Trilby Read online

  Part Second

  "Dieu! qu'il fait bon la regarder, La gracieuse, bonne et belle! Pour les grands biens qui sont en elle Chacun est prêt de la louer."

  Nobody knew exactly how Svengali lived, and very few knew where (orwhy). He occupied a roomy dilapidated garret, au sixième, in the RueTire-Liard; with a truckle-bed and a piano-forte for furniture, and verylittle else.

  He was poor; for in spite of his talent he had not yet made his mark inParis. His manners may have been accountable for this. He would eitherfawn or bully, and could be grossly impertinent. He had a kind ofcynical humor, which was more offensive than amusing, and always laughedat the wrong thing, at the wrong time, in the wrong place. And hislaughter was always derisive and full of malice. And his egotism andconceit were not to be borne; and then he was both tawdry and dirty inhis person more greasily, mattedly unkempt than even a reallysuccessful pianist has any right to be, even in the best society.

  He was not a nice man, and there was no pathos in his poverty--a povertythat was not honorable, and need not have existed at all; for he wasconstantly receiving supplies from his own people in Austria--his oldfather and mother, his sisters, his cousins, and his aunts,hard-working, frugal folk of whom he was the pride and the darling.

  He had but one virtue--his love of his art; or, rather, his love ofhimself as a master of his art--_the_ master; for he despised, oraffected to despise, all other musicians, living or dead--even thosewhose work he interpreted so divinely, and pitied them for not hearingSvengali give utterance to their music, which of course they could notutter themselves.

  "Ils safent tous un peu toucher du biâno, mais pas grand'chose!"

  He had been the best pianist of his time at the Conservatory in Leipsic;and, indeed, there was perhaps some excuse for this overweening conceit,since he was able to lend a quite peculiar individual charm of his ownto any music he played, except the highest and best of all, in which heconspicuously failed.

  He had to draw the line just above Chopin, where he reached his highestlevel. It will not do to lend your own quite peculiar individual charmto Handel and Bach and Beethoven; and Chopin is not bad as a_pis-aller_.

  He had ardently wished to sing, and had studied hard to that end inGermany, in Italy, in France, with the forlorn hope of evolving fromsome inner recess a voice to sing with. But nature had been singularlyharsh to him in this one respect--inexorable. He was absolutely withoutvoice, beyond the harsh, hoarse, weak raven's croak he used to speakwith, and no method availed to make one for him. But he grew tounderstand the human voice as perhaps no one has understood it--beforeor since.

  So in his head he went forever singing, singing, singing, as probably nohuman nightingale has ever yet been able to sing out loud for the gloryand delight of his fellow-mortals; making unheard heavenly melody of thecheapest, trivialest tunes--tunes of the café concert, tunes of thenursery, the shop-parlor, the guard-room, the school-room, the pothouse,the slum. There was nothing so humble, so base even, but that his magiccould transform it into the rarest beauty without altering a note. Thisseems impossible, I know. But if it didn't, where would the magic comein?

  Whatever of heart or conscience--pity, love, tenderness, manliness,courage, reverence, charity--endowed him at his birth had been swallowedup by this one faculty, and nothing of them was left for the common usesof life. He poured them all into his little flexible flageolet.

  Svengali playing Chopin on the piano-forte, even (or especially)Svengali playing "Ben Bolt" on that penny whistle of his, was as one ofthe heavenly host.

  "AS BAD AS THEY MAKE 'EM"]

  Svengali walking up and down the earth seeking whom he might cheat,betray, exploit, borrow money from, make brutal fun of, bully if hedared, cringe to if he must--man, woman, child, or dog--was about as badas they make 'em.

  To earn a few pence when he couldn't borrow them he playedaccompaniments at café concerts, and even then he gave offence; for inhis contempt for the singer he would play too loud, and embroider hisaccompaniments with brilliant improvisations of his own, and lift hishands on high and bring them down with a bang in the sentimental parts,and shake his dirty mane and shrug his shoulders, and smile and leer atthe audience, and do all he could to attract their attention to himself.He also gave a few music lessons (not at ladies' schools, let us hope),for which he was not well paid, presumably, since he was always withoutthe sou, always borrowing money, that he never paid back, and exhaustingthe pockets and the patience of one acquaintance after another.

  He had but two friends. There was Gecko, who lived in a little garretclose by in the Impasse des Ramoneurs, and who was second violin in theorchestra of the Gymnase, and shared his humble earnings with hismaster, to whom, indeed, he owed his great talent, not yet revealed tothe world.

  Svengali's other friend and pupil was (or rather had been) themysterious Honorine, of whose conquest he was much given to boast,hinting that she was "une jeune femme du monde." This was not the case.Mademoiselle Honorine Cahen (better known in the quartier latin as Mimila Salope) was a dirty, drabby little dolly-mop of a Jewess, a model forthe figure--a very humble person indeed, socially.

  She was, however, of a very lively disposition, and had a charmingvoice, and a natural gift of singing so sweetly that you forgot heraccent, which was that of the "tout ce qu'il y a de plus canaille."

  She used to sit at Carrel's, and during the pose she would sing. WhenLittle Billee first heard her he was so fascinated that "it made himsick to think she sat for the figure"--an effect, by-the-way, that wasalways produced upon him by all specially attractive figure models ofthe gentler sex, for he had a reverence for woman. And before everythingelse, he had for the singing woman an absolute worship. He wasespecially thrall to the contralto--the deep low voice that breaks andchanges in the middle and soars all at once into a magnified angelic boytreble. It pierced through his ears to his heart, and stirred his veryvitals.

  He had once heard Madame Alboni, and it had been an epoch in his life;he would have been an easy prey to the sirens! Even beauty paled beforethe lovely female voice singing in the middle of the note--thenightingale killed the bird-of-paradise.

  I need hardly say that poor Mimi la Salope had not the voice of MadameAlboni, nor the art; but it was a beautiful voice of its little kind,always in the very middle of the note, and her artless art had its quickseduction.

  She sang little songs of Béranger's--"Grand'mère, parlez-nous de lui!"or "T'en souviens-tu? disait un capitaine--" or "Enfants, c'est moi quisuis Lisette!" and such like pretty things, that almost brought thetears to Little Billee's easily moistened eyes.

  But soon she would sing little songs that were not by Béranger--littlesongs with slang words Little Billee hadn't French enough to understand;but from the kind of laughter with which the points were received bythe "rapins" in Carrel's studio he guessed these little songs were vile,though the touching little voice was as that of the seraphim still; andhe knew the pang of disenchantment and vicarious shame.

  Svengali had heard her sing at the Brasserie des Porcherons in the Ruedu Crapaud-volant, and had volunteered to teach her; and she went to seehim in his garret, and he played to her, and leered and ogled, andflashed his bold, black, beady Jew's eyes into hers, and she straightwaymentally prostrated herself in reverence and adoration before thisdazzling specimen of her race.

  So that her sordid, mercenary little gutter-draggled soul was filledwith the sight and the sound of him, as of a lordly, godlike,shawm-playing, cymbal-banging hero and prophet of the Lord God ofIsrael--David and Saul in one!

  And then he set himself to teach her--kindly and patiently at first,calling her sweet little pet names--his "Rose of Sharon," his "pearl ofPabylon," his "cazelle-eyed liddle Cherusalem skylark"--and promised herthat she should be the queen of the nightingales.

  But before he could teach her anything he had to unteach her all sheknew; her breathing, the production of her voice, its emission--everythingwas wrong. She worked indefatigably to ple
ase him, and soon succeeded inforgetting all the pretty little sympathetic tricks of voice andphrasing Mother Nature had taught her.

  "A VOICE HE DIDN'T UNDERSTAND"]

  But though she had an exquisite ear, she had no real musicalintelligence--no intelligence of any kind except about sous andcentimes; she was as stupid as a little downy owl, and her voice wasjust a light native warble, a throstle's pipe, all in the head and noseand throat (a voice he _didn't_ understand, for once), a thing of mereyouth and health and bloom and high spirits--like her beauty, such as itwas--_beauté du diable, beauté damnée_.

  She did her very best, and practised all she could in this new way, andsang herself hoarse: she scarcely ate or slept for practising. He grewharsh and impatient and coldly severe, and of coarse she loved him allthe more; and the more she loved him the more nervous she got and theworse she sang. Her voice cracked; her ear became demoralized; herattempts to vocalize grew almost as comical as Trilby's. So that he losthis temper completely, and called her terrible names, and pinched andpunched her with his big bony hands till she wept worse than Niobe, andborrowed money of her--five-franc pieces, even francs anddemifrancs--which he never paid her back; and browbeat and bullied andballyragged her till she went quite mad for love of him, and would havejumped out of his sixth-floor window to give him a moment's pleasure!

  He did not ask her to do this--it never occurred to him, and would havegiven him no pleasure to speak of. But one fine Sabbath morning (aSaturday, of course) he took her by the shoulders and chucked her, neckand crop, out of his garret, with the threat that if she ever dared toshow her face there again he would denounce her to the police--an awfulthreat to the likes of poor Mimi la Salope!

  "For where did all those five-franc pieces come from--_hein?_--withwhich she had tried to pay for all the singing-lessons that had beenthrown away upon her? Not from merely sitting to painters--_hein?_"

  Thus the little gazelle-eyed Jerusalem skylark went back to her nativestreets again--a mere mud-lark of the Paris slums--her wings clipped,her spirit quenched and broken, and with no more singing left in herthan a common or garden sparrow--not so much!

  And so, no more of "la betite Honorine!"

  * * * * *

  The morning after this adventure Svengali woke up in his garret with atremendous longing to spend a happy day; for it was a Sunday, and a veryfine one.

  He made a long arm and reached his waistcoat and trousers off the floor,and emptied the contents of their pockets on to his tattered blanket; nosilver, no gold, only a few sous and two-sou pieces, just enough to payfor a meagre _premier déjeuner_!

  He had cleared out Gecko the day before, and spent the proceeds (tenfrancs, at least) in one night's riotous living--pleasures in whichGecko had had no share; and he could think of no one to borrow moneyfrom but Little Billee, Taffy, and the Laird, whom he had neglected andleft untapped for days.

  So he slipped into his clothes, and looked at himself in what remainedof a little zinc mirror, and found that his forehead left little to bedesired, but that his eyes and temples were decidedly grimy. Wherefore,he poured a little water out of a little jug into a little basin, and,twisting the corner of his pocket-handkerchief round his dirtyforefinger, he delicately dipped it, and removed the offending stains.His fingers, he thought, would do very well for another day or two asthey were; he ran them through his matted black mane, pushed it behindhis ears, and gave it the twist he liked (and that was so much dislikedby his English friends). Then he put on his béret and his velveteencloak, and went forth into the sunny streets, with a sense of thefragrance and freedom and pleasantness of Sunday morning in Paris in themonth of May.

  He found Little Billee sitting in a zinc hip-bath, busy with soap andsponge; and was so tickled and interested by the sight that he quiteforgot for the moment what he had come for.

  "Himmel! Why the devil are you doing that?" he asked, in hisGerman-Hebrew-French.

  "Doing _what_?" asked Little Billee, in his French ofStratford-atte-Bowe.

  "Sitting in water and playing with a cake of soap and a sponge!"

  "Why, to try and get myself _clean_, I suppose!"

  "Ach! And how the devil did you get yourself _dirty_, then?"

  To this Little Billee found no immediate answer, and went on with hisablution after the hissing, splashing, energetic fashion of Englishmen;and Svengali laughed loud and long at the spectacle of a littleEnglishman trying to get himself clean--"tâchant de se nettoyer!"

  When such cleanliness had been attained as was possible under thecircumstances, Svengali begged for the loan of two hundred francs, andLittle Billee gave him a five-franc piece.

  Content with this, _faute de mieux_, the German asked him when he wouldbe trying to get himself clean again, as he would much like to come andsee him do it.

  "Demang mattang, à votre sairveece!" said Little Billee, with acourteous bow.

  "_What!! Monday too!!_ Gott in Himmel! you try to get yourself clean_every day_?"

  And he laughed himself out of the room, out of the house, out of thePlace de l'Odéon--all the way to the Rue de Seine, where dwelt the "Manof Blood," whom he meant to propitiate with the story of that original,Little Billee, trying to get himself clean--that he might borrow anotherfive-franc piece, or perhaps two.

  "AND SO, NO MORE."]

  As the reader will no doubt anticipate, he found Taffy in his bath too,and fell to laughing with such convulsive laughter, such twistings,screwings, and doublings of himself up, such pointings of his dirtyforefinger at the huge naked Briton, that Taffy was offended, and allbut lost his temper.

  "What the devil are you cackling at, sacred head of pig that you are?Do you want to be pitched out of that window into the Rue de Seine? Youfilthy black Hebrew sweep! Just you wait a bit; _I'll_ wash your headfor you!"

  And Taffy jumped out of his bath, such a towering figure of righteousHerculean wrath that Svengali was appalled, and fled.

  "Donnerwetter!" he exclaimed, as he tumbled down the narrow staircase ofthe Hôtel de Seine; "what for a thick head! what for a pig-dog! what fora rotten, brutal, verfluchter kerl of an Englander!"

  Then he paused for thought.

  "Now will I go to that Scottish Englander, in the Place St. Anatole desArts, for that other five-franc piece. But first will I wait a littlewhile till he has perhaps finished trying to get himself clean."

  So he breakfasted at the crèmerie Souchet, in the Rue Clopin-Clopant,and, feeling quite safe again, he laughed and laughed till his verysides were sore.

  Two Englanders in one day--as naked as your hand!--a big one and alittle one, trying to get themselves clean!

  He rather flattered himself he'd scored off those two Englanders.

  After all, he was right perhaps, from his point of view: you can get asdirty in a week as in a lifetime, so what's the use of taking such a lotof trouble? Besides, so long as you are clean enough to suit your kind,to be any cleaner would be priggish and pedantic, and get you disliked.

  Just as Svengali was about to knock at the Laird's door, Trilby camedown-stairs from Durien's, very unlike herself. Her eyes were red withweeping, and there were great black rings round them; she was pale underher freckles.

  "Fous afez du chacrin, matemoiselle?" asked he.

  She told him that she had neuralgia in her eyes, a thing she was subjectto; that the pain was maddening, and generally lasted twenty-four hours.

  "Perhaps I can cure you; come in here with me."

  The Laird's ablutions (if he had indulged in any that morning) wereevidently over for the day. He was breakfasting on a roll and butter,and coffee of his own brewing. He was deeply distressed at the sight ofpoor Trilby's sufferings, and offered whiskey and coffee and gingernuts,which she would not touch.

  Svengali told her to sit down on the divan, and sat opposite to her, andbade her look him well in the white of the eyes.

  "Recartez-moi pien tans le planc tes yeux."

  Then he made little passes and count
erpasses on her forehead and templesand down her cheek and neck. Soon her eyes closed and her face grewplacid. After a while, a quarter of an hour perhaps, he asked her if shesuffered still.

  "Oh! presque plus du tout, monsieur--c'est le ciel."

  In a few minutes more he asked the Laird if he knew German.

  "Just enough to understand," said the Laird (who had spent a year inDüsseldorf), and Svengali said to him in German: "See, she sleeps not,but she shall not open her eyes. Ask her."

  "Are you asleep, Miss Trilby?" asked the Laird.

  "No."

  "Then open your eyes and look at me."

  She strained her eyes, but could not, and said so.

  Then Svengali said, again in German, "She shall not open her mouth. Askher."

  "'TWO ENGLANDERS IN ONE DAY'"]

  "Why couldn't you open your eyes. Miss Trilby?" She strained to open hermouth and speak, but in vain. "She shall not rise from the divan. Askher." But Trilby was spellbound, and could not move.

  "I will now set her free," said Svengali.

  And, lo! she got up and waved her arms, and cried, "Vive la Prusse! mev'là guérie!" and in her gratitude she kissed Svengali's hand; and heleered, and showed his big brown teeth and the yellow whites at the topof his big black eyes, and drew his breath with a hiss.

  "Now I'll go to Durien's and sit. How can I thank you, monsieur? Youhave taken all my pain away."

  "Yes, matemoiselle. I have got it myself; it is in my elbows. But I loveit, because it comes from you. Every time you have pain you shall cometo me, 12 Rue Tire-Liard, au sixième au-dessus de l'entresol, and I willcure you and take your pain myself--"

  "Oh, you are too good!" and in her high spirits she turned round on herheel and uttered her portentous war-cry, "Milk below!" The very raftersrang with it, and the piano gave out a solemn response.

  "What is that you say, matemoiselle?"

  "Oh! it's what the milkmen say in England."

  "It is a wonderful cry, matemoiselle--wunderschön! It comes straightthrough the heart; it has its roots in the stomach, and blossoms intomusic on the lips like the voice of Madame Alboni--voce sulle labbre! Itis good production--c'est un cri du cœur!"

  Trilby blushed with pride and pleasure.

  "Yes, matemoiselle! I only know one person in the whole world who canproduce the voice so well as you! I give you my word of honor."

  "Who is it, monsieur--yourself?"

  "Ach, no, matemoiselle; I have not that privilege. I have unfortunatelyno voice to produce.... It is a waiter at the Café de la Rotonde, in thePalais Royal; when you call for coffee, he says 'Boum!' in bassoprofondo. Tiefstimme--F. moll below the line--it is phenomenal! It islike a cannon--a cannon also has very good production, matemoiselle.They pay him for it a thousand francs a year, because he brings manycustomers to the Café de la Rotonde, where the coffee isn't very good.When he dies they will search all France for another, and then allGermany, where the good big waiters come from--and the cannons--but theywill not find him, and the Café de la Rotonde will be bankrupt--unlessyou will consent to take his place. Will you permit that I shall lookinto your mouth, matemoiselle?"

  She opened her mouth wide, and he looked into it.

  "Himmel! the roof of your mouth is like the dome of the Panthéon thereis room in it for 'toutes les gloires de la France,' and a little tospare! The entrance to your throat is like the middle porch of St.Sulpice when the doors are open for the faithful on All-Saints' day; andnot one tooth is missing--thirty-two British teeth as white as milk andas big as knuckle-bones! and your little tongue is scooped out like theleaf of a pink peony, and the bridge of your nose is like the belly of aStradivarius--what a sounding-board! and inside your beautiful big chestthe lungs are made of leather! and your breath, it embalms--like thebreath of a beautiful white heifer fed on the buttercups, and daisies ofthe Vaterland! and you have a quick, soft, susceptible heart, a heart ofgold, matemoiselle--all that sees itself in your face!

  "'HIMMEL! THE ROOF OF YOUR MOUTH'"]

  "'Votre cœur est un luth suspendu! Aussitôt qu'on le touche, il résonne....'

  What a pity you have not also the musical organization!"

  "Oh, but I _have_, monsieur; you heard me sing 'Ben Bolt,' didn't you?What makes you say that?"

  Svengali was confused for a moment. Then he said: "When I play the'Rosemonde' of Schubert, matemoiselle, you look another way and smoke acigarette.... You look at the big Taffy, at the Little Billee, at thepictures on the walls, or out of window, at the sky, the chimney-pots ofNotre Dame de Paris; you do not look at Svengali!--Svengali, who looksat you with all his eyes, and plays you the 'Rosemonde' of Schubert!"

  "Oh, maïe, aïe!" exclaimed Trilby; "you _do_ use lovely language!"

  "But never mind, matemoiselle; when your pain arrives, then shall youcome once more to Svengali, and he shall take it away from you, and keepit himself for a soufenir of you when you are gone. And when you have itno more, he shall play you the 'Rosemonde' of Schubert, all alone foryou; and then, 'Messieurs les étutiants, montez à la chaumière!' ...because it is gayer! _And you shall see nothing, hear nothing, think ofnothing but Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!_"

  Here he felt his peroration to be so happy and effective that he thoughtit well to go at once and make a good exit. So he bent over Trilby'sshapely freckled hand and kissed it, and bowed himself out of the room,without even borrowing his five-franc piece.

  "He's a rum 'un, ain't he?" said Trilby. "He reminds me of a big hungryspider, and makes me feel like a fly! But he's cured my pain! he's curedmy pain! Ah! you don't know what my pain is when it comes!"

  "I wouldn't have much to do with him, all the same!" said the Laird."I'd sooner have any pain than have it cured in that unnatural way, andby such a man as that! He's a bad fellow, Svengali--I'm sure of it! Hemesmerized you; that's what it is--mesmerism! I've often heard of it,but never seen it done before. They get you into their power, and justmake you do any blessed thing they please--lie, murder, steal--anything!and kill yourself into the bargain when they've done with you! It's justtoo terrible to think of!"

  So spake the Laird, earnestly, solemnly, surprised out of his usualself, and most painfully impressed--and his own impressiveness grew uponhim and impressed him still more. He loomed quite prophetic.

  Cold shivers went down Trilby's back as she listened. She had asingularly impressionable nature, as was shown by her quick and readysusceptibility to Svengali's hypnotic influence. And all that day, asshe posed for Durien (to whom she did not mention her adventure), shewas haunted by the memory of Svengali's big eyes and the touch of hissoft, dirty finger-tips on her face; and her fear and her repulsion grewtogether.

  And "Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!" went ringing in her head and earstill it became an obsession, a dirge, a knell, an unendurable burden,almost as hard to bear as the pain in her eyes.

  "_Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!_"

  At last she asked Durien if he knew him.

  "Parbleu! Si je connais Svengali!"

  "Quest-ce que t'en penses?"

  "Quand il sera mort, ça fera une fameuse crapule de moins!"

  "CHEZ CARREL."

  Carrel's atelier (or painting-school) was in the Rue Notre Dame desPotirons St. Michel, at the end of a large court-yard, where there weremany large dirty windows facing north, and each window let the light ofheaven into a large dirty studio.

  The largest of these studios, and the dirtiest, was Carrel's, where somethirty or forty art students drew and painted from the nude model everyday but Sunday from eight till twelve, and for two hours in theafternoon, except on Saturdays, when the afternoon was devoted tomuch-needed Augean sweepings and cleanings.

  One week the model was male, the next female, and so on, alternatingthroughout the year.

  A stove, a model-throne, stools, boxes, some fifty strongly built lowchairs with backs, a couple of score easels and many drawing-boards,completed the mobilier.

  The bare walls were adorned with endless
caricatures--_des charges_--incharcoal and white chalk; and also the scrapings of many palettes--apolychromous decoration not unpleasing.

  "'ÇA FERA UNE FAMEUSE CRAPULE DE MOINS'"]

  For the freedom of the studio and the use of the model each student paidten francs a month to the massier, or senior student, the responsiblebellwether of the flock; besides this, it was expected of you, on yourentrance or initiation, that you should pay for your footing--your_bienvenue_--some thirty, forty, or fifty francs, to be spent on cakesand rum punch all round.

  Every Friday Monsieur Carrel, a great artist, and also a stately,well-dressed, and most courteous gentleman (duly decorated with the redrosette of the Legion of Honor), came for two or three hours and wentthe round, spending a few minutes at each drawing-board or easel--tenor even twelve when the pupil was an industrious and promising one.

  He did this for love, not money, and deserved all the reverence withwhich he inspired this somewhat irreverent and most unruly company,which was made up of all sorts.

  Graybeards who had been drawing and painting there for thirty years andmore, and remembered other masters than Carrel, and who could draw andpaint a torso almost as well as Titian or Velasquez--almost, but notquite--and who could never do anything else, and were fixtures atCarrel's for life.

  Younger men who in a year or two, or three or five, or ten or twenty,were bound to make their mark, and perhaps follow in the footsteps ofthe master; others as conspicuously singled out for failure and futuremischance--for the hospital, the garret, the river, the Morgue, or,worse, the traveller's bag, the road, or even the paternal counter.

  Irresponsible boys, mere rapins, all laugh and chaff andmischief--"blague et bagout Parisien"; little lords of misrule--wits,butts, bullies; the idle and industrious apprentice, the good and thebad, the clean and the dirty (especially the latter)--all more or lessanimated by a certain _esprit de corps_, and working very happily andgenially together, on the whole, and always willing to help each otherwith sincere artistic counsel if it were asked for seriously, though itwas not always couched in terms very flattering to one's self-love.

  Before Little Billee became one of this band of brothers he had beenworking for three or four years in a London art school, drawing andpainting from the life; he had also worked from the antique in theBritish Museum--so that he was no novice.

  As he made his début at Carrel's one Monday morning he felt somewhat shyand ill at ease. He had studied French most earnestly at home inEngland, and could read it pretty well, and even write it and speak itafter a fashion but he spoke it with much difficulty, and found studioFrench a different language altogether from the formal and politelanguage he had been at such pains to learn. Ollendorff does not caterfor the quartier latin. Acting on Taffy's advice--for Taffy had workedunder Carrel--Little Billee handed sixty francs to the massier for his_bienvenue_--a lordly sum--and this liberality made a most favorableimpression, and went far to destroy any little prejudice that might havebeen caused by the daintiness of his dress, the cleanliness of hisperson, and the politeness of his manners. A place was assigned to him,and an easel and a board; for he elected to stand at his work and beginwith a chalk drawing. The model (a male) was posed, and work began insilence. Monday morning is always rather sulky everywhere (exceptperhaps in judee). During the ten minutes' rest three or four studentscame and looked at Little Billee's beginnings, and saw at a glance thathe thoroughly well knew what he was about, and respected him for it.

  Nature had given him a singularly light hand--or rather two, for he wasambidextrous, and could use both with equal skill; and a few months'practice at a London life school had quite cured him of thatpurposeless indecision of touch which often characterizes the prenticehand for years of apprenticeship, and remains with the amateur for life.The lightest and most careless of his pencil strokes had a precisionthat was inimitable, and a charm that specially belonged to him, and waseasy to recognize at a glance. His touch on either canvas or paper waslike Svengali's on the key-board--unique.

  As the morning ripened little attempts at conversation were made--littlebreakings of the ice of silence. It was Lambert, a youth with asingularly facetious face, who first woke the stillness with thefollowing uncalled-for remarks in English very badly pronounced:

  "Av you seen my fahzere's ole shoes?"

  "I av not seen your fahzere's ole shoes."

  Then, after a pause:

  "Av you seen my fahzere's ole 'at?"

  "I av not seen your fahzere's old 'at!"

  Presently another said, "Je trouve qu'il a une jolie tête, l'Anglais."

  But I will put it all into English:

  "I find that he has a pretty head--the Englishman! What say _you_,Barizel?"

  "Yes; but why has he got eyes like brandy-balls, two a penny?"

  "Because he's an Englishman!"

  "Yes; but why has he got a mouth like a guinea-pig, with two big teethin front like the double blank at dominos?"

  "Because he's an Englishman!"

  "'AV YOU SEEN MY FAHZERE'S OLE SHOES?'"]

  "Yes; but why has he got a back without any bend in it, as if he'dswallowed the Colonne Vendôme as far up as the battle of Austerlitz?"

  "Because he's an Englishman!"

  And so on, till all the supposed characteristics of Little Billee'souter man were exhausted. Then:

  "Papelard!"

  "What?"

  "_I_ should like to know if the Englishman says his prayers before goingto bed."

  "Ask him."

  "Ask him yourself!"

  "_I_ should like to know if the Englishman has sisters; and if so, howold and how many and what sex."

  "Ask him."

  "Ask him yourself!"

  "_I_ should like to know the detailed and circumstantial history of theEnglishman's first love, and how he lost his innocence!"

  "Ask him," etc., etc., etc.

  Little Billee, conscious that he was the object of conversation, grewsomewhat nervous. Soon he was addressed directly.

  "Dites donc, l'Anglais?"

  "Kwaw?" said Little Billee.

  "Avez-vous une sœur?"

  "Wee."

  "Est-ce qu'elle vous ressemble?"

  "Nong."

  "C'est bien dommage! Est-ce qu'elle dit ses prières, le soir, en secouchant?"

  A fierce look came into Little Billee's eyes and a redness to hischeeks, and this particular form of overture to friendship wasabandoned.

  Presently Lambert said, "Si nous mettions l'Anglais à l'échelle?"

  Little Billee, who had been warned, knew what this ordeal meant.

  They tied you to a ladder, and carried you in procession up and down thecourt-yard, and if you were nasty about it they put you under the pump.

  During the next rest it was explained to him that he must submit to thisindignity, and the ladder (which was used for reaching the high shelvesround the studio) was got ready.

  Little Billee smiled a singularly winning smile, and suffered himself tobe bound with such good-humor that they voted it wasn't amusing, andunbound him, and he escaped the ordeal by ladder.

  Taffy had also escaped, but in another way. When they tried to seize himhe took up the first _rapin_ that came to hand, and, using him as a kindof club, he swung him about so freely and knocked down so many studentsand easels and drawing-boards with him, and made such a terrific rumpus,that the whole studio had to cry for "pax!" Then he performed feats ofstrength of such a surprising kind that the memory of him remained inCarrel's studio for years, and he became a legend, a tradition, a myth!It is now said (in what still remains of the quartier latin) that he wasseven feet high, and used to juggle with the massier and model as with apair of billiard balls, using only his left hand!

  To return to Little Billee. When it struck twelve, the cakes and rumpunch arrived--a very goodly sight that put every one in a good temper.

  The cakes were of three kinds--Babas, Madeleines, and Savarins--threesous apiece, fourpence half-penny the set of three. No nic
er cakes aremade in France, and they are as good in the quartier latin as anywhereelse; no nicer cakes are made in the whole world, that I know of. Youmust begin with the Madeleine, which is rich and rather heavy; then theBaba; and finish up with the Savarin, which is shaped like a ring, verylight, and flavored with rum. And then you must really leave off.

  The rum punch was tepid, very sweet, and not a bit too strong.

  They dragged the model-throne into the middle, and a chair was put onfor Little Billee, who dispensed his hospitality in a very polite andattractive manner, helping the massier first, and then the othergraybeards in the order of their grayness, and so on down to the model.

  Presently, just as he was about to help himself, he was asked to singthem an English song. After a little pressing he sang them a song abouta gay cavalier who went to serenade his mistress (and a ladder of ropes,and a pair of masculine gloves that didn't belong to the gay cavalier,but which he found in his lady's bower)--a poor sort of song, but it wasthe nearest approach to a comic song he knew. There are four verses toit, and each verse is rather long. It does not sound at all funny to aFrench audience, and even with an English one Little Billee was not goodat comic songs.

  TAFFY À L'ÉCHELLE!]

  He was, however, much applauded at the end of each verse. When he hadfinished, he was asked if he were _quite_ sure there wasn't any more ofit, and they expressed a deep regret; and then each student, straddlingon his little thick-set chair as on a horse, and clasping the back of itin both hands, galloped round Little Billee's throne quiteseriously--the strangest procession he had ever seen. It made him laughtill he cried, so that he couldn't eat or drink.

  Then he served more punch and cake all round; and just as he was goingto begin himself, Papelard said:

  "Say, you others, I find that the Englishman has something of trulydistinguished in the voice, something of sympathetic, oftouching--something of _je ne sais quoi_!"

  Bouchardy: "Yes, yes--something of _je ne sais quoi_! That's the veryphrase--n'est-ce pas, vous autres, that is a good phrase that Papelardhas just invented to describe the voice of the Englishman. He is veryintelligent, Papelard."

  Chorus: "Perfect, perfect; he has the genius of characterization,Papelard. Dites donc, l'Anglais! once more that beautiful song--hein?Nous vous en prions tous."

  Little Billee willingly sang it again, with even greater applause, andagain they galloped, but the other way round and faster, so that LittleBillee became quite hysterical, and laughed till his sides ached.

  Then Dubosc: "I find there is something of very capitous and exciting inEnglish music--of very stimulating. And you, Bouchardy?"

  Bouchardy: "Oh, me! It is above all the _words_ that I admire; they havesomething of passionate, of romantic--'ze-ese glâ-âves, zeseglâ-âves--zey do not belong to me.' I don't know what that means, but Ilove that sort of--of--of--_je ne sais quoi_, in short! Just _once_more, l'Anglais; only _once_, the _four_ couplets."

  So he sang it a third time, all four verses, while they leisurely ateand drank and smoked and looked at each other, nodding solemncommendation of certain phrases in the song: "Très bien!" "Très bien!""Ah! voilà qui est bien réussi!" "Épatant, ça!" "Très fin!" etc., etc.For, stimulated by success, and rising to the occasion, he did his veryutmost to surpass himself in emphasis of gesture and accent andhistrionic drollery--heedless of the fact that not one of his listenershad the slightest notion what his song was about.

  It was a sorry performance.

  And it was not till he had sung it four times that he discovered thewhole thing was an elaborate impromptu farce, of which he was the butt,and that of all his royal spread not a crumb or a drop was left forhimself.

  It was the old fable of the fox and the crow! And to do him justice, helaughed as heartily as any one, as if he thoroughly enjoyed thejoke--and when you take jokes in that way people soon leave off pokingfun at you. It is almost as good as being very big, like Taffy, andhaving a choleric blue eye!

  Such was Little Billee's first experience of Carrel's studio, where hespent many happy mornings and made many good friends.

  No more popular student had ever worked there within the memory of thegrayest graybeards; none more amiable, more genial, more cheerful,self-respecting, considerate, and polite, and certainly none withgreater gifts for art.

  Carrel would devote at least fifteen minutes to him, and invited himoften to his own private studio. And often, on the fourth and fifth dayof the week, a group of admiring students would be gathered by his easelwatching him as he worked.

  "C'est un rude lapin, l'Anglais! au moins il sait son orthographe enpeinture, ce coco-là!"

  Such was the verdict on Little Billee at Carrel's studio; and I canconceive no loftier praise.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Young as she was (seventeen or eighteen, or thereabouts), and alsotender (like Little Billee), Trilby had singularly clear and quickperceptions in all matters that concerned her tastes, fancies, oraffections, and thoroughly knew her own mind, and never lost much timein making it up.

  On the occasion of her first visit to the studio in the Place St.Anatole des Arts, it took her just five minutes to decide that it wasquite the nicest, homeliest, genialest, jolliest studio in the wholequartier latin, or out of it, and its three inhabitants, individuallyand collectively, were more to her taste than any one else she had evermet.

  "THE FOX AND THE CROW"]

  In the first place, they were English, and she loved to hear hermother-tongue and speak it. It awoke all manner of tender recollections,sweet reminiscences of her childhood, her parents, her old home--such ahome as it was--or, rather, such homes; for there had been manyflittings from one poor nest to another. The O'Ferralls had been asbirds on the bough.

  She had loved her parents very dearly; and, indeed, with all theirfaults, they had many endearing qualities--the qualities that so oftengo with those particular faults--charm, geniality, kindness, warmth ofheart, the constant wish to please, the generosity that comes beforejustice, and lends its last sixpence and forgets to pay its debts!

  She knew other English and American artists, and had sat to themfrequently for the head and hands; but none of these, for generalagreeableness of aspect or manner, could compare in her mind with thestalwart and magnificent Taffy, the jolly fat Laird of Cockpen, therefined, sympathetic, and elegant Little Billee; and she resolved thatshe would see as much of them as she could, that she would make herselfat home in that particular studio, and necessary to its "locataires";and, without being the least bit vain or self-conscious, she had nodoubts whatever of her power to please--to make herself both useful andornamental if it suited her purpose to do so.

  Her first step in this direction was to borrow Père Martin's basket andlantern and pick (he had more than one set of these trade properties)for the use of Taffy, whom she feared she might have offended by thefreedom of her comments on his picture.

  Then, as often as she felt it to be discreet, she sounded her war-cry atthe studio door and went in and made kind inquiries, and, sittingcross-legged on the model-throne, ate her bread and cheese and smokedher cigarette and "passed the time of day," as she chose to call it;telling them all such news of the quartier as had come within her ownimmediate ken. She was always full of little stories of other studios,which, to do her justice, were always good-natured, and probablytrue--quite so, as far as she was concerned; she was the most literalperson alive; and she told all these "ragots, cancans, et potinsd'atelier" in a quaint and amusing manner. The slightest look of gravityor boredom on one of those three faces, and she made herself scarce atonce.

  She soon found opportunities for usefulness also. If a costume werewanted, for instance, she knew where to borrow it, or hire it or buy itcheaper than any one anywhere else. She procured stuffs for them at costprice, as it seemed, and made them into draperies and female garments ofany kind that w
as wanted, and sat in them for the toreador's sweetheart(she made the mantilla herself), for Taffy's starving dress-maker aboutto throw herself into the Seine, for Little Billee's studies of thebeautiful French peasant girl in his picture, now so famous, called "ThePitcher Goes to the Well."

  Then she darned their socks and mended their clothes, and got all theirwashing done properly and cheaply at her friend Madame Boisse's, in theRue des Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille.

  And then again, when they were hard up and wanted a good round sum ofmoney for some little pleasure excursion, such as a trip toFontainebleau or Barbizon for two or three days, it was she who tooktheir watches and scarf-pins and things to the Mount of Piety in theStreet of the Well of Love (where dwelt "ma tante," which is French for"my uncle" in this connection), in order to raise the necessary funds.

  THE LATIN QUARTER]

  She was, of course, most liberally paid for all these little services,rendered with such pleasure and good-will--far too liberally, shethought. She would have been really happier doing them for love.

  Thus in a very short time she became a _persona gratissima_--a sunny andever welcome vision of health and grace and liveliness and unalterablegood-humor, always ready to take any trouble to please her beloved"Angliches," as they were called by Madame Vinard, the handsomeshrill-voiced _concierge_, who was almost jealous; for she was devotedto the Angliches too--and so was Monsieur Vinard--and so were the littleVinards.

  She knew when to talk and when to laugh and when to hold her tongue; andthe sight of her sitting cross-legged on the model-throne darning theLaird's socks or sewing buttons on his shirts or repairing thesmoke-holes in his trousers was so pleasant that it was painted by allthree. One of these sketches (in water-color, by Little Billee) sold theother day at Christie's for a sum so large that I hardly dare to mentionit. It was done in an afternoon.

  Sometimes on a rainy day, when it was decided they should dine at home,she would fetch the food and cook it, and lay the cloth, and even makethe salad. She was a better saladist than Taffy, a better cook than theLaird, a better caterer than Little Billee. And she would be invited totake her share in the banquet. And on these occasions her tremuloushappiness was so immense that it would be quite pathetic to see--almostpainful; and their three British hearts were touched by thoughts of allthe loneliness and homelessness, the expatriation, the half-consciousloss of caste, that all this eager childish clinging revealed.

  And that is why (no doubt) that with all this familiar intimacy therewas never any hint of gallantry or flirtation in any shape or formwhatever--bonne camaraderie, voilà tout. Had she been Little Billee'ssister she could not have been treated with more real respect. And herdeep gratitude for this unwonted compliment transcended any passion shehad ever felt. As the good Lafontaine so prettily says,

  "Ces animaux vivaient entre eux comme cousins; Cette union si douce, et presque fraternelle, Edifiait tous les voisins!"

  And then their talk! It was to her as the talk of the gods in Olympus,save that it was easier to understand, and she could always understandit. For she was a very intelligent person, in spite of her wofullyneglected education, and most ambitious to learn--a new ambition forher.

  So they lent her books--English books: Dickens, Thackeray, WalterScott--which she devoured in the silence of the night, the solitude ofher little attic in the Rue des Pousse-Cailloux, and new worlds wererevealed to her. She grew more English every day; and that was a goodthing.

  Trilby speaking English and Trilby speaking French were two differentbeings. Trilby's English was more or less that of her father, ahighly-educated man; her mother, who was a Scotch woman, although anuneducated one, had none of the ungainliness that mars the speech of somany English women in that humble rank--no droppings of the h, nobroadening of the o's and a's.

  CUISINE BOURGEOISE EN BOHÈME]

  Trilby's French was that of the quartier latin--droll, slangy, piquant,quaint, picturesque--quite the reverse of ungainly, but in which therewas scarcely a turn of phrase that would not stamp the speaker asbeing hopelessly, emphatically "no lady!" Though it was funny withoutbeing vulgar, it was perhaps a little _too_ funny!

  And she handled her knife and fork in the dainty English way, as nodoubt her father had done--and his; and, indeed, when alone with themshe was so absolutely "like a lady" that it seemed quite odd (thoughvery seductive) to see her in a grisette's cap and dress and apron. Somuch for her English training.

  But enter a Frenchman or two, and a transformation effected itselfimmediately--a new incarnation of Trilbyness--so droll and amusing thatit was difficult to decide which of her two incarnations was the mostattractive.

  It must be admitted that she had her faults--like Little Billee.

  For instance, she would be miserably jealous of any other woman who cameto the studio, to sit or scrub or sweep or do anything else, even of thedirty tipsy old hag who sat for Taffy's "found drowned"--"as if shecouldn't have sat for it herself!"

  And then she would be cross and sulky, but not for long--an injuredmartyr, soon ready to forgive and be forgiven.

  She would give up any sitting to come and sit to her three Englishfriends. Even Durien had serious cause for complaint.

  Then her affection was exacting: she always wanted to be told one wasfond of her, and she dearly loved her own way, even in the sewing on ofbuttons and the darning of socks, which was innocent enough. But whenit came to the cutting and fashioning of garments for a toreador'sbride, it was a nuisance not to be borne!

  "What could _she_ know of toreadors' brides and their wedding-dresses?"the Laird would indignantly ask--as if he were a toreador himself; andthis was the aggravating side of her irrepressible Trilbyness.

  In the caressing, demonstrative tenderness of her friendship she "madethe soft eyes" at all three indiscriminately. But sometimes LittleBillee would look up from his work as she was sitting to Taffy or theLaird, and find her gray eyes fixed on him with an all-enfolding gaze,so piercingly, penetratingly, unutterably sweet and kind and tender,such a brooding, dovelike look of soft and warm solicitude, that hewould feel a flutter at his heart, and his hand would shake so that hecould not paint; and in a waking dream he would remember that his motherhad often looked at him like that when he was a small boy, and she abeautiful young woman untouched by care or sorrow; and the tear thatalways lay in readiness so close to the corner of Little Billee's eyewould find it very difficult to keep itself in its proper place--unshed.

  And at such moments the thought that Trilby sat for the figure would gothrough him like a knife.

  She did not sit promiscuously to anybody who asked, it is true. But shestill sat to Durien; to the great Gérôme; to M. Carrel, who scarcelyused any other model.

  It was poor Trilby's sad distinction that she surpassed all other modelsas Calypso surpassed her nymphs; and whether by long habit, or throughsome obtuseness in her nature, or lack of imagination, she was equallyunconscious of self with her clothes on or without! Truly, she could benaked and unashamed--in this respect an absolute savage.

  "THE SOFT EYES"]

  She would have ridden through Coventry, like Lady Godiva--but withoutgiving it a thought beyond wondering why the streets were empty and theshops closed and the blinds pulled down--would even have looked up toPeeping Tom's shutter with a friendly nod, had she known he was behindit!

  In fact, she was absolutely without that kind of shame, as she waswithout any kind of fear. But she was destined soon to know both fearand shame.

  And here it would not be amiss for me to state a fact well known to allpainters and sculptors who have used the nude model (except a few senilepretenders, whose purity, not being of the right sort, has gone rankfrom too much watching), namely, that nothing is so chaste as nudity.Venus herself, as she drops her garments and steps on to themodel-throne, leaves behind her on the floor every weapon in her armoryby which she can pierce to the grosser passions of man. The more perfecther unveiled beauty, the more keenly it appeals to his higher instinct
s.And where her beauty fails (as it almost always does somewhere in theVenuses who sit for hire), the failure is so lamentably conspicuous inthe studio light--the fierce light that beats on this particularthrone--that Don Juan himself, who has not got to paint, were fain tohide his eyes in sorrow and disenchantment, and fly to other climes.

  All beauty is sexless in the eyes of the artist at his work--the beautyof man, the beauty of woman, the heavenly beauty of the child, which isthe sweetest and best of all.

  Indeed it is woman, lovely woman, whose beauty falls the shortest, forsheer lack of proper physical training.

  As for Trilby, G----, to whom she sat for his Phryne, once told me thatthe sight of her thus was a thing to melt Sir Galahad, and soberSilenus, and chasten Jove himself--a thing to Quixotize a modern Frenchmasher! I can well believe him. For myself, I only speak of Trilby as Ihave seen her--clothed and in her right mind. She never sat to me forany Phryne, never bared herself to me, nor did I ever dream of askingher. I would as soon have asked the Queen of Spain to let me paint herlegs! But I have worked from many female models in many countries, someof them the best of their kind. I have also, like Svengali, seen Taffy"trying to get himself clean," either at home or in the swimming-bathsof the Seine; and never a sitting woman among them all who could matchfor grace or finish or splendor of outward form that mighty Yorkshiremansitting in his tub, or sunning himself, like Ilyssus, at the Bains HenriQuatre, or taking his running header _à la hussarde_, off thespring-board at the Bains Deligny, with a group of wondering Frenchmengathered round.

  Up he shot himself into mid-air with a sounding double downward kick,parabolically; then, turning a splendid semi-demi-summersault againstthe sky, down he came headlong, his body straight and stiff as an arrow,and made his clean hole in the water without splash or sound, toreappear a hundred yards farther on!

  "Sac à papier! quel gaillard que cet Anglais, hein?"

  "A-t-on jamais vu un torse pareil!"

  "Et les bras, donc!"

  "Et les jambes, nom d'un tonnerre!"

  "Mâtin! J'aimerais mieux être en colère contre lui qu'il ne soit encolère contre moi!" etc., etc., etc.

  * * * * *

  Omne ignotum pro magnifico!

  If our climate were such that we could go about without any clothes on,we probably should; in which case, although we should still murder andlie and steal and bear false witness against our neighbor, and break theSabbath day and take the Lord's name in vain, much deplorable wickednessof another kind would cease to exist for sheer lack of mystery; andChristianity would be relieved of its hardest task in this sinful world,and Venus Aphrodite (_alias_ Aselgeia) would have to go a-begging alongwith the tailors and dress-makers and boot-makers, and perhaps ourbodies and limbs would be as those of the Theseus and Venus of Milo; whowas no Venus, except in good looks!

  ILYSSUS]

  At all events, there would be no cunning, cruel deceptions, no artfultaking in of artless inexperience, no unduly hurried waking-up fromLove's young dream, no handing down to posterity of hidden uglinessesand weaknesses, and worse!

  And also many a flower, now born to blush unseen, would be reclaimedfrom its desert, and suffered to hold its own, and flaunt away with thebest in the inner garden of roses!

  And here let me humbly apologize to the casual reader for the length andpossible irrelevancy of this digression, and for its subject. To thosewho may find matter for sincere disapprobation or even grave offence ina thing that has always seemed to me so simple, so commonplace, as to behardly worth talking or writing about, I can only plead a sincerityequal to theirs, and as deep a love and reverence for the gracious,goodly shape that God is said to have made after His own image forinscrutable purposes of His own.

  Nor, indeed, am I pleading for such a subversive and revolutionarymeasure as the wholesale abolition of clothes, being the chilliest ofmortals, and quite unlike Mr. Theseus or Mr. Ilyssus either.

  * * * * *

  Sometimes Trilby would bring her little brother to the studio in thePlace St. Anatole des Arts, in his "beaux habits de Pâques," his hairwell curled and pomatumed, his hands and face well washed.

  He was a very engaging little mortal. The Laird would fill his pocketsfull of Scotch goodies, and paint him as a little Spaniard in "Le Filsdu Toreador," a sweet little Spaniard with blue eyes, and curly locksas light as tow, and a complexion of milk and roses, in singular andpiquant contrast to his swarthy progenitor.

  Taffy would use him as an Indian club or a dumb-bell, to the child'sinfinite delight, and swing him on the trapeze, and teach him "la boxe."

  And the sweetness and fun of his shrill, happy, infantile laughter(which was like an echo of Trilby's, only an octave higher) so moved andtouched and tickled one that Taffy had to look quite fierce, so he mighthide the strange delight of tenderness that somehow filled his manlybosom at the mere sound of it (lest Little Billee and the Laird shouldthink him goody-goody); and the fiercer Taffy looked, the less thissmall mite was afraid of him.

  Little Billee made a beautiful water-color sketch of him, just as hewas, and gave it to Trilby, who gave it to le père Martin, who gave itto his wife with strict injunctions not to sell it as an old master.Alas! it _is_ an old master now, and Heaven only knows who has got it!

  Those were happy days for Trilby's little brother, happy days forTrilby, who was immensely fond of him, and very proud. And the happiestday of all was when Trois Angliches took Trilby and Jeannot (for so themite was called) to spend the Sunday in the woods at Meudon, andbreakfast and dine at the garde champêtre's. Swings, peep-shows,donkey-rides; shooting at a mark with cross-bows and little pellets ofclay, and smashing little plaster figures and winning macaroons; losingone's self in the beautiful forest; catching newts and tadpoles andyoung frogs; making music on mirlitons. Trilby singing "Ben Bolt" into amirliton was a thing to be remembered, whether one would or no!

  Trilby on this occasion came out in a new character, _en demoiselle_,with a little black bonnet, and a gray jacket of her own making.

  To look at (but for her loose, square-toed, heelless silk boots laced upthe inner side), she might have been the daughter of an Englishdean--until she undertook to teach the Laird some favorite cancan steps.And then the Laird himself, it must be admitted, no longer looked likethe son of a worthy, God-fearing, Sabbath-keeping Scotch solicitor.

  This was after dinner, in the garden, at "la loge du garde champêtre."Taffy and Jeannot and Little Billee made the necessary music on theirmirlitons, and the dancing soon became general, with plenty also to lookon, for the garde had many customers who dined there on summer Sundays.

  It is no exaggeration to say that Trilby was far and away the belle ofthat particular ball, and there have been worse balls in much finercompany, and far plainer women!

  Trilby lightly dancing the cancan (there are cancans and cancans) was asingularly gainly and seductive person--_et vera incessu patuit dea_!Here, again, she was funny without being vulgar. And for mere grace(even in the cancan), she was the forerunner of Miss Kate Vaughan; and,for sheer fun, the precursor of Miss Nelly Farren!

  And the Laird, trying to dance after her ("dongsong le konkong," as hecalled it), was too funny for words; and if genuine popular success is atrue test of humor, no greater humorist ever danced a _pas seul_.

  "'VOILÀ L'ESPAYCE DE HOM KER JER SWEE!'"]

  What Englishmen could do in France during the fifties, and yet manage topreserve their self-respect, and even the respect of their respectableFrench friends!

  "Voilà l'espayce de hom ker jer swee!" said the Laird, every time hebowed in acknowledgment of the applause that greeted his performance ofvarious solo steps of his own--Scotch reels and sword-dances that comein admirably....

  Then, one fine day, the Laird fell ill, and the doctor had to be sentfor, and he ordered a nurse. But Trilby would hear of no nurses, noteven a Sister of Charity! She did all the nursing herself, and neverslept a wink for three successi
ve days and nights.

  On the third day the Laird was out of all danger, the delirium was past,and the doctor found poor Trilby fast asleep by the bedside.

  Madame Vinard, at the bedroom door, put her finger to her lips, andwhispered: "Quel bonheur! il est sauvé, M. le Docteur; écoutez! il ditses prières en Anglais, ce brave garçon!"

  The good old doctor, who didn't understand a word of English, listened,and heard the Laird's voice, weak and low, but quite clear, and full ofheart-felt fervor, intoning, solemnly:

  "'Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace-- All these you eat at Terré's Tavern In that one dish of bouillabaisse!'"

  "Ah! mais c'est très bien de sa part, ce brave jeune homme! rendregrâces au ciel comme cela, quand le danger est passé! très bien, trèsbien!"

  Sceptic and Voltairian as he was, and not the friend of prayer, the gooddoctor was touched, for he was old, and therefore kind and tolerant, andmade allowances.

  And afterwards he said such sweet things to Trilby about it all, andabout her admirable care of his patient, that she positively wept withdelight--like sweet Alice with hair so brown, whenever Ben Bolt gave hera smile.

  All this sounds very goody-goody, but it's true.

  So it will be easily understood how the trois Angliches came in time tofeel for Trilby quite a peculiar regard, and looked forward withsorrowful forebodings to the day when this singular and pleasant littlequartet would have to be broken up, each of them to spread his wings andfly away on his own account, and poor Trilby to be left behind all byherself. They would even frame little plans whereby she might betterherself in life, and avoid the many snares and pitfalls that would besether lonely path in the quartier latin when they were gone.

  Trilby never thought of such things as these; she took short views oflife, and troubled herself about no morrows.

  There was, however, one jarring figure in her little fool's paradise, abaleful and most ominous figure that constantly crossed her path, andcame between her and the sun, and threw its shadow over her, and thatwas Svengali.

  He also was a frequent visitor at the studio in the Place St. Anatole,where much was forgiven him for the sake of his music, especially whenhe came with Gecko and they made music together. But it soon becameapparent that they did not come there to play to the three Angliches: itwas to see Trilby, whom they both had taken it into their heads toadore, each in a different fashion:

  Gecko, with a humble, doglike worship that expressed itself in mute,pathetic deference and looks of lowly self-depreciation, of apology forhis own unworthy existence, as though the only requital he would everdare to dream of were a word of decent politeness, a glance of toleranceor good-will--a mere bone to a dog.

  Svengali was a bolder wooer. When he cringed, it was with a mockhumility full of sardonic threats; when he was playful, it was with aterrible playfulness, like that of a cat with a mouse--a weird ungainlycat, and most unclean; a sticky, haunting, long, lean, uncanny, blackspider-cat, if there is such an animal outside a bad dream.

  It was a great grievance to him that she had suffered from no more painsin her eyes. She had; but preferred to endure them rather than seekrelief from him.

  So he would playfully try to mesmerize her with his glance, and sidle upnearer and nearer to her, making passes and counter-passes, with sterncommand in his eyes, till she would shake and shiver and almost sickenwith fear, and all but feel the spell come over her, as in a nightmare,and rouse herself with a great effort and escape.

  If Taffy were there he would interfere with a friendly "Now then, oldfellow, none of that!" and a jolly slap on the back, which would makeSvengali cough for an hour, and paralyze his mesmeric powers for a week.

  Svengali had a stroke of good-fortune. He played at three grandconcerts with Gecko, and had a well-deserved success. He even gave aconcert of his own, which made a furor, and blossomed out into beautifuland costly clothes of quite original color and shape and pattern, sothat people would turn round and stare at him in the street--a thing heloved. He felt his fortune was secure, and ran into debt with tailors,hatters, shoemakers, jewellers, but paid none of his old debts to hisfriends. His pockets were always full of printed slips--things that hadbeen written about him in the papers--and he would read them aloud toeverybody he knew, especially to Trilby, as she sat darning socks on themodel-throne while the fencing and boxing were in train. And he wouldlay his fame and his fortune at her feet, on condition that she shouldshare her life with him.

  "Ach, himmel, Drilpy!" he would say, "you don't know what it is to be agreat pianist like me--hein! What is your Little Billee, with hisstinking oil-bladders, sitting mum in his corner, his mahlstick and hispalette in one hand, and his twiddling little footle pig's-hair brush inthe other! What noise does _he_ make? When his little fool of a pictureis finished he will send it to London, and they will hang it on a wallwith a lot of others, all in a line, like recruits called out forinspection, and the yawning public will walk by in procession andinspect, and say 'damn!' Svengali will go to London _himself_. Ha! ha!He will be all alone on a platform, and play as nobody else can play;and hundreds of beautiful Engländerinnen will see and hear and go madwith love for him--Prinzessen, Comtessen, Serene English Altessen. Theywill soon lose their Serenity and their Highness when they hearSvengali! They will invite him to their palaces, and pay him a thousandfrancs to play for them; and after, he will loll in the best arm-chair,and they will sit all round him on footstools, and bring him tea and ginand küchen and marrons glacés, and lean over him and fan him--for he istired after playing them for a thousand francs of Chopin! Ha, ha! I knowall about it--hein?

  "And he will not look at them, even! He will look inward, at his owndream--and his dream will be about Drilpy--to lay his talent, his glory,his thousand francs at her beautiful white feet!

  "Their stupid, big, fat, tow-headed, putty-nosed husbands will be madwith jealousy, and long to box him, but they will be afraid. Ach! thosebeautiful Anglaises! they will think it an honor to mend his shirts, tosew buttons on his pantaloons; to darn his socks, as you are doing nowfor that sacred imbecile of a Scotchman who is always trying to painttoreadors, or that sweating, pig-headed bullock of an Englander who isalways trying to get himself dirty and then to get himself cleanagain!--_e da capo!_

  "Himmel! what big socks are those! what potato-sacks!

  "Look at your Taffy! what is he good for but to bang great musicians onthe back with his big bear's paw! He finds that droll, the bullock!...

  TIT FOR TAT]

  "Look at your Frenchmen there--your damned conceited verfluchte pig-dogsof Frenchmen--Durien, Barizel, Bouchardy! What can a Frenchman talk of,hein? Only himself, and run down everybody else! His vanity makes mesick! He always thinks the world is talking about _him_, the fool! Heforgets that there's a fellow called _Svengali_ for the world to talkabout! I tell you, Drilpy, it is about _me_ the world is talking--me andnobody else--me, me, me!

  "Listen what they say in the _Figaro_" (reads it).

  "What do you think of that, hein? What would your Durien say if peoplewrote of _him_ like that?

  "But you are not listening, sapperment! great big she-fool that youare--sheep's-head! Dummkopf! Donnerwetter! you are looking at thechimney-pots when Svengali is talking! Look a little lower down betweenthe houses, on the other side of the river! There is a little ugly graybuilding there, and inside are eight slanting slabs of brass, all of arow, like beds in a school dormitory, and one fine day you shall lieasleep on one of those slabs--you, Drilpy, who would not listen toSvengali, and therefore lost him!... And over the middle of you will bea little leather apron, and over your head a little brass tap, and allday long and all night the cold water shall trickle, trickle, trickleall the way down your beautiful white body to your beautiful white feettill they turn green, and your poor, damp, draggled, muddy rags willhang above you from the ceiling for your friends to know you by; drip,drip, drip! But you will have no friends....
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br />   "And people of all sorts, strangers, will stare at you through the bigplate-glass windows--Englanders, chiffonniers, painters and sculptors,workmen, pioupious, old hags of washer-women--and say, 'Ah! what abeautiful woman was that! Look at her! She ought to be rolling in hercarriage and pair!' And just then who should come by, rolling in hiscarriage and pair, smothered in furs, and smoking a big cigar of theHavana, but Svengali, who will jump out, and push the canaille aside,and say, 'Ha! ha! that is la grande Drilpy, who would not listen toSvengali, but looked at the chimney-pots when he told her of his manlylove, and--'"

  "Hi! damn it, Svengali, what the devil are you talking to Trilby about?You're making her sick; can't you see? Leave off, and go to the piano,man, or I'll come and slap you on the back again!"

  Thus would that sweating, pig-headed bullock of an Englander stopSvengali's love-making and release Trilby from bad quarters of an hour.

  Then Svengali, who had a wholesome dread of the pig-headed bullock,would go to the piano and make impossible discords, and say: "DearDrilpy, come and sing 'Pen Polt'! I am thirsting for those so beautifulchest notes! Come!"

  Poor Trilby needed little pressing when she was asked to sing, and wouldgo through her lamentable performance, to the great discomfort of LittleBillee. It lost nothing of its grotesqueness from Svengali'saccompaniment, which was a triumph of cacophony, and he would encourageher--"Très pien, très pien, ça y est!"

  When it was over, Svengali would test her ear, as he called it, andstrike the C in the middle and then the F just above, and ask which wasthe highest; and she would declare they were both exactly the same. Itwas only when he struck a note in the bass and another in the treblethat she could perceive any difference, and said that the first soundedlike père Martin blowing up his wife, and the second like her littlegodson trying to make the peace between them.

  She was quite tone-deaf, and didn't know it; and he would pay herextravagant compliments on her musical talent, till Taffy would say:"Look here, Svengali, let's hear _you_ sing a song!"

  And he would tickle him so masterfully under the ribs that the creaturehowled and became quite hysterical.

  Then Svengali would vent his love of teasing on Little Billee, and pin_his_ arms behind his back and swing him round, saying: "Himmel! what'sthis for an arm? It's like a girl's!"

  "It's strong enough to paint!" said Little Billee.

  "And what's this for a leg? It's like a mahlstick!"

  "It's strong enough to kick, if you don't leave off!"

  And Little Billee, the young and tender, would let out his little heeland kick the German's shins; and just as the German was going toretaliate, big Taffy would pin _his_ arms and make him sing anothersong, more discordant than Trilby's--for he didn't dream of kickingTaffy; of that you may be sure!

  Such was Svengali--only to be endured for the sake of his music--alwaysready to vex, frighten, bully, or torment anybody or anything smallerand weaker than himself--from a woman or a child to a mouse or a fly.