiens_! the moral, is--keep our fair friend in her place. Remember
that a dinner at thirty sous in the Palais Royal, or a fête with
fireworks at Mabille, will give her ten times more pleasure than the
daintiest repast you could order at the Maison Dorée, or the choicest
night of the season at either opera house. And how should it be
otherwise? One must understand a thing to be able to enjoy it; and I'll
be sworn Mam'selle Josephine was infinitely more bored last night than
yourself."
Our conversation, or rather his monologue, was here interrupted by the
ringing of the outer bell.
The artist sat up, took his pipe from his lips, and looked considerably
disturbed.
"_Mille tonnerres_!" said he in a low tone. "Who can it be?... so early
in the day ... not yet ten o'clock ... it is very mysterious."
"It is only mysterious," said I, "as long as you don't open the door.
Shall I answer the bell?"
"No--yes--wait a moment ... suppose it is that demon, my landlord, or
that archfiend, my tailor--then you must say ... holy St. Nicholas! you
must say I am in bed with small-pox, or that I've broken out suddenly
into homicidal delirium, and you're my keeper."
"Unfortunately I should not know either of your princes of darkness at
first sight."
"True--and it might be Dupont, who owes me thirty francs, and swore by
the bones of his aunt (an excellent person, who keeps an estaminet in
the Place St. Sulpice) that he would pay me this week. _Diable_! there
goes the bell again."
"It would perhaps be safest," I suggested, "to let M. or N. ring on till
he is tired of the exercise."
"But conceive the horrid possibility of letting thirty francs ring
themselves out of patience! No, _mon ami_--I will dare the worst that
may happen. Wait here for me--I will answer the door myself,"
Now it should be explained that Müller's apartments consisted of three
rooms. First, a small outer chamber which he dignified with the title of
Salle d'Attente, but which, as it was mainly furnished with old boots,
umbrellas and walking-sticks, and contained, by way of accommodation for
visitors only a three-legged stool and a door-mat, would have been more
fitly designated as the hall. Between this Salle d'Attente and the den
in which he slept, ate, smoked, and received his friends, lay the
studio--once a stately salon, now a wilderness of litter and
dilapidation. On one side you beheld three windows closely boarded up,
with strips of newspaper pasted over the cracks to exclude every gleam
of day. Overhead yawned a huge, dusty skylight, to make way for which a
fine old painted ceiling had been ruthlessly knocked away. On the walls
were pinned and pasted all sorts of rough sketches and studies in color
and crayon. In one corner lolled a despondent-looking lay-figure in a
moth-eaten Spanish cloak; in another lay a heap of plaster-casts,
gigantic hands and feet, broken-nosed masks of the Apollo, the Laocoon,
the Hercules Farnese, and other foreigners of distinction. Upon the
chimney-piece were displayed a pair of foils, a lute, a skull, an
antique German drinking-mug, and several very modern empty bottles. In
the middle of the room stood two large easels, a divan, a round table,
and three or four chairs; while the floor was thickly strewn with empty
color-tubes, bits of painting-rag, corks, cigar-ends, and all kinds of
miscellaneous litter.
All these things I had observed as I passed in; for this, be it
remembered, was my first visit to Müller in his own territory.
I heard him go through the studio and close the door behind him, and
then I heard him open the door upon the public staircase. Presently he
came back, shutting the door behind him as before.
"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, breathlessly, "you have brought luck
with you! What do you think? A sitter--positively, a sitter! Wants to be
sketched in at once--_Vive la France_!"
"Man or woman? Young or old? Plain or pretty?"
"Elderly half-length, feminine gender--Madame Tapotte. They are both
there, Monsieur and Madame Excellent couple--redolent of the
country--husband bucolic, adipose, auriferous--wife arrayed in all her
glory, like the Queen of Sheba. I left them in the Salle d'Attente--told
them I had a sitter--time immensely occupied--half-lengths furiously in
demand ... _Will_ you oblige me by performing the part for a few
minutes, just to carry out the idea?"
"What part?"
"The part of sitter."
"Oh, with pleasure," I replied, laughing. "Do with me what you please,"
"You don't mind? Come! you are the best fellow in the world. Now, if
you'll sit in that arm-chair facing the light--head a little thrown
back, arms folded, chin up ... Capital! You don't know what an effect
this will have upon the provincial mind!"
"But you're not going to let them in! You have no portrait of me to be
at work upon!"
"My dear fellow, I've dozens of half-finished studies, any one of which
will answer the purpose. _Voilà_! here is the very thing."
And snatching up a canvas that had been standing till now with its face
to the wall, he flourished it triumphantly before my eyes, and placed it
on the easel.
"Heavens and earth!" I exclaimed, "that's a copy of the Titian in the
Louvre--the 'Young Man with the Glove!'"
"What of that? Our Tapottes will never find out the difference. By the
way, I told them you were a great English Milord, so please keep up the
character."
"I will try to do credit to the peerage."
"And if you would not mind throwing in a word of English every now and
then ... a little Goddam, for instance.. . Eh?"
I laughed and shook my head.
"I will pose for you as Milord with all the pleasure in life," I said;
"only I cannot undertake to pose for the traditional Milord of the
Bouffes Parisiens! However, I will speak some English, and, if you like,
I'll know no French."
"No, no--_diable_! you must know a little, or I can't exchange a word
with you. But very little--the less the better. And now I'll let
them in."
They came; Madame first--tall, buxom, large-featured, fresh-colored,
radiant in flowers, lace, and Palais Royal jewelry; then
Monsieur--short, fat, bald, rosy and smiling, with a huge frill to his
shirt-front and a nankeen waistcoat.
Müller introduced them with much ceremony and many apologies.
"Permit me, milord," he said, "to present Monsieur and Madame
Tapotte--Monsieur and Madame Tapotte; Milord Smithfield."
I rose and bowed with the gravity becoming my rank.
"I have explained to milord," continued Müller, addressing himself
partly to the new-comers, partly to me, and chiefly to the study on the
easel, "that having no second room in which to invite Monsieur and
Madame to repose themselves, I am compelled to ask them into the
studio--where, however, his lordship is so very kind as to say that they
are welcome." (Hereupon Madame Tapotte curtsied again, and Monsieur
ducked his bald head, and I returned their salutations with the same
dignity as before.) "If Monsieur and Madame will be pleased to take
seats, however, his lordship's sitting will be ended in about ten
minutes. _Mille pardons_, the face, milord, a little more to the right.
Thank you--thank you very much. And if you will do me the favor to look
at me ... for the expression of the eye--just so--thank you! A most
important point, milord, is the expression of the eye. When I say the
expression, I mean the fire, the sparkle, the liquidity ... _enfin_ the
expression!"
Here he affected to put in some touches with immense delicacy--then
retreated a couple of yards, the better to contemplate his work--pursed
up his mouth--ran his fingers through his hair--shaded his eyes with his
hand--went back and put in another touch--again retreated--again put in
a touch; and so on some three or four times successively.
Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Tapotte were fidgeting upon their chairs
in respectful silence. Every now and then they exchanged glances of
wonder and admiration. They were evidently dying to compare my august
features with my portrait, but dared not take the liberty of rising. At
length the lady's curiosity could hold out no longer.
"_Ah, mon Dieu_!" she said; "but it must be very fatiguing to sit so
long in the same position. And to paint.... _Oiel!_ what practice! what
perseverance! what patience! _Avec permission_, M'sieur..."
And with this she sidled up to Müller's elbow, leaving Monsieur Tapotte
thunderstruck at her audacity.
Then for a moment she stood silent; but during that moment the eager,
apologetic smile vanished suddenly out of her face, and was succeeded by
an expression of blank disappointment.
"_Tiens_!" she said bluntly. "I don't see one bit of likeness."
I turned hot from head to foot, but Müller's serene effrontery was equal
to the occasion.
"I dare say not, Madame," he replied, coolly. "I dare say not. This
portrait is not intended to be like."
Madame Tapotte's eyes and mouth opened simultaneously.
"_Comment_!" she exclaimed.
"I should be extremely sorry," continued Müller, loftily, "and his
lordship would be extremely sorry, if there were too much resemblance."
"But a--a likeness--it seems to me, should at all events be--like,"
stammered Madame Tapotte, utterly bewildered.
"And if M'sieur is to paint my wife," added Monsieur Tapotte, who had by
this time joined the group at the easel, "I--I..._Dame_! it must be a
good deal more like than this."
Müller drew himself up with an air of great dignity.
"Sir," he said, "if Madame does me the honor to sit to me for her
portrait--for her _own_ portrait, observe--I flatter myself the
resemblance will be overwhelming. But you must permit me to inform you
that Milord Smithfield is not sitting for his own portrait."
The Tapottes looked at each other in a state bordering on stupefaction.
"His lordship," continued Müller, "is sitting for the portrait of one of
his illustrious ancestors--a nobleman of the period of Queen Elizabeth."
Tapotte _mari_ scratched his head, and smiled feebly.
"_Parbleu_!" said he, "_mais c'est bien drôle, ça_!"
The artist shrugged his shoulders.
"It so happens," said he, "that his lordship's gallery at Smithfield
Castle has unhappily been more than half destroyed by fire. Two
centuries of family portraits reduced to ashes! Terrible misfortune!
Only one way of repairing the loss--that is of partially repairing it. I
do my best. I read the family records--I study the history of the
period--his lordship sits to me daily--I endeavor to give a certain
amount of family likeness; sometimes more, you observe, sometimes less
... enormous responsibility, Monsieur Tapotte!"
"Oh, enormous!"
"The taste for family portraits," continued Müller, still touching up
the Titian, "is a very natural one--and is on the increase. Many
gentlemen of--of somewhat recent wealth, come to me for their
ancestors."
"No!"
"_Foi d'honneur_. Few persons, however, are as conscientious as his
lordship in the matter of family resemblance. They mostly buy up their
forefathers ready-made--adopt them, christen them, and ask no
questions."
Monsieur and Madame Tapotte exchanged glances.
"_Tiens, mon ami_, why should we not have an ancestor or two, as well
as other folks," suggested the lady, in a very audible whisper.
Monsieur shook his head, and muttered something about the expense.
"There is no harm, at all events," urged madame, "in asking the price."
"My charge for gallery portraits, madame, varies from sixty to a hundred
francs," said Müller.
"Heavens! how dear! Why, my own portrait is to be only fifty."
"Sixty, Madame, if we put in the hands and the jewelry," said Müller,
blandly.
"_Eh bien_!--sixty. But for these other things.... bah! _ils sont
fierement chers_."
"_Pardon_, madame! The elegancies and superfluities of life are, by a
just rule of political economy, expensive. It is right that they should
be so; as it is right that the necessaries of life should be within the
reach of the poorest. Bread, for instance, is strictly necessary, and
should be cheap. A great-grandfather, on the contrary, is an elegant
superfluity, and may be put up at a high figure."
"There is some truth in that," murmured Monsieur Tapotte.
"Besides, in the present instance, one also pays for antiquity."
"_C'est juste--C'est juste_."
"At the same time," continued Müller, "if Monsieur Tapotte were to honor
me with a commission for, say, half a dozen family portraits, I would
endeavor to put them in at forty francs apiece--including, at that very
low price, a Revolutionary Deputy, a beauty of the Louis Quinze period,
and a Marshal of France."
"_Tiens_! that's a fair offer enough," said madame. "What say you, _mon
ami_?"
But Monsieur Tapotte, being a cautious man, would say nothing hastily.
He coughed, looked doubtful, declined to commit himself to an opinion,
and presently drew off into a corner for the purpose of holding a
whispered consultation with his wife.
Meanwhile Müller laid aside his brushes and palette, informed me with a
profound bow that my lordship had honored him by sitting as long as was
strictly necessary, and requested my opinion upon the progress of
the work.
I praised it rapturously. You would have thought, to hear me, that for
drawing, breadth, finish, color, composition, chiaroscuro, and every
other merit that a painting could possess, this particular
_chef-d'oeuvre_ excelled all the masterpieces of Europe.
Müller bowed, and bowed, and bowed, like a Chinaman at a visit of
ceremony; He was more than proud; he was overwhelmed, _accablé_, et
caetera, et caetera.
The Tapottes left off whispering, and listened breathlessly.
"He is evidently a great painter, _not' jeune homme_!" said Madame in
one of her large whispers.
To which Monsieur replied as audibly:--"_Ça se voit, ma femme--sacre nom
d'une pipe_!"
"Milford will do me the favor to sit again on Friday?" said Müller, as I
took up my hat and gloves.
I replied with infinite condescension that I would endeavor to do so. I
then made the stiffest of stiff bows to the excellent Tapottes, and,
ushered to the door by Müller, took my departure majestically in the
character of Lord Smithfield.